The old man stands amidst the scattered bodies of his tormentors, his mouth working soundlessly. My moment of theatrical triumph hangs in the dusty air, punctured by a sudden wave of...not guilt, exactly, but unease.
I'd planned this for years – the shadowy debut, the righteous beatdown – but I'd never planned for what came after. For this fragile-looking man to be my witness, for my meticulously crafted image of the Unsung Overlord to bump against the messy reality of a back-alley brawl.
"I...uh..." I begin, the words of my grand speech dying on my lips.
He blinks, as though jolted awake, then scrambles towards the nearest unconscious thug, frantically searching pockets. "The money...they took...please..."
Only then does a detail buried under the adrenaline rush surface in my memory. This wasn't some clandestine organization meeting, no shadowy conspiracy here. The old man wasn't a kingpin in disguise, but a victim. Protection money, not world-bending plots, were at stake.
And I, the self-proclaimed mastermind, had utterly misread the situation. The stage lights in my mind go out, replaced by the harsh fluorescent bulb flickering above.
"Wait, I..." My voice trails off. What do you even say at a time like this? 'Sorry I interrupted your shakedown?'
The old man – let's call him Pops, because he looks old enough to be my grandpa – finally locates a fat, crumpled wad of cash inside one of the thug's jackets. His hands shake as he counts the bills, mumbling figures to himself.
I feel a strange mix of frustration and a peculiar sense of responsibility. Responsibility? That's a word that hasn't been in my vocabulary since I was a kid getting scolded for leaving my socks on the floor.
"They come every week," Pops says, his voice barely above a whisper, "Demanding more, saying the 'family' needs its cut..." He tucks the money away, a defeated slump in his shoulders.
"The family? You mean some big-time gang?"
He scoffs bitterly. "Big-time crooks don't bother with holes-in-the-wall like mine. Local wannabes, thinking they're tough guys. Bunch of kids in over their heads, more likely."
A new plan begins to form in my head, something less theatrical than my initial vision, but somehow more... enticing.
"Okay, Pops, listen..." I begin, then realize how ridiculous I sound. A skeletal kid in a glowing-eyed skull mask lecturing a victim twice his age. But he doesn't laugh. He just waits, a flicker of hope in his exhausted eyes.
"Those guys aren't coming back. But their bosses? The ones calling the shots? I'm going to pay them a visit." It's audacious, crazy, and completely off-script, but it also feels...right.
Pops processes this, blinking owlishly behind his smudged glasses. Then he manages a shaky laugh. "You? Take on the whole 'family'? Kid, you've got guts, I'll give you that..."
The laugh fades, replaced by a wary curiosity. It's a crossroads. I could back down, apologize, salvage some dignity while playing the concerned citizen. Or I could double down, make this messy reality the next step in my journey. It's reckless, it's dangerous – and a giddy thrill surges through me at the thought.
"Guts aren't enough," I say slowly, meeting the old man's gaze. "That's why I need your help."
An hour later, we're hunched in a dimly lit ramen shop a few blocks from the warehouse. The bowls in front of us are mostly untouched, the broth going cold. This was meant to be my victory feast, but now it's a war council.
"So...you want to know where these clowns hang out," I summarize, fishing a battered notebook and pen out of my pocket.
"The old Tanaka building," Pops says, tracing the faded kanji onto the greasy formica tabletop. "They use the top floor, thought they could hide up there like it's their own little fortress."
My notebook starts filling with notes – a rough drawing of the building, the street name, Pops' descriptions of the punks who extorted him. My fingers tremble slightly, but it's the thrill of the unexpected, not fear.