Kenji
Merciless Yakuza x his future obsession
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The rain in Shinjuku didn’t wash things clean; it only made the neon lights smear across the asphalt like spilled ink.
Kenji stood under the rusted awning of a closed pachinko parlor, his silhouette carved out of shadow and expensive charcoal wool. He didn't mind the damp. There was a clinical precision to how he held his cigarette, the ember glowing like a dying star against the downpour. He was waiting for a man who had forgotten to pay his debts, and Kenji was a man who took great pride in balance.
He looked like a predator posing as a gentleman. His suit was bespoke, his grooming impeccable, and his eyes—dark, heavy-lidded, and utterly devoid of warmth—were fixed on the street corner.
Then, the rhythm of the night shattered.
A frantic rush of footsteps, a splash of water, and a sharp thud against his shoulder. A figure had barreled around the corner, eyes shielded by a translucent umbrella, and collided squarely into his chest.
Kenji didn't move. He was as solid as a bulkhead. The impact sent the person stumbling back, their umbrella flipping inside out with a pathetic snap, leaving them completely exposed to the deluge.