7 Shattered Reality

Takemitchi slowly emerged from unconsciousness, the rays of the morning sun caressing his bruised face. A dull ache throbbed in his skull as his sore body protested the slightest movement. Blinking to adjust to the light, he realized he was in an unfamiliar room, lying on a comfortable bed, a sweet scent filling the air.

The room was immaculately clean and tastefully decorated. The walls were painted in soothing pastel blue tones, adorned with a few paintings depicting bucolic landscapes. A large window let in natural light, illuminating a small wooden desk neatly stacked with books. A wardrobe and a dresser completed the furniture, all exuding an aura of serenity and order.

Carefully, he sat up, grimacing as his muscles protested. He reached for his head and felt the rough fabric of a compress under his fingers. Intrigued, he slowly got up and walked hesitantly towards the mirror hanging on the wall.

The image reflected back at him made him jump. The face he saw bore the marks of life's harsh trials. But the most striking change was in his hair: once short and tousled, it now cascaded down to his shoulders in a mass.

"What happened to me during this time?" he wondered, perplexed by this unexpected metamorphosis. "But I must admit, I look pretty handsome now, with a well-built body..."

He then cautiously undertook some stretching to assess the extent of his injuries. It was then that the door to the room opened, revealing a young woman in her twenties, dressed in form-fitting workout attire that accentuated her curves.

She paused at the threshold, studying Takemichi with an inscrutable expression. Then, an enigmatic smile curved her full lips.

"I see you're awake and in good shape, Takemitchi," she said in a melodious voice. "That's a good thing."

Bewildered, a shiver ran down Takemichi's spine, and he furrowed his brow. "Who are you? And where am I?" he asked, on guard.

The young woman dismissed his questions with a nonchalant wave of her hand. "We'll have plenty of time to talk later. For now, you should go take a bath. I've prepared clean clothes for you; you'll find them in the bathroom, right there," she said, pointing to an adjacent door.

Though reluctant, Takemichi complied, aware that a bit of grooming could only do him good. When he emerged from the bathroom, refreshed and dressed in the provided clothes, he almost felt like a new man. His hair, now clean and untangled, was gathered in a neat ponytail.

The mysterious young woman was waiting for him, a look of appreciation in her eyes as she assessed him from head to toe. "Well, you look in better shape. Come, breakfast is served. We can talk while we eat," she declared, gesturing for him to follow her.

Seated before them was a hearty meal, and Takemichi couldn't help but salivate, an intense battle raging within him to maintain composure. The way his body reacted spoke volumes about what he must have gone through in recent years. An uncomfortable silence settled between them, quickly broken by the young woman.

"My name is Matsuda Misaki," she finally introduced herself. "And before you ask, yes, I was the one who rescued you yesterday."

"Yesterday!" Takemichi exclaimed, surprise written on his face. "So I was unconscious all day. Thank you for your help. Without you, I don't know what would have happened to me."

Misaki observed him for a moment, seemingly assessing his sincerity. Then, with a sigh, she launched into a narrative of the events that had unfolded in recent years, filling in the gaps in Takemichi's feigned memory loss.

She spoke of the gang's decline and the power struggles that ensued. As she narrated, Takemichi's face darkened, guilt and sorrow competing in his haunted gaze. The Toman, once powerful and feared, a true urban legend, were now but a shadow of themselves. Their forces had been decimated, reduced to nothing, their members scattered like ashes in the wind from a consumed bonfire. Takemichi himself had become a homeless wanderer, a societal outcast, after narrowly surviving an assassination attempt. With his head on the line, he struggled every day to survive in a world that was now as strange as it was hostile.

The most painful, like a white-hot dagger plunged into his heart, was learning about Mikey and Draken's disappearance. No trace of them, as if they had evaporated from the face of the earth, swallowed by the darkness of this nightmarish reality. This gang, this family he was supposed to protect and lead to prosperity, was now nothing but ruins. The void was as gaping as an open wound, oozing despair and helplessness.

But the hardest blow, the one that nearly made him explode with rage, was learning of Hinata's tragic death, the one who had touched his heart. Cold-bloodedly murdered by a mysterious gang, she had paid the ultimate price of this new reality.

When she finished, a heavy silence descended upon the room. Overwhelmed by emotion, Takemichi abruptly stood up and left the table, muttering a vague excuse. Understanding, Misaki let him go, aware that he needed a moment of solitude to digest these terrible news.

Alone in the room, Takemichi collapsed onto the bed, his heart heavy and his mind in turmoil. Where had he gone wrong? A question that echoed each time. Everything seemed to be going well. And Hinata's death troubled him more than anything; she wasn't part of the gang, yet the only connection she would have with the Toman was through Takemichi himself.

Upon reflection, those who killed Hinata must have had an issue with him, and the only people he had an issue with were the guy who bumped into him and the group of thugs from whom he stole the motorcycle. The second option seemed more likely. Takemichi eventually realized that everything that had happened to the gang and his loved ones was caused by him alone, in his carelessness.

A black anger seized him; he vowed to show these bastards what despair was, and then rectify the wrongs caused by his past actions by rewinding time to erase this cursed reality.

Meanwhile, Misaki left the house, her heart heavy after receiving the text she just read. She walked briskly through the bustling streets of Tokyo, her mind focused on the mounting problems.

After several minutes, she arrived at an unassuming building. But behind this facade lay her gang's headquarters, a place only insiders could enter. She pushed open the heavy metal door and stepped inside. The atmosphere immediately shifted from daylight to a dim ambiance. The walls were covered in elaborate graffiti, depicting the gang's symbols and exploits. Worn-out couches were scattered in the main room, where a few members lounged, speaking in hushed tones.

When Misaki entered, all eyes turned to her. With a simple wave of her hand, she greeted them, and they respectfully bowed in return. Her authority was unquestionable here.

She made her way to her office, a tastefully furnished room. Barely seated, there was a knock on the door.

"Come in," she said firmly.

Takara Tomohiko, her right-hand man, entered the room, looking worried. He briefly bowed before speaking.

"Boss, the situation is critical," he announced without preamble. "Our enemies are gathering and gaining power. They openly threaten to declare war on us."

Misaki clenched her fists, her jaw tight. It was the last thing she wanted to hear. Her gang was going through a period of weakness, and a direct confrontation could be fatal for them.

"Our numbers are at an all-time low," Takara continued, confirming her fears. "Many of our men are injured or in prison. We are not in a position of strength."

A heavy silence settled as Misaki thought intensely, seeking a solution to this seemingly inextricable situation. Takara watched her, waiting for her reaction.

Suddenly, her face lit up. "Boss, what if we ask for Takemitchi's help?" he suggested. "His recent exploits have proven his worth. Even if his help won't completely reverse the situation, it could at least buy us some time."

Misaki looked up at him, considering his proposal. Takemitchi... the man she had just rescued. There was something about him, an inner strength she had perceived despite his deplorable condition. Perhaps Takara was right. Perhaps Takemitchi could indeed help them out of this impasse. But considering his reaction upon learning the news about the Toman, Misaki wasn't certain he could help.

"I'll think about it," she finally declared. "In the meantime, keep an eye on our enemies' actions. And strengthen security around our territory. We must be prepared for any eventuality."

Takara nodded, visibly relieved to have been heard. He bowed again before leaving the office, leaving Misaki alone with her troubled thoughts. She leaned back in her chair, briefly closing her eyes. The pressure was overwhelming, but she refused to be defeated. She was the leader of this gang, and it was her responsibility to guide them through this storm.

Her decision was made. She would go find Takemitchi and ask for his help. It was a risky gamble, but did she even have a choice? The gang's future depended on it. She was willing to do anything to ensure their survival, even if it meant allying with someone outside the gang. After all, in this ruthless world, only the strongest and most cunning could hope to survive.