Chapter Text
Autumn. 5th year of the Heisei period (1993)
The Kansai region.
The neon lights of Shinseicho flickered above the darkened streets, their gaudy colors reflecting off the rain-soaked pavement. The city buzzed with life, but Majima Goro didn’t feel alive. Not tonight.
Seated in the corner booth of a dimly lit izakaya, Majima nursed his third whiskey of the night, a cigarette dangling loosely between his lips. His eyepatch was askew, his shirt collar rumpled, and an old crumpled decree sat next to his drink. The words blurred together, but one line cut through the fog in his head:
Mutual consent divorce.
“Pfff.” He smirked bitterly, blowing a stream of smoke into the air. As if that explained anything.
It had been less than a year, but the wounds were still raw. Work was the only distraction, although it was becoming increasingly difficult. Oyaji demanded more than ever, and the competitors were becoming more aggressive. The meeting in Shinseicho was supposed to be a turning point – a truce and the beginning of a new era of cooperation. But Majima knew there was blood in the air.
Before he could spiral further, his pocket bell vibrated violently on the table. It was Shimano. The bastard always had impeccable timing.
***
In the private backroom of a karaokekan, Shimano loomed over Majima like a bald bear about to swat a cub. The stale stench of cigarettes and spilled beer mixed with Shimano’s cologne, an overpowering concoction that reeked of wealth and malice.
“We’re meeting the Blue Dragon Syndicate tonight in Shinseicho. The truce deal goes smooth, or you’ll be picking up teeth on the pavement – your own or theirs.” Shimano’s gravelly voice was laced with venom.
Majima didn’t flinch, though his knuckles turned white around the handle of his bat. “I get it, Oyaji. Keep the peace, play nice, and bow real low. Anythin’ else, or should I start rehearsin’ my apologetic speeches now?”
Shimano growled, shoving a thick cigar into his mouth. “Just don’t screw it up. I’ve got eyes everywhere, Majima. You slip, you die. Simple.”
***
The warehouse behind the eatery ‘Yotteya’ was the kind of place you’d expect bad things to happen: dim lights, high ceilings, and stacks of crates that doubled as cover in a firefight. Majima arrived with his crew – fifteen men, all rough and loyal to a fault. The Blue Dragon Syndicate waited inside, their expressions as sharp as the knives likely hidden beneath their jackets.
Majima forced a grin, playing the Mad Dog role Shimano loved. “Alright, let’s get this game started, huh? Who’s buyin’ the first round?”
The Syndicate’s lieutenant didn’t laugh. “Shut up and sit down, Majima. Let’s get this over with.”
The tension was suffocating, but the meeting seemed to go smoothly at first. Hands were shaken, terms were discussed. Then Majima’s pocket bell buzzed.
At the most ‘appropriate’ fuckin’ moment. ‘Better’ could not be found.
He knew what this meant - the plan was changing. His kobuns began to fuss, checking their weapons and taking up positions. Majima was ready for anything, his gaze was cold as steel and his heart beat steadily, despite the growing tension
He glanced down. The message was cryptic: “Pull out now. Ambush.”
His heart sank, and his grin twisted into a snarl. “Boys, we’re leavin’. Now.”
But it was too late. The first gunshot rang out, followed by a cacophony of violence.
***
Chaos erupted. Bullets tore through the air, shattering the warehouse’s grim silence. Majima’s men scattered, firing back at the Syndicate. Fists collided with faces, knives gleamed in the dim light, and the warehouse became a battleground.
Majima fought like a man possessed. His bat cracked against a thug’s skull, sending the man sprawling on the floor. Another charged him with a knife, but Majima ducked, grabbing the man’s wrist and slamming his head into a nearby crate.
But then it happened.
A sharp pain exploded in his thigh, and he staggered. He looked down to see blood blossoming through his leather trousers. He’d been shot. But not there.
The pain wasn't from the bullet, it was from something else.
He tried to stay upright, but his vision blurred, and his leg buckled. He fell to the ground, his head striking the cold concrete.
Above him, the battle raged. He heard his men shouting his name, the sound of gunfire and breaking glass. And then –
CRACK!
A wooden beam fell from the ceiling, narrowly missing him but pinning one of his men. Majima tried to crawl toward the injured man, but his strength was fading fast.
“Oyaji!” someone screamed.
And then, darkness.
***
When Majima woke, he was in a dingy safehouse. His thigh was tightly bandaged, and the air reeked of disinfectant. Not his right-hand man, but just his kobun - Hiyama, sat by the window, chain-smoking and looking like hell.
“Oyasan, you’re awake.”
Majima groaned, sitting up with great effort. “What... what happened?”
Hiyama’s face darkened. “We got you out, but… we lost a lot of good men. Two thirds of the crew didn’t make it. And the rest are badly injured.”
Majima clenched his fists, his jaw tightening. He felt the weight of their deaths pressing down on him, heavy and suffocating.
“Eventually... I passed out in this… they died ‘cause of me,” he muttered. “And for what? A deal that was rotten from the start?”
Hiyama didn’t answer, just looked out the window as if searching for something in the distance.
But Majima wasn’t done. He gritted his teeth, his one good eye blazing with fury. “This ain’t over.”
Somethin’ doesn't add up. And when I figure out what exactly happened, If it's really Shimano, the Blue Dragon Syndicate, or all of ‘em... they’re gonna pay.