The city never slept.
Shibuya pulsed in neon: giant screens spitting ads, hurried footsteps, car horns, voices tangled with the endless drizzle that painted the asphalt silver.
Amid that urban rhythm walked Kuto Yamazaki, moving as if he were part of the soundtrack — earbuds in, a backpack hanging off one shoulder, eyes locked on the phone screen.
Close-up: fingers dancing across the glass. Genshin Impact ran smooth; enemies fell with precise taps, loot notifications flashing across the display. Between combos, he bit into a curry bun like it was just another accessory to his routine.
> "Take that, you sneaky boss! Kuto never forgives!"
he muttered with a quiet laugh.
The digital clock blinked — time to go.
The main line train was packed, air thick with city scent and steam. Even crushed among strangers, Kuto kept that wide grin. The chaos fueled him — not just for fun, but as quiet defiance.
Cut to exterior.
Industrial district. Lights dimmer, sound hollow.
Graffiti, cracked walls, silence that felt alive.
At the far end of the street, two figures waited.
The taller one cracked his knuckles, voice slicing the air.
> "Yamazaki… thought you could run forever, huh?"
Kuto froze.
The smile faltered — just for a heartbeat. His eyes swept the alley, calculating exits. Then the mask slid back into place, that trademark grin.
He dropped his bag. Cracked his own knuckles lightly.
> "Run? Nah. But maybe I'll teach you how to fly."
The loan sharks laughed — underestimating him. That's always the mistake.
Camera follows the first kick — clean, fast, hitting the man's jaw.
The second one swung a metal bar, but Kuto ducked, twisted, and countered with an ippon-seoi-nage — shoulder throw, precise and brutal.
> "Ryusenshin Dojo, remember? Top three in Japan... learned a few nice tricks there."
He smirked, brushing his hair aside.
A series of punches, blocks, and one spinning kick later, the two men lay groaning on the ground. Kuto grabbed his bag, still smiling, and walked off — humming an anime opening like nothing happened.
Inside, though, his pulse was loud.
Adrenaline — and that quiet, burning sense of duty.
Cut to interior — home.
Warm light, smell of food. The kitchen was a pocket of normalcy: his mother laughing at a cooking show, his little sister running up to hug his legs.
> "Okaeri, onii-chan!"
"Tadaima!" — His grin this time was genuine.
Camera zooms in: his eyes blink slower — something unspoken lingers behind the warmth.
They sat down for dinner. Laughter, small jokes, the clatter of chopsticks.
Kuto chewed slowly, trying to feel this peace. For a few moments, the city didn't exist — only the fragile world he wanted to protect.
As the plates were cleared, he helped wash the dishes. His mother glanced at him sideways, voice soft.
> "When will you take me to see your workplace, Kuto?"
He paused — then smiled the practiced smile.
> "One of these days, Mom. I promise I'll take you."
It wasn't a lie. It was a hope.
Later that night, in his room, he sat on the bed.
The light from the hallway drew faint stripes across the floor.
He set the phone down, stared at the ceiling. That uneasy weight inside wouldn't fade.
Sleep came heavy, not out of peace, but exhaustion.
Time skip — morning.
Soft light through thin curtains.
In the corner, an old poster of his father — fists raised, a championship belt shining around his waist. Kuto rose, brushed the dust from the image, and whispered:
> "I'm not you, Dad... but I'll prove myself. My own way."
The sarcasm he wore like armor melted away.
Determination filled the gap.
He zipped up his black jacket — the Black Wings emblem glowing faintly on the back.
Not for pride, but survival.
The city didn't forgive anyone born nameless.
Before leaving, he told his mother he was "meeting a friend in an alley."
She smiled, that soft motherly smile, asking when he'd finally bring her to his job.
He kissed her forehead.
> "Soon, Mom. I promise."
Another fragile lie wrapped in love.
On the street, he met Tatsuya, childhood friend and right hand — cigarette unlit between his fingers.
No words needed; just a nod. They walked together toward the meeting spot.
Wide shot: the two shadows stretching along cracked pavement.
Inside the warehouse, the Black Wings gathered — faces tense, backs against grimy walls.
Something felt wrong.
The silence shattered like glass.
Men poured in from every corner — bats, chains, knives.
The Iron Claws had come, led by Ryuzen, gold-toothed and smiling like a predator.
> "Finally, the clown shows up," he said, voice like sandpaper.
Then chaos.
Quick cuts — fists, boots, metal clashing.
Kuto moved at the center, a blur of skill and instinct: pivot, strike, dodge, hit.
But numbers crushed skill. Blood slicked the floor.
When Tatsuya was thrown to the ground, something in Kuto snapped.
He charged — eyes burning, breath sharp, movements raw.
Face-to-face with Ryuzen.
The camera slowed.
Fists met. Blood sprayed.
Ryuzen fought dirty; Kuto fought desperate.
Each strike thundered through the warehouse.
When Ryuzen staggered, Kuto spun — a kick slammed him into the wall.
Fist raised for the final blow.
> "It's over."
But Ryuzen laughed, coughing blood, pulling out his phone.
A shaky video played — Kuto's mother tied up, his sister crying.
> "Kill me… and they die. Seven days, hero. Seven days."
The world froze.
Kuto's punch stopped mid-air.
He yelled for everyone to stop.
Ryuzen hit him again — once, twice — before stepping back, smirking.
> "Seven days, tough guy."
Rain fell heavier.
Kuto climbed the rusted stairs of an abandoned building, blood mixing with water.
From the rooftop, the city stretched beneath him — alive, oblivious.
He screamed once, then whispered:
> "Seven days... What can I do in seven days?"
Cut to home.
The door was broken. Furniture overturned.
On the table — his sister's small necklace.
On the floor — a note, torn and wet:
> "Seven days. After that... they cease to exist."
That night, he gathered the Raijin no Kage — tired faces, bruises, eyes searching for direction.
Shoma, the oldest, spoke first:
> "Kuto... this ain't about turf or pride anymore. It's about them.
You'll have to become a monster... or beg the devil himself."
Kuto's jaw tightened. He scanned every face.
> "From now on, we have one mission: raise money. Dirty or clean.
Every yen counts.
Anyone who doesn't want in... walk away now."
No one moved.
> "Then let's make hell pay."
Day 1 — The Countdown Begins.
He divided the group into small units: targeted thefts, extortion of corrupt businessmen, infiltration of illegal clubs, underground fights.
He led the frontlines himself — no orders without blood.
Cut — underground arena, Shinjuku.
Crowd roaring. Lights flickering.
Kuto faced a mountain of a man — tattooed, scarred, twice his size.
The bell rang.
The fight was brutal — hits echoing, ribs cracking, sweat blurring his vision.
But Kuto read his moves, dodged, countered, endured.
In one clean motion, his knee smashed the man's jaw. Silence. Then cheers.
He bent down, panting, collecting his reward.
On the fallen man's arm — a tattoo of a triangle with a digital eye.
It pulsed faintly under the skin. Something about it called to him.
But not now. Not yet.
Family first.
That night, in the abandoned dojo of his father, Kuto knelt before the torn poster.
The champion's image stared down — pride frozen in paper.
Kuto whispered, voice breaking:
> "Dad... I know you wanted an honorable son.
I'll do it my way. Just wait for me. Seven days."
His hands trembled.
His forehead touched the floor.
Tears came — for his mother, his sister, and the boy he once was.
Outside, the world kept moving.
Inside, only a promise burned.
And time began to run.