Infiltration

Armed with Pops' hesitant intel, the next few days whirl by in a frantic blur. I cut classes, lying to my oblivious parents about an urgent study group, and spend my afternoons lurking near the Tanaka building. It's a relic from another era - concrete and squat, with faded paint and windows covered in rusted metal grilles. Perfect for wannabe gangsters playing at being kingpins.

The punks who shook Pops down are easy to identify. They strut in and out with exaggerated swagger, bad tattoos peeking from under unbuttoned Hawaiian shirts. I follow from a distance, picking up snatches of their conversations, mapping their routines. They're sloppy, just as Pops said – low-level thugs drunk on unearned power, not criminal masterminds.

This is where my grand plan starts to falter. I can't take them all on in a fight, not without weeks of dedicated training I don't have time for. Taking down their boss and causing the hierarchy to collapse... well, that sounds better on paper than in a dark alley with rusty pipes as potential weapons.

No, I need leverage. A way to force them into making mistakes, exposing their operation. But how? I rack my brain, but the elaborate schemes I envisioned fall apart when faced with the grimy reality of the situation.

It's during one of those frustrated pacing sessions in my room that it hits me. Not inspiration, exactly, but more like a memory snagging on a loose thread. Pops, muttering to himself about the protection money, had mentioned a name: Saito. If I'm willing to ditch the whole 'Unsung Overlord' thing, at least for now, there's another role I've always practiced playing: the helpless nobody.

The Saito gang (because that's what they must be, even if it's low-rent) has a reputation on the streets. It'll be easy to find someone willing to spill more information, especially if they think they're doing it to impress an easy target.

The transformation from Ryu, the invisible student, to Ryu, the easily cowed victim, takes about 10 minutes. Stooped shoulders, slightly greasy hair, a scuffed, too-big jacket... it's like reverse camouflage, meant to stand out as a mark.

Later that night, I prowl the seedier side of town, the places where teenagers trying to act tough hang out. It doesn't take long to get attention. A group of three – older, with piercings and bad dye jobs – corner me in an alley. The usual posturing follows, insults and the implied threat of violence. I play along, feigning terror.

When their leader, his breath reeking of cheap beer, mentions wanting to "expand territory", I know I've got my hook.

"Y-you mean like, towards the Tanaka building?" I stammer out, putting on my best wide-eyed innocent act.

They exchange glances, suspicion sparking with greed. "You know somethin', kid?"

I nod vigorously, nearly vibrating with fake nervousness. "Th-those guys up there...heard them bragging about protection money. Some old shop owner..."

That's all it takes. With promises of cutting me in if my info proves good, they rush off, no doubt plotting how to use this to muscle in on the Tanaka gang's territory. All according to plan, though my stomach twists knowing I've basically sent one group of criminals after another. I need to find a way to turn this to my advantage.

Days turn into nights. Sleep deprivation makes me jittery, but keeps my mind in overdrive. I'm playing a high-stakes chess game in the dark, where all the pieces are trying to kill each other and I still haven't figured out most of the rules.

The Saito group makes their move, as expected. Word on the street is a brawl broke out near the Tanaka building, leaving a few hospitalized. Now I wait for Phase Two - the retaliation.

It comes swiftly. I'm tailing two Tanaka goons one afternoon (my skills honed from Pops' descriptions have become surprisingly useful), when they get jumped. Four guys, Saito colors unmistakable. The fight is brutal, messy, carried out in the harsh glare of the midday sun.

This is where it gets complicated. Part of me, the old Ryu, wants to run and hide. The sight of blood and the sounds of bone crunching are visceral, real. But the wannabe mastermind in me watches with grim fascination.

The Saito guys emerge victorious, but wounded. I snap a few photos from a distance, careful to stay hidden. Not for some noble idea of justice, but for ammunition. Now, I have leverage over them both.