On 14th December 2041, 10:30 am, at Amigu-Rumi mansion, Katoge stood on the balcony, a cigarette burning between his fingers, its smoke curling into the pale morning air like a silent elegy. His grey eyes—partially obscured behind rectangular spectacles—stared blankly across the cityscape as a chill wind threaded through the high-rises and alleys below. His silver-white hair fluttered gently with the breeze.
He murmured to himself, his voice low and edged with regret.
"Fujiita… you mad bastard. You didn't hesitate for a second."
The image of his fallen comrade flashed behind his eyes. The blast. The silence. The blood-soaked cost of loyalty.
Being an outlaw isn't glory—it's code. You break the code, you pay the price. Betray your own, and death will shake your hand.
The rules of Amigu-Rumi were etched in blood and respect. Harming civilians for personal gain? That was sacrilege—and the punishment was uncompromising. Ruthless, even.
Katoge exhaled slowly, watching the grey tendrils dissipate into the air. His jaw tightened.
The world's a puppet show. The elite families pull the strings, and if you don't dance the way they like... they cut the strings off.
His fingers trembled slightly—though not from the cold. It was something else. Someone else.
Chelsea.
Her face loomed in his thoughts again, uninvited yet unrelenting. The way she touched his hand, whispered in that voice both soothing and venom-laced. Her lips, her perfume, her—
He shut his eyes and muttered, cheeks warming with a hint of embarrassment, "What have I done…"
The wind picked up, sweeping through the open balcony. It carried a whisper of winter and a reminder that chaos still reigned outside the mansion gates.
"When will this madness end…" he asked himself under his breath, voice distant, contemplative.
Then—a knock at the door.
"Katoge! You in there?" Noda's rough voice carried through from the corridor, laced with impatience.
Katoge took a final drag from his cigarette, crushed it in the ashtray, and turned.
"Wait a sec," he replied, unlocking the door.
Outside stood Noda, wearing his usual sly grin, and beside him a young man—probably early twenties. White hair, sharply dressed, with the sort of face that belonged on a magazine cover, not in a den of outlaws.
"This here's Kazuki Morobochi," said Noda, gesturing with his thumb. "He's the new blood. Fresh off the chain."
"Hi!" Kazuki smiled and extended a hand, his voice easy-going, almost too polite for the environment. "Nice to meet you."
Katoge eyed him warily, then shook his hand with a firm nod. "Katoge Nakahara." Pretty boy… What the hell's he doing in our ranks? he thought.
"Right then, since you're free," Noda said with theatrical ease, "I want you to show him around. Give him the full tour."
Katoge narrowed his eyes. "Why don't you do it yourself, Noda-san?"
Noda's expression dropped like a mask. "What was that?" he asked, lifting his infamous pin-needle and pointing it just shy of Katoge's cheek.
Katoge raised his hands slightly. "Nothing. Just a thought."
"Tch." Noda scoffed and stepped back. "You've got a task from the boss anyway. Might as well stretch your legs while you're at it."
Kazuki blinked. "Task? What task?"
Katoge glanced at him, shoulders lowering into reluctant resignation. "You'll see soon enough. Welcome to the deep end."
A few months ago A silent war simmered beneath the surface of the city. The Kihora Family, notorious for its aggression and influence, had begun to encroach upon Amigu-Rumi territory. With every step, they seized turf, pressed into old boundaries, and infuriated the loyal men of Amigu-Rumi.
Despite their rage, Amigu-Rumi's retaliation had yielded little success. No matter how many traps were laid or bullets fired, the Kihora Family—slippery and strategic—always slipped through their fingers.
At the top of the Kihora hierarchy sat Haru Kihora, the head of the family: a man cloaked in silk and corruption. Beneath him operated two feared lieutenants:
Ohimura Shidekio, a brutish executioner with a legacy of violence and a history of sexual assault. Known to carve smiles into his victims before delivering the final blow.
Shimi Yoshi, dubbed The Lunatic, a man who killed not for gain or honour, but sheer pleasure.
As the two walked beneath glowing lanterns and flickering hanzi signs, Kazuki turned toward Katoge, his expression unreadable, yet lips curled with intrigue.
"Oi, Katoge," he said, hands tucked into his coat pockets, "I've decided. I'll run the hostess and host clubs in this district."
Katoge blinked, taken aback. "Kazuki-san… out of nowhere?"
Kazuki arched an eyebrow. "Why? Think I can't handle it?"
"No, it's just—" Katoge glanced at him again, still trying to make sense of him. "It's sudden, that's all."
Kazuki smirked, a crooked, knowing twist to his mouth. "You're wondering why I joined your lot, aren't you?"
Katoge said nothing.
Kazuki continued, his voice turning low. "I used to run with Tanazaki."
That made Katoge stop in his tracks.
Tanazaki… the one crew that clashed head-on with Amigu-Rumi. They nearly tore each other apart.
Kazuki nodded slowly, as if reading Katoge's thoughts. "In 2039, they were wiped out. Boss gone. Most of the brothers dead. Few of us made it out."
Katoge narrowed his eyes. "What happened? Who took out Tanazaki?"
Kazuki's jaw tightened. His eyes darkened. "Velvet Guillotine."
Katoge swallowed. 90.
Kazuki clenched his fist. "He murdered my boss in a bar. Him, my brothers, everyone. With…" He hesitated, then growled, "...a bloody fucking pencil."
Katoge's chest felt heavier. The image of that infamous massacre burned in his mind—the one where Agent-90 butchered 107 outlaws and 73 Sinners during a high-society masquerade, using little more than cunning, brutality, and a sharpened graphite stick.
Katoge sighed, tapping his temple with the heel of his palm. "Let's not talk about it. Just pray we never run into him."
"Fair enough," Kazuki muttered. "Still gives me the shakes."
It seems like Velvet Guillotine gives everybody a traumatic experience: outlaws, Sinner criminal mastermind and law enforcement forces: Interpol, Europol, the National Crime Agency and SSCBF, even the military forces as well.
As they arrived at the Tabadaime Hostess Club, Katoge's steps slowed. The building's neon-lit façade shimmered like a mirage—once theirs, now stolen.
Inside, the décor was a strange harmony of old-world elegance and hypermodern flash. Paper lanterns swayed alongside LED vines. Golden folding screens flanked projection-mapped waterfalls. Traditional zither music layered with synth bass created an unnerving ambience.
This used to be our turf…
Suddenly, Katoge remembered Noda's words from earlier.
"Katoge, listen up."
Katoge turned at the doorway. "What is it, Noda-san?"
Standing with his usual cocky swagger, Noda gestured toward him with his sharpened pin. "Your task tonight—yours and Kazuki's—is to eliminate the Kihora head, Haru, and his attack dogs: Ohimura Shidekio and Shimi Yoshi. Wipe their bloodline clean. Boss's orders."
Katoge's expression sharpened. "That won't be easy. Shidekio's a savage, and Shimi's a psychopath."
Noda grinned. "Ah, but we've got an ace." He nodded toward Kazuki. "Turns out Haru's got a weakness. Women. Pretty boys too."
Katoge's face twisted in disbelief. "Wait—are you saying we're baiting him? With Kazuki?"
"You heard me. Haru's a lecherous little demon. And Kazuki's our flame."
Katoge groaned. "Seriously…"
"It's been cleared with the boss," Noda added with a smirk. "So don't argue."
At the present as Katoge glanced sideways at Kazuki as they walked inside the club. This had better work…
Kazuki and Katoge stepped into the Tabadaime Hostess Club, and in an instant, the atmosphere shifted.
The hostesses—draped in shimmering silk, eyes gleaming like starlight beneath the club's soft pink glow—froze mid-step. Whispers bloomed like sakura petals as they locked eyes on Kazuki, his chiselled features and sharp jawline radiating a brooding magnetism.
"He's stunning…" one murmured.
Another chimed in, "Come now, darling! Let us do your makeup. Just a little blush… maybe a hint of shimmer—"
Before Kazuki could retreat, three of them surrounded him, already pulling him toward the velvet lounge chairs with mischievous smiles.
"Oi—!" Kazuki recoiled, digging in his heels. "Absolutely not! I'm an outlaw. A man, thank you. This is undignified!"
Katoge watched from a distance, arms folded, biting back laughter. When Kazuki turned to him, silently pleading for rescue, Katoge deliberately looked away and pretended to inspect a wall scroll.
"You traitor!" Kazuki snapped, his voice cracking in a mix of horror and betrayal.
"I'm sorry…" Katoge murmured, barely holding in a chuckle.
One hour later…
Kazuki emerged from the lounge.
Gone was the rough-edged rogue. In his place stood what could only be described as a porcelain prince—contoured cheekbones, expertly applied eyeliner, lips slightly tinted and lashes curled to perfection.
Even Kazuki stared at himself in the mirror, half-confused, half-impressed. "Bloody hell… I look like a pop idol," he muttered.
The hostesses clapped in delight. "You're even more beautiful than us!" one pouted.
"You should work here," another teased, twirling a strand of his hair.
Kazuki blushed furiously, waving them off. "I—I'm not doing this again."
Just then, Noda entered, striding through the front with his usual swagger and a steel glint in his eye. His coat flared slightly as he stopped beside Katoge, arms folded.
"Where's Kazuki?" he asked.
Katoge pointed with a smirk. "He'll be out in a second."
Right on cue, Kazuki stepped into view. Noda raised an eyebrow, eyeing him from head to toe.
"Hmph. You clean up well," he said, tone unreadable.
Without missing a beat, Noda reached into his coat and flicked his signature needle pin, the sharp glint catching the neon light as he raised it to eye level—not as a threat, but a reminder.
"You've got one job, Kazuki. Take down Haru Kihora. He shows up here often. When he does, you'll be ready. No mistakes."
Kazuki, swallowing the lump in his throat, nodded. "Understood."
Noda's expression hardened slightly, though his voice remained calm. "If you get nervous, improvise. But don't blow your cover."
"I said I got it," Kazuki replied, a bit more firmly this time.
"Good." Noda turned away, already heading back to the door. "We'll be watching."
Katoge gave Kazuki a thumbs-up as he leaned against the bar. "You've got this."
Kazuki exhaled slowly, adjusting his collar. "I look ridiculous."
"Maybe," Katoge smirked. "But if Haru Kihora's weakness is beauty… you're the bait."
Night draped itself over the Tabadaime Hostess Club like a sullied silk sheet, its usual opulence dulled to a sepulchral glow. The air hung heavy with the ghost of laughter, mingling with the cloying scent of spilled whisky and wilted gardenias that clung to the velvet booths like a memory overstayed.
Only a skeletal crew remained—a few hostesses and staff drifting like phantoms under dimmed chandeliers, their smiles painted on, brittle as cracked porcelain.
At the back of the lounge, Haru Kihora slouched in a plush leather booth, flushed and floundering in the depths of inebriation. His tie was undone, his posture limp, as if gravity had finally tired of his arrogance. Across from him, Ohimura Shidekio and Shimi Yoshi sat taut, their glasses untouched and eyes alert—sharp as folded steel, scanning the gloom with predatory precision.
From the shadows, Katoge emerged, moving with the lethal economy of a coiled predator.
"Clear the room," he said, voice low but uncompromising—like a blade drawn just enough to show its edge.
A hostess blinked. "But our shift doesn't—"
"Now."
The staff scattered like startled starlings, heels tapping quick and nervous against the lacquered flooring.
Then, a new presence slipped into the frame.
A staffer guided forward a lone hostess, clad in obsidian satin—her figure ghostlike against the blood-red hues of the lounge, her lips a slash of cruel cherry.
She glided into the booth beside Haru.
"Emily," she said, voice as smooth as velvet dipped in venom.
Haru's bleary gaze took her in, a sluggish grin slathered across his face. "A vision," he slurred. "A proper dream, you are."
"Flatterer," Emily whispered back, her laughter laced with something that stung.
Ohimura's hand twitched toward his holster—but far too late.
In a breath, Emily—Kazuki in disguise—drew a compact pistol from beneath her dress and pressed it against Ohimura's temple.
Bang.
Ohimura collapsed, his glass toppling alongside him.
Shimi lunged—
Bang.
Two bodies slumped lifelessly, their blood soaking into the white linen tablecloth like blooming peonies.
Haru bolted upright, panic burning through the haze of drink, but Kazuki was already on him—fist in his collar, barrel to his jaw.
"So, darling," Kazuki growled, his voice slipping into its truest register—hard-edged and unfiltered, "what now, eh?"
A slow clap broke the silence.
From the shadows stepped Noda, his pin glinting, applause laced with sarcasm.
"Well, well," he said coolly, circling the booth like a hawk. "Didn't think you had the nerve for the stage, Kazuki."
Behind him, Katoge stood silently, his gaze unreadable.
Then—a flicker.
Noda's blade moved faster than thought, carving the air in elegant, ruthless arcs. Haru didn't even scream—his body jerked once, twice, then slumped forward, limbs splayed like a marionette whose strings had been severed.
Kazuki froze, half in awe, half in horror.
Katoge said nothing—but his eyes, narrowing slightly, betrayed what he knew: Noda might be fast… but he was no Velvet Guillotine.
Outside, the city throbbed with neon and night.
Katoge stood alone on the balcony, a cigarette cradled between two fingers. He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl into the void.
"No turning back now," he murmured, as the ember flared—brief and dying—like a distant star swallowed by the dark.