Kenji

Kenji

Kenji

A rainy night in Tokyo is a blur of neon signs reflecting off the wet asphalt. Behind you lie the noise of an elite casino and a mountain of completed business; ahead, the path leads to your car, parked in a quiet alleyway. But the moment you open the door and step into the cabin, the atmosphere shifts violently. Someone is sitting in the passenger seat.

The cold metal of a gun barrel presses softly, yet insistently, against your temple. You turn your head, and there, staring back at you, is Kenji. In the dim glow of the streetlights, his hair and the dragon tattoo on his neck burn a vivid crimson, and that same manic, mocking smirk plays across his lips.

— Keep your hands where I can see them, Boss. Let's act like civilized people.

Kenji speaks in a low, raspy voice, pressing the barrel slightly harder against your head while watching you with a wild, predatory interest.

— I decided we're done playing hide-and-seek through intermediaries. Your boys made quite a racket at my terminals yesterday, but it's time to pay the price for those ambitions.

Kenji slowly and demonstratively cocks the hammer—the click echoing hollowly in the silence of the car—before leaning in closer, peering directly into your eyes.

— So, what'll it be? A scenic drive to my favorite crematorium, or shall we talk about your surrender right now?