Brooklyn, 2010.
One year had passed since the visit to the Hamato estate. Sahil Hamato was now seven years old—and the gap between who he appeared to be and who he actually was had grown deeper, sharper, more defined.
On the surface, he was just a curious Brooklyn kid with intense eyes and a quiet manner. But behind the closed doors of his room, behind the bookshelves that hid handmade contraptions and blueprints, he was something else entirely.
The Baxter Stockman template had reached 25% assimilation. Sahil's tinkering had evolved into fully functional prototyping. He had built signal repeaters, micro-drones, and even a crude but working EMP scrambler using scavenged electronics and devices sourced from alleyway dumpsters and tech recycling bins.
His creations were becoming more ambitious. His ideas, more resource-hungry. Allowance alone wasn't cutting it.
So he reached out—strategically.
From his maternal side, he approached his uncle—the 25-year-old engineer who had always encouraged his curiosity. Sahil asked for old tools, busted equipment, and disassembled components.
"For a personal science project," he had said with wide-eyed enthusiasm, letting his parents overhear just enough.
Ananya and Kenji were aware of this arrangement and even amused by it. His mother found it adorable. His father thought it was a good way to build problem-solving skills. They had no idea that Sahil wasn't just building circuits—he was refining prototypes for surveillance systems and frequency modulation tech decades ahead of hobbyist level.
Every other weekend, his uncle visited from New Jersey and brought him crates of scrap from old labs, garages, and construction sites. Sometimes Sahil would sit up with him late into the night, discussing oscilloscopes and power regulators while Ananya smiled and passed around cups of chai.
But from the Hamato side, Sahil needed something different.
Money. Real money.
And he knew exactly who to ask.
He sent a carefully written letter to his paternal uncle, Ryota—the head of the Hamato clan. He didn't explain much. Only that he needed funding for a long-term project that couldn't be discussed in detail, and that he wanted to keep it hidden from his father.
Ryota responded not in writing but with an encrypted message embedded in a small drive: a simple instruction.
"Come visit the estate . Quietly. We'll talk about what you need."
So Sahil lied for the first time with complete precision.
He told his parents he was going to a sleepover. Not that strange, considering he had joined a parkour group in Brooklyn. They were older kids—mostly 13 to 17—who respected Sahil for his quiet intensity and ridiculous agility. He could already climb to the rooftop of a four-story building without assistance.
His Snake Eyes template had reached 15%, and it was showing.
So when Sahil disappeared for two nights, his parents didn't think much of it. They thought he was testing his boundaries, bonding with new friends.
In truth, Sahil boarded a late train heading upstate. He wore layered clothes, a black backpack, and a face too still for his age. When he arrived at the Hamato estate, it was past midnight. Mist clung to the steps like silk.
Ryota met him in a side hall lit by flickering lanterns. He looked both amused and impressed.
"You're growing fast," he said, his voice like stone warmed by fire. "And your father doesn't know?"
"He wouldn't approve," Sahil replied coolly. "But I need this. For something bigger."
Ryota studied him for a moment, then handed him an envelope—thick and heavy.
"No strings. Yet."
Sahil bowed slightly and slipped it into his backpack. "Thank you, Uncle."
What Sahil didn't know was that Ryota's interest wasn't just familial. The Hamato clan, unknown to Sahil, operated under the umbrella of the Hand—the ancient and brutal ninja syndicate that controlled operations across Asia, Europe, and parts of America. Ryota wasn't just a clan head. He was a soldier in a war.
And he saw promise in the boy.
"What do you think about becoming a part of the clan?"
Ryota asked in a casual way while sipping tea.
"Father didnt tell me what our family does, but, its not hard to see Ryota sama."
Sahil formally replied making Ryota smirk.
"And are you opposed to that life? Children are not wise in the ways of the world after all, and your parents are good people their views are of the masses but we are the elites above the regular people, do you understand my boy?"
It was Sahil's turn to smirk
"Please uncle dont treat me as a fool, you certainly know Im not one. As for the clan I dont want to disappoint my parents, but if arrangements are made for me in brooklyn itself Im not opposed to it."
Ryota stared at him for a moment then laughed
"You truly are wise beyond your years my boy. Father will be proud of you."
Sahil simply bowed with a smile.
Back in Brooklyn, Sahil returned just after sunrise. The money was hidden under the loose floorboard beneath his bed. The equipment from his maternal uncle sat innocently on the table—tools and pieces that would become transmitters, silent recorders, and test rigs for remote signal hijacking.
He wasn't naïve. He knew borrowing from Ryota came with risk. But Sahil didn't intend to stay indebted. He was building leverage.
He had no interest in gang life or crime. But he wasn't above using those who lived in that world. His templates required access—scenarios and tech beyond what a civilian child could access. The Yakuza didn't have moral boundaries. That was an asset.
He repeated this to himself whenever doubt crept in.
He studied languages as part of his training—Hindi, Tamil, Japanese, French, Mandarin, Arabic. But now he had added Russian, Italian, German, and Sanskrit to his mental map. The neural imprint routines embedded in the Baxter template made accelerated language acquisition feasible. He practiced pronunciation while rewiring circuits. He translated complex manuals from German and Russian effortlessly. Language was just another code to master.
He had become fluent in eleven languages by the time he turned seven and a half.
At night, when the lights were out and his parents had gone to bed, Sahil climbed to the roof. His tools were quiet. His sensors precise. He scanned local police bands, analyzed encrypted chatter, and tested new drones he'd built from repurposed toy parts and phone gyroscopes.
He wasn't just a boy anymore.
He was a developing force.
And forces, he understood, didn't ask for permission.
They just moved.