The Name That Shouldn’t Exist

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.”