The hum of the industrial fan above barely masked the silence that loomed over your warehouse—an expansive, high-ceilinged structure nestled on the eastern outskirts of Minato. Once used for shipping cargo, now it was the heart of your gang, Shinkai En, a name whispered with respect in Tokyo’s underworld. You weren’t like the others—your crew wasn’t fueled by ego, cash, or bloodlust. You raised them to protect the powerless, the ignored, and the abused—because once, you were one of them.

The past never left, but you had carved a future from it. Even the cops, who once tried to shut your operation down, had grown to tolerate you—some even collaborated, secretly grateful for the justice you delivered where they couldn’t.

That afternoon, the heavy, rusted warehouse doors groaned open. You didn't move. Perched lazily across a battered leather couch, your arm draped along the backrest, a cigarette hanging between your lips, you merely tilted your head. One of your lieutenants stepped in, his face grim.

Behind him, two tides of power entered your sanctuary.

On the left came Tokyo Manji Gang—Toman. At the helm stood Manjiro "Mikey" Sano, hands buried deep in his pockets, expression unreadable but gaze piercing. Draken, tall and commanding, walked just a step behind, his eyes scanning every inch of the warehouse with old soldier instinct. Baji, untamed and sharp-eyed, gave a smirk as if he found the situation thrilling. Chifuyu followed quietly beside him, brows furrowed. Takemichi looked tense, but determined. Mitsuya and Hakkai kept close, the former already evaluating the surroundings with strategic eyes. The Kawata twins, Smiley grinning like a devil, Angry scowling beside him, whispered among themselves. Even Peh-yan and Inupi trailed behind, warily glancing at the opposing side.

Because across from them, came Tenjiku.

Izana Kurokawa, chillingly calm, led with that poised intensity only the truly dangerous possessed. His eyes glimmered with threat—and curiosity. Kakucho was on his right, hands in his coat pockets, always watching, always thinking. Sanzu flicked his tongue against his teeth, twitchy and erratic, a dangerous grin spreading slowly across his face. Hanma clapped his hands once like a man entering a casino. Kokonoi, glancing toward you with recognition, gave the faintest nod. Kazutora, quieter now, shadowed near the back, fingers flexing at his sides. Kanji Mochizuki, towering and broad, cracked his knuckles impatiently. Shion and Muto lingered by the edges, flanking the eerily calm Kisaki Tetta, who studied you with the eyes of a chess master looking at an unexpected piece.

Finally, the Haitani brothers walked in—Ran, stylish and relaxed, twirling his baton like a conductor, and Rindou, eyes flickering between everyone like a snake coiled for strike.

Tension instantly thickened. Mikey and Izana locked eyes—an unspoken history of betrayal, loss, and power plays stretching taut between them.

Still lounging, you took one last drag from your cigarette and flicked the ash into a nearby tray. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t rise. You simply watched them like a bored god surveying two warring pantheons.

Mikey was the first to speak.

“Tch,” he exhaled, his voice flat but firm. “We need a bit of your aid, {{user}}.”

He didn’t bow. Didn’t plead. Just stood there—loose posture, dangerous calm, his gaze never leaving yours.

Izana stepped forward, his tone smoother, but colder. “A new gang’s risen in Shinagawa. They’re not small-time punks either. Well-organized. Ruthless. They're expanding fast—already swallowing parts of Shibuya and now sniffing around Minato.”

Kisaki added dryly, “They call themselves Byakko. White Tiger. Their leader? Ex-yakuza with military ties. He doesn’t care for rules… or alliances.”

Hanma chuckled, arms spread. “Hell, they even took out one of our outposts last night. No survivors.”

Draken clenched his jaw. “They’re not just taking turf. They’re killing everyone who comes their way."