Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 66993 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66993 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Satoshi was the counterpoint of Rin—ex-military, dishonorably discharged for something involving five bodies and zero witnesses. His presence was like a loaded gun in a church—too heavy, too loud, even in silence.
His jet-black hair was buzzed close at the sides but left slightly longer on top, always combed flat and neat as if he’d just left inspection.
But he had one soft spot: he only drank milk, even in blood-soaked rooms, and if anyone dared tease him for it, they bled for the joke.
One by one, they joined the formation, moving like a single organism built to hunt. These men didn’t just protect me—they carried pieces of my sins, my history, my blood-soaked promises.
Together with my Roar, Claws, and Fangs, I pushed through the double doors of Castle in the Sky, leaving behind its warm, perfumed glamour and stepping into the cold, electric breath of Tokyo’s night.
Outside, the world reacted the way it always did.
A ripple.
Then rupture.
People scattered.
Men with cameras disguised as tourists tripped over their own feet to get out of range. Working girls crossed the street without looking, ignoring red lights and almost getting clipped by passing cabs.
A man in a cheap suit dropped his cigarette and didn’t bother to pick it up, bolting toward the alley with his head down.
Even the predators fled when the Dragon stepped outside.
We didn’t speak as we moved through Kabukichō. Neon signs buzzed like electric gods.
Above, a love hotel sign flickered the word Paradise in kanji.
Girls leaned out of windows with faces painted like porcelain dolls.
Host boys smoked on balconies, eyeing us with detached curiosity that quickly morphed into fear.
The deeper we moved, the quieter the street became. Even the music spilling from the clubs lost its edge when we passed.
Together, we walked like a single beast, and the city recoiled with every step.
We reached one of my restaurants, the Last Cut.
A sushi spot with a narrow entrance and no sign. Just a single red lantern swinging above the door, casting a blood-hued glow across the stones.
Reo opened the door for me.
I moved forward.
Conversation died the second I stepped inside. Scents hit me—rice vinegar and raw tuna. Wasabi that clung to my sinuses like smoke.
We continued forward.
Chopsticks froze mid-air.
Chewing stopped.
A couple on a date—young, too pretty, too naive to be here—pushed back their seats without realizing it.
One old man bowed so low his forehead nearly touched his food.
Waitresses in silk kimonos hurried around us, their slippers whispering against the polished floor.
Behind the counter, the wakate—a junior sushi chef still in his first year—nervously nodded at me and appeared like he was very close to pissing himself. His knife hovered mid-air over a slab of fresh mackerel, the cut trembling slightly. He wasn’t the itamae—the head sushi chef. That honor belonged to Yamada-san, the master of the house.
Meanwhile, beside the new wakate was a shokunin-in-training—barely fifteen. And he stood frozen with a lacquered tray of nigiri in one hand and his other clenched at his side.
Reo leaned in, voice low. “We may need to replace the wakate. He’s too nervous to work here.”
I watched the young chef’s throat bob as he swallowed, his eyes flicking toward us like he feared we might cut him instead of the fish.
“Give him time,” I murmured. “A little fear sharpens the blade.”
We pressed deeper into the restaurant and entered the kitchen.
Yamada-san spotted us.
“Kenchō,” he greeted me softly.
Only five people in this world had ever used that name with me. Yamada was one. My father another. The rest were buried deep in the ground.
“Yamada-san,” I returned the nod.
He was a relic—white headband tied tight; face carved with age. His knives were lined behind him, serving as a shrine.
The other chefs worked in rhythmic harmony. One sliced tuna belly so thin it curled under its own weight.
Another fanned eel over glowing rice.
Steam curled from wooden bowls.
Fish shimmered on chilled porcelain.
Yamada-san stepped aside and one of the younger shokunin—nervous, barely old enough to grow stubble—hurried to open a narrow door at the back of the kitchen.
We moved through and left that space.
Back here, the smell shifted. Soy gave way to cold air and rust. The temperature dropped several degrees. The passage was narrow, lined with crates of seaweed, ginger, and Styrofoam bins still crusted in melting ice.
Then came the metal door.
Unmarked.
Matte black.
I touched it.
Cool steel met my palm.
The door opened and we stepped into a different world.
The warehouse stretched long and wide. The walls were concrete, the floor waxed smooth. At one point it had stored seafood.
Now it held something else entirely.
The scents were a cocktail of gun oil, damp concrete, and the faint trace of chemicals. Rows and rows of sealed crates stretched across the warehouse like soldiers in formation. Labels in multiple languages—French, Russian, Arabic—marked the boxes.
Not a single one of them honest.
What was really inside the boxes?
Guns.
MDMA.
High-end designer pills cut with pharmaceutical exactness.