Filthy, blood-caked fingers hastily snatched up the broken silver necklace. On the chain, there hung a lone King of Spades. The tag was jerked free to be shoved into a pair of jeans. They appeared to be similarly dirty, ripped, blood-spattered and lived in for weeks. Not unlike the usual crowd of homeless Igura participants, only here to fight for the chance at becoming Vischio's new drug lord. He instantly turned to a crowd of adolescents and young men, snarling when they hollered and roared. It wasn't a fair game, it was a slaughter. He was bold to simply kill the other player for his royal card, but the prize was too great to worry about consequences. He was convinced he'd been around long enough, had won enough fights, hid in the shadows and watched the losers, to know how to break the rules and evade punishment.
"I won!" The boy shouted. "I'll become Il Re 'cause there ain't room for little bitches in Igura--!"
A terrified hush fell over the group of delinquents. Just as quick as he had been to yell his victory, the cheater nearly choked on his words. Across an open field of dilapidated buildings and busted streets, there stood a tall silhouette. Like a ghoul, it had appeared while no one was looking. Too distracted with the game, apprehension sharp and nerves frayed. The figure's sneering face became visible in the moonlight.
How-?! He'd been careful! It was everyone else's fault, following the same target! Now there was an executioner sniffing around and he found them!
The group shuffled apart, some stood their ground and exchanged glances, keeping their distance as the man approached. Terrified, the winner was torn between standing his ground and just breaking in a sprint in the opposite direction. He hesitated. His throat twitched, teeth clenched.
"Uuuuh? Y'don't look triumphant anymore."
A gritty, blood-stained pipe rapped, rapped, rapped against his broad shoulder.
"Didja think you could keep runnin'?"
Metal shrieked through the night, striking hard and reverberating across dingy streets. The only cries were the shuddering, agonized cries of the true loser. Every other participant watched in tense silence, praying they wouldn't be next.
Heavy boots leisurely thumped against asphalt, followed by the consistent jingling of dog tags tangled around the end of the pipe. When he inhaled deeply, he took in the scent of grimy alleyways, open sewage drains, old and new blood. He was happy and at home in the slums of Toshima, like a junkyard dog would be basking in garbage. Some called him a rabid guard dog of Vischio. True, he was always eager to sink his teeth into new prey. As long as they weren't in the neutral zone, there was a new target around every corner. So what if they were playing fair? Plenty more people wanted a chance at becoming the drug lord, the ruling King in a corrupt world of perfect freedom.
The executioner's sharp eyes narrowed ahead, catching a retreating figure. His grin curled wider as he quickly stepped into another maze of buildings and alleyways. He just wanted to toy around for a bit while he was momentarily free of the burden of babysitting his partner. Kiriwar couldn't be considered a silent hunter all the time; the jangling and heavy thumping would fade off and appear again as he tracked the man. And when it was quiet, it meant he had stopped moving.
A low, bass voice carried out of the darkness when he was finally close enough to get a good look,
"Oy, you're too pretty to be playin' around here..."
Approaching the well-dressed, well-groomed and sweet-smelling man, he wasn't sure if he'd found a prize for himself or for Arbitro.
"Hnn, damn. 'Bitro'd probably think you'd fetch a good price in the market," he grunted, a little disappointed. "Well, maybe he doesn't have to know I played with ya first."