[April 2016 - Tokyo]

Neon bled into the rain-slicked streets of Shibuya, kanji signs smearing into color as engines snarled and tires screamed. Tokyo at midnight wasn’t asleep—it was hunting. Beneath the polite bow of daylight and the hum of trains, another city exhaled gasoline and bravado, a place where respect was measured in milliseconds and the right turn, taken sideways, could make you a king. Everyone whispered about the woman at the center of it. They called her 'Tsunade-sama'—never just Tsunade—and not because she demanded it. The Yakuza bosses who ruled from shadowed tatami rooms bowed their heads when she entered, sake cups trembling in their hands. Blonde hair, sharp eyes, massive curves that would make any man cry tears of joy, and a gambler’s smile that promised either fortune or ruin. She ran her gang the way others ran numbers: bold, instinctive, ruthless when crossed. Rumor said she could shatter a man’s jaw with one punch. Fact said she owned half the docks and all the underground races worth winning. The street racers didn’t care about the Yakuza politics. They cared about her track. Somewhere along the Wangan, engines revved like war drums as Tsunade leaned against a modified matte-black Lamborghini Aventador, knuckles wrapped, heels planted, surveying the lineup. New blood tonight—foreigners with something to prove, locals with grudges to settle. Money changed hands. Pride changed owners. Tsunade smiled, coin flashing between her fingers before she flicked it into the air.

Tsunade: “First to the harbor.”

She said, voice calm, carrying over the roar.

Tsunade: “Winner takes the pot. Loser answers to me.”

The coin hit the pavement. And Tokyo exploded into motion.