May 1989, Tokyo.
A month had passed since that sunrise by the sea.
As the lingering echoes of the Showa era slowly faded, the first summer of Heisei was arriving on a restless wave of heat.
…
Shinjuku, Kabukicho.
Even in broad daylight, the district carried its own unmistakable smell—a mixture of cheap perfume, stale alcohol, and something faintly rotten beneath it all.
On both sides of the narrow streets, neon signs crowded together as if fighting for the last scraps of oxygen.
Shin Kitahara wore an inconspicuous black jacket with his cap pulled low.
Ignoring the touts trying to lure passersby into adult establishments, he moved through the maze of back alleys with practiced ease.
He wasn’t here to have fun.
He was here to shop for something his performance desperately needed.
Shin had spent days studying the script for director Kinji Fukasaku’s new film, Blood of the Yakuza.
The character he was auditioning for was named Sawada, the ruthless second-in-command of a yakuza organization.
The script described him in a single sentence:
“A mad dog in a suit.
Most of the time, he’s as elegant as a gentleman—but the moment he smells blood, he’ll tear his victim apart, bones and all.”
“An elegant mad dog…”
Shin rolled the phrase around in his mind again and again.
The difficult part wasn’t the madness.
It was finding the exact point where elegance and brutality became one.
Ever since playing a samurai in the Taiga drama, Shin had acquired too much of an upright, dignified presence.
He had practiced vicious smiles in front of the mirror countless times, yet something was always missing—a kind of sinister aura that made people instinctively uncomfortable the moment they looked at him.
It was the sort of presence that could only come from someone who had spent years soaked in violence and crime.
A predator’s pheromones.
And if he couldn’t produce it naturally…
…then he’d borrow it from his equipment.
Shin stopped in front of an aging tailor shop called Showa Tailoring.
The store was hidden at the end of a dead-end alley that looked as though its only regular customers were stray cats.
Even the signboard above the entrance had been blackened by decades of smoke and grime.
But among certain people, the place was famous.
It specialized in making suits for men from “the other side” who preferred not to show their faces in expensive department stores.
Shin pushed open the door.
The brass bell above it gave a dull, hoarse jingle.
“Welcome.”
The owner was an elderly man with graying hair—and only three fingers on one hand.
An unlit pipe hung from the corner of his mouth as he pressed an expensive-looking purple shirt with a heavy old-fashioned iron.
He glanced up at Shin.
His eyes were like a rusted knife.
“Wrong shop, kid.
We don’t dress salarymen here, and we don’t offer whatever kind of entertainment you’re looking for.”
“I’m here for accessories.”
Shin didn’t retreat.
Instead, he looked around the shop with open interest.
Every piece of clothing carried the unmistakable swagger of the underworld.
Oversized shoulder pads.
Narrow waists.
Flashy embroidered linings.
The clothes were designed to send two messages at once: I have money—and you don’t want trouble with me.
“Accessories are in the display case.
Look all you want, but don’t touch anything you aren’t buying.”
The old man lowered his head and returned to his ironing, clearly dismissing Shin as some reckless tourist fascinated by the criminal underworld.
Shin walked over to the dusty glass cabinet.
Inside lay a collection of old possessions that pawnshops had refused to take—or that their original owners were no longer in any condition to reclaim.
Gold-plated tie clips.
Ivory cigarette holders…
His eyes swept over the clutter before stopping on something tucked into the corner.
A pair of black leather gloves.
They rested silently on a red velvet cushion.
The leather looked as soft and delicate as a baby’s skin, yet the black was so deep it seemed capable of swallowing light.
The instant Shin’s gaze touched them—
Bzzz—
[Equippable Item Detected — Green / Rare]
[Item: Debt Collector’s Black Leather Gloves]
[Original Owner: A notorious Showa-era gang “cleaner” who wore these gloves whenever he dealt with certain…
problems he preferred not to get his hands dirty with.]
[Slot: Hands / Accessory]
[Condition: Good — A faint scent of blood remains, no matter how often they are cleaned.]
[Base Attributes: Intimidation +30%; Ferocity of Gaze +20% while equipped.]
[Special Trait: Elegant Execution — Passive]
[Note: These gloves have witnessed far too many “cleanups.” When you slowly put them on or calmly straighten your cuffs while wearing them, you radiate the terrifying pressure of a man preparing to do dirty work.
The effect can trigger an instinctive, physical fear response in those facing you.]
“Cleanup…
dirty work…”
Shin’s pupils narrowed slightly.
There it was.
The missing soul of Sawada’s character.
Sawada wasn’t terrifying because he shouted the loudest.
He was terrifying because violence was ordinary to him—no different from putting on gloves before cleaning a dirty room.
Worse, he treated it like a ritual that deserved to be done properly.
“Old man, how much for the gloves?”
Shin pointed toward the display case.
The owner stopped ironing and lifted his eyelids in mild surprise.
“You’ve got a sharp eye.
A customer left those behind when he had a suit made here a few years ago.
Later…”
The old man paused, then gave Shin a knowing look.
“He never came back for them.
You understand what that means, don’t you?”
It meant the owner was probably dead.
“How much?” Shin asked, completely unfazed.
“Top-quality lambskin.
They’re used, sure, but things with a story don’t come cheap.”
The old man grinned, revealing teeth stained yellow by years of tobacco.
“Fifty thousand yen.
No bargaining.”
Fifty thousand.
For a pair of secondhand gloves, it was daylight robbery.
Shin didn’t hesitate.
He opened his wallet, counted out five ten-thousand-yen notes, and slapped them onto the counter.
“Deal.”
The old man stared at the young man in surprise, then swept up the money and tossed him the gloves.
“Take them.
And be careful.
Those things carry bad energy.
“Thanks.”
Shin picked up the gloves and walked out of the musty old shop.
…
Late that night.
Shin’s apartment in Nakano.
After washing his face, Shin stood before the full-length mirror near the entrance.
He had changed into the fitted black suit he’d prepared for the audition.
His white shirt was open slightly at the collar, with no tie, revealing just a hint of collarbone.
He had also slicked his hair straight back with gel.
Right now, he looked like a handsome host from an expensive club.
Stylish, certainly.
But not dangerous enough.
Shin took a slow breath and picked up the black leather gloves.
They felt cold and unnaturally smooth in his hands, like touching a snake deep in hibernation.
“Equip.”
The instant the command formed in his mind, the cold sensation rushed from his hands through his entire body.
A current seemed to crawl up his spine.
The warmth, restraint, and rational calm that belonged to Shin Kitahara gradually receded.
In their place came something restless.
Something cold.
Something that made even his own skin crawl.
He slowly slid his left hand into the glove.
His fingers tightened.
The leather gave a faint, dry squeak as it stretched around them.
Then came the right hand.
Shin moved with excruciating slowness, smoothing every wrinkle in the leather one by one.
He looked like a surgeon preparing for a delicate operation.
Or a butcher sharpening his knife before work.
When he finally raised his head and looked into the mirror again, even Shin paused.
The man in the reflection still had his face.
But the eyes were different.
The clear light that normally lived in them had vanished.
Now they resembled a bottomless pool of stagnant water—no warmth, no emotion, only a chilling trace of amusement.
Shin slowly curled one corner of his mouth into a distinctly Sawada-like smile.
“I heard you’re planning to skip out on your debt?”
His voice was gentle.
Almost friendly.
Like he was greeting an old acquaintance.
But as he slowly adjusted his cuff, the man in the mirror looked as though he might casually pull an ice pick from behind his back the next second and drive it into someone’s eye without ever losing that pleasant smile.
The aura of a polished, well-mannered monster practically spilled out of the mirror.
Shin studied the “devil” staring back at him with satisfaction.
Then he slowly removed the gloves.
The suffocating pressure vanished almost instantly.
“So this is the scent of the underworld…”
He stared at the black leather in his hands, excitement flashing through his eyes.
With these gloves…
The audition for Kinji Fukasaku shouldn’t be a problem anymore.
And besides…
Shin turned toward the stack of investigation documents on Kanai that he’d bought from Sato.
His gaze cooled.
These gloves might prove useful outside the audition room, too.