Rain had been falling for the third day straight, as if only the sky had enough power to wash the city clean of its own filth.
Tokyo was the living heart of the night, pulsing through reflections of streetlights, wet sidewalks, and the rubber footsteps of nameless people.The sky sagged under the weight of clouds, and in one of the city's most elite districts, behind a tall stone-and-wood wall and a gate that never opened on its own, there was a house.
Not just a house.
An elegant structure in traditional Japanese style, but with sharp modern lines.The garden was immaculate — every grain of gravel in place, bonsai trees perfectly trimmed, stones polished to a shine by the rain. At first glance — the home of samurai dignity.But only those invited inside would know: it wasn't a home. It was a fortress.
And in that silence, in a room that smelled of incense and expensive alcohol, he sat.
Yamato Arakawa.Thirty-seven years old. Owner of dozens of companies. University donor. Director of a children's hunger foundation — and king of Tokyo's underworld.
Seated in a massive blackwood chair, perfectly upright, with a cigarette he never lit, he listened.The phone in front of him had long since stopped ringing, but he hadn't moved his hand. There was no need. Decisions were not made impulsively.Every gesture of his was like a chess move — precise, deliberate, lethal when necessary.
His black hair fell over his forehead. A sharp face without a single wrinkle, except for the fine lines between his brows — the place where his focus always gathered.His eyes — deep, black, tired. Like an eternal night that never dulled.
He wore a dark blue kimono, lined inside with a silk black shirt. Beneath it — a tattoo the daylight had never seen. Dragons, demons, flowers, and death.His entire body was a canvas of truths the world was never meant to know.
The door to the room slid open softly. Not in haste, but with respect.
"Arakawa-sama," came a quiet female voice. "Your mother requests your presence at dinner."
Yamato exhaled — barely audible.Only she could summon him to the table without prior notice — and he tolerated it.
He rose smoothly, like he was gliding.To an outsider, he would appear as a king.To anyone who looked longer — a ruler in a kingdom of silence and fear.
In the hallway, the smell of dinner. Green tea, miso soup, salmon over rice. Classic.His mother never changed the menu. She was a woman of ritual, though she laughed like a child.
"You're late," she said as he sat across from her, in a small dining room adorned with old porcelain bowls and flower arrangements she made herself.
"I was dealing with a few things."
"Those papers of yours again. You're thirty-seven, Yamato. It's time you brought home someone besides your problems."
He didn't answer. Instead, he poured her tea and set the cup gently in front of her.
"What about Tomoe? Will she be back soon?"
His mother waved a hand."Tomoe is retiring. Thirty years of putting up with me — that's more than enough. But she said she found a replacement."
Yamato raised an eyebrow."A replacement?"
"A young woman. Hardworking. Foreigner. A student. Polite."
"A student?" Cold tone.
"You speak to no one but me and Tomoe. It's time you saw a new face."
"I don't need a new face. I need peace."
Yamato hated Mondays.
Not because of the traffic, or the work, or the "boring" people — he hated those every day.He hated Mondays because they reminded him that another cycle had begun.A cycle where everyone pretended to be normal.
And he was one of them.
The morning began with coffee he didn't drink, breakfast he left untouched, and newspapers so perfectly ironed they looked ready for a gala.He flipped through the pages without interest — he already knew what they'd say.Politicians shaking hands, businessmen lying, and the police… once again "surprised."
He stood in the dressing room, thinking about what to wear.
Formal suit? Too dull.Kimono? Too theatrical for what awaited him today.A black shirt with a small white print that read "I'm not friendly"?Sounded like a good start.
He threw a gray jacket over it, just for disguise.And the socks. Black — but with little smiling anime characters.He had ordered them drunk one night — and now wore them out of spite. At himself.
As he walked down the stairs, his mother greeted him with a look that combined disappointment and familiarity.
"Are you seriously wearing those?" she asked, eyeing the socks peeking from beneath his slacks.
"Of course. They express a balance between menace and mental breakdown."
"I'll pray for you."
"You're twenty years late for that."
In the car, Aoki was already waiting — his longest-serving driver and, unlike the others, a man who barely spoke. A smart man.
"Office or warehouse?" Aoki asked, already knowing the answer.
"Warehouse first. I want to see if those 'toys' finally arrived."In Yamato's mind, he was already running inventory."And then… Murakami's. He owes me an explanation. Or at least a farewell cake."
"Understood, sir."
At the warehouse on the edge of the city, he was greeted by cold concrete and the scent of metal.Here, boxes arrived without names. Left without questions.The men with caps and gloves didn't know what time it was, let alone what they were transporting.
Yamato walked among them with the expression of someone entering a perfume shop, not the logistical hub of the underworld.
"This the new shipment?" he asked coolly.
One of the men immediately showed him the boxes.No labels. Just colors.Red for "delicate items." Blue for "the law forgot."Black for… those that stay sealed.
Out of boredom, Yamato opened a box.Inside — plush toys. Teddy bears. Cats. Pandas.And one doll's head, frozen in a silent scream.
"Oh, brilliant. Either this is a new torture concept for kids, or someone's messing with me."
His assistant, young Kenta, blinked nervously.
"Sir… those are, uh… layered shipments. Inside there's— you know…"
Yamato cut him off."If you mention 'layers' like we're baking a cake again, you'll be shipped in one of these boxes. Personally packed."
Kenta straightened immediately."Of course, sir."
On the way out, Yamato felt strangely calm.Maybe it was the control.Maybe because he only felt alive in chaos.Or maybe because he knew the day wasn't over.
Murakami was next.
In a tall glass tower, where the doors were always locked and the smiles always too wide, Yamato entered unannounced.He didn't need an appointment.The guards had already opened the door and lowered their eyes.
Murakami, at his desk, face pale with the knowledge that karma had finally arrived, stood awkwardly.
"Arakawa-san… I wasn't expecting you."
"That's the point of surprise visits."
"Would you like… some tea?"
"I don't drink tea from people I don't trust. But I do listen to reports, if they're ready."
Murakami's hands trembled as he opened a folder. Yamato already knew it was just paper.A few words meant to calm him down.Nothing in those pages mattered.
What mattered was what would happen tomorrow.Or the day after.When Murakami no longer had the chance to look him in the eyes.
Yamato leaned over the desk.
"And you know, Murakami… my problem with betrayal isn't that it's offensive.It's that it's boring.You all do it the same way.Always thinking I don't know."
Murakami went pale.
Yamato simply turned and left, leaving silence behind like a signature.
Back in the car, he pulled from his inner pocket a small chocolate bar.A childhood habit.He had always loved sweets.His mother said they weren't healthy.Tomoe used to leave them secretly under his pillow.
Now, he found it amusing how small rituals survived — even when the world changed.