Toon tried to scramble back, but another kick landed hard against his ribs. He gasped, instinctively curling his hands to protect himself.
"You don't take what isn't yours. Not here. Not anywhere. Even if this city has no laws, there are still rules."
The assault continued. Each blow pushed him further into the ground, each hit stripping away the last remnants of his pride. He cried out—half in Zeii's voice, half in his own. "S-stop! I'm sorry! I'll give it back, just—!"
The figure finally stepped forward, smoke trailing with every breath. A woman.
Her silhouette stood stark against the moonlight—tall, poised, the trench coat shifting as she took another drag from her cigarette. Her eyes glinted, dark and calculating, sizing him up in silence.
Then, at last, she spoke. "Mercy…" She clicked her tongue. "That's your next lesson. Around here, you won't always get it."
She exhaled, a cloud of smoke curling around his bruised face. "…But I'll let it slide. I wasn't hungry anyway."
Toon blinked up at her through swollen eyes. There was something about her presence that felt heavy, as if she could see right through him—not just his body, but the stranger lurking within it.
The woman tilted her head, observing him like a predator sizing up its prey.
"Mmm. Hey there, kid. You looking to make some cash?"
Her words felt laid-back, but there was a seriousness in her voice. This wasn't just a casual inquiry; it was a challenge.
"Yeah—I-I am," Toon replied, his voice shaky as he held his side. "I really need it. I'm broke right now."
She waved her hand, brushing off his urgency. "I didn't ask for your life story." A wisp of smoke curled between them. "But okay. There's something about you that piques my interest."
With a flick of her coat, she turned. "Come on, follow me."
The night hung heavy in the air, the streets deserted except for the sound of their footsteps. The woman led the way, her pace slow yet determined, smoke curling from the cigarette perched between her lips. She didn't glance back even once.
Zemin lagged a few steps behind, his stomach still throbbing from the earlier kicks. For a while, they walked in silence, the only sound being the rhythmic tap of their shoes against the cobblestones, echoing through the narrow alley.
"…So, uh," Zemin broke the quiet, attempting to lighten the mood. "Is beating up strangers for dinner money your usual thing, or am I just the lucky one?"
No answer. She didn't even flinch.
He pressed on. "At least tell me your name? Or should I just call you 'Boot-to-the-Face Lady'?"
Still nothing. The smoke from her cigarette wafted back towards him, sharp and bitter.
Zemin clicked his tongue in frustration. "Tch. You're as cold as ice. Guess chatting isn't your strong suit."
Finally, her voice cut through the air low and steady, like someone who had nothing left to lose. "Talking's for those who have time. You don't. Not yet."
Her words silenced him instantly. He didn't quite grasp what she meant, but the chill in her tone sent a shiver down his spine.
She stopped at the entrance of a wider street. Her cigarette burned low, the glowing ember resembling a predator's eye in the darkness. She exhaled, smoke spiraling into the night.
Without turning to face him, she said, "I want to see what you're made of."
Zemin frowned. "…Made of?"
Her gaze darted across the street, landing on a lone man stumbling out of a tavern, humming to himself, clearly inebriated. Without hesitation, she flicked her cigarette aside, stepped forward, and before Zemin could even register what was happening—
CRACK.
Her fist slammed into the man's gut with brutal force. He gasped, doubling over, but she wasn't finished. She seized him by the collar and smashed his head against the wall. Once. Twice. The sickening sound of bone meeting stone echoed down the street, sharp and wet.
Zemin stood frozen, his silver eyes wide as he watched her continue, her expression unreadable, her focus unwavering.
Then, as casually as if she'd just finished a smoke, she ripped the man's shirt off his lifeless body and tossed it toward Zemin. The fabric landed in his arms, sticky with blood and smelling strongly of alcohol.
"Put it on." Her tone was calm, almost disinterested.
Zemin stared at her, at a loss for words. "…What the hell is wrong with you?"
She lit another cigarette, her eyes narrowing as the smoke curled around her. "Lesson one, kid this city doesn't give you anything for free. You take what you need, or you'll end up starving. It's that simple."
Zemin reluctantly slipped the torn shirt over his shoulders. The cold bloodstains pressed against his skin, but he kept quiet. The woman smirked faintly, a hint of satisfaction in her expression, and turned away.
They walked in silence again, the alleys closing in before opening up into a crooked plaza. Kurayamiya sprawled out before them, alive with energy even in the dead of night—paper lanterns swayed overhead, shadows danced at every corner, and the air was thick with whispers of violence.
She paused, her gaze flicking toward a group gathered at the edge of the plaza. Four men leaned against a wall, laughing too loudly, hurling crude remarks at a couple of girls passing by. Cheap liquor bottles clinked against the cobblestones.
"See that group over there?" the woman asked, her voice flat.
Zemin followed her gaze. "Yeah. What's up with them?"
"They're in debt."
He shot her a look, narrowing his eyes. "…To who?"
She didn't respond. She merely tilted her head slightly, exhaling smoke into the night, her cold eyes fixed on him.
That was all he needed to know. Zemin got it.
No orders. No instructions. Just an expectation.
His chest tightened, but his mind sharpened. If they owed her, then this was a test and the rules were already set.
Across the plaza, four men were taunting the girls, inching closer with their words dripping in false bravado. One of them slung an arm around a girl's shoulder, coaxing a forced laugh from her, while the others circled like hungry vultures, their focus split between intimidation and pride.
They were oblivious to the silver-eyed boy lurking in the shadows.
Zemin stepped into the light, his footsteps steady and purposeful. The men's laughter faltered as they caught sight of him, the atmosphere shifting ever so slightly.
"Names," Zemin said, his tone flat and his silver eyes narrowing. "All of them. Now."
The four men exchanged puzzled looks before one of them let out a harsh laugh. "What are you supposed to be? A debt collector or something?"
Zemin's stare remained unflinching. "Your debt is overdue."
The girls exchanged glances between the men and Zemin, snickering. "Debt? From him? He looks like he can't even afford his own dinner." "Yeah, maybe he wants to pay with that ugly mug of his."
The men's grins widened, feeling emboldened. One of them stepped closer, looming over Zemin, trying to assert his dominance. "Kid, you don't just stroll up to us talking like that in front of women. You got a death wish?"
The jeers from the group of girls cut deeper, mocking his clothes, his singed appearance, his sheer audacity.
But in the corner, one girl's laughter caught in her throat. Her face went pale the moment she locked eyes with Zemin.
She recognized him.
She'd heard the tales about Zemin, about who he was and how he lived, but he was supposed to be dead. Seeing him alive, standing right there, made her hands shake. She didn't dare utter a word, but fear wrapped around her like a tightening noose.
Zemin noticed her reaction but chose not to acknowledge it. His voice remained icy, slicing through the noise.
"Last chance. Names."
The guys just laughed, brushing off Zemin's words as they turned their backs to him, eager to impress the girls nearby.
But the girl who had gone pale couldn't keep quiet any longer. Her voice trembled as she whispered, "T-That's… that's him… the one who—"
She never got to finish her thought.
Suddenly, a deafening crack shattered the night as one of the men flew past her, twisting in the air before crashing into the wall behind them. Dust cascaded down from the bricks where he hit.
Everyone froze in place.
Zemin stood where the man had just been, his leg still raised, silver eyes glimmering softly in the moonlight. He slowly lowered his foot, his expression unreadable.
The other three snapped out of their shock, fury igniting in their eyes.
"You bastard!" one of them yelled, charging forward with a wild swing.
Zemin tilted his head slightly. In a flash, his hand shot up, catching the man's wrist mid-swing. With a sharp twist and a brutal yank, the man's arm cracked like dry wood. His scream echoed in the alley, cut short when Zemin drove his knee into the man's gut, folding him in half before tossing him aside like yesterday's trash.
The next attacker tried to circle around, swinging a rusted pipe. Zemin didn't even glance his way. He ducked low, his movements smooth, and drove his shoulder into the man's stomach, lifting him off the ground before slamming him onto the stone pavement with a bone-rattling thud. The sound of air rushing out of him filled the alley as he lay there, limp.
The last one hesitated, sweat trickling down his face. But whether it was pride or sheer stupidity, he charged forward with a roar, fists flying in a desperate flurry of punches.
Zemin's eyes sharpened.
Step. Pivot. Strike.
Every punch was expertly dodged, redirected with a precision that suggested he had rehearsed this dance a thousand times. His counterattack was brutal: a fist slammed into the jaw, a kick that snapped the man's knee, and an elbow that crashed into his temple. By the time Zemin was done, the man lay crumpled on the ground, twitching and unable to get back up.
Silence.
The girls could only watch, their earlier smirks and giggles vanished. Dust still lingered in the air where the first man had slammed into the wall.
Zemin rolled his shoulder, breathing steadily, as if it had all been just a warm-up. His icy gaze swept over the group, lingering for a moment on the girl who had recognized him.
He checked for the money and found only 2000 Yen, which made him furious after all that, this was all he got?
Damn, these idiots are already broke. What a waste of my time.
Without saying a word, he turned his back on them and walked toward the woman in the trench coat, who had been watching the whole scene with a sly smile playing on her lips.
As he walked back, Zemin wiped the blood from his knuckles, his footsteps echoing in the stunned silence of the alley. The four bodies behind him groaned and writhed, broken and beaten. He stopped in front of the woman, his chest rising and falling with calm, measured breaths.
"So," he said, tilting his head with a slight smirk, "how did I do on your little test?"
The woman exhaled, smoke curling in the air between them. Her tinted glasses caught the soft glow of the moon, hiding most of her eyes but Zemin could feel her gaze piercing right through him.
"Eight," she replied flatly.
Zemin blinked. "…Out of what?"
She tapped her cigarette against her coat, ash drifting to the ground. "A million."