Torrents of rain transformed the streets of Kabukicho, Tokyo into rivers. Figures darted through the downpour, their movements frantic as they sought refuge from the storm. Umbrellas bobbed in the sea of people, their vibrant colors a stark contrast to the gray sky. Raincoats glistened under the city lights, droplets cascading off them as their wearers hurried by.

In the narrow confines of the alleyway behind a building, the echo of cruel laughter and the sickening thud of fists meeting flesh reverberated off the grimy brick walls. The yakuza, their faces twisted in sadistic pleasure, were relentless in their assault. Pleas for mercy, uttered in hoarse whispers, were swallowed by the cold, uncaring night.

Tucked away in the shadowy recesses of a rusted dumpster, a lone figure trembled. Each cry of pain was a sharp stab to his heart, each plea for mercy a haunting echo of his own silent prayers. Tears carved a path down his dirt-streaked face, falling unnoticed onto his ragged clothes. His lips moved in a silent litany, a bitter indictment against a God who seemed to have turned a deaf ear. His hands, grimy and shaking, clenched into fists, the only testament to his impotent rage and despair.

As evening deepened, the relentless downpour continued, each raindrop a symphony of nature's indifference. The hands of the clock inched towards 8:00 p.m., and as if on cue, the rain's furious tempo slowed to a gentle patter. The world was now a watercolor painting, washed in hues of twilight and rain.

Suddenly, the purr of an engine sliced through the rhythm of the rain. A sleek, black sedan, as expensive as it was imposing, glided to a halt beside a pulsating nightclub. Its gleaming surface was a stark contrast to the rain-soaked streets, a silent proclamation of power and wealth.

Behind the wheel, a man exuded an aura of dangerous charisma. His hair, an undercut slicked back with precision, was marked by bands shaved onto the sides, a testament to his meticulous grooming. His attire, a distinctive blend of streetwear and yakuza aesthetics, consisted of a black track jacket, worn with a brazen disregard for an undershirt, and matching bottoms. Golden decals adorned the sleeves and pant legs, catching the dim light and lending him an air of understated opulence. His feet were encased in gold trainers, their black soles a stark contrast against the gleaming surface.

The jacket's oversized hood, a constant companion in his clandestine endeavors, lay dormant for now. This was Tatsuya Ukyo, a foot soldier in the ranks of the Kiryu Family, yet a force to be reckoned with. His presence was amplified by the silent figure beside him, Isamu Kosuke, his sworn brother, their bond forged in the crucible of the underworld.

"Koudai," Tatsuya called, his voice cutting through the silence to wake Isamu from his slumber. They had a mission, and it wouldn't do them any good with Isamu sleeping like a baby. As Isamu slowly woke up, yawning and rubbing his eyes, Tatsuya continued observing the club. A burly man in a black suit stood guard in front of the two red rose printed doors. This was the Rose Club, a hostess club owned by the Kiryu Family. Five days had passed since they promised to pay protection money, but they still hadn't delivered. Tatsuya remembered Patriarch Kiryu's stern order to collect the money due today, or else. "Hey, take a look over there," he said, pointing at the fat bouncer who was on his phone, laughing. "They got a big guy over there. But..." he continued, stretching his arms and cracking his knuckles, "nothing we can't handle. Let's go." He turned off the engine, pulled the key, and got out of the car. "That bastard better have our money."

                                                                           TATSUYA UKYO,

                                                                   OF THE KIRYU FAMILY,

                                                              A TOJO CLAN SUBSIDIARY

In the front passenger seat, a figure sat, his right palm expertly twirling a baseball bat in mesmerizing circles. His hair, a wild cascade of unruly strands, fell around his face, obscuring his forehead and the tops of his ears. Beneath the veil of hair, a pair of sky-blue eyes sparkled with an unspoken intensity.

His attire was a testament to his yakuza lifestyle. A brown hoodie, sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms, was worn over a basic red t-shirt. On his right hand, a single black fingerless glove was a stark contrast against the pale grip of his baseball bat, its surface smeared with dried blood. A small torque necklace peeked out from above the neckline of his t-shirt, glinting in the dim light.

His black jeans were worn and faded, hinting at many a night spent in enemy territory. The hood of his hoodie, large and shadowy, was always ready to shroud his features, a perfect disguise for when discretion was needed.  

With a roll of his eyes and a smirk playing on his lips, Isamu drawled, "Gosh, dang. Would ya relax, Tatsuya?" His voice was as nonchalant as his personality, a stark contrast to his no-nonsense brother. "You're just like Cap Shinji. But you're right. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can have that beef bowl." He pushed open the car door and stepped out, stretching his arms above his head. "Right, let's do this." He followed his friend towards the nightclub, a mischievous glint in his eye. "And we gotta pay a visit to the young mistress as well. Last time, she gave me an earful just for being two minutes late!"

                                                                   ISAMU KOSUKE

                                                               OF THE KIRYU FAMILY,

                                                            A TOJO CLAN SUBSIDIARY

"The Yakuza duo arrived at the entrance. Both of them started eyeing the large bodyguard, who was busy on the phone, from top to bottom and then in reverse. Isamu gripped the bat he was holding in his right hand tightly, ready for action. The duo continued their silent intimidation until the bodyguard started growing uncomfortable.

"Yeah, Jen-chan. Holler at me later. Love you," he said, letting his phone slip quickly into the back pocket of his grey suit pants. "Just what the heck are you looking at, dickheads?"

He eyed the duo, silently waiting for their next move. Unluckily for him, he didn't have to wait long. Tatsuya slowly started moving towards him.

"Dickhead?!" Tatsuya cried in fury as he swiftly grabbed the man by his shirt collar. "You dare insult the Kiryu Family, punk?! We'll make you regret this!"

"Woah, woah, easy now, kyoudai," Isamu stepped in, lightly pushing Tatsuya off the bodyguard. He heard a disgruntled 'humph' from Tatsuya before turning his attention to the bodyguard. "Your boss, Yamada-san, is he in his office? He was supposed to start paying protection from this September. We're here to collect."

"Too bad," the bodyguard said in a gravelly tone, his arms crossed over his chest. "I don't care what the boss owns. You ain't stepping inside this club."

"Well, pal," said Isamu, his voice stern, a stark contrast to his usual laid-back tone. He raised his bat, the dried blood on it catching the dim light of the streetlamp. "We tried to reason with ya. Don't know about Tatsuya here, but I was aiming to do this more peacefully. The pain that's coming your way is on you, buddy."

Tatsuya's fists clenched tighter with each passing second. His glare was enough to make the passersby quicken their pace.

"Enough with the chit-chat, Isamu!" Tatsuya yelled. "Let's get this over with! JUST FUCKING HIT HIM ALREADY, ISAMU! AIN'T GOT ALL NIGHT!"

"I warned you, big man," Isamu said, swinging his baseball bat towards the bodyguard's head. But the bodyguard was quicker, grabbing the bat and yanking Isamu towards him. A gut-wrenching punch landed on Isamu's stomach, making him cry out in pain. Recovering quickly, Isamu retaliated with a swift kick to the man's crotch. The bodyguard whimpered, doubling over in pain.

Just as Isamu was about to deliver the knockout punch, Tatsuya stepped in. With a swift jab to the bodyguard's throat and a right hook to his face, Tatsuya knocked the man out cold.

"Let's go, Isamu."

"Lead the way, bro." Isamu followed Tatsuya, who kicked the door open. The patrons and staff inside the club gasped, backing away as the two men made their entrance. A man dressed impeccably in a white suit approached them, his demeanor timid.

"What seems to be the problem, sirs?" 

"Do you really wanna know, boy?" Tatsuya approached him menacingly, sizing him from top to bottom. His gaze was enough to make the man in the white suit tremble. "Because I don't think you do, given how you're freaking out just by our visit."

"Tatsuya!" Isamu called out to his kyoudai. "Can't you see? He's scared enough." He turned to the man in the white suit, his voice calm yet commanding. "Now, if you want to spend your night without any further trouble, I would suggest the wise thing for you to do is to direct us to your boss' office."

"His office...second floor. Look for a Rose insignia," the man in the white suit stammered, his knees buckling under the weight of his fear. "Please...I'll do anything. Just let me go."

"We're not here for your hospitality, white suit," Isamu replied, his voice as cold as ice. "We're here for your boss."

Without a word, Tatsuya turned and began ascending the crimson staircase, leaving Isamu behind.

"What's your name?" Isamu asked, resting a hand on the trembling man's shoulder.

"Shono," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Thanks for the info, Shono-kun. You've been helpful." Isamu turned to follow his brother, a knot of worry forming in his stomach. Tatsuya was a loose cannon, and Isamu could only hope he wouldn't do anything rash.

Panic surged through him as he sprinted down the hallway, shoving aside waitstaff who dared to block his path. His destination: a door marked with a Rose insignia. The door was barely hanging on its hinges, a testament to the chaos that had unfolded inside.

Tatsuya was in the room, his hands wrapped around an old man's throat. The man's face was turning a frightening shade of blue as he gasped for air, his feeble hands tapping against Tatsuya's in a desperate plea for mercy. All the while, Tatsuya's voice echoed throughout the room, "Where's the money, old man?"

Isamu stood frozen at the doorway, taking in the hurricane-like destruction. Furniture was strewn about, the chandelier lay shattered on the floor, and amidst it all, his brother's face was a startling contrast of red against the old man's blue.

Fear gripped Isamu, but he knew he had to intervene. With a surge of adrenaline, he rushed forward, using all his strength to pry Tatsuya off the man and onto the floor. He knelt beside the old man, offering what aid he could in the aftermath of the storm.

Isamu held the man by his shoulders, making eye contact as he lightly shook him. "You okay, man? I'm truly sorry for what my partner did. I..."

"Stop.." The old man's voice was barely a whisper, strained and hoarse. "Please... stop... water..." 

He weakly pointed to a shelf in the furthest corner of the room, surprisingly untouched in the chaos, stocked with bottles of water and alcohol.

Ignoring the low growl emanating from Tatsuya, Isamu darted towards the shelf. He could feel Tatsuya's glare burning into his back but chose to ignore it. He grabbed a water bottle and sprinted back to the old man. Gently tilting the man's head back, he opened the bottle and slowly poured water into his mouth. After the man had drunk enough, he gestured for Isamu to stop and slowly rose from the floor.

Isamu quickly retrieved an office chair and helped the man sit down, ensuring he was comfortable.

"Perhaps you would like to learn what occurred in this place while you were not present. So, listen," the old man said, making eye contact with Isamu. He crouched down to match the old man's height, his eyes never leaving the old man's face.

As the old man began his tale, Tatsuya stomped out of the room, unnoticed by the pair engrossed in their conversation.

"This man... Tatsuya, right?" He asked, pausing for Isamu's nod of confirmation. "He barged in, scared half of the girls to death, then started trashing this place. I asked him over and over what he wanted. He dropped the sofa he'd picked up, started patting his hoodie as if looking for a weapon. His frustration grew when he couldn't find what he was looking for. He approached my desk, his face twisted in rage. He pushed my desk to the floor, grabbed me by the collar, and kicked the chair away. He started choking me, demanding to know 'where's the money'. If he hadn't loosened his grip, I would've told him. I'm glad you came along, son."

"Me too, but I have to cut this short, Yamada-san," Isamu said, his gaze shifting towards the door. "My bro's probably outside scaring some poor civilian to death. Just give me the briefcase that has the protection money and we'll be on our way."

Yamada-san pointed to the shelf from where Isamu had previously fetched him a bottle of water. "It's there. Behind that shelf."

"Thanks." Isamu's voice was soft, almost drowned out by the distant sounds of the city. He pulled the briefcase from behind the shelf, its weight a familiar comfort in his hands. Before leaving, he turned back to Yamada-san, an apology lingering on his lips. "Sorry for the mess."Yamada-san just gave a tiny smile, a glimmer of warmth in his weary eyes. It was probably for Isamu's kindness, a rare commodity in their line of work.