Chochin Row, Karasu & Rei

The rain had just begun to fall steadily, signaling the start of autumn in Mirage City. Water slithered along neon-soaked alleys, turning the streets into a mirror of fractured light streaks. Karasu Komorebi stood tall beneath a flickering streetlamp, dressed in a sharp pinstriped suit. He had striking sky blue eyes and pitch-black hair, mustache and sideburns; the mix of tints a testament to his father’s English heritage and his mother’s Japanese. Cerulean smoke curled upward from the glowing cigarette between his lips, a slow and deliberate exhalation, part habit, part performance.

Across from him, slumped against a graffiti-scarred wall, Jin ‘The Ox’ Morita bled into his own shadow. His knuckles were split, his augments glitching; a once-legendary fighter reduced to a debt-ridden wreck. A bruised boxer whose bills had stacked higher than his victories. Jin had once been a legend in the underground rings; until the chips stopped working and the reflexes dulled.

“I got nothin’ left, Komorebi, the debt collectors are after me – you’ve gotta help me escape the city! You’re the best Spider in town, a real Nephila”, Jin rasped, blood mixing with rain on his chin, “I can’t offer you money, but I got a daughter. She’s clean. Smart. She can work for you. A Servus. Escape paid.” Karasu didn’t answer. He simply stared through the smoke rising like a veil between them. He flicked his cigarette, watching the blue ember die in a puddle.

The offer hung in the air, heavy and sour.

When Karasu was ten he first saw his father lose a fight. Not in the ring; but in the street, drunk and jealous, fists flying at a man who had smiled at his mother. His mother, always dancing, always distant. His father, always fighting, always angry. He remembered hiding behind crates in the alley, watching the chaos unfold. No one came to help. No one ever did. The nights he cooked instant ramen for himself, the days he ran errands for gang runners just to afford an onigiri or a new pair of shoes, memories appearing unwillingly. And he remembered his grandmother’s stern eyes, as she slipped him pocket Fund Units and wisdom in equal measures, “Never care about or keep makes you weak,” she had said once, “Even if it looks like potential or power.”

Back in the presentKarasu lit a new cigarette, watching the ember illuminate the wet night.“She’s not part of this”, he said finally, voice low and cold, “You want to escape? Wanna pay your debt? Fight again – or disappear by your own means.”

Jin looked up, stunned, “You serious?”Karasu turned, the glow of the streetlamp casting his silhouette long across the cement. “I don’t take Servi – and especially not children. I was a kid myself once.”And with that, he walked away, smoke trailing behind him like a phantom of the past.

Mirage City didn’t sleep. It simply switched eyes. The sun was a dull, forgotten bruise behind a ceiling of perpetual smog, and as it faded the city’s true self awoke in a seizure of neon. In the district of Chochin Row paper lanterns glowed every hour of the day with variating dimness. It was a symphony of controlled chaos, a colorful illusion of concordant multiculturalism.

To the corporate suits who ventured down from their glass towers for a taste of temptation, one destination held greater allure than all the others: The Electric Dragon Den. A legendary club of which Karasu Komorebi was the enigmatic owner; a charming, if dangerous, host. In the underworld, the beating heart of the city, he was known by another name; whispered in the fighting pits, in the data-dens, in the fearful spaces between powerful men. They called him The Nephila.

The name came from the golden silk spider whose web was a masterpiece of architecture, deceptively strong and breathtakingly beautiful, designed to ensnare everything that blundered into its domain. Its silk yielded the most expensive fabric in the world, a golden buttery perfection few had ever seen in person. Karasu was a master weaver; the central, shadowy intelligence in a vast, criminal nervous system. Lesser facilitators, known as mere Spiders, had networks of contacts. The Nephila was a Master Spider, commanding a web of minor arachnids, their threads of influence and fear all leading back to the obscurity of the Den. Karasu was an open secret, a legend everyone knew but no one could touch. The corporations couldn’t pin him down. The fearsome Iron Oni gang, his own disowned blood, dared not move against him.

The transition from the choked arteries of Chochin Row into the Den was like stepping through a membrane from one reality into another.

Outside, the streets were a fluorescent current, a riot of light and shadow where holographic dim sum and geishas flickered beside the glowing paper chochin lanterns that gave the grid of rows their name. The air thrummed with the bassline of a thousand different lives, smelling of sizzling yakitori and the sweet, metallic tang of the Synapse Dive parlors. It was vibrant, dangerous and alive.

But the Den was a sanctuary from that particular lifestyle. A heavy lacquered door, carved with a coiling dragon whose eyes were chips of royal blue glass stood flanked by dark tinted windows. When the door swung shut behind a guest, the world outside muted to a dull throb. The first hit was always the air. It was a permanent, layered cocktail; incense, sandalwood and something floral like orange-blooms, mingling with the ghost of expensive sake, whiskey and the ever-present haze of cigarette smoke. It was a smell that cleaning crews could never scrub away entirely. It had seeped into the velvet curtained walls, the very soul of the place.

The main room was a study in worn elegance, a jewel box of controlled decadence. The floor was polished midnight blue wave tiles that reflected the low, intimate lighting. At the heart of the room was a slick bar of backlit burnt orange glass, where bottles glowed like captured spirits. Around it, seating areas were nestled in semi-private booths of deep golden velvet, their cushions worn soft by years of clandestine conversations and fleeting intimacies.

Lacquer tables, their surfaces like still black water, held drinks that glittered like jewels. On a raised podium, an electric jazz trio; a synth-player, a bassist with cybernetic fingers, and a drummer, laid down a hypnotic rhythm that was felt more than heard. Their music wove through the smoke-hazy air, a soundtrack for deals made and secrets sold. Occasionally, a dancer would move through the light, her motions a fluid, silent complement to the beat.

But the true masterpiece of the Den’s design was the vantage point at the very back. Elevated just enough to be authoritative, shrouded by the deepest shadows, was Karasu Komorebi’s private booth. It was a throne room in miniature, upholstered in the same rich velvet, a single enamel ashtray always holding at least one stub of a blue cigarette.

From here, Karasu could see everything. The entire geography of his domain was laid out before him: the nervous new client at the bar, the veteran hostess working her charm at a corner table, the bouncers standing like statues by the exits. He could track the flow of Fund Units, the exchange of data chips, the subtle shift in body language that signaled a deal going sour or a heart being won.

The Electric Dragon Den wasn’t just a club; it was a living, breathing instrument. And from his booth, Komorebi was its conductor, watching the smoke curl towards the ceiling, waiting for his newest instrument to take the stage. He was not just watching the crowd; he was reading the vibrations in his web, feeling for the slightest tremor, controlling the strings webbed underneath Mirage City.

On this particularly slow Tuesday, the club was pulsing with low jazzy beats and the occasional flicker of broken neon. Rain tapped against the tinted windows like impatient fingers, blurring the view onto Chochin’s streets. The air inside was thick with the signature smoke and the tang of spilled liquor. The room hummed with whispered conversations between hostesses and clients, a slow heartbeat under the skin of Mirage City. Holograms flickered above the stage where dancers moved through plumes of violet lit smoke. In the far corner, where the neon fell short, Karasu’s booth lay carved out of obscurity.

Cigarette smoke curled blue against the low light, a steady glow from Karasu seated alone, immaculate in his suit, his hair slicked back like a blade. His sleeves rolled up enough to reveal the faint trace of dragons inked in blue, resting but alert. With his left fist resting under his chin, he watched the room calculatingly and utterly sure of himself. Every movement, every laugh, every nervous glance at the door became registered. Karasu leaned back, draped one arm over the backrest, the other lifting a glowing cigarette to his lips. Smoke curled upward, catching the light like tamed ghosts.

A hostess passed, and his gaze softened for a heartbeat; her walk reminded him of his mother, the dancer who had once lit this same stage. The flicker of memory died quickly, smothered under the weight of his resolve. At his table sat no drink, no meal, only a small case of chrome and circuits: performance enhancers, blackmail chips, the kind of tech that made fighters into gods and corps into slaves.

A man staggered in, his augments sputtering, one eye swollen shut. Fresh blood streaked his temple, mixing with rain. The crowd parted for him; not out of respect, but the way rats scatter from a dying dog. Karasu didn’t stand. He didn’t need to. His hair glinted under the light as he straightened, the cigarette glowing like a tiny blade between his lips.

Jin Morita stumbled up to booth, soaking wet and limping. His face was a roadmap of fresh bruises and old regrets. “You lost again,” Karasu said without looking up. Morita nodded, wiping rain from his brow, “Didn’t even make it past the second round.”

“Sit,” Karasu said, his voice smooth, heavy with unspoken threat. The tattered man obeyed, his hands trembling. He was already at Karasu’s mercy; a tool once useful in the fighting ring, now not. A thin curl of smoke rose from the glowing tip of Komorebi’s cigarette. He exhaled slow, steady, watching the man across from him sweat through his jacket. ‘The Ox’ Morita, broad, scarred, broken, kept wiping his palms on his thighs. His knuckles split from too many unpaid bouts. His eyes never met Karasu’s.

“You owe them too much,” Karasu said softly. His voice was smooth but carried a weight that pressed on Morita’s chest, “Money. Time. Reputation. You’ve burned it all.” Jin swallowed hard, licking cracked lips, “I—I got nothing left, Komorebi-sama. No units, no chips, no favors. Nothing.” Karasu leaned back, letting the silence stretch, the ash of his cigarette glowing in the dark, ”Then why are you here?”

Morita flinched at that. His hands shook on the table. Then, in a burst, he leaned forward. “My girl,” he spurted, voice cracking, “She’s—she’s strong. She can work for you. Clean, cook, run errands. Anything. She’s no kid, above the age of maturity and all. Take her in and help me escape Mirage City! I’ll sign any papers, please.”

Karasu’s eyebrow twitched. He did not blink. He let the words hang, poisoning the air between them. “You would sell your blood to cover for yourself?” Karasu asked, the faintest curl of disdain in his tone. Jin’s face burned red, “It’s better than me showing up dead in a dumpster. She’ll be better off with you than with me!” Karasu’s slick locks caught a flash of light as he tilted his head, studying the man like a puzzle piece he’d already solved. He tapped ash into a tray shaped like a dragon sleeping, “If you insult me with trash, I throw it out. Be careful what you offer.”

The old fighter’s voice dropped, hoarse, “She’s different. Useful. You deal in secrets, Komorebi. Nobody suspects a girl. She can slip into places, talk to people, listen. Cute ones get close where men can’t. That’s worth something.” Karasu let the thought simmer, smoke curling from his lips. A tool. A servus. A permanently retained shadow he could send into rooms where his name could never go. And if she broke? Tools could be replaced.

Jin hesitated, then leaned in over the table, “She’s smart. Tough. You said no before, but… I got nothing else.” Karasu’s eyes narrowed. Still, something in his chest stirred, uncomfortably familiar. A boy left sitting in the corner of a dimly lit dojo, waiting for his father to notice him. “Is she here?” Karasu asked. The fighter exhaled relief so heavily it almost turned to a sob. “Over there. She’s been waitin’”, he gestured with a trembling hand. Karasu turned his head.

Somewhere near the bar through the haze of smoke and neon, a red-haired girl watched, her eyes black and unflinching. She leaned against a metal barstool, arms crossed. Her hair strikingly ruby against the darkness. Her expression gave nothing away. She wasn’t hiding. Wasn’t pleading. The girl stood straighter. Skin pale against the depths of her eyes. Her posture became more rigid but not weak. She wore a worn jacket, boots too big, and a look that said she’d seen more than most ever would; the look of someone who’d already seen fear too many times to care anymore. Her gaze met Karasu’s across the distance; steady, a spark of iron behind her discomfort.

Perfect, he thought. Potentially useful. Karasu lifted his chin slightly, eyes squinting. Her dark and unreadable eyes held his gaze unwavering. She didn’t look afraid. Just detached. Like fear had long since stopped being useful. Karasu stood, smoothing his pinstriped vest and walked slowly toward her. The bar’s lights cast shifting colors across the polished tiled floor. Jin flinched as Karasu passed. The girl didn’t. Up close, she was all edges; sharp cheekbones, sharper stare. Her jacket was patched, her boots scuffed, but her posture was straight. Not defiant. Ready. Karasu stopped a few feet away and inclined his head, “You know why you’re here?”

“Troubles with debt,” her voice was flat, “His, not mine.” She motioned towards Jin, who was shuffling up behind Karasu. “Do you know who I am?” he asked. She nodded, “The Spider dad needs for him going off grid.” Jin tensed beside them. “You okay with being the one paying for it?” She held his gaze, “I’m willing to work”, then she shrugged, “I’m not okay with much. But I can handle myself.”

A flicker of amusement. Direct. No tears, no bargaining. Just cold pragmatism. Karasu contemplated her. She seemed careful. The kind of person who could learn to slip into places unnoticed, ask the right questions, and disappear before anyone realized they’d been compromised. He’d seen that look before; in mirrors, in back alleys, in the eyes of people who’d learned young that mercy was a currency no one took.

“You ever lie to someone’s face and make them believe it?” he asked. She tilted her head, “You mean like when my dad said things would work out – and I said I believed him?” Karasu exhaled smoke, orange light carving his smirk into something sharp. Between them, Jin shifted, muttering thanks to gods he didn’t believe in. Karasu ignored him. “What can you do?” The girl lifted a shoulder, “Steal. Listen. I’m small. People forget I’m there.” He tapped ash onto an ashtray on the bar counter, “You’re not going to be a housemaid.”

“Good”, Rei said without delay. Karasu almost smiled. Just a flicker. “You might be useful”, He turned to Jin, “If she works for me, it’s on my terms. She gets paid. She gets protection. And if you ever try to claim her or sell her again, I’ll make sure your debt collectors know exactly where you are.” He let the threat hang, watching Jin’s throat bob. Jin nodded quickly, relief and fear mixing in his eyes. Karasu looked back at the girl, “What’s your name?”

“Rei.”

“Alright, Rei. Let’s talk.”