𝗣𝗿𝗼𝗹𝗼𝗴𝘂𝗲
The rain poured endlessly the night his mother left.
Alexander Reiji remembered sittingłl in the dim living room, his small hands pressed against the cold fabric of his sweater, the television hummed in the Background, though neither he nor his father paid it any attention. The echoes of the Argument still lingered in the air, sharp and bitter, like the smell of overturned whisky. his mother's suitcase had been half packed, her movement frantic and careless, as if she couldn't get away fast enough.
"Stay."
the word had formed on his tongue, but never left his lips, because even then at just six years old he knew the truth
she had already decided as she walked out the door.
Days after, he found himself sitting in a court room, watching as his mother cried while his father stared ahead with the detached indifference of a man who had already won, he didn't understand the words they threw back and forth -custody, alimony, irreconcilable- but he understood the looks, his mother saw him as an obligation, his father saw him as a legacy, when the judge made the decision, it was final, he never saw his mother again.
Soon after his father, a Japanese, -his mother was British, he was was born in the UK- took him back to his home country Japan, were he started another phase of his life, in the Reiji household, Discipline took precedence over affection, success was expected, his father wasn't cruel, but was distant and cold, he was also a businessman, and most importantly a man of pride and old fashioned discipline, the house they lived, day by day, felt more like a corporate office than a home.
Blending into Japanese society after years in Britain, seemed impossible, the language, the customs, at school the way people foreign features with polite discomfort, it made school a bit unbearable, eyes that avoided meeting his too long, whispers that followed him down the hallways.
He understood the language to an extent, but understanding wasn't belonging, despite being smart, he still felt suffocated by the classroom, his grades wavered, and with every mistake, his father's patience thinned.
"You are my son, you will not be a Failure"
He would always say, Discipline came in many forms, sometimes sharp words -on lucky days, most times, he would have to face punishments that left bruises on his body and mind, tried to keep his head down, to listen, to do his best, but the pressure built untill he couldn't take it anymore.
At 16, he ran from home, believing anywhere else will be better, he ended up on the streets of Tokyo, and it almost swallowed him whole.
But the streets taught him faster than school ever could, first came hunger, then exhaustion and most important the cold reality of having nothing and no one, hunger, exhaustion, the constant threat of being caught and dragged home, those were the first lessons, survive or end up dead, he slept in internet cafés, stole when he had to, and learned the art of deception, to avoid the police, and survive in general.
Not too long after, thats when he came across Gangs
He remembered his first brawl -he would rather call it a beat down, how he hit the pavement hard, after a punch to the face, the Taste of blood in his mouth, The pain, the stars in his vision.
to avoid more cases like this he joined a gang for protection.
He wasn't a fighter, they let him stay, but he was like a dog, ran errands, carried messages, played look out during operations, and got beat up by stronger members, he learned who to fear, who to respect, who to never cross.
Despite a few scraps with death, he learned a lot, listened, memorized, he was smart, and was able to learn alot than he gave credit for, like for one, how people tend to reveal more than they realized in conversations or their daily life, was something he never forgot, and always took note of in his interactions with people.
But still those were hellish days, it was brutal -Alexander always wondered how he made it through- but it all came to an end on the day he met Hiroshi, he wasn't a boss not at that time, but someone important, he looked at Alexander, and saw something in him.
"You are smarter than the brats i get" he said amused, a cigarette between his fingers a half smirk on his lips "you want in, you can prove you're something, join me"
Alexander didn't hesitant, and like that, his life changed.
The Underworld, was not like the movies, it was business, not the reckless bloodshed or dramatic betrayals potrayed on the screen, it was business, very structured, money moved in the Shadows, their control and power, and Power belonged to those who controlled it.
At first he was nothing, but a low-level enforcer, who couldn't throw a punch, but under Hiroshi's guidance and mentorship, he learned more, how to fight, how to talk, how to read a man before he spoke, he studied many things, in many fields, expanding his knowledge, as he did his best to become, indispensable.
As Hiroshi rose in the ranks, Alexander followed, soon after, he found his talents in finance and negotiation.
Money Laundering, shell Corporations, Drug Trafficking, Racketeering, he dealt in it all, in time he had mastered the art of making debt a weapon, and controlling debts and favours like they were pieces on a chessboard, in time he reached a point where others broke bones, he broke men -but not through violence, but through control, he turned businessmen to pawns, made police officers his tools, and many rivals into ghosts.
By his late twenties, he had carved his own Empire in the financial underbelly of Tokyo, he wasn't a boss though, but he didn't need to be at the very top, he held influence, made millions, owned luxury apartments, penthouses in Shibuya, Night clubs and Hotels in major cities in Japan, cars worth more than peoples lives, tailored suits that cost more than peoples yearly salaries, each a symbol of who he had become.
With money came power, he knew everyone's price, politicians, high ranking officers in the police force, they were all in the palm of his hands, Alexander had grown from a nobody on the street, to someone who mattered.
but Power had its Price.
The police knew his name as expected. So arrests became routine. They never had enough to keep him. A few days in a holding cell, a lawyer, a quiet bribe, and he was free again, they could never put him down, not when many of them in the higher positions benefited of his money.
As for love? He had no time for it. Marriage was a vulnerability. Women of different types and colours came and went, drawn to his wealth, his intelligence, the quiet danger in his presence. But he never settled with any, just a few hot nights in bed was enough for him. Attachments made people weak.
And Alexander Reiji refused to be weak.
--
The night it all ended was just another deal.
A business meeting over expensive whiskey, a conversation laced with hidden threats and false smiles. He left the Club, driving his sleek black sedan, rain tapping against the windshield. The city blurred past in neon streaks of red and blue, he was drunk, but it didn't bother him.
Then—
A flash of headlights. A deafening crash.
Metal twisted. The world spun.
Pain.
Then—nothing.
--
He woke to the sound of rain.
Not the cold slap of it on skin, but the dull, distant hush of it hitting stone and wood. His eyes blinked open slowly, heavy and unfocused, and immediately something felt wrong.
His body wasn't his.
Everything was too small, too soft. His arms—if they could be called that—wobbled when he tried to lift them. His chest rose and fell too fast. Breathing felt... strange. And the world above him, a sky of gray moving shapes and soft fabric, swayed with every step.
He was being carried.
Panic tried to rise in him, but it came as a quiet, confused ache instead. He couldn't see who held him—his neck refused to turn—and his limbs didn't obey him like they should. He only knew that whoever it was, they were moving quickly. Running. The world around him shivered with motion. He could hear their breath, quick and shallow, and the hard thuds of their footsteps echoing off walls.
Then everything stopped.
He was lowered to the ground—carefully, but in a rush. The sound of the rain grew louder now, but it still didn't touch him. Some kind of awning kept it away. Still, the cold in the air crept under his skin.
He looked up.
A woman knelt over him.
Her face was beautiful in a strange, haunting way. Smooth skin, long dark lashes, eyes filled with something deep and painful. But what struck him hardest—what made his newborn breath catch—was the third eye resting above her brows. Closed. Perfectly centered. Not bleeding or monstrous. Just... there. Like it belonged.
He didn't know how to process it.
He tried to say something, anything—but all that came was a sharp, pitiful cry. His tiny hands jerked up toward her, shaking in a desperate, clumsy gesture he hadn't intended. The woman flinched, just slightly.
She said something—words soft and low, in a language he didn't recognize. Her voice cracked near the end. He didn't need to understand the words. The way she looked at him said enough.
She was leaving.
She leaned down, pressed a kiss to his forehead, and stood. Her footsteps faded into the rain, swallowed by the city.
And then there was nothing.
He lay there alone, tucked just out of the storm's reach. The stone beneath him was cold, but dry. The sky above was the color of ash. No one passed. No voices. Just the steady pulse of falling rain and the dull roar of his own confusion.
Where was he?
Why was he like this?
Was he going to die here?
Then—footsteps again. Slower this time. More cautious.
He couldn't turn to see. All he could do was stare upward, breath tight, and wait.
A man stepped into view.
Young, maybe mid-twenties, dressed in a dark robe that hung past his knees and was worn from travel. A high collar sat stiff at his neck. The robe itself looked like something pulled out of an old noble's trunk—threaded at the sleeves, a little too formal for someone walking in the rain. His boots were caked with mud. A pendant or crest shimmered near his collarbone.
He looked down at the child, and something flickered across his face.
Not fear. Not pity, either. Something quieter. Like hesitation.
Like doubt.
He didn't reach for the baby. Not right away.
Alexander stared up at him, eyes wide. There was no way to speak, no way to explain. But in that moment, some part of him—whatever old soul lingered behind those infant eyes—reached out.
And then his hand followed.
A small, shaking hand stretched toward the stranger above.
He didn't want to die here. Not alone. Not like this.