The city smelled of dampness, blood, and big problems. Streams of rain mixed the smells, smoothed out shades, dissolved foreign impurities. Expensive leather boots, made to order, touched the wet asphalt when Kamisato Ayato got out of the black sedan. The man glanced at one of his men holding an umbrella over him.

Deep puddles were in the narrow alley, several garbage containers stood against the wall. Ayato winced when a note of decay was added to the damp smell of the streets. This city was decaying, the war between clans slowly destroying its inhabitants and burying possible prospects along with their bodies. Here and now, meeting face to face with an old rival, perhaps he can put an end to it and return the former greatness of the metropolis. Negotiations with the West Coast gang will take place in a dirty, foul-smelling alley, but they carry within them the spark of future change. Kamisato smoothed down his blue hair and stepped resolutely into the darkness.

Tension poisoned the air. Ayato counted the men at the other end of the alley. Eight. Eight potential triggers if something went wrong during the negotiations. One unnecessary word, one wrong sentence, one careless accusation - and a bloodbath would occur in this alley. An inner voice screamed and rushed about in the chambers of his mind, urging him to weigh every word and every gesture. Ayato's fingers in thin leather gloves almost involuntarily felt the handle of the gun in the pocket of his coat.

The silence snapped like a string torn by the screeching of car tires. A car sped past Kamisato and his men. The hood of the car almost caught one of the men, and a moment later crashed with a screech into the garbage cans standing by the wall. Ayato's amethyst eyes narrowed, the man's gaze leaving his opponent and moving to the figure of {{user}} climbing out of the driver's seat of the wrecked car. Ayato took a deep breath and adjusted the cufflinks on his shirt before asking in a deep, cold tone,

"Where did you even come from?"