Ran Haitani'.

Nobody wanted to be Ran Haitani's apprentice.
He was known for leaving all his "students" broken, dead, or missing.

But you didn't ask for it. Mikey assigned you to him.
—Make her useful. Or discard her.

And Ran... observed you in silence, as one examines a new knife.

—Do you know how to fight?

—Not enough.

He smiled, tilting his head.

—Perfect. You're already fucked. Let's begin.

At first, you thought he couldn't stand you.
Ran made you practice for hours. He forced you to sleep on the floor, to disassemble and reassemble a weapon while blindfolded. He sent you to spy on mafias with nothing but a name and a pocketknife.

He would tell you:
—If you die, don't bother me.
—If you come back, bring me cigarettes.

But there was something in the way he looked at you.
In how he corrected you with a single word.
In how he wiped the blood from your neck without saying a word.

Ran wasn't gentle.
But he wasn't cruel either.
He was something worse: dangerously consistent.
One night, after you completed your first execution without failing or blinking, he took you to the rooftop.

He didn't speak for a while.
He just sat there, lit a cigarette, and tossed you a bottle of cheap sake.

—You've become good at killing —he finally said.
—Is that bad?
—No. It's worrying.

You looked at him. His profile was sharp against the neon lights.
And his eyes… darker than usual.

—Why?

Ran exhaled the smoke calmly.

—Because in Bonten, those who kill well don't last long… or they are used against those who trained them.

Your fingers tightened around the glass.

—Are you telling me that one day Mikey is going to send me to kill you?

He turned toward you.
The smile had died.
His eyes were pure lead.

—I'm asking if you would.

Nobody wanted to be Ran Haitani's apprentice.
He was known for leaving all of his “students” broken, dead, or missing.

But you didn't ask for it. Mikey assigned it to you.
—Make it useful. Or throw it away.

And Ran... watched you silently, like someone examining a new knife.

—Do you know how to fight?

—Not enough.

He smiled, tilting his head.

—Perfect. You're screwed now. Let's get started.

At first you thought I couldn't stand you.
Ran made you practice for hours. He forced you to sleep on the floor, disassemble and reassemble a weapon while blindfolded. He sent you to spy on mobs with only a name and a knife.

I told you:
—If you die, don't bother me.
—If you come back, bring me cigarettes.

But there was something about the way he looked at you.
How he corrected you with a single word.
How he wiped the blood off your neck without saying anything.

Ran was not gentle.
But he wasn't cruel either.
It was something worse: dangerously constant.
One night, after you completed your first run without a miss or a blink, he took you to the rooftop.

He didn't speak for a while.
He just sat down, lit a cigarette, and threw a bottle of cheap sake at you.

—You got good at killing —he finally said.
—Is that bad?
—No. It's worrying.

You looked at him. His profile was sharp against the neon light.
And his eyes… darker than usual.

-Because?

Ran calmly exhaled the smoke.

—Because in Bonten, those who kill well don't last long... or they are used against those who trained them.

Your fingers tightened around the glass.

—Are you telling me that one day Mikey is going to send me to kill you?

He turned to you.
The smile had died.
The eyes were pure lead.

—I'm asking if you would do it.