"Showtime."
Ping.
The golden doors began to slide open, but they didn't reveal a welcoming committee. They revealed the muzzle flashes of six automatic rifles.
The sound was not a bang. It was a continuous, tearing roar, like a chainsaw ripping through sheet metal. The air inside the elevator, previously filled with the soft hum of "Fly Me to the Moon," was instantly displaced by a storm of 5.56mm rounds.
The gold-tinted mirrors lining the elevator walls shattered.
They didn't just break; they vaporized. Millions of shards of reflective glass exploded inward, creating a glittering, deadly blizzard. The luxury wood paneling splintered into sawdust. The buttons on the control panel sparked and died.
It was a kill box. A metal coffin designed to turn anyone inside into a sieve.
But Jiro had made a miscalculation. He had accounted for men. He had not accounted for monsters.
"Takeshi," Hanae said. Her voice was calm, barely audible under the cacophony of gunfire. She didn't flinch. She didn't duck. She simply stood in the center of the car, watching the lead fly toward her.
"OSU!"
The giant chef moved with a speed that defied his mass. He didn't dive for cover—there was no cover. Instead, he reached down and grabbed the unconscious body of the guard Reina had knocked out in the lobby—the one they had brought up as a hostage.
Takeshi hoisted the 90-kilogram man into the air with one hand, holding him up like a riot shield.
THWACK-THWACK-THWACK-THWACK.
The dead guard's body danced as the bullets impacted, absorbing the kinetic energy that was meant for Hanae. Blood misted the air, turning the white smoke of the gunpowder pink. Takeshi roared, bracing his shoulder against the corpse, his feet digging into the expensive carpet of the elevator car, acting as the immovable object against the unstoppable force.
"Reina," Hanae said, lighting her cigarette. The flame of her gold lighter was steady, even as a bullet whizzed past her ear, severing a lock of her hair.
"Wheeee!"
Reina didn't block. She became liquid.
As the bullets chewed through the upper half of the elevator car, the Gothic Lolita dropped. She went flat, her body pressing against the floor, sliding through the blood and glass like a serpent.
She slithered through the gap in the opening doors, passing under the cone of fire.
The mercenaries—six men in tactical gear, standing in a semi-circle in the hallway—didn't see her. They were trained to shoot at center mass. They were looking at the large target, at Takeshi. They didn't look down.
It was the last mistake they would ever make.
Reina popped up in the center of their formation. She was a blur of black lace and matte steel.
"Barcodes!" she giggled.
Her left Karambit hooked into the femoral artery of the point man. She didn't slash; she pulled. The blade sank deep, hooking the vessel, and she yanked it out with a sickening wet pop.
The man collapsed, his leg useless, his rifle firing wildly into the ceiling.
Reina pirouetted. She used the falling man as a step-stool, vaulting over the second guard. Mid-air, she drove her right Karambit into the gap between his helmet and his Kevlar vest—right into the trapezius muscle, severing the nerve connection to his arm.
His rifle clattered to the floor.
"Two down!" she chirped, landing in a crouch.
The firing stopped. The remaining four mercenaries realized the threat was no longer in the elevator. They turned their weapons inward, trying to track the small, frantic girl bouncing around them like a pinball of death.
"Now," Hanae whispered.
Takeshi dropped the bullet-riddled corpse. He charged.
It was like watching a freight train derail. Takeshi barreled out of the elevator, his shoulder lowered. He hit the two center mercenaries with enough force to liquefy their internal organs. The impact lifted them off their feet, hurling them backward through the dry-wall of the corridor. Dust and plaster exploded into the air.
Takeshi didn't stop. He raised his meat cleaver.
The hallway became a butcher shop.
Hanae stepped out of the elevator.
She walked slowly. Her heels crunched on the carpet of brass casings. Smoke swirled around her bespoke suit, clinging to the wool like a shroud. She adjusted her tie, which had become slightly crooked during the ambush.
She looked at the carnage.
Reina was currently riding the shoulders of the fifth mercenary, stabbing him repeatedly in the helmet with a rhythm that matched a pop song only she could hear. Takeshi was holding the sixth mercenary by the throat, lifting him off the ground while the man kicked feebly.
"Save your energy," Hanae commanded.
Takeshi paused. He looked at the man in his hand, then at Hanae. He squeezed. Crunch. He dropped the body.
Reina hopped down from her victim, wiping her knives on the mercenary's tactical vest. "Aww, Boss. I was just warming up."
"You'll have plenty to eat inside," Hanae said.
She looked down the hallway.
This was the 40th floor. The Penthouse Level. It was supposed to be the sanctum of the Kurosawa Clan, a place of austere tradition, where decisions that shaped the fate of Tokyo were made in hushed tones over cups of bitter tea.
That place was gone.
The hallway was lined with Greek statues—cheap replicas, not the authentic Japanese pottery her father had collected. The walls were painted a garish gold. The carpet was leopard print. The air smelled of stale perfume, unwashed bodies, and heavy narcotics.
It looked like a Las Vegas casino had vomited onto a Shinto shrine.
Hanae walked forward. Her leather shoes made no sound on the tacky carpet.
"Jiro," she murmured, the smoke from her cigarette trailing behind her. "You have terrible taste."
The Hallway of Sins
They moved deeper into the penthouse. The layout had been changed. The sliding shoji screens were gone, replaced by heavy, soundproof doors.
Hanae stopped at the first set of double doors. She could hear music thumping from inside—bass-heavy EDM.
"Open it," she ordered.
Takeshi kicked the door. The lock shattered.
The room inside was a lounge. But it wasn't a meeting room. It was an opium den for the new age.
Dozens of people were scattered on low sofas. Men in suits—Jiro's "New Guard" lieutenants—and women in various states of undress. The table in the center was covered in lines of white powder and bottles of Dom Perignon.
When the door burst open, the music didn't stop, but the people froze.
They looked at the doorway. They saw a giant covered in plaster and blood. They saw a girl in a Lolita dress dripping with gore. And in the center, they saw a woman in a men's suit, clean, immaculate, radiating an aura so cold it seemed to drop the room temperature by ten degrees.
A lieutenant, dazed and high, stood up. He wiped white powder from his nose.
"Who..." he slurred. "Who invited you? This is a private party."
Hanae walked into the room. She picked up a bottle of champagne from an ice bucket. She looked at the label.
"1998," she noted. "My father's vintage. He was saving this for my wedding."
She looked at the lieutenant.
"You are drinking my wedding gift."
The lieutenant blinked. "What? Who cares? The old man is a vegetable. Jiro says we can take what we want."
Hanae's grip on the bottle tightened. The glass groaned.
"Vegetable," she repeated. The word hung in the air, heavy and poisonous.
She swung the bottle.
It wasn't a wild swing. It was a precise, targeted strike. The heavy glass base of the champagne bottle connected with the side of the lieutenant's head.
SMASH.
The bottle didn't break. The lieutenant's skull did.
He dropped to the floor without a sound.
The room erupted into panic. The women screamed. The men fumbled for weapons that were buried under cushions or lines of coke.
"Reina," Hanae said, turning her back on the room. "Clear the trash. Leave the women, kill the men."
"Yes, Boss!" Reina squealed.
Hanae walked back out into the hallway. Behind her, the sounds of the massacre began—the wet slicing of knives, the screams of men realizing that their guns were too far away, and the high-pitched giggling of the Viper.
Hanae didn't look back. She continued down the corridor.
Every step fueled her rage.
She passed the library. The rare first-edition books were gone, replaced by a massive flat-screen TV playing horse racing.
She passed the meditation garden. The bonsai trees, which her grandfather had tended for fifty years, were dead. withered. used as ashtrays.
She stopped in front of a pedestal.
It was empty.
It should have held the Kurosawa Katana—the ancestral blade of the clan, forged four hundred years ago. It was the symbol of their authority. The soul of the family.
It was gone.
Hanae stared at the empty velvet cushion. Her breathing stopped for a moment.
"He sold it," she whispered.
Ren's voice crackled in her earpiece. "Boss. Situation update. The convoy has secured the perimeter. We have the building surrounded. But Jiro has called for backup. A cartel hit squad is five minutes out."
"Let them come," Hanae said. "Ren, park the car. Come up. I want you to see this."
"Copy."
Hanae reached the end of the hallway.
Before her stood the massive double doors of the Main Office. The Throne Room.
Two guards stood there. They were big—huge, actually. Foreign mercenaries. Russians, by the look of the tattoos on their necks. They held heavy machine guns.
They saw Hanae. They leveled their weapons.
"Nyet," the one on the left grunted. "No entry. Boss says kill on sight."
Hanae didn't stop walking. She didn't slow down.
"Takeshi," she said calmly. "I'm bored of doors."
Takeshi lumbered up from behind her. He was covered in fresh blood from the lounge. He looked like a demon from a folklore painting.
"I hate doors," Takeshi grunted.
He didn't attack the guards. He attacked the wall next to the guards.
He charged, turning his shoulder into a battering ram. He hit the drywall with the force of a wrecking ball.
CRASH.
He smashed through the wall, disappearing into the office, bypassing the reinforced doors entirely.
The Russian guards turned, confused by the sudden disappearance of the giant.
"Behind you," Hanae said in fluent Russian.
The guards spun around.
Takeshi's hand punched through the drywall from the inside, grabbing the guard on the left by the back of his tactical vest. He yanked. The guard was pulled through the wall, screaming as the studs tore at his gear.
The guard on the right hesitated.
Hanae stepped in.
She grabbed the barrel of his machine gun. The barrel was hot, but her gloves protected her. She jerked it upward, pointing it at the ceiling. With her other hand, she drove her palm into his throat.
CRUNCH.
Trachea crushed.
The guard gagged, dropping the gun, clutching his throat. He fell to his knees.
Hanae stepped over him. She pushed open the double doors that the guards had been protecting.
The Throne Room
The office was vast. It took up the entire front of the building, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the Tokyo skyline. The rain lashed against the glass, blurring the city lights into streaks of neon.
In the center of the room sat a massive desk made of black oak.
And behind the desk, sitting in the high-backed leather chair that had belonged to Hanae's father, was Jiro.
Uncle Jiro.
He had gained weight in six years. He was bloated, his face flushed with alcohol and stress. He was wearing a silk robe that looked ridiculous on him. He was sweating profusely, a phone clutched in one hand, a pistol in the other.
When Hanae entered, Jiro dropped the phone.
"Hanae," he wheezed. His eyes darted around the room, looking for his guards. He saw the hole in the wall where Takeshi was dusting himself off. He saw Reina skipping in, twirling a severed finger.
"Uncle," Hanae said. She stopped ten paces from the desk. "You look... unwell. Is the air up here too thin for a rat?"
Jiro laughed nervously. He waved the gun, but his hand was shaking so badly he couldn't have hit a barn.
"Hanae-chan! My little niece! You... you've grown. You look strong! Very strong!"
"Stand up," Hanae said.
"Now, now, let's not be hasty," Jiro stammered. He stood up, but he kept the desk between them. "I know you're upset. The wedding... Kenji is a fool! A complete fool! I told him, 'Hanae is special.' But you know how men are."
"I said stand up," Hanae repeated. "You are sitting in my father's chair."
"It's just a chair!" Jiro cried. "Hanae, listen to me. We are family! Blood! I did this for the clan! The old ways... they were dying! We were losing money! I brought us into the 21st century! We have partners in Mexico! In Russia! We are making billions!"
He opened a drawer and pulled out a stack of bearer bonds. He threw them on the desk.
"Look! Money! Real money! Not just honor and debts! Take it! Take half! We can rule together! The Asura and the Architect!"
Hanae looked at the money. She felt nothing.
"Where is he?" she asked.
Jiro froze. "Who?"
"My father," Hanae said. "The Oyabun. Where is he?"
Jiro swallowed hard. His eyes darted to the corner of the room, to a shadowed alcove shielded by a folding screen.
"He... he is resting. He is old, Hanae. His mind... it went away. Even if you see him, he won't know you."
Hanae walked toward the alcove.
"Don't!" Jiro shouted, raising the gun. "Stay back!"
Reina hissed. She flicked her wrist, and a throwing knife embedded itself in Jiro's shoulder.
"GAAH!" Jiro dropped the gun, clutching his bleeding shoulder.
Hanae ignored him. She reached the screen. She pushed it aside.
The breath left her body.
In the corner, facing a television playing a brightly colored children's cartoon, sat a man in a wheelchair.
He was thin. Skeletal. His skin was gray and papery. He was wearing a hospital gown that was stained with soup. His head lolled to the side, a line of drool running down his chin.
This was Genzo Kurosawa. The Dragon of Kanto. The man who had once commanded ten thousand men with a single eyebrow raise. The man who had taught Hanae how to hold a sword before she could walk.
"Otou-san?" Hanae whispered.
She knelt beside the wheelchair. She took his hand. It was cold. limp.
The old man didn't turn. His eyes were milky, fixed on the dancing cartoon rabbits on the screen.
"Pretty..." the old man mumbled. "Pretty colors..."
Hanae looked at the IV drip stand next to him. She read the label on the bag. Haloperidol. Lorazepam. High doses. Enough to tranquilize an elephant.
He wasn't senile. He was chemically lobotomized.
Jiro had kept him alive, drugged out of his mind, just to use his seal of authority. He had turned a king into a pet.
Hanae's vision blurred. For the first time that night, tears threatened to fall. Not tears of sadness. Tears of pure, molten hatred.
She gently placed her father's hand back on his lap. She wiped the drool from his chin with her leather glove.
"Sleep, Otou-san," she whispered. "The nightmare is over."
She stood up.
The temperature in the room plummeted. If she had been cold before, she was now absolute zero. The air crackled with Sakki so intense that the glass windows vibrated.
She turned to Jiro.
Jiro was cowering behind the desk, holding his bleeding shoulder. He looked at Hanae's face and realized that no amount of money would save him. He saw his death approaching, and it wore a bespoke suit.
"Hanae..." Jiro whimpered. "Please. I... I can explain. It was necessary! He was dangerous! He wouldn't let me make the deals!"
Hanae walked toward the desk.
"You drugged your own brother," she said. Her voice was flat. Dead. "You sold his sword. You sold his city. And you let him rot in his own filth while you drank his wine."
"I... I..." Jiro looked around frantically. "Tea! Do you want tea? I have... I have Jade Dew! The best! We can talk! We are civilized people!"
Hanae stopped.
A memory flashed. Chapter 5. The elevator ride.
If he offers tea... throw him out the window.
A dark, terrifying smile spread across Hanae's face. It was the smile of the Asura.
"Tea," she repeated.
"Yes! Yes!" Jiro scrambled to pour a cup from the set on his desk, his shaking hands spilling hot water everywhere. "Here! Please! Sit! Let's drink!"
Hanae looked at Takeshi.
The giant was standing by the window, blocking the rain-lashed view of the city. He was cracking his knuckles.
"Takeshi," Hanae said softly.
"Yes, Boss?"
"My uncle offered us tea."
Takeshi grinned. It was a shark's grin.
"I'm not thirsty," Takeshi rumbled.
"Neither am I," Hanae said. "And since the host is so insistent..."
She pointed a gloved finger at the window.
"Show him the exit."
Jiro's eyes bulged. "No! No! Wait! We're on the 40th floor! You can't!"
Takeshi moved.
He didn't run. He lunged. He vaulted over the massive oak desk, scattering money and papers. Jiro tried to scramble away, but he was fat and slow.
Takeshi grabbed him.
He grabbed him by the belt of his silk robe and the back of his neck. He lifted the screaming man over his head like a barbell.
"UNHAND ME!" Jiro shrieked, kicking his legs. "I AM THE OYABUN! I AM THE KING!"
"You're a tea bag," Takeshi growled.
He walked to the window.
The glass was reinforced. Hurricane-proof. Bullet-resistant.
It didn't matter. Takeshi was the hurricane.
"Reina," Hanae said. "Open the window."
Reina giggled. She pulled a small, heavy tungsten glass-breaker from her belt. She threw it.
CRACK.
The safety glass spiderwebbed. The structural integrity failed.
Takeshi charged the weakened glass.
"FLY!" Takeshi roared.
He hurled Jiro.
The body of the uncle hit the glass. The window shattered outward in a cascade of diamonds. The rain and wind roared into the room instantly, scattering the bearer bonds like confetti.
"HANAE!!!!!!"
Jiro's scream was ripped away by the wind. It faded quickly.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three seconds.
...
There was no thud. He was too far down.
Hanae walked to the broken window. The wind whipped her hair and her tie. She looked down.
Forty stories below, in the plaza where the "New Guard" cars were parked, there was a small, dark shape on the pavement.
She took a drag of her cigarette. The cherry glowed bright in the wind.
"Bounced," Reina noted, peering over the edge. "I told you."
Hanae turned back to the room.
The office was destroyed. The money was blowing away. Her father was sleeping in the corner.
She walked to the desk. She picked up the high-backed leather chair—her father's chair—which had been knocked over in the scuffle. She set it upright.
She brushed off the glass shards.
She sat down.
The leather groaned. It felt right. It felt like it had been waiting for her.
She placed her hands on the armrests. The black leather gloves contrasted with the dark wood.
Takeshi and Reina stood before the desk. They bowed deep at the waist.
"Osu, Kumicho!" (Yes, Boss!)
Hanae looked at them. Then she looked past them, out the broken window, at the infinite lights of Tokyo burning in the storm. The city was vast, dangerous, and broken. And now, it was hers again.
The Asura had reclaimed her throne.
"Takeshi," Hanae said, her voice echoing in the quiet room.
"Yes, Boss?"
"Clean this up. And find a doctor for my father. A real one."
"At once."
"And Reina?"
"Yes, Boss?"
Hanae stubbed out her cigarette on the mahogany desk, right in the center, leaving a dark burn mark. A brand.
"Get the car. We have a wedding reception to crash."
Reina's eyes widened. She squealed with delight. "The Ex-Husband?"
Hanae leaned back in the chair, her eyes narrowing into slits of pure malice.
"He thinks I'm gone. He thinks he's safe with his fragile little flower."
She picked up the pistol Jiro had dropped. She checked the chamber. Loaded.
"It's time to show him what a real storm looks like."
[End of Chapter 6]