Chapter 3: Chapter 3 – Prologue (3)

Prologue (3)

In the shadow of Tokyo's tallest skyscraper was a white limousine. Its sleek exterior was adorned with silver accents, and the interior was lined with leather seats. The car was the epitome of luxury; a vehicle fit for a king—and, perhaps, it could be argued that the person inside was indeed a king. The car's engine purred as it idled in the cool night air.

A man stepped out of the vehicle. Not a crease was to be found on his outfit, which bore the embroidered sigil of the Yamato Group on the right breast pocket.

Being ordered to give his superior some privacy, he took up a position a few meters rear of the limousine and leaned against a nearby tree. As was the norm for such nighttime dealings, he had prepared the finest noise-cancelling earbuds for music. He would wait patiently for his master to finish his business.

Within the limousine, Kurosaki lounged in the passenger seat. His fingers tapped against the armrest as he observed the third party sitting across from him.

"That's it? That's the best plan you could come up with?"

The other man in the car—the leader of the anti-corporate movement—held a conflicted expression.

"T-That's it?" he parroted, "Kageyama-sama, with all due respect, although I have no problems with this plan, some members denounced it as borderline terrorism!"

He was young, perhaps no older than a graduate student. He had an immature air about him; his hair was unkempt and his clothes were ill-fitted.

Kurosaki's eyes glinted; his face remained impassive. "Terrorism, you say? Well, I suppose if they insist on using such a term. Though, I prefer the word 'activism'. It isn't too different to what you've already done, no? The bigger the incident, the more attention you will draw from the media. It's important to get the message out there."

"But this is surely going too far," the activist objected. "We're talking about the Fair Trade Commission here; a government bureau! We were fine with other things, but this..."

"Nothing will truly change if your organisation continues with such paltry displays. If we truly wish to create a fairer system, greater measures must be taken," Kurosaki replied. "If your organisation's conviction to the anti-corporate movement is so weak, I question for what purpose my funding is being used?"

The activist looked like he'd been slapped; his cheeks flushed red. "No, no! We'll do it! We'll send an announcement out tonight. There'll be thousands of protesters outside their headquarters this time next week!"

"Do as you wish," Kurosaki's eyes flicked to the side. "I'm sure you'll get the results you're hoping for. Make sure to give the head commissioner a good scare in the righteous name of anti-corporatism."

"Of course!" The activist nodded furiously, "Kageyama-sama, you're too kind. Sometimes I still can't believe we have an insider so close to the top!"

"You flatter me," Kurosaki waved a hand dismissively. "I am simply looking out for the common man; like you, I want this country to be a place worth investing in. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have another engagement soon. You should be off."

"Yes, you must be very busy," the activist bowed deeply. "Kageyama-sama, thank you again for everything."

"Mm."

Kurosaki nodded as the activist left the car. The door shut behind him, leaving him alone.

'What an idiot.'

Kurosaki sat back as his fingers drummed against the armrest as he pondered the situation. There was no doubt what the group was planning was terrorism. Ransoming the head commissioner in exchange for harsher antimonopoly laws? What a joke. Should they even succeed in kidnapping the man, it wouldn't make any difference. Kurosaki knew that behind closed doors such laws were already being considered—which was why he was acting now.

The young man's zeal was useful; he didn't seem to think too deeply about the fundamental nature of the plan, more focused on the intention behind it instead.

The anti-corporate movement had been losing public momentum ever since they began more egregious methods of 'raising awareness' at his suggestion. From blockading roads to smashing windows of everyday businesses, they were quickly shunned by the working man and reviled by the government. Thankfully, it seemed, having been locked in their own little echo chamber for a year, the members of the movement were oblivious to their unpopularity.

With some cherry-picked media coverage here and there, attempting to limit the power of corporations was now an action synonymous with the movement. Nobody dared to speak out in favour, lest they be branded a terrorist sympathiser.

A dirty commie hoping to destroy the free market?

A highbrow progressive acting holier-than-thou?

A covetous authoritarian bolstering government overreach?

It didn't matter what the supporters were labelled as; the umbrella was cast, and all fell under its domain: A group of radicals whose methods had more in common with thugs than activists. After this incident, no lawmaker would dare raise their hand in favour of the new antimonopoly bill.

Contentedly, Kurosaki reached into his jacket pocket and produced a smartphone. After tapping the screen in a practised manner, he was presented with his contacts. Kurosaki proceeded to scroll through the endless list of names until he came across the one he was seeking.

However, as his index finger hovered over 'FTC High Commissioner', he paused.

Kurosaki caught a glimpse of somebody in his peripheral vision, and a slight panic overtook him.

'A nosy journalist?'

Kurosaki narrowed his eyes as he stared through the tinted glass window. It was dark out, but a figure could be clearly seen only a stone's throw away from the car. As Kurosaki peered closer, he clicked his tongue.

The man's posture was stooped low; hunched over like a homeless vagrant, with clothes to match. The figure had an outline of a shaggy beard and unkempt hair, and his face was hidden by the shadows.

'Just some beggar. It feels like they're multiplying these days,' Kurosaki scoffed to himself.

With a sigh, Kurosaki dismissed the contact and stowed his phone away. The man outside the car was of no consequence. All he was doing was loitering around the area—a homeless person, most likely, hoping to find some charity. The sight soured Kurosaki's mood greatly.

The CEO irritatedly knocked against the glass with his knuckles as he called out to his driver.

"Driver, get rid of that vagrant! His presence is distracting!"

...

Kurosaki was met with no response.

'Could he not hear me through the glass?'

Admittedly, the limousine was constructed of the utmost quality materials, and while the manufacturers liked to claim it was '100% soundproof!', Kurosaki knew there was no such thing. His shouts should've gotten through, even if a bit muffled.

"Oi! Driver!" he called out again. "Did you hear me?" Nothing. "I said, remove that vagrant!" Still nothing. "Driver!" he shouted as he banged on the glass with his fist.

As if on cue, the car door clicked; Kurosaki turned around to the opening door—

Shing!

—only to be greeted by a flash of metal.

Kurosaki was given no time to think as a bloodied knife crossed his vision. He reflexively raised his arms to protect his face, and the blade raked across his balled fists, drawing a line of blood across his knuckles.

"Argh——!!"

Kurosaki howled in pain as he rolled backwards. With a thud, he landed in the aisle which spanned the length of the limousine. His assailant gave him no respite, lunging at him again. This time, Kurosaki got a clear view of his attacker: the homeless man he'd spotted before. His eyes were manic and his grin was insane; his face was covered in sweat, and he was panting like a dog.

Kurosaki instantly knew there would be no reasoning with such a beast.

By the time his mind could register what was happening, the assailant had already landed a second strike; the blade was loosely buried into his right shoulder. A searing pain shot up Kurosaki's arm like lightning.

He could feel the warm trickle of blood running down his arm as he attempted to push himself back up. He was bleeding heavily now—his suit was soaked in crimson. His breathing was becoming laboured, his body racked with pain.

'It's no good, it's no good...' Kurosaki groaned to himself as he struggled to push himself away. 'Where the hell did my driver go...'

The vagrant tugged at the lodged blade.

With a groan, Kurosaki made an effort to fight back; he swung his legs wildly, kicking out with his feet. The attacker was caught off-guard by Kurosaki's sudden spurt of strength, the man stumbled back a step, his footing faltering. The blade fell to the floor, clattering halfway between the two.

This was his chance.

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Where one may have scrambled upright for a final stand, to tempt fate in a duel to save his life... the CEO would not let himself fall victim to his assailant's insanity—this was not an opportunity to defeat his opponent. In such a confined space, and wounded as badly as he was, there was no chance of survival even if he got to the blade first.

Kurosaki saw the opportunity for what it truly was: escape.

With a kick, Kurosaki pushed himself away, rolling across the floor like a true madman, shielding his arm as he cruised along the ground. By the time his assailant delightedly picked the knife up from the ground, Kurosaki had already reached the far door exit. The vagrant was too stunned by the sight of his victim rolling away from him to act in time.

 "Coward! Get back here!" the assailant yelled. With a quick turn of the handle, Kurosaki tumbled from the open door and began running. Kurosaki's heart was beating wildly; he could feel his breath coming in ragged gasps. He held his wounded arm close to his chest, cradling it as he staggered down the road.

Shakily, he reached into his jacket pocket and brought his phone out once again. With blood-stained fingers, red streaks coated the LED screen as he furiously dialled 110. The combined dark and smudged blood made it impossible to tell what was happening on the phone screen, and Kurosaki could only hope that the call had gone through.

"T-There's a madman with a knife! Rear of the Yamato Group building; in the carpark! He's attempting to murder me! I need an ambulance! Help me...!" he shouted into the void.

There was no time for pride or dignity—one's body was not meant to sustain this much damage. Kurosaki knew that the adrenaline pumping through his veins would last him only a short while, and he would be a dead man when it wore off. Against an armed man? He was already wounded. Regardless of whether they were homeless or not, a single well-placed strike would end him then and there.

'Where the hell is the driver?! Did he leave me here to die!?'

Someone was getting their pay docked tonight.

He would not stop running—not until he knew he was safe; until he was back in the reassuring clutches of civilisation.

Ah, civilisation.

A place where things made sense.

A place where people followed rules.

A place where there were no lunatics with knives who figured it’d be funny if they stabbed you in the shoulder just because!

Where was this sense of sentimentality coming from? It was a bad sign. Kurosaki remembered a tiresome phrase that frequently cluttered his timeline:  'appreciate what you have before it's gone'...? Was that what was happening? The carefully managed order he'd surrounded himself with over the years was crumbling before his very eyes.

The CEO looked over his shoulder as he ran. The homeless man was catching up, his footsteps heavy like a lumbering bear, yet somehow nimble. No... it wasn't that the homeless man's steps were fast, but that Kurosaki was becoming slow.

Looking straight ahead, the lights of the city were like a beacon of hope, but they grew increasingly distant. The passing carpark lots were pitch black, and it seemed to stretch on forever. In the shadow of Tokyo's tallest skyscraper, of course, it was only fitting that Kurosaki found himself running through Tokyo's most expansive parking complex too.

The attacker was gaining; his pace was unrelenting. Like some twisted nightmare, the sounds of his pursuer's bare feet slapping against the pavement grew louder.

"Shit—!" Kurosaki grunted as he tripped over something, breaking his fall against the tarmac with his hands. The impact grazed his palms, causing him to grimace in pain. Kurosaki glanced back, seeing what he had tripped over.

As he was about to curse whatever had spelt his doom, words failed to manifest at the sight. It was a body. He tripped over a body.

At Kurosaki's feet, the body of his missing driver was keeled over in a dark puddle of liquid.

The CEO froze; not in lament for his employee, but rather in confusion.

If his driver was dead, why all the way out here? So far from the car, he should've known to stay close by to the car, not run off like this!

As the questions raced through his mind, Kurosaki felt an uncomfortable truth settling into his bones.

His driver had not left him behind.

Kurosaki looked back, desperately searching for his limousine in the darkness. There it was. Shimmering white and silver, only a short distance away.

"Tch."

What a sickening realisation. He'd only managed to stumble a few meters from the car before falling over. What a grand escape. The pain had made Kurosaki delirious and warped his sense of reality. He'd lost track of the situation. What felt like an hour's long chase was actually only a few seconds; a short distance, but enough to cause a fatal miscalculation.

A sense of calm washed over the gravely wounded man as he realised this.

"Kurosaki! You bastard! You thought you could get away?!" the homeless man cried out. "As arrogant as ever!"

With a snarl, the vagrant brandished the bloody knife. The weapon was stunted and rusty, its edge barely gleaming in the dim light of the carpark. A weapon that was not meant to be efficient, but to inflict as much pain as possible.

'So he knows my name?'

Kurosaki's lips curled upward with a smile more like a sneer than anything else. From the first he saw of the man's crazed expression, he'd believed he was the victim of an impulsive, intoxicated frenzy. It was a pleasant surprise; the man before him was truly a psychopath. Not someone who acted on a moment of madness as he'd initially thought, but a premeditated murder.

Kurosaki's expression became one of disdain as he spoke.

"Arrogant, am I? Do you perhaps not know what that word means?"

Kurosaki shifted on the tarmac, wincing in pain as he did so. He was still bleeding heavily, the wound in his shoulder now burning like fire. As he looked up, he saw the homeless man—the lunatic with the knife—closing in on him.

"Of course I know what it means!"

"Good. Then you must know that the one who is arrogant in this very moment, is not me, but you."

Kurosaki smiled at his attacker.

Even if he was going to die, he would not let that cretin get any pleasure out of it.

"Arrogance is having an inflated sense of one's own importance or abilities; and you'll never be able to compete with me, you pathetic little vagrant. Right now, you are ecstatic, for no reason! When you kill me, my grave will be set with more gold than you will ever hope to attain in your sorry little life! My name will be plastered on more obituaries than you could ever hope to read! All of that is mine. Mine!"

The homeless man's expression changed. The manic smile was gone.

"You don't even understand how ridiculous you look! Do not think for a second that wielding a knife makes you better than me! You're worthless, less than dirt! Smiling so contentedly when you are nothing but a filthy beggar, is that not the height of arrogance!?"

Kurosaki watched as the homeless man stared at him; his face contorted with rage. The homeless man's hand tightened around the knife's handle. His attacker approached, his eyes burning with hatred. His face was twisted, teeth bared, and his lips curled into a snarl.

"That's right—an expression that befits a destitute such as yourself. Someone with nothing should proudly display that fact."

With a cry, the homeless man leapt towards the CEO, the knife held high above his head. Kurosaki's smile remained frozen on his face as the rusty blade embedded itself deep into his collarbone.

"..."

Kurosaki gritted his teeth as he felt the knife cutting into his flesh. The blade was buried to the hilt, the tip of the blade piercing the skin and cartilage of his neck.

"How does it feel... to know that you will forever be inferior to me?"

The homeless man's eyes were burning like embers; he wasn't smiling anymore, his expression was full of madness and rage. Kurosaki could see the man's teeth were cracked and stained with blood, flecks of saliva dripping from his mouth.

"Rejoice... that the only thing you will have ever accomplished... will to have your name etched in history... as a lunatic with a knife. To forever be compared to one such as me... what a privilege..."

The knife interrupted Kurosaki as it twisted in place, the blade digging deeper into his collarbone. Muscles that once united bone were torn apart with a crack and pop as the ravenous figure above him pushed further down. However, the pain Kurosaki expected never arrived.

'Ah——'

He blacked out.

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