Chapter Text
The sea was restless.
Waves slapped the side of the steel ship as it cut through the Pacific, heading toward an uncharted island west of Okinawa. Goro Majima leaned on the rail, cigarette dangling from his lips, wind tearing at his gold snakeskin coat. Behind him, the ship’s crew bustled with the sounds of stacking of crates, swishing of maps, and chatter of gold, spice, and untapped land.
But Majima wasn’t here for spices.
He was here because he was tired. Of city lights. Of fake smiles. Of blood on his boots. The Sengoku Corporation had backed this expedition with promises of new territory. Riches. Glory. But to Majima, it sounded like one thing: escape. He wanted nothing more than to run away from his old life, and this mission was his ticket out.
He flicked his cigarette into the sea just as the outline of the island came into view—lush green, jagged cliffs, and dense mist curling from the treetops like smoke from a dragon’s mouth.
“Land ho!” a crewman cried.
“About damn time,” Majima muttered, pushing off the rail. “Let’s see what in the hell we’re disturbing today.”
⸻
Far above, hidden in the trees, a man named Kiryu watched intently.
He crouched silently, his body still as a boulder. The island had been quiet for many seasons. No intruders. No violence. Only balance—between his people and the spirits of the land. But now, strange machines touched upon the shore, and with them came men like barking dogs, smelling of metal and greed.
Kiryu was no chief, but the spirits had chosen him as protector. Since boyhood, he’d heard their whispers. He could feel the pulse of the island—every stone, every wind-carried leaf. Now, that pulse quickened.
He narrowed his eyes as a man stepped off the ship and onto the sacred shore, laughing, arms spread like he owned the very sky.
An eye patch. A wicked grin.
Danger.
But… not like the others.
There was something untamed in him. Something broken. Something… mesmerizing. So mesmerizing that Kiryu couldn’t bring himself to look away.
⸻
The settlers wasted no time. Axes chopped into trees. Tents rose like tumors on the sacred soil. Majima wandered from the camp under the guise of scouting, but really, he was just following a feeling. Something pulling him deeper into the jungle.
That’s when he saw him.
A man. Broad-shouldered. A long coat of dark fur and bone draped over a chiseled, muscular frame. Face calm, unreadable. He stood by a waterfall, eyes closed, hand resting on a jagged stone as if listening to it breathe.
Majima’s mouth went dry. This man was certainly a sight for sore eyes.
“What in the hell…”
The man turned.
Brown eyes met his.
The forest held its breath.
⸻
They stood there, two men from worlds apart—one born of concrete and crime, the other carved from the land itself. Neither spoke. Majima reached slowly for the knife on his belt. Kiryu didn’t move.
He simply… watched.
And then, against everything he knew, Kiryu took a step forward. Not in challenge. Not in fear.
In curiosity.
Majima didn’t know why in the moment, but he found himself lowering his blade.
“Who the hell are you?” he whispered.
Kiryu didn’t understand the words. But he understood the tone. Not hostile. Not yet.
Instead of answering, Kiryu pointed to Majima’s heart. Then his own.
Two fingers. One point.
Understanding.
Connection.
Majima blinked. “You’re…. not gonna kill me?”
Kiryu tilted his head. Then, impossibly, the faintest smirk.
Majima barked a laugh. “Shit. You’re even more unpredictable than me.”
And just like that, something shifted. A thread spun between them.