The rain hit Tokyo like it was trying to wash something off the streets. Something rotten. Hidden. Caked deep into the bones of the city.
Kazuki Ryouma opened his eyes.
He was lying in a narrow alley behind a shuttered ramen shop. Trash bags lined the walls. Puddles shimmered with oil rainbows. His body—new, raw, unfamiliar—ached like it had just been stitched together by blind gods. He coughed once, rolled his neck, then stared up at the flickering streetlight above.
"Ugh," he muttered, flexing stiff fingers. "Flesh again. Feels sticky."
A rat scurried past. Footsteps echoed down the alley.
Three guys turned the corner—teenage punks, all swagger and bad haircuts, knives flashing like they'd just watched a movie about stabbing people and thought, Yeah, that's us now.
"Yo," one of them barked, pointing. "The hell you doin' here, old man?"
Kazuki glanced down at himself. Baggy clothes. Torn shirt. Blood on his lip—not his. Definitely not his. He looked back up at them, then let out a small laugh.
"Old man, huh?" he said. "I'm twenty-five. Rude."
"Don't care." The lead punk stepped closer. "You're in our spot. So cough up your cash or lose some teeth."
Kazuki stood. Bones cracked. Muscles reconfigured without his input. The world tilted, then snapped into perfect balance.
"I just got here," he said. "Didn't even get a welcome gift. Maybe you boys can fix that."
"You think this is a game—?"
The first punk lunged.
Kazuki caught the knife with one hand. A flick of his wrist sent it skidding into the dark.
The second guy tried to sucker-punch him from behind. Kazuki ducked lazily, elbowed him in the gut, then twisted his leg until the kid hit the pavement with a wheeze.
The last one froze.
Kazuki smiled. "Run."
He didn't. So Kazuki stepped forward, placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, and looked at him.
Not with pity. Not with anger.
Just curiosity.
The kid screamed and bolted.
"Smart one," Kazuki muttered, stepping over the other two. Their eyes were open, but they weren't focused on anything real anymore.
The rain kept falling.
Kazuki exhaled. Slowly. Deeply.
And then he looked up.
The sky was gray and endless. Somewhere behind those clouds, the stars still burned.
"Tokyo, huh…" he said to himself. "Been a while."
He walked out of the alley with no real plan. His boots made soft splashes with each step. The city around him buzzed like a hive on edge—sirens, laughter, arguments, traffic. Old smells. New fears.
He passed a storefront window and caught his reflection. Short black hair. Calm eyes. Sharp jawline. Just enough beauty to make people uneasy.
He nodded to himself. "Alright. This'll do."
A group of teenagers nearby were yelling about some gang beef. Kazuki paused to listen.
"You hear about Black Dragon? Got smoked last week!"
"Nah, nah, it was Valhalla that pulled up, not Black Dragon. They crushed those Stray Dog guys—"
Kazuki blinked.
Stray Dog Syndicate? Still around? Cute.
He pulled his hoodie up and turned toward the noise. Time to stretch his legs.
Later that night, Kazuki strolled into the Stray Dog Syndicate's hideout like he owned the place. Which, by midnight, he did.
It was nothing special—an abandoned arcade turned base, stinking of sweat, beer, and fear. Twenty-six members inside. Four left conscious. One got thrown through a vending machine. No fatalities, but none would ever pick up a bat again.
They didn't even remember what happened.
Kazuki stood in the middle of the wreckage, breathing easy.
He didn't use real power. Just… enough.
A taste.
Let them forget the face. Let them remember the feeling. That cold sweat down the back of the neck. That animal instinct screaming: This thing in front of me isn't human.
He stepped outside just as the rain stopped. The clouds split, revealing a slice of moon. Pale. Indifferent.
Kazuki tilted his head toward it.
"Not bad for a first night," he mused. "Got a warm-up. Took a toy. Made a name."
His fingers brushed the pocket of his coat. Inside was a thin strip of paper—a name tag peeled from a locker inside the hideout.
Tenjin.
He'd scrawled "-kai" under it in pen.
A gang needs a name.
And if Tokyo didn't have a god worth following…
He'd play the part.
He walked toward the edge of the district, hands in his pockets. A car burned behind him. No sirens came. Not yet.
Kazuki smirked.
"Alright, Tokyo," he murmured. "Let's play."