In the heart of Tokyo, the streets pulsed with life, a river of people flowing in every direction. Each passerby was a world unto themselves—some hurried home, their footsteps echoing with the weight of the day, while others shuffled toward their night shifts, their faces etched with quiet resolve.
The air buzzed with the low hum of murmured conversations, a symphony of voices blending into the city's heartbeat. Above, neon lights from countless stores flickered and flashed, casting a kaleidoscope of colors that danced across the pavement.
The glow was almost blinding, a relentless assault of reds, blues, and greens that painted the night in electric hues. Yet, amidst the chaos, there was a strange harmony—a rhythm that only Tokyo, in its endless motion, could create.
"Sir, please," the man pleaded, his voice trembling, raw with desperation. "Tell me who sent you. I can pay double—no, triple—whatever they're paying you. Just give me one more chance. Please."
The scene unfolded in one of the luxurious suites atop the Conrad Hotel, a stark contrast to the man's pitiful state.
He was middle-aged, in his fifties, with a short, stocky frame and bruises mottling his pale skin like a grotesque map of his downfall. Tears streamed down his face, cutting through the sweat and grime, as he knelt on the plush carpet.
His hands were clasped together in a desperate, almost prayer-like gesture, his knuckles white from the force of his grip. A single white towel hung loosely around his waist, the last shred of dignity in a moment that had stripped him bare—both physically and emotionally.
The opulence of the room—the crystal chandeliers, the floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing Tokyo's glittering skyline—only amplified his vulnerability, a man brought to his knees in the lap of luxury.
Before him stood a man who exuded an air of quiet menace. He was around 45, with a lean, wiry frame that spoke of years of hardened discipline. Dressed in a sharp black suit over a crisp white tee, he looked almost casual, if not for the cigarette dangling lazily from his lips, its faint trail of smoke curling into the air like a silent warning.
His face was a map of scars—each one a story, a battle fought and survived. One particularly prominent mark ran along his chin, a jagged line that seemed to underscore the gravity of his presence. His eyes, cold and calculating, bore into the trembling man before him, unflinching.
Behind him stood several others, younger but no less intimidating, all clad in similar black suits. Their expressions were blank, their postures rigid, as if waiting for a single word to spring into action.
Scattered across the room, near the entrance and in the corners, were the unconscious forms of what had likely been the fat man's bodyguards. Some lay crumpled in heaps, others sprawled awkwardly, their weapons still holstered or lying uselessly beside them.
The silence was heavy, broken only by the faint crackle of the cigarette and the occasional whimper from the man on his knees.
The man with the cigarette took a slow, deliberate step forward, his polished shoes clicking softly against the marble floor. He closed the distance between them with an almost predatory grace, then stopped just inches away from the kneeling man. With a fluid motion, he lowered himself, planting one knee on the ground and bending the other, bringing himself eye level with his trembling target. His expression was unreadable—a mix of amusement and menace that sent a chill through the room.
"Who said we were sent here?" he began, his voice low and gravelly, each word dripping with quiet authority.
He took a long drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing brightly in the dimly lit suite, before exhaling a cloud of smoke directly into the other man's face. The acrid scent filled the air, making the kneeling man cough and blink rapidly, his tears mixing with the sting of the smoke.
"Maybe we came here on our own accord," the man continued, his tone almost conversational, as if discussing the weather. "Or maybe..." He paused, tilting his head slightly, his scarred chin catching the light. "We even got the wrong person."
"What do you mean? Does that mean you weren't sent by anyone?" the confused man asked again, his voice trembling with fear and desperation.
"That depends," the man said coldly, rising to his feet and towering over the kneeling figure. "Were you the one who ordered President Naka's assassination to steal his share of the company? Who killed his two sons to eliminate any competition?
And not just that—did you assault his wife when she dared to protest to the authorities?" His voice grew sharper with each accusation, cutting through the room like a blade as he laid bare the man's sins.
The man's eyes widened, not in confusion, but in realization. It wasn't about who had sent them—it was about who they were. They were part of the Kurotoi Gang, one of the most feared groups in the underground.
And not just any branch—they were the Black Tiger Society, an elite unit of ruthless, skilled killers. They didn't discriminate in their targets, and their methods were often grotesque, but their victims were always those who had it coming.
"I did," the man admitted, his voice hollow, his gaze blank. He already knew his fate was sealed.
"Well, well, well," Hiroshi Tanaka, the older man and leader of the group, spoke again, his tone feigning surprise though he already knew the truth.
"What do you know? We did get the right guy." He paused, his cold gaze fixed on the trembling man before him.
"Miako, Senzo," he called, his voice sharp and commanding, "take two others and drag him into the room.
They won't hear him there, even if he screams at the top of his lungs. Cut off both his ears and make him eat them—minced and whole. Then spill his guts. After that kind of death, he might just be able to face the people he killed."
He turned slightly, his expression unreadable. "When you're done, send me the pictures as proof."
The man snapped out of his daze the moment he heard Hiroshi's orders. Panic surged through him as he jolted forward, pleading desperately, "No, please! One more chance!" But his cries fell on deaf ears.
Two men grabbed him by the armpits, their grip ironclad, and began dragging him toward the far corner of the room. In the struggle, his towel slipped off, stripping him of the last shred of dignity he had left. His pleas grew more frantic, echoing through the suite, but no one paid him any mind.
Hiroshi lit a fresh cigarette, the flame flickering briefly before he took a long drag. As he exhaled, he glanced over his shoulder and said calmly, "Miss Naka sends her regards."
Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, the remaining members falling in step behind him. The sound of their footsteps faded, leaving only the man's desperate cries to fill the room—until those, too, were silenced.