Freedom Tastes Like Blood

Three days had passed.

I was outside. Free. And this city? It was exactly what I expected it to be.

Kamakura's streets had always been filthy, but now, they were something worse. A place where the concept of civilization had begun to rot. A place where law had collapsed, and the only rule that remained was whoever has the power, takes what they want.

I had walked through these streets for hours, passing by scenes that would have once made an ordinary man sick.Looted stores. Burned-out cars.Bodies—some fresh, some already stiff with decay.

I saw thieves, murderers, and those who were simply desperate to survive.

But the saddest part?

I didn't see a single human being.

No one who still deserved to be called one, anyway.

But hey, at least there was one thing to comfort me. The piece of baklava I was about to put into my mouth.

I took a bite, letting the rich, honey-soaked layers melt on my tongue. Sweet. Soft. Just the right amount of crunch.

A perfect contrast to the rotting city around me.

I leaned back, taking a slow sip of my tea, my gaze drifting across the dimly lit café. The place was surprisingly intact—one of the few establishments that hadn't been reduced to rubble.

And it was here that I received the information I needed.

Baek, that annoying bastard, had left me with an assignment before I had even fully processed Kurata blowing his brains out.

Kurata's three daughters were still missing.

My first job? Find them. Bring them back. Alive and unharmed.

Simple enough.

Except for one thing.

Their ages.

17. 20. 23.

The youngest wasn't even an adult yet.

Not that it mattered in a city where being underage, innocent, or weak didn't mean a damn thing.

Because here, in this new Kamakura, where murderers and rapists roamed the streets like kings…The only thing that mattered was whether you were hunter or prey.

And those girls? Right now, they were prey.

I took another slow sip of my tea, exhaling.I spent the first day doing what I did best—watching.

Not running around like an idiot, waving a gun, shouting names. That's how you get shot in a city like this.

Instead, I went to the places where information flowed.

Burned-out bars that still served alcohol to men desperate to forget what they'd done that day.Makeshift trading posts where food, ammo, and stolen supplies changed hands like currency.Underground gambling rings where debts were paid in blood.

And most importantly—the brothels.

Because if someone had taken three girls, there was a damn good chance they ended up in one.

I didn't like the thought. But I liked lying to myself even less.

That was how I found myself sitting at a grimy bar, in a part of the city that smelled like piss and desperation.

The bartender was a short man with a nasty scar running from his eyebrow to his cheek. He didn't flinch when I sat down, but he sure as hell tensed when I spoke.

"I'm looking for three girls. 17, 20, 23. Pretty. Probably scared."

He gave me a dry laugh. "That describes half the girls in this city."

I smiled. "Yeah, but these ones used to have a cop for a father."

His smirk faltered.

Got you.

"Don't know what you're talking about," he muttered. "Even if I did, I don't make a habit of snitching."

I nodded thoughtfully, then grabbed his wrist and slammed it onto the counter, pinning it beneath my palm.

"Let's try this again."

His face twisted in pain, but he still tried to act tough. "Fuck you—"

I pressed down harder.

"You got about five seconds before I start breaking things."

His pulse was hammering under my grip. He was trying to decide if I was bluffing.

I wasn't.

He swallowed hard. "A couple of guys were talking about new 'merchandise' moving through the old warehouse district. Said they were 'fresh stock.' But that's all I know, man."

I stared at him for a moment, then let go.

"See? That wasn't so hard."

I turned toward the door—And walked straight into a wall of muscle.

The man in front of me was huge. 6'5, built like a goddamn tank.

I sighed. "Really? We doing this?"

Behind me, the bartender let out a nervous chuckle. "You didn't think I was gonna let you just walk out after that, did you?"

I rolled my shoulders, cracking my neck. "Figured you might be stupid. Didn't think you'd be suicidal."

The big guy—let's call him Meathead—cracked his knuckles. "You talk too much."

Then he swung.

I dodged at the last second, his fist shattering a wooden beam behind me. If that had landed, it might've actually hurt.

But now? Now, I had his arm. I gripped his wrist and snapped it backward at an unnatural angle. The sound that came out of his throat wasn't human.

"You talk too much," I whispered back. Then, I drove my knee into his gut with enough force to lift him off the ground.

One. Two. Three times.

His body convulsed. Vomit spewed from his mouth, splattering onto the floor.

He tried to recover. Tried to lift his other arm. I grabbed his fingers and bent them backward until they snapped. His screams were deafening.

Not done yet.

I wrapped an arm around his throat, twisting his head toward the bartender.

"Look at him."

The bartender was frozen, eyes wide, face pale.

Meathead gasped, his body jerking violently, trying to break free.

I squeezed harder.

"Watch, bartender. Watch him die."

His broken fingers clawed at my arm. Weak. Desperate.

I leaned down and bit his ear—hard.

Tore it right off.

His shrieks turned into choking gurgles as blood sprayed down his neck.

He was dying.

But not fast enough.

I pulled him down onto his knees and shoved his face into the bar counter.

Once.

Twice.

The third time, something in his skull caved in.

I let go. His body slumped forward, twitching. The entire bar was dead silent.I turned my gaze toward the bartender.

"You're next."

He backed away, shaking.

I grabbed a bottle of liquor from the shelf. And smashed it against his head.

Glass shattered. Alcohol mixed with blood. He collapsed onto the counter, groaning. Not dead. Yet.

I grabbed a shard of glass and dragged it down his arm, carving into his flesh.

"You scream, you die."

His lips clamped shut. Blood trickled down onto the floor. He was trembling, but he didn't make a sound.

Good.

Without another word, I turned and walked toward the door.

The cold night air hit my face.And then—it hit me.

"Tch. Need to buy cigarettes."I grinned. Tonight wasn't over yet .

The streets were quieter than usual.

Not because the city had grown peaceful. Because it was holding its breath.

Word traveled fast.

A man had walked into a bar.A man had left.And in between?

A body cooling on the floor and a bartender too scared to scream.

I shoved my hands into my pockets as I walked, my boots clicking softly against the pavement.

The night air was crisp, carrying the distant scent of burning trash and spilled gasoline.

A small, half-broken convenience store stood at the corner. Its neon sign flickered weakly, buzzing in protest.

Perfect.

I pushed the door open. The clerk—a skinny kid with dark circles under his eyes—froze the moment he saw me.

Smart.

I strolled to the counter, eyes scanning the shelves.

"Cigarettes."

The kid's hands shook as he reached for a pack.

I tapped the counter. "Two."

He gulped, grabbing another. "M-Menthol or regula—"

I tilted my head. "Do I look like I smoke menthol?"

His face drained of color.

I chuckled, tossing some crumpled bills onto the counter. "Keep the change."

Without another word, I stepped back onto the streets.The cold wind hit my face as I tore open the pack, sliding a cigarette between my lips.

The first inhale was smooth. Calm.

And then—

A sound.

Muffled. Choked.

I wouldn't have paid attention to it normally.

But something about it felt off.

As I passed an alleyway, my gaze flickered to the side.

A woman. Cornered.

Three men surrounding her like wolves, their backs turned to me. One had his hand around her mouth, the other was unbuckling his belt.

I took another slow drag of my cigarette.

Not my problem.

I exhaled, stepping forward to leave—

And then, as if sensing me, one of them turned his head.

His eyes met mine.

A lazy smirk pulled at his lips as he lifted his cigarette between his fingers—and flicked the ashes onto the ground.

A silent message.

"Walk away."

I looked at the falling embers.

Then at him.

Then at the woman, her wide, pleading eyes frozen in fear.

I sighed.

"You shouldn't have done that."

He raised an eyebrow. "Done wha—"

I moved.

Before he could react, my fingers plunged into his left eye socket.

His body spasmed violently as his screams ripped through the alleyway.

I twisted.

Flesh tore. Blood spilled down his cheek like a burst artery.

His hands clawed at my arm, his body convulsing, but I didn't stop.

I grinned. "Not so smug now, are we?"

With a sickening pop, I ripped his eye free.

He collapsed to the ground, writhing, howling like a wounded animal.

The other two froze.

Too late.

I lunged forward, driving my fist into the second man's jaw. His head whipped back, cracking against the brick wall. Before he could recover, I grabbed him by the hair and slammed his face against the concrete.

Once.

Twice.

The third time, his skull caved in.

The last man was shaking.

I smiled. "Run."

He didn't need to be told twice.

His footsteps echoed as he disappeared down the alley.

The woman was still frozen, her chest rising and falling in sharp gasps.

I turned back to the man on the ground, his hands clutching the bloody socket where his eye used to be.

I crouched beside him, tilting my head. "Still think flicking ashes at me was a good idea?"

He whimpered, his breath hitching. "P-Please…"

I stood up, stretching my shoulders. "Don't kill you?" I repeated, tilting my head. "Why not?"His remaining eye darted frantically, searching for an answer.

"I—I have a family… I'll do anything… J-Just let me go…His breathing hitched. His chest rose and fell unevenly, drenched in sweat and blood. let the silence stretch, letting his own heartbeat thunder in his ears.Then, finally—I smiled.A slow, eerie curve of my lips.And in a voice so calm it was almost comforting, I whispered:

"If your family meant anything to you… you wouldn't be here."

 His body froze.The panic in his eye shifted into pure terror.I leaned in closer, my breath just above his ear."And if they don't matter to you…" I paused, my voice a soft murmur."Why the fuck would they matter to me?" His soul shattered in that instant. His lips parted, but no sound came out.Just a weak, strangled gasp. He knew.I wasn't sparing him.And a second later—I ended it.The alley fell into silence.Except for the sound of my boot crushing my cigarette into the pavement.Long gone. I barely noticed when the woman finally moved.For the last minute, she had been standing there frozen, her wide eyes bouncing between the corpses and me, like she wasn't sure which was worse. Then, with shaky steps, she slowly approached. "T-Thank you…" Her voice was small. Unsteady. Like she wasn't sure if she was actually allowed to speak.I turned my gaze to her. She was young—early twenties, maybe. Long, dark hair messily falling over her shoulders, bruises already forming on her wrists where they had grabbed her. She was still trembling. I took a slow drag of my cigarette, watching her carefully. Her lips quivered, and she lowered her head slightly. "I don't know what they would've—"

I cut her off. "Go home." She blinked. "W-What?" I exhaled smoke, flicking the cigarette to the ground and crushing it beneath my boot. "Go home," I repeated, my voice colder this time. She swallowed, shifting on her feet. I tilted my head, my eyes narrowing. "You think thanking me changes what I am?" Her breath hitched. I stepped closer, leaning in slightly. "You don't thank a monster for killing other monsters." She took a step back. "You just run before it decides it's still hungry."Her entire body tensed. For a moment, she just stared at me. Then, without another word—she turned and ran. I watched her disappear into the night, then rolled my shoulders.

As I walked, I let the silence settle around me. The cold air stung my skin, the weight of the city pressing down on my shoulders.

Justice. That's what people like Kurata had believed in, right? The kind of justice that came in neatly written reports, courtroom verdicts, and metal bars. The kind of justice that let people rot in prison while murderers and rapists kept breathing, kept taking, kept laughing because they knew the system would protect them just as much as it protected the innocent.

I exhaled slowly. That kind of justice never made sense to me. It never felt real. Because real justice? Real justice wasn't about laws or trials. It wasn't about redemption or second chances. Real justice was about balance.

And balance only came when the scales were tipped with blood.

I wonder how many men I've killed. Fifty? A hundred? More? I wonder if their ghosts watch me now, clinging to my shadow, whispering in the dark. Maybe I deserve it. Maybe that's why men like these keep crawling out of the filth, keep finding me, keep forcing my hands red. Maybe it's them bringing these people to me, waiting to see if I'll hesitate, if I'll break, if I'll ever stop.

I take another slow breath.

No.

Not tonight.

I flick away the cigarette, watching the embers fade against the pavement.

I don't believe in redemption. I don't believe in forgiveness. I don't believe in second chances.

I believe in what's fair.

And what's fair is simple. Bad men deserve bad deaths.

The ones I killed? They earned it. Just like the ones I'll kill next.

I glance ahead. The warehouse district is just beyond the next street.