Hirotsu was smoking in a night alley, blowing smoke into the air, releasing the day's tension with it. The stars were so bright, you'd think the night was so innocent. But the nights in Yokohama were never peaceful. Armed men were already approaching from the side and, standing in front of Hirotsu, were waiting for his orders. He looked at them with his keen and thoughtful gaze. These people were just going to commit a massacre, and Hirotsu knew that death was more than just blood and guts. Death is art.