Shinjuku had nothing on me. Kabukicho - even less. If there were monsters roaming in the night, I hunted them. If Godzilla's footstep could level a city, mine could level a country.

Neon.

Neon.

Neon.

All I could see was flashing neon lights, the gaudy, attention seeking bars and clubs advertising all a person's wildest dreams. That was all I ever saw. When I closed my eyes to sleep, my mind was illuminated by the afterimage of those neon lights. I was laying on a massage table, getting my back tattoo repaired where the healed scar from a knife wound left a white diamond shape void in the ink. My namesake - The Phoenix - filled every inch of my skin. The tattooer's name was Suzuki Makoto, who we had nicknamed Suzu, and he had been a trusted friend of my family for generations. He didn't care if I put my katana and my gun on the floor under the table to make sure I could access them both easily. He didn't ask any questions as he worked to cover the scar. Years ago, he had given me the tattoo as my initiation piece that also named me, on my eighteenth birthday. We were both so much younger then.

The door slammed against the wall as it was kicked open. My nerves were so shot, I didn't flinch. "K'ch-" I swore under my breath, more annoyed that whatever chaos was about to ensue had interrupted my tattoo. "So that's what kind of night this is going to be, eh?" One motion. That was all it took. I dismounted the table, reaching to the floor for the hilt of my katana, spun the blade to the ceiling, and got ready.

Gunshot.

Gunshot.

Gunshot.

I heard a lot of those, and I didn't really care anymore. Where was the fight? Where was the thrill? Guns were too easy, and I was bored. I chose the katana to inject some skill back into the brawl. "Is that all? You're a terrible shot." I didn't know who I was talking to, I would find out later. The room was too small to accommodate three men bursting in to attack, the length of my katana, and the range of their guns. Blade in the ceiling tile, bullet in the window frame, the overhead light fixture swung, cotton shot out of the upholstery, smoke, flashes, and it was over.

My foot was atop one of the men's knee on the floor, my katana blade through the back of his heel. His face was a mess as I looked down on him, snot, tears, his sour expression of defeat. Shameful. "Who sent you?"

His suit was a dark grey colour, but the pin on his lapel that would have told me what syndicate he was from was so smeared with blood, I couldn't see the symbol. "Abe."

My teeth began to grind. "How did he know I was here?" Suit pointed a shaking finger behind me, at old man Suzu standing up from under the desk. The lights flickered, electricity sparked, smoke from the guns rose in tendrils. I looked back at him under me, but I had heard enough. I delivered a swift snap kick to his jaw, and he went limp on the floor. "Nah. Suzu would never tell."

I pulled my katana out of Suit's heel and gave it a flick to shake the blood off the tip, and turned my attention back to Suzu. "Did you finish?"

He nodded slowly with a smile. "Enough."

I took up my leather jacket from the sofa, holding it up to inspect it for bullet holes. Thankfully for the Abe syndicate, it was intact. It was an expensive jacket. I stuffed my hand into the inside breast pocket to produce a rolled up wad of paper bills, offering it to Suzu. "There's extra for cleanup. Call my guy, you know who."

My hand landed heavily atop Suzu's shoulder. I felt how frail he was becoming, and I wondered how much longer he was going to put up with it. "I'm sorry, friend. I'm sorry we keep doing this to you."

He got out a black plastic bandage pad to cover the freshly inked wound, and grabbed the waistband of my jeans to hold me still while he taped it in place. "That's how it is in this business, isn't it." An accepting, indifferent answer. "My work is as underground as yours. I couldn't ask for better treatment from my clients."

"Your clients are criminals. Even me. Don't forget that, old man, and don't ever start letting your guard down." I pointed at him as I threw my shirt and jacket on. "Control us, or we control you."

Out the back door of Suzu's place, on the landing of the stairs down to street level from the third storey, the building momentarily blocked the pollution of the neon. It was dark. I leaned back against the door and took a deep breath, conducting a scan of my body. Head - check. No damage. Neck - check. No damage there either. Back - letter x. The spot that had been tattooed felt wet and slimy under the bandage. I would have to take it off and wash it when I got home, just to make sure no one else's blood ended up in it. My hands ached from my grip on my katana, and my knuckles were grazed from throwing some hard punches that connected with bodies. But I was fine. I stuffed my hand in my jacket pocket, looking for my pack of cigarettes. I lit one with my hand cupped around the flame of the lighter, taking a long drag, letting my head fall back against the door and breathing the smoke into the sky.

"Take that, Shinjuku." I said to no one. "Can't get me."

My phone started to buzz in the front pocket of my jeans. The display said "Chiaki", but more interestingly, I learned that it was two in the morning. I needed to go home, go to bed. I had training in the morning. "What do you want?" I answered the phone, starting my way down the stairs.

"Kazu-kun, are you nearby? I'm lonely."

I could hear the pout in her high pitched voice, and I supposed that was the point, to appeal to my sense of dominance. She was trying to sound as cute as she could. I scoffed a laugh into the phone. "No."

"Kazu-kun..." She wined like a child who wasn't getting her way.

I stayed in the alley ways between the high rise buildings as long as I could, following the maze of twists and turns, avoiding the main street in Shinjuku at all costs. The lack of a block system made travelling like that lengthy, but I knew the alleys so well I could sleep walk them, and if it meant staying out of sight, it was worth the time. Walking alone without my men during prime time of Kabukicho was never a wise decision, but no one was looking for a second in command Yakuza wearing a leather jacket and ripped jeans.

"Chiaki, I thought I told you to loose my number. You're bad news for me, especially if you're calling at this time of night." I hung up the phone and blocked the number. I didn't want her to call back.

At the end of an alley, I couldn't hide any longer. I stepped around the corner and looked left to scan the intersection, then right to scan the length of sidewalk. Cheap business suits, groups of young people wearing punk style clothes, girls in short skirts and high boots. No alarm bells. I had learned that walking around with a katana in a sheath around my hips was a bad idea, and instead I hid it inside a canvas case meant for a pool cue, the inside of the case fitted with a custom made insert for the blade. My gun was easy enough to hide in comparison. An AMT Hardballer that fit nicely in my hand, the flat square shape allowing it to sit in a holster close to my body and go undetected.

Once I passed through the San-Chome district archways, I walked in the middle of the street, staying as far away from the cast of the light as I could. The streets were too narrow for cars to drive down them in San-Chome, and the majority of the crowd walked right down the middle, offering me cover to get lost among them. I kept my head down as I walked, careful not to catch anyone's gaze so there was no excuse for anyone to look at my face. Any features I possessed that made me recognizable were covered by clothing when I was in public, but those who knew who I was would recognize my face, ripped jeans or not.

"Okyaku-sama!" A woman in a too-tight, too-short Chinese style dress waved a restaurant menu in my face as I tried to pass. "Come in and have a meal, something to sober up with!" Those vultures on the street corners were only aiming to trick potential patrons into entering the establishment so they could be scammed. It was an act I was getting fed up with, and got too many calls about. I would add it to the list to clean up eventually, but San-Chome's list was so extensive, the cash flow already so dirty.

"No thanks, I'm heading home." I turned to walk backward away from her, hooking my index finger into the collar of my t-shirt and pulling it down for just an instant to give her a quick peek of my chest tattoo. I watched the colour drain from her face and the fake-happy expression slide down. I didn't know why I bothered sometimes.

The apartment I kept in Shinjuku was modest, just a small place to go when I was in the city on business, which was more and more often as time passed. I couldn't remember how many weeks had passed since I went home. The city was going to Hell, and I was getting tired waiting for my turn to make some decisions. I dialed a number into a spare cell phone I left in the apartment on the coffee table and waited. The line rang once, twice, and was picked up. No one said anything. "I'm home." I said to the silence.

"Welcome home." The voice of one of my guards said back to me. A code to let my men know where I was when I insisted on going out alone incognito, and so they didn't give themselves away without knowing if it was really me on the other end of the line first.

I hung up and tossed the phone onto the couch, followed by my gun holster. Everything in the apartment was clean, streamline, white walls and black furniture. Simple, understated, and no extra stimulation. The city provided enough. I turned on the light in the bathroom as I stripped off my t-shirt, and caught myself in the mirror. I was starting to look old. Or maybe just tired. Dark circles under my eyes, a long thin scar over one side of my lips, and I needed a haircut. Or did I? It seemed long and shaggy was a trend, and it helped me fit in with the regular looking crowds. Tattoo on both sides of my chest, up to my collar bone and down both arms to mid-forearm. Two dragons with their heads facing each other on my chest, surrounded by cherry blossoms and clouds. A bullet wound scar near my heart. Covering my back, the phoenix engulfed in flames with his wings outstretched and his tail feathers twisting and turning. A knife wound scar that Suzu had taken care of. I washed the fresh tattoo and taped a piece of plastic wrap over it.

"Snap out of it." I told myself in the mirror. "You're getting soft. And you have training in the morning, so get at least four hours of sleep. You can pout later."