The rain fell hard that night, a relentless downpour that blurred the city’s edges into a smudge of neon and shadow. Taro Weston, a mere 13 years old, stood under the awning of an old convenience store, his eyes darting back and forth across the street. His thin coat did little to shield him from the cold, but it was better than nothing. He had learned to embrace the discomfort—pain was just another part of surviving.

It was the middle of the night, and the streets were empty, save for the occasional car passing in the distance. He knew better than to approach the other kids his age, the ones who hung out in the alleyways looking for trouble. They would turn on him in a second if it meant scoring a meal or a warm place to sleep. Taro had been abandoned at birth, left in a cardboard box outside a decrepit building. He had no family. No home. No one. And in a city like this, that meant you had to be quick. Smart. Cold.

His stomach growled, but he ignored it. He had learned long ago that hunger was temporary. Pain was temporary. Fear, too, could be pushed aside. What mattered most was survival. And survival meant knowing where the money was, where the deals were, and who could be trusted.

As the rain continued to pour, Taro moved through the dark streets like a ghost, silent and unseen. He had no destination in mind; there was no real safety for someone like him. But there was always something to scavenge, something to sell, something to steal. His hands were quick, and his mind even quicker. He had learned to read people’s faces like an open book. In the game of survival, it was a skill that often kept him one step ahead.

He walked past an alley where a couple of older boys were huddled together, their eyes fixed on the ground as they passed a joint between them. Taro kept walking, pretending not to notice, but he kept his senses alert. He had a job to do—just a simple trade, nothing big, just enough to get him through the night.

He had been working with a man named Ivan Karpov for a while now. Ivan was a dealer, a veteran in the underworld, and someone who didn’t ask questions. It was the kind of arrangement Taro had learned to make over the years—nothing personal, just business. He was good at it. The first time he sold a packet of drugs to a complete stranger, he was terrified. But the fear faded quickly when the cash was handed to him, and he realized how easy it was to take a little bit of power for himself.

The exchange tonight wasn’t much different. It was supposed to be simple—just a quick deal in the back of a rundown building near the docks. But when Taro arrived, he found the place empty. His gut twisted, and he immediately felt the weight of unease settle in his chest. Something wasn’t right.

Taro scanned the area, his eyes narrowing as he searched for any sign of movement. He wasn’t dumb enough to walk into a trap, but he also knew he couldn’t afford to walk away empty-handed. He needed that money, even if it was just enough for a meal and a place to sleep for the night.

Suddenly, a figure emerged from the shadows—a tall man with a deep scar across his cheek. Ivan.

“Thought you weren’t showing up,” Ivan said, his voice gruff, but his eyes narrowed as if he were assessing Taro. “You’re late.”

“I don’t do late,” Taro replied, his voice steady. “You weren’t here when I arrived. I’m not stupid, Ivan. This could’ve been a setup.”

Ivan laughed, a sound that echoed through the alley. “You think I’d set you up, kid? Nah. I’ve got better things to do than play games with a street rat like you.”

Taro didn’t flinch at the insult. He had heard worse over the years. The rain continued to fall, creating a dull roar that drowned out the sounds of the city. The world felt distant, like Taro was disconnected from it all—like he was floating above the chaos, watching it unfold below him.

He handed over the package of pills wrapped in plastic. “It’s all there,” he said.

Ivan didn’t even check. He just tossed the money into Taro’s hand, a quick exchange, no more words needed.

But as Taro took the cash, something shifted in the air. A strange noise, faint but distinct, echoed from the shadows.

Taro’s eyes darted to the source, his muscles tensing. Something was wrong. Ivan didn’t seem to notice, but Taro’s instincts were sharp, honed by years of surviving on the streets. He turned to leave, but as he took a step, the sound grew louder.

A group of men emerged from the darkness, surrounding him in an instant. Taro’s heart raced, but he didn’t panic. He never panicked.

“You’re in the wrong place, kid,” one of the men said, his voice low and threatening. The others chuckled, but their eyes were cold, calculating.

Taro clenched his fists. He had no weapon. No backup. Just himself.

“I’m not looking for trouble,” he said calmly, his voice as cold as the rain falling around them. “Just here for the deal and nothing more.”

The man smirked, stepping forward. “The thing is, we don’t care what you’re here for.”

The men moved in. Taro’s mind raced. He could fight. He could take them down, one by one. He was fast. But there were too many of them. He’d have to outsmart them, play the game like he always had.

With a swift movement, Taro reached into his jacket, pulling out a small knife he had stolen earlier in the day. The men hesitated, and in that brief moment, Taro struck—quick and efficient. His blade flashed, cutting through the nearest man’s arm. He screamed in pain, but Taro didn’t stop. He was a predator, and they were prey.

The rest of the men hesitated, unsure of what to do next. Taro didn’t give them a chance to think. He took down one more, a swift strike to the throat, then ducked and rolled, landing on his feet in a crouch. His heart pounded in his chest, but his movements were smooth and controlled. He was born for this.

The remaining men backed off, their eyes wide with disbelief. Taro didn’t waste a second. He bolted, running into the rain-soaked streets, leaving the chaos behind him.

As he disappeared into the shadows, he felt the rush of adrenaline slowly fade. The danger wasn’t over—it never was. But for now, he had survived. And that was enough.

The wind was sharp that night, cutting through Taro’s thin hoodie as he crouched behind a rusted dumpster. The streets of Shinjuku were alive with neon lights and the distant hum of traffic, but in the back alleys, it was a different world—a world of shadows and silent figures moving like ghosts.

Taro had been on his own for three days since leaving the old factory where he had been staying. His stomach twisted with hunger, but he had learned long ago that weakness got you nothing. Hunger was a companion, an old friend he had grown used to. Still, his body was screaming for food, and the only way to get it was to take it.

His eyes locked onto a street vendor packing up for the night. The man, an older guy with tired eyes, had just finished selling skewers of grilled meat. He was distracted, wiping down his stand and counting crumpled bills. A small plastic container sat beside him, filled with unsold food—probably cold by now, but Taro didn’t care.

He moved without hesitation, slipping through the alley like a shadow. His heartbeat slowed, his breath steady. In a single motion, he snatched the container and turned to run.

“Oi! Thief!” The old man’s voice was sharp, but Taro was already gone, feet pounding against the wet pavement.

He darted into a side alley, weaving through the maze of backstreets, his instincts guiding him. He had done this a hundred times before, but this time, something was different.

A figure was waiting for him at the alley’s end.

Tall. Broad shoulders. A shaved head. The man was leaning against the brick wall, smoking a cigarette like he had all the time in the world. His presence sent a ripple of warning through Taro’s gut, but he kept moving, hoping to slip past.

Just as he passed, a heavy hand gripped his arm.

“Not bad, kid,” the man said in a deep, amused voice.

Taro twisted, aiming for the man’s wrist with a practiced motion, but the grip was like iron. He looked up, meeting the man’s cold, calculating eyes.

“Let go,” Taro hissed.

The man only chuckled, releasing him with a slow smirk. “You’re fast. But not fast enough.”

Taro didn’t wait for more words. He took a step back, watching the stranger carefully. He wasn’t some random thug—his posture, his calm demeanor, the way he handled himself—it all screamed experience.

“Ivan Karpov,” the man said, flicking his cigarette onto the pavement. “I run things around here.”

Taro didn’t respond. He knew the name. Ivan was one of the key players in the district’s black market—drugs, smuggling, and a whole lot worse.

Ivan nodded toward the food in Taro’s hand. “You got skill, but you’re wasting it on scraps. Ever think about making real money?”

Taro narrowed his eyes. He didn’t trust people, especially not men like this. But something about Ivan’s tone—casual, confident, like he already knew what Taro would say—made him hesitate.

“Not interested,” Taro muttered.

Ivan raised an eyebrow, amused. “Sure you’re not.” He pulled a small envelope from his pocket and tossed it at Taro’s feet. “When you change your mind, meet me at the old boxing gym near the train station. Midnight.”

Taro didn’t move as Ivan turned and walked away, his silhouette disappearing into the night.

He looked down at the envelope. Against his better judgment, he picked it up and opened it. Inside was a single bill—ten thousand yen. More money than he’d ever held in his hands.

His fingers tightened around it.

He had spent his whole life surviving, scraping by, running from one place to the next. Maybe it was time to stop running.

Maybe it was time to start taking.

Taro had spent the past five years avoiding people like Ivan Karpov. He had learned early that trusting the wrong person could get you killed, but as he stared at the crumpled bill in his hand, he felt something different.

Power.

It was the first time in his life that someone had offered him more than just scraps.

By the time midnight rolled around, he was already outside the old boxing gym. The place was worn down, its once-bright neon sign now flickering weakly. The streets were nearly empty, the distant rumble of a train the only sound cutting through the cold night air.

Taro adjusted his hoodie and stepped inside.

The gym smelled like sweat and blood. The walls were covered in faded posters of fighters long past their prime. A single dim light flickered above the ring in the center, where two men were sparring. A small crowd of rough-looking men stood around, some watching, some talking in low voices.

At the back of the room, sitting on a worn-out leather couch, was Ivan.

He looked completely at ease, legs stretched out, a cigarette dangling between his fingers.

“You showed up,” Ivan said, smirking.

Taro didn’t reply. He wasn’t here for small talk.

Ivan nodded toward the ring. “Ever been in a real fight, kid?”

Taro hesitated. “I’ve fought before.”

“Street fights don’t count.” Ivan exhaled a cloud of smoke, his expression unreadable. “You ever fought for something bigger than just making it through the night?”

Taro clenched his fists. He had spent his whole life fighting for survival. Wasn’t that big enough?

Ivan chuckled at Taro’s silence. “I see potential in you. But potential means nothing unless you prove yourself.”

He gestured toward the ring, where one of the fighters—a tall, muscular man with a shaved head—was climbing out. “You win, you walk out of here with another ten grand. You lose, you walk out with nothing.”

Taro felt every pair of eyes in the room shift to him. The tension was thick, a silent challenge hanging in the air.

He had two choices—walk away, or step into the ring.

He didn’t hesitate.

Taro pulled off his hoodie and climbed into the ring. His opponent was already waiting—Dmitri, one of Ivan’s enforcers. The man was built like a tank, his knuckles scarred from years of breaking bones.

The moment the bell rang, Dmitri charged.

Taro barely dodged the first swing, feeling the force of the punch cut through the air beside him. He didn’t have size or strength, but he was fast.

Dmitri swung again—slower this time. Taro ducked and drove a sharp elbow into the man’s ribs. Dmitri grunted, but didn’t stop. Instead, he grabbed Taro by the hoodie and yanked him forward, slamming a knee into his stomach.

Pain exploded through Taro’s ribs, but he didn’t fall. Instead, he twisted, using the momentum to slip out of Dmitri’s grip and drive his fist into the man’s jaw.

Dmitri staggered.

Taro didn’t stop. He went for the weak spot—body shots, quick jabs, anything to wear him down. He fought with the desperation of someone who had nothing to lose, nothing to go back to.

The crowd roared as Dmitri finally hit the mat.

Taro stood over him, breathing hard. His knuckles were raw, his ribs aching, but he had won.

Ivan clapped slowly, standing up. “Not bad,” he said, tossing another envelope at Taro’s feet. “You just bought yourself a place at my table.”

Taro picked up the money, his fingers tightening around it.

For the first time, he wasn’t just surviving.

He was winning.