Kurogane Industrial Port — Sector 9, Neo-Japan
October 17, 2100
10:05 pm (Imperial Standard Time)
The port had been dead for years.
Cranes rusted in place like skeletal giants, their arms frozen over black water. Cargo containers sat stacked and forgotten, paint peeled away by salt and time. Floodlights flickered sporadically, never fully illuminating the vast concrete sprawl—only carving pieces of it out of the darkness.
This was Inoue territory.
An industrial black-market hub disguised as abandonment.
Illegal shipments moved through these docks every night—unregistered weapons, prototype machinery, untraceable tech—anything the Empire pretended did not exist.
Inside a warehouse near the waterline, several men stood waiting.
Not relaxed.
Not comfortable.
They were waiting for him.
Near a shattered window sat the girl.
No restraints bound her hands, yet she did not move. Her skin was unnaturally pale, almost luminescent beneath the flickering lights. Short silver hair framed her face unevenly, as if cut without care. Her blue eyes were fixed on the horizon beyond the port—past the cranes, past the dark water, toward the road that disappeared into the city.
She was trembling.
Small movements. Tight fingers. Shallow breaths.
One of the men muttered, "He's late."
As if summoned by irritation alone—
The sound hit first.
The sound hit first.
A violent engine roar, sharp and alien against the dead silence of the port.
Headlights tore through the darkness as a low, obsidian supercar burst into view, speeding down the cracked access road far too fast for caution. The vehicle drifted slightly as it braked, tires screaming, before stopping just short of the warehouse entrance.
The engine did not die.
It growled.
The driver's door swung open.
Horuto Inoue stepped out like the world owed him space.
His coat was pristine. His expression openly annoyed. Neon underlights reflected faintly off the wet ground beneath the car—a needless extravagance, and very much the point.
The men straightened instantly.
Horuto glanced around the port with visible boredom. "Took you long enough to secure her."
He entered the warehouse without waiting for a reply.
His gaze found the girl immediately.
"…So this is her."
She did not look at him.
Instead, she kept staring out the window.
Horuto clicked his tongue and crouched slightly, trying to catch her eyes. "You're supposed to be special."
Silence.
"You can see the future, right?" he continued. "That's what they say."Her lips parted, then closed again.
When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet—controlled—but fear bled through the cracks.
"I don't see everything."
Horuto smiled. "That's fine. I don't need everything."
She swallowed.
Still didn't look at him.You shouldn't be here," she said softly.
That made him laugh.
"And yet," he replied, standing, "here I am."
She flinched at the sound.
But then—almost unconsciously—her eyes drifted back to the window.
Waiting.
Expecting.
Horuto noticed.
Something in her expression unsettled him—not confidence, not defiance, but certainty layered beneath fear.You think someone's coming," he said.
Her fingers tightened in her sleeves.
"Yes."
The word came out small.
But unshaken.
The lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
And somewhere deep in the warehouse, a door opened.
__
— Phoenix Capital, Neo-Japan
Yoshima Territory
October 17, 2100
10:15 pm
Phoenix Capital rose from the bay like a living monument.
From a distance, it appeared serene—elegant towers of white stone and steel framed by sweeping traditional rooftops, their curved silhouettes reminiscent of ancient palaces. Gold-trimmed bridges arched over artificial canals, lantern-lit walkways traced orderly paths between gardens of sculpted pine and stone. Even at night, the city glowed—not with the chaotic neon of the outer megacities, but with a controlled, dignified radiance.
To the public, Phoenix Capital was proof that order and tradition could coexist with progress.
To those who truly understood power, it was something else entirely.
Beneath its temples and plazas lay reinforced bunkers, command centers, armories, and encrypted data vaults older than the city itself. Surveillance grids layered invisibly through the air. Nothing entered Phoenix Capital without being seen. Nothing happened within it without being recorded.
At its heart stood the Yoshima Estate—an immense compound designed like a feudal stronghold, its walls clad in modern alloys disguised as stone, its gates guarded by men who did not wear weapons openly… because they did not need to.
This was the seat of the most powerful Yakuza clan in Neo-Japan.
And tonight, it did not sleep.
Light spilled through paper screens along the inner council wing of the estate. Servants moved silently, heads bowed, as senior retainers gathered around a hovering tactical map. Red indicators pulsed slowly along the coast—ports, abandoned industrial zones, forgotten warehouses.
Inoue territory.
Kaede Yoshima stood apart from the table, hands folded behind his back, posture straight, expression unreadable. The rain outside traced thin lines down the glass, each drop catching the city's glow before vanishing into darkness.
A junior secretary entered and knelt immediately.
"Kaede-sama… there is a call."
Kaede did not turn.
"Schedule?"
The secretary hesitated—a mistake.
"They… they insist it cannot wait."
"That is not an answer."
The secretary swallowed hard. "They did not give a name. Only a title."
Kaede's fingers tightened, almost imperceptibly.
"Put it through."
The line opened with a soft click. Static. Then breathing—slow, deliberate.
The secretary stiffened beside him.
"I— I'm sorry, sir, he says—"
A voice cut through the chamber.
"This is Takumi Arakawa."
The atmosphere shifted instantly.
The secretary dropped to the floor, forehead pressed to the tatami.
"M-Minister…!"
Kaede turned.
"Arakawa," he said calmly. "It's late."
"So is history," the Minister of Defense replied.
Behind his composed tone was pressure—restrained, immense, the kind that came from standing at the edge of something irreversible.
"I won't waste time," Arakawa continued. "The situation has escalated beyond containment."
Kaede stepped toward the table. "Inoue."
"Yes."
A pause—just long enough to sharpen the blade of the next word.
"And Yoshima."
The rain outside intensified.
"My clan has not moved," Kaede said evenly.
"But it will," Arakawa replied.
Not a question. A conclusion.
"A government asset has been taken," Arakawa said. "That alone would have been… manageable. But the moment Yoshima intervenes, this ceases to be a criminal matter."
Kaede's eyes flicked to the red marker near the port.
"It becomes a matter of state," Arakawa finished.
Silence filled the chamber.
"And if I do nothing?" Kaede asked.
Arakawa exhaled slowly.
"When the public wakes," he said, "they will wake to fear. To outrage. To demands for accountability. Someone will have to answer for how a weapon slipped beyond the state's grasp."
Kaede understood.
"And you already know who that someone will be."
"Yes."
This time, Arakawa's voice softened—not with mercy, but with something closer to regret.
"This call is not a warning, Kaede. It is the last courtesy I can afford you."
Kaede turned toward the shadows.
10:35 pm
Kurogane Industrial Port
The Port stood still. Not the empty silence it had worn for years—but something tighter. Held. As if the rusted cranes, the stacked containers, the black water itself were listening.
Inside the warehouse, Horuto Inoue was still smiling.
The girl sat near the shattered window, her knees drawn close, fingers curled tight into her sleeves. Her breathing had gone shallow again. She had gone very still.
Then—
A scream tore through the night.
It came from outside the warehouse.
Short. Sharp. Cut off too quickly to echo.
The men inside froze.
Another sound followed—not a scream this time, but the dull thud of something heavy collapsing against metal. Then footsteps. Running. Panicked. Followed by a gunshot that cracked through the walls and died just as suddenly.
Horuto straightened slowly.
"…What the hell is going on out there?"
No one answered him.
Another scream rose—closer this time. Longer. It ended with a wet, choking sound that made one of the guards curse under his breath.
The girl's head snapped up.
Her eyes widened—not in fear alone, but recognition. As if something she had been waiting for had finally stepped into motion.
The lights flickered once.
Outside, something moved between the containers. Not fast. Not loud. Whatever was happening out there was not a raid. Not chaos.
It was methodical.
One of the guards edged toward the warehouse door, rifle raised. "I'll check—"
He never finished the sentence.
The door slid open.
A figure stood in the threshold, framed by the dim spill of flickering light from outside. His coat was dark. Unmarked. His posture relaxed in a way that did not belong in a place like this.
His hands were wet.
Blood dripped steadily from his fingers, pattering softly onto the concrete floor—each drop distinct, unhurried, undeniable.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then one of the guards inhaled sharply.
"…No way," he whispered. "That's—"
The gunshot came before the name.
The guard's head snapped back, body collapsing where he stood, the echo still ringing as he hit the floor.
The second guard reacted on instinct—rifle swinging up, finger tightening—
Too slow.
The figure moved.
Not rushed. Not dramatic. One step in, a sharp pivot, the rifle knocked aside as if it weighed nothing. A precise strike to the throat. A second to the joint. Bone cracked. The guard folded, hitting the ground hard and unmoving before he could even scream.
Silence rushed back in.
The figure stepped fully into the room.
He scanned it once—corners, shadows, exits—then his gaze settled on Horuto Inoue.
Only then did he move closer.
Horuto's smile was gone now.
"You've got a lot of nerve," Horuto said, forcing steadiness into his voice. "This is Inoue territory. The Yoshima clan doesn't get to interfere whenever it wants."
The man stopped a few steps away.
Now, finally, the name carried weight as it was spoken.
Ichiro Yoshima.
His voice was low. Even. Almost bored.
"You're doing too much."
Horuto scoffed, masking the tension creeping into his shoulders. "You think you can just walk in here and—"
"You crossed the line."
Horuto scoffed, breath sharp, reaching for the weapon at his side. His fingers barely brushed the grip.
Ichiro took another step forward.
The distance vanished.
There was no wind-up. No flourish. One moment Ichiro stood before him—then his hand drove forward, straight through cloth, muscle, and bone. The impact was not loud. It was final.
Horuto froze.
His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Ichiro's arm was buried to the wrist in his chest.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then Horuto's body convulsed, a violent shudder rippling through him as reality caught up. His eyes went wide, staring at something he could not understand—could not survive.
Ichiro leaned in close, his voice low, almost conversational.
"This was mercy."
His fingers closed.
There was resistance—dense, living resistance—then it gave way.
Ichiro pulled back.
Horuto collapsed instantly, his body folding as if the strings had been cut, hitting the wall and sliding down in a lifeless heap. Ichiro stood where he was, arm extended, his hand clenched around what remained of the Inoue heir's authority.
The room was silent.
No one screamed.
No one moved.
Blood dripped steadily from Ichiro's fingers, striking the concrete floor with slow, deliberate finality.
Only then did he release his grip.
The body at the wall did not respond.
Horuto Inoue was dead.
Ichiro took another step forward.
Behind him, the girl's vision blurred. Her strength gave out all at once. As she slumped against the wall, her lips parted, a breathless whisper escaping before the darkness claimed her.
"I knew you'd come…"
Ichiro heard it.
He looked at her—really looked at her—and something tightened, just barely, behind his eyes.
Not pity.
Recognition.
Then his attention returned to Horuto.
The port turned into a gallery of chaos.
Bodies lay scattered among toppled containers and shattered crates, some twisted in unnatural arcs, others sprawled as if frozen mid-motion. Blood painted the wooden planks and rusted metal like abstract strokes on a canvas, the reds and dark crimsons contrasting with the dim flicker of dying lanterns.
Ichiro Yoshima walked through it all, boots clicking softly over wet concrete. Each corpse was a silent testament to efficiency—precision without waste, violence without excess.
A pause.
A shadow fell across the warehouse doorway.
Then another.
"Looks like the party's over," a calm voice said.
Ichiro turned.
Framed by the burning docks stood Takumi Yamada, Wakagashira of the Yoshima clan. Three Yoshima men flanked him, spaced with practiced discipline. He looked almost relaxed, hands loose at his sides, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
"Figured you'd want some privacy," Yamada added lightly. "Didn't want to steal your thunder."
"You're late," Ichiro said.
"And you're thorough," Yamada replied, stepping inside. His gaze swept the room—no movement, no resistance left. It lingered briefly on Ichiro's bloodied hands. A subtle nod passed between them.
Then Yamada noticed the girl.
Slumped against Ichiro's side. Barely conscious.
"…Wow," Yamada said mildly. "You work fast."
Ichiro adjusted his grip. "Don't."
"Careful, Ichiro. Don't let her get used to being carried around like that. Might start expecting it."
Ichiro rolled his eyes, but his smile was almost imperceptible. "She's not fragile enough to be spoiled, don't worry," he replied. "Besides, you'd be the last to lecture me on how to carry someone properly."
The air was lightened for a brief moment by their banter.
Yamada chuckled under his breath. "Relax. I'm just thinking how this is going to look on paper."
Ichiro frowned. "What paper?"
"You know," he continued, nodding toward the girl, "if your fiancée hears about this, I am not taking the blame."
Ichiro blinked.
"What fiancée?"
Takumi clicked his tongue.
"Right. Sorry. Future fiancée. Arranged. Imperial paperwork. Whole mess. Ring, ceremony, the works."
Ichiro stared at him.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
Takumi shrugged.
"See? Already denying it. Classic."
One of the Yoshima men behind him coughed, barely hiding a grin.
Ichiro shifted the girl slightly, adjusting his grip.
"That's politics."
"Everything is," Yamada said easily. "Especially marriages."
Ichiro ignored them. "She was going to be killed."
"I noticed," Yamada said in a dry tone, glancing at the bodies again. "Hard to miss."
He crouched briefly beside a fallen Inoue guard, brushing a shattered weapon with his fingers.
"Clean work," he added. "Controlled. No wasted motion."
He stood and keyed his comm.
"Perimeter secure. No outbound signals. Inoue's finished here."
Static answered: Acknowledged.
Yamada gestured with two fingers. His men moved immediately—silent, efficient—checking exits, confirming no survivors.
"Convoy's outside," Yamada said. "We're leaving."
Outside, armored Yoshima transports waited along the docks—low-profile, matte black, engines idling in disciplined silence. Headlights cut pale lines through drifting smoke as men took positions with practiced speed.
Ichiro glanced down at the girl.
"She comes with us."
Yamada didn't hesitate. "Obviously."
He started toward the door, then paused and looked back.
"Oh—and Ichiro?"
Ichiro sighed.
"What."
Takumi's smirk returned, sharp and knowing.
"Next time you feel like playing knight in shining armor… at least pick a night when the Empire isn't bored."
Behind them, the docks fell quiet again.
The bodies remained where they lay.
The blood cooled.
And the night moved on—as if nothing had happened at all.
They moved.
Inside the armored transport, the hum of reinforced engines filled the cabin. The vehicle pulled away smoothly, suspension barely reacting as it cleared the ruined port and merged onto the coastal route. Additional transports followed in staggered formation, lights dimmed, presence unmistakable.
Ichiro held the girl steady, her breathing shallow but even.
Yamada sat opposite him, calm but alert, eyes scanning the darkened road through the reinforced glass.
"Well," Yamada said lightly, "this is going to complicate your engagement announcement."
Ichiro shot him a look. "I am not engaged."
Yamada smiled. "That's what everyone says before the invitations go out."
The radio crackled.
Yamada's communicator lit up, the voice on the line crisp and authoritative. Ichiro stiffened slightly as he heard it. "Ichiro… it's Kaede," Yamada said, his tone shifting, a flicker of concern crossing his features. "He wants to talk to you directly. Says it's urgent."
Ichiro took the call. "I'm listening."
Kaede Yoshima's voice came through firm, measured.
"Leave the girl behind. The situation has escalated. We cannot afford further exposure."
Ichiro didn't hesitate. "No."
A pause.
"She is under my protection," Ichiro said. "I won't abandon her."
Another pause—longer.
"…Very well," Kaede said at last. "Then whatever follows will be yours to carry."
The line went dead.
Yamada exhaled slowly. "Well," he said, glancing at Ichiro, "that's the sound of destiny getting involved."
Ichiro said nothing.
The convoy accelerated, engines deepening as the road curved toward Phoenix.
Behind them, the port fell silent.
The bodies remained.
The blood cooled.
And the night pretended it had seen nothing at all.