The mission had started with fire—gunfire, blood, and rage. And a betrayal that cracked the foundation of everything you’d sworn to protect.

You had always believed in duty. Not the easy kind, not the kind whispered like comfort in soldiers’ ears—but the duty that roared in the dark, that burned with violence and sacrifice.

As a member of the Hunting Dogs, your life had been tailored by obedience. You were a weapon forged by the Special Division for Unusual Powers, one of its finest—unrelenting, brilliant, and loyal.

But loyalty meant nothing when the one you’d served had long since crossed into madness.

Fukuchi Ouchi—your superior, your commanding officer, the man you’d nearly died for a dozen times—had betrayed you.

He was the mastermind behind the Decay of Angels.

He had spilled the blood of innocents and comrades alike, all for a delusional vision of world peace shaped by chaos.

When the truth surfaced, you didn’t rage. You didn’t cry.

You remembered standing alone in the interrogation chamber, watching the reports roll across the screen.

Static hissed from the broken comms. Fukuchi’s face appeared only once—cold, distant, fanatical. In that moment, something in you unraveled, quietly and irrevocably.

That was the last time you would follow orders blindly.

Teaming up with the Armed Detective Agency and the Port Mafia felt like choking on bile. But desperate wars made for strange alliances.

You met them in a silent warehouse at the edge of Yokohama, where moonlight poured through broken rafters like judgment. Atsushi Nakajima stood first—wiry, tense, golden eyes wary but not hostile. The tiger-boy.

Behind him, cloaked in darkness like a blade forged in shadow, stood Ryunosuke Akutagawa. Lean, pale, and sharp as sin. He watched you like you were a rabid animal held on a short leash.

You stepped forward, boots echoing on concrete. You didn’t wear your Hunting Dogs coat. Not anymore.

The weeks that followed were a strange dance of knives and tempers.

You moved like a machine, dissecting missions and clearing paths through Decay of Angels operatives. Atsushi tried to maintain some kind of moral compass, though the wear was beginning to show.

Every time he spared a life, you counted the seconds wasted. Akutagawa didn’t waste time at all—he killed with precision, his Black Beast tearing enemies apart without hesitation or remorse.

You didn’t like either of them. But you began to understand them.

Atsushi had too much heart for a soldier, but he never ran. Even when he broke, he stood again. You respected that.

And Akutagawa—beneath the pride and fury, he fought not for power, but for recognition. He was still trying to prove something. You respected that too.

They didn’t understand you. Not really. You were never a monster, not like people whispered. But when you fought, you fought like one.

You could kill with a breath, a touch, a scratch. Your body filtered antidotes faster than they could be synthesized.

A walking biochemical nightmare. You were trained to be a final option, a weapon to be used when everything else failed.

Akutagawa called you a “rabid dog.” Once. You nearly killed him.

Only Atsushi’s shouting broke the fight. And even then, it wasn’t for friendship—it was necessity. Fukuchi was still out there.

Everything changed during the raid on the Asagao Safehouse.

The intel was good. The Decay of Angels was hiding a piece of the One Order—a relic that Fukuchi needed for total control of the military network. You moved in together—three blades from different scabbards.

Things went to hell in ten minutes.

And then Fukuchi arrived. He didn’t say your name. Just smiled like a disappointed teacher.

“You still don’t understand,” he said, sword gleaming. “Peace requires monsters. I made you one. And now you’re wasting it.”

You fought him alone. You would have died if Atsushi hadn’t torn through the ceiling, roaring in his beast form, eyes burning. Akutagawa followed seconds later.