The sirens were deafening.Boots pounded against the wet asphalt, their echoes chasing us down the alley like a pack of hungry dogs.
"Kou! Go!" I shouted, my breath burning my throat. Kou's face was pale under the flickering streetlight, the loot bag bouncing against his side.
The getaway car screeched to a halt ahead. My chest eased for a second—then the engine roared and the headlights swung away. The car disappeared into the night.
"Shit—!" Kou's voice cracked.
No time to think. I shoved him toward the back wall. "Take the others and run. I'll stall them."
His eyes went wide. "Akira—!"
But I was already turning back, gripping the stolen crowbar like it was the only friend I had left. The first cop's baton caught my shoulder, pain blooming sharp and hot. I swung once, twice—then the weight of three men crashed over me.
The last thing I saw before my face hit the ground was Kou's shadow slipping over the wall and into the dark.
One month later
Prison isn't what people think it is.It's not about justice. It's not about punishment. It's a business.
And if you have money, power, or the right name, you don't live in hell—you live in a twisted kind of paradise.
I've been here thirty-two days, and I've seen it all. The guards turning a blind eye as Yakuza drink coffee in their "private" corner of the yard. Cell phones passed under tables in the cafeteria. A delivery truck "accidentally" bringing in steak dinners.
Meanwhile, the rest of us fight over stale bread and a few extra minutes of shower time.
Me? I got thrown in with three loudmouthed punks who thought an eighteen-year-old with a baby face was an easy target. First week, they made me clean the toilet. Second week, they took my cigarettes. Third week, they tried to take my blanket in the middle of the night.
Last night, I stopped playing nice.
It was fast—had to be. First one caught my fist in the jaw before he could yell. Second tried to tackle me; I slammed him into the wall so hard the plaster cracked. The third backed up, hands shaking, until I grabbed him by the shirt and told him exactly how life was going to work from now on.
By morning, the cell was mine.
The yard was cold today, the sky the color of dirty concrete. I was leaning against the fence when he walked over. Mid-thirties, tattoo crawling up the side of his neck like a snake. He didn't need to introduce himself—everybody knew Kurohane-gumi.
"You're the kid from Block C," he said, his voice lazy but his eyes sharp. "Heard you rearranged some furniture last night."
I didn't answer. Just met his gaze.
He smirked. "Gutsy. But guts alone don't get you cigarettes in here. Or decent food. Or… protection."
I knew what he was offering. And I knew the price.
Still, my hand didn't hesitate when he extended his.
"Hasegawa Akira," I said.
His grip was strong, calloused. "Welcome to the Kurohane, kid. Let's see if you're worth the trouble."
The yard buzzed around us, but in that moment, I could only hear my own heartbeat.
I wasn't just another orphan anymore. I was stepping into a world where loyalty could buy you paradise—and betrayal could get you buried.
And I was ready.