AAPW – Korakuen Hall
Women’s Locker Room – Late Night, 3 weeks ago.
The show was over, but the building still felt like it was breathing.
Faint echoes from the crowd drifted through concrete and steel—random shouts, a lingering chant, the low rumble of a thousand people trying to find the exit at the same time. Somewhere above, a metal guardrail shook as fans leaned over it for one last look at the ring crew tearing down the set.
In the women’s locker room, the noise was thinner. Muted. Contained.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, washing the room in a flat, tired white. A shower ran behind a row of frosted glass, hot water hissing as it met cold pipes. Someone laughed near the far benches. Somewhere else, tape tore away from skin with the sharp, familiar rip of adhesive.
Akane Watanabe sat on the bench in front of her locker, still half in gear.
Her boots were unlaced but not removed, laces splayed across the floor like snapped tendons. Red tape still wrapped her fingers and knuckles, darkened here and there with sweat and a trace of someone else’s blood. Her ring top clung to her, damp, her muscles still warm from the match. She should have been riding the afterglow—a good pop, a clean finish, another win for The Onna-Bugeisha.
Instead, she was counting seconds.
Her eyes weren’t on her reflection in the dented metal locker door. They were on the thin strip of hallway visible behind her, smeared and narrow in the warped mirror. Just enough of a view to see who came and went.
The Onna-Bugeisha were winding down around her.
Haruna Aoki sat cross-legged on the bench opposite, hair wrapped in a towel, replaying a clip on her phone for the fifth time.
Haruna: Look at Yuka’s face here. Right before the suplex. She looks like she’s about to suplex the entire Dome, not just that poor girl.
Yuka Kitamura lay on the floor, a resistance band looped around her foot, pulling it toward her shoulder with easy power. She snorted.
Yuka: If they keep sending us lightweights, I might.
Asuka Ito sat on the floor by the lockers, stretching her hamstrings, earbuds hanging loose around her neck, music bleeding faintly into the air.
Asuka: Save it for the Rumble. We don’t want Tanaka saying we scared away half his women’s division before the big payday.
Their laughter warmed the room for a heartbeat. It slid off Akane like water off armor.
She smiled when they looked her way. She nodded in the right places. But her focus didn’t move from the mirror.
The door in the reflection opened. A blur of movement—someone from crew, rolling past a gear crate. A junior idol from the undercard, still glittering, chattering into her phone. Two rookies from the dojo, heads down, carrying laundry bags.
Then Syndicate colors.
The first one slipped past fast, hood up, bag slung low. No shower, no cooldown. He didn’t look into the room. People who weren’t hiding something always looked. Checked. Counted who was still around.
Akane’s jaw tightened.
She didn’t turn her head. She watched him in the glass, the faint distorted smear of his outline as he passed.
Thirty seconds later, another Syndicate foot soldier followed. He moved slower, but his eyes had the same calculation she’d come to recognize. They skimmed the hall, bounced off the women’s locker room sign, and moved on.
Both took the side exit.
Not the main stairwell.
Not the talent lot.
The side exit that opened onto a narrow street where the lights didn’t quite reach, where crew smoked and runners came and went without anyone asking for autographs.
The pattern again.
Akane felt for her phone without looking, fingers sliding under the bench until they brushed the cool glass. She curled her hand around it but didn’t pull it out yet.
Yuka glanced over from the floor.
Yuka: You’re doing that thing again.
Akane blinked once, letting her face soften, letting the mask slide into place.
Akane: What thing?
Yuka pointed her chin toward her.
Yuka: The ‘I’m still fighting a match in my head’ thing. We already won. You can relax now, you know.
Haruna flicked a towel at Akane’s shoulder.
Haruna: Yeah, Captain. You’ve been staring at that locker like it owes you money.
Asuka smirked.
Asuka: Maybe it does. Tanaka’s bonuses have been light lately.
Akane’s lips twitched into a small, practiced smile.
Akane: Just thinking ahead. Ronin Rumble is coming. Tanaka’s going to stack the deck.
Asuka raised an eyebrow.
Asuka: He always stacks the deck. That’s why we flip it on him.
There was comfort in their banter. In their certainty. In the way they saw AAPW’s corruption as something to fight in the ring, not at a police briefing.
They saw a battlefield between ropes.
She saw one under the floorboards.
The locker room door opened again in the mirror.
Yasuo Okada walked past this time.
No hood. No rush. He moved like he owned the corridor—spring in his step, smug set to his shoulders. His gear bag hung from one hand, heavy enough to pull his arm slightly out of alignment. He’d changed, but his hair was still damp with sweat, neck glistening faintly under the harsh fluorescent light.
He glanced toward the women’s room in passing, just for a second. Long enough to clock who might be watching. His eyes slipped by the narrow gap of the mirror. He didn’t slow down.
Yasuo: I’ll catch up later. Got business.
His voice echoed faintly through the door, half-swallowed by the hum of overhead lights.
Business.
Not “drinks with the boys.” Not “meeting fans.” Not “media.”
Business.
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
The first time she’d heard him say that, she’d let it pass. The second time, she’d logged the timing. The third, she’d asked herself why Dachi’s boys always went out in clusters when shows ended early, and why their bags never looked the same when they came back on tour days.
Now, she had dates and times written in invisible ink across the back of her mind.
Show ends at 21:30. Tanaka does his curtain speech. Fans file out.
Syndicate exits in three waves.
Wave one: muscle.
Wave two: errand boys.
Wave three: Yasuo.
Always Yasuo.
Always through the same side door.
Her phone buzzed in her hand, a short vibration she felt through her palm and along the bones of her wrist.
She slid it out under the bench, keeping it low, screen angled away from curious eyes.
One new message. Encrypted.
Chief Masaru Inoue (Text): Watanabe. Status?
The letters looked too sharp in the glow of the screen. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard.
The shower cut off behind her. Steam sighed from the frosted glass. Somewhere closer, tape ripped again, snapping her back to the present.
She looked up.
Haruna had her hair half-braided now, talking about protein shakes. Yuka had flipped onto her stomach, stretching her shoulders, humming a pop song off-key. Asuka was scrolling her phone for highlights, chuckling at fan reactions.
None of them were looking at her phone.
None of them knew that the same promotion that gave them a platform was being used to wash Yakuza money. None of them knew their leader had a badge clipped to the inside of her jacket instead of a fanclub keychain.
Akane’s thumb moved.
Akane (Text): First wave already left. Two Syndicate grunts. Side exit. No shower. No cooldown.
She hesitated for a heartbeat, eyes flicking back to the mirror.
The hallway was empty again. Yasuo was gone.
Akane (Text): Third wave – Yasuo. Gear bag heavy. Same exit. Ten minutes after the show. Like last time.
The reply came quick, the typing dots barely blinking.
Chief Masaru Inoue (Text): Club Hannya confirms buyer is in place. Tonight’s the night. Stay with your pattern. You saw him leave. You did not follow.
Her throat tightened.
He was reminding her of the line.
Wrestler. Not tail.
Inside. Not exposed.
She took a slow breath, feeling the air drag in and out of her lungs, steady, controlled.
Yuka sat up again, frowning.
Yuka: Seriously, Akane. You look like you’re planning a war campaign, not cooldown stretches.
Akane locked her phone, sliding it back under the bench like it burned her fingers.
Akane: Maybe I am.
Haruna: Are we invited?
Asuka chuckled.
Asuka: We’d better be. We’re the heavy artillery.
Akane’s smile this time was smaller. Sharper. Honest, in its own way.
Akane: Don’t worry. If it’s a war, you’ll know. For now, just… ice up. Sleep. Tomorrow, we train.
She stood, grabbing her duffel in one smooth motion. Her legs felt steady, but there was a strange lightness in her chest, a coiled tension that never came from bumps in the ring.
At the door, she paused.
The mirror caught her reflection head-on now—a tall, powerful woman in ring gear, knuckles wrapped, jaw set. Behind the surface, the hallway was empty, its fluorescent light buzzing like a nervous heartbeat.
One life in front of the glass.
Another on the other side.
Akane:Don’t stay too late. And if you see any Syndicate idiots hanging around after hours…
Yuka grinned.
Yuka: You want us to scare them off?
Akane: No.
Her eyes hardened, just for a moment.
Akane: You tell me.
She opened the door and stepped into the hallway, the air cooler out here, sharper. The sounds of the ring crew echoed faintly from above—metal scraping, heavy things being dragged, someone shouting for more cable.
The side exit light down the corridor flickered once and settled into a dim, steady glow.
Akane’s phone buzzed again in her hand.
Chief Masaru Inoue (Text): Units in position. When you’re clear of the boys, confirm, and we roll.
She looked at the glowing green EXIT sign over the main stairwell. Then at the thin, grim line of light under the side door Yasuo had just gone through minutes before.
She straightened her shoulders.
Akane (Text): Do it.
The hallway seemed to narrow around her for just a second, the world shrinking to the glow of her screen and the distant echo of a city that had no idea how much blood flowed beneath its neon.
Then she put the phone away, turned toward the main exit like any other wrestler heading home, and walked out of Korakuen Hall as the first crack in the Syndicate quietly began to open.
Kabukicho, Shinjuku – 1:13 a.m.
The neon bled into the rain.
Signs stacked on signs turned the narrow streets into a canyon of sickly pinks and electric blues, all of it warped by the sheen of water on asphalt. Cigarette smoke curled up from doorways. Host boys leaned in clusters under awnings, calling to passing women with rehearsed smiles. A drunk salaryman argued with a vending machine that had refused to take his last coin.
Yasuo Okada moved through it like it all belonged to him.
Hood up, hands in the pockets of an oversized bomber jacket, he slipped between clusters of people with the easy slither of someone who had spent his life in crowds. His eyes never stopped working. They bounced off mirrored glass, checked reflective chrome, skimmed over the polished black of parked cars.
No uniforms. No obvious tails. No one looking too hard.
The weight of the bag under his jacket sat snug against his ribs, a dense, comforting pressure. Product. Packaged neat. High margin. Yamamoto’s new line. The kind of stuff that never touched club tables without three layers of deniability.
Money tonight meant leverage later. Leverage meant he could pull himself higher in the Syndicate than Daichi’s other pets. Higher meant distance from the days when he had to steal food instead of futures.
He turned off the main strip into a narrower side street, the kind with one dead light and a puddle that never quite dried. Up ahead, the red lantern of Club Hannya burned low over a metal door framed in flaking black paint.
The buyer leaned against the wall under the lantern. Expensive coat. Cheap posture. That told Yasuo almost everything he needed to know.
Yasuo’s mouth twisted in a small, private smirk.
Easy money.
He slowed his pace just enough not to look eager and rolled his shoulders once, shaking off any hint of ring muscle memory. Out here, he was not the high-flying Street Rat. Out here, he was the part the fans did not see. The one Tanaka pretended did not exist.
The one Yamamoto owned.
Across the street, under a darkened sign and a dead security camera, a white van idled, engine barely audible under the noise of the district.
Inside, the air smelled like stale coffee and old electronics.
Akane Watanabe sat in the back, gear jacket on but zipped up over a plain black shirt. Her long hair was tied back tighter than it ever was for a match, pulled away from her face. A headset rested over one ear, the foam pressing faintly against her earring. The small monitor before her showed a grainy, zoomed-in image of Yasuo in black and white, crosshairs tracking his movement.
Rain tapped against the roof in an uneven rhythm. The city’s pulse thrummed through the metal shell of the van.
Chief Masaru Inoue sat opposite her, one elbow propped on his knee, headset mic crooked near his mouth, eyes never leaving his own monitor. Years of late nights had etched lines into his face, but his gaze stayed sharp.
Inoue: Target approaching the lantern. Confirm visual.
Akane watched the screen, then glanced to the small side window, matching the flicker of Yasuo’s hood in real time.
Akane: Visual confirmed. It is Okada.
Her own voice sounded different in here. Flatter. The cadence of a report, not a promo.
Inoue nodded, fingers hovering over the push-to-talk button that linked them to the officers in the surrounding streets.
Inoue: Buyer?
The image shifted as the camera operator in a nearby rooftop position adjusted focus. The man under the red lantern came into clearer view. Early thirties. Designer shoes just a little too new. Hands buried in his pockets like he had never had to use them for anything heavier than a pen.
Akane recognized him from the briefing photos. Undercover, but the nerves still rode the edges of his stance.
Akane: That is our man.
Inoue’s eyes flicked toward her, just for a heartbeat, reading more than words.
Inoue: You still think this is the right one to flip?
Akane did not look away from the screen.
Akane: Yasuo is small enough to panic. Important enough to be useful to Tanaka and Yamamoto. They trusted him with product, not just collections. That means he has seen ledgers. Routes. Maybe even the sea port.
Her hand formed a fist on her thigh without her meaning to, knuckles whitening under the tape she had not bothered to remove after the show.
Akane: And he is greedy. Greedy people survive by selling others. Not themselves.
Inoue’s mouth pulled into something that was not quite a smile.
Inoue: Better he sells those bastards than more bags to kids.
He leaned forward slightly, voice tightening.
Inoue: Alright then. We do this clean. No civilian spook outs. No stray cameras. The Ministry wants a quiet result, not a headline.
He tapped his mic.
Inoue: All units, this is Command. Target has reached the lantern. Stand by for code word. Do not move until I give the mark. Repeat, do not move.
Out on the street, Yasuo stopped beneath the lantern, hood shadowing his eyes. The undercover buyer straightened, forced nonchalance dripping off him like cheap cologne.
Buyer: Okada?
Yasuo’s lips curved in the faintest smirk.
Yasuo: Depends who is asking.
The words slid out low, but the concealed mic sewn into the buyer’s collar caught them and sent them straight into the van.
Akane listened, eyes half-lidded, filtering tone, cadence, the rhythm of a man who thought he understood risk.
Buyer: Friend of Daichi. Friend of Tanaka.
That was the agreed phrase. The door.
Yasuo tipped his head, as if weighing odds he had already decided on before he left the building.
Yasuo: Then you already know what I am worth.
He shifted his weight, turning just enough to keep the street in view, but not enough to make it obvious he was watching.
He had been taught that much, at least.
Akane: He was cautious.
Inoue grunted.
Inoue: He is a cockroach. Cautious enough to run before you crush him. Not smart enough to stay out of the kitchen.
Onscreen, Yasuo slid his hand inside his jacket and pulled out the small, unmarked package, angled so that anyone passing by would see only a casual handoff, a handshake in the rain.
The buyer reached.
Inoue’s thumb hovered over the button.
The buyer spoke.
Buyer: A gift from the Street Rat.
That was the code.
Inoue: Mark.
His voice was quiet, but the effect on the street was explosive.
Two unmarked sedans at either end of the alley lit their headlights and roared forward, boxing in the side street. Doors flew open. Dark figures in plain clothes but with police vests visible enough for legality poured into the space.
The rain suddenly seemed louder as boot soles splashed through puddles.
Yasuo reacted instantly. The calm slipped for a split-second, replaced by the raw, feral instinct of someone who had run from many things and been caught by none.
He shoved the buyer away, the packet vanishing back into his jacket in one smooth motion. His eyes scanned the alley, calculating the closing angles faster than most people could count.
Back was blocked. Front was filling. The club door behind the buyer locked from the inside.
He darted sideways, into the narrow gap between Club Hannya and the pachinko parlor, the kind of passage only someone his size and desperation would even consider.
In the van, the camera feed jolted as the rooftop operator tried to track him.
Inoue swore under his breath.
Inoue: He is running. Left side. Secondary alley. Unit Three, cut him off. Unit Four, flank.
Akane had already unbuckled her seatbelt.
Inoue’s hand shot out.
Inoue: Watanabe. No.
She met his eyes, calm but edged with something that had been building since the first time she saw Tanaka’s name on a laundered ledger.
Akane: My cover buys us his trust. But it only works if he knows I was there when his life broke.
She opened the van door before he could respond. Cold, wet air slapped her in the face, carrying the smell of frying oil, old beer, and ozone. The neon hit her eyes like a flashbang.
Inoue: Two minutes. No more. If you are not clear when we cuff him, I have to write you in. We cannot hide you from the paperwork if you are standing in the arrest photo.
Akane hopped down to the slick pavement, rain spotting her jacket.
Akane: Then do not let anyone take a photo.
She was already moving, boots splashing through shallow puddles, breath steady. Her body wanted to fall into the familiar rhythm of an entrance ramp, of music and lights and thousands of eyes. Instead, she slipped along the edges, invisible where she needed to be.
Sirens wailed in the distance, low and noncommittal. Not close enough to draw attention from the main streets. Just enough to keep civilians moving away from the block.
Yasuo’s feet hammered the narrow alley. The walls closed in around him, concrete on one side, rusted metal on the other. Steam billowed from a vent overhead, obscuring his path in a brief cloud.
He did not slow.
He cut around a stack of milk crates, vaulted a fallen garbage bin, his body remembering every rooftop he had crossed as a teenager stealing wallets in Shibuya. Entrance music did not play here. No fans called his name. But the weight of the bag under his jacket felt more real than any title he had dreamed of.
Shadow flickered at the far end of the alley.
A figure stepped out from behind an overflowing dumpster, blocking the exit.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair pulled tight. No police vest. No uniform.
For a heartbeat, Yasuo thought it was one of Daichi’s men.
Then the steam cleared just enough for him to see the eyes.
Akane stood in the middle of the alley, rain beading on her jacket, hands loose at her sides, feet planted in a stance that was not quite wrestling, not quite police.
Something in her presence made the tight space feel even narrower.
Yasuo skidded, shoes sliding on wet concrete. His momentum shoved him closer to her than he intended, close enough to see the faint ghost of ring makeup still clinging to the edge of her jaw.
Yasuo: You?
He spat the word like it tasted wrong.
Akane did not move.
Akane: Go back, Yasuo. There is nowhere left to run that does not end worse than right here.
He laughed once, short and sharp, breath ghosting in front of him.
Yasuo: What, you going to lariat me in front of the cops, Captain Justice?
He flicked his gaze past her, checking for uniforms. The alley behind her looked empty. For the moment.
He took a step to the side.
She mirrored it, cutting off his angle.
Akane: You are not in the ring. No rope breaks. No count-outs. The only thing you walk out of here with is the amount of breath you choose to keep.
Yasuo’s hand twitched toward his jacket. Her eyes dipped, just enough to let him know she saw it.
He weighed it. Knife maybe. Or just bravado.
She had taken down bigger men for less.
Boots pounded at the far end of the alley behind him as Unit Three finally turned the corner. Shouted commands bounced off the walls, urgent but still too far to grab him.
Yasuo spun halfway, calculating a last-ditch feint.
Akane stepped in.
Her hand snapped out, fingers hooking the edge of his jacket, yanking him forward as she pivoted. His shoulder slammed into the opposite wall, his balance stumbling, his hand losing any chance of a clean draw.
Her weight pressed him back, not pinning, but enough to make him understand how quickly she could.
Up close, he saw something he had never registered when they passed in the corridor. Not just strength. Resolve.
Not the playing-field kind. The kind people carried into burning buildings.
Yasuo: You set this up.
His voice came out raw.
Akane: I warned you once in Korakuen not to mistake AAPW for a shield.
Her breath fanned his face, warm against the chill rain.
Akane: You did not listen.
For a second, he saw it—the outline of something he had been too self-involved to notice before. The way she watched Tanaka’s speeches. The way she tracked Syndicate movements without looking like she was tracking anything. The way she never got fully drunk at after-parties.
Yasuo: You are not just some feminist mascot with a good suplex, are you.
His lip curled, but there was less venom in it now. More calculation. Fear threaded under the edges.
The first of the officers reached them, guns low but drawn, vests visible.
Officer: Hands where we can see them. Okada Yasuo, you are under arrest under suspicion of narcotics distribution and possession—
Akane’s hand left his jacket and shoved his wrist gently but firmly toward the wall.
Akane: Yasuo. Hands up.
She did not bark it like the others. She did not whisper it either. Just firm. Certain.
He glanced between her and the officers, mind racing. If he ran now, they would drop him in the alley and write it up as resisting.
If he stayed, the Syndicate would hear. Yamamoto would hear. Daichi would hear.
And if they decided he was a liability, there would be no arrest report. Just a body fished out of the Sumida with rocks in its pockets.
His heart hammered against his ribs, beats stuttering between two kinds of death.
Akane watched the calculation tear through him.
Akane: You want to live long enough to spend the money you keep chasing, Street Rat?
His eyes snapped back to her.
Akane: Then stop thinking like a soldier and start thinking like what you really are.
He swallowed.
Yasuo: And what is that.
Her gaze did not blink.
Akane: A survivor.
The word landed harder than any kick.
He lifted his hands slowly, fingers spread, palms against the cold, wet concrete. The officers moved in, one grabbing his wrist, the other yanking his arm back to clamp cold metal around it.
The cuffs bit his skin. The weight of them felt stunningly real.
Officer: You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will—
The standard litany droned on, a rhythm he barely heard. His focus stayed on Akane as the officers pulled him slightly away from the wall to search him. One officer reached into his jacket and pulled out the plastic-wrapped packet, holding it up in a gloved hand.
Evidence bag.
Nailed.
Yasuo’s stomach turned.
Akane stepped back just enough to avoid being in the way of the search. Her expression smoothed into something a camera could not read.
Yasuo finally found his voice again, hoarse.
Yasuo: They are going to kill me for this.
Akane’s eyes flashed, just once.
Akane: Not if you move first.
The officers began to lead him back down the alley toward the waiting cars, hands on his arms, heads on swivels.
Inoue appeared at the alley mouth, rain speckling his suit jacket, eyes flicking from Yasuo to Akane with the ease of someone who had seen too many men led away in cuffs.
Inoue: Good work, Okada. You just bought yourself a conversation instead of a funeral.
Yasuo spat at the ground, but the bravado had drained out of it.
Yasuo: I did not give you anything yet.
Inoue’s mouth ticked up faintly.
Inoue: You will.
He nodded toward Akane, subtle but deliberate.
Inoue: Especially if you want to keep breathing around people who think you are still loyal.
Akane held Yasuo’s gaze as they pulled him past her. There was no triumph in her eyes. No gloating. Just a hard, clear promise.
This was not the end.
This was the start of the leverage she needed.
As the alley emptied, sirens swelling then fading as the cars pulled away, Akane stood alone in the rain for a moment, breathing in the cold.
Behind her, the neon flickered over Club Hannya’s door, the red lantern swaying gently in the damp wind like a warning.
She pulled her hood up, turned back toward the van, and walked out of the alley, already planning the next move—interrogation, leverage, and how to turn one terrified Street Rat into a thread that could unravel an empire.
Tokyo Metropolitan Police HQ
Organized Crime Division – Interrogation Room 3
The interrogation room felt like a storage closet someone had given up on.
Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, buzzing just loud enough to get under the skin. The walls were the same lifeless off-white as every government building Yasuo had ever broken into the back of. A single metal table. Three metal chairs. One camera in the corner, its red light winking like it knew something he didn’t.
His hands were still cuffed to the steel ring in the center of the table. The cold bit into his wrists. His shoulders ached from the earlier takedown in the alley, concrete and handcuffs and the sharp reminder that for once, he’d been the one caught off-guard.
He stared at the scratched surface of the table, jaw tight, tongue tasting of blood and cheap cigarettes.
The door clicked.
Chief Masaru Inoue walked in first, suit jacket off now, white shirt rolled at the sleeves. He carried a manila folder already thick with paper. Behind him, Akane Watanabe slipped in, still in jeans and a simple jacket, hair tied back, nothing about her screaming wrestler or cop—until you looked at her eyes.
She shut the door softly and took the chair opposite him. Inoue stayed standing a moment longer, letting the silence lay heavy as incense.
Then he dropped the folder on the table. It landed with a slap that made Yasuo flinch before he could stop himself.
Inoue: Good evening, Okada
Yasuo kept his eyes on the folder.
Yasuo: Yeah. Best night of my life
Inoue slid into the seat at the head of the table, spine straight, eyes tired but sharp. He opened the folder, fanned a few pages out like a losing hand at mahjong.
Inoue: You know where you are
Yasuo: Not the karaoke bar, I’m guessing
Akane’s voice cut in, even, controlled.
Akane: Metropolitan Police Department. Organized Crime Countermeasures. You are under arrest for possession of cocaine with intent to distribute. That alone can put you away for years. You know that
Yasuo’s lips curled, but it never reached his eyes.
Yasuo: I know Japan doesn’t like party favors much
Inoue flipped a page. A grainy surveillance photo stared back up at them—Yasuo leaning against a lamppost in Shinjuku, a plastic bag halfway palmed to another hand.
Inoue: This is not about a party. This is Schedule II. Hard narcotics. You were not sharing with friends. You were working
He tapped the photo, then another—Yasuo in the background of a meeting behind Korakuen Hall, a familiar Syndicate suit in the foreground passing him a small envelope.
Inoue: You run for Syndicate. Daichi Sasaki’s people. You take envelopes from them. You deliver to street level. You collect. You skim. You think no one is watching. You are wrong
Yasuo’s shoulders locked. He stared at the photos, pulse pounding in his ears.
Yasuo: So what now You want me to cry and say I’m sorry
Inoue: I want you to understand math
He pulled out another sheet, this one neat and official—charge codes, sentencing ranges, numbers circled in red pen.
Inoue: Possession. Distribution. Organized crime enhancement. Money laundering involvement if a prosecutor feels ambitious. You are young, Okada. Twenty-four. These numbers here they do not care. You can be fifty when you see the outside again. If you see it
Yasuo swallowed, throat suddenly dry.
Yasuo: You’re just trying to scare me
Akane: No. This is just how it works
Her gaze stayed on him, steady, unblinking. The same eyes that had pinned him to the asphalt in that alley now pinned him to the chair.
Akane: Hard drugs in Japan are zero tolerance. They don’t care that your mother was poor or that you grew up in a cubicle apartment. They look at the evidence. They look at the syndicate ties. Then they decide how many decades you lose
His bravado slipped for a heartbeat, anger flickering through the cracks.
**Yasuo: **What do you want from me then You already got the powder. You got your photos. Go be heroes
Inoue glanced at Akane, then back at him.
Inoue: We are not interested in being heroes. Heroes get flowers. We are interested in heads
He reached into the folder again and pulled out another photo—Haruki Tanaka at a press conference, immaculate suit, the logo of All Asia Pro Wrestling on the backdrop behind him. Tanaka smiled at the camera like he owned the air.
Inoue laid Tanaka’s photo beside a printout of an older man in a kimono at a funeral altar—Etsuji Yamamoto, eyes like a shark in prayer beads.
Inoue: These heads, specifically
Yasuo couldn’t help it. His eyes snapped to those faces.
He laughed. It came out thin.
Yasuo: You’re insane. You think I’m anywhere near those two I’m just a guy who flies and falls for a living
Akane: You are more than that
Her tone did not flatter. It weighed.
Akane: You run with Syndicate. You run errands that go from locker room to back door. From back door to counting rooms. You hear things because they think you are small. Street rat, right That’s what they call you
The words stung more than he wanted to admit.
Yasuo: Being a rat never helped anyone when Yamamoto decides you’re a problem
Inoue steepled his fingers.
Inoue: Then you should be very motivated not to be the easiest problem to eliminate
He leaned in, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening.
Inoue: You are in a narrow place, Okada. One side of the corridor is prison. The other side is Yamamoto and Tanaka. If you sit very still and do nothing, both walls crush you. Slowly
The air in the room seemed to get heavier. The fluorescent buzz sank under the simple arithmetic of it.
Yasuo looked down at his cuffed hands.
Yasuo: So what, you’re saying there’s a third wall I can walk through
Akane reached into her jacket and pulled out a thin notepad and a pen. She set them gently in front of him, like an offering or a weapon.
Akane: There is a door
He stared at the pad like it might bite him.
Akane: You start by writing. Names. Places. Times. What you have seen. Not guesses. Not rumors. Things you were in the room for. Who gave you what. Where you delivered it. Who was there. Who Syndicate answers to when they bow
Inoue: This is step one. Words
He tapped the pad.
Inoue: You give us this, maybe a prosecutor looks at you and says “He helped a little.” Maybe they cut five years. Ten. Maybe
Yasuo: That’s your big offer
Inoue’s eyes hardened.
Inoue: No. That is the baseline. The bare minimum for us not to throw you into the system like everyone else. You want more than that You want a chance at not spending half your life behind bars You will have to do more than talk in this room
He let that hang in the air a moment.
Inoue: We need evidence, Okada. Hard. Tangible. Things that survive when a lawyer starts yelling in court
He slid another page across the table—simple, typed text at the top: COOPERATION AGREEMENT – DRAFT.
Inoue: You become a confidential informant. You go back into your world. You keep wrestling. You keep flying from those ropes. You keep smiling in Syndicate photos. But you bring us things. You bring us financial records. Photos of documents. Audio of conversations. Anything that ties Tanaka’s “clean” promotion to Yamamoto’s dirty money
Yasuo’s stomach twisted.
Yasuo: You want me to spy on the Yamamoto clan for you
Akane: You’re already spying. Every time you notice who hands who an envelope, every time you remember which locker had the cash, every time you see a face you pretend not to recognize. You are a rat, Yasuo. You have always survived by knowing where the crumbs fall
Her eyes met his, sharp but not unkind.
Akane: We are just asking you to use that for something other than your next paycheck
He stared at her, breathing shallow.
Yasuo: You don’t get it. Tanaka smiles on camera, but he’s worse than anyone in the alleys. Yamamoto—if he even hears my name in the wrong sentence, I don’t get a trial. I get a grave in Tokyo Bay
Inoue: You think we do not know that
For the first time, there was a little heat in his voice.
Inoue: We have been circling this dragon’s nest for years. Every time we get close, the paper trail burns, the witness goes silent, or someone “disappears.” You being scared is not news to me. It means you understand the size of the monsters. Good. That means you also understand something else
He jabbed a finger lightly at the sentencing sheet.
Inoue: The only way those monsters lose the power to kill you is if they fall. Completely. Publicly. With enough proof that even their friends in high office cannot pull them back up
He spread his hands.
Inoue: You rot quietly in prison, Yamamoto still walks. Syndicate still spins. Tanaka still smiles and counts blood money. You help us put them on the chopping block, at least the men who want you dead will be too busy trying not to follow their bosses into the abyss
Yasuo sat very still. The room shrank around the choice.
Akane: No one is promising you a free life
Her voice was softer now, but it cut cleaner.
Akane: This is not a movie. You work for us, there will still be consequences. But there is a difference between twenty-five years in a cell and ten with a chance at air. There is a difference between dying in a ditch because Yamamoto needed to tie up a loose end, and being under state protection, with the whole country watching what happens to you
He let out a bitter breath.
Yasuo: Protection. You think a badge scares the Yamamoto clan
Inoue: A badge, no. Cameras, press, ministers who do not want their names tied to a dead informant when an election is coming Yes
He pointed up at the lens in the corner. Its red light stared back, unblinking.
Inoue: From this moment, everything is recorded. The fact that we made you an offer. The fact that you are considering it. The fact that you agreed, if you agree. If something happens to you after that, it writes itself as a headline. Men like Tanaka hate headlines they cannot control
Yasuo’s fingers flexed against the steel. Sweat cooled at the back of his neck.
He thought of Tanaka’s perfect smile. He thought of Yamamoto’s cold eyes. He thought of Daichi’s hand on his shoulder, the weight of an envelope passed off like a pat on the back. He thought of his mother’s apartment, the mold creeping up the walls, the stack of medical bills he pretended not to see.
He thought of prison walls, concrete and iron and twenty-three hours a day to think about all of it.
Yasuo: If I say no
Inoue’s answer was immediate.
Inoue: Then we process you. We send your file upstairs. We testify to what we saw. You get a lawyer, if you can afford one. You roll the dice. Maybe the prosecutor is in a generous mood. Maybe he wants to prove he is “tough on crime” and uses you as a stepping stone. Either way, your life as you know it is over
Akane: And Syndicate will still know you were picked up. Even if you say nothing, they may decide not to risk you
Yasuo let that settle.
The walls really did feel like they were moving in now.
He stared at the notepad. At the pen. At his own reflection warped in the metal tabletop.
Yasuo: And if I say yes
Inoue: Then we start here. Tonight. You write. You tell us what you know. You help us draw a map of this sewer you crawl through. If what you give us is real and useful, we draft a formal cooperation agreement. We go to the prosecutor together. We say “This one is working for us. He is not just another rat. He is the rat that leads us to the nest”
Akane: After that, we send you back out. You keep your bookings. You keep your place in Syndicate. But you do not just drift anymore. Every time you see something, you think “Can this help bring them down ” You report. You gather. You prove you are worth the risk we are taking with you
Yasuo’s chest rose and fell, shallow, like the room had run out of oxygen.
Yasuo: And if I get caught
Inoue didn’t sugarcoat it.
Inoue: Then it will be very bad
He paused.
Inoue: But you are Yasuo Okada, ne The Street Rat. You have been dancing between cars your whole life. Skimming. Sneaking. Taking things that were not meant for you and never getting stepped on. You survive in cracks other men do not even see
Akane’s eyes softened by a fraction.
Akane: Live up to the name. For once, make “rat” mean something that matters
The camera blinked. The fluorescent lights hummed. Somewhere, a phone rang in another part of the station and was quickly silenced.
Yasuo stared at the pen until the world blurred around it.
He thought of twenty-five years.
He thought of ten.
He thought of the way Tanaka looked at men who failed him. The way Yamamoto didn’t look at them at all.
He flexed his fingers one more time.
Then he nodded, just once, small and sharp, like a man stepping off a roof and trusting the air to catch him.
Yasuo: Fine. I’ll do it
He lifted his cuffed hands as far as they’d go. Akane reached over, unlocked one wrist, and slid the chain through the ring so he could move more freely. She placed the pen in his fingers.
Akane: Then start writing, Street Rat
He bent over the notepad, the first scratch of ink loud in the quiet room.
As Yasuo Okada began to spill the streets out onto paper, the camera’s red light burned steady in the corner, bearing witness to the moment he stopped being just another coward in Syndicate’s shadow—
and became exactly what his enemies always feared he might be.
A rat.
Their rat.
And now, the police’s.