Location: Kanda Power Substation - Level B2
** Utility Access Tunnel – Two Nights Before Empire’s End**
The city above was a smear of rain and salarymen; down here, Tokyo hummed like a sleeping machine. Level B2 of Kanda Substation was never meant for anyone important. Concrete ribs arched overhead, sweating condensation in slow, uneven drips. Rusted pipes rattled with distant water flow, and the air smelled like old electricity—ozone, dust, and something faintly chemical. A single line of safety lights ran along the ceiling, flickering in tired pulses that made the tunnel feel less like a hallway and more like a throat.
Mikhail Mordokrov stood in the middle of it, a black monolith in a long wool coat, gloved hands folded behind his back. His N95 mask hung uselessly at his throat, elastic slack, forgotten. The Soviet experiment had left his face a ruin of bone-white scars and burned etchings; in this light, he looked like someone had carved a skull into living flesh and then decided not to let it die.
Svetlana Kazakova leaned against a concrete support column, one boot braced, her weight favoring the uninjured leg. Her forehead stitches peered out from under a black beanie like a row of crooked crows’ feet. She wore a long parka over her training gear, cigarette burning between two fingers, exhaling smoke that curled around her like a low-hanging curse.
Svetlana: You know, Mikhail… when they said “secret meeting in Tokyo,” I imagined a rooftop bar. Maybe sake. Not… sewer cosplay.
Mikhail: (calm) Yakuza do not like heights. They like basements. Easy to wash concrete. Harder to wash stars.
Her lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but not far from it. A train passed somewhere overhead with a low metallic roar, dust trembling down from the ducts.
Svetlana: You trust this, then? Meeting like dogs in a drainage pipe for a man we never see?
Mikhail: I do not trust men. I trust leverage. Etsuji Yamamoto has plenty.
He checked his watch. The ticking sounded too loud in the hush.
Mikhail: Besides… if they wanted us dead, they’d send more than a meeting request.
Footsteps began to echo from the far end of the tunnel—measured, unhurried. A slim figure in a dark suit emerged from the gloom, umbrella folded neatly at his side, shoes avoiding puddles out of habit more than concern. Hina Kobayashi did not look like a criminal lieutenant. He looked like a banker that had wandered into the wrong level and decided to conquer it.
He stopped a few meters away, bowed once—polite, exact, to the centimeter.
Kobayashi: Mordokrov-san. Kazakova-san. Thank you for… indulging our choice of venue.
Svetlana snorted softly, flicking ash onto the wet floor.
Svetlana: What’s wrong, Kobayashi? All the nice boardrooms taken? Or is this where you usually bring the dogs you shoot?
Kobayashi’s eyes flicked to her stitches, then to the way she stood—braced but defiant.
Kobayashi: This is where Tokyo keeps its power. It felt… appropriate.
He turned his attention fully to Mikhail.
Kobayashi: Etsuji Yamamoto sends his regards. He regrets he cannot attend in person. His schedule is… dense.
Mikhail: (dry) Murderers are busy men. I know from experience…
There was no smile on Kobayashi’s face, but something like appreciation moved through his gaze.
Kobayashi: Then we are aligned. Let us speak plainly.
He slid a folder from beneath his arm and held it out. The cover bore the MOX and Ultimate Wrestling logos, nothing more. No seals. Nothing that traced back to the Syndicate upstairs.
Mikhail took it but did not open it. He watched Kobayashi instead.
Mikhail: You asked for this meeting. Speak.
Kobayashi: Very well. In two nights, at Empire’s End, you and Kazakova-san will face Takuma Sato and Maki Nishimura for the Ultimate Wrestling Tag Team titles. A historic moment. Russian steel against Japanese spectacle.
Svetlana: (exhales smoke) The belts will be coming home to mother Russia with us. You didn’t need a basement for that.
Kobayashi: We are not concerned with the belts.
That got her attention. She lowered the cigarette slightly, eyes narrowing.
Svetlana: Then what are you concerned with?
Kobayashi folded his hands patiently.
Kobayashi: Takuma Sato is double-booked. The Tag Team final… and then a match with Daichi Sasaki later in the night. Our… employer… wishes him to arrive at that second match in a very specific condition.
He nodded at the folder in Mikhail’s hand.
Kobayashi: Bruised ribs. Residual concussion. Compromised breathing. Able to stand. Able to walk. Able to suffer.
A drop of condensation plinked into a puddle between them. Svetlana’s lips parted slowly.
Svetlana: You want him hurt… but not broken. That’s a very thin line. What happens to him after? I have heard what your employer does with broken toys.
Kobayashi: What happens after the arena is no concern of yours. Our request is simple: “Bell to bell, you make his lungs remember the evening forever. But you do not end him. You deliver him… on a platter.”
Mikhail finally opened the folder. Inside, clean, clinical:
Sato’s latest medical report—ribs circled in red.
Still frames of the Ronin Rumble heart punch.
A timetable: “Tag Final – Hour 2. National Title – Hour 4.95.”
Mikhail: (low) You have good doctors.
Kobayashi: We have good accountants. Doctors are just another expense.
Svetlana crushed what was left of her cigarette under her boot, grinding until the ember died.
Svetlana: And what do we get?
Kobayashi: Name your price…
He gestured delicately with two fingers.
Svetlana: A million dollars wired to our personal accountant in switzerland.
Kobayashi: What? We’ve paid less for assasinations.
Mikhail: (studying him) Investments go both ways, Kobayashi-san. You are asking us to hurt Takuma Sato and carry the blame, while your employer keeps his hands clean.
Kobayashi inclined his head, not denying it.
Kobayashi: Clean hands sell better to shareholders. But monsters sell better to crowds. We each play our part.
Svetlana stepped away from the pillar, weight shifting onto her bad leg out of sheer spite.
Svetlana: Then it’s settled.
Svetlana pulled out a card with their account number from her small purse and handed it to Kobayashi.
Svetlana: We expect payment before we step onto the stage.
Kobayashi: I will let Mr. Yamamoto know.
He met her gaze evenly.
Kobayashi: Then the match proceeds as booked. You fight for pride. For Putin. For whatever ghosts you carry, just make sure Sato suffers and you meet the terms of our agreement. I would hate for anything unfortunate to happen.
Svetlana: Is that a threat?
Kobayashi: No. It is… weather. You cannot threaten a storm. You can only decide where it rains.
The three of them stood in a crooked triangle of yellow light. Somewhere far above, a siren wailed and faded.
Mikhail: (quiet) You speak as if we serve two masters now. But we do not. We serve only one.
He tapped the Kremlin seal ring on his finger once, a soft metallic click echoing up the tunnel.
Mikhail: Mother Russia.
Kobayashi: Of course. We would never presume otherwise.
He waited, patient, letting the silence stretch until it became a fourth person in the room.
Kobayashi: We are not asking you to betray her. Only to… shape the match in a way that benefits everyone. You get gold, Moscow gets headlines, and our employer gets a Takuma Sato who breathes pain when he lies down.
Svetlana looked at Mikhail, eyes hooded but alive.
Svetlana: We were going to hurt him anyway.
Mikhail: Da.
He turned the idea over like a knife in his hand.
Mikhail: We target the body. We exploit his heart history. We drag the match long enough that his second booking becomes a death sentence. This was always our plan.
He looked back at Kobayashi.
Mikhail: You are merely offering to… applaud louder.
Kobayashi: (small smile) And to make sure no one looks away while you do it.
He slid a small envelope from his inside pocket and set it on an exposed pipe between them.
Kobayashi: This contains nothing illegal. Merely… contact names. A doctor in Tokyo General who signs the right papers. A producer in MOX who enjoys manufacturable suffering. A friendly EMT supervisor who knows that sometimes a stretcher arrives thirty seconds late.
Mikhail didn’t reach for it yet.
Mikhail: Understand this, Kobayashi-san. We will do what we do for our reasons. Not yours. If our path and your employer’s align, that is convenient. But if ever they diverge, we will not hesitate to break your weather vane.
Kobayashi: I would expect nothing less from the Tsar’s Tormentors.
He bowed again, slightly deeper this time.
Kobayashi: Empire’s End is not a night for mercy. Only for… endings. I look forward to seeing how loudly you make Takuma Sato’s ribs scream.
Svetlana: You won’t hear his ribs over his fans.
She stepped closer, voice dropping to a cold purr.
Svetlana: But you’ll see it. On replay. Over. And over.
Kobayashi straightened, umbrella clicking lightly as he adjusted his grip.
Kobayashi: Then we are finished here.
He turned, his footsteps echoing back up the tunnel as he disappeared into the shadowed throat of Level B2. For a moment, only the hum of transformers and the distant shudder of trains remained.
Svetlana: (after a beat) I don’t like him.
Mikhail: You don’t like anyone.
Svetlana: True. But him… I like the way he thinks too much.
Mikhail picked up the envelope at last, weighing it in his hand like a verdict.
Mikhail: It doesn’t matter. Yamamoto thinks he is hiring beasts.
He looked up, eyes hard.
Mikhail: He forgets beasts have their own hunger.
Svetlana: (grinning now) So we feed twice. Once on his little golden boy… and once on those pretty belts.
She tugged her beanie down over her stitches and rolled her injured shoulder, testing range.
Svetlana: I’ll get cleared. Concussion or not. Sato wanted to play samurai? He can die by the sword.
Mikhail: Not die.
He pocketed the envelope and started back toward the access ladder.
Mikhail: Not yet.
Their footsteps echoed in tandem as they moved deeper into the substation, away from the meeting point, already planning spots, sequences, and damage. Above them, Tokyo carried on—unaware that somewhere under its streets, a storm had just signed its contract.