AUTHOR
In the heart of the Rakurai stronghold, a converted warehouse in a forgotten industrial sector of Tokyo, the air is thick with the smell of rust, stale cigarette smoke, and the coppery tang of blood.
Exposed pipes drip condensation onto the concrete floor, and the only light comes from a single, bare bulb hanging over a stained metal chair. In that chair, a bound man—a Rakurai soldier who failed in his duty—twitches and groans through a broken mouth.
Shuya Midoria circles him like a playful, predatory cat, a butterfly knife dancing between his fingers with a hypnotic click-clack, click-clack.
He is smiling, his warm brown eyes crinkled at the corners as if sharing a private joke. He pauses, leaning close to the prisoner's ear.
