Rain drippedpped from the fire escape like a slow countdown. Neon lights flickered above cracked concrete, painting the alley in red and blue. This part of the city never slept it waited.
Riku Aoyama stood with his hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, eyes half lidded. He looked bored.
Three men stood across from him.
Bad posture. Heavy breathing. Too confident.
Amateurs.
Gang Member 1: You lost, kid? This alley belongs to the Iron Jaw crew.
Riku tilted his head.
Riku: Funny. The alley didn't tell me.
The second man cracked his knuckles and stepped forward.
Gang Member 2: You got jokes. That won't save you when your teeth hit the ground.
Riku sighed and rolled his shoulders.
Riku: Then let's not waste time.
The rain fell harder.
The first punch came fast wild, heavy, predictable.
Riku shifted half a step.
The fist missed by an inch.
His counter was clean. A short straight punch to the ribs, sharp enough to knock the air out of the man's lungs. Before the body could fall, Riku pivoted and drove a low kick into the knee.
Crack.
The man collapsed screaming.
Gang Member 3: What the hell
Too late.
Riku closed the distance, palm strike snapping into the man's chin. The impact lifted him off his feet. He hit the wall and slid down, unconscious.
The last man hesitated.
Fear showed in his eyes.
Riku: Run.
The man didn't argue. His footsteps faded into the rain.
Silence returned to the alley.
Riku shook his hand once, flexing his fingers.
Riku: Still sloppy.
He turned to leave when slow clapping echoed behind him.
???: Clean footwork. Real karate.
Riku stopped.
A tall man leaned against a dumpster, hood up, eyes sharp. He wore a black jacket with a white symbol stitched on the back a clenched fist inside a circle.
Riku recognized it immediately.
Riku: Underground organizer?
Organizer: Recruiter.
The man stepped into the light.
Organizer: Name's Shindo. I watch fighters who don't panic when things get messy.
Riku: You just watched a mugging go wrong.
Shindo: I watched someone who knows how to finish a fight without showing off.
Riku turned fully toward him.
Riku: Not interested.
Shindo smiled.
Shindo: Your brother said the same thing.
The rain stopped.
Riku's eyes sharpened.
Riku: …What did you say?
Shindo: Haruto Aoyama. National junior karate champion. Underground finalist. Vanished two years ago.
Riku's jaw tightened.
Riku: You don't get to say his name.
Shindo didn't flinch.
Shindo: He fought in the underground tournament. Lost his final match. Walked out alive. Never came back.
Riku stepped forward.
Riku: Who did he fight?
Shindo reached into his pocket and pulled out a black card, placing it gently on the dumpster.
Shindo: That's what you'll find out if you enter.
Riku stared at the card.
No phone number.
No address.
Only a symbol the same clenched fist.
Riku: And if I don't?
Shindo: Then the city keeps moving. Gangs keep ruling streets. Fighters keep disappearing.
A beat.
Shindo: And your brother stays a mystery.
Shindo turned and walked away, vanishing into the darkness.
Riku stood alone.
Rainwater pooled around his shoes.
He picked up the card.
Later that night, Riku sat on the rooftop of his apartment building, staring at the city skyline. The wind carried distant sirens and laughter from places he never went.
He remembered Haruto standing just like this.
Haruto: Karate isn't about winning, Riku. It's about knowing when to stop.
Riku clenched his fist.
Riku: Then why didn't you stop?
The card felt heavy in his hand.
Below him, the city pulsed gangs, fighters, secrets moving beneath the surface.
Somewhere in that darkness, the underground tournament waited.
Riku stood.
Riku: …Guess the alley really does have rules.
He slipped the card into his pocket and stepped toward the stairs.
The fight had already begun.