Tokyo: My Superpower Refreshes Every Week

Shinjuku, Kabukicho Ichi-chome.

Every time night falls, neon signs flash on both sides of the street, young girls dressed as anime characters or in sexy outfits waving at passersby in front of blazing posters.

Those lines of young girls make a stunning sight—calling this place a paradise for men is no exaggeration.

The surging crowds prove just how bustling Kabukicho is after dark, pulsing with a strange pink-hued energy.

But it's in this lively place that Shinjuku's dualities of light and darkness stand out the most.

In the ultra-busy Kabukicho Ichi-chome, you might just turn a corner and step into a dim, deserted alley.

The silence inside seems to wordlessly repel would-be intruders.

If a passerby knows what's good for them, they just don't go in—no risk at all.

If they blunder in out of curiosity, well, bad luck might get them some real bad results.

Matsushita Toshihiro stood in a silent alley, guarding a door.

No lights at the entrance.

He didn't care about the darkness—just pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, stuck one between his lips.

Left hand fished out a retro match, scraped it lightly, lit his smoke on the faint flame.

Matsushita Toshihiro's been mixed up with the yakuza a long time—he'd be fifty soon.

Back in the day, he was Sannou Group's infamous war dog, a killer feared in every quarter.

Until the day he shot a man in a crowded street, ended up hauled off to prison.

Twenty years inside. By the time he got out, the world had changed—nothing and no one was the same.

Now old, he had no interest in a straight life—just wanted to get back to what he always did best.

But the boss who'd promoted him was already dead, and the new second-generation boss couldn't stand old men like him, so he got the watchdog gig.

If the young Matsushita had still had his strength, he'd have grabbed those punks by the collar, roared about all the blood he'd spilled for Sannou Group.

But old now, strength and fury gone—he just wanted his paycheck and to get by.

Didn't matter that his paycheck was paid in other people's blood and flesh.

As long as life moved easy for him, why should he care if others lived or died?

That's just how people live.

Matsushita took a deep drag, exhaled two streams of smoke through his nose.

He didn't know, on the rooftop of a building across the way, a pair of sharp eyes were locked on the door.

Aozawa, transformed into a peregrine falcon, perched on the edge, using his catalyst sensing ability to scout the area.

Confirming no surveillance nearby, and inside the building a deal was going down for that snow-white powder.

Headcount: Fifteen.

The buyers and sellers inside—and one of them, an old acquaintance spotted at noon.

Once Aozawa got the whole layout, his wings snapped out—then he dove, faster than a bullet train, straight down.

This time, he didn't use that Time Suspension superpower.

But through his eyes, Matsushita Toshihiro's exhaled smoke drifted slowly, his hand gripping the cigarette, even his blinking was clear as day.

Aozawa calmly took aim at Matsushita's neck—his talons slicing through his carotid artery and throat like a knife through tofu, tearing out a ragged chunk of flesh.

The smoke he'd just inhaled oozed from his ruined throat.

Matsushita Toshihiro's eyes went wide—just felt a pain in his throat, and all his thoughts sprayed out with the fountain of blood.

His brain sank into darkness—body collapsed to the ground.

Blood flooded out from the torn throat.

Landing, Aozawa transformed, becoming a tall, muscular man with shaggy brown hair.

Slicked-back, with a single lock hanging in front, dressed in a long snowy white coat.

This was Aizen Sosuke—the most popular villain from the shinigami anime.

Aozawa's Transformation Ability didn't have a cooldown as long as an hour hadn't passed yet.

Only after using it for a full hour would he have a one-minute cooldown phase.

Aozawa used telekinesis to twist the doorknob open.

Warm yellow light spilled out—he strolled inside at a leisurely pace.

Inside, a few sofas scattered about, and a tropical fish tank in the corner.

Eight guys took up different spots in the room, all guarding the door leading further inside.

When they saw him come in, their faces changed.

"That old timer Matsushita slacking off again, huh?"

One dude grumbled, stood up and strode over: "Hey, this ain't some tourist trap. Get the hell outta here."

"Don't get me wrong. I'm not here to sightsee. I'm here to kill you all."

Aozawa laid it out in a low, magnetic baritone.

"Here to mess with us?

You got balls, showing up empty-handed to challenge the Sannou Group."

The guy sneered, right hand slipping a pistol from his pocket and aiming at Aozawa: "I gotta say, you got no idea what's coming, or maybe you watched too many samurai flicks?"

"Hey, Yamada, you're way too chicken—a single punk needs a gun?"

The tough guy next to him scoffed.

From his point of view, fists would be more than enough to deal with this clown.

"Shut it. The fastest way to settle arguments is to flex real firepower."

The guy—Yamada—fired back at his buddy, eyes mocking: "Now you're scared, huh?"

"Scared? Over this? Guess our idea of power really isn't the same."

Aozawa looked calm, his tone as casual as if ordering a tea in some cafe on a sleepy afternoon.

Yamada was a little confused.

What backwater idiot is this?

Didn't even recognize a gun.

This thing squeezes a trigger—life snuffed just like that.

This ain't no toy.

"You—" Yamada started to explain just how deadly a gun was—when the man in front of him vanished. "Nani?!"

The shock nearly had his eyeballs popping out of his skull.

The rest of the group—all seven—freaked out in unison. First thing on their minds: they'd just seen a ghost.

Faces went dead pale. They'd done enough dirty shit to know—if ghosts were real, then so was hell.

"Let me show you. What's called power—that's this kind of ability."

That baritone was still smooth and elegant as before, and sweat beaded on foreheads everywhere.

Yamada turned—saw the vanished man now behind him, standing next to that inner door.

He swallowed, voice shaking: "You—you—what the hell are you?"

"How about you clowns shoot each other."

Aozawa didn't even look back, triggered his Hypnosis Ability.

Yamada's brain hadn't caught up yet when gunfire thundered right by his ear.

Bang.

He felt a burn in his side, blood gushing out, and stared wide-eyed at the guy next to him.

That buddy's face was shocked too.

What the hell?

The thought flickered through Yamada's mind, right hand automatically turning his gun on the guy who'd shot him.

Finger tightened down on the trigger.

Bang bang bang bang—bullets sprayed out of the barrels and sliced mad through the air.

Crash! Glass shattered—water poured from a bullet hole in the fish tank.

A couple unlucky tropical fish got hit, and blood instantly stained the tank.

Water glasses on the table, people's bodies, the wall—everything was riddled with bullet scars.

In just a moment, the eight hypnotized men blew each other away, gunning one another down.

When the bullets ran out, they toppled like busted rags onto the floor.

This hall was soundproofed pretty well—no worries about the gunshots drawing outside attention.

But no way the guys in the next room missed that shooting.

Aozawa put his hand to the wall, used his catalyst sensing ability.

His perception soared—pictures flooded into his mind.

He ignored the rest—focused in on the inner room.

Wide floor space, semicircular layout.

Two long sofas, a square coffee table, and on top, two containers—one big, one small.

One's stuffed with cash; the other has baggies of white powder.

Six people inside.

Only two sitting—rest all standing by with guns aimed at the door, tense and ready.

...

Kevin took a sip of water, thoroughly exasperated—he sure as hell hadn't stepped on shit today.

So why would his luck suck this bad?

He got collared by the Metropolitan Police's special task force right while meeting Yasuda Yutaka.

To work off his charges, Leader Robert set him up to trade powder with the Sannou Group—refill a little black ops budget for the CIA.

And now, a classic double-cross.

And he could say that for sure—it wasn't the Metropolitan Police busting in, but a yakuza black-bag job, since the CIA's got its ways of knowing when police raids are coming down.

In Japan, the CIA was always the yakuza's safest, most reliable supplier.

Way above the U.S. Forces Japan, even.

If Kevin screwed up this hand-off, he'd never see another sunrise, guaranteed.

"Mr. Asai, your Sannou Group's security clearly needs work."

"Don't worry. We'll handle it."

Asai Etsuki answered coldly, his square face stone-hard.

He wasn't rattled in the slightest—ten years in the game, seen it all, done it all.

People thought the Japanese underworld was peaceful? That was just because they were good at wearing masks. You never saw their real beefs go public.

Business on the street stays on the street.

Big biker gangs, newspaper bosses, and the cops were all connected. Most headline-grabbing cases just got written off as suicides.

The Sannou Group's reputation was legendary, even overseas—of course it came splattered in blood.

"Yosuke, go check on the others outside."

Asai Etsuki ordered coolly, reaching to his waist and drawing a pitch-black pistol.

In his eyes, anyone daring to mess with Sannou Group had to be some half-bright punk kid.

Thinking about all those Shinjuku wannabe-gangs, Asai reckoned it was time these little shits learned what real shock and awe meant—from their senior predecessors.

Kevin was still uneasy.

Maybe he was just too jumpy, but today's rotten luck had him all kinds of suspicious. There was no way things would just wrap up as planned.

Maybe it was time to use the secret weapon Leader Robert gave him.

Kevin reached toward his briefcase—an AK-47, in the hands of yakuza in Japan, was heavyweight firepower.

With a beast like that on hand, Kevin was sure he could deal with any yakuza scumbags trying a move.

The tall Yosuke gripped the doorknob and suddenly threw the door open.