The café beneath the neon-lit streets was quiet, almost too quiet. A hidden staircase led down into a dim, labyrinthine underground space—the headquarters of the Red Circle Division. Kurayami descended, hood drawn low, eyes scanning every corner. The faint hum of computers and distant murmurs greeted him like a prelude to war.
He stopped at the center. Five figures emerged from the shadows, each unique, each lethal. Kurayami's eyes swept over them as he silently counted.
"One… two… three… four… five," he murmured.
The fifth face made him pause. Her eyes—so familiar—so impossibly real. It was her: the girl from Nepal. The one he had loved, the one his heart had never let go.
"She's with us now," one of the team members said. "Nepal is tense right now. Gan Z protests—chaos everywhere."
Kurayami's jaw tightened. "It may be chaos… but no one noticed the real danger yet, did they?"
Another spoke, grim. "Ten school students—dressed in uniform—were shot dead today."
Kurayami's eyes narrowed. "Nepal will be the next target."
A sudden beep caught his attention. He turned to see a video clip, grainy but clear. A boy stood in front of a water-truck, police lined up behind him, hands raised in defiance. Kurayami watched.
A bitter smile curved his lips. "Soft… look at their courage. Nepalis… we were never taught to yield. Never. But tonight…"
Night fell like a curtain. Kurayami moved through the city unseen. Every corrupt official, every brutal enforcer in Nepal became his target.
The Murders
He struck silently. Shadows were his weapons. Doors broke, blood spilled, screams echoed—but not for long. His movements were precise, brutal. A man reaching for a gun never fired. A minister fell under the weight of his khukuri; a police chief's last breath caught in the night air. He left no mercy, no room for redemption.
After each strike, he left a note in the victim's hand, inked with his signature:
"I am the Ghost of the Uchiha. Madara Uchiha."
By dawn, the streets ran cold and silent. Kurayami vanished as if he had never been.
Back in Japan, he returned to the headquarters. The room glowed with monitors, all alive with news feeds, social media, live broadcasts.
He fitted a mask to his face, his voice cold and commanding:
"We are the Red Circle Division. From now on, every corrupted government, every false leader… we will destroy. All of you. No exceptions."
The feeds around the world went black—then exploded with chaos. Panic. Fear. The world had heard his message.
And so, the shadow o
f the Red Circle rose.