03:00 AM (Four days post-surgery)
Ren's Private Residence
Waking up at three in the morning is a curse for those burdened with too many sins. Rion sat on the edge of the bed, struggling to steady his heavy breathing. Every time he closed his eyes, he was back in that tatami room—watching the glint of the blade's tip before it sank into his body.
He tried to stand. The pain in his abdomen had shifted into a consistent, dull throb. With dragging steps, Rion left the room, searching for water to soothe his parched throat.
In the dimly lit hallway, he froze.
Shawn stood there, leaning against the wall, twirling a folding knife between his fingers. Deeper in the shadows, Gin sat in a single chair, eyes fixed on a small monitor displaying the building's CCTV feed.
They weren't sleeping. They never truly slept.
"Mami doesn't like guests wandering around at this hour," Shawn's voice broke the silence, sharp and cold.
Rion stared at the boy. There was a haunting resemblance between Shawn and the young assassins in Osaka—the same lack of fear, the same hunger for validation. "I just needed water," Rion replied flatly.
Gin stood up, filled a glass from the dispenser, and handed it to Rion without a word. His movements were efficient, his eyes constantly darting back to the entrance.
"You both act as if this city is going to storm this place at any moment," Rion said after drinking.
"The city will do exactly that if they find out who's inside," Gin countered calmly. "Ren didn't save you without taking a risk. Right now, three factions in Ironport are trying to figure out who the 'corpse' brought from Pier 12 belongs to."
Rion fell silent. He realized his presence was becoming a liability for Ren. However, something else bothered him more. He looked toward a small table near Gin, where an old mobile phone sat, blinking incessantly.
"Is that an international line?" Rion asked.
Gin nodded. "A signal from Osaka. Someone is running random pings across this area. They know you didn't die at sea."
A chill that didn't come from the air conditioning crept down Rion's spine. His Yakuza clan had a long reach, and they were perfectionists when it came to death. If a target wasn't confirmed dead, they would keep sending executioners until Ironport turned red.
"Does Ren know about this?"
"She's the one who ordered us to track that signal," Shawn interjected, finally stopping his knife play to glare at Rion. "If they come, we won't let them touch this door. But you... you have to decide. Do you want to stay a hiding corpse, or start standing up?"
Rion looked at the two boys. In their eyes, he was no longer the respected *Waka-gashira*. He was just a broken man who owed his life to their "Mami."
The silence of the night once again enveloped Ren's private residence. There were no plans for a grand organization yet, no talk of warehouses. There was only a wounded man, two lethal young protectors, and a shadow from the past slowly making landfall at the Ironport docks.
Rion returned to his room, but this time he didn't try to sleep. He sat in the chair, staring at the bandages on his stomach, and began to recall every face of the traitors back in Osaka. If they wanted to confirm his death, Rion would make sure they had to walk into the deepest pits of hell to find him.