Chapter 1: Jiro

In a small village in rural Japan, the noise of several cheap standing fans and the occasional passing car fill the desolate room. On this slow fall day in 2002, only an old woman and a drunkard who frequented the restaurant were in attendance. A very old restaurant that looks to have been passed down from generation to generation. The furniture is barely keeping itself together. Creaky wooden chairs surround the counter in the middle of the room. 

A young boy is working the counter. His short brown hair falls over his face as his sharp green eyes dart around the room. The guests can barely see his uniform, a white tank top covered in grease stains, and a pair of old green shorts over the counter as just his head and shoulders peek over. 

The drunkard loudly calls out to the boy to bring him more sake. With a groan, the kid grabs a bottle from behind the counter and brings it to the man. 

The boy looked at the drunkard and asked, "Naku, why do you spend all your time here drinking all of our alcohol, and why do you always bring that weird cup?" 

"Young Jiro, there are many questions that should not be asked right now, and those are all of them." 

"Tch." Jiro pouts. "I'll tell you one thing. This here weird cup is called a gourd, and it's very convenient for many things besides carrying sake." Naku snickers to himself. 

"Like what?" Jiro asks with excitement. "Ah, Jiro, again with the questions. I am done answering, so take them somewhere else. Now can I have a refill or not?"

"Well, my dad says that if I don't do good in school that, I'll turn out just like you." 

A middle-aged American man with receding hair matching the color of his sons approaches the table and grabs the bottle from Jiro. He yells loudly, "What did I tell you about touching this? You're going to get this whole place shut down." 

The boy groaned under his breath, "But it's only Naku."

He turns back to Naku, with a nervous smile, apologizes, "Sorry, Naku, we greatly appreciate you choosing our restaurant to drink at. "Please forget what my son just said; he has quite the imagination."

The father shakes his head and slaps Jiro upside his head. 

The front door swings open before the boy can respond, and the bell's ring alerts everyone inside. Jiro's dad's voice echoes through the almost empty restaurant, "Welcome."

Turning to see who has entered, the boy and father watch as three hot-headed young men in suits walk through the door. Two with dark hair and one with none. Scars cover their faces and hands. Each with a look in their eye stating that they mean business. They could tell instantly that they were yakuza.

The father walks behind the counter and responds, "How may I help you today?" He tries to hide the tremble in his voice as he speaks.

The gangster leading the men in curls up his lip in disgust and snarls, "You know why we're here. Your rent has gone up." 

"Rent?" The father asks. 

"Yes, the boss needs more money if we're going to provide all the security we've been providing."

The father stutters, trying to find a way to respond. "We don't have any money; we're barely making it as it is." he manages to mutter.

"Hmmm… Is that so? Maybe we can give you some incentive to work a little harder?" One of the gangsters picks up an old wooden chair and slams it on the ground, completely destroying it.

The father quickly turned to the son and whispered, "Jiro, go into the other room! Now!". 

Jiro hesitates but reluctantly goes into the other room, where he watches through the doorway.

The dad looks over at Naku, but he is entirely ignorant of what is happening as he continues to drink. 

The father pleaded, "I will get you the money; I promise; I just need a little time." 

The gangster slams his hand on the counter and yells, "No! We need it now, no exceptions. Don't make us have to bring your little boy into this. Our boss is actually quite fond of them. Maybe he'll be willing to take him as a form of payment instead." The gangster giggles to himself. 

Jiro gasps in fear and hides behind the door

The father glances in the direction of his son before going to the register and grabbing the amount they asked for from the cash register. 

As the father is scrambling to gather all of the money, the gangsters continue to demand, "Damn right, now hurry up!"

One of the men starts to make his way over to Naku's table, sweat dripping from his forehead, both of his pinky fingers are gone. He wipes the sweat from his face and slicks back his dark hair. The young man aggressively approaches the table. He reaches over and grips the half-empty bottle of sake in Naku's hand.

Naku grabs the bottle in the gangster's hand before it leaves the table and drunkenly says, "Hey, I paid for that…". 

The man snatches the bottle from Naku's hand and throws it on the floor. Shattering it into pieces. 

"You got a problem, old man?!" He yells in Naku's face. 

Naku sits there, glaring at the broken bottle. 

The man turns around, "That's what I thought." Before he turns around completely, the man throws a blind punch at Naku. 

Naku grabs his fist and throws him to the floor without moving from his chair in one motion. Naku grabs his gourd from the table then, stands up, and tries to assume a fighting stance, barely able to keep his balance. 

The other two men stand in shock before charging him. As the men approach, Naku sways in his spot, appearing as if he is intoxicated. As soon as the men hesitate, that is when he attacks. He dodges the first punch and the second before tripping one of the men.

As the first man lies on the ground groaning, the second swiftly charges in; Naku throws his gourd at the attacker, hitting him straight in the throat. Then with a powerful kick, he kicks the man in the side of the head, knocking him out cold.

The other man stands up, grabs a chair, and tries to hit Naku in the head with a mighty swing. Naku does the splits to avoid the chair, then kicks the man's legs beneath him, making him hit the ground. 

Naku uses his gourd to knock the last one standing upside the head. Naku laughs to himself then opens his gourd and drinks from it. 

 The men give up, "Damn old man, we'll kill you!" The two men leave, dragging the third one out the door. 

Baffled, the father looks at Naku and stutters, "Thank you so much. How can I repay you?"

Naku shakes his head and simply points to a fresh bottle of sake on the wall.

Jiro runs out from the doorway in absolute awe. "How did you do that! You're amazing! Can you teach me! Pleeeease! Pleeeeease!" 

Naku burps then states, "Kids don't need to worry about such things."

"I'm not a kid! I'm thirteen years old." Jiro responds with a pout. 

Naku sighs, grabs the bottle, and then proceeds to stumble out of the restaurant. 

"Jiro, are you okay?" His father asks. Jiro quickly responds and asks, "Why did you just give up and give them the money?" 

 His father looks down in shame, "I just wanted to keep you safe, Jiro."

"Well, you didn't! It was Naku who did that! Ever since mom died, you've just been moping around and letting everyone walk all over you. I don't even recognize you anymore. It's like you're a completely different person! Like c'mon, even Naku fought back, and he could barely even stand!"

 As Jiro talks, the father looks over at an old family portrait hanging on the wall. With a much younger Jiro smiling on his lap and a young Japanese woman with jet-black hair and a pretty smile throwing her arms around an entirely different version of himself. He looks down in sadness. 

Watching his father, Jiro walks over to the front door and mutters before leaving, "… whatever, you're pathetic". Jiro grabs his old bike covered in rust from the side of the broken-down brick wall by the door and speeds off as fast as possible. 

As the door to the restaurant closes, Jiro's dad looks back at the family portrait. 

Jiro, peddling his bike up a steep hill, finally arrives at the top and reveals a breath-taking view of the ocean. The sun is starting to set. The sky is painted with tones of pink and yellow. Jiro's eyes light up. 

He gets off his bike and takes his shoes off. He sits on the cold, wet sand, digging his feet into the earth. He stares off into the distance in hopes of something more.