[One day earlier...]
Matsumoto was crawling with street gangs. Delinquents. I used to think that was a harsh place to grow up.
Now? Not so much.
I'd just freestyled in front of actual yakuza and walked out alive. Comparing juvenile rebellion to organized crime didn't even feel fair anymore. Those so-called "gangsters"? All they ever did was skip class and throw hands behind convenience stores.
This was different.
Half of them couldn't even look you in the eye without calculating something. Money, leverage, risk.
Yeah.
I'd take a dozen school fights over that any day.
And honestly?
I'd bet none of those idiots ever even smoked a joint.
Sure, both the juvenile gangs and the Yakuza are a plague. No doubt about that. But their existence? It's proof of Japan's failures.
A society that overworks you, stigmatizes you, pushes you to exhaustion—all in the name of some Empire that doesn't even exist anymore.
It's not that I think imperialist, neo-colonialist America is perfect… far from it. But honestly? Japan? We're lacking in basic human rights.
Even rebellion's contained here. Every "risk" measured, every move calculated—not because it's smart, but because Japan's absurd, unspoken rules will crush you if you step out of line. That's the so-called "great society" they brag about.
And in that mist, the Yakuza is operating behind the shadows, opposing the system. They own the gaps society ignores—and they could swallow someone like me whole if I wasn't careful.
Yet here I am. Underage, in their world, alive, rapping for them, navigating the mess. And yeah… it's a huge risk. But risks are part of the game if you want to survive—and if you want to play it on your own terms.
All for a bigger dream. One day, I'd leave Japan. Move to America. Live the rapper lifestyle: clubs, money, drugs, women. Do whatever I want, answer to no one.
As if the thought summoned them, a gang took notice of me.
Their leader stepped into my path—a bald jock type, piercings glinting under the streetlights, dyed hair screaming for attention. He looked me up and down like he owned the pavement.
"Takumi," he said, grinning. "What's good? Taking a stroll through my hood again?"
Yeah. Sure. Blah blah blah.
I didn't bother answering.
My foot snapped up and connected with his jaw. Clean. Sharp. The impact sent him stumbling back, shock flashing across his face just before his balance gave out.
Then his lackeys rushed in.
Six of them. Of course.
Fists and feet came from every direction. Knuckles slammed into my ribs, a heel caught my thigh, something hard cracked against my shoulder. Pain bloomed fast, ugly, familiar.
Yeah, yeah. Six guys to run a fade. Real tough.
Hands locked around my arms, wrenching them back. I struggled, but there were too many. The jock recovered, wiping his mouth as he stepped forward, rage twisting his features.
"Not so tough anymore, huh?"
His fist smashed into my face.
The world started spinning. Blood filled my mouth. I laughed and spat it straight into his face.
He was blindsided for a second—just long enough to wipe his face—then his expression twisted, and I knew punishment was coming.
That's when a voice cut through the alley.
"Oi. That's enough."
The air shifted.
I recognized him instantly—the bulky dude who'd handed me weed that night I freestyled.
"And who the hell are you?" their leader snapped, forcing menace into his voice.
It cracked anyway. The aura rolling off the guy behind me made his lackeys stiffen like prey.
Bulky grinned lazily.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pistol, and pointed it at the boy like he was checking the time.
"Wanna find out?"
Silence.
The leader swallowed. "W-we're sorry. We'll be on our way."
He bowed—too deep, too fast—his apology sloppy, desperate.
That was the cue.
The monkeys let go of me and bolted, shoes slapping pavement as they scattered down the street.
The alley went quiet again.
Eventually, Bulky pulled back his pistol, clicking his tongue in annoyance.
"Kids these days," he muttered. "Always so loud."
He glanced at me, then stepped closer, careful.
"…You good?"
I gave a tired half-smile.
"Been through worse."
He snorted. "Course you have… You got a habit of picking fights you can't finish?"
"They picked me," I fired back.
A pause. That one landed.
He scratched the back of his neck. "Figures."
I tried to take a step, but the pain in my knee made me stumble.
He rushed forward and caught me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.
"Can you walk?" he asked.
Well… I tripped, so why even ask?
"Should I take you home?"
"Nah," I replied. "Anywhere but home."
I wasn't in the mood for my mom and sister's pity—the way they looked at me, like I was some fragile kid.
The dismay they'd shown at first for all the fights I got into had shifted into careful concern, patching me up, asking if I was okay.
Of course, I refused every time.
"Alright. My place is nearby. Let's patch you up," the man said.
I saw no reason to refuse.
We strolled down the street, me limping, and Tetsu—his name, as I learned during our talk—helping me walk.
His place was… white. Clean. Empty.
Not empty in the poor sense—empty like nothing was allowed to stay longer than necessary.
It felt like a soldier's room, the kind you see in movies.
Temporary, like the owner never planned on coming back for long.
He had a TV and a PlayStation, though.
I slouched on the couch, trying not to think about anything.
Tetsu treated to my wounds (I couldn't stop growling in pain), then he rolled a joint and passed it to me.
"This is CBD. Should help with the pain," he said.
I lit it and took a puff.
Yeah. That was much different.
Not a body high. Just a calming sensation inside my body and mind.
Tetsu caught me staring at the PlayStation.
"Wanna play?" he grinned.
"Sure," I said.
We played for hours.