Hearing Enji's words only tightened the knot of anxiety in Haruto's stomach. If someone like Enji, who was far stronger and more fearless than him, was being this cautious, what the hell was waiting for him inside?
He wanted to press Enji for answers, but he knew better. His friend had never wanted him involved in this gang business in the first place.
This was likely another test, or worse, something he was being dragged into without a choice.
'Ah, shit…' Haruto let out a shaky breath as he shut the car door.
Clenching his fists, he straightened his back, forcing himself to push away every shred of fear and doubt.
He couldn't afford to be weak—not now. If he was serious about revenge, if he really intended to kill Daiki, he had to face whatever this was head-on.
Backing out now would prove he wasn't ready. And that wasn't an option.
His gaze locked onto the gray building in front of him. From a distance, it looked like any other warehouse near the port.
But as Haruto approached, the grim reality set in. The faint but unmistakable sound of bones breaking, followed by muffled screams, seeped through the walls.
The metallic scent of blood mixed with the salty air from the ocean, wafting toward him on the cold, biting wind.
When he reached the warehouse door, Haruto hesitated for a split second. The smell of blood hit him harder now, nauseating and sharp, as he slowly pushed the door open.
Inside, the sight that greeted him sent a shiver down his spine. Blood-smeared bodies littered the ground.
Men stood around, some looking at him, others tending to the injured or worse. The brutal scene told him everything: this was no simple deal.
A man approached, his knuckles red and raw, clearly ready to deliver another punch. Haruto's heart pounded in his chest, but he didn't flinch.
Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the small golden emblem, the one Enji had given him—the Crow insignia catching the dim light.
The man stopped in his tracks, his bloodied hand dropping to his side. "Get the boss," he barked at one of the others without taking his eyes off Haruto.
Haruto squinted, his gaze narrowing on the man in front of him. There was something familiar about his face, he swore he saw him somewhere.
As his eyes adjusted to the dim, murky lighting inside the warehouse, the scene became clearer.
In the center of the room, a gang of men circled a lone figure, the only one still alive amidst the bodies strewn across the floor.
The man, barely able to stand, was being tossed around like a rag doll—pushed, kicked, punched—his tormentors treating him like a toy.
Each hit sent him reeling into another pair of hands, only to be beaten down again.
The laughter that filled the room was sickening, a brutal, twisted sound. It was the laughter of a pack of wolves, circling a helpless lamb, toying with it before the final kill.
Haruto's stomach twisted violently, a wave of nausea hitting him as the memories rushed back—the day he returned to the past, his fight with Daiki, and the faces of the gang members who had tormented him and his sister.
It was them. The same people. The ones who had turned his and Haruka's lives into a nightmare.
The recognition hit him like a punch to the gut, and his body trembled with rage. His knuckles turned white, fists clenched so tightly that his nails dug painfully into his palms, holding himself back from charging at the man in front of him and ending it all right here.
Enji's warning echoed in his mind, grounding him, and keeping him from doing something reckless.
It was clear now—Enji had known all along. He knew who this "group" was, the ones taking the drugs. This wasn't some coincidence. Enji had sent him here on purpose.
Haruto's jaw clenched as he forced himself to stay still, his heart hammering in his chest. His eyes scanned the warehouse once more, taking in each face.
Rage boiled inside him as the memories flooded back—each of these men had, in some way, contributed to Haruka's suffering.
He memorized their faces, committing them to his mind, each one a future target for his vengeance.
'All of these bastards... I'm gonna make your lives a living hell.'
"Ah, so you're the new delivery guy? Kikuchi told me you're new. Interesting that they're trusting you with this task."
The figure finally emerged from the darkness, his cruel smirk matching the icy tone of his words.
The voice from the shadows sent a cold shiver down Haruto's spine. It was unmistakable, one he had hoped to never hear again—the last voice he heard before he died.
Daiki.
Haruto's heart pounded in his chest, rage building in him as he stared at the man who ruined his life.
His body tensed as Daiki's gang member approached to take the bag, but Haruto's gaze never wavered, locked on Daiki with a fire that threatened to explode.
Daiki, splattered with blood, his long blonde hair hanging messily around his face, pulled out a cigarette.
One of his lackeys stepped forward to light it for him. He exhaled smoke before giving Haruto a cold, calculating glance.
"What the hell are you staring at?" barked the man who had taken the bag, snapping Haruto back to the moment.
The man brought it to the boss and he opened the bag, and Daiki casually reached inside, pulling out a fat wad of money.
It was different from what Haruto thought.
A slow grin spread across Daiki's face as he inspected the bills. "Well, that red bulldog can be trusted after all. No need to count it."
He tossed the money back into the bag. But then, his eyes shot back to Haruto, the smirk curling into something more sinister.
"Newbie, you look like you're itching for a fight."
At his words, the room shifted. The gang members all moved in closer, circling Haruto like vultures.
Their intention was clear—one wrong move and they'd tear him apart. But Haruto didn't care.
His focus was singular, his glare burning into Daiki with all the hatred he'd kept bottled up since that night.
But then, Enji's voice echoed once more in his mind, reminding him to stay in control. With a deep breath, Haruto forced himself to swallow the rage threatening to consume him.
"Apologies," Haruto said, his voice unnervingly calm.
"It's just that I have bad eyesight, and I thought I recognized you." He paused, letting his words linger.
"You're Daiki Yamada, right? From Aoyama High School?"
Daiki's eyes flickered with recognition as the room quieted. His men paused, sensing something beneath the surface.
"Haven't your leader told you already?" His voice was cold and sharp, like a knife being unsheathed.
"He didn't," Haruto said, his lips curling into a bitter smile. "I guess he enjoys keeping me in the dark."
Daiki's brow furrowed, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. "We went to the same school, and you joined another gang?" he asked, the weight of his accusation hanging in the air.
The room fell deathly silent. Haruto stood frozen, unsure of how to respond, when suddenly Daiki broke into laughter—loud, cruel, and echoing off the walls.
"That's interesting," Daiki said as he strode toward Haruto, stopping just inches away.
He scrutinized Haruto's face, a glimmer of recognition sparking in his eyes.
"Ah, yeah, I remember now. You're that weird, ugly kid always lurking in the corner of the classroom."
Haruto's eyes widened in disbelief. They weren't even in the same class. How could Daiki remember him?
Daiki chuckled again, his amusement obvious. "You're interesting. Come to the Underground Ring next Saturday night."
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low, menacing tone. "Let's have some fun."