Routine

Kurozaka, city of wealth and vice, or so they say. Countless people cross its streets every day, and countless more dream of affording a place here.

For the most part, their longing is justified. The nights are gaudy, blinding even. There are so many ways to spend money that even the rich must choose carefully. Beautiful women and handsome men are ready to fulfill every desire.

And I couldn't care less about any of it.

On a dimly lit morning, at a busy yet not quite crowded hour, a working man strides through Kurozaka's avenues. Nothing unusual—except for the way people react to him.

They part before him, wary and silent, as if a wild beast was crossing the street—one that might pounce on anyone who dares block its path.

Is it his bear-like frame, towering over the average man? No.

His plain clothes—loose trousers, dark short-sleeved button-up, a small leather backpack—draw no attention. It's his bare arms that do: Ink coils across his skin in flowing patterns. Flowers bloom along his forearms, flames lick his shoulders, and grey waves surge behind it all.

By now, these kinds of reactions should be nothing new, yet he can't stop glancing around. Every pair of eyes he meets drops instantly. They flee as if his gaze alone could hurt.

Whatever.

At least it spares him the trouble of weaving through a crowd. Nothing else should matter.

On his way, he passes a familiar business, currently on a temporary close. A few cops are interviewing the owner, but it's more formality than substance. By now, the real investigation has already been handed to more competent players.

Soon the apartment complex comes into view. Hard to believe it's part of the same city he sees on night shifts. The entryway alone looks like a shelter for vagabonds—dry and putrid, with a dead cockroach lying by the door.

Why do we even bother with this place?

Heading straight for the second floor, the rusted stairs groan under his weight. As he turns the landing onto the next flight of stairs, he comes face-to-face with an elderly woman. She hesitates, about to step aside—

No, not this time.

He moves first, giving her space. The woman's eyes widen in surprise, then soften. With a quiet sigh, she bows gently and continues down.

Watching her go, the man feels a faint curve at the corner of his lips. Noticing it, he massages his jaw, takes a steady breath, and proceeds.

At the cracked door with peeling paint, there's a doorbell—but he opts instead for two slow, deliberate knocks.

A shadow crosses the peephole. Murmured words are exchanged inside, and then the door opens just a crack, stopped by the chain on the frame.

"G-Good morning, sir… are you perhaps one of the… umm?"

"Munakata Atsunori."

Swallowing, the man at the door bows.

"I-I see. It's an honor to be visited by one of the Munakata in person. And I have great news for you, mister Atsunori."

His trembling hands extend a stack of cash, two fingers thick.

Now you have it? You're just trying to make my job harder.

Atsunori raises a hand.

"I'm not here to collect."

"B-but I have it all here, not a yen less."

"Last week was your final chance. Now you come with me."

A few murmurs come from behind the man. He turns back inside, whispering, "Are you sure?"

"Just leave it to me," the other voice replies. The door closes, then opens fully.

The shaky man now stands behind a suited figure who reeks of cologne and sports far too much hairspray.

Atsunori squints, anticipating a headache.

"Yo, pal. Atsunori, right? I know my cousin isn't the brightest bulb and must've been a pain, but he's got the cash now."

"I don't like repeating myself."

"Now, now, it's fine. How about you come in and have a beer while we discuss business."

It seems this can only go one way—better to do it inside.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Seated at the low table in the one-room apartment, he's offered an ice-cold can and a bowl of mixed nuts. He touches neither. The stench of this cave alone has wiped out any appetite he might've had.

The punk drops down in front of him, while the other man sinks against the back wall, as far away as this tin-can room allows.

"So, pal, sorry for the trouble my good-for-nothing cousin caused. But I promise he's gonna stay out of your way from now on, so be a brother and let him off the hook, please?"

Onto the table, the guy slides a small stack of bills, along with the thicker one his cousin owes.

"Here's for a good night or two of fun, courtesy of yours truly."

As his suspicions are confirmed, Atsunori suppresses a grunt.

"You're not from around here, are you?"

"Heh, is that obvious? Yeah, I'm from another city. I have my own family, we're expanding fast. Would do both of us good to become friends early on."

"A small-time gang's name won't change your cousin's situation. He's coming with me."

"You're making a hard bargain, brother. But I get it. Here—my last offer." He adds more money atop the small stack, enough to match the bigger one.

"This doesn't come from your crew."

"What do you mean, pal? Of course it…" The punk's voice falters. His smile collapses. "Pal, by any chance your group wouldn't be affiliated with—"

"Every business in the district."

The man in the corner, who'd been a mere observer, shuffles forward.

"H-hey Beni, what is he talking about? I think I'm misunderstanding the situation."

"No, no, it's nothing. But… Sato, why don't you run to the convenience store and grab us a few more beers?"

"Beni, what did you do!?" Somehow, he'd grown a spine. This Sato guy had been trembling uncontrollably just minutes ago.

"The restaurant down the street was robbed three days ago," Atunori cuts in. "The amount stolen roughly matches what's on this table."

Rather than react in any way, Sato freezes—as if time has stopped for him.

And then he slams his head against the floor with a "thud!"

"I swear I didn't know Beni would do something so stupid! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry…" He keeps repeating, unable to stop.

"Listen pa—Atsunori, sir. I truly didn't mean to cause your family any trouble."

Slowly, Atsunori rises.

No point in wasting more time.

"I've heard enough."

"Please… let's just sit back down and have a proper, civilized talk and—"

Atsunori takes a step. The bandit leaps to his feet drawing a pocket knife.

"I'm not a man of violence," the thief says, "but I warn you, it's not my first time shanking an asshole."

And now he pulls out a weapon.

There are only so many mistakes one can excuse as ignorance.

This one crosses the line. Against armed opponents, Atsunori is required to go serious by protocol, so as to avoid collaterals.

And so he takes a deep breath, focusing on his muscles, feeling them swell beneath his skin.

For a moment, he sees the man in front of him shrink—but in fact, it's the opposite.

"The fuck's going on? A-Are you getting bigger?"

Atsunori's shirt tears. His skin flushes red. Horns push through his skull, and fangs bulge in his mouth.

A metallic clink hits the floor—the punk's knife.

"I-I… p-please, have mercy, sir Atsunori. I-I've heard of this kind of power. I swear on my family I—"

That word acts like a trigger. His fist shoots out, striking the thug's gut, knocking all air out of him and sending him flying into the wall.

On the ground, the man gasps for air. Atsunori advances—but is interrupted.

"Stop! Don't kill him." This Sato is somehow pulling bravery from nowhere. Crouched like a turtle moments ago, he now stands between Atsunori and the thief. "I-I will… I will somehow make it up to you."

"How?" Atsunori growls. "You've failed to pay your loan for months, and now you claim you can cover his sins too?"

"I-I… y-you can take my kidney. And… and also…"

"We don't deal in organ traffiquing."

"Then my house—"

"Already marked as collateral."

"Then…" He drops at Atsunori's feet. "Beni was just trying to help me. It's my fault for being such a screwup. So I beg you, let him go and kill me instead."

"S-Sato… don't…" Beni manages to squeeze from his mouth before passing out.

Why?

Do they really think making sacrifices for each other somehow redeems them? It doesn't erase their mistakes, and certainly doesn't help those they've hurt.

A heavy sigh escapes Atsunori—and with it, his temporal strength, his size, and all other non-human attributes.

We don't kill either, he could say. People disappearing attracts too much attention. In situations like these, all I need is to make you believe I would kill you, then spare you only by the grace of my heart.

In a small mirror to his left, he catches his own reflection—his back fully revealed, the core of his tattoo exposed.

A full-body figure stares back from the ink: dark hair, crimson skin, fangs bared and two horns curling from its head.

With a sudden, unrestrained swing, Atsunori seizes the man by the neck. Even in his human form, he lifts him effortlessly with one hand.

Sato's desperate thrashing, darting eyes, choked pleas, streaming tears, tightened grip… all part of the routine. No matter how big of a scumbag they are, they all turn into frightened children when cornered.

Atsunori's blood boils at the way they mock true innocence just by acting like it—and it makes the following crunch of broken teeth all the more satisfying. Some people simply won't learn without a lash.