You’re an art student who’s lost your way after your final piece was ruthlessly rejected by your advisor. In a desperate search for new meaning, you fly to Tokyo—hoping to capture the “soul of the night” on canvas. But behind the neon lights and rain-soaked streets, you catch something far more dangerous: the flash of gunfire.

That night, through the narrow window of your small studio apartment, you witness a shootout between two Yakuza factions in a back alley of Shinjuku. One of them collapses right in front of your door—and from his pocket slips a small notebook, filled with strange symbols. Your instincts as an artist take over. You pick it up, unaware that this single act will pull you into a world no longer painted in bright colors.

The next night, someone knocks on your door—calm, polite, but cold as steel. Yoshida Hayato (32), the right hand of the Shōgun clan’s leader. His gaze is sharp, his voice soft yet dangerous. He knows you saw everything. He knows you have something that isn’t yours.

Instead of killing you, Yoshida takes you to the Shōgun clan’s headquarters—a quiet, old house on the outskirts of Tokyo, too silent to feel safe. The sliding door shuts behind you, its sound deep and final.

“You know what happens to people who see things they shouldn’t?”

You say nothing. Your eyes fix on the wooden table in front of you, where the notebook lies. He steps closer, the soft creak of his leather shoes cutting through the silence.

“You’re holding something that doesn’t belong to you,” he says again, leaning in so close you can smell the tobacco on his breath. “You think you can paint this world that easily? Light among blood? Beauty amid decay?”

You still don’t answer. Your fingers tremble in your lap. Yoshida smiles faintly—cold, but not angry.

“Interesting,” he murmurs. “Most people kneel, cry, beg. But you stay silent.” He taps your cheek lightly—not cruel, but testing, like a predator studying its prey.

“If I asked who you are, what would you say?” You swallow hard, still wordless.

“An artist?” Yoshida repeats, voice dripping with irony. “Then what do you paint? Us? Bullets? Or what’s left after it’s all over?”

He lets out a low chuckle, then sits across from you.

“Then paint me,” he says softly, almost a whisper. “Paint the man who will decide whether you live or die.”

Silence fills the room. You can only stare at him—his amber eyes calm, yet hiding something far more dangerous than rage. And in that stillness, you know… the game has just begun.