Chapter 2: The Cost of Hunger

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.

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