Raizo, known on the streets as Asura, a lieutenant of the Azn Bad Boys and Lung's enforcer alongside Oni Lee, tapped his fingers against his desk, going over the week's earnings. His mask — stylized in the image of a wrathful deity — covered his mouth and nose, leaving the rest of his rubbery, well-sculpted body exposed. Tattoos marked his chest and back in intricate, fearsome patterns — dragons, blades, and deities.
He wore only black pants, the rest of his skin bare under the office's warm light. The room was decorated in tasteful chaos — collector's weapons on the walls, statues from Southeast Asia, and framed paintings. It was both a shrine and a throne room for a man like Raizo.
The Docks, where the ABB held sway, were a paradox. Despite the name, much of the area had no water in sight. Real docks and run-down beaches did exist, but the bulk of it was urban rot — abandoned factories, dim warehouses, dying garages. The southwest end clung to normalcy with its schools, mom-and-pop shops, and rows of houses, but deeper in, it all gave way to industrial decay.
Whole neighborhoods were suffocating under poverty, neglect, and the weight of organized crime. The ABB had turned this corner of the city into their empire. Protection money was routine, and the Docks were the destination for anyone seeking black market wares.
Raizo had carved out his empire within Lung's empire. While he only shared control over the prostitution rings, the contraband racket was fully his. Where the other handler — a non-cape, brutal and crude — used threats and drugs to control the girls, Raizo ran things differently. He paid his women what they were worth and treated them like valuable assets. Good morale meant fewer problems, better performance, and loyalty.
As he cross-checked the latest ledgers, an ABB footsoldier — a younger woman in red and black — entered his office. She bowed respectfully.
"Lung-sama requests your presence. He's calling a meeting. He says... he's introducing a new recruit. Personally."
Raizo raised a brow, intrigued. Lung rarely did personal recruitment. That could only mean one thing — a cape.
He stood, muscles rippling as he moved toward her. She blushed and looked away as he reached out, brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear, then walked past her.
"Follow me."
The meeting room was deep in the ABB's main base — a dark, opulent chamber styled with dragon motifs, lit with paper lanterns and LED strips. Inside were Lung, Oni Lee, and a new face — a young woman Raizo didn't recognize. The high-ranking members had begun gathering: the lieutenants, their top subordinates — thirty under each, divided into combat and operations squads.
Oni Lee stood silently beside Lung. He wore his signature black bodysuit, bristling with knives and grenades. His crimson oni mask leered menacingly, fangs exaggerated and cruel.
Lung sat on a throne-like chair, shirtless, his torso an inked tapestry of Eastern dragons. His dragon-mask rested on his face, steel and stylized. His eyes — bloodshot around light brown irises — were exposed, scanning the room with intensity.
Raizo's presence didn't go unnoticed. As he entered, the room hushed slightly. His reputation preceded him — Asura, the bladed god of battle. A weapon made flesh.
The girl's eyes widened as she took in his face. "Wait... you're Asura? The one from the PHO rumors? The ABB's berserker? That's how you look outside you armor" she asked, loud with disbelief and interest.
He raised an eyebrow. He didn't respond. He turned to Lung instead.
The dragon-masked warlord stood, his voice commanding.
"This is Bakuda," he said. "Tinker. Specializes in bombs. I brought her in personally. She's one of us now."
Bakuda stood proudly, smirking. She wore large goggles, a gas mask with wires braided over her shoulders, and carried herself with a swagger that bordered on theatrical.
"I'm the best at what I do," she said, clearly annoyed Asura hadn't responded to her earlier outburst. "You'll learn that soon enough."
Raizo gave her one more look. Cold, measuring. Then turned back to Lung.
"What rank?"
"Lieutenant," Lung replied. "Her value's too great to put her lower."
Raizo said nothing more, only nodded once and took his seat beside Oni Lee, arms crossed.
Lung gave a short but powerful speech. About their growth. Their dominance. How the ABB was evolving into something more than a gang — a force.
It wasn't long before the meeting turned into a party. Drinks. Music. Women — some from Raizo's own operations — were brought in to entertain and distract.
Raizo didn't stay.
He left quietly, throwing on a dark jacket over his bare chest. He got on his matte-black motorbike and sped through the night toward one of his primary establishments — a high-end hostel used for laundering money and other fronts.
When he arrived, employees and patrons alike bowed or nodded in respect. He clapped once, his tone charismatic, firm.
"Continue. Drink. Enjoy yourselves. Best earners tonight get a bonus."
That got everyone moving. The music picked up. The girls smiled brighter. The customers — businessmen, politicians, even a few rogue heroes — leaned in to spend more.
Raizo moved through it all like a shadow, climbing the stairs with practiced ease. Guards posted along the way bowed as he passed. He entered the third floor — his private quarters — and poured himself a drink. On the balcony, he looked out across his territory.
Soon, the door opened.
A tall, voluptuous woman with a spider motif on her black and red lingerie stepped in. Her long hair cascaded down her back, her face framed by beauty marks and mischief. Himiko. One of Raizo's three squad leaders — a cape, deadly and devoted, modeled in power and presence after the mythic Black Maria.
She walked up and straddled him on the chair, settling in without a word. Her head rested against his neck, her scent familiar. They didn't speak. They didn't need to.
Out there was the city.
Downstairs was the front.
But up here?
Raizo, the Asura of the ABB, allowed himself a moment of peace.
-----
The morning sun filtered through the tinted windows of the third floor, casting a muted glow across the luxurious office suite Raizo had claimed for himself. The hostel was officially closed—daytime was for accounting, restocking, and keeping up appearances.
Raizo leaned back in his chair, shirtless again, clad only in dark slacks as he nursed a glass of dark amber liquor. The ice clinked softly, competing with the sound of Himiko's heels on polished wood as she stepped in.
She was dressed modestly by her standards—fitted black pants and a silk blouse. Her long black hair was tied into a high bun with a golden pin, though her beauty and presence still turned heads. She carried a leather tablet folder in hand, businesslike and composed.
"The earnings from last night are in," she said, handing him the tablet. "The top ten girls made enough to justify triple bonuses. Money laundered from the basement operation totals just over eight hundred grand. A new record for a Thursday."
Raizo's violet eyes skimmed the screen as he nodded, sipping. "And Mariko's site?"
"Smooth. Her girls are consistent—solid clients, zero incidents. Earnings matched projections."
He gave a soft hum of approval. "Hanzo?"
Himiko flicked through another tab. "Hanzo's report came in at 7:23 AM. Black market deals in illicit tech and illegal parahuman enhancers brought in a clean two million. One of his runners nearly got caught, but he handled it. Sent the body back in pieces."
Raizo smirked faintly. "Efficient as ever. Tell them both well done—and make sure the girls get proper rest. Tonight's Friday. We'll be packed."
"Yes, boss."
He set the glass down and turned his sharp gaze to her. "What about the businesses I don't run? Specifically the prostitution sectors not under my direct oversight."
Himiko's posture stiffened slightly. "As you expected. The other overseer's operation is hemorrhaging. Two girls escaped again. A hundred-fifty grand in merchandise gone. No recovery team sent until four hours later."
Raizo's eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening.
"That idiot's negligence is costing us credibility," she added quietly.
Raizo stood slowly, walked to the minibar and poured another drink. "If he loses another hundred grand's worth of merchandise, kill him. Quietly. I'll speak to Lung about consolidating that sector under my control."
"Yes, Raizo."
"And send our men to physically confirm our account records at every location—warehouses, launder fronts, clubs. I want no gaps in the paper trail. When you're done updating them, dispatch them."
She nodded, already tapping out a message on her tablet.
Raizo returned to his desk, placed his glass down, and opened his laptop. With a few keystrokes, a grid of security camera feeds sprang to life. One screen showed the interior of their largest warehouse, stacks of crates and containers monitored by uniformed guards. Another displayed a locked showroom with high-value tech, mostly smuggled tinker components. Every operation under his command, clean and efficient.
He swirled his drink and hummed faintly, watching the screens.
Then, with a few deliberate clicks, he brought up a feed from an unused wing of one of the warehouses. The camera flickered, and then displayed a new space—still barebones but gradually transforming. Tools and cables were scattered about. Partially completed mines, small explosive devices, and schematics filled the workbenches.
Bakuda was hunched over one of them, welding goggles on, fingers working with manic energy. Occasionally she would talk to herself or jot down notes on the wall like a mad scientist unleashed.
Raizo drummed his fingers on the desk, his mask set beside the laptop like a sleeping predator. He watched the feed in silence, eyes half-lidded and unreadable.
"She's not stupid," he murmured to no one. "Just loud."
He took a sip of his drink and leaned back, gaze still fixed on the screen as the camera caught Bakuda laughing at something only she understood.
The screen blinked for a second, and his reflection briefly appeared—calm, deadly, and waiting.