The moon was a silent witness as Ryuji Tatsugami stood across from the towering structure of Mirai Media Group, its glass panels reflecting Tokyo's neon pulse. The building loomed like a temple of polished deceit, hiding truths beneath steel beams and curated headlines. This wasn't a place for brute force. Not yet. Tonight, he was not a brawler or a gangster. He was a shadow.
Ryuji adjusted the gloves on his hands, black leather whispering against the fabric of his coat. The stitches from the last encounter had already healed, but even if they hadn't, he wouldn't have let them slow him. There was no room for pain now—only purpose. Kaito crouched beside him on the rooftop of an adjacent building, watching through a long-range lens.
"Three guards on rotation," Kaito murmured. "One at the lobby, one on the second floor break room, and one doing random sweeps. No sign of cameras on the roof access. They trust their locks."
Ryuji said nothing. He already knew the floor plan.
Second floor—editorial wing. Third floor—private conference rooms. Fourth floor—restricted access.
That was where the sins lived.
He moved.
Dropping silently across the gap between rooftops, Ryuji landed against the exterior wall of Mirai Media. A magnetic clamp latched onto the metal framework between glass panes. In one fluid motion, he rappelled down two stories, his figure barely a blur against the darkness. He reached the second-floor ledge, where a small maintenance window provided entry.
The lock clicked under his pressure. The silence inside the editorial office was broken only by the soft hum of servers and the whisper of the air system. Ryuji moved past desks, open folders, computer screens on sleep mode. Every surface oozed with artificial calm. The kind of place where lies were spun like gold thread.
But he didn't stop.
He ghosted toward the stairwell, bypassing the second floor entirely. The third would hold names, faces, and perhaps whispers of deals. But the fourth… that was where the manipulation was codified into silence.
Reaching the top of the stairwell, Ryuji paused. The door to the fourth floor was reinforced—mag-lock, security-coded. But the keypad had fingerprints—residue visible under his penlight. He took a single black card from his jacket: an override key built by a hacker Kaito had commissioned months ago.
One click.
The door opened with a reluctant hiss.
Inside, the air was colder. Sterile. Glass walls separated soundproof rooms—servers, archives, private offices. No windows. No branding. Just silence.
He moved down the hallway until he found the heart of the fourth floor: a black room with no name. Inside was a large monitor, a circular table, and shelves of hard drives—unlabeled.
Ryuji reached for one. A single word etched into the surface:
"Kirisaki Fire — Suppressed."
Another:
"Tatsugami Family — Asset Erasure."
His fingers tightened.
He took two drives and slid them into a hidden compartment in his coat.
A sound.
Footsteps. Fast. Close.
Ryuji ducked into the shadows as the glass door opened. Two men entered—both dressed in black suits, but not corporate. These were Minazuki operatives. One scanned the room while the other checked the drives.
"The reports came back," one muttered. "Someone triggered the lock override. Knew the codes. Might be that kid Tsujihara's people were tracking."
"No one's supposed to access this floor without Reika's word. If she finds out—"
"She already knows. She's on her way."
Ryuji slipped behind them like a breath.
The first man turned—too slow.
A sharp thud. Ryuji's elbow shattered his windpipe before he could scream. He collapsed in a silent heap.
The second drew a blade, but Ryuji caught his wrist, twisted, and drove the man's own weapon into his gut. No hesitation. No sound.
He caught the body before it fell.
A chime echoed from the elevator shaft at the end of the hall. The numbers descended.
Reika Minazuki.
Ryuji didn't wait.
He sprinted back through the corridor, boots silent against polished tile. The elevator dinged open just as he reached the stairs. He caught only a glimpse—a woman in a dark plum kimono, her eyes sharp and cruel, lips painted with venom.
Reika Minazuki.
Her gaze snapped to the bodies.
"He's here."
She didn't panic. She smiled.
---
Outside, Kaito's voice crackled in Ryuji's ear. "They just locked down the fire exits. Cameras are live now. You've got five minutes before they triangulate."
"Then I'll be out in four."
He dropped two floors in one leap, crashing through a narrow office window and rolling into a crouch. Shards of glass followed him like falling stars. Alarms screamed, lights flared, but Ryuji didn't stop. He ran, jumped over a cubicle wall, ducked a swinging baton from a security officer, and drove a knee into the man's ribs.
Ryuji vaulted out through the main window on the second floor and landed cleanly on the rooftop across the alley where Kaito was already waving him toward the escape route.
"Holy hell, you actually made it," Kaito whispered, half-grinning.
Ryuji pulled the two drives from his coat and handed them to him.
"Mirai Media doesn't just censor stories. They rewrite them. They erased us. But not completely. These are their backup lies."
Kaito's smile vanished. "What's next?"
Ryuji looked back at the tower. A helicopter was rising off the roof. Reika Minazuki's personal evac.
He could've reached her. Could've tried. But tonight was about the past.
Next time—it would be the present.
---
Meanwhile, in the Minazuki tower's private penthouse, Reika stood before the city skyline, untouched by wind, flame, or consequence. A glass of plum wine rested in her hand.
"He was beautiful," she whispered to herself. "Not reckless. Not loud. Just... precise."
Behind her, a subordinate bowed.
"Should we begin the containment narrative?"
"No," Reika said, eyes gleaming. "Let them whisper. Let the city feel his breath before his blade. The real war... begins in silence."
---
Far from the skyline, back in a hidden safehouse, Ryuji sat across from Kaito as they loaded the drives into an isolated machine. What they found unraveled everything.
Government blacklists.
Corporate payoffs.
The complete footage of the Tatsugami compound being burned—footage that had never aired.
Ryuji leaned forward.
A still frame appeared: Masanori Kurohane, walking out of the blaze, untouched. Behind him, five silhouettes. The Immortal Vassals.
Kaito whispered, "You were right. It wasn't a random purge. It was staged. Like a fucking movie."
Ryuji's voice was low.
"They turned our death into a performance."
His fingers curled into fists.
"Then let me write the ending."
---
Elsewhere
Shigure Tsujihara walked through a field of lanterns behind the estate, sword slung over one shoulder. A masked figure approached.
"He breached the tower. Killed two. Took drives. Reika is watching."
Shigure didn't respond at first.
Then, a smile.
"Good. Let them watch. Let them all watch. When the blood starts flowing, no one will claim they didn't see the blade coming."
He turned.
"The dance has begun."
---
Back on the rooftops of Tokyo
Ryuji stood again at the edge of the skyline. Below him, the city pulsed. Above him, stars remained hidden.
But within him—clarity.
He whispered, "The story isn't over."
The Black Vow burned.
And for the first time, the shadows of Tokyo shuddered.