The sky above the city looked like a slab of lead—
heavy clouds suffocating the horizon.
Skyscrapers towered like walls of steel, their surfaces flooded with glowing advertisements: smiling faces, life-extending drugs, promises of a perfect existence…
A luminous lie draped over a rotten reality.
Down below, people occasionally glanced upward in idle curiosity…
before returning to their phones, their shallow conversations—
unaware that death walked beside them every second.
Atop one of those towering buildings, a young man sat with his legs stretched over the dew-slick rooftop.
His light brown hair swayed with the pre-rain breeze,
blue eyes locked into the scope of his rifle.
His finger followed the movement of a man weaving through the crowd below.
Then he raised his wrist to his lips.
That man… was Kazuya Minamoto.
His voice came low, calm—almost like he was speaking to himself rather than reporting:
“Target’s moving… heading east. Looks like he’s in a hurry.”
No tension came from the other side.
On the contrary… the reply was slow, flat—like someone commenting on dull weather:
“Kazu… someone stole the tangerines from my fridge.”
A brief silence.
Then a muffled chuckle escaped Kazuya’s chest.
“Seriously? We’re in the middle of surveillance, and you’re… complaining about fruit?”
No response.
Only a faint metallic sound—
the soft ring of a blade being idly flipped between fingers.
Finally, the same voice returned, utterly devoid of humor:
“I told you… those were the last three.”
Kazuya exhaled, adjusting his scope again.
“Pretty sure the boss ate them. You know his weird midnight cravings.”
In a narrow alley below, Renji Asakura walked without urgency.
His steps were slow… almost detached, as if the entire world moved slower around him.
A dagger danced lazily between his fingers—opening, closing—like a toy.
No interest.
Not in the target.
Not in the city.
Not even in the mission.
Then, in a low, distant tone, he asked:
“Kazu… what happened last night?”
Kazuya snorted.
“You don’t remember? You were completely wasted. It was a mess. You challenged Captain Erosuke to a drinking contest—while eating tangerines.”
A pause.
“You collapsed in five minutes… then spent the rest of the night talking to a chair.”
Renji didn’t laugh.
Didn’t react.
His glassy eyes drifted across the alley walls.
Then, a quiet exhale left him—neither amused nor surprised.
“…I see.”
Kazuya muttered under his breath, half amused:
“Sometimes I feel like you don’t belong in this world at all, Renji.”
The moment shattered.
Kazuya shifted his scope—
His eyes narrowed.
The target had stopped.
Slowly… he turned.
As if he sensed something.
Kazuya’s voice sharpened:
“Renji… careful. I think he knows.”
Renji stopped.
Tilted his head slightly.
The blade in his hand caught the faint flicker of a broken neon sign.
No tension.
No concern.
Only dry indifference:
“That makes things… easier.”
And with a quiet step—
he moved into the dark.
The alley echoed with his slow footsteps.
Time felt dull… stretched… meaningless.
Then—
a disturbance.
A breath behind him.
A sudden movement rushing forward—
Before the blade could strike his back—
Renji tilted his body effortlessly, not even pausing his call.
The attacker passed beside him like a clumsy shadow.
Renji turned halfway.
Those glass-like eyes—empty. Emotionless.
“Kazu… this is your fault.”
His voice was cold. Absolute.
“You insisted I drink… even though I hate alcohol. You know I get drunk easily.”
From above, Kazuya let out a nervous laugh:
“And who told you to listen to me? You ignore my orders all the time—except for that stupid night.”
The attacker lunged again—
wild, desperate strikes.
Not guided by reason…
but by something closer to hunger.
Renji moved like a mockery of gravity itself.
Small, lazy steps—
as if he were dancing with death.
A sigh slipped from him.
“This is annoying…”
His gaze dropped—
to the man’s neck.
There it was.
The mark.
A cracked, black engraving carved into flesh.
Almost complete.
The mark of those about to become Condemned—
beings that lose themselves… and fall under the Butchers’ control.
Renji didn’t hesitate.
One step.
Fluid. Lethal.
The blade pierced the sensitive tendon at the side of the neck.
—shk.
No scream.
Only the sound of blood bursting warm against the alley wall.
The man trembled… eyes wide with meaningless terror—
then collapsed.
A lifeless body.
Renji didn’t react.
Didn’t even look at the corpse.
He simply wiped the dagger against his sleeve.
“Done.”
On the rooftop, Kazuya exhaled slowly.
“God… you’re a killing machine. Even while complaining about tangerines.”
A quiet reply came.
Distant. Hollow.
“…tangerines.”
Renji stepped over the blood like it was nothing more than dirty water.
The alley swallowed him—twisting into a maze of shadows.
His destination was clear:
An old warehouse at the edge of the industrial district.
A place where the desperate hid—
people trying to cheat fate… delay their deaths.
His voice flowed again through the comm:
“I’m approaching the site.”
On the opposite rooftop—
Kazuya suddenly gasped.
Renji stopped.
Tilted his head.
“…What is it?”
Kazuya’s voice came alive—strangely excited:
“There’s a junk pile nearby! Old equipment—I can fix it. We should grab it before someone else does!”
Silence.
Renji didn’t respond.
His empty blue eyes stared into nothing.
The dagger spun idly between his fingers.
He wasn’t listening.
His thoughts drifted—
to something far more important:
The tangerines.
If the boss didn’t eat them…
Then was it Kazu…?
Or maybe Sayori-san…?
…Or did I eat them?
He realized—
he was analyzing three pieces of fruit
more than an active threat.
“Kazuya” snapped.
“Seriously?! I’m talking about something important, and you’re not even listening!”
No answer.
Just silence.
“Enough! Finish the mission yourself. I’m heading back. I’m done acting like an idiot thinking you actually care—”
The line cut.
Renji stood alone in the dark.
The first drops of rain fell slowly over his shoulders.
He didn’t look annoyed.
Didn’t react.
He simply murmured, quietly—
as if stating an obvious truth:
“…He’s angry again.”
His eyes drifted.
Not toward anyone.
Just… emptiness.
“…My fault again.”
The rain thickened—
hammering against metal roofs, flooding the streets with the scent of rust.
The old warehouse stood like a decaying mass at the edge of the industrial district.
Its iron door hung half-torn…
darkness inside swallowing everything.
Renji approached with steady steps.
He didn’t hide.
As if his confidence outweighed any attempt at surveillance.
At the threshold—he stopped.
Listened.
Broken breaths.
Bare feet scraping against the floor.
Faint whispers… heavy with fear.
They were here.
His fingers wrapped around the handle.
He pushed the door open slowly—
its rusty creak drowning beneath the rain.
He stepped inside.
Darkness consumed him whole.
Seven of them.
Men and women—
gaunt faces, hollow eyes.
On some of their necks… the mark of death, nearing completion.
They had come here to hide from the Organization.
But what entered wasn’t a hunter.
It was the Butcher’s smile—
one that never smiles.
One of them screamed:
“It’s one of them! Run!”
Bodies scattered in chaos.
Desperate attempts—
running between rusted crates,
hiding behind broken walls.
Renji didn’t run.
He walked.
Slowly.
First step—
His dagger rose in a straight line,
piercing the throat of a man charging him with a metal rod.
Blood burst like a red cloud.
The man dropped—silent.
Second step—
He lowered slightly, catching a woman’s wrist as she lunged with a rusted knife.
A half-turn—
Precise.
The tip of his blade kissed her artery—
A single thrust.
She fell before she could scream.
He moved like a drifting shadow through the warehouse.
No noise.
No hesitation.
Every strike deliberate.
Every cut placed at a fatal point.
Each life ended in less than a second.
One tried to hide behind stacked crates—
A blade slipped through his side.
Another crawled under a metal table—
Renji reached in, pulled him out slowly… like discarded trash.
One by one—
They fell.
Silence returned…
like a curtain swallowing every scream.
Minutes later—
Only bodies remained.
Scattered.
Blood pooling into dark stains beneath Renji’s feet.
He stood at the center.
Eyes distant.
No expression.
No triumph.
No sorrow.
Nothing.
He reached into his pocket.
Pulled out a small metal tin.
Opened it.
Empty.
A quiet sigh escaped him—
barely audible:
…If only I had a tangerine right now.”
He tilted his head up.
Rain seeped through the broken ceiling—
droplets falling against his cold face like diluted blood.
He raised his wrist.
Voice low. Detached:
“Field unit here… send cleanup. Warehouse Seven. Industrial district.”
He didn’t wait for a reply.
Cut the line.
He sat on a rusted crate.
Dagger resting in his hand.
Watching rain reflect across its blade.
His face empty.
His mind—somewhere else.
Tangerines.
Distant sounds approached.
Vehicles without lights.
Measured footsteps.
Men in black uniforms, masked.
They entered one by one.
No words.
No questions.
They were used to him.
He ends the targets—
they erase the aftermath.
Bodies were bagged in black plastic.
Blood scrubbed with chemicals.
Every trace removed—
as if nothing had ever happened.
Renji didn’t help.
He just sat there.
Head slightly tilted.
Eyes fixed on nothing.
After a few minutes, one of them approached respectfully:
“The site is secured, Asakura-san. You may return to headquarters.”
No response.
Renji stood.
Sheathed his dagger.
Walked toward the exit.
At the threshold—he whispered:
“…I’ll find out who stole the tangerines.”
Then disappeared into the rain.
He stepped out of the alleyways.
Rain pouring harder now.
Neon lights reflected across the wet asphalt.
He raised a hand.
A worn-out taxi stopped beside him.
He entered the back seat.
Closed the door quietly.
The driver was an old man.
Balding. Wrinkled.
A hesitant smile stretched across his face.
His voice was rough:
“Good evening, son… looks like you’ve worked hard. Bless your efforts.”
He never finished.
Cold metal pressed against the side of his head.
A small black pistol.
Perfectly still.
Renji’s other hand gripped his chin—tilting his head back slightly.
His reflection appeared in the rearview mirror.
Cold eyes.
Empty.
His voice came flat. Dead.
“…How did you know I’m from the Organization?”
Sweat beaded across the driver’s forehead.
A shaky smile:
“Oh… I just guessed… nothing more. Just luck.”
Renji cut him off.
His voice low—sharp enough to carve through air:
“Liar.”
A pause.
“You’re the leader of that runaway group. The one who guided them… and hid them.”
The man trembled.
Renji pulled down his collar.
Revealing it—
The mark.
Black. Cracked.
Almost complete.
Only days away.
Renji’s finger didn’t move.
Steady. Patient.
His voice—cold verdict:
“…Die.”
A soft pull—
—click.
The man’s head jerked to the side.
Blood splattered across the window.
Silence.
Instant death.
Renji calmly reached forward.
Turned the wheel.
Parked the car by the roadside.
Killed the engine.
Watched the corpse for a moment—
as if confirming nothing remained.
Then he searched the car.
Seats. Compartments.
A hidden box.
There—
A worn black file.
Stuffed with folded papers.
Names.
Photos.
Dates.
Not just runaways.
Former assassins.
Discarded by old organizations.
Or so the world believed.
The dead driver…
had been funding them.
Hiding them.
Last page—
A location.
An abandoned storage site outside the eastern district.
Adrion sector.
Renji closed the file.
Slid it under his coat.
Stepped out into the rain.
It poured harder now—
washing away the blood leaking from the front seat.
He stood still for a moment.
Eyes lifting toward the black sky.
Rain falling across his pale face.
A whisper. Empty:
“…Former assassins.”
Then he turned.
Walked into the neon-lit street.
The file tucked under his arm.
Behind him—the taxi sat in silence.
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