May 1989.
Tokyo.
A month had passed since the sunrise on the beach that night.
As the final echoes of the Showa era faded, the first summer of Heisei arrived with restless, sweltering heat.
Shinjuku.
Kabukicho.
Even in daylight the district still carried that distinctive smell — cheap perfume mixed with alcohol.
Narrow streets lined with signs packed so tightly they seemed to fight each other for air.
Shin wore an unremarkable black jacket, hat brim pulled low.
He avoided the touts from the massage parlors and moved with practiced ease through the maze of back alleys.
He wasn’t here to play.
He was here to “stock up.” Director Kinji Fukasaku’s new film Yakuza Blood had been sitting on his desk for a while.
The character’s name was Sawada — a yakuza second-in-command.
The script’s entire description of the man fit into one sentence: “Like a mad dog wearing a suit.
Usually elegant as a gentleman, but the moment he catches the scent of blood he’ll crush his opponent down to the bone.” “An elegant mad dog…” Shin turned the phrase over in his mind again and again.
The difficult part wasn’t the “mad.” It was the precise point where elegance and cruelty met.
Ever since playing the samurai in the taiga drama, he carried too much upright righteousness.
Even when he practiced vicious smiles in the mirror, something was still missing — that particular “evil aura” that made people feel physically uncomfortable just looking at him.
That was the unique pheromone only people who had lived their entire lives soaked in violence and crime could emit.
If he couldn’t act it, he would have to borrow it from an “item.” He stopped in front of an old shop called Showa Tailor.
The place was tucked away in a dead-end alley that even stray cats rarely visited.
The signboard itself was blackened from years of smoke.
But in certain circles this shop was famous — it made suits for “brothers on the path” who didn’t want to be seen at department stores.
He pushed the door open.
The brass bell above it gave a dull, muddy ring.
“Welcome.” The owner was an old man with white hair and only three fingers on one hand.
A cold, unlit pipe hung from his mouth.
He was pressing a heavy old-fashioned iron over what looked like an expensive purple shirt.
He glanced up at Shin.
His eyes were like a rusty blade.
“Kid, you got the wrong door.
We don’t do salaryman suits here, and we don’t offer the kind of service you’re probably looking for.” “I’m here for accessories.” Shin didn’t back down.
Instead he looked around the shop with open interest.
Every garment here carried a thick underworld vibe — oversized shoulders, sharply cinched waists, flashy embroidered linings.
They wanted to look rich and dangerous at the same time.
“Accessories are in the case.
Look all you want, but don’t touch anything you’re not buying.” The old man lowered his head and kept ironing, clearly writing Shin off as some clueless thrill-seeker.
Shin walked over to the dusty glass display case.
Inside were items that had either been rejected by pawnshops or left behind by owners who could no longer return to claim them.
Gold watches.
Gilded tie clips.
Ivory cigarette holders… His gaze swept across the jumble and stopped on one object in the corner.
A pair of black leather gloves.
They lay quietly on a red velvet tray.
The leather was as fine and smooth as a baby’s skin, yet so deeply black it seemed to drink in every trace of light.
The moment his eyes touched them— Hum— [Equippable Item Discovered (Green · Rare)] [Item Name: Debt Collector’s Black Leather Gloves] [Original Owner: A famous Showa-era gang “cleaner” who habitually wore these gloves when handling “troubles” he didn’t want to dirty his own hands with] [Slot: Hands / Accessory] [Status: Good (still carries an unwashed scent of blood)] [Base Attribute: While worn, Personal Intimidation +30%, Eye Ferocity +20%] [Special Entry: Elegant Execution (Passive)] Note: These gloves have witnessed too many “cleaning jobs.” When you put them on and perform the slow, deliberate motion of adjusting your cuffs and sliding the gloves into place, you emit a terrifying oppressive aura of “I’m about to do dirty work now.” This triggers a physiological fear response in your opponent.
“Cleaning… dirty work…” Shin’s pupils tightened.
This was exactly the missing soul of the character Sawada.
The reason that role was frightening wasn’t because he shouted loudly.
It was because he treated violence like an ordinary, almost ritualistic task — no different from “putting on gloves to clean the house.” “Boss, how much for these gloves?” Shin pointed at the case.
The old man paused, genuinely surprised, and lifted his eyelids.
“You’ve got a sharp eye.
Those were left behind a few years ago by a customer who came in to have a suit made.
Later… he never came back to pick them up.
You understand what that means, right?” It meant the man was probably dead.
“How much?” Shin didn’t flinch.
“Top-grade lambskin.
Even though they’re secondhand, this kind of item ‘with history’ doesn’t come cheap.” The old man grinned, revealing teeth stained yellow from smoke.
“Fifty thousand yen.
No bargaining.” Fifty thousand.
For a pair of old gloves, it was daylight robbery.
But Shin didn’t hesitate.
He pulled out his wallet, counted out five ten-thousand-yen bills, and placed them on the counter.
“Sold.” The old man looked at this decisive young man with mild astonishment, took the money, and tossed the gloves out.
“Here.
Be careful with them.
This thing carries heavy bad karma.
Don’t let it cut you.” “Thanks.” Shin picked up the gloves and left the musty little shop.
… Late at night.
The apartment in Nakano.
Shin washed his face and stood in front of the full-length mirror by the entrance.
He had changed into a black tailored suit he’d prepared for the audition.
The white shirt was open at the collar with no tie, revealing a hint of collarbone.
He had slicked his hair back with gel into a neat pompadour.
Right now he looked like a handsome host — stylish, but not quite dangerous enough.
He took a deep breath and picked up the black leather gloves.
The moment they touched his skin they felt cold and slick, like touching a snake in winter hibernation.
“Equip.” As the thought formed, that cold sensation spread instantly from his hands through his entire body.
It felt like an electric current running up his spine.
The gentle, rational part of “Shin Kitahara” began to recede, replaced by something restless and icy that he couldn’t quite name.
He slowly slid his left hand into the first glove.
Fingers tightened.
The leather made a faint, teeth-gritting scritch as it stretched.
Then the right hand.
He moved with extreme slowness, carefully smoothing every crease, like a surgeon preparing for a delicate operation — or a butcher sharpening his knife.
When he finally lifted his head and looked in the mirror, even he paused for a second.
The face was still his.
But the eyes had changed.
The once-clear pupils now looked like a bottomless pool of dead water.
No warmth.
No emotion.
Only a chilling, playful cruelty.
He slowly curved the corner of his mouth and gave the mirror a “Sawada-style” smile.
“I heard you want to default on the debt?” The voice was soft, almost friendly.
But paired with the slow, deliberate motion of adjusting his cuffs, the man in the mirror looked like he might reach behind his back at any second, pull out an ice pick, and drive it into someone’s eye socket with a smile.
That refined-scumbag aura was almost leaking out of the glass.
Shin looked at the “demon” in the mirror with satisfaction and slowly removed the gloves.
The suffocating pressure vanished instantly.
“So this is the ‘yakuza’s perfume’…” He stared at the black leather in his hands, a spark of excitement flashing in his eyes.
With this, the audition for Kinji Fukasaku’s film should be no problem.
And more than that… He turned to look at the stack of investigation files on Kanai that he had bought from Sato.
His gaze turned cold.
This thing might prove useful in the real world as well.