Main Character: Name: Kojiro Sasaki (Sasaki Kojiro in Japan.). Age: 27. Background: Superhuman assassin. (He can move at the speed of 5 Mach and maintain that speed for hours due to his unnaturally strong muscles, bones, skin, organs, etc.). Skills: He is an assassin. Driving Style: Speed demon who knows how to drift too. Vehicle: Toyota Supra Mk4, single turbo 2jz. (2000 hp, 2500 n/m torque, 1750 kg, white with black hood and spoiler.)
Prologue: White Wind in Neon Rain
Tokyo breathed rain and electricity. It wasn't just the downpour slicking the asphalt of Shibuya Crossing into a mirrored obsidian; it was the city's pulse – a billion volts humming through neon arteries, reflected a thousand times over in the wet canvas of the streets. To most, it was a blur of light and sound, a chaotic symphony of engines, horns, and compressed humanity. To Kojiro Sasaki, perched impossibly still on a rain-lashed fire escape three stories above the teeming chaos, it was a slow-motion tapestry, each thread distinct, each vibration felt in the marrow of his unnaturally dense bones.
Raindrops fell like suspended glass beads around him. He tracked the descent of one particular droplet, noting the minute distortions in its spherical perfection caused by air resistance, the way it captured and fractured the screaming pink Kanji of a Pachinko parlor sign below. His senses, honed far beyond human limits, parsed the city's cacophony into discrete streams: the high-pitched whine of a distant Kei car engine over-revving, the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of bass escaping a club doorway three blocks away, the frantic whisper of nylon against nylon as an umbrella brushed another in the crowd below. Beneath it all, a deeper vibration resonated through the steel girders of the building – the low growl of tuned engines gathering in the warren of alleys near the garage district. Drift night.
He shifted slightly, a movement so minimal it barely disturbed the rainwater pooling on the worn corrugated metal beneath his boots. His eyes, sharp as obsidian shards beneath the brim of a nondescript black baseball cap, scanned the crowd not for faces, but for patterns, for the subtle discordant note in the urban rhythm. He wore dark, functional clothing – waterproof synthetic fibers that clung without restriction, boots designed for explosive traction, gloves that looked ordinary but shielded knuckles capable of shattering concrete. He was a shadow sculpted for speed and silence, a phantom existing in the interstitial spaces of perception.
His target was down there. Kamata. A Yakuza lieutenant whose ambition had grown as recklessly as a cancer, destabilizing delicate balances, drawing unwanted heat onto operations the Directorate preferred remained invisible. Kamata's weakness was predictable: the underground racing scene. He used it to launder, to boast, to feel invincible behind the wheel of his modified Nissan GT-R. Tonight, he'd be near the garage district, overseeing a shipment disguised as high-performance parts. Koji's mission was simple: terminal extraction. Make it clean. Make it quiet. Make it look like an accident fueled by the inherent dangers of his lifestyle.
A flicker of movement, two blocks east. A black Toyota Century sedan, gleaming despite the rain, slid into a narrow alley beside a ramen shop perpetually shrouded in steam. The rear door opened. A man emerged, flanked by two others whose bulky silhouettes screamed 'muscle', despite their attempts at business casual. Kamata. Koji's internal chronometer clicked silently. Three minutes ahead of projected schedule. Amateur. Predictability was death.
Koji didn't jump. He simply ceased to occupy the space on the fire escape. One moment he was there, a dark smudge against the neon-lit rain, the next he was gone, leaving only disturbed raindrops swirling in his wake. To any hypothetical observer, it would have been a trick of the light, a blink missed.
He moved.
The world dissolved into a smear of colour and sound stretched thin. The frantic drumming of rain on awnings became a deep, resonant thrum. The neon signs bled into continuous streaks of garish light. The crowds below were frozen sculptures, caught mid-stride, mid-laugh, mid-shout, their expressions locked in eerie stillness. Air resistance pressed against him like thick syrup, but his reinforced musculature, tendons like braided steel cable, bones denser than titanium, powered through it effortlessly. He flowed down the sheer face of the building, fingertips finding microscopic imperfections in the rain-slicked concrete, boots touching down for fractions of a second on window ledges and pipe brackets. He was a ghost descending, faster than thought, faster than sight.
He hit the alley entrance beside the steaming ramen shop not with an impact, but with the silent coalescence of shadow. Time snapped back to its normal, agonizingly slow pace for the world around him. The roar of the rain returned, the chatter from the ramen shop, the distant bass beat. Kamata was ten paces ahead, talking urgently into a phone, gesturing with his free hand towards the Century. His guards scanned the alley mouth, eyes passing right over Koji, who stood perfectly still, melded into the deeper darkness beside a dumpster. Their senses couldn't register his presence; he existed below their conscious threshold, a predator exploiting a blind spot in human perception.
Kamata ended his call, sliding the phone into his jacket pocket. He turned towards his car, a frown creasing his brow. Koji moved again.
Not the blinding Mach 5 sprint, but a controlled burst, a silent lunge covering the distance in less time than it took for a synapse to fire in Kamata's brain. Koji's gloved hand shot out, a movement faster than a striking cobra. Not to strike flesh, but to brush against the back wheel arch of the Century as Kamata stepped past it. His fingers, moving with impossible precision, flicked a small, magnetized device no larger than a coin onto the inner rim, deep inside the wheel well. An override. A ghost in the machine.
Kamata reached for the Century's rear door handle. Koji was already gone, back in the deeper shadow by the dumpster, a statue once more. The entire intervention had lasted less than a second. Kamata paused, a shiver running down his spine unrelated to the rain. He glanced around, his eyes scanning the alley with sudden unease. He saw nothing but rain, steam, and his impassive guards.
"Get in," Kamata muttered, his voice tight. "This place feels wrong."
He pulled the door open. As he ducked to enter the plush interior, Koji triggered the device remotely via a subdermal implant. A silent command pulsed.
Inside the Century's sophisticated electronics, chaos erupted. The override bypassed safety protocols. The driver, just starting the engine, felt the wheel lock violently to the left. Simultaneously, the electronic parking brake disengaged, and the transmission, confused by conflicting signals, slammed into reverse with a sickening electronic whine the driver didn't even have time to register.
The heavy sedan lurched backwards with sudden, unnatural force. Kamata, halfway into the car, unbalanced and focused on his unease, was caught completely off guard. The open door slammed into him with bone-crushing force, crushing him against the unforgiving steel frame of the car parked too close behind. A wet, sickening crunch echoed in the confined alley, momentarily louder than the rain. Kamata's eyes widened in shock, then glazed over instantly. His body went limp, pinned grotesquely between the two vehicles.
His guards reacted with startled shouts, lunging forward, but it was too late. The driver, panicking as the car continued its short, uncontrolled reverse lurch before stalling, scrambled out, staring in horror at his boss's mangled form. The alley erupted in frantic, useless activity – shouts for help, fumbling for phones, the useless pounding of fists on unyielding metal.
Koji watched for precisely 2.7 seconds, confirming vitals extinguished. Kamata's death was instantaneous, brutal, and perfectly plausible: a tragic accident caused by a sudden, catastrophic electronic malfunction in his luxury car, exacerbated by the tight space and his own distracted moment. Clean. Quiet. Textbook.
He turned away before the first real scream tore through the rainy air, melting back into the thrumming darkness of the alley's entrance. He didn't head for the rooftops. Instead, he walked, a figure moving with unnerving stillness through the oblivious crowd spilling out of Shibuya Crossing. The frantic energy of the city washed over him – laughter, arguments, the sizzle of yakitori, the hypnotic pulse of J-Pop from storefronts. He felt none of it. He was a vessel of pure function, insulated by the sheer, unnatural speed that lived within him, a constant pressure beneath his skin.
His path took him towards the source of the deeper engine vibrations: the garage district. The drifting scene. It was cover, potential intel, a way to blend his Directorate-supplied persona – Kojiro Sasaki, reclusive car enthusiast with bottomless pockets and uncanny skills – into the noisy tapestry of Tokyo's underbelly. He navigated the wet streets, his senses automatically mapping escape routes, assessing threats (minimal, mundane), noting the modified Skylines and Silvias prowling the side streets.
He heard the distinctive, angry wail of a high-revving engine and the tortured screech of tires before he saw the source. Turning a corner, he witnessed the tail end of chaos: a yellow Veilside RX-7 spinning wildly out of control, struck horrifically broadside by a silver Nissan 350Z driven with reckless fury. Metal screamed. Glass exploded in a glittering shower. The RX-7 crumpled like paper before slamming into a concrete pillar.
Time didn't slow for Koji this time. He saw it all with brutal, human-speed clarity. He recognized the RX-7. Han's car. He saw the driver's door cave inwards. He saw Han Lue, the man with the easy smile and the eyes that saw too much, thrown violently against the collapsing door frame. He saw the instant the life left Han's eyes – not a slow fade, but a switch flipped off.
Koji stood rooted. Five Mach. He could cross the 200 meters separating him from the wreck in less time than it took a hummingbird's wing to beat. He could tear the mangled door off its hinges before the echo of the impact faded. He could stabilize Han, apply pressure, do something.
But the mandate screamed in his mind, colder than the rain now soaking through his collar: "No exposure. No deviation. Observe only."
His muscles, capable of shattering mountains, locked rigid. His superhuman reflexes, which could dodge bullets point-blank, were shackled by invisible chains. He was a weapon, programmed for specific targets. Han was not the target. Intervening was deviation. Deviation meant exposure. Exposure meant failure, termination, or worse.
He watched, a statue of flesh and bone, as Sean Boswell stumbled from his own wrecked car, face a mask of horror. He watched Neela scream. He watched the crowd gather, the frantic uselessness of their gestures. He smelled the acrid tang of burning oil and spilled fuel mingling with the rain, the coppery scent of blood carried faintly on the damp wind.
The guilt was a physical blow, sharper than any blade. It wasn't the detached assessment of a mission parameter unmet; it was the visceral, human pang of witnessing unnecessary death and being utterly, devastatingly powerless to prevent it. Power, he realized with cold clarity, meant nothing without the freedom to use it. He had saved a corrupt politician in Paris by stopping a sniper bullet bare-handed in a dark alley. He had diverted a runaway tram in Prague, moving unseen faster than the emergency brakes could engage. But here, for Han, the man who'd offered him a protein bar and a knowing nod in a greasy garage… here, he was impotent.
As the sirens began to wail in the distance, drawing closer, Kojiro Sasaki turned away from the wreckage, from Sean's raw grief, from the neon reflections dancing on the pools of oil and water spreading beneath Han's ruined car. He walked, not with his superhuman speed, but with the heavy tread of a man burdened by a new, unwelcome weight.
He had eliminated Kamata. The mission was a success. Yet, the rain felt colder, the neon harsher, the roar of the city emptier. The image of Han's extinguished eyes burned brighter than any Tokyo sign. He slipped into the driver's seat of his own car, the white Toyota Supra Mk4 waiting like a silent beast in a shadowed side street. The engine awoke with a deep, resonant growl, the single turbo 2JZ promising near-sentient responsiveness, 2000 horses waiting to be unleashed. He rested his hands on the wheel, the textured leather familiar, solid. But the vibration thrumming through the chassis felt different tonight. It felt like a question.
What was the purpose of speed, of strength, of power, if it couldn't be used to protect the fleeting sparks of connection in this chaotic, rain-slicked world? The White Wind started the engine, the headlights cutting twin tunnels through the downpour. Tokyo blurred past the windows, but for Kojiro Sasaki, the only thing moving with agonizing slowness was the dawning realization of his own profound isolation. He drove into the neon night, leaving the grief and the wreckage behind, carrying only the ghost of Han's smile and the chilling echo of a mandate that suddenly felt like a cage. The road ahead was fast, but the path was uncertain. The assassin had completed his mission. The man, however, was just beginning to wonder what he was truly meant to be.