Backstage to the loading dock of the Tokyo Dome, where the noise of the arena had thinned into something colder and more industrial. The bright roar of the crowd was still there, but it reached this part of the building only in dull pulses through concrete and steel, swallowed beneath the hum of fluorescent lights, the reverse beep of forklifts, and the rattle of rolling equipment cases being shoved across the floor. Parked in the shadows near a stack of production crates sat a white ambulance with its engine idling low and steady. The emergency lights were dark. The back doors were closed. At a glance it looked official, just another emergency vehicle waiting for the next disaster to come spilling out from the violence of the show. But the closer the camera moved, the more wrong it felt. There was something too still about it. Too patient.
Inside the cab, Daiki Yamashita sat in the passenger seat dressed in a stolen EMT jacket zipped halfway over his chest, blue medical gloves stretched tight across his hands, a clipboard resting against one knee more as a prop than a tool. His expression was calm, almost clinical, but there was no mistaking the sharpness in his eyes as they tracked the corridor leading from the backstage medical area toward the dock. Every few seconds he checked the side mirror, then the hallway, then the dock doors again, as if running the same calculation over and over in his head until every possible mistake had been strangled before it could be born. Beside him, Shinji Kobayashi lounged in the driver’s seat in a paramedic windbreaker that did little to hide the arrogance in his posture. One hand tapped slowly on the steering wheel. The other rested near the siren controls. Even sitting still, he looked like a man waiting for permission to enjoy something ugly.
Daiki: Once they bring Takuma Sato out here, we move immediately.
Shinji glanced over at him and smirked, the corner of his mouth curling with lazy amusement.
Shinji Kobayashi: You make it sound easy.
Daiki kept his eyes on the corridor.
Daiki: It is easy. That’s why it will work.
He lifted the clipboard just enough to glance down at it, though whatever was written there clearly did not matter. It was the gesture of a man who believed in process, in order, in the comfort of a plan so tight there was no room left for panic. Outside the windshield, a stagehand hurried past without even looking toward the ambulance.
Daiki: He’ll be hurt, disoriented, surrounded by confusion. People will see the jacket, the vehicle, the stretcher, and their brains will do the rest for them. No one stops an ambulance. Not security. Not wrestlers. Not office staff. By the time anybody realizes Takuma Sato never made it to a hospital, he’ll already be at Kuraken no Suana.
That got Shinji’s full attention. His smirk deepened.
Shinji Kobayashi: Straight to Yamamoto-san.
Daiki finally turned and looked at him.
Daiki: Straight to Yamamoto-san.
For a moment there was only the soft hum of the engine between them. The dock beyond the windshield looked washed out and cold beneath the overhead lights, all wet concrete, steel beams, and shadowed corners. Then Shinji leaned back a little farther in his seat, folding one arm across his chest, his expression shifting from amusement to something more curious.
Shinji Kobayashi: I heard he wants Takuma’s mother there.
Daiki gave a small nod.
Daiki: He does.
Shinji Kobayashi: That’s not just punishment. That’s theater.
Daiki: No. Theater is for crowds. This is correction.
He adjusted the cuff of one glove with deliberate care, pulling it tighter against his wrist.
Daiki: Takuma didn’t just defy him. He exposed him. He dragged Yamamoto-san’s name out of the shadows and into the mouths of civilians, reporters, police, anyone who watches enough television to think they understand power. He made a patriarch look public. Vulnerable. Small. Men like Yamamoto-san do not forgive that kind of humiliation. They erase it.
Shinji stared through the windshield again, his eyes narrowing slightly as he considered it. There was no sympathy in his face. Only appetite.
Shinji Kobayashi: So first he breaks him in front of her.
Daiki: First he humiliates him. He strips away whatever pride Takuma thinks he still has. He makes him understand that ending a blood feud was never his decision to make. Then, when he has nothing left but fear, Yamamoto-san kills him in front of the woman who gave him his name. That way the lesson survives longer than the body does.
Shinji let out a slow breath through his nose. Even he seemed to savor the cruelty of it.
Shinji Kobayashi: Cold.
Daiki: Necessary.
Shinji Kobayashi: You really believe that?
Daiki turned his head again, and the look he gave him was flat and humorless.
Daiki: I believe perception is everything. Takuma made Yamamoto-san look weak in front of enemies, allies, police, the public, everyone. If Takuma lives after that, then every stupid, angry little rat in every tunnel starts thinking the same thing.
Shinji’s expression sharpened.
Shinji Kobayashi: That he can be touched.
Daiki: Exactly.
The answer sat heavy between them. Somewhere deeper in the dock a metal door slammed. A forklift reversed again. The arena throbbed faintly through the walls like a giant heart beating somewhere far away. Daiki’s attention returned to the corridor, but Shinji kept talking, because of course he did. Silence did not suit him for long.
Shinji Kobayashi: Still... doing it in front of the mother? That part’s personal.
Daiki: It became personal the moment Takuma confused public attention with power.
Shinji laughed under his breath at that, but Daiki kept going, his voice low and precise, almost thoughtful now in a way that made it more unsettling.
Daiki: Yamamoto-san wants Takuma to understand that his choices did not destroy only himself. He wants him to see the cost reflected back at him through her face. He wants the mother to watch the son fail. He wants the son to know she watched him fail. Shame. Fear. Blood. Memory. That is how old men like Yamamoto-san restore order. Not by winning arguments. By making sure no one ever wants to repeat the mistake.
Shinji’s grin returned, wolfish this time.
Shinji Kobayashi: I almost admire it.
Daiki: You admire anything cruel as long as someone else is underneath it.
Shinji Kobayashi: Not true.
Daiki raised an eyebrow.
Shinji Kobayashi: I admire myself most.
That earned no reaction from Daiki beyond the smallest exhale through his nose. Shinji smiled wider anyway, satisfied with himself, then looked back toward the dock doors.
Shinji Kobayashi: Takuma should’ve stayed in his lane. That’s what it comes down to. He wanted to play hero. Wanted to stand in the light and act like blood, legacy, and fear didn’t matter anymore. Now he gets dragged underground like meat. I don’t feel sorry for him. I just hope Yamamoto-san lets him realize what’s happening before it ends.
Daiki’s eyes never left the corridor.
Daiki: He will. Men like Yamamoto-san don’t just kill. They educate.
That line seemed to please Shinji more than it should have. He settled both hands on the wheel now, finally looking serious, the cocky slackness leaving his body as the job ahead became real. Daiki set the clipboard down, leaned forward slightly, and narrowed his eyes toward the hallway. The air had changed. The dock still looked the same, but there was movement deeper inside the building now. Raised voices. Fast footsteps. Urgency. Something had gone wrong for someone, which meant everything was beginning to line up exactly as planned.
Daiki: Focus now. No mistakes. Once they load him in, he belongs to us.
Shinji’s face hardened into a predatory grin.
Shinji Kobayashi: Then let’s make the delivery.
The two sat in the fake ambulance for a moment longer as the sounds of commotion drew nearer from inside the arena, and then the scene faded out.
To Be Continued In Part - 13