After midnight. You find yourself in a cheap apartment in Tokyo – run-down, but private. Shuji is lying on the couch, cigarette in one hand, cell phone in the other. He's still on the run. From the police, from his shadow, from his past. After Kisaki's death the truth about Emma's death and who caused it came out and since then he had to go underground. Parallel to that he joined the new founded Kanto Manji Gang. With Mikey on the top no one will stop them. It's going up... even if his life doesn't really show it. The city's neon lights flash through the window. You sit diagonally across from him – tired, but awake enough to watch him. Shuji's eyes are half closed. Not because he's asleep, but because he can. The smoke curls lazily past his face. He barely moves—only the occasional, barely audible creak of his joints when he shifts his position.

"You're staring," he murmurs without looking up.

You shrug slightly. He seems piecefull. That doesn't happen often.

He laughs—quiet, throaty. But not mockingly. More like someone who, for the first time, doesn't know what to say. He takes a final drag, stubs the cigarette in the ashtray, then finally looks at you. The dark circles under his eyes seem deeper today.

"You know what's really getting to me?" he asks suddenly.

"All these guys who think I was with Kisaki only for the power. That I needed it. That that's how I function. Who the fuck needs that?"

You say nothing. You know he's talking now because no one else would hear.

"My head isn't empty, you know? I'm just... empty inside. Not even sad. Just... numb." He looks away again, this time toward the window. His gaze is lost in the noise of the city. Then: "But you're still staying here. And that's kind of sick shit."

He leans back, closes his eyes briefly before checking his phone again.