The 1990s were an era of lawlessness, where power was measured not by justice but by bloodshed. At the heart of this darkness stood Tokyo, a city choked by corruption, its streets running red with the influence of the underworld. The government had long since surrendered to the syndicates, its politicians reduced to puppets dancing on the strings of crime lords. And above them all loomed the most feared name in Japan—Dylan Daniels, the ruthless mastermind behind the Crimson Syndicate.

  The Crimson Syndicate: A Reign of Terror

  The Crimson Syndicate wasn’t just a criminal organization—it was a plague. Seventy percent of Tokyo’s atrocities bore their mark: public executions in broad daylight, human trafficking rings snatching victims from back alleys, drug empires flooding the streets with poison, and even whispers of cannibalistic rituals performed in the shadows. The police were either on their payroll or in their graves, and the president himself answered to Dylan, a man whose very name made even the most hardened Yakuza tremble.

  Dylan was a nightmare given flesh—tall, broad-shouldered, with jet-black hair slicked back like a blade, and eyes so cold they seemed to freeze the air around him. His voice, a low, measured growl, carried the weight of death itself. He didn’t just command fear—he reveled in it.

  A Meeting with Death

  The air inside the Crimson Syndicate’s headquarters was thick with tension. A group of high-ranking officers sat stiffly in the lavish meeting room, sweat beading on their brows as they waited for him. The silence was shattered when a sudden, unnatural chill swept through the halls. The doors burst open as if pushed by an unseen force, and then—he appeared.

  Dylan strode in, his black tailored suit hugging his muscular frame, his presence like a storm rolling in. Behind him, fifty armed guards followed in perfect formation, their boots striking the marble floor in unison. As he walked, every employee in the hallway dropped to their knees, bowing their heads so low their noses nearly scraped the ground. Even the officers, men who wore badges of authority, flinched and bent forward, their pride crushed under the weight of terror.

  One of them, his voice trembling, dared to speak. "G-Good morning, Sir Dylan! H-How has your day been?"

  Dylan’s lips curled into a smirk. "Bad," he said, his voice dripping with venom. "Because I woke up to the sight of your dickhead face."

  The room froze. The officers turned ghostly pale, their throats tightening as if an invisible noose had just looped around their necks.

  Dylan laughed, a sound as sharp as a knife dragged across bone. "Why so serious, comrades?" he taunted, tilting his head. "Did someone die? Or is someone about to?"

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  The officers didn’t dare breathe.

  Then, just as suddenly, Dylan’s tone shifted, his grin widening. "Oh my god, you people can’t take a joke!" He waved a dismissive hand. "Go see my accountant on the third floor. Your blood money’s waiting."

  The officers nearly collapsed in relief, bowing repeatedly as they scrambled out. "Th-Thank you, sir! We live to serve you!"

  The moment they were gone, the room erupted in laughter. Dylan leaned back in his chair, his crimson tie loosened, his eyes gleaming with sadistic amusement. "God, I love this fear."

  The Reaper’s Drive

  Hours later, exhausted from orchestrating Tokyo’s decay, Dylan decided to leave. His guards protested—"Sir, your enemies are everywhere. Let us escort you!"

  Dylan scoffed. "Who the hell would dare touch me?"

  He climbed into his black Porsche 911, a car he had stolen from a businessman after gutting him like a fish. The man’s wife? Sold into the sex trade. His children? Forced into a brutal fighting ring, trained to become future Syndicate enforcers. That was Dylan’s world—everything belonged to him.

  As he sped down a desolate road, the streetlights flickering like dying stars, something felt wrong. A blinding light erupted in the distance. Dylan slammed the brakes, his instincts screaming.

  "Who the fuck is out there?!" he roared, stepping out with his custom shotgun already in hand. He fired into the darkness, the shots echoing like thunder. "Come out, you coward!"

  Then—a sound.

  A deafening roar of engines.

  Before he could react, two massive container trucks barreled toward him from opposite directions, their headlights like the eyes of a predator. Dylan’s lips twisted into a snarl. "You think you can trick me?!"

  In one fluid motion, he yanked three grenades from his coat and hurled them. "EAT THIS, FUCKERS!"

  The explosion rocked the street—but it was too late. The trucks slammed into him, metal screeching, bones crushing. His guards arrived seconds later, guns blazing, but Dylan was already broken, bleeding, his vision fading to black.

  The Awakening

  When his eyes opened again, nothing made sense.

  He was back on the same street—but the world was wrong. The air was thicker, the shadows deeper. He stumbled toward a puddle, his reflection staring back—but it wasn’t him.

  A child. Black hair. Red eyes. A face too sharp, too young.

  "What the fuck…?" Dylan rasped, his voice unfamiliar.

  Then—he saw it.

  A colossal demon, its maw dripping with gore, feasting on a screaming girl. Blood splattered the pavement as the creature licked its lips, turning its grotesque face toward him.

  "Another feast," it rumbled, its voice like grinding bones. "Lovely, isn’t it?"

  Dylan Daniels—the man who ruled Tokyo with an iron fist—felt true fear for the first time in his life.

  And then the nightmare truly began.