Miyuki rose slowly from her spot, as if her body was still reluctant to let go of the fight's tension. The underground club air hung thick a heavy blend of sweat, cigarette smoke, and the faint metallic sweetness of blood that always lingered after a good match. The ring stood empty now: someone dragged the mats away, someone else wiped the floor with a rag, leaving dark streaks. The crowd had mostly thinned out only the most stubborn lingered, the kind who stayed until the music cut off completely.
She stretched, vertebrae popping one by one. Shoulders rolled back, spine arched, then relaxed. Her bag black, worn, with peeling letters "FIGHT" rested against the wall. Miyuki bent down, picked it up, slung the strap over her shoulder. She didn't glance back at the guy still sitting on the floor, pressing a hand to his split lip and trying to catch his breath. She simply walked toward the exit.
Footsteps echoed loudly on the concrete. The upper door creaked open. Outside fog. Thick, cold, smelling of river water and wet asphalt. It wrapped around her face, hair, clothes instantly. Miyuki stepped forward and dissolved into the white haze, as if she had never existed.
A car moved down the highway in dense fog. Headlights burned yellow cones, cutting through the white veil, but visibility ended ten meters ahead. Inside the cabin, an old Japanese ballad played quietly on the radio the singer's voice trembled with longing, words barely distinguishable through the hiss of tires on wet asphalt. Genzō's parents sat in silence. His mother stared out the window where nothing could be seen. His father gripped the wheel with both hands, knuckles slightly pale from tension. No one spoke. Only the music and the breathing of three people filled the tight space.
Takayama sat alone in his small study on the second floor of an old house. The desk lamp cast a round pool of light over scattered photographs. Some showed people in cages, faces bruised and bloodied; others bound bodies, needles in veins, burned skin. He flipped through the images slowly, fingers barely trembling. He looked at each one for a long time, as though searching for something long lost. Then he reached for the old rotary phone in the corner of the desk. Dialed a number he knew by heart. It rang twice.
A voice answered low, calm, familiar.
"Yeah?"
"Tomorrow," Takayama said quietly, voice steady. "Bring a couple of packs. The usual."
A short pause.
"Got it," the voice replied. "Will do."
The line went dead. Takayama set the receiver down carefully, as if it might break. He stared at the photographs a moment longer, then turned off the lamp. Darkness swallowed the room.
Genzō lay on the sofa in just his underwear. The room was small, crammed with unpacked moving boxes still smelling of cardboard and old dust. Light from the desk lamp fell across the phone in his hand. He chewed gum slowly, mechanically; bubbles inflated and popped with soft snaps. On the screen memes, short videos, stories from old friends in Osaka. He scrolled without interest, eyes unfocused.
"New school tomorrow," he muttered aloud, voice sleepy and tired. "Everything from scratch again. New faces. New rules. New people who'll look at me the same way they did at the old one."
He rolled onto his side. The phone slipped onto the pillow. His gaze drifted to the wall. Among game posters, old stickers, random marker doodles, and scraps of tape hung one single sheet tattered, written in thick black marker:
Hey, newbie!
Still that same pimply loser who can't even get out of bed?
Then come to us!!!
We'll show you what real life looks like.
Abandoned warehouse behind the old factory. 23:00.
Genzō froze. His heart gave one hard thump. He read it again. Then a third time. A crooked, nervous smile tugged at his lips half excitement, half fear.
"…Okay then," he whispered, staring at the small phone number scribbled at the bottom.
He took a photo of the flyer. Set the phone on his chest. The gum had lost its flavor. He spat it into his palm and tossed it aside. Lay on his back. Stared at the ceiling. The same small crack he noticed every day now looked slightly longer.
Meanwhile, Takumi, Ria, and Ken stood in a dark corner of the school courtyard. In front of them stood another boy thin, nervous, hands trembling. They had forced him to fight Renji.
"Come on," Takumi said softly, smiling. "Just hit him. We'll watch."
The boy stepped forward. Renji stood opposite arms at his sides, eyes on the ground. The punch came suddenly. Renji dodged, countered sharply. Fist connected with jaw. A crack. A tooth flew out, blood sprayed onto the asphalt. The boy collapsed, clutching his face.
Renji stood there, breathing hard. Barely holding himself upright legs shaking, head ringing.
Takumi, Ria, and Ken watched. Smirking.
"Rooster in the henhouse," Takumi said quietly.
Ria snorted.
"Pathetic. Doesn't even fight back properly."
Ken spat on the ground.
"Shame. Thought there'd be more blood."
They turned and left. Renji remained standing alone. Blood dripped from his lip onto the asphalt. He didn't wipe it. Just stood and watched the shadows lengthen under the sun.