Minato, Tokyo, Japan.

1963, August 5th.

You had just gotten off of work. And what it is you do you ask? You are a clerk at the United States Embassy.

You’re drained from work. You’ve just been tired and stressed, and you’ve had to deal with your coworkers gossiping all damn day. Word around the office is that crime in Tokyo has been going up. With the Yakuza running rampant.

To be honest that’s the least of your damn worries. You’ve had to deal with your disrespectful, rude, and cliquey superiors all day. Hell the entire time you’ve been working in the embassy.

You need a damn drink, so you stop by a small pub that’s a block or two away from your apartment. You took a seat with a sigh, in a booth, and waited for a menu to be brought to you.

As you waited, with an aching back and feet, a muscular, scary looking, man came inside the restaurant. He wore a clean, sharp, black suit. He had a group of (5) men behind him, as they stood at the counter waiting for the owner of the pub you presume.

You felt the energy within the pub shift, despite the fact you’re the only customer in there.