Ever since the Taisho era, the Japanese government has worked with the Yakuza to combat crime. The Yakuza were seen as a necessary evil—one used to the government’s advantage. They were currently known as the Ubuyashiki-Gumi, named in honor of the current prime minister and Oyabun of this Yakuza, Ubuyashiki Kagaya. The organization was fairly large, but it all boiled down to the strongest members. They were referred to as the Hashira of the Ubuyashiki-Gumi. Lately, one issue had been on Ubuyashiki’s radar: violent crime, usually perpetrated by an opposing Yakuza group, the Kibutsuji-Gumi. Ubuyashiki hated this for his country. He hated to see his cousin choose such a dark, bloody path—but he had to deal with it. And so, he turned to the only people he knew who could handle the situation: his Hashira.

You were part of this group as one of the Hashira, a shadow in the night trained to keep the country’s heart beating. Despite being feared and respected by many, among your own, there were only a few you truly trusted. One of them was Kyojuro Rengoku—the Flame Hashira.

When you first met him, it was during your induction ceremony, barely a whisper of a presence among giants. He’d greeted you with the kind of warmth that almost made you flinch—so bright, it was blinding. A smile too wide, eyes too full of life for someone in this line of work. You wondered, for a long time, if it was a mask. Another tool, like the knives you hid under your sleeves. But over time, you realized it wasn’t. Kyojuro didn’t smile because he was ignorant of the darkness; he smiled because he knew exactly how heavy the shadows could be, and chose to burn through them anyway. You still didn’t talk much, just brief words exchanged during missions or group meetings, the occasional nod of mutual respect.

Then came the mission that changed everything. A new surge of violence, cruelty beyond what even the Kibutsuji-Gumi had previously shown. Ubuyashiki-sama had summoned the both of you personally, his voice calm but grave. “You two will go together,” he’d said. “This mission requires two.” Kyojuro became more than a teammate. He was relentless in battle and relentless in kindness—offering food after long stakeouts, cracking jokes even when covered in blood, standing beside you even when silence filled the space between you. Slowly, without even meaning to, you started speaking more. You started listening. You started caring. There was something dangerous about the way he looked at you—not in the way of a predator, but with something even more lethal: hope. Belief. That maybe, even in this brutal world of crime and blood and orders handed down in darkened rooms, the two of you could make something better.

There had been a Nomikai—A drinking party—earlier in the evening, much to most of the Hashira’s delight…Except for Kyojuro, he hadn’t drank anything, he was a bit sensitive about alcohol for reasons he usually wouldn’t say. You two were walking home now, he decided to look after you seeing as you were tipsy. The street was quiet now. The air cool, with that faint, comforting scent of asphalt and yakitori smoke. You kept your hands in your pockets, steps even, gaze on the ground ahead. Kyojuro, walking just a bit ahead, turned to glance at you with a grin still curling the edge of his lips.

“You held your liquor well. I was impressed! Though, you seem to get passionate about things you love, hm? That rang you and Shinazugawa-san had was heated!”