Morning crept through the small window of Ren's room, casting a pale, filtered light over the plain tatami floor and walls. The silence was broken only by the subtle sound of broth being slurped.
Ren sat on the edge of his futon, porcelain bowl in hand, the scent of pork ramen swirling in the air. The steam curled around his pale face, black hair slightly tousled, his expression unreadable as always.
He chewed slowly, his black eyes narrowed—not in focus on the ramen, but on the swirl of thoughts churning within.
Y.
Toshi.
And… the Wolves.
The memory of the guard whispering "the offspring of those known as the Wolves" played on a loop in his head. He didn't like things he couldn't explain. Not understanding what they meant wasn't just irritating—it was dangerous.
Who were the Wolves? Why did that word stir something inside me?
He didn't know. Not yet.
But he would find out.
Ren lifted the last bit of noodles into his mouth and finished with a gentle sip of the broth. He placed his chopsticks across the top of the bowl.
"Gochisousama." Thank you for the meal.
Then—
Knock knock knock.
A quiet, respectful voice called from behind the door. "Ren-sama. You are being summoned to the Chamber of the Elders."
Ren stood up without a word.
The hallway leading to the chamber was long and dimly lit, lit by strips of fluorescent light buzzing faintly above. Syndicate members were already gathering ahead.
Kenji stood leaning against the wall, arms crossed, a scarf wrapped sloppily around his neck. He sniffled once, then twice, dramatically. "Tch. Stupid virus. I swear if I die from a cold I'm haunting everyone."
"Stop being dramatic," Kaede said softly, slipping beside him. She wore a plain dark cloak, eyes calm, lips unreadable—until she reached for his hand, squeezing it briefly but with quiet purpose.
Kenji paused. He looked down at their hands, then grinned. "Heh. You're into sick guys now?"
Kaede didn't answer. She just held on.
Ren approached, expression unchanged. Kenji's grin faded the moment he saw him.
"Oh, look, it's Lord Freeze-My-Balls-Off himself," Kenji muttered under his breath. "Did you even brush your hair, or is that just how you wake up? Every day?"
Ren didn't even look at him.
Kenji scoffed. "Rude."
"He's just salty because you don't acknowledge his existence," Akihiro chimed in, leaning against the wall behind them with his usual sleepy smile. "Though I'm impressed, Ren. You didn't stab Kenji for calling you that."
"I might later," Ren muttered coldly.
Akihiro grinned. "Ohhh, he speaks."
Mai joined them next, ignoring everyone, arms crossed, headphones on—Akihiro immediately leaned toward her. "Morning, Mai. Did you dream about me again? You can admit it."
"Dreamt about choking you," she snapped, not even looking at him.
"That counts," he winked.
Finally, Hiroshi arrived—calm, tall, and composed as ever. His dark coat flowed behind him with the silent dignity of a true leader. Despite his youth, his presence commanded the room like a much older man. The moment he stepped in, the joking died down.
"Let's go," he said. "Don't make the elders wait."
The massive double doors of the Chamber of Elders slid open with a dull metallic groan, revealing the sanctum that housed the most feared figures in the Syndicate. Shadows clung to the ornate walls, and the scent of old wood, incense, and blood hung thick in the air.
Ren, Hiroshi, Akihiro, Kenji, Kaede, and Mai stepped through the threshold.
Their footsteps echoed in unison.
The five remaining Elders sat elevated on their thrones of iron and obsidian, shrouded in ambient torchlight. Daizen, Kaito, Shion, Masaru, and Tsukasa—each carved from the harsh stone of a thousand battles. Time had not softened them; it had sharpened them into living myths.
Without hesitation, all six bowed low. Deep. Perfect.
Silence.
Then—Elder Daizen rose slightly from his throne, eyes like twin blades of frozen steel. His deep voice rolled out, calm and absolute.
"You have all been summoned today to hear something… historic."
The words echoed, slow and deliberate, as though even the walls strained to listen.
"A tournament is to be held. But this is no celebration. This is not for honor. This is bloodsport."
He scanned their faces. The gravity in the chamber turned heavier with every breath.
"The richest, darkest underworld empires—assassination syndicates, clans thought extinct, kings who rule from shadows, and digital ghosts from the dark web—they will all send champions. Some will come with banners soaked in legend. Some with none at all. Some are not even known to us."
Elder Shion leaned forward, her voice velvet laced with venom.
"And that is what makes them dangerous. The unknown. You may face people whose names have never been recorded. Whose talents defy categorization. Killers who've never missed. But they will be watching you. They always are."
Kenji's cocky grin was gone.
Akihiro's lightheartedness flickered.
Mai looked uneasy. Kaede's hands tightened at her sides.
Only Ren remained still.
"You will represent us," Elder Tsukasa said. His voice lacked all emotion, like a verdict handed down from a divine court. "The Umbra Division—the Syndicate's sharpest edge. We will not send anyone else."
"What about Hiroshi?" Akihiro finally asked.
There was a pause.
Then Elder Masaru slammed a fist into the arm of his throne. The impact rumbled like a quake.
"Hiroshi stays. That is our command."
Hiroshi bowed his head calmly, obediently. No complaint. No surprise.
"This is your burden," Elder Kaito said, eyes narrowing at the group. "Not his."
Daizen stepped forward now. His tone dropped into something colder than steel.
"Let me be clear. This is not a test. This is a sentence. If you die, die with pride. If you lose—then do not come back. It would be better to perish than to bring shame upon our Syndicate."
The words fell like iron chains.
"Your opponents will not show mercy," Elder Shion continued. "Many of them have spent their entire lives perfecting one technique, one art, one method of killing. You will fight monsters. But you are no less."
Masaru's voice thundered again:
"This is war disguised as entertainment for the corrupt. And war, as you all know, is not for the weak. It is for killers. Be killers."
Elder Tsukasa unfurled a scroll and tossed it on the ground in front of them. The parchment rolled open, revealing a crude map.
"The tournament will take place on Guretsutō. A cursed island. Somewhere between Asia and Europe. Weather there is unnatural. Do not underestimate the environment—it is part of the challenge."
Shion's voice turned soft. Almost mocking.
"You may think you are elite now. The Umbra Division. Feared. Honored. But in that arena… you are prey until you prove otherwise."
Daizen finally leaned back in his throne.
"You have one month. Train. Hunt. Harden your hearts."
A breathless silence.
"You are dismissed."
They all bowed again, deeper this time.
No one dared speak until the chamber doors shut behind them.
The heavy silence lingered as the team made their way down the stone corridor.
Kenji broke it first, coughing harshly into his sleeve.
"Tch. Damn cold."
Kaede reached out and subtly slipped her fingers into his, a silent gesture of comfort. Kenji looked at her, surprised—but didn't let go. His smirk crept back, just a little.
Akihiro clapped Kenji's shoulder.
"You dying already?"
"Shut the hell up. I'm fine," Kenji muttered, though his nose was red and his voice rough.
"Kaede's holding your hand," Akihiro teased. "Guess that's your medicine."
Kaede didn't react. But she didn't pull away either.
Mai rolled her eyes. Akihiro looked at her, grinning.
"You worried too, Mai? You hiding it better than usual."
"I'm not worried. I just don't talk nonsense."
Ren said nothing, walking ahead. His expression unreadable.
Akihiro trotted up beside him.
"Yo, Ren. You ready to murder a few legends and come back with your clothes still intact?"
Ren didn't look at him. Just kept walking.
"Come on," Akihiro laughed. "Not even a smirk?"
Ren finally responded, his voice barely above a mutter.
"You talk too much."
Akihiro pouted like he lost the lottery.
"Hmmm, he's a loser anyway." he whispered to himself.
Behind them, Hiroshi remained quiet, eyes focused, hands behind his back. Calm. Observant. Like a true leader watching his pack walk into the mouth of hell.
Kenji and Kaede's Apartment
Outside the Syndicate compound, far from the cold, calculated violence of the underground, a modest house stood nestled beneath the low hum of cicadas and the soft flicker of porch light. Inside, warmth radiated from more than just the stove.
The smell of garlic, soy, and sesame filled the kitchen.
Kenji stood at the stove in a worn tank top, sleeves rolled, stirring a sizzling pan of beef and scallions. He sniffled slightly, wiped his nose on his shoulder, and groaned. "Ugh… damn cold."
Kaede stood beside him, slicing red peppers with eerie precision, every movement fluid and deliberate. She wore a loose long-sleeve shirt and tied her hair back in a low ponytail.
"You know," Kenji muttered, glancing sideways, "you're absolutely terrifying with that knife."
Kaede didn't look up. "I'm better with guns."
He chuckled, rubbing his nose. "Yeah, you keep saying that, but every time I blink, I feel like you might turn me into stir-fry."
A faint smirk ghosted across her lips.
Then—
SPLOOSH.
Kaede flinched. The bowl of homemade sauce slipped from her hands, crashing against the counter and splashing across Kenji's arm and chest.
"Oh no—shit—I'm so sorry," she said, instantly reaching for a cloth.
Kenji blinked, glancing down at the dark glaze dripping across his shirt.
"It's fine, really," he muttered, pulling off the stained shirt in one fluid motion. "Better me than the food. That sauce took forever."
She turned to him with the cloth—then froze mid-step.
His chest was broad and toned, a map of old bruises and faint scars etched into bronze skin. But what caught her eyes wasn't the muscles—it was the black ink stretched across his left pec: a dragon coiled around a rose, its wings sprawled near his collarbone, tail curling around his ribs. Sharp. Elegant. Unmistakably personal.
She stared.
"…You have a tattoo?" her voice was lower now. Curious. Breathier.
Kenji followed her gaze, then rubbed the back of his neck. "Oh. Yeah. Got it when I turned eighteen. First thing I did when I finished high school . Kinda stupid, I guess."
Kaede tilted her head slightly, eyes still fixed on the ink. "No. It's not stupid."
She swallowed.
"I think it's… so fucking hot on you."
The words fell from her lips before she could stop them.
Kenji blinked. "Wait—what?"
But she didn't give him a chance to joke.
Kaede stepped closer and pulled him into a kiss. It wasn't soft—it was sudden, open-mouthed, hungry. Her hand slid behind his neck, fingers threading through his messy black hair. The heat between them ignited like a match.
Kenji didn't say a word.
He kissed her back, harder.
For once, no sarcasm. No cocky comment. Just the quiet surrender of two people who'd been dancing around this for too long.
She broke the kiss, breath shaky. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes searching his. "I—I didn't mean to—"
Kenji kissed her again—deeper this time. And then, without hesitation, he hooked an arm under her legs and lifted her clean off the floor.
Kaede gasped, arms instinctively wrapping around his shoulders. "W-What are you doing?"
He smirked, nose still red from the cold. "Didn't you say you wanted to see my room next time?"
She gave a breathless laugh. "You're an asshole."
"Mmhm," he muttered, carrying her down the dim hallway. "You're just saying that 'cause I'm sick and hot."
"I meant 'hot' as in the fever," she said, teasing now.
"You're making it worse," he coughed. "Doctor Kaede, please."
The bedroom door creaked open. Warm light spilled in from the hallway before he gently kicked the door closed behind them.
He set her down on the bed—carefully, like she was something fragile. Kaede sat up, her lips parted, hair slightly tousled.
She looked at him, eyes burning with something sharp and unsure. Then she reached for the hem of her shirt and pulled it over her head.
She wore a sleek black bra. Minimal. Functional. Still stunning.
Kenji froze in place. He let out a slow breath, throat dry, heart pounding.
Kaede raised an eyebrow. "What? What's wrong?"
He stepped forward, slower now.
"I just didn't think you could get any hotter," he said honestly. No grin. Just awe.
She flushed hard—and kissed him again, softer now. Slower. Her fingers lingered along his skin, trailing the curve of his tattoo.
He laid her down again, this time not rushing.
The sound of the rain began to tap softly on the roof above them, and the world outside faded into silence.