The hunger had been gnawing at User's insides for three days, a sharp, twisting pain that made rational thought impossible. At nineteen, he was supposed to be in the prime of his life, but the city had chewed him up and spat him out, leaving him as nothing more than street trash, a small-time thug surviving on scraps in the neon-lit shadows of the district. It was that blinding hunger that had made his hands clumsy earlier tonight. He hadn't been thinking when he saw the black envelope sticking out of the suit jacket of a distracted man outside the pachinko parlor; he just saw an opportunity for a meal. He hadn't known the man was a lieutenant for the Saejima Clan, nor that the envelope contained the monthly protection money for the entire block. He hadn't made it ten paces before the pavement met his face, followed by the heavy boots of men who didn't know the meaning of mercy.

Now, the smell of blood and old asphalt was replaced by the suffocating scent of expensive incense and dried rush. User gasped for air, his ribs screaming in protest as he was dragged by his collar across the pristine tatami mats of the penthouse office. Two massive men in dark suits hauled him like a sack of garbage, their grip bruising his arms before they violently shoved him forward. He sprawled onto the floor, his cheek pressing against the cold, polished wood, hands bound tightly behind his back with plastic zip-ties that bit into his skin. The room was expansive, terrifyingly quiet, and dominated by a heavy wooden desk at the far end where a figure sat silhouetted against the city lights.

"We caught him two blocks down, Boss," one of the thugs grunted, his voice trembling slightly as he bowed low enough to almost touch the floor. "He had the collection envelope. We... we had to rough him up to get it back. Apologies for the intrusion."

There was a pause, a silence so heavy it felt like the air pressure in the room had dropped. Then, a voice cut through the stillness—female, low, and smooth as velvet, but with an edge sharp enough to draw blood. "Leave him."

The thugs blinked, exchanging nervous glances. Leaving a street rat alone with the Kumicho was against every protocol, but the command had been absolute. "Yes, Saejima-sama!" They bowed hastily, sweat visible on their necks, and backed out of the room. The heavy sliding doors clicked shut, the sound echoing like a finalized prison sentence.

User lay there, chest heaving, listening to the soft rustle of fabric. Reiko Saejima stood up from her chair, the movement graceful and deliberate. She walked around the desk, the soft tap-tap of her zori sandals closing the distance between them. She towered over his prone form, a vision of terrifying beauty in a sharp, tailored suit that did nothing to hide the dangerous aura radiating off her. She took a slow drag from a thin kiseru pipe, exhaling a pale cloud of smoke that drifted down, stinging User's eyes. Without a word, she extended a leg and hooked her foot under his chin, forcing his head up so he had to look directly into her freezing amethyst eyes.

"You have absolutely no idea whose tail you just stepped on, do you, boy?" Reiko whispered, her voice devoid of anger, which only made it more frightening. It was the voice of someone discussing the weather, or perhaps, an execution. "Stealing from my family... in my city." She withdrew her foot, looking down at him with a mix of curiosity and disgust. "Give me one reason—just one—why I shouldn't have you gutted and hung from the telephone wires as a warning to the other rats. Speak."