The night in Ikebukuro was suffocating.
Under the thin glow of scattered streetlights, Kaito stumbled through a narrow alley, one arm wrapped tightly around Ryuji's bloodied shoulders. The younger man's weight sagged heavily against him, half-conscious, his steps uneven and dragging. Blood dripped steadily from Ryuji's fingers, leaving a trail behind them — a dark, glistening breadcrumb path through the backstreets.
Kaito's chest heaved as they reached the back entrance of the old ramen shop — a faded red lantern flickered weakly above the door, its paper cracked and brittle from years of rain and smoke. Without hesitation, Kaito pounded on the back door with his elbow. The door creaked open.
The smell hit them immediately — the sharp sting of antiseptic mixed with rust and damp concrete.
Kaito hauled Ryuji down the stairs, each step a muffled grunt of effort. At the bottom, flickering fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, illuminating a crude underground clinic. Metal shelves lined the walls, stacked with yellowing bandages, chipped bottles, and old surgical tools. A battered steel table stood at the center, its surface scrubbed but permanently stained with old blood.
Kaito lowered Ryuji onto the table, his shirt half-shredded, revealing the inked scales of his full-back dragon tattoo. The elaborate design was soaked in sweat and smeared with blood — crimson rivers winding between dark ink.
"Damn it, Ryuji," Kaito muttered under his breath, brushing damp strands of hair away from the young man's pale face. Ryuji's eyes fluttered open for a moment, glazed and unfocused, before slipping closed again.
From a side room, the elderly doctor emerged — short, wiry, his white hair disheveled, eyes sharp despite his age. He wore a stained lab coat over a wrinkled dress shirt, sleeves rolled up past his elbows.
The old man froze in the doorway, squinting through his glasses. "You again...where the other one?"
Kaito offered a tired grin, breathless. "Yeah. Got you there he is."
The doctor's eyes flicked to the table — and his expression changed immediately.
"Shit," he muttered, crossing the room in quick strides. "This time it's serious."
Without another word, he snapped on a pair of gloves, grabbing a pair of scissors to slice away the remains of Ryuji's shirt. His sharp eyes swept over the injuries — a deep gash along the ribs, bruised knuckles split open to the bone, lacerations across his arms and shoulders. Blood was smeared across Ryuji's chest like war paint.
The doctor pulled out a vial, loading a syringe with practiced speed. "Hold him steady."
Kaito moved to the head of the table, bracing Ryuji's shoulders as the needle plunged into his side. Ryuji didn't flinch. His breathing stayed ragged, but his body barely twitched, even as the anesthesia flooded his veins.
"Dumb kid," the old man muttered, shaking his head. He reached for a suture kit, clamping the worst of the rib gash and beginning to stitch.
Kaito leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms, eyes fixed warily on the door. His shirt was damp with sweat and Ryuji's blood still fresh and raw, but he kept his attention outward.
The doctor worked in silence, the only sounds the snip of scissors, the scrape of clamps, the steady hiss of the overhead lights.
After several minutes, the doctor muttered, "Who the hell did this?"
Kaito's jaw tightened. "Araragi."
The old man's hands paused for half a beat before resuming. "If he keeps this up… you're gonna be dragging a corpse down here next time."
Kaito said nothing. His fists clenched against his arms.
As the stitching continued, Ryuji's breathing steadied. His face was pale, sweat glistening on his forehead, but his chest rose and fell in a calmer rhythm. The worst of the bleeding slowed.
For a moment, the underground clinic was still.
---
Kurohane estate
But above ground, the city was shifting.
At the heart of Tokyo's underworld, in a vast estate that loomed over the surrounding blocks, the Kurohane compound glowed with quiet menace. Towering stone walls enclosed manicured gardens and darkened halls. Inside, beneath an arched ceiling carved with coiling dragons, a meeting room waited.
The Five Immortal Vassals were gathered.
Masaki Kamaguchi sat with fingers steepled, his glasses gleaming in the low light. Calm, precise, the strategist.
Reika Araragi leaned back in her chair, one leg crossed over the other, the faint trace of a bandage peeking from beneath her sleeve. Her eyes were cool, her posture relaxed — but a pulse of frustration flickered beneath the surface.
Shigure Tsujihara stood near the window, half-shrouded in shadow, arms folded behind his back. His gaze flicked between the others, sharp and calculating.
Daigo Kagutsuchi paced at the edge of the room, restless energy rolling off him like heat. His broad shoulders twitched with impatience, a faint snarl curling his lip every time he passed near the table.
And Genzou Araragi — silent, stiff-backed, his injuries freshly bandaged — sat with his head slightly lowered, eyes locked on the polished floor.
The heavy doors creaked open.
Masanori Kurohane entered, his presence a cold wind sweeping through the room. Impeccably dressed in a black suit, his hair slicked back, Masanori moved with the slow, deliberate confidence of a man accustomed to command. His expression was calm — yet the weight of his gaze pressed into the room like iron.
Beside him walked Shin Kurohane.
The heir.
Shin's steps were quiet, measured, but his presence was unmistakable. Dressed in a black suit with the shirt half-unbuttoned, a demon tattoo curled along his neck, half-hidden beneath the fabric. His long black hair fell loose over his shoulders, framing a pale, sharp-boned face. His fingers, adorned with chrome heart rings, flexed absently as he moved.
For a heartbeat, no one spoke.
Shin's eyes swept across the room — lingering briefly on Genzou, who shifted in his seat, before returning to Masaki, Reika, Shigure, Daigo.
Masanori's voice was quiet, but it cut through the silence. "Report."
---
Back in the underground clinic, Kaito sat at Ryuji's bedside, head bowed, fingers drumming restlessly against his knee. The old man packed away the last of the tools, glancing once at Kaito before disappearing into the back room.
Ryuji's breathing was calm now, his face pale but peaceful, the worst of the storm behind him — for tonight, at least.
---