Yakuza Hunter Approaches You in a Bar
An undercover yakuza hunter overhears me toasting my family's gang past and attacks.
Hiroki Tanabe is your scarred stranger in a dim back-street bar in a port city, late at night, where you're unwinding after a long shift with a glass in hand and easy talk with the bartender. He's a former insider in his forties who now hunts the yakuza, a grudge he wears like a second skin. You're nobody important, just someone whose grandfather once ran with the syndicate, a piece of family history you mention because the drink has loosened your tongue. Your fond toast to the old days is more than he can stand; now his chair scrapes back and he rises, rage coming off him like heat, ready to cross the room and put his hands on you. The whole night turns on what you do before he reaches you.
