Footsteps echoed in the darkened alley.
Ace Johnson, a wiry 9-year-old boy, pressed his back against the cold brick wall, his breath coming in shallow, frantic gasps. His short, curly hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat. His wide brown eyes darted around, searching for an escape, but the narrow alley seemed to close in on him.
The city roared around him—honking cars, distant chatter—but all Ace could hear was the pounding of his heart and the echo of gunfire still ringing in his ears.
He wasn't just running. He was surviving.
Less than an hour ago, his life had been ripped apart in the back of a sleek black limousine. It had started as a night of elegance—his parents had been invited to a prestigious gala, a reward for his father's work as a respected politician. But as their car pulled away from the event, the world erupted into chaos.
A single sniper shot shattered the windshield, sending the limo swerving to a halt. Ace remembered the fear in his father's voice as he yelled for everyone to stay down. But before his father could reach the shotgun stashed beneath the seat, the doors flew open.
**The Scorpion Gang.**
They were Tokyo's most notorious criminal syndicate, and they moved with ruthless precision. The gang's leader stepped forward—a towering man with a scar cutting across his pale, weathered face. His blonde hair glinted under the streetlights as he surveyed the scene with cold, calculating eyes. Draped in a black leather coat, his gloved hand gripped a Glock, its silencer making it all the more menacing.
"Out," he growled.
Ace's father resisted. He tried to protect them. But it was over in an instant—a single shot to the head. Blood splattered against the car's leather seats. Ace's mother screamed, her voice cut short as another gang member drew a blade across her throat.
Ace froze.
The fear was paralyzing, a wave of ice coursing through his veins.
Then survival instincts took over. He bolted from the car, running as fast as his legs could carry him.
"kill him. No one leaves here alive!" the leader barked, his voice sharp and commanding.
Gunshots erupted behind him, the sharp "pop pop pop" of the silenced Glock blending with the pounding of Ace's sneakers on the asphalt. The henchmen were fast, their heavy boots closing in. But Ace was faster.
He turned a corner and dove into an alley, the shadows swallowing him whole. A garbage bin loomed nearby, and he crouched behind it, his chest heaving. The stench of rotting food filled his nose, but he didn't care. He pressed his trembling hands against his face, trying to block out the image of his parents, their lifeless bodies slumped in the limo.
**Then the shadow appeared.**
It stretched across the ground, long and foreboding, moving closer with every second. Ace's breath caught in his throat. His legs were stiff, unresponsive. He closed his eyes tightly, willing himself to disappear.
"Don't worry, kid. I'm not here to hurt you."
The voice was deep, calm, and oddly reassuring. Ace's eyes shot open. The figure emerged from the shadows—a middle-aged man dressed in black overalls, similar to the Scorpion Gang's attire. His white hair gleamed under the dim alley lights, and a black eyepatch covered one of his piercing blue eyes.
The man knelt, leveling his gaze with Ace's.
"You've got guts," he said, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "But you'll need more than that to survive."
11 years later
Ace Johnson stood on a sleek, metallic platform, dressed in a camouflage tactical outfit, flanked by other graduates of the prestigious Tokyo Military Academy—now known by its codename, TMA. Ace, now a striking and muscular twenty-year-old, had not only graduated at the top of his class but had earned the highest honor—awarded a gold medal bearing the image of a soaring eagle.
The graduation ceremony had just concluded, but Ace found himself alone in the shadows of a narrow alleyway, pacing with a determined urgency. His eyes darted around as if anticipating a visit. Moments later, the unmistakable sound of footsteps echoed in the silence.
A young man, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit and shaded glasses, emerged from the dark. His stride was calm, deliberate. Ace's fingers instinctively curled around the grip of his Glock, emblazoned with the emblem of the Viper gang—a rival to the notorious Scorpion gang. He deliberately covered the emblem as his voice cut through the still night.
"Who are you?" Ace demanded, his stance unwavering.
The man didn't flinch. "Agent Tank," he replied coolly, his tone like polished steel. "I'm from the Zentarō."
Ace raised an eyebrow. The Zentarō was a top-secret government agency operating under the radar, formed with one singular mission: to neutralize the underworld syndicates wreaking havoc on Tokyo's streets. It was a powerful, covert organization known for using unorthodox methods to dismantle criminal networks. Tokyo's gangs, feared by even the police, were driven by the twisted ideal of enforcing 'equality'—a facade of social justice that had oppressed the city's elite and its citizens for years.
Ace, unshaken, eyed the man for a moment. "And what do you want with me?" he asked, lowering the Glock but keeping it in reach.
"I'm here to offer you a position with the Zentarō, Agent Tank said, his voice unbothered, as if he'd done this a thousand times before. "You've been selected. The mission: eliminate the threat of the gangs, once and for all."
Ace took the glass tablet computer the agent handed him, which displayed coordinates to the agency's hidden headquarters. The sleek, translucent device pulsed with a faint blue light.
"You have until tomorrow to decide. If you accept, follow the coordinates. If not, get rid of the tablet, and I'll be gone."
Ace smirked as he slid the tablet into his jacket pocket, his gaze never leaving Agent Tank. "I knew you'd come for me," he said, his voice steady with confidence. "That's why I was waiting. But I thought they'd send someone... more intimidating."
Tank let out a short, amused scoff. "We'll be expecting you, Ace."
With a final nod, the agent turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving Ace standing alone, the weight of the decision heavy in the air.