As he spoke, a flash of ruthlessness crossed Ryuichi Mitsui's eyes.
"Tanaka-kun, it's still not enough."
"A simple blockade won't teach him a proper lesson."
"Go notify them again. Triple the breach penalties for core technical staff across all major pharmaceutical companies. At the same time, give every existing R&D backbone a ten percent raise."
Tanaka Masakazu froze. "All… all of them?"
"Surprised?" Mitsui shot him a sideways glance. "As long as we lock people in their cages and Genesis can't recruit anyone, their projects will collapse. Tens of billions in investment will go straight down the drain."
"When Genesis goes bankrupt, those people will crawl back on their own. Then we can cut their pay however we like."
"Remember this. Feed the tools well, tighten the chains, and they won't dare rebel."
"That Genesis kid wants to be a savior? Wants to break the monopoly?"
"I'll show him who the sky is in this industry, and whose rules actually matter."
"Yes! Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!" Tanaka lit up, giving a thumbs-up, his smile even more obsequious. "Textbook stuff. Catching turtles in a jar. Genesis is finished this time."
"As for that little brat Seiji Fujiwara, he probably still hasn't figured out how he's dying."
Mitsui threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing across the empty golf course.
He gazed at the gloomy sky in the distance, a thrill of total control swelling in his chest.
In his eyes, the war was already over.
Genesis Group's silence was the prelude to surrender.
Maybe tomorrow, that young president would be kneeling in front of him, sobbing as he begged for forgiveness and offered up controlling shares of Genesis Group with both hands.
That was the price of challenging the old order.
What he didn't know was that, at this very moment, several black sedans were leaving Tokyo, heading for Kobe.
…
…
Kobe, Nagata Ward.
The last traces of dusk were swallowed by heavy storm clouds, plunging the district into a murky gray gloom.
This was one of Kansai's infamous lawless zones. Narrow alleys choked with illegal structures, air thick with sewage stench, cheap fried oil, and the moldy despair of the underclass.
Four luxury cars rolled in like misplaced aristocrats wandering into a dump, stopping at the mouth of a muddy alley.
The doors opened.
Ito stepped out first. He pinched his nose, brow furrowed, staring at an unidentifiable puddle at his feet with visible disgust.
"President, are you sure the intel's right?"
He turned to Seiji, who had just gotten out of the car. "A legendary headhunter at that level, hiding in a place like this? This is practically a pigsty."
Seiji wore a dark gray trench coat over a sharply tailored suit.
Unlike Ito, he showed no obvious disgust. He merely adjusted his collar and swept his gaze over the surroundings.
"If he didn't hide somewhere like this, they wouldn't have stopped hunting him."
His tone was flat.
He raised a hand. Two bodyguards behind him immediately stepped forward, carrying a silver temperature-controlled case.
"Let's go. At this hour, he should still be working."
…
Deep in the alley sat a ramen shop called Red Ogre.
Calling it a shop was generous. It was little more than an illegal shack cobbled together from plastic sheets and corrugated metal.
The space was cramped. Cheap pork bone broth boiled in a pot, filling the air with a heavy, greasy stench.
Seiji pushed aside the oil-stained curtain and walked in.
The noisy shop fell silent for a second. Chopsticks froze midair as everyone stared at the two sharply dressed intruders like they'd walked in from another planet.
Seiji ignored them.
He went straight to an empty table in the corner and sat down without caring how greasy the surface was.
"Boss, two bowls of tonkotsu ramen."
He called toward the counter, then looked past the diners and fixed his gaze on a figure in the semi-open kitchen.
A man washing dishes.
He wore a yellowed tank top. His long hair was tied messily behind his head. The muscles on his exposed arms were slack, too gaunt for manual labor.
He scrubbed at a mountain of plates mechanically, movements dull and sluggish.
"And have that dishwasher come out," Seiji added calmly, his voice cutting cleanly through the din. "I've got some business to discuss with him."
The shop went quiet again.
"You looking for Kurosawa?" the owner blinked, then shouted toward the kitchen. "Hey, someone's looking for you. That's rare. Even brought some real big shots."
The man didn't stop scrubbing.
"Dishwashers don't take side jobs."
His voice was hoarse and rough, like sand in his throat. "If you need muscle, go outside. My back's bad. I can't carry stuff."
Dismissive. He didn't even bother turning around.
Ito lost his patience. He stood and knocked on the glass. "Hey! We're talking to you! Watch your attitude. Do you know who you're talking to? This is the president of Genesis Medical!"
"Genesis?"
The man finally turned off the faucet.
He wiped his hands on his filthy apron and slowly turned around.
It was a face ravaged by stubble and exhaustion, eyes sunken deep.
If not for the vicious scar like a centipede crawling across his brow, Ito would never have connected this down-and-out middle-aged man with the confident "Demon Hand" from the files.
The man narrowed his eyes, scanning Seiji and the bodyguards, then glanced at the silver case.
"Never heard of it."
He snorted, pulled a wrinkled cheap cigarette from his pocket, and stuck it between his lips. "Go home, kid. There's nothing here but garbage waiting to rot. No business for you."
He turned back toward the sink.
"Jin Kurosawa."
Seiji didn't move. He stayed seated on the greasy stool, fingers tapping lightly on the table.
"Former ace partner at Pan-Asia Human Resources. Codename Gin."
"Twelve years in the field. Sixty-three poaching cases, zero failures. Four years ago, while helping Skyline Tech recruit talent, you didn't just flip the rival company's entire R&D team. You also uncovered their financial fraud and sent a century-old firm into overnight liquidation."
As Seiji spoke, the air in the ramen shop seemed to freeze.
"No way…"
"Is that for real?"
"They're talking about Kurosawa?"
"How did he end up like this?"
Amid the whispers, Kurosawa's back stiffened.
"That deal made you a legend," Seiji continued, watching him with a faint smile. "It also turned you into a mad dog the industry cast out."
"So what? The Demon Hand doesn't even have the courage to admit his own name anymore?"
Kurosawa turned slowly.
The murk in his eyes vanished, replaced by a sharp, feral glare, like a beast woken by having its tail stepped on.
He strode over and dropped into the seat across from Seiji.
Something in his aura shifted.
"You did your homework."
He took a drag and exhaled smoke, his voice turning cold. "You're the first one to come looking for me in four years."
"But if you know who I am and what I've done, you should also know the consequences."
He pointed toward the pitch-black street outside. "I'm blacklisted across the entire industry. Anyone who uses me is declaring war on the whole alliance. That Genesis Group of yours… want it bankrupt tomorrow?"
"Correction."
Seiji smiled and motioned for Ito to open his briefcase. He took out a copy of the joint blockade statement and slid it across the table.
"Not tomorrow. It already is."
"Genesis Group is on the blacklist too. Just like you. To those old men, we're both anomalies."
Kurosawa glanced at the document, then froze.
A moment later, he burst into laughter.
"Ha! This is rich. Really rich!"
He laughed until his shoulders shook. "So you're desperate enough to come looking for an obsolete old ghost like me? Kid, you've got guts, trying to sic me on Mitsui."
Then the laughter cut off.
He crushed the cigarette under his heel, the dead weight returning to his face.
"But sorry."
He shook his head and tugged at his greasy tank top. "I can't go with you."
"Why?" Ito blurted out. "We can pay you well! Shares, salary, whatever you want! It's better than washing dishes here!"
"High pay?"
Kurosawa looked at him like he was an idiot.
He pulled out a battered phone with a cracked screen, lit it up, and held it out.
It was a payment reminder.
Kobe Municipal Third Hospital ICU Notice: Your daughter, Kurosawa Rei, has experienced instability in vital signs. Additional imported anti-rejection medication is required. Please pay forty-eight thousand yen by twelve noon tomorrow, or special care will be terminated.
"Can you help me with this?"
His voice was heavy with exhaustion, the kind that could crush even the toughest man.
"My daughter's been in the ICU for two years. Rare genetic disease. A bottomless pit."
"I stay here washing dishes because the owner knows someone at the ward office. They help me apply for special medical subsidies for low-income households. It's not much, but it keeps her alive."
"If I go with you and take that so-called high salary, the subsidy disappears immediately."
His eyes dimmed, a father surrendering completely to reality.
"And more importantly… they're still watching me. The moment I resurface, they'll pressure the hospital and cut off her meds."
"I can't gamble."
He waved them off. "Go. Don't waste your time. Go back to Tokyo and kneel to Mitsui. Maybe he'll leave you a way out."
Ito stared at the payment notice in silence.
As a father, he understood that despair. In front of massive capital, individual strength was nothing. This wasn't about money. It was about someone holding your lifeline.
"President…"
Ito tugged at Seiji's sleeve, his voice trembling. "Forget it. His weakness is too obvious. The moment Mitsui targets his daughter, he'll turn on us. This blade is too dangerous."
The assessment was correct.
But Seiji didn't move.
He stayed seated, expression unchanged.
"What if I said I could save your daughter?"
His voice wasn't loud, but in the noisy ramen shop it landed like a thunderclap.
Kurosawa snapped his head up.
In that instant, the decay vanished from his eyes, replaced by a fierce, piercing light.
Bang!
Both hands slammed onto the table as he stared at Seiji. "Don't joke about that! It's a genetic disease! There's no cure anywhere in the world! I've searched everything—"
"There wasn't before," Seiji cut him off.
He raised a hand slightly. "You've been out of the front lines too long. You don't know that a targeted treatment has already been developed for your daughter's condition."
The two bodyguards stepped forward and placed the silver case on the table.
Click.
With the sound of a fingerprint lock disengaging, the lid lifted.
White cold mist spilled out, dropping the surrounding temperature.
Inside lay three pale blue syringes, resting quietly. Complex English serial numbers were printed on the glass, along with an unfamiliar laboratory logo.
Beside them was a thick stack of documents, entirely in English, stamped on the cover with a glaring red seal.
TOP SECRET.
"X-99 gene-targeted repair agent."
Seiji spoke the name calmly, a trace of mockery in his tone. "The latest result from the States. You won't find it in any medical journal."
"Because the company behind it hasn't cleared FDA ethics review yet."
"Even if they do, the real data will never be published."
He flipped open the report and slid a page toward Kurosawa.
Dense clinical data filled the page. Under "subject age," the entries read: six years old, eight years old, five years old…
"You know how drug inserts always say 'contraindications for pregnant women and children unclear.' Why unclear? Because civilized society has lines it won't cross. No one experiments on pregnant women or kids."
Seiji let out a cold laugh. "But over there, as long as the money's enough, there are no lines."
"These are perfect datasets built on slums and undocumented immigrants. The methods are filthy, but the results…"
He met Kurosawa's eyes, unwavering. "They're real."
Kurosawa said nothing.
He stared at the report.
He was a headhunter, but for his daughter's cursed disease he'd taught himself medicine for years, understood it better than many doctors.
His eyes raced over the core parameters: blood concentration, target binding rates, adverse reaction statistics.
The more he read, the harder his hands shook.
The data was too perfect. No, too real.
Those brutally detailed side-effect records, precise rejection-response observations, weren't something you could fake. They could only be bought with living lives.
This was Hope, soaked in blood.
"…There's an eighty percent chance it's real."
After a long while, Kurosawa closed the heavy file. His voice was hoarse, stripped of emotion, weighed down by submission to reality.
He looked at Seiji, as if staring at another man without a bottom line.
"You can even get something like this…"
"As long as it's to win," Seiji replied calmly. "The means don't matter. Right?"
"I'm not finished."
He signaled the bodyguards to open the second compartment.
Inside wasn't medicine, but a document and a satellite phone.
"This is an admission agreement for a top-tier sterile ICU at Genesis Medical."
"Japan's best life-support systems. The best neurology team. Round-the-clock one-on-one care."
He looked straight at Kurosawa and spoke slowly. "Mitsui can cut off your medicine. I can make medicine. Mitsui can pressure hospitals. I own one."
"If you say yes, a helicopter will bring your daughter to Tokyo tonight."
"All expenses are on me."