Tokyo. Midday.
The city is suffocating. The sun is at its zenith, white, unbearable, melting the asphalt, burning out the colors, turning shadows into puddles of liquid darkness. The sky is clear, blue, merciless, like a blade. The air hangs thick, sticky, you could cut it with a knife. It seems even the birds have hidden in the shade, because flying in such scorching heat is suicide.
A field on the outskirts. Wasteland overgrown with burnt-out grass, yellow and brittle. The earth is cracked into thin snake-like patterns, like old skin. Here and there bushes stick out, gray with dust. In the distance, concrete blocks are visible, an unfinished building abandoned five years ago. Cicadas are screeching in unison, their chirping rising and falling in waves, like the sea surf, only instead of salt, drought and scorching heat.
In the middle of the field stands Raiden.
He is alone, if you don't count the shadows. His white shirt is soaked on the back and under the arms, clinging to his shoulder blades. Sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing forearms with thin white scars, old, forgotten. Dark trousers covered in dust, sneakers worn down on the left side; he walks a bit pigeon-toed, a habit from childhood. In his ordinariness: a scar above the eyebrow from a fallen bottle, feminine cheekbones. But his gaze is sharp, cold, calm, like a sniper before the shot.
He is waiting.
They come out of nowhere, from a dusty bus parked at the roadside, from behind bushes, from behind concrete slabs. A crowd. Twenty people, maybe even thirty. Young guys, some in tracksuits, some in leather jackets, some in torn jeans. Some have cruel, swollen faces from lack of sleep and cheap alcohol. Others have ordinary, even pleasant faces, but their eyes are the same: greedy, cheerful, anticipating blood. They move slowly, lazily, like a pack of jackals that knows the prey isn't going anywhere.
In the center of the crowd is Ryuta.
The Thai champion. They call him the Lightning Rod. Because he takes any hit and returns it ten times stronger. Because after meeting him, the air smells of ozone and iron. Stocky, squat, powerful, with a neck as thick as an ordinary man's thigh. His skin is dark, moist, glistening in the sun like oil. His face is flat and wide, with thick eyebrows that almost grow together at the bridge of his nose. His eyes are small, deep-set; from under swollen eyelids they look heavily, squinting, with the confidence that only comes from years of victories.
He stops five steps away from Raiden.
The crowd closes in a semicircle behind his back. Someone lights a cigarette; smoke drifts upward and melts in the hot air. Someone takes out a phone and points the camera.
Ryuta throws off his light black jacket and tosses it to one of his guys. He remains in a tank top that hugs every muscle, every rib. His shoulders are square, like a cabinet.
- So you're the one? Ryuta's voice is low, throaty, with a hoarse accent. It sounds as if he's speaking through a pipe. The one who stuck his nose into our district?
Raiden doesn't move. He stands straight, arms lowered but not relaxed, readiness is felt in every muscle. He looks at Ryuta without fear, without challenge, he simply looks, studies him.
- I'm not sticking my nose in, he replies. His voice is even, almost listless, as if he doesn't care. I'm standing in place. You're the ones who came to me.
- Sharp tongue, Ryuta smirks, glancing back at the crowd. They respond with chuckles. Look, guys, what a pretty boy we've found.
- Are you going to talk or hit? Raiden tilts his head slightly. I'm actually busy.
- Busy with what? Ryuta takes a step forward. Dust flies up in a cloud under his foot. Dreaming of becoming a nanny in kindergarten? Or are you already working? With a face like that, you should be shooting porn, not stepping into the ring.
The crowd roars with laughter. Someone whistles. Someone yells: "Hey, femboy, call your mom and tell her they're about to turn you into a meat patty!"
Raiden doesn't react. He only looks Ryuta in the eyes.
- I didn't come out to the ring, he says quietly. I came out to the street. The rules are different here.
- What rules? Ryuta spreads his arms, pretending to be confused. On the street there's only one rule: the stronger one is right.
- No, Raiden shakes his head. On the street the rule is: the one who survives stays. Strength is only half of it.
- Smart guy? Ryuta slaps his thighs and laughs loudly, deliberately. Hear that, guys? We've got a smart one! A fucking philosopher! Right now we'll beat all that philosophy out of you along with your teeth.
- I'm not a philosopher, Raiden adjusts the collar of his shirt, a calm, even bored gesture. I've just seen people die. The strong and the weak. The ones who survive stay. The rest don't.
Ryuta stops smiling. His face becomes serious, heavy, like a concrete slab.
- What are you hinting at?
- Nothing, Raiden raises his hands, not into a defensive stance but simply palms up, a gesture of openness. I'm saying: you have a choice. Leave. Or stay and regret it.
- Are you threatening me? Ryuta narrows his eyes.
- Warning you.
Silence. The cicadas fall quiet for a second, as if they too are waiting. Even the crowd grows still. Someone stops chewing seeds, someone stubs out a cigarette on their sole.
- Alright, Ryuta exhales noisily, cracks his neck, vertebrae popping. We've talked. Now we fight.
He doesn't give time for a reply.
Ryuta rushes forward with all his mass, all his strength, like a speeding truck. His fist flies toward Raiden's face, short, sharp, straight. But Raiden is already moving, simply, smoothly, almost dance-like. He shifts half a body to the side. The fist whistles past his ear.
- Dodged, the bastard! someone shouts from the crowd.
- It's okay, Ryuta, catch him.
Ryuta strikes again, left, then right, in a series. Raiden dodges once, twice, three times. Each time by a hair. Ryuta's fists pass centimeters from his face, from his chest.
But Ryuta is the Lightning Rod. He feels the moment. He feels when Raiden shifts his weight onto his left leg for a fraction of a second, on a short exhale. And he strikes, not at the head, but at the nose. Short, whipping, from half a step. The knuckles sink into soft tissue.
Crunch. Soft, wet, disgusting.
Raiden flies backward, not so much from the force of the blow as from surprise. His feet slide across the dry grass. He hits his back against a hard bush; branches scratch his shirt, leaving thin red lines on his skin. He falls onto one knee and raises his head.
Blood is flowing from his nose.
Warm, thick, it floods his upper lip, rolls down his chin, drips onto the white shirt in scarlet spots that look like cherry blossoms. Raiden swallows; a metallic taste appears in his mouth. He tries to breathe through his nose, it doesn't work, it's blocked. He switches to breathing through his mouth.
The crowd explodes.
- Ooooh! they roar. Look at him. Look. Blood. Red blood. Not pink.
- Hey, femboy, wipe your snot! someone shouts, laughing.
- Where's your philosophy now, smartass? We'll knock some sense into that brain of yours.
Someone whistles, someone claps, someone films openly on their phone. One guy in a wifebeater yells: "The champion can't beat some femboy? Ryuta, you're disgracing us!" and everyone laughs even louder.
Ryuta stands, breathing heavily, and smiles. He spreads his arms.
- And that's it? he says loudly so everyone can hear. That's all you're capable of? And I thought it would be more interesting. Thought you at least knew how to do something.
Raiden slowly rises. His knee trembles from the blow, from the tension. He wipes his face with the back of his hand, smearing blood across his cheek, cheekbone, and chin. He looks at his red fingers, then at Ryuta.
There is no pain in his eyes. No fear. Not even anger. Only something heavy, dark, deep, like water in a well that no one has looked into for a hundred years.
- More interesting? he repeats quietly. Good.
He lunges. Not with his fist — with his leg.
The leg arcs low, economical, without a wind-up. A strike to Ryuta's thigh, where the nerves are closest to the surface. Not strong, not lethal, but precise, like a needle prick. Ryuta sways, loses balance for a moment.
- Dirty fighting. Ryuta shouts, straightening up. His face flushes red, veins bulging on his neck. You bitch.
Raiden closes the distance. He strikes with an open palm to the groin, fast, dirty, street-style. Ryuta wheezes, doubles over, gasping for air.
- You… he exhales through clenched teeth. I'll kill you!
Raiden jumps back two steps, assumes a stance, feet wider than shoulders, hands in front of his chest.
Ryuta attacks again. Wildly, chaotically, losing control. Fists fly like hail, right, left, right, left. He's no longer thinking; he's just hitting, hitting, hitting, putting all his rage into the blows. Raiden dodges once, twice, three, four times. Each time by a hair. One punch grazes his shoulder painfully, leaving a bruise. Another catches his rib; Raiden freezes for a second, gasping for air.
- Dodged, you freak? Ryuta growls. You won't get away!
He strikes again, a straight right to the head. Raiden ducks under the arm. He passes close, almost touching Ryuta's shoulder with his chest. He ends up at the side, in the blind spot.
Ryuta freezes.
For one instant, short, like a heartbeat. Because he hadn't seen that. Because Raiden disappeared from his field of vision and appeared where he shouldn't be.
That instant was enough.
Raiden grabs Ryuta by the right shoulder. His fingers dig into the muscle like five steel claws. He feels the collarbone under his fingers, the thin bone that holds the entire arm. He yanks. Not just a pull, a sharp, whipping, circular motion that twists the joint in an unnatural direction.
The sound.
Disgusting, wet, crunching, like breaking raw branches. Like crushing glass underfoot. Like tearing a piece of raw meat.
Ryuta's collarbone shatters.
Not a dislocation, not a crack, a break. The bone splinters into fragments, muscles tear, ligaments snap like rubber bands. The arm hangs limp, connected to the body only by flaps of skin and fat.
Ryuta falls to his knees.
At first he doesn't scream. He only opens his mouth, and a hoarse, inhuman sound escapes, something between a growl and a sob. His eyes bulge from their sockets, his face turns gray, then white. Then, when the pain reaches his brain, he begins to shriek.
He shrieks like an animal in a trap. He thrashes on the ground, rolling across the burnt grass, clutching his broken shoulder with his good arm. Blood seeps from under the skin in purple and black bruises. His tank top is soaked with sweat, blood, and something else, urine, because the pain made him wet himself.
- My arm! he screams. Aaaah! My arm! You bitch!
The crowd falls silent.
All those loudmouths, whistlers, laughing faces go quiet at once. Phones are lowered. Someone's cigarettes fall to the ground and burn in the dry grass. Some turn away, some go pale, some start shaking slightly. One guy who had been shouting "femboy" the loudest opens his mouth, wants to say something, and closes it. He can't.
Raiden stands over Ryuta, breathing heavily. Blood is still flowing from his nose, flooding his lips, rolling down his chin, dripping onto the ground. His shirt is no longer white: red stains are spreading across his stomach, chest, and sleeves. He smells of iron, sweat, and dry grass.
He looks at what he has done.
In his head, silence. No thoughts. Only images: his brother lying on the asphalt. His father, frozen in the coffin. His mother crying in the kitchen at night.
- Why? he whispers. Not to Ryuta. To himself. To the world. Why do you make me do this?
No one answers.
Raiden shifts his gaze to the crowd. Now they don't seem big. Now they are just a bunch of scared boys who came to watch blood and saw too much of it.
- Anyone else? he asks. His voice is hoarse, dull, almost inhuman.
No one answers.
Raiden exhales. He takes a step back, then another, then turns and runs.
He runs not because he is afraid. He has never been afraid. He runs because he doesn't want to see Ryuta writhing on the ground like meat on a stretcher. He doesn't want to hear his shrieks. He doesn't want to taste someone else's pain on his tongue.
He runs out of the field onto a narrow street. The crowd comes alive behind him; footsteps and Ryuta's tearful scream are heard: "After him! Catch him! Kill him!"
Raiden accelerates. His lungs burn, there's a stitch in his side, blood from his nose floods his throat, he has to spit while running. Dark spits remain on the asphalt, like snail trails.
He bursts onto a busier street. People are walking by; a woman with a cart jumps aside, an old man with a cane shouts something after him. Raiden doesn't hear.
- Sorry! he throws over his shoulder as he flies past a grandmother watering flowers near an entrance. The grandmother shrieks, drops her watering can; water spills across the sidewalk. Excuse me, please.
The grandmother shakes her fist, but he is already far away.
The crowd behind doesn't lag. Someone yells "Hold him!", someone whistles like police, someone just runs silently, breathing heavily. Footsteps thunder like hooves.
Raiden turns into the market.
It's crowded here, like an anthill. Rows of stalls, bright plastic awnings, crates of fruit, piles of vegetables, the smell of fish, greens, fried meat, spices, everything mixes into one thick, suffocating cocktail. Buyers jostle, sellers shout, calling out. Somewhere cheap music plays from a speaker.
Raiden flies into the crowd like a bullet. He pushes people aside with his elbows, jumps over a crate of apples, red apples roll in all directions. Someone steps on them, someone curses.
- Where the hell are you going, donkey?! a fat seller in a stained apron yells. Open your eyes!
Raiden doesn't stop. Ahead is a stall with cucumbers and tomatoes. Green, red, ripe, juicy. He tries to go around it on the left but catches the edge of the table with his shoulder. The table wobbles, then topples over completely.
Crash.
Cucumbers and tomatoes fly everywhere like an exploding bomb. Raiden slips on a tomato, his foot slides forward. He loses balance and falls onto his back right into the vegetable mess. Something soft and juicy flies into his mouth, a whole cucumber. It gets stuck between his teeth, sticking out of his mouth like a cigar.
Raiden blinks, lying on his back in a puddle of tomato juice and crushed cucumbers. A cucumber sticks out of his mouth. Blood is still dripping from his nose.
He spits out the cucumber. Sits up.
Chaos all around.
Sellers are screeching: "Freak. Bandit. Destroyed everything." Buyers recoil; some laugh, some get indignant. A woman in a colorful headscarf yells: "I'll call the police! You hooligan!" A mustached man points a finger at Raiden: "Hold him before he runs!"
Raiden jumps up, brushes vegetable scraps off his shirt, gasps for air, and runs on.
He darts out of the market through the back exit, into a quiet street with garages, an abandoned car on bricks, trash bins. He runs for another minute, then turns the corner and falls back against the wall.
Breathing heavily. Listening.
The crowd has fallen behind. Voices fade somewhere far away. Only the fading footsteps and a cry: "We lost him. Where did he go?"
Raiden exhales. Pushes off the wall and turns onto the main street.
Police.
Two officers. In uniform. Standing by a patrol car, smoking, talking lazily. They see him, covered in blood, dirt, with a battered face, in a shirt that now looks like a vampire costume from a theater. One nods in his direction, the other takes out a radio.
- Young man, the first says lazily but insistently. His voice is tired, accustomed. Come here.
Raiden stops. His shoulders drop. He doesn't resist, there's no point.
The officers approach, grab his arms, turn him around, and press him against the hood of the car. The metal is hot, burning his cheek, which already has a scratch from the bush. Someone searches his pockets, keys, loose change, broken headphones, dried gum.
- Blood, the second notices, leaning toward his face. Where from?
- From my nose, Raiden answers dully, cheek against the hood.
- Were you fighting?
- No. I fell.
- On tomatoes? the first nods at the red stains on the shirt.
- Yeah. On tomatoes. And cucumbers.
The officers exchange glances. One smirks, the other remains serious.
- He's lying, the first says to the second. But there's no complaint. No one called. No noise.
- There will be, the second mutters.
They search him again, more thoroughly this time. They find only a fine ticket, which they write out on the spot for hooliganism, a small one, ten thousand yen.
- Sign it, they shove a pen and paper at him.
Raiden signs. Blood drips onto the paper and smears.
- Go on, the senior officer says, stepping back. And don't let me catch you again. Next time, station and court.
Raiden nods. He walks away without looking back.
And somewhere far away, in the same field, Ryuta is being loaded onto a stretcher. His arm hangs limp, with flesh, bone fragments, and purple streaks. He groans, biting his lip until it bleeds, or perhaps he is no longer groaning, he has lost consciousness. His "guys" have scattered in all directions; no one wants to answer for their champion. The ambulance takes him to the hospital, and the siren wails across the entire block, drowning out even the cicadas.