The car stopped in front of a building that didn't look any different from the others in Chūō District, Tokyo. From the outside, no one would have guessed what it really was. The windows were covered with wooden blinds, the garden was too perfectly trimmed, and two men in dark suits stood at the entrance, smoking without speaking. Everything looked so ordinary that it was, in fact, unsettling.
"Is this the place?" I asked, glancing at the discreet sign beside the door that simply read Sumiyoshi-kai Cultural Association.
My uncle Masato nodded, his face unreadable.
"It's never called by its real name."
As we stepped inside, the air changed. The scent of incense mixed with tobacco and polished wood filled the place. There was no noise—just the dry sound of our steps over the tatami floor. The walls were lined with white paper panels and framed calligraphy scrolls.
At the center of the main hall stood a low table. On it, a tea set had been perfectly arranged. No one touched it. It seemed to exist only as a reminder for visitors to remain calm.
To one side, I saw fully restored samurai armor—ornate helmets, crossed katanas on display. There was something symbolic about it: modern men, modern business… yet the soul of ancient warriors lingered.
We passed several men hunched over papers, speaking in hushed tones. Some looked at me with curiosity. I suppose seeing a foreign-looking young man—though my altered face made it less obvious—wasn't common in a place like this.
Masato stopped in front of a sliding door and motioned for me to wait. He bowed slightly and spoke to someone inside in a tone of respect I had never heard from him before.
When the door opened, I saw the man everyone called the elder brother. He didn't raise his voice or smile. He simply looked at me as if he could read every one of my lies—as if the makeup on my face were melting under his gaze.
The room was simpler than the rest: an inner garden with a pond, golden fish drifting lazily, a bonsai tree in one corner, and a katana resting on a dark wooden stand. Everything in that space radiated quiet power.
Masato spoke first, his tone steady but restrained.
"Elder brother, this is AOI."
The man nodded without looking directly at me.
"I've heard of you. They say you have ideas… dangerous or valuable ones—I haven't decided yet."
His voice was calm, but every word fell heavy, like a stone. I bowed, uncertain if I was doing it properly, remembering Yumi's warning: "Never look directly into the Oyabun's eyes unless he allows it."
As they talked, my thoughts drifted between fascination and fear. This wasn't just a criminal clan—it was a structure, a family. Everything ran with the precision of a corporation and the loyalty of an army. No one raised their voice, no one showed nerves.
At that moment, I understood why Masato always spoke about respect and hierarchy. Here, power wasn't shouted—it was breathed.
When we finally left, the silence of that place followed me out the door. On the street, the noise of cars felt fake, as if all of Tokyo were a disguise as convincing as mine.
For the first time, I realized AOI wasn't just a mask. It was my ticket into a world where words carried the weight of contracts, and a single glance could seal one's fate.
"Uncle," I said as we walked, "now that the clan agrees with everything, I guess I'll go back to school life."
Masato only nodded.
"I'd hate for you to get involved with the Yakuza, Arthur. After all, they're criminals. They've tried to wash their hands clean, but their sins always catch up. It's almost impossible."
Arthur looked at the neon lights. The city was more alive at night.
"Well then," Masato added, "I'll take you home. Yumi would kill me if something happened to you."
After saying goodbye, Arthur looked around the quiet neighborhood. It felt peaceful—but also like a prison. Greeting Yumi briefly, he went straight to his room to keep working on his game ideas under the persona of AOI.
He no longer had to fear. What he needed now was to understand the strange exhaustion he felt whenever he remembered fragments of his "past life," or as he called them—ideas.
Grabbing his pen, he began to write.
Super Mario Bros.