Tokyo pulsed with energy, a living, breathing entity of neon lights and unspoken power.

In the heart of Shinjuku, where the elite and the damned walked the same streets, Renjiro Takeda adjusted the cuffs of his black suit as he stepped out of his sleek black Lexus. The rhythmic hum of city life surrounded him—the chatter of businessmen, the laughter of intoxicated lovers, and the low, almost imperceptible undercurrent of danger that came with being who he was.

A Yakuza lieutenant didn’t stroll through Tokyo’s streets unnoticed, but tonight, he wasn’t here to make a statement. It was supposed to be a quiet night.

Except, the moment he stepped onto the pavement, something felt… wrong.

The Mist That Shouldn’t Exist

As Renjiro walked toward Kurogane Lounge, a high-end bar favored by Tokyo’s underground elite, a strange mist began curling around his feet. At first, he ignored it. After all, it wasn’t unusual for the city’s humidity to cling to the streets.

But this mist was different.

It wasn’t the usual grayish-white haze of city pollution—it was crimson, tinged with an almost unearthly glow. It rolled in thick, moving against the wind, seeping into the alleyways and swallowing the pavement behind him.

The scent of cherry blossoms filled the air—an odd contrast against the whiskey and cigarettes that usually defined this part of town.

Renjiro’s sharp eyes flicked across the street, searching for anything—anyone—out of place. His instincts screamed at him, honed by years of surviving in a world where hesitation meant death.

And then, he saw her.

The Woman in Red

Beneath the warm glow of a red paper lantern stood a woman, her presence so still, so unnaturally composed, that it sent a whisper of unease through him.

She was dressed in a flowing crimson kimono, her long black hair cascading down her back, strands swaying despite the air being deathly still. The soft silk of her robe shimmered under the lantern light, patterns of golden peonies and koi fish barely visible on the fabric.

For a moment, Renjiro wondered if she was an illusion—a trick of the mind bRought on by the city’s chaos.

But then, she turned.

And her eyes met his.

Dark, deep, and unreadable, they locked onto him like a silent question.

She wasn’t afraid of him. She wasn’t looking away.

That alone made her unusual.

Women like her—beautiful, delicate—either ran from men like him or tried to charm their way into his world. But she did neither. She simply… stared.

It unsettled him in a way he couldn’t explain.

Renjiro wasn’t a man to strike up idle conversation with strangers, especially ones that radiated an energy he couldn’t place, but tonight, something felt different.

And Renjiro Takeda always trusted his instincts.

“Are you lost?” His voice was calm, measured.

A slow, almost knowing smile curved her lips.

“That depends,” she murmured. “Do you believe in fate?”

A Moment That Should Have Been Impossible

Her voice was like wind through temple bells, soft yet carrying a weight beyond her years.

Renjiro frowned. A strange choice of words for a chance encounter.

“I don’t believe in things I can’t control,” he replied evenly.

Her expression didn’t change, but something in her gaze shifted—a flicker of something old, something knowing.

“Then you must live a very predictable life, Takeda-san.”

Renjiro stiffened.

He hadn’t given her his name.

His pulse slowed, instincts sharpening. Had he met her before? Was she sent by someone?

The Yakuza world was full of spies, informants, and people who knew too much for their own good.

And yet… she didn’t feel like a threat.

Before he could say another word, a gust of wind rushed through the alley, carrying the scent of cherry blossoms.

And just like that—she was gone.

The Empty Alleyway

Renjiro blinked.

One moment she had been standing there, red silk glowing beneath the lantern’s light. The next—nothing but mist remained.

He took a slow, cautious step forward. His hand twitched toward the handle of his knife, an old habit when something felt off.

The alleyway was silent, save for the distant hum of Tokyo’s nightlife. No footprints. No shifting fabric. No sign of movement.

Just the lingering scent of cherry blossoms in a place they didn’t belong.

A slow chill curled down his spine.

He had met countless women in his life—some dangerous, some forgettable.

But this one?

She wasn’t going to be forgotten.

A Name in the Wind

When Renjiro finally reached Kurogane Lounge, he was quieter than usual. The usual greetings from his men barely registered. The lingering feeling of that woman’s presence clung to him.

He barely touched his drink as conversations about rival clans and underground dealings buzzed around him. His mind replayed the moment over and over.

Who was she?

How had she known his name?

And why—why did he feel like he had met her before?

As the night stretched on, and the neon lights outside flickered like distant stars, only one thought remained in his mind.

Her voice.

Soft. Familiar. Almost… otherworldly.

“Do you believe in fate?”

Renjiro Takeda never believed in fate.

But tonight, for the first time in his life—he wasn’t so sure.

End of Episode 1

Renjiro Takeda was a man who thrived on control. Every decision, every move, every alliance—calculated, precise, intentional.

But tonight, something had shaken him.

And he hated that.

He sat in the private booth of Kurogane Lounge, fingers lightly tapping the side of his whiskey glass. The scent of aged liquor filled the air, mingling with the faint trace of cigarette smoke and expensive cologne. Around him, his men spoke in low voices, discussing business as usual.

Renjiro wasn’t listening.

His mind was still outside, in that alleyway, where the mist had curled around his feet and a woman in a crimson kimono had whispered words that wouldn’t leave his head.

"Do you believe in fate?"

Renjiro took a slow sip of his drink. Fate was for fools.

He believed in power. Control. Survival.

And yet—

“Takeda-san?”

He glanced up. Across from him, Kenta, his second-in-command, was watching him with a slight frown.

“You’ve been quiet,” Kenta observed. “That’s never a good sign.”

Renjiro exhaled, setting his whiskey down.

“Have you ever heard of a woman in a red kimono around these parts?”

Kenta’s brows furrowed. “A red kimono? Not exactly the usual style for this area.” He studied Renjiro carefully. “Why?”

Renjiro debated how much to say. He wasn’t one for superstitions or coincidences, but something about tonight felt off.

Before he could answer, the lounge’s main doors swung open, and a young informant rushed in.

The boy, barely in his twenties, looked pale and breathless as he hurried toward Renjiro’s table.

“Takeda-san.” The boy bowed deeply. “There’s… something you need to hear.”

Renjiro gestured for him to speak.

The boy hesitated. “It’s about a woman. A woman in a red kimono.”

The room went still.

Renjiro’s grip on the glass tightened. “Go on.”

The informant swallowed. “People say… she’s been seen before. Years ago. Always appearing near Yakuza men. And every time she does…” HIs voice dropped to a whisper.

“…they disappear.”

A slow chill settled over Renjiro’s skin.

Kenta scoffed, leaning back in his seat. “You’re talking about ghost stories now?”

The boy shook his head. “I wouldn’t have come here if it was just a story.” He hesitated, then continued. “She was last seen with a high-ranking lieutenant from the Matsuda Clan. Two days later, his body was found floating in the Sumida River. No wounds. No signs of struggle.”

Renjiro frowned. The Matsuda Clan was one of their biggest rivals. Their men didn’t just vanish.

“Maybe he crossed the wrong people,” Kenta said. “Or maybe he got what he deserved.”

The informant shifted uncomfortably. “The thing is… this has happened before. Years ago. And every time, it’s the same. A woman in red. A powerful man. And then—gone.”

Renjiro said nothing.

Because he had seen her too.

The silence stretched until Kenta let out a dry laugh. “Come on, Takeda-san. You’re not actually buying into this, are you?”

Renjiro didn’t answer.

He was remembering the way she had looked at him. The way the mist had curled around her like it belonged to her. The way she had spoken as if she knew him.

His instincts—the ones that had kept him alive all these years—told him something wasn’t right.

And Renjiro never ignored his instincts.

The First Clue

Later that night, as the lounge emptied out, Renjiro found himself staring out over the Tokyo skyline from the balcony of his penthouse.

The city stretched before him—a sea of neon, glass, and secrets.

And somewhere in those streets was a woman who shouldn’t exist.

He pulled out his phone and dialed a number.

A few rings, then a voice answered. Old, tired, but sharp as ever.

“Didn’t expect a call from you at this hour, Takeda.”

“Neither did I,” Renjiro admitted. “I need information.”

A chuckle. “Always business with you. What are we looking at?”

Renjiro exhaled. “A woman in a red kimono.”

The silence on the other end was almost too long.

Then: “Tell me everything.”

Renjiro recounted the night—the mist, the scent of cherry blossoms, the way she had vanished into nothing.

When he finished, the voice on the other end let out a low sigh. “You’re playing with fire, Takeda.”

Renjiro’s grip tightened on the phone. “You know something.”

A pause. Then, “There’s a name. Akane.”

The name struck something deep inside him.

Like a memory he had forgotten.

Or one he had never been meant to remember.

A Name in the Wind

That night, Renjiro didn’t sleep.

The name Akane echoed in his mind, intertwining with the scent of cherry blossoms that still lingered in his senses.

Somewhere in Tokyo, a woman walked through the mist—appearing and disappearing like a ghost, leaving only silence in her wake.

And Renjiro Takeda had a feeling she wasn’t done with him yet.

Because something told him this was only the beginning.

End of Episode 2

The streets of Shinjuku were alive with their usual neon glow, but to Renjiro, everything felt slightly… off.

It wasn’t paranoia. It wasn’t fear. It was something deeper. A presence lingering just beyond the edge of his awareness.

He wasn’t the kind of man who let things haunt him. But ever since hearing the name Akane, something had shifted.

A name shouldn’t make your heart pound. A name shouldn’t feel like a forgotten whisper from another life.

And yet, it did.

A Night That Feels Wrong

Renjiro walked the streets alone.

His usual entourage had been dismissed for the night. He needed clarity, not noise.

Tokyo’s nightlife pulsed around him—flashing billboards, laughter spilling from bars, the scent of grilled skewers filling the air. But beneath it all, he sensed something else.

A weight.

A presence.

It was a strange thing to admit, even to himself, but it felt like the city was watching him.

Then he heard it.

Soft footsteps behind him.

Not hurried, not hesitant. Measured. Purposeful.

Renjiro slowed his pace, glancing at a nearby shop window. The glass reflected the street behind him, distorted by streaks of rain—but there was no one there.

He turned, expecting to see a stranger trailing him.

Nothing.

The alley behind him stretched empty, illuminated by the glow of a distant vending machine, its mechanical hum the only sound.

He exhaled sharply. Get a grip, Takeda.

And yet, as he turned back toward the road, a whisper brushed against his ear.

"You shouldn't be here."

His pulse slammed against his ribs.

It wasn’t possible.

Because the voice belonged to her.

A Shadow That Shouldn’t Exist

Renjiro whipped around, his fingers twitching toward the knife hidden in his coat.

Empty air.

Only the wind moving through the narrow alley, stirring a discarded cigarette pack across the wet pavement.

And then—

A figure at the far end of the alley.

A woman in a crimson kimono, standing perfectly still.

She was barely visible, half-shrouded in the mist curling around the street, but there was no mistaking her.

It was Akane.

Renjiro’s breath came slow and steady. “Who are you?”

The woman tilted her head, her black hair cascading like silk over her shoulder. “You already know my name.”

A flicker of something cold slid down his spine.

This wasn’t normal.

He had been in enough life-threatening situations to know how the world worked. Everything had a reason, a cause, a consequence.

But this?

This felt like something else entirely.

“You don’t exist,” Renjiro said carefully.

Akane smiled. “And yet, here I am.”

Renjiro took a step forward, but in the space of a single blink—

She was gone.

The mist swallowed her whole, leaving behind nothing but the silence of the empty alley.

A Name from the Dead

Renjiro didn’t return to his penthouse that night.

Instead, he went to see Hiroshi Saito.

The man was an information broker, someone who knew the secrets of Tokyo better than anyone. If there was a whisper about Akane, Hiroshi would have heard it.

The meeting place was an old shrine on the outskirts of the city, long abandoned and overgrown with ivy. Hiroshi never worked from the same place twice.

Renjiro found him sitting on the steps, cigarette between his fingers, eyes half-lidded.

“You don’t usually come to me in the middle of the night,” Hiroshi mused, exhaling smoke. “Must be serious.”

Renjiro wasted no time. “The name Akane. What do you know?”

Hiroshi’s lazy expression vanished.

For the first time in years, Renjiro saw something unexpected in the old man’s eyes.

Fear.

Hiroshi stubbed out his cigarette. “You need to forget that name.”

Renjiro’s jaw tightened. “That’s not an answer.”

Hiroshi rubbed his temples. “You don’t get it, Takeda. There are names you shouldn’t dig into. She’s one of them.”

A tense silence settled between them.

Renjiro didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

After a long moment, Hiroshi sighed heavily. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He pulled out an old newspaper clipping, yellowed with age.

Renjiro took it, his eyes scanning the headline.

"Tragedy in Ginza: Yakuza Heiress Disappears in Mysterious Fire"

His blood ran cold.

The article was dated twenty years ago.

And the photo beneath it—a young woman in a red kimono, smiling softly at the camera.

Her name?

Akane Takeda.

Renjiro’s fingers clenched around the paper.

His last name.

Takeda.

A Ghost from His Own Bloodline?

A heavy silence filled the air between them.

Renjiro stared at the photograph, feeling something sharp and unexplainable press against his ribs.

“She was your cousin,” Hiroshi murmured. “The only daughter of the Takeda family. But she…”

He hesitated, watching Renjiro carefully.

“She died in that fire.”

Renjiro barely heard the words.

His heartbeat pounded in his ears.

This wasn’t possible.

He had never known of any female relatives. His father never spoke of lost family members.

And yet, here she was. A name he had never heard—but one that felt strangely familiar.

Hiroshi exhaled. “I don’t know how or why, but one thing’s certain.” His voice dropped lower.

“She shouldn’t be here.”

Renjiro’s grip on the newspaper tightened.

Because deep in his bones, he already knew:

She was never supposed to exist in this world anymore.

And yet—she did.

End of Episode 3