Ren sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his reflection in the window. The dim glow of the city outside barely reached this part of the Syndicate’s fortress, its steel walls and tinted glass sealing them off from the world beyond. Like everything else in the Syndicate’s domain, his room was simple—practical. A black dresser, a small table, a bed with plain sheets. No pictures, no decorations. Nothing personal.

The Syndicate provided everything its assassins needed—food, shelter, weapons, training. Their housing was efficient, built into the heart of the stronghold, a massive fortress that stretched high above the darkened streets of Osaka. The lower levels housed recruits, the mid-levels were reserved for operatives like Ren and the others, while the upper floors belonged to the higher-ranking members—the Elder Ones, the enforcers, the strategists.

Everyone was given their own space, but privacy was a luxury few truly had. Surveillance was constant. No one spoke of it, but they all knew—the Syndicate had eyes everywhere.

He traced a finger along the faint scar on his wrist, a subconscious habit. He didn’t know how he got it. He didn’t remember much of his childhood before the Syndicate.

They had told him his family was killed by a rival faction when he was four years old. That he had been the sole survivor, taken in by the Syndicate and raised as one of their own.

But that was it. That was all they ever told him.

He had no memories of them—no faces, no names, not even the sound of their voices.

Just an empty void where a family should be.

Ren exhaled and rolled his shoulders, pushing the thoughts away.

Today was a rare free day, and for once, he wasn’t wearing the Syndicate’s usual uniform. Instead, he wore a fitted black t-shirt and dark gray sweatpants—casual, simple. Days like this, where they weren’t sent out to kill or train, were few and far between. But even as he sat there, trying to relax, his mind couldn’t shake the feeling that nothing in this place was ever truly peaceful.

A loud bang against his door interrupted his thoughts.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

“Ren! Open up!”

He sighed and stood up, already knowing who it was.

When he pulled the door open, Akihiro was grinning back at him, dressed in a loose white shirt and black joggers, his dark hair still damp from a recent shower. The smell of expensive cologne mixed with cigarette smoke clung to him.

“You look like shit,” Ren said flatly.

“Love you too, buddy.” Akihiro pushed past him, inviting himself in. “You’re always so damn serious. Relax a little.”

Akihiro said, stepping inside uninvited.

Ren didn’t bother complaing.

Akihiro flopped onto the bed, stretching out like he owned the place. “You know, for someone who’s supposedly one of the best assassins here, you spend an awful lot of time brooding. Ever thought about getting a hobby? Maybe playing an instrument? Knitting, perhaps?”

Ren shot him a blank look.

Akihiro smirked. “What, no reaction? You’re no fun.”

Ren leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Why are you here?”

“Because I’d rather be here than anywhere near my so-called family.”

Ren said nothing, but he understood.

Akihiro was the youngest son of the Takeda Clan, the last pure-blooded assassin bloodlines. Unlike most Syndicate members who were recruited or taken in from different places, the Takedas were born into this life. They were royalty in the underworld, trained from birth to be killers.

And yet, despite being a Takeda, Akihiro was treated well I guess you could say differently.

The only person who ever truly acknowledged him was his older brother, Takeshi, the second eldest of the clan and one of the Syndicate’s top assasins.

The rest of the family? Their relationship was complicated least to say.

He never spoke about it directly, but Ren had seen the way the others in the Syndicate treated the Takeda name—with reverence, fear, and absolute respect. Even the Elders held the Takeda bloodline in high regard.

Akihiro, however?

To them, he was no different than a normal blood.

Not because he was weak—far from it. But because he didn’t act like a Takeda should.

He was reckless, playful, and completely unpredictable. He laughed in the face of tradition and ignored the rigid discipline expected of him. And beneath all of that, Ren suspected, was a man who simply didn’t care.

Akihiro let out a dramatic sigh and rolled onto his stomach. “I swear, I’d rather spend time with you than deal with another second of those self-important bastards.”

“Should I feel honored?” Ren asked flatly.

“Yes, actually,” Akihiro grinned. “You’re one of the few people in this place that doesn’t kiss my family’s ass.”

Ren didn’t respond, and Akihiro sat up, stretching.

“You ever think about your real family?” he asked suddenly.

Ren’s fingers twitched slightly at the question.

“…No,” he lied.

Akihiro gave him a knowing look but didn’t push further.

A moment of silence passed between them before Akihiro changed the subject.

“So, what are we doing today? It’s our one damn rest day, and I refuse to spend it staring at these prison walls.”

Ren was about to tell him he had no plans when another knock sounded at the door. This time, it was followed by a familiar, calm voice.

“Both of you. Downstairs. Now.”

Takeshi

Akihiro groaned. “Man, what the hell? It’s our day off!”

Ren was already moving, grabbing a plain black hoodie and slipping it on. He didn’t argue. Orders were orders.

Akihiro ran a hand through his hair and followed him out the door, muttering under his breath. “If this is another damn training session, I’m gonna lose it.”