The narrow alleyway in Shinjuku's backstreets was dimly lit by the flickering neon signs spilling over from the main roads.
It was December 31, 2025, the final hours before 2026 dawned, and the distant sounds of New Year's preparations echoed faintly: laughter from izakaya's, the pop of early fireworks, and the hum of crowds gathering for countdowns.
But here, in this forgotten sliver of Tokyo, the air was thick with tension, damp from a recent rain that left puddles reflecting the weak streetlights.
Seku Nanomi trudged along the cracked concrete, his breath visible in the chilly night air. He was in his late twenties, dishevelled from weeks of evading creditors, his cheap coat stained and his eyes darting nervously.
Gambling had always been his vice, pachinko parlours and underground mahjong dens had swallowed his savings, leading him deeper into debt.
One hundred thousand yen owed to the Kurogane-kai, a mid-tier yakuza faction known for their brutal collection methods.
The deadline had been December 12th, and now, nineteen days later, he knew they would not wait any longer.
He heard footsteps behind him, deliberate, unhurried. Seku quickened his pace, but the alley narrowed, forcing him into a dead end. Three figures emerged from the shadows: burly men in dark jackets, tattoos peeking from their collars. The leader, a scarred man in his forties named Hiroshi with a missing pinkie finger, a classic yakuza punishment, stepped forward, flanked by two enforcers.
Seku's heart pounded as recognition hit him. He took a hasty step back, his spine slamming against the cold brick wall. "I... I do not have the cash right now," he stammered, sweat beading on his forehead despite the winter chill. "Give me more time. I'll pay, I swear."
Hiroshi laughed, a low, menacing rumble that echoed off the walls. "Time's up, Seku. You owed us one hundred thousand yen by December 12th. That is nineteen days overdue. Interest alone makes it double now, but we're not here for money anymore." He cracked his knuckles, his eyes cold. "You're done. We'll make an example out of you."
Seku glanced around desperately. The alley was a trap, high walls on both sides, garbage bins overflowing with rubbish, and no ladders or fire escapes in sight.
He bolted to the side, trying to squeeze past, but three more figures materialized from the opposite end, blocking his path. They were armed: one with a baseball bat wrapped in tape, another twirling a switchblade, and the third cracking his neck with a grin.
"Shit," Seku murmured under his breath, his mind racing. "I'm surrounded. This isn't good." Adrenaline surged through him. He was not just some helpless debtor; years ago, in his reckless youth, he had trained in mixed martial arts, karate dojos and street fights had honed his skills. But against six-armed yakuza? It was suicide.
"There is no exit, Seku," Hiroshi sneered, his grin widening to reveal gold-capped teeth. "Your luck has run out. Boys, take him apart slowly."
The gang closed in, forming a semicircle. The first attacker, a stocky thug with a shaved head, lunged forward carelessly, swinging a fist aimed at Seku's jaw. Big mistake. Seku ducked low, exploding upward with a powerful jump kick.
His foot connected squarely with the man's chest, propelling him backward into a protruding steel pipe from the wall.
The impact was sickening, a crunch of bone and metal. The thug's skull split open on contact, blood spraying as his body slumped lifelessly to the ground, grey matter oozing onto the wet pavement.
The alley fell silent for a split second, broken only by the drip of rain from a gutter.
"How dare you!" Hiroshi roared, his face twisting in rage. "You killed Takeshi! Get him, now!"
Chaos erupted. The remaining five charged as one. Seku snatched a fallen knife from the ground, his hands steady despite the fear gnawing at him. The next attacker came with a bat raised high.
Seku sidestepped, grabbing the man's wrist mid-swing and twisting it brutally. The bat clattered away as Seku delivered a devastating roundhouse kick to the thug's temple. The crack echoed like a gunshot; the man's eyes rolled back, and he crumpled, dead before hitting the ground.
"That was too close," Seku gasped, wiping blood from his lip. "I need to be more careful."
Two more rushed him from the sides, one with a knife slashing wildly, the other swinging fists. Seku blocked the blade with his forearm, pain shooting through him as it grazed skin, then countered with a knee to the knife-wielder's gut, followed by an elbow smash to the throat. The man gurgled and fell, choking on his own blood.
The fist-fighter landed a punch to Seku's ribs, cracking something inside. Pain exploded, but Seku spun, using the momentum to drive his fist into the man's nose, cartilage shattering. Another down.
Hiroshi and the last enforcer hesitated, shock replacing their confidence. Seku did not wait, he feinted left, then dashed right, shoving the remaining thug into Hiroshi. They tangled briefly, giving Seku the opening he needed. He sprinted toward the alley's mouth, lungs burning, legs pumping furiously.
Freedom was just ahead, the bright lights of the main street, people milling about oblivious to the violence behind.
He burst out onto the sidewalk, dodging a group of revellers in festive hats. A massive delivery truck barrelled down the road, its horn blaring as it swerved through traffic for a late New Year's shipment.
Seku did not see it in time.
The impact was catastrophic. The truck's grille slammed into him at full speed, launching his body like a ragdoll.
Bones shattered on contact, ribs piercing lungs, spine snapping, limbs twisting unnaturally. He hit the asphalt hard, skull cracking open against the curb. Blood pooled rapidly, mixing with brain matter that spilled out in a gruesome mush.