They rolled into the alley like a black rumor. The sedan's engine sighed and died, neon leaking off wet brick. Two men in suits that still smelled of oil and loyalty moved out from the shadow and walked to the car driving side window with the kind of silence that belonged to people who handled bad cargo.
One of them slid a small stack of laminated cards across the dashboard. Worker passes, stamped with a catering logo and barcoded for the service lifts. Each bore a photo: Itsuki, unreadable behind the cheap printed smile; Ken, jaw tense in the freeze-frame; their fake names beneath. The second man produced a single fox mask lacquered black over the eyes and nose, a thin wooden stick at the side.
Nifumi took the cards between two fingers like a man inspecting baubles. "Good work," he said, offhand, then grinned with a flash of teeth that had no warmth. The men stepped back and slid a canvas satchel across the floor into the rear. "Room 203," one of them said, voice flat. "Second floor. Alcohol crates." He pointed once, crisp and quick. "You'll find the remaining equipment there."
Hayato's hand brushed the satchel's strap like a test. He didn't grin. He only nodded. "We meet on the second in forty," he said, voice small and tight. "From the third down to the first is national level assassin's territory. If they catch you past the second floor, you're done. Understand?"
Itsuki and Ken both said yes. The word came out smaller than a promise and heavier than fear. Nifumi's face softened for the briefest second, a mirage. "You'll see things tonight you can't unsee," he warned, in that lazy drawl that never quite surrendered the edge beneath it. "Don't try to be fucking heroes. Keep your mouths shut. Keep your hands in your pockets. Act like one of them, act like you belong to that place, act like anything but mercy."
They moved like a current splitting at a rock. Nifumi and Hayato took the front entrance glitter and velvet and chandeliers that made the world look expensive enough to forget sins. Nifumi's president card flashed at the gate with smooth authority; the concierge smiled like a man reciting scripture. Hayato wore the fox mask with indifferent ease, the stick held between two fingers. He didn't laugh at it; the mask felt like a blade pressed against the skin.
The backdoor was narrow, hidden behind stacks of trash bins and rusted pipes. Two guards scanned the worker passes Nifumi had arranged, barely glancing at Ken and Itsuki before waving them through.
The moment they stepped inside, the smell hit first sweat, perfume, blood, and fear mixed into something rotten that clung to their lungs. The hallway opened into a vast underground floor glowing with gold chandeliers and cruelty.
Girls some barely teenagers stood in rows behind glass walls, dressed like dolls, collars tight around their necks. Numbers hung from their wrists as buyers inspected them, laughing, bargaining. Others, who dared to resist, were dragged away into dark rooms. The sound of whips and muffled screams echoed through the marble corridors like background music.
Itsuki froze. His hands clenched, jaw locked so tight it hurt.
Then—
A small figure stumbled out from one of the tunnels. A girl, maybe fourteen, chains around her ankles, cuffs biting into her wrists. She bumped into Itsuki and fell hard to the ground. Tears streaked down her dirt-covered face.
"Please… save me… please, big brother," she cried, her voice barely a whisper.
Itsuki's breath caught. His hand twitched toward her but before he could move, a man stepped out from the shadows, whip in hand.
"What do you think you're doing, little shit!?" he barked, cracking the whip across her back. She screamed, collapsing again.
Something inside Itsuki snapped his vision blurred, rage flooding through him so fast it made the air tremble. He took a step forward
Ken grabbed his shoulder, firm and low.
"Don't," he muttered. "Not now. We can't blow our cover. We'll save them… just not yet."
Itsuki's fists shook. The man dragged the girl away by her chain like she was nothing. Itsuki's eyes followed until she disappeared behind a door.
He exhaled, barely holding back the storm inside.
"…Let's move," he said quietly, his voice trembling with fury.
And the two of them kept walking deeper into hell.
Service corridors on the second floor looked like the back half of a different world crews moving silently with crates of wine and cases stamped with logos, men with carts who never asked questions. Canvas boxes waited anonymized in stacks that promised nothing and everything. Itsuki's fingers scraped the wood of a crate as they walked past. He tasted the place on his tongue like a bad omen.
They found Room 203 with no fuss. The door cracked and the dim light breathed out. Alcohol crates lined the walls cheap wipes of paper and glass, labels like leftover excuses. In the corner, tucked under tarpaulin, the canvas gave up their tools: rifles wrapped in oilcloth, four black-edged katana, compact pistols, grenades stowed in a box that hummed like a promise. Ken's face went tight when he saw the weapons; he checked a magazine like a man checking a pulse.
Hayato picks the katana and some extra magazines, the fabric swallowing metal like a quiet mouth. Itsuki felt the weight of each piece like a small anchor. Nifumi's two men closed the crate and replaced the tape as if it were routine.
Nifumi looked at all of them, eyes like a coin flashing. "From here," he said, small and sharp, "we don't hesitate. We move like we own the building, or we don't fucking move at all." He tapped the fox mask at Hayato's cheek. "And you two be ugly if you have to. Be monsters. But stay alive.
They stepped out of Room 203 with the rifles wrapped and slotted under coats, the taste of diesel and oil still on the canvas. The stairwell smelled of metal and old smoke. Itsuki led, Ken close behind, boots soft on the concrete steps as they climbed toward the third floor.
Halfway up, a voice cut the stairwell like a blade. "Yo, Nifumi did you forget a mere president can't go past the second floor?" It was dry, mocking, the kind of voice that wore confidence like armor.
Nifumi didn't answer at first. He was already ahead near the landing, one hand on the rail, watching the world in lazy calculation. "It's gonna be fun," he muttered, almost to himself.
They turned as Izuku stepped out from a side corridor, Izuku's smile was all teeth. "Cat got your tongue you creep?" he asked, cold. Why are you heading up to the third with all these bastards?"
Nifumi's grin widened, crooked and sharp. "Too bad for you you're alone tonight," he said, voice syrup-smooth. He leaned in like an old friend and then calm as a closing door his eyes went black. Not the flat, dead white Itsuki had felt before; black, like deep wells that drank the light.
For a half-second the stairwell held its breath. Izuku's smile flickered. "You're for real—" he started, but the word died in his mouth.
Nifumi's fingers like clamps, and seized Izuku's face. The sound when he smashed him to the concrete was a blunt punctuation: skull on stone. Izuku crumpled, trying to breathe through shock and blood. Nifumi shouts did you really think you could beat me alone you fucking piece of shit.
Nifumi straightened, shoulders loose, wiping blood from his hand like he'd just checked a stain. He glanced up toward Hayato, who had paused at the stairwell entrance, pistol half-hidden under his coat. "Brother," Nifumi called, voice casual, "leave him to me. I'll catch up. Don't waste time."
Hayato's jaw tightened. He didn't argue. He slipped his gaze to Itsuki and Ken both pale, both with something like a storm behind their eyes and then he moved, towing the pair toward the third-floor landing. Behind them, the echo of Izuku's grunt trailed off into the building's hush and Nifumi's low, satisfied chuckle.