February 7th, 2026
The hospital room smelled of antiseptic and cold metal. White walls. Pale light. Hollow hearts.
Ray stood with his back to the door, staring blankly at the floor tiles, the buzzing fluorescent lights overhead doing little to distract from the dreadful knot curling in his gut. His fists were clenched.
The silence was crushing, broken only by the rhythmic beep of a heart monitor in the next room.
He didn't belong here.
Yet, here he stood.
Chieko Himura, Sakura's estranged younger sister, had extended an invitation to him. A wedding announcement. Her daughters, Yuri and Nanako, were getting married to their longtime boyfriends. It was supposed to be a celebration. A reunion of family.
But something felt wrong.
Ray's eyes, sharp and calculating despite the soft professionalism he carried as a bank manager, zeroed in on the matching necklaces around the three women's necks. Simple obsidian, Ancient Egyptian like pendants. Circular. Intricate.
Exactly like the one Angela wore. Exactly like the one found on the blown corpse of a dead cultist they fought days ago in South Africa.
The Matriarch's Promise.
A cold sweat formed on his brow. No one else noticed. Not the fiancés, not Shinjo who stood at the corner avoiding Ray's eyes. No one else realized the people he was hunting down had already infiltrated their homes, their bloodlines. The cult wasn't just an international threat.
It was here.
In Japan.
Shinjo tried to coax Ray into attending the wedding. "You're family. You belong here," he had said. But Ray knew better. Family was a lie when it wore a mask of ritual murder and whispered chants in forgotten languages.
He made no promises. Said nothing. Left without explanation. The air felt poisonous. His father's distant glare only hardened the decision. There was no warmth left in this country.
Only enemies.
Only shadows.
At Takahashi residence in Shibuya - 10:56 PM
Shibuya was alive that night. Neon signs bleeding into each other like liquor spills on concrete.
High above it all, in the Takahashi condominium, Ryuji's father entertained his old guard - former business moguls, bureaucrats, corrupt politicians. All old, wealthy, and rotten to the bone.
The penthouse was a cavern of excess. Whisky, cigars, and perfume mixed in the air. Young escorts clung to their arms, laughing with dead eyes and champagne-stained teeth.
"Business is good," one man chuckled, his fingers draped lazily over his girl's shoulder.
"I set a prostitute on coma last week," another one said casually, as if discussing golf. "She didn't scream. Just whimpered. Disappointing."
"That's gnarly!" One friend excitedly said.
"Wish I could've seen it." One friend chimed.
Laughter erupted. Even the escorts joined in, their smiles trembling.
The man's escort giggled. "Should I be worried you'll put me on coma too?" she teased, half-joking, half-terrified.
He slapped her across the face so hard her head snapped sideways.
"Do you want right now!?" he roared.
"I could just kill you." The man's anger turned into a psychotic satisfactory.
More laughter.
Then - a knock at the door.
All eyes turned.
"You expecting someone?" one man asked Ryuji's father.
He chuckled. "Probably my wife. Wants another round. Insatiable old bird."
"Then let her in." One guy screamed in happiness.
"We could pass her up like a train, man." One guy howled.
The knock returned. Louder.
They ignored it.
Then came the thunder.
The door burst open, exploded from the hinges like it was struck by a battering ram.
Men stood up in confusion, some reaching for phones, others for weapons. But they were too slow.
In stepped a line of masked figures in black suits and ties, moving with militant precision. Rifles aimed. Silent. Ready.
Then she emerged.
Sakura Himura.
Her eyes were pure death. Her steps regal, like a queen walking to her throne of skulls. Her black suit hugged her form tightly, but it was her face - cold, emotionless, inhuman - that chilled the room.
"Himura-sama?" Ryuji's father whispered.
One of the old men turned to him. "Shit, you know this smoke show?"
Then...
BANG.
His head exploded.
The laughter died with him. A fountain of blood painted the white marble wall.
Sakura holstered her pistol.
"Now," she said, her voice like a blade dragging across stone, "where do we begin?"
At the rooftop - 11:01 PM
The cold Tokyo wind howled across the rooftop. Concrete slick with rain. Neon lights from the city below painted everything in shades of crimson and violet.
One of Sakura's masked men held Ryuji's father upside down by his ankles, letting him dangle over the edge of the 54-story tower.
He sobbed like a child.
Sakura stood near the ledge, her coat flapping like wings. Her eyes glowed with fury.
"Why did you mess with my stepson?"
"Stepson?" he cried. "I didn't know! I didn't know!"
She stepped closer.
"No one touches him but me. He's mine to break. Mine to love. Mine to hurt. Mine to mess with. "
"Not you." Sakura's voice was calm. But deadly and dangerous.
"I'm sorry! Himura-sama, please!"
She watched him squirm, her face unreadable.
"I was being threatened!" he blurted.
Her brow lifted slightly. "By who?"
"I don't know! They were women! All women! They wore robes, masks. Spoke in some ancient language. They said if I didn't press charges on your man or stepson or whatever... they'd sacrifice me and my family. I swear!"
Sakura's eyes narrowed. Her breath came slower.
She had no idea what the man had spouting.
But one thing Sakura knew, that he messed with Ray.
"Please, I'm begging you!" he screamed. "I have children and grandchildren!"
Sakura turned her back on him.
Her silence was a verdict.
The masked man let go.
Ryuji's father screamed as he fell, his voice fading into the storm and city noise below.
Sakura stood still for a moment.
Eyes closed.
Rain on her face.
Then she walked away, her men following without question.
Suspicious people were here on Tokyo.
And she was decided, determined, ignited to know who were these people.
Especially if they were intending to harm Ray.
And nothing... nothing would stop her from carving the truth out of their bones.