Tokyo — 10:40 PM
A quiet street. Dim lights. Shadows stretch under flickering neon signs. The air is cold.
A 16-year-old girl in a school uniform runs along the sidewalk, her face pale with fear. Her shoes slap against the pavement. She keeps glancing back—
Ten masked figures are chasing her. Inhuman. Hungry. They move like wolves, their weapons glinting under the streetlights.
She gasps. Her lungs burn. Her legs tremble. But she keeps running.
Then—
Up ahead, a man appears.
He's wearing a black suit. Slightly wrinkled. He staggers, a half-empty bottle of sake swinging from one hand. He hums a tune, off-key, like the world doesn't exist around him.
She runs straight to him. Grabs the back of his shirt.
"Please!" she cries. "Someone's chasing me—help me!"
The man turns slowly, confused. His eyes are half-closed.
"Who is it?" he mumbles.
"They're coming! Please—do something!" she begs.
He squints at her, then lets out a small laugh.
"I'm drunk," he says. "I can't help you. Ask someone else."
He turns away and starts to walk.
But then—
The ten masked monsters appear. Silent. Menacing. Weapons raised. They see the girl. They see him.
The man in the black suit stops.
For a moment, nothing moves.
Then—
He lifts the bottle. Looks at it. Sighs.
The bottle falls from his hand. Shatters on the pavement.
He straightens his back.
His voice is no longer slurred.
"Stay behind me," he says.
The girl stares, wide-eyed.
The masked men charge.
And the man in the black suit—
He moves.
The masked men rush forward, ten shadows with weapons in hand. Pipes. Knives. Chains.
The girl screams.
But the man in the black suit—he's already moving.
No wasted motion.
He steps into the first attacker's charge, twisting his body, grabbing the man's wrist—and snaps it with a clean, effortless motion. The weapon clatters to the ground.
Before the man can scream, the black-suited stranger drives his elbow into his throat. The attacker drops, gasping for air he'll never catch.
Another one swings a chain.
The man ducks—fluid as water—his coat fluttering behind him. He grabs the chain mid-swing, pulls the attacker forward, and smashes his head against a street pole. A sickening crack. The second one falls.
Seven left.
They hesitate.
Too slow.
He's already in front of the next. A blur of movement. A spinning heel kick lands square in the chest—sending the masked figure flying backward into a glass window. Shards rain down.
The girl watches, frozen, her eyes wide.
He's not drunk.
He never was.
Another one tries to stab from behind.
But the man tilts his head slightly—dodging without looking. He turns, grabs the attacker's arm, and uses his momentum to slam him to the ground, dislocating his shoulder with a precise twist.
Four remain.
They circle him now, wary. Trained, maybe. Or just desperate.
One charges. A scream on his lips.
The man sidesteps, snatches the scream from his throat with a knife-hand strike to the neck, and hurls him into the others. They collapse like dominoes.
Silence.
Ten men came for blood.
None are standing now.
The girl looks up at him.
His tie is loose. His knuckles are bleeding. His face is calm.
She whispers, "Who… are you?"
He looks at her, eyes sharp like steel behind the glasses.
"Nobody," he says.
Then turns and walks into the night.
The girl couldn't move.
Ten bodies lay scattered across the street like broken puppets. The only sound was the faint buzzing of a flickering neon sign above them, casting an eerie red glow over the scene.
He was walking away. Calm. Like none of this had happened.
"W-Wait!" she called out.
The man stopped but didn't turn around.
"I didn't get your name," she said, stepping forward.
"You won't," he replied.
"Are you… a cop? A soldier? What are you?"
Silence.
Then, a soft reply—low and final:
"I'm just a drunk."
He turned the corner and disappeared into the night.
She stood there for a while, heart still pounding. Her mind raced.
Who was he?
Why was he there?
How did he move like that—so fast, so precise?
She looked down at the shattered bottle on the ground.
He was never drunk.
It was a mask. A performance.
The ten masked attackers—were they after her? Or… after him?
She reached into her blazer pocket and pulled out her phone, hands trembling.
Still no signal. Still no connection. The city felt… off.
As if someone had cut it away from the rest of the world.
A siren echoed in the distance. Too far. Too late.
She had to find him.
She didn't know why—but something told her that man wasn't just a stranger.
He was the only one who could protect her.
And whoever those masked monsters were…
They weren't finished
To be continued in Chapter 2....