Past: 2005
Takemichi's fists clenched as he watched one of his friends crumple to the floor, another victim of Kiyomizu's relentless brutality. The scent of sweat and blood hung heavy in the makeshift ring, a crude circle of onlookers with their pockets full of yen and their faces twisted with excitement. With a guttural yell that cut through the clamor, Takemichi shoved his way to the center.
"Stop!" Takemichi's voice sliced through the chaos, silencing the crowd. "I challenge you, Kiyomizu. One on one.
"You sure you wanna do this, hero?" Kiyomizu scoffed, cracking his neck from side to side. "This ain't a manga where the good guy wins."
Takemichi's jaw sight of his friends being bullied had kindled a fire within him that no beating could extinguish. "I'm not letting you touch them," he growled.
Takemichi's friends, faces pale and eyes wide, could only look on in horror. No one had expected him to step up like this—to challenge Kiyomizu head-on was insanity. But seeing them bruised and battered, something within Takemichi had snapped. He wouldn't—couldn't—let it continue. Not if he had anything to say about it.
The fight was a blur of pain and determination. Takemichi took hit after hit, his body screaming in protest, yet he remained undaunted, driven by a fierce loyalty to his friends. With every punch he endured, with every fall he took, the resolve within him solidified. He wouldn't give up—not now, not ever.
"Still standing?" Kiyomizu laughed cruelly.
"Still here," Takemichi spat through bloody teeth, defiant.
"You've got guts, Takemichi," Kiyomizu sneered, his shadow looming over Takemichi. "But I'm gonna crush 'em outta ya." He gestured impatiently to someone in the crowd. "Gimme my bat!" Kiyomizu barked, eager to end the spectacle. But Takemichi pushed himself up once more, spitting out blood mixed with defiance.
The tension was thick, suffocating, as if the air itself was holding its breath. And then, the atmosphere shifted. A sudden hush fell, a wave of silence that rippled through the crowd as three figures appeared at the entrance.
All heads turned as Draken, the towering vice commander with the dragon tattoo curling up his head, strolled in with Mikey, the infamous founder of Toman, at his side. Behind them, Ayame adjusted the straps of her backpack that hung carelessly over one shoulder, a bemused smile playing on her lips.
"Yo Kenny, I'm out of Dorayaki," Mikey muttered nonchalantly, eyeing Draken with a mischievous glint.
"Mikey, don't call me that here," Draken grumbled, his eyes scanning the crowd, missing nothing.
Behind them, Ayame couldn't contain a giggle, her laughter a bright note against the hushed reverence of the crowd. She continued adjusting her backpack, a symbol of normalcy starkly contrasting the power play unfolding before her. "Let's just finish this so we can go get some more," she said, her voice light but not without authority.
As the trio moved closer, the whispers grew louder, laced with awe and fear. "That's Draken... Vice Commander..." "And Mikey... He's the top dog..." The names carried weight, and the mere mention of Toman turned knees weak.
Takemichi's battered frame trembled, not from the fight but from the sudden shift in the fight clubs' dynamics as Ayame sauntered in alongside the Toman leaders. His friends, eyes wide and jaws slack, mirrored his disbelief. The casual banter between her and the feared gang members was inconceivable to them.
Without a word, the crowd parted before them, heads bowing instinctively. "Sir," echoed through the crowd like a practiced chorus as Draken and Mikey made their way past the high schoolers.
The murmurs ceased abruptly when Draken's towering form cast a shadow over Kiyomizu, who was still brandishing his bat like a king's scepter. "Hey, show some damn respect," Draken's voice thundered, laced with a venom that sent shivers down spines. His boot connected with Kiyomizu's shin with an audible thud, a clear command for submission.
"Sir," the word erupted from Kiyomizu's lips, coerced by the sheer force of Draken's presence.
Mikey, unfazed, stepped past him, his gaze landing on Takemichi with a curiosity that belied his youthful features.
"Who are you?" Mikey's tone was direct, yet there was an edge of curiosity.
"T-Takemichi Hanagaki," he managed, his voice unsteady, but his gaze never wavered from Mikey's piercing one.
"You look interesting, starting today we're friends, Takemitchy." Mikey declared with an air of finality that left no room for argument or question.
Before Takemichi could process the surreal twist of fate, Mikey spun on his heels, striding back with purpose. With a gentle, yet commanding grip, he took Ayame by the hand, guiding her towards Kiyomizu, who was still reeling from Draken's blow.
"Tell me again, what happened the other night with Kiyomizu?" Mikey's tone was deceptively calm, but his eyes bore the intensity of a brewing storm.
Ayame hesitated, her usual confidence replaced by a visible nervousness. "Mikey, we really don't have to—"
"Tell me," He insisted, the quiet demand in his voice leaving no room for avoidance.
With a resigned sigh, Ayame relented. "I... I was cornered by Kiyomizu. And he..." Her voice faltered, but she pressed on, "He was beating Takemichi with a bat, which I managed to stop."
Mikey's reaction was swift and fierce. A sharp kick sent Kiyomizu sprawling onto the cold concrete, his face contorting in shock and pain as Mikey seized it between his fingers.
"Who do you think you are?" Mikey's snarl was low and menacing, his question rhetorical. The beating that followed was ruthless—a lesson imprinted with fists and fury.
"Stop bringing down Toman's reputation," Draken said coolly once Mikey stepped away.
The silence following the violence was broken only by Mikey's final, dismissive shout as he walked off. "These fight clubs are stupid, shut them down immediately."
Kiyomizu, crumpled and defeated, could only nod, understanding the true power dynamics at play. Meanwhile, Takemichi stood amongst his friends, processing the friendship thrust upon him by the most unlikely ally, while the memory of Ayame's intervention lingered in the forefront of his mind.
Kiyomizu, nursing his bruised ego alongside his battered frame, staggered to his feet with malice glinting in his eyes. As Ayame's silhouette began to merge with the shadows of the exit, a snarl escaped his lips. "You think you can walk away from me, you little—"
The insult hung unfinished in the air as Ayame pivoted on her heel, instinct and training taking over. Her body coiled and then sprang forward like a steel trap releasing. The sound of her foot connecting with Kiyomizu's midsection was a solid thud, the impact reverberating through the silent crowd.
"Nice try," she said coolly, brushing an invisible speck of dust from her blouse as if she hadn't just laid out a man twice her size.
Mikey's lips curled into an approving smirk from where he stood, arms folded across his chest. "That's my girl," he announced, loud enough for the onlookers to hear, a touch of pride lacing his words.
"Hey, Ayame!" Mikey's voice cut through the whispers and gasps of the crowd. He stood by the entrance, an aura of command surrounding him. "Let's go."
"Coming, Mikey," Ayame called back, brushing off her skirt as if nothing had happened. She reached down to scoop up her backpack from where it lay abandoned, slinging it carelessly over one shoulder.
As she walked towards Mikey, the room parted for her like the sea for a prowling shark. Their presence was magnetic, pulling all attention their way. Ayame's grip found Mikey's outstretched hand, secure and unyielding.
As they interlocked hands, Ayame couldn't resist one final moment of bravado. She twisted around, her eyes finding Takemichi amidst the sea of shocked faces.
"See you at school tomorrow, Takemichi!" Her shout carried over the murmurs, leaving a trail of awe in its wake.
The crowd parted like a wave around Takemichi, their eyes wide with a mixture of shock and newfound respect. Whispers swept through them like wildfire, igniting conversations about the unassuming girl who held her own against a gang member and the quiet strength that had lain hidden beneath her everyday facade.
"Did you see that kick?" one of Takemichi's friends uttered, his voice tinged with awe. "Man, she's so hot."
"Yeah," another chimed in, his eyes following Ayame's retreating figure with something akin to reverence. "Takemichi sure knows some cool people."
Nods of agreement rippled through the group, their admiration for Ayame extending by proxy to Takemichi, who stood rooted to the spot, grappling with the evening's revelations. He could feel their gazes on him, reassessing, seeing him now not just as an underdog, but as someone with unexpected connections—a bridge to a world they had only watched from the periphery.
As Mikey led Ayame away, the last echoes of admiration for her and now by association, Takemichi, dissolved into the thick tension of the area. The fight club's very foundation seemed to shake under the weight of the new paradigm—Ayame's display of power and her connection to the infamous Toman leaders had rewritten the rules.