Chapter Text
“Turning to national news, Raiden Industries is once again facing scrutiny following allegations linking several of its overseas subsidiaries to human trafficking networks operating throughout Southeast Asia. A joint investigation by multiple international media organizations alleges that workers were recruited under false pretenses before being transported across borders and subjected to exploitative labor conditions. Human rights groups have called for criminal proceedings against senior executives, claiming the company has repeatedly failed to investigate reports of abuse within its supply chains. Raiden Incorporated has strongly denied the allegations. In a statement released this morning, the corporation described the claims as ‘baseless accusations founded on incomplete information and unverified sources.’ The company's legal team has also announced plans to pursue action against several journalists involved in the investigation. Despite renewed calls for government intervention, market analysts report little impact on investor confidence. Shares in Raiden Incorporated rose nearly one percent following the release of the report. Chief Executive Officer Karaku Kibutsuji has not commented publicly. No criminal charges have been filed. This is the fourth time in a decade that organizations connected to Raiden Incorporated have faced allegations relating to labor exploitation or human trafficking.”
Sekido listened dispassionately as he finished rolling the omelette for his breakfast.
The rice had finished steaming by the time he plated the vegetables. He poured himself a coffee and turned up the volume on the television.
His uncle would have been delighted if he had chosen business or law, a path that might have led to serving one of Japan's elite international corporations.
Instead, Sekido had set his sights on the police force. There were many reasons for it, but the simplest was that he had too much energy, and too much anger, to spend his life trapped in a suit behind a desk.
He preferred to be where the action was.
That didn't mean he lacked ambition.
After graduating high school, he had deliberately chosen university over the police academy. Rather than studying law, he enrolled in a Criminal Justice degree and was now entering his final year.
The degree would provide broader opportunities than the standard recruitment route and improve his chances of advancing into higher-ranking positions within the force. Not that he cared much about prestige. What interested him was the work itself.
Investigations.
Organized crime.
Human trafficking.
Corruption.
The sort of people who thought money and influence placed them above the law. He sipped his coffee as footage of Raiden Incorporated's CEO flashed across the screen. One clip showed Karaku Kibutsuji leaving a corporate gala with his arm draped around two foreign models. Another, taken years earlier, showed a ‘younger’ version of the billionaire grinning for a controversial Playboy interview that had made headlines at the time.
Taking down someone that powerful one day would be satisfying.
If you could fight your way through the corruption first.
And avoid being found floating in Tokyo Bay.
But that was little more than a fantasy.
It wasn't even the main reason Sekido paid attention whenever Raiden appeared in the news. The truth was far more irritating.
Friends, classmates, and even complete strangers occasionally asked whether he was related to the businessman.
Some insisted they looked like twins.
Sekido scoffed at the suggestion every time.
Kibutsuji was pushing forty, for one.
And there was no chance in hell he was some secret relative from his mother's side of the family or his long-absent father.
As far as Sekido was concerned, the resemblance was superficial.
They shared a similar complexion, darker than the average Japanese. More Okinawan in appearance than most people expected. That was it. Or at least, that was what he told himself.
Because whenever Karaku appeared on television, Sekido found himself watching a little longer than intended.
There was something strangely familiar about him.
Not his cocky face.
Not his annoying voice.
Something else.
A feeling he could never quite explain.
As though he had met the man before.
Which was impossible.
A sigh escaped him.
He put it out of sight and out of mind.
He had a long day ahead of him.
Karaku took a long drag of his cigarette as he looked out over Tokyo's skyline.
The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the glass towers in gold and amber.
Beautiful.
Lonely.
His lips pressed into a thin line.
Lately he found himself lingering in these moments more often than he cared to admit.
Silence had never suited him.
He had spent the better part of a century avoiding it, surrounding himself with work, parties, lovers, demon modified alcohol, anything that kept his mind occupied.
Anything that stopped him from thinking too long.
From remembering.
The cigarette burned low between his fingers.
With an irritated click of his tongue, he crushed it into the ashtray.
He was due downstairs soon.
One of his business associates had managed to secure tickets to an ice hockey game and had insisted he attend.
Gyutaro.
A small smile tugged at his lips.
Finding him again had been one of the few genuine blessings this era had offered him.
The reincarnation had not been kind.
Gyutaro remembered nothing.
Not the Entertainment District.
Not Muzan.
Not a single moment of his former life.
Even so, he was unmistakably himself.
Still ugly.
Still greedy.
Still vicious when properly motivated.
Karaku had found those qualities as charming as ever. So he had done what anyone with his resources would do. He had elevated him. Money. Status. Influence.
A position at Raiden overseeing security operations. Enough wealth to ensure neither he nor his sister would ever want for anything again.
Gyutaro thought it was generosity. Karaku knew better.
He simply preferred keeping things that belonged to him close.
His gaze drifted back to the city.
One day, perhaps, he would offer Gyutaro immortality.
Not yet.
There was no rush.
Time was one luxury Karaku possessed in abundance. The discovery of Gyutaro and Daki had proven something important. Souls returned. No matter how long it took. No matter how many years passed. They returned.
For decades that knowledge had sustained him.
A foolish hope, perhaps. Yet he had clung to it all the same.
That one day he might see them again. His counterparts. The others.
But most of all... Him.
Karaku closed his eyes briefly.
Then laughed under his breath and pushed the thought away.
There was an ice hockey game waiting for him. And he had never been particularly good at dwelling on things he couldn't have.
He let Gyutaro drive him.
Most people in his position considered that reckless. Karaku disagreed.
Over the years, a number of rivals had attempted to have him killed.
Criminal organizations, disgruntled former associates, foreign competitors he had fucked over. Husbands of elite wives he had pumped and dumped.
The methods varied, but the outcome was always the same. Failure.
Some had planted bombs.
Others had hired professional assassins.
One particularly memorable attempt involved a sniper and three months of planning.
Karaku still smiled when he thought about the man's expression. Humans were so wonderfully predictable.
They assumed a bullet through the skull solved most problems. And to be fair, it usually did.
The look of horror when he simply straightened back up afterward never failed to entertain him.
A head wound closing before their eyes.
A sinister smile.
A compliment on their marksmanship.
Then the slow realization that something was very, very wrong.
Of course, none of them knew what he truly was.
If they had, they would have saved themselves the effort.
Karaku rested his cheek against his hand as the city lights rolled past the window.
Gyutaro, on the other hand, required no supervision.
No suspicion.
No precautions.
Absolute loyalty was difficult to buy.
Impossible, some would argue.
Karaku disagreed with that as well.
The man behind the wheel would follow him into hell if asked.
Perhaps he didn't understand why.
Perhaps some forgotten fragment of another life still lingered beneath the surface.
Either way, the result was the same.
Karaku trusted him.
As much as he was capable of trusting anyone.
A faint smile touched his lips.
His own personal attack dog.
And unlike most people, Gyutaro never bit the hand that fed him.
"Could be a good game tonight. It's the Tokyo Thunder versus the Osaka Oni."
Karaku hummed.
"You're aware I don't actually give a shit about hockey."
Gyutaro snorted.
"Yeah, but this one's worth watching."
Karaku glanced up from his phone.
"Oh?"
"The Thunder captain."
That earned a little more interest.
"What about him?"
Gyutaro merged onto the expressway.
"Mean bastard."
Karaku laughed.
"That narrows it down."
"No, I mean it. Guy's vicious."
The grin on Gyutaro's face widened, showing crooked chipped teeth.
"Doesn't start fights. Doesn't trash talk. Doesn't showboat."
"Then why's he vicious?"
"Because the moment the puck drops, he looks at the other team like he's deciding who to kill first."
Karaku chuckled. Now that sounded entertaining.
"What's his name?"
"Seido." The name barely registered even if was similar.
Just another athlete.
Just another human.
Gyutaro continued. "Twenty-two. University student. Captain. Center." He shook his head.
"Never seen anyone play like him. Takes hits and gives them right back. Last game he broke a guy's nose and still scored the winning goal."
Karaku smirked. "Sounds unpleasant."
"Exactly."
Gyutaro pointed toward the arena looming ahead. "That's why people love him."
Gyutaro took care of the parking while Karaku headed toward the arena. He kept the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up as he made his way through the crowds. Most people were too engrossed in the game to pay much attention, and he wasn't the sort of celebrity that attracted paparazzi all the time. Even so, there was always the risk of some overeager businessman recognizing him and deciding to corner him with questions about investments, acquisitions, or some proposal they were desperate to shove in front of him.
Karaku had no interest in discussing business tonight. For once, he simply wanted a distraction.
He found his seat near the glass and settled in comfortably. Gyutaro joined him a few minutes later, carrying drinks and looking far more excited about the evening than Karaku felt. The arena was packed. Thousands of voices merged into a constant roar as players began taking the ice for warmups. Karaku watched with only mild interest.
Most of the skaters blurred together. Fast, talented, forgettable.
Then his attention drifted toward the Tokyo Thunder. Their captain was directing traffic near the boards, speaking briefly to one player before pointing another toward a different drill. No wasted motion. No theatrics. The others listened. Not because they were forced to. Because they trusted him.
Karaku found himself watching for a few moments longer.
The captain wasn't the loudest player on the ice. He wasn't trying to impress the crowd either. Yet the entire team seemed to move around him. A natural center of gravity.
One player missed an assignment and received a sharp look in return.
The correction was immediate. Karaku smirked.
Well. At least somebody on that team understood discipline.
The captain skated away before Karaku could get a good look at his face, barking another instruction to a teammate as the Thunder reorganized themselves.
Interesting. That was all. Nothing more.
Just a competent leader doing his job.
Karaku only hoped to see him in action.
Lose his thoughts.
Get his head in the game if he tried.
Sometimes he wished they were here.
Not all at once. That would have been exhausting.
Urogi would have enjoyed the game. He would have spent the entire evening yelling at players and trying to start fights with opposing fans. Karaku smiled wryly at the thought.
Aizetsu would have complained from the moment he sat down until the moment he left. Karaku would have invited him anyway, appreciating him more now that he was gone.
As for Sekido... His smile faded.
No, Sekido probably would have refused outright. Sports were a waste of time. Crowds were irritating. The seats were uncomfortable. Karaku could practically hear the lecture. Still, with enough persistence, and perhaps a little bribery, he might have convinced him.
The thought lingered longer than it should have.
Then the arena lights dimmed.
The players took their positions.
The crowd erupted.
Karaku settled back in his seat, only half paying attention as the puck dropped.
For the first few minutes, the game was exactly as he expected.
Humans chasing a piece of rubber across a sheet of ice. Occasionally crashing into one another for entertainment. He was already reaching for his phone when a particularly brutal collision caught his eye. One of the Thunder players drove an opponent into the boards hard enough to shake the glass. The crowd roared.
Karaku raised an eyebrow.
A few moments later another player intercepted a pass and quickly turned it into an aggressive counterattack.
Then another.
Then another.
The Thunder weren't merely playing to win. They were hunting.
Karaku found himself sitting forward slightly.
The pattern was impossible to miss.
Every player moved with the same determined intensity. Every mistake was corrected. Every hesitation punished. Even when possession changed hands, they pressed forward without giving their opponents room to breathe.
It wasn't talent alone.
It was discipline.
The sort of discipline that spread from the top down. His gaze drifted toward their captain.
Number four.
Seido.
The young man wasn't the loudest player on the ice, nor the flashiest.
But every time he stepped onto the rink, the entire team seemed to sharpen around him.
A missed opportunity earned a glare.
A successful play earned a brief nod.
Nothing more.
No theatrics.
No speeches.
Yet somehow the others responded instantly.
Karaku watched him weave through two defenders before delivering a crushing hit that sent another player sprawling across the ice.
The crowd exploded.
The captain didn't celebrate. He simply recovered the puck and kept moving.
Karaku's interest finally stirred.
"You're right," he admitted.
Gyutaro smirked beside him.
"Told ya."
Karaku's eyes remained fixed on the ice Gyutaro leaned closer.
“Guy plays dirty too, and does it in a way that never gets him a penalty. Just watch.”
Karaku raised an eyebrow but turned his attention back to the ice. At first he didn't see anything unusual.
The Thunder captain was carrying the puck through center ice when one of the Oni defenders moved to intercept him.
The collision looked ordinary enough.
The defender stepped into his path.
Seido shifted.
Their shoulders connected.
The crowd barely reacted.
Then the defender folded.
His skate slipped out from beneath him and he crashed hard into the boards.
The puck never left Seido's control.
Play continued.
No whistle.
No penalty.
No complaint from the referees.
Karaku considered, intrigued now.
The replay appeared on the overhead screen.
This time he saw it.
Just before impact, Seido had subtly adjusted his weight.
A fraction of a second.
A tiny movement of the hips.
His shoulder struck exactly where the defender was off-balance.
Not enough to be illegal.
Not enough to be obvious.
Just enough to turn an ordinary check into something painful.
The defender remained slow getting back to his feet.
Gyutaro grinned.
“Told you.”
The game continued.
A few minutes later another Oni player attempted to pin Seido against the boards.
Seido escaped with the puck.
The other player didn't.
His stick became tangled beneath his own skates and he stumbled face-first onto the ice.
Again, nothing illegal.
Again, nothing the referees could call.
Yet somehow the captain emerged untouched while everyone around him seemed to leave the encounter a little worse for wear.
Karaku found himself smiling.
Not because it was sportsmanship.
Quite the opposite.
The kid wasn't stronger than everyone else. He was smarter. Every hit calculated. Every collision timed. Every weakness identified and exploited.
And he did it all while keeping his record clean.
Now that was strategy.
“You seem to know a lot about him,” Karaku commented between sips of blood hidden inside a thermal cup.
Gyutaro snorted.
“Guy works one of your contracts.”
Karaku glanced at him.
“Does he?”
“Yeah. Low on the ladder. Security patrol around one of your bars down in South Tokyo. Got to pay his rent and student loans somehow.”
He scratched absentmindedly at a scab along his forearm.
“Recognized him from the hockey games a while back and got talking. Intense bastard.”
That earned a small laugh from Karaku.
“Coming from you, that's saying something.”
“I'm serious.” Gyutaro nodded toward the ice.
“Had me worried the first time I met him.”
Karaku looked over.
“Worried?”
“Thought you had a kid running around somewhere.”
Karaku nearly choked on his drink.
Gyutaro grinned.
“Look at him...well when he takes off his helmet. Same glare. Same attitude. Guy looks pissed off just standing there.”
Karaku's gaze drifted back to the captain. The player barked something at a teammate who fixed his position.
“Hey,” Gyutaro continued, looking sideways at him.
“Kinda looks like your twin too.”
Karaku's lip curled upward.
“Please.”
“I'm serious.”
“I may have been inside a lot of bitches over the years,” Karaku said dryly, “but I'm not stupid enough to leave evidence behind.”
Gyutaro barked out a laugh. “Fair point.”
“Besides,” Karaku continued, taking another sip, “if I had a son, I'd hope he'd have the decency to be more attractive than that.”
“See, that's exactly the kind of thing he'd say.”
Karaku frowned.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Gyutaro smirked and turned back toward the game.
“Just saying. You'd probably hate each other.”
Speaking of women...
Karaku stretched his legs out in front of him.
The game was entertaining enough, but it wasn't the only thing planned for the evening. After this they would head into the city. One of his bars. A few drinks. A little music. And hopefully someone attractive enough to keep him occupied until morning.
He had never lacked for company. Models. Actresses. Escorts. The occasional ambitious university student looking for help with tuition and willing to be very accommodating in return. Men occasionally found their way into his bed as well.
Karaku wasn't particularly picky. Life was short for humans. Pleasure should be enjoyed wherever it could be found.
A century alone had never changed that much for him.
"Already shopping?"
Gyutaro asked.
Karaku smirked.
"I own the bar. It's rude not to inspect the incoming merchandise."
Gyutaro snorted.
"One day that's gonna get your ass sued."
"One day."
Karaku wasn't especially concerned. The lawyers earned their salaries for a reason. His attention drifted back toward the ice.
A Thunder defenseman had just taken a nasty hit near the boards. Within seconds their captain was there. Not starting a fight. Not throwing punches. Just staring. The opposing player actually took a step back.
Fascinating.
Karaku raised an eyebrow.
The kid had presence. Most leaders had to shout to get people moving. This one barely seemed to speak. Yet somehow the entire team reacted to him.
Another player missed a pass.
A cold look.
Another mistake.
Another glare.
No arguments.
No hesitation.
The team simply adjusted.
Karaku found himself watching the captain again.
Then again.
Odd.
Normally by now he'd be scanning the crowd for someone pretty enough to ruin his evening with. Instead he was watching hockey.
That alone was enough to annoy him.
The final buzzer sounded.
The arena erupted.
Thunder had won by a landslide.
Players spilled from the bench as the crowd rose to its feet.
The roar of thousands echoed through the building, fans cheering, chanting, waving banners overhead.
Beside him, Gyutaro let out an approving whistle.
"Told you they were vicious."
Karaku barely heard him.
His attention remained fixed on the ice.
The Thunder captain was speaking to a teammate, one gloved hand resting briefly on the younger player's shoulder before giving him a shove toward the celebrating crowd.
Then he reached up.
And removed his helmet.
"......."
Time stopped.
Karaku's breath caught in his throat.
The noise of the arena vanished.
The cheers.
The lights.
The crowd.
All of it faded into nothing.
Red eyes.
Black hair damp with sweat.
That same severe expression.
The same perpetual look of irritation, as though the entire world existed solely to inconvenience him.
Karaku's heart lurched painfully against his ribs.
No.
Not painful.
Something far worse.
For a moment he couldn't breathe.
Couldn't think.
Couldn't move.
A century.
Decades of searching.
Decades of hoping.
Decades of convincing himself he had accepted the loss.
And there he was.
Alive.
Standing thirty feet away.
Karaku stared.
The captain barked something at a teammate.
Another player rolled his eyes.
The captain snapped back.
Impatient.
Demanding.
Exactly as he remembered.
A laugh escaped Karaku's lips.
Small.
Disbelieving.
Broken.
His eyes burned.
The sight struck him with all the force of a physical blow.
Every memory returned at once.
Arguments beneath moonlit skies.
Fights during thunderstorms.
Rare laughter. Shared moments together in bed.
The unbearable ache that had followed after.
The century spent filling the void with alcohol, money, sex, power, anything he could find.
None of it had worked.
Because none of it had been him.
"Karaku?" Gyutaro's voice sounded distant.
The demon didn't answer.
He couldn't.
Not when the impossible was standing before him.
Not when the person he had mourned longer than entire century had existed was suddenly there.
Alive.
Breathing.
Real.
His throat ached unbearably, vision blurring.
"Sekido," he whispered.