The 1990s were notorious for the reign of drug lords and underworld gangsters who wielded their corrupt power with an iron fist, dictating every aspect of life. This era of darkness found its roots in Tokyo, Japan, where the insatiable demand for illicit activities burgeoned amid a backdrop of rampant governmental corruption. The political landscape had deteriorated to such an extent that those in positions of authority became mere pawns of the criminal underbelly, manipulated like marionettes to serve the interests of these malevolent figures. Among these figures emerged the most feared of all: Dylan Daniels, the enigmatic leader of the Crimson Syndicate, a criminal organization whose nefarious activities accounted for a staggering seventy percent of the city's crime rate. Murder, kidnapping, human trafficking, drug smuggling, public executions, and even cannibalistic rituals were but a few of the horrors that bore the Syndicate's mark. Dylan himself was a formidable presence—tall, with jet-black hair and a muscular physique, his very demeanor exuded a chilling aura of malevolence.
On that fateful day, the streets of Tokyo were as chaotic as ever, stained with the blood of innocents and echoing with the cries of despair. The official police force awaited Dylan's arrival at the Crimson Syndicate's headquarters, their nerves frayed as they anticipated their next payment. The atmosphere was thick with tension, for Dylan was a man who inspired fear in the hearts of even the most hardened officers. Known as the Reaper who walked among them, his reputation preceded him. Suddenly, a gust of frigid wind swept through the office, causing the air to thrum with an ominous energy. The very doors seemed to shudder in anticipation, swinging open as if to announce his impending arrival. In an instant, Dylan appeared—dressed in a tailored black suit, his menacing visage framed by a cadre of over fifty guards. As he strode through the hallways, every employee instinctively bowed in deference, a reaction born not of respect but of sheer terror.
Upon entering the room, the atmosphere shifted dramatically; the officers rose to their feet, treating him as though he were royalty. One officer ventured, "Sir Dylan, good morning! How has your day been thus far?" To which Dylan retorted, "Bad, as I was greeted by such a fool's face this morning." The room fell silent, the officers' expressions turning grave, their faces drained of color. Dylan, noticing their discomfort, continued in a mockingly cheerful tone, "Why the long faces, comrades? Is someone on the verge of death?!" Their fearful glances exchanged made it clear that humor was not the order of the day. With a chuckle, he added, "Oh my, you all take life far too seriously! Can't a man jest? Now, back to business—my accountant on the third floor will see to your payment." The officers expressed their gratitude, bowing once more, replying, "Thank you, sir. We stand ready to serve you at any time." As they exited, laughter erupted among the guards and employees, and even Dylan allowed himself a smile, remarking, "Ah, how I relish this fear."
After a long day filled with meetings regarding the chaos that had unfolded over the past weeks, Dylan finally declared, "It's late; I should return home. I'm utterly exhausted. You all can handle the rest." The guards responded, "Of course, sir. Allow us to contact your driver." Dylan, with a hint of annoyance, replied, "That incompetent driver always arrives late. What a nuisance! Do you truly think I can return home like this?" One guard, concerned, explained, "It's simply that we worry for your safety. You have numerous enemies throughout the city; we cannot afford to take any risks." Dylan laughed heartily, "Oh, come now! Who dares to challenge me, especially in Tokyo?" With that, he departed the office, slipping into his sleek black Porsche—a vehicle he had seized from a businessman he had murdered, whose wife he had subsequently forced into a life of servitude, while ensuring the children were sent to a training academy to prepare them as future guards.
As Dylan drove along a dimly lit, desolate road, the flickering streetlights cast eerie shadows. Suddenly, a blinding light caught his attention, prompting him to halt his vehicle. "Who's that coward? Show yourself!" he bellowed, but silence only met his challenge. The light vanished, and in a fit of rage, he exited the car, shotgun in hand, unleashing a barrage of threats into the dark. "Come out, you coward! Face me like a man!" But then, a thunderous noise erupted from behind him. He turned to see two massive trucks speeding toward him, and in that brief moment of realization, he muttered, "You think you can trick me?" In an instinctive reaction, he reached into his pocket, producing three grenades which he hurled toward the oncoming vehicles. "Take this, bastards!" he shouted, leaping to the side, but the trucks collided with him, their impact sending him crashing to the ground.
As his guards arrived, firing upon the trucks with precision, it was already too late. Dylan had sustained grievous injuries, and though he did not succumb to death, he was plunged into a deep coma. Upon regaining consciousness, he was struck by an unsettling sight: he found himself once more on the streets where the accident had transpired, but they were transformed, tainted by a nightmarish reality. The reflection in a puddle revealed a child with black hair and piercing red eyes, a visage that sent shivers down his spine. "What the hell?! Who is this child? What has happened to my body? Didn't I just die?" he murmured in disbelief. In the distance, a horrifying scene unfolded—an enormous demon feasting on the flesh of a young girl, devouring her alive with a grotesque relish. Panic surged within him, compelling him to flee, but as he turned to escape, the demon caught sight of him, grinning wickedly. "Another feast, how delightful," it taunted, sealing his fate in that moment of terror.