[RECAP]
MEANWHILE NEAR THE LEE-HANN DOJO
Master Karate walked down the street, fuming.
Humiliation. Again. Always. One. The suited bodyguard. The cameras that had filmed everything. The networks mocking him.
He was nearing his dojo when a shadow emerged from an alley.
A thug. Tall, scarred, mean-looking.
"Hey, you. The retard in the kimono. Got any money?"
Master Karate stopped, clenched his fists.
Another one mocking him. Another one.
He attacked.
A straight punch. Clumsy. Slow.
The thug easily dodged and threw a right hook that sent him to the ground.
Master Karate fell heavily, nose bleeding.
He got up, staggering.
"DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM? I'M A FUCKING CLASS B HERO!"
The thug sneered.
"But you're pathetic, old man."
Master Karate screamed, charged again.
Another hit. Another fall.
He stayed on the ground, face in the dust, tears in his eyes.
"That One... that creepy guy in the suit... all of them..."
He clenched his fists.
"I'M SICK OF IT! I'M SICK OF PLAYING THE FLASHY HERO!"
He got up, eyes wild.
"I'M GOING TO FUCK YOU UP!"
---
The thug stepped back, surprised by the sudden rage of this guy in the kimono.
Master Karate got up, staggering, face bloody, but eyes burning with a new flame.
He raised his fists.
"You want to know who I am?"
The thug sneered, but his laugh was nervous.
"I don't give a fuck, old man."
"My name is Lee-Hann Jr."
Wind blew through the alley, lifting scraps of paper.
Flashback.
LEE-HANN DOJO – 15 YEARS EARLIER
A young boy in a white kimono, black belt around his waist, trained relentlessly. His father, master of the dojo, watched him from the edge of the tatami mat.
"Faster, Hann! Technique isn't enough! You need willpower!"
Lee-Hann struck, struck, struck. His fists bled. His legs trembled. But he kept going.
The day he got his black belt, he looked his father straight in the eyes.
"I'm going to become a hero."
His father nodded, proud.
"Then go. And make us proud."
——
HERO AGENCY – A FEW YEARS AGO
Lee-Hann sat in a cold office, facing an agent in a suit who leafed through his file without interest.
"Lee-Hann... huh. Nice background. Karate, black belt, junior champion..."
"I want to help people," Lee-Hann said, eyes shining. "I want to be a real hero."
The agent sneered.
"Help people? Seriously?"
He leaned over his desk.
"Listen to me, kid. The hero business is 10% rescue and 90% show. People want spectacle. Flashy costumes. Poses in front of cameras. Catchy phrases."
Lee-Hann looked at him, lost.
"But... I thought that..."
"You thought what? That the Association was going to pay you to save cats in trees?" The agent stood up. "If you want to make it, you play the game. You put on a show. You want fans? You want a reputable agency? Then you do what you're told."
"I know what I'm talking about. Lots of heroes have come through me. I'm well-known in this business." [He was lying.]
Lee-Hann looked down.
Then he nodded.
"…Okay."
——
BACK TO THE PRESENT
Lee-Hann Jr – Master Karate – was bleeding in an alley, facing a pathetic thug.
"I listened to all their advice," he murmured, voice broken. "I put on a show. I wore ridiculous costumes. I invented stupid techniques. And look where it got me."
The thug watched him, not really knowing what to do with this rant.
"I'm struggling against a guy like you."
Lee-Hann clenched his fists.
"But never again."
He attacked.
A straight punch. Slow. Clumsy.
The thug dodged, hit him with a hook to the stomach.
Lee-Hann fell.
He got up.
Another hit. Another fall.
He got up.
The thug, tired of this game, threw an uppercut that sent him to the ground for good.
Lee-Hann lay there, eyes fixed on the invisible stars hidden by light pollution.
The thug searched him, took his wallet, his watch, his shoes.
"Pathetic fuck," he sneered as he left.
Lee-Hann, alone, bloodied, looked at the sky.
"I... I lost... me..."
Tears streamed down his cheeks.
Then he wiped them away.
"I am weak."
He got up, limping.
"I need to go back to the dojo."
——
VLADIMIR'S WAREHOUSE – MAIN ROOM
Vladimir, a man in his fifties with a weathered face and a very long nose, was tied to a chair, face bloodied. Nagato stood before him, impassive.
"You know why I'm here, Vladimir."
Vladimir spat blood.
"The Fifteen Greats sent you, huh? Those bastards."
Nagato didn't respond.
"The guy I sold the info to is that asshole Masajo. A clean contract. But that bastard came to take them by force."
Nagato listened, motionless.
"You know what he's looking for? Evidence. Documents on the Fifteen Greats. Their schemes. Their secrets."
He chuckled.
"But he won't get them. Because I'm not stupid."
Nagato looked at him for a long moment.
"Doesn't matter. You're still going to die."
Vladimir paled.
"What? But I... I have info! I can help you!"
"I don't need your help."
Nagato raised his arm. His skin hardened, took on a gray hue. His fingers tightened, forming a natural blade at the end of his hand.
"I can't believe the Fifteen Greats trusted you. You're fucked."
Vladimir opened his mouth to beg.
Nagato struck.
Vladimir's head fell onto the desk, into a pool of blood.
Nagato looked at the scattered papers. Documents. Evidence. Photos. He flipped through quickly.
Locations where he hid evidence...
The page was torn out.
Nagato clenched his jaw.
"Lucky bastard."
He remembered Vladimir's words.
Masajo must still be looking for that info.
---
VLADIMIR'S RESIDENCE – ONE HOUR LATER
Nagato entered Vladimir's secondary home. A large isolated mansion, deep in the countryside.
It was swarming with mobsters.
Men in suits everywhere, in the hall, in the corridors, in front of doors.
Masajo hasn't cleaned house here yet.
Nagato moved forward.
The first guard didn't see him coming. Crack. The second. Crack. The third.
He went down the corridor, methodical, relentless. Every man he encountered fell, neck broken, skull crushed, heart stopped.
He reached Vladimir's office.
Empty.
No documents. No evidence. Nothing.
Nagato was about to leave when a voice echoed behind him.
"Done playing soldier, fuckface?"
Masajo was hanging from the ceiling, upside down, smiling.
Nagato turned, but Masajo had already jumped through the window.
"Later, buffoon!"
He ran into the night.
Nagato chased him.
——
ALLEY – DEAD END
Masajo stopped short.
A wall. Dead end.
He turned around, saw Nagato coming, and sighed.
"Why are you following me, seriously?"
His phone vibrated.
He looked at the screen. The call from the one waiting for the info.
He picked up, while keeping an eye on Nagato.
"Yeah, I'm coming. Got a... slight delay."
Nagato attacked.
His stone fists shot out. Masajo dodged. He dodged every blow, every movement, slipping between attacks like a shadow.
"You're slow, STONE HEAD!"
He pulled out Ku, and in a flash, slashed Nagato's chest.
Nagato collapsed, winded, a gaping gash in his chest.
Masajo sheathed his blade.
"Die, asshole."
He disappeared into the night.
But instead of being sad, Nagato smiled.
A cold smile. Deadly.
"…You're a dead man."
He pulled a small tracker from his pocket. Red. Blinking.
He had planted a bug on Masajo during the fight. Without him noticing.
He dialed a number.
"Kroger."
Kroger's deep voice, Corbeau's [Pinky's father] bodyguard, answered.
"Nagato."
"I have the coordinates. It's good, I'll handle the bastard."
A silence.
"Good job. You did good work."
The call ended.
Nagato, on the ground, chest bleeding, looked at the stars.
Masajo, you're already dead. You just don't know it yet.