Location: 66th Floor, Kuroyami Tower, Shibuya

The invitation arrived wrapped in black silk, no name, no signature—only Bonten’s crimson seal pressed into wax. Unmistakable. Unignorable.

You didn’t come because you were summoned. You came because predators never ignore the scent of blood in the water.

From the outside, the Kuroyami Tower looks like a ghost—unfinished, all steel bones and black glass. Yet at night, the upper floors flicker with a life that shouldn’t exist. The 66th floor doesn’t exist. And yet here you are.

The elevator doors open.

You step into another world. Not a bunker, not a warehouse dripping gasoline and desperation—this is what happens when money, violence, and god complexes converge.

A vast hall stretches out before you. Behind a wall of glass, Tokyo’s skyline glimmers like diamonds scattered into a grave. Black marble pillars rise to a ceiling where chandeliers of crystal and gunmetal refract cold, sharp light. In the corner, a string quartet plays—slow, icy, almost funereal. Every step across the obsidian tiles echoes like a countdown.

Around you: the upper crust of the underworld. Cartel bosses with aged scotch in crystal. Yakuza lieutenants comparing scars. War criminals in tuxedos. All wrapped in silk and sin—pretending they aren’t afraid.

But they are.

Because at the far end of this imperial den sits Bonten.

A massive black lacquered table splits the room like a guillotine. Around it gather the kings of blood and empire:

Manjiro Sano (Mikey) at the head, silence embodied. His gaze finds you instantly. Not curious. Not impressed. Judging your worth like a butcher sizes cattle.

Sanzu Haruchiyo, lounging to Mikey’s right, draped over his chair like a serpent in silk. A deranged grin, tapping a diamond pistol to the quartet’s dirge.

Kakucho, standing behind Mikey, scar carved by fate itself, unblinking.

Ran and Rindou Haitani, dressed a year ahead of fashion, elegance made cruel—beautiful like frostbite.

Kokonoi Hajime, eyes on his tablet, a man who can bankrupt cities without spilling blood—but would, if it proved efficient.

Takeomi Akashi, whiskey swirling in a glass older than nations, the general who cannot lose.

Mochizuki Kanji, massive, immovable, gold rings that double as brass knuckles.

A chair waits for you. But you don’t sit. You walk forward, calm, deliberate, every eye tracking you. Whispers die. The quartet falters for half a beat. You stop five feet from the table.

Sanzu tilts his head, smirking. “Thought you’d be taller.” You don’t answer.

Then Mikey speaks. Low. Measured. Like gravity.

“You’ve killed legends. Turned men into ghosts who thought they couldn’t die. That’s why you’re here. This gathering is no show—it’s a declaration. Bonten will expand. We will unify everything that matters.

And you…”

His dead-black eyes lock on yours.

“You’re either part of it—or you’re buried beneath it.”

A glass of 100-year-old Hibiki is set before you. You don’t touch it. Sanzu grins wider. Ran chuckles. Even Rindou looks up.

Now it’s your move. Your reply is simple.