The Tokyo night was unseasonably quiet—almost as if the city was holding its breath. The rain had passed, but the streets still shimmered, reflecting the soft neon of izakaya signs and pachinko parlors. LuLu Biggs stood at the corner of Kabukichō, all 600 pounds of him draped in a black leather duster, fur collar wet with drizzle. He was surrounded by silence, save for the distant echo of fire trucks and sirens growing louder by the second.
His black, diesel-powered 1978 Mercedes-Benz 300D idled in the alley behind him, a few of his girls inside the backseat gossiping, filing nails, or adjusting makeup in compact mirrors. They had no idea what they were about to see.
He lit a cigar—Dominican, thick as a thumb—and took a long pull. Smoke curled out of his nostrils as he looked ahead.
He was almost there.
The closer he got, the more the night started sounding like war. Sirens screaming, radios crackling, a helicopter passing overhead like a buzzard. He turned the corner and stopped dead.
There it was: The Bigg House.
Or what was left of it.
The entire block was lit in orange. Flames roared like a choir of demons, licking at the heavens. Firefighters were yelling, hoses blasting arcs of water against the inferno. The club's iconic gold-lettered sign—"BIGG HOUSE: All Heat, No Rules"—was cracked in half, hanging by a single bolt, swaying in the updraft like a corpse.
LuLu didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe.
This wasn’t just a club. This was his temple. His church. His home.
He remembered the first night it opened—the music, the lights, the first bag of money counted out in the office. He remembered when Yuki first danced on the gold-lit runway. He remembered breaking up that first Yakuza shakedown with a champagne bottle and a broken jaw. This building had memory. It had blood in the walls and ghosts in the vents.
And now it was gone.
Burned to the ground like it was never real.
One of the girls stepped out of the car. Yuki, ironically. Not the Yuki, but a new one—he cycled through them too fast for real names.
"LuLu…? What do we do now?"
He didn’t answer. He took another drag, then finally stepped forward. The weight of his boots echoed through the street like war drums. He pushed past the yellow caution tape. A firefighter shouted after him, but didn’t dare follow.
LuLu moved through the wreckage, his coat whipping in the wind, ash falling around him like snow.
He found what he was looking for half-buried in debris: a steel lockbox from the office. Bent, but not broken. He pried it open with his bare hands. Inside, the charred remains of a camera.
A camcorder.
Still intact. He thumbed the battery. It blinked red—just enough juice.
He rewound it. Pressed play.
Grainy footage filled the tiny screen. The date stamp read two nights ago.
The picture wavered, then sharpened. A group of masked men kicked down the side door of The Bigg House. One of them removed his hood.
Kenzo Takahashi.
Yamamoto’s right-hand enforcer.
The man who put a bullet through LuLu’s arm.
He was laughing. Smoking. Giving orders. Gasoline was poured. Matches were struck. The fire began in the back room—his private room.
LuLu paused the footage.
His reflection stared back at him in the screen. Ash-covered. Red-eyed. A God with no temple.
He lowered the camcorder, eyes cold.
LuLu Biggs: So that's how it's gon' be… You come at me, try to clip me once. Miss. Then you torch my kingdom while I’m still breathin’?
He rose to full height, cigar burning like a fuse.
LuLu Biggs: You motherfuckers just dug your own grave. And I swear on every dollar, every ho, every body I ever laid in a gutter—I'ma be the one to fill it.
He turned and walked back toward the car.
Tomorrow, he’d make the drop.
He had evidence. He had names.
And while Akane Watanabe might hate his guts, she hated corruption more.
It was time to make a devil’s deal.
A Rooftop in Shin-Okubo, 2:15 AM
Heavy fog has rolled in over the neon city, muting the glow from the love hotels and Korean barbecue spots below. The rooftop is quiet, except for the distant echo of sirens and the low hum of traffic. LuLu Biggs stands in the corner near a service vent, backlit by the cherry-red taillights of his idling Benz parked in the alley.
He’s not alone long.
A door creaks open behind him, and Detective Akane Watanabe steps into the night. Tall, commanding, and dressed in a black leather trench over a tight turtleneck and slacks, she moves with the same precision she brings to the ring. No makeup. Hair tied back. Gun at her side, badge nowhere in sight.
Akane: You're late.
LuLu Biggs: Girl, I'm fashionably late. Difference between bein' rude and bein' remembered.
Akane eyes him with a mix of disdain and curiosity. Her gaze flicks to the USB stick in his hand — a little black drive with a red sticker on it.
Akane: You said you had evidence. You burn down a city block just to hand it over?
LuLu Biggs: Nah, they did that. Kenzo. Had one’a his flunkies toss a molotov cocktail through my VIP window like he was auditionin’ for a Tarantino flick. I just happened to catch it all on tape.
Akane: Convenient.
LuLu: (grinning) Baby, nothin’ I do is convenient. I plan chaos. I nurture it. And I capitalize on it.
He tosses her the USB drive. She catches it one-handed without flinching, her eyes narrowing.
Akane: What’s on this?
LuLu: Everything. Heat signatures, license plates, audio — you’ll hear Kenzo barkin’ orders like it’s karaoke night in hell. Full torch job. Even got his dumbass sayin’ my name on camera.
Akane: And what do you want in return?
LuLu steps closer. His voice drops low, serious.
LuLu Biggs: I want the next bullet that comes outta Kenzo Takahashi’s gun to land in a prison wall. Or in his damn head. I don’t care. But I want him off the board.
Akane: That’s not how the system works.
LuLu: (snorts) The system? Girl, your whole city’s bein' run by a glorified mob boss and a glorified wrestling promoter. And you wanna talk rules?
Akane: I’m not cutting corners for you. You’re a criminal.
LuLu: And you’re still talkin' to me. Means we both desperate.
Beat.
Akane studies him for a long moment. Then she pockets the USB.
Akane: This... could help. But it’s not enough. You want Kenzo gone? I need more. Records. Connections. Money trails.
LuLu: You want receipts? I got books on Tanaka and Yamamoto. All kept overseas. But you get me in the right ring, at the right time? Maybe I can loosen a few more pages.
Akane: I’m not playing games.
LuLu: Baby, this whole damn city’s a gameboard. You either play, or get played. And I don't like bein' nobody's pawn.
She starts to turn away, but he calls after her.
LuLu: Oh, and Akane?
She stops. Looks over her shoulder.
LuLu Biggs: You ever call my girls whores again on live TV, I'ma suplex your pretty ass through a plate glass window. Respectfully.
Akane: (cold smile) Keep their names off police reports, and I’ll keep 'em outta my mouth.
She vanishes down the stairwell. LuLu watches her go, then turns back to the edge of the rooftop. Below, Tokyo burns quietly under the fog, and somewhere in the shadows, war continues to brew.
He lights a cigar with shaking hands — not from fear, but from rage he’s trying to keep buried until it’s time to explode.
The drive back from the rooftop was quiet.
For once, the girls in LuLu’s car didn’t talk. Even Yuki sat in silence, one leg folded under her, lips tight, eyes on the Tokyo skyline — the soft neon reflected in the curved windshield of LuLu’s pimped-out 1978 Diesel Mercedes-Benz 300D as it rolled through Kabukicho’s ghost-town streets.
Tokyo never truly slept. But tonight, it seemed like the whole city was holding its breath.
LuLu Biggs gripped the wheel, his massive hands dwarfing the polished wood trim. The scars on his forearm—Kenzo’s bullets—throbbed like phantom pain. His face, usually animated and cocky, was stone cold.
When he turned the corner onto the street where The Bigg House once stood, the girls gasped.
Only smoke and charred skeletons remained. The once-flashy neon sign was melted into slag. Fire tape flapped in the wind. The cracked cement out front was still stained with ash and melted champagne bottles. One of the golden statues that once flanked the club’s entrance now lay decapitated in the gutter.
LuLu threw the car in park.
Yuki: LuLu… you okay?
He didn’t answer.
He opened the door and stepped out. Six hundred pounds of grief and fury wrapped in a leather trench and gold chains. His boots crunched over debris. A hollow breeze blew through the wreckage, carrying the scent of smoke and cheap perfume.
He stood in front of the ruins for a long time.
Then he pulled something from his coat pocket — a silver lighter, engraved with a woman’s name: Sapphire.
He held it tight.
LuLu Biggs: (low) They took my club. Shot me up. Tried to take my life… tried to scare me off this turf. Burned my name down to cinders. Thought that was gon’ be the end of LuLu Biggs?
He stepped forward, boots echoing against broken tile and twisted rebar. His voice rose with each word, until it bounced off the surrounding alley walls like a sermon.
LuLu Biggs: I BUILT THIS FROM NOTHING. Brick by goddamn brick. From the piss-stained streets of Brooklyn to the crimson-soaked concrete of Tokyo. You think fire scares me? I am the flame, bitch!
He kicked over a burnt table. Embers scattered into the wind.
LuLu Biggs: I ain’t just comin’ for no win at Empire’s End. I ain’t showin’ up for some “brand war.” Nah. I’m comin’ to make an example. I’m comin’ to leave that ring painted in red and draped in silence.
He turned to the girls, firelight reflecting in his glasses.
LuLu Biggs: I ain’t just a wrestler. I’m an extinction-level event. Kenzo… Sasori… Tanaka… all them boys at AAPW think they run this city? Naw.
LuLu reached into his coat, pulled out his custom brass knuckles, gleaming under the streetlights. He kissed them once.
LuLu Biggs: I’mma remind them what real fear smell like. Remind them that when LuLu Biggs walks into a room — empires don’t end. They beg for mercy.
He looked up to the sky — then slowly lowered his shades.
And for the first time in weeks… he smiled.
But it wasn’t cocky.
It was cold.
Righteous.
Inevitable.
—
CUT TO BLACK.
“See y’all at Empire’s End.”
** – LuLu Biggs**