In a fully sealed tower, there stood a cylindrical, aquarium-like chamber over four meters across and ten meters tall, constructed of tempered glass. It was filled with a crimson liquid—and suspended inside was a single figure.
Clad in pure green surgical scrubs, head downward and feet floating in the red fluid, knee-length silver hair fanned out like countless wires, each strand drifting independently. The features looked male yet carried a distinctly feminine softness. But most arresting were the pale green eyes—utterly devoid of emotion, filled only with cold indifference, as though the soul within no longer cared for anything.
In front of him hovered hundreds—perhaps thousands—of virtual screens. His eyes tracked the cascading data until, with a barely perceptible pause, his gaze froze and his Adam's apple ticked.
"Peripheral deviation? No cause for concern."
…
Eighth District—Leo headquarters!
Most powerless gangs made their dens in abandoned factories, concrete floors, exposed rebar. Leo's base was fundamentally different. Though situated in a deserted sector of District Eight, the building gleamed freshly painted and impeccably maintained. Automatic revolving doors, two giant feng-shui money-trees flanking the entrance, and floors tiled in pristine white all testified to its unusual status. Reception desks, elevators—everything was in place.
Other gangs remained stuck in brutish brawls or worse—smuggling weapons, peddling drugs, even forcing girls into prostitution. Leo, however, had reshaped the entire district. Haramura Makoto shut down illicit spots, making sure no drugs entered the zone. His enterprises—KTVs, bars, massage parlors—operated legitimately. Though ex-gangsters chafed at the long ROI, Makoto thrived on it.
Atop the tower, in his spacious office:
"Makoto-nii!"
"Hmm? Though 'Makoto-nii' is correct, calling me that always makes my kidneys ache."
"Please stop calling me that, Makoto-nii."
"Okay, Freyja."
In his wide leather chair sat Makoto, now as tall and broad as any adult. In his lap perched a girl of seven or eight, her slender limbs framed by soft, wavy blonde hair and clear green eyes. She looked like a living doll in a white-and-pink lace-trimmed outfit, mini-skirt and pink stockings—straight out of a figurine.
"I don't think so."
"But 'Makoto-nii' is 'Makoto-nii,' no other name will do."
Freyja Severin swung her legs playfully, insisting on her chosen term of address even as her gaze remained fixed on a computer screen.
"Then that's settled. A little girl shouldn't play such a gory game anyway."
Indeed, Freyja was engrossed not in a girl's anime or dating sim, but in a brutal zombie shooter—Resident Evil.
"Oh no, please don't!"
Her prized checkpoint nearly lost, the little girl clutched Makoto's hand as he reached for the power button.
"What should I call you then? 'Brother Makoto' sounds too formal."
"In any case, no more 'Makoto-nii.'"
"Fine, though I still prefer 'Makoto-nii.'"
Freyja reluctantly agreed. Whatever the title, the game was more important. She reached for the mouse to resume her mission.
"That's enough for tonight."
"And isn't today your sister's visitation day? Go wash up and get ready."
Makoto hoisted Freyja off his lap by the back of her collar.
"Oh, I totally forgot!"
Sticking out her tongue, tilting her head, tapping her forehead—an oddly familiar routine for Makoto.
"Hanzo, take Freyja over there. Wait for her sister's message, then bring her back."
Makoto spoke toward the empty doorway. At that moment, it swung open to admit two bodyguards: Hanzo, slight and clad in black with white cross motifs, and a towering, muscular man resembling an ape.
"Understood. I'll protect Miss Freyja's safety."
"Anything to report, Komaba?"