Drake sat on the edge of the old mattress, elbows resting on his knees, staring into the cracked mirror. In the reflection, Kurasaki Ren looked back at him — tall, muscular, with a predatory squint and messy blond hair.
“I’m you now…” he said quietly in a low, unfamiliar voice. “And I have no intention of living the way you did.”
He looked around the shabby room. Boxes, dust, poverty. In his bank account — a pathetic eighteen thousand yen. That wouldn’t even be enough for decent food for a week, let alone starting everything from scratch.
He needed equipment. A good camera, a microphone, a powerful laptop. Without that, he wouldn’t be able to create content or earn money the way he was used to. And without money, he wouldn’t be able to protect anyone in this damn school.
“You can’t earn big money honestly here,” he muttered, rubbing his face. “Especially not in one night.”
And then it hit him.
Underground fights.
In the game, Haruto once accidentally wandered into an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the district and nearly got into serious trouble. Local thugs, minor yakuza, and simple gambling enthusiasts gathered there. The stakes were high. Very high.
Drake slowly smiled. The smile came out predatory — just like Ren’s.
“With this body… I can fuck them all up.”
He stood up and paced around the room. His muscles responded pleasantly, powerfully. Every step felt more confident than before. This body was a real weapon.
But a sober thought immediately followed.
Tomorrow was the first day of the third year. The opening ceremony of the school year. If he showed up covered in bruises with a battered face, it would immediately attract attention. Especially from those who already knew “Kurasaki Ren” from old rumors.
Drake frowned.
This body’s past wasn’t going anywhere. From the very first day at school, everyone would be whispering. “The gangster,” “that psycho,” “the dangerous bastard.” He remembered that from Ren’s memories.
“To hell with them,” he hissed through his teeth. “A few bruises won’t change anything. The main thing is to protect my face. And not to get into anything too brutal.”
His gaze fell on his right arm. The entire sleeve was covered in tattoos — black patterns, a dragon, skulls, aggressive lines. A classic “bad” tattoo that immediately raised questions and aggression.
“And this crap too…” he sighed.
Drake walked over to the boxes and started rummaging through them. He found a relatively clean black long-sleeved shirt and dark pants. Nothing special, but at least he didn’t look like a bum. He quickly changed, rolled up the shirt sleeves to his elbows so the tattoo was partially visible — there was no way to hide it completely anyway, and this way it would look intentional.
He looked at himself in the mirror once more.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with a cold gaze and a slight smirk. Even in cheap clothes, he looked dangerous and attractive.
“Well then… let’s go,” he said quietly to his reflection.
Drake (now fully Ren) turned off the light in the room, closed the door, and stepped out into the night.
The streets were lit by dim streetlights. The air smelled of rain and street food from night stalls. He knew where to go. Ren’s memories and his knowledge of the game merged into a clear map in his head.
“Abandoned warehouse behind the old railway station. Fights start after eleven. Stakes from five thousand yen and up.”
He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked forward.
One thought kept spinning in his head:
I won’t become like you, Ren. But if I need to break a few jaws to start a new life… I’ll do it.
Drake walked through the night streets, hands shoved into his pants pockets. Each step sounded heavy and confident. Passersby who came toward him involuntarily quickened their pace or crossed to the other side of the street. Some lowered their eyes to their phones, others simply looked away, trying not to meet his gaze.
He noticed all of it. And there was something strange, almost hypnotic, about the pleasure it gave him.
So this is what it’s like to be Ren… he thought, looking straight ahead. One glance, and people are already scared. You don’t need to shout, you don’t need to threaten. Just existing is enough.
A couple of blocks later, the neighborhood began to change. The streetlights became sparser, the buildings more rundown, and the air hung heavy with the smell of cigarette smoke, cheap alcohol, and wet asphalt. It was here, on the very outskirts, that the abandoned warehouse he remembered from the game was located.
Two burly guards stood at the entrance. Against Ren, they looked rather ordinary. For an average Japanese person, he was a real giant — height, shoulders, posture. All of it involuntarily made others feel smaller.
One of the guards, with a shaved head and a scar on his cheek, lazily spat on the ground and raised his hand.
“Where are you going, kid? Today’s only for our own.”
Drake stopped. He looked down at him with a cold, heavy gaze. For a second, something stirred inside him — a mix of Drake’s disgust and Ren’s predatory excitement.
He clicked his tongue quietly.
“Beating faces. And if you don’t move your ass out of the way, I’ll start with you.”
The guards exchanged glances. The second one, stockier, smirked, but caution flashed in his eyes. They were clearly sizing him up. Height. Build. Gaze. The tattoo on his right arm peeking out from under the rolled-up sleeve.
Finally, the first guard chuckled.
“Cheeky bastard. Alright… Go on in. The boss likes crazy ones like you. Let’s see how you sing when they start beating you to a pulp.”
Drake silently walked past them.
As soon as the heavy metal door closed behind him, a wave of noise hit his face. Shouts, swearing, stomping, dull impacts. The air inside the warehouse was thick, saturated with the smell of sweat, blood, and cheap tobacco.
In the center was an improvised ring — simply an area cordoned off with ropes under bright lamps. Two huge guys were beating each other with animalistic fury. Blood flew onto the front rows of spectators, but they only grew more frenzied, yelling bets and waving wads of cash.
Drake paused for a second, absorbing the atmosphere.
Before, I would have felt out of place here. I would have been scared. I would have tried to become invisible.
But now…
Now Ren’s body seemed to come alive. His heart beat steadily and strongly, his muscles were filled with power, and in his head — a cold, calculated excitement. He felt like he belonged here. As if this place was made for someone like him right now.
Drake slowly scanned the room. The crowd was mixed: local thugs, minor yakuza, gambling office workers who came to “try the forbidden,” and women who clearly earned here with more than just smiles.
He noticed the staircase leading to the second level — where the VIP area was located. That’s where the boss was sitting.
As he climbed the creaky metal staircase, Drake felt dozens of eyes on him. Someone was already whispering.
“Is that… Kurasaki Ren?”
“They say he’s a psycho…”
Drake paid no attention. He walked straight toward the man in his mid-forties, completely covered in tattoos, sitting in the center of a small platform surrounded by his men and several half-naked girls.
The guards at the platform immediately tensed and stepped toward him.
But Drake didn’t stop.
He loudly and confidently called out toward the boss:
“Hey, boss! Set up a fight for me!”
Drake stood in front of the VIP platform. The tension in the air was so thick it felt like it could be cut with a knife. The guards had already started moving toward him when a loud, hoarse laugh from the old man rang out.
The old man leaned back in his massive chair and laughed, revealing uneven teeth. He looked truly dangerous: around seventy-five years old, thin but wiry, with deep wrinkles that looked as if they had been carved with a knife. His completely gray hair was slicked back, and old, faded tattoos were visible on his neck and the backs of his hands. Despite his age, he radiated a heavy, oppressive aura of a man who had seen and done a great deal of evil in his life.
“Ha-ha-ha! My son!” he said, raising his hand. “Remember our best years! This young man deserves to at least be heard, not immediately broken like a mad dog!”
As soon as the old man spoke, everything around instantly fell silent. The guards froze in place. The noise from the crowd on the first floor noticeably quieted down. Even those who had just been shouting “Kill him!” fell silent and stepped back.
Drake slowly lowered his fists and stepped forward. For the first time that evening, he felt truly uneasy. This old man was clearly the main figure here.
The old man narrowed his eyes, carefully examining the tall blond young man.
“Well then, boy… Speak. Who are you and what do you want here?”
Drake replied calmly and confidently:
“My name is Kurasaki Ren. I recently moved to Tokyo. I need quick money. I’m ready to tear apart anyone who steps into the ring against me.”
The old man nodded slowly. Sitting next to him was a sturdy man in his mid-forties — broad-shouldered, with a hard face and a short haircut. A fresh tattoo stood out on his left hand. He was clearly the old man’s son.
The old man turned to him:
“What do you think, Ryuji? This guy looks interesting. He has the eyes of a hungry wolf.”
Ryuji bared his teeth, looking at Drake with a squint.
“He looks cheeky, Father. But cheekiness has never saved anyone in the ring. Many came here with the same expression on their faces, and then they were carried out on stretchers.”
The old man chuckled quietly and looked at Drake again.
“My name is Sakamoto Kenichi. I am the head of the Sakamoto-gumi clan. And this is my eldest son — Sakamoto Ryuji.”
Ryuji leaned forward, his eyes burning with rage.
“My daughter… my only daughter,” he hissed through his teeth, “was recently harassed at school. Some damn foreign bastard dared to hit on her. Right in front of everyone. My girl came home in tears.”
The old man, Sakamoto Kenichi, sighed heavily and added, looking Drake straight in the eyes:
“And she is my granddaughter. My blood. We’ve already dealt with the small fry who stood behind that bastard. But he himself… is still walking and breathing. I want you to make sure he can never walk again. That he can’t speak properly. That for the rest of his life he eats only through a tube and shits himself. Do you understand me, boy?”
One of the yakuza sitting nearby — a bald, burly man with a scar across his entire face — quietly added:
“If you fail… you yourself will be fed to the fish in Tokyo Bay. Everyone here is a member of our clan. You have nowhere to run, pup.”
Drake felt a cold shiver run down his spine, but he pulled himself together. He looked directly at the old man and his son.
“Fine. I’ll do it. But for such a job, I expect very generous compensation.”
Sakamoto Kenichi slowly smiled. Sakamoto Ryuji also slightly relaxed his shoulders.
“If you do everything properly,” said the old man, “you’ll get five million yen. In cash. Right tonight.”
Ryuji added, without looking away:
“And if you do it nicely… the Sakamoto-gumi does not forget those who provide us with such services. We might even find a place for you in our affairs.”