He placed the chopsticks neatly on the side of the bowl, clapped his hands once, and murmured, "It was perfect."
The old man smiled. "You're welcome."
Ash finished the ramen, gulped down the remaining beer, and set the bottle down with a soft bam.
"How much is it, old man?" he asked.
"Fifty Marks," came the reply.
Ash nodded and took out a crisp note. Simple, bold letters spelled 50 Marks, copper-colored, with a picture of skyscrapers embossed on it. He placed it carefully on the counter. The old man gave a small nod.
Ash stood, adjusted the hood of his hoodie, and stepped back into the neon-lit streets, wandering aimlessly toward home.
He started walking, fingers brushing against walls, taking in everything around him. If you looked closely, you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes darted around, searching for something unseen. It was clear—he didn't belong here.
Who could blame him? He had just died and been reincarnated into this strange, unfamiliar world. The very fact that he was moving forward at all showed his courage and sheer will.
Now, stripped of everything he had known, with no one to rely on, he could only trust himself. And that—being completely alone in a world that didn't care—was enough to make anyone more frightened than necessary.
Ash's eyes roamed the walls. Different pictures were painted everywhere—some showed women, boldly naked from the chest up, while others were words, scrawled in thick, bold letters: "Fuck you."
Random insults sprawled across the surfaces, some aimed at anyone who passed, others strangely directed at ancestors he didn't even know.
Ash laughed quietly. "How strange… they've never even met anyone's ancestors, and yet here they are, cursing them."
He imagined his ancestors shrugging in confusion. "What did I do?"
His gaze softened as he took it in. It was human nature, he realized. People needed ways to vent, to mark their frustration, to leave their mark on a world that barely noticed. Walls became diaries, curses became confessions, and the streets… the streets became a theater for human emotion, raw and unfiltered.
Shaking his head, he murmured, "Anger, desire, fear… it's always the same. We project it onto others, onto symbols, onto shadows. And somehow, it makes us feel alive, even if no one's watching."
Lost in his thoughts, Ash kept walking, unaware that his steps were carrying him somewhere he probably shouldn't be. The signs were there—subtle, but clear. Fewer people moved in this direction. Conversations thinned. Footsteps faded.
Anyone paying attention would've noticed.
Ash didn't. Or maybe he did… and simply didn't care.
He kept going.
The lights grew sparse, neon giving way to dim, flickering bulbs that barely held back the dark. The noise of the city drained away until there was nothing—no laughter, no engines, no distant music. Just silence.
It felt as if he had stepped out of the city itself, into a place forgotten. A dead stretch of streets where life had either moved on… or never returned.
Ash stopped.
A peculiar drawing covered the entire building before him—two hands clasped together, a single middle finger thrust outward in open defiance. The image was crude, bold, impossible to miss.
He checked the surrounding buildings.
The same symbol appeared again. Smaller on some walls, faded on others—but unmistakably the same. It was everywhere.
A tight feeling settled in his chest.
He shouldn't have come here.
But it was already too late. He was here now. It wasn't like he could just turn back and walk away. Not after stepping into someone else's territory. He doubted they'd leave him alone.
Ash clicked his tongue quietly.
"Just my luck."
"Ho ho… look who wandered in."
The voice came from a second-floor window.
A man leaned out, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. The tip glowed faintly, a dull ember cutting through the dark. Smoke drifted down in slow, lazy coils. Ash couldn't see his face—only a shadowed outline, still and unbothered.
Then he heard it.
Soft chuckles.
Not one. More than one.
They came from different directions, low and restrained, like people trying not to laugh too loudly. Like hunters who had already closed the trap.
Ash's stomach sank.
He'd fucked up.
Slowly, he raised both hands. "Hey… hey. It was a mistake. I just walked in the wrong way."
The chuckling grew louder.
The man at the window exhaled smoke and spoke again, his voice calm—too calm.
"Do we care if you came here by mistake?"
Silence followed. Heavy. Pressing.
"I don't give a fuck why you're here," the man continued. "If you're here… then you will entertain us".
Then he noticed them.
Three men emerged from behind him, slow and deliberate. Their grins were wide—unsettling, manic. One of them dragged his tongue across his lips, eyes fixed on Ash like he'd just been served his favorite meal.
Goosebumps rippled across Ash's skin.
Not fear.
Not exactly.
He'd faced danger before—even death itself—but this was different. The way that man licked his lips didn't feel threatening… it felt wrong.
Disgust crawled up his spine.
Seriously?
Ash sighed inwardly. He knew he was good-looking—he wasn't blind—but he hadn't expected to charm the same gender this effortlessly.
So this is it? he thought dryly.
Not scared of the situation. Scared of my own handsomeness and unmatched charisma.
He almost laughed.
Oh God, he prayed silently, lips twitching, please forgive this sinner for his sins.
A faint smile tugged at his face—calm, light, completely out of place.
Ash slowly pulled his hands from his pockets and exhaled deeply. His gaze lifted, locking onto theirs—one by one. Eye contact. Clear. Unapologetic.
He braced himself. Shifted his stance.
And ran.
What?
You thought I'd fight?
Dream on, idiot.
But if you saw Ash's expression then you would see he wasn't joking about it He lost all the playfulness he had it replaced with quiet and cold and calmness despite danger looming around him.
It was as if he had everything under control.
If anyone thought he was a coward, they were wrong. Cowardice ran from fear. Ash ran with intent. This wasn't panic—it was positioning. The moment the first voice called out to him, the moment the laughter followed, the path ahead had already been chosen.
The three men chased him, their footsteps loud, careless, confident.
Too confident.
Ash had already read them. The way they laughed. The way they closed in without caution. They had decided he was weak before he ever moved. Humans loved doing that—judging the end from the beginning, mistaking numbers for certainty.
Confidence was comforting. It made people feel invincible.
And that was why it killed them.
In this city, streets weren't just roads—they were claims. Territory meant power, and power bred arrogance. When people believed the ground beneath them belonged to them, they stopped imagining defeat. They stopped questioning outcomes. They stopped thinking.
Arrogance, Ash knew, was only justified when backed by overwhelming force. Anything else was delusion. Like handing a blade to a child and calling it strength—dangerous, not because of skill, but because of ignorance.
He kept running, breathing steady, eyes sharp.
Humans always overestimated themselves. They believed they were special, that the rules bent for them, that the world would recognize their importance. That belief felt good. Warm. Safe.
And it was the first thing to shatter in a real fight.
Never underestimate anyone until the battle is over.
By then, realization usually came too late—
arriving hand in hand with regret.
Ash knew his limits.
He couldn't win against all of them head-on. Maybe—maybe—if it had been planned. An ambush. Controlled angles. A fight on his terms. Then he could've thinned them out, one by one.
But not like this.
He didn't know their numbers. Didn't know the layout of their territory. The alleys, the exits, the blind corners—everything here belonged to them, not him. The fight had already reached a dead end before it even began.
So he ran.
Not out of fear, but because retreat was the only intelligent choice.
He pushed himself away from their turf, confident in one thing—overconfident men were easy to deal with. Predictable. People like them moved on impulse, ruled by mood rather than thought. When they felt superior, they played with their prey. When they felt challenged, they charged recklessly.
That pattern never changed.
That was how the world worked.
What truly worried him weren't men like these—but the ones who didn't react at all. The ones who didn't rush, didn't mock, didn't chase blindly. The ones who gave nothing away.
You couldn't read them. You couldn't anticipate them.
And that uncertainty—
—that was what made someone truly dangerous.
Ash ran.
Boots slammed against concrete, the impact jarring up his legs, each step echoing sharp and hollow through the alley. Thud—thud—thud. His breath tore in and out of his lungs, ragged, uneven, hot against his throat.
Behind him—
Footsteps.
Not one set. Several. Chaotic. Sloppy. Heavy shoes scraping, kicking trash, knocking into walls. Someone cursed. Another laughed.
"Don't let him slow down!" a voice barked.
Ash's foot skidded over wet pavement. He barely caught himself, shoulder slamming into a wall. Pain flared, sharp and bright, but he didn't stop. He couldn't. His chest burned now, lungs screaming as air scraped its way in.
He glanced back.
Bad idea.
Three shadows burst into the light behind him—too close. One of them gained fast, arms pumping wildly, face twisted with excitement rather than effort. That grin made Ash's stomach churn.
Focus.
He cut left without warning, shoes slapping through a narrow passage. Bottles shattered underfoot. Something metal clanged as he clipped it with his knee. His breath hitched, vision tunneling at the edges.
In. Out. Don't lose rhythm.
His heartbeat roared in his ears, drowning out everything else. The city blurred—brick, graffiti, neon streaks, darkness folding into darkness. Every turn felt wrong. Every shadow looked like another body waiting.
Footsteps thundered closer.
Too close.
Ash pushed harder, legs screaming, lungs on fire. Sweat slicked his palms as he pumped his arms, hoodie clinging to his back. He risked another glance over his shoulder.
They were still there.
Smiling.
"Run all you want!" someone shouted. "You're not getting out!"
Ash didn't answer. He just ran—harder, faster—teeth clenched, breath ripping free in harsh gasps.
Because he wasn't trying to escape them.
He was dragging them somewhere.
And they didn't realize it yet.
Ash didn't wonder why they were chasing him anymore.
He hadn't done anything. No insult. No challenge. He hadn't crossed blades or words with them. He had only walked.
Was it territory?
If it truly was, there would've been signs. Markings meant to warn. Lines meant to be respected.
But there were none.
Which meant this wasn't about borders.
They wanted someone to wander in. Someone careless. Someone alone. A sheep stepping into a place built for wolves.
Not to protect anything—but to entertain themselves.
To beat someone down. To pour their frustration, their boredom, their quiet rage into a body that couldn't fight back. To feel powerful for a moment in lives where power was rare.
Ash almost smiled at the familiarity of it.
It was the same in his past life.
Those above always needed someone below. Someone to carry the weight of their failures. Someone they could target, nitpick, break—so they could pretend their own lives weren't falling apart.
Different world. Same pattern.
Humans didn't change.
They didn't need reasons.
They needed outlets.
And when they found one… they called it fate, territory, order—anything except what it really was.
How laughable, he thought.
Not because it was funny.
But because it was so painfully predictable.
Ash judged the distance in a single glance.
This was far enough.
Even if they screamed now, he doubted the sound would reach the rest of their gang. Concrete swallowed noise in this part of the city. Walls here were thick. Streets narrow. Isolated.
Perfect.
So he slowed.
Not abruptly—just enough to be noticed. His steps grew heavier, breath louder, shoulders sagging as if exhaustion had finally caught him. He let his pace falter, let them believe it.
"Hey—hey," one of them laughed between breaths. "Looks like the bastard finally ran out."
"About damn time," another spat. "Made us run way too much."
The third cracked his knuckles, grinning. "We gotta teach him some manners. Making us work like this."
Ash stopped.
Completely.
Then he laughed.
Hahahhahahhahahahahahhahahahahahhahahahahahahahahahhahahahahah.
Not a nervous chuckle. Not a shaky breath. A full, unrestrained laugh that echoed down the dead street—sharp, clear, wrong. It cut through the air and made the hairs on their arms rise.
The three men slowed, confused. Their grins faltered.
"…What the hell?" one muttered.
Ash wiped under his eye like he'd heard the funniest joke of his life. He straightened, breath steady now—too steady for someone supposedly exhausted.
"I think," the first one said slowly, unease creeping into his voice, "this guy went crazy from the situation."
Ash's laughter faded.
Ash turned slowly, facing them at last.
He reached up and pulled the hood from his head. Cool air brushed his skin as he exhaled, then inhaled again—slow, deliberate—until his breathing steadied. His posture loosened, not careless, just ready. Shoulders rolled once. Fingers flexed, knuckles rotating as if waking from sleep.
He wasn't rushing this.
If anyone wondered how a former racer planned to survive a fight like this, the answer was simple—he'd never been foolish enough to live unprepared. Speed had taught him awareness. Crashes had taught him pain. And curiosity had taken him further.
Back then, he'd learned to fight not out of pride or desperation, but interest. He liked watching fights. Liked studying them. Liked the moment when pressure stripped people down to instinct. And—if he was being honest—he liked control. Liked the feeling of dominating a fight rather than being at the mercy of it.
Not violence for its own sake. Just the certainty of not being the one on the ground.
He didn't start fights. Never had.
But if someone put hands on him first—
he made sure he finished them.
Ash lifted his eyes to meet theirs. Calm. Clear. No anger. No fear.
Just readiness.
Ash tilted his head slightly, eyes moving between them with mild impatience.
"…So," he said, voice even, almost bored, "are we going to fight or what? I don't have all day. I'd like to go home and sleep."
For a second, there was silence.
Then teeth ground together.
They didn't like that tone. Didn't like the way he stood there—relaxed, unbothered—like this was an inconvenience rather than a threat.
One of them snarled, stepping forward.
"Kick the shit out of him, boys."
Another laughed harshly.
"Yeah. Let's show him who's boss around here."
The third spat to the side, eyes burning.
"You bastard… just you wait."
Then they rushed at him.