WANTED

It was just another ordinary day in a high-security government facility—until it wasn't.

A sharp knock on the door.

"Sir," a government agent said, stepping into his superior's office. "You need to see this."

The boss looked up from his desk, a cigarette burning between his fingers. The agent handed him a remote, pointing at the massive monitor on the wall. He pressed play.

The news broadcast flickered on.

A grainy image of a hooded figure appeared on the screen, standing amidst chaos. Beneath it, bold red letters: WANTED.

Then, the numbers.

1,000,000,000,000 yen.

A bounty so high it was almost laughable. Almost.

The news anchor's voice was grave. "This individual is considered extremely dangerous, with a confirmed kill count higher than ten known serial killers and psychopaths combined. The government urges the public to report any sightings immediately."

The boss exhaled, watching the screen with narrowed eyes. "So...they finally put a price on him."

He turned to his agents. "Gather the best investigators and spies we have. I want this man found. Now."

For weeks, they searched.

Agents scoured the streets, interrogated informants, and monitored every dark alleyway, but Mikimo was a ghost. Every hooded figure they stopped turned out to be an innocent civilian.

False alarms. Dead ends. Humiliation.

One by one, the agents returned, heads hung low, defeated.

The boss sat at his desk, fingers steepled. "Useless," he muttered. He had expected more from them.

He leaned back and sighed before standing up. "Fine. I'll do it myself."

Reaching into a locked cabinet, he retrieved an identification device—highly classified tech capable of scanning an entire country for a single target.

Holding it above his head, he activated the scan.

The results came in seconds.

One hit.

Mikimo.

A slow smirk spread across his face.

Grabbing his katana from the rack behind him, he adjusted the blade, feeling the familiar weight in his hand.

Time to finish this.

Night had fallen when he arrived at the location.

A darkened alley, quiet except for the distant hum of the city.

The moment his boots touched the ground, shadows moved.

Ambush.

Mikimo was fast—no doubt about that. His assassins struck from every direction, blades flashing in the dim light. But the boss had spent 21 years mastering the art of combat.

One attacker lunged. He sidestepped, grabbed the assailant's wrist, and flipped him over his shoulder with a Judo throw so fluid it seemed effortless. The second barely had time to react before the boss's katana cut through the air, slashing clean across his chest.

Mikimo himself struck next. A blur of speed. A dagger in hand.

But the boss was already a step ahead.

He had drugged Mikimo's weapon before the fight even began.

The moment Mikimo's fingers wrapped around the dagger, the effects kicked in.

His vision blurred.

His muscles weakened.

Darkness crept into the edges of his consciousness.

He staggered. Dropped the blade.

Then, everything went black.

When Mikimo's eyes snapped open, he wasn't in the alley anymore.

He was tied to a chair, his wrists bound tight with thick rope. A single overhead light cast harsh shadows against the steel walls. The air was cold, sterile.

His breath hitched.

The dream was still fresh in his mind.

Ramini Akayashiki.

His sister.

The Yakuza leader had shot her right in front of him.

I'm sorry I couldn't help you, Mikimo… I'm sorry…

Her voice echoed in his skull. Then—

BANG.

He woke up screaming.

A deep voice cut through his panic.

"You're awake, I see."

Mikimo's head snapped toward the sound.

A man stood before him, arms crossed, face unreadable.

His presence radiated authority. Power.

"My name is Yakuru Sakawa," he said, his tone firm and unwavering. "I am the head of a secret organization operating under the government."

Mikimo glared, his body straining against the ropes.

Yakuru continued.

"My job is to hunt down and eliminate serial killers, psychopaths, and those who think they can escape justice." His sharp gaze bore into Mikimo's. "And you, Mikimo… are my next mission."

Mikimo clenched his fists.

Yakuru turned away, motioning to his men.

"Lock him up," he ordered.

Two guards stepped forward, unlocking the heavy steel door of the cell behind him.

Mikimo thrashed, muscles flexing, trying to snap the restraints. But it was no use.

They dragged him out of the chair, shoving him toward the cold, dark prison cell.

The steel bars slammed shut.

Yakuru stood outside, staring in.

"You can struggle all you want," he said, his voice cold. "But you belong here."

Mikimo's eyes burned with fury.

This wasn't over.

Not even close.