Chapter Text
A bar in Fukuyama, Japan. Late. Not packed, not empty. Three men at a corner table. The oldest, late twenties, has a fading bruise on his jaw. "Boss told me to give you two the rundown before you meet him." He swirls his drink once. "Forget everything you think you know about syndicate bosses. Just wipe it."
The youngest, barely nineteen, fingers nervously around his glass, leans in. "I've heard stuff. The cross knuckles. The 'Third Coming' thing."
"The streets call him Third Coming because he walked into a negotiation where both sides planned to kill each other, sat down, and had them splitting territory like kids sharing a desk within an hour." The bruised guy glances between them. "They also call him Judas. Ask me why."
The quiet one, mid-twenties and built like someone who knows work, speaks for the first time. "Why?"
"He gives people exactly what they ask for. They just don't realize what they actually asked until it's too late." He gestures for another round. "Alright. Italian, eighteen, looks like Sunday morning, speaks like Tuesday afternoon. Faded gold hair, slicked back. Eyes match. You'll think he belongs in a cathedral, not a syndicate. Don't let it fool you."
"I heard he started at fifteen," the young one says, and it's not really a question.
"His old man was assassinated. Prayar took the seat before the blood dried. Didn't rage, didn't mourn. Called every Capo into a room and said, 'Here's how this works now.' Half thought they could push him." The bruised guy pauses. "They were wrong. He's calm. To strangers, he's measured. He doesn't threaten. He explains the consequences. You'll never hear him raise his voice at an enemy. If he raises it at you and you're not family, you're already gone."
The quiet one rubs his chin. "And the quirk? I heard something about sins."
The bruised guy's expression shifts, a little less casual. "Sinful Act. Seven sin marks on his body, like tattoos, each powering a different enhancement. Pride's on his back, orange lion. Physical strength. The right palm is Envy, green snake. Copies quirks, weaker versions, one at a time. Left palm is Greed, yellow hyena. Sensory enhancement. Lust on the hips, pink rabbit. Speed and agility."
"He just... carries them around?" The young one blinks.
"They're natural. Born with 'em." The bruised guy waits for the waiter to pass. "Here's the thing. Every time he uses a sin, the mark fades. Eventually, it goes dark. The only way to recharge is to commit that sin again. Pride means doing something he's genuinely proud of. Greed means making a selfish deal. Wrath—" He taps his own chest. "Wrath is on his chest. Crimson dragon. Heavy mark."
The quiet one's eyes narrow. "'Heavy.' He's killed."
"More than a few. Some men have died because they needed the charge back." The bruised guy doesn't blink. "He doesn't enjoy it. Doesn't moralize. Doesn't excuse. It's like refueling a car. Just do it and move on. He's eighteen. Do the math, ya idiot."
The young one has gone a little pale. "What about the others? Gluttony, Lust, Sloth?"
"Gluttony, stomach, navy sperm whale. Stamina and endurance. Lust is on his hips, pink rabbit, speed. He's eighteen. It's Lust. Sloth is hidden in his hair, the back of his head, brown sloth. Damage reduction and defense." He cracks a small, tired grin. "That one's light. The boss rarely rests."
The quiet one leans forward. "Earlier, you said his Wrath mark does something to his quirk power. What's that look like?"
"Wrath boosts his quirk power overall and lets him add heat, pressure, even illusions to his strikes." The bruised guy sets down his glass.
"He's got a technique called Incontro dei Sette. Meeting of the Seven. Uses Wrath's illusion ability. The air around him goes dark, smoky. Seven skulls appear, coiling from neck to toe, each chained to its sin mark. Skulls are pitch black with eye sockets glowing the color of the sin. No physical damage. Pure psychological pressure. I've only seen it once. Prayed I'd never see it again."
The young one swallows. "So his power is basically... sinning. He has to keep doing bad things to stay strong."
"That's the question, isn't it?" The bruised guy looks at him evenly. "The quirk doesn't force him. Doesn't corrupt his mind, doesn't punish him for using it. No recoil, no physical downside. It just rewards sinning with power and not sinning with nothing. He decides how far to go. Minor sins have small charges. Major sins have larger charges. The quirk doesn't judge. It only reflects." He finishes his drink. "Prayar Volcan is exactly as dangerous as he chooses to be. And he chooses very carefully."
A silence settles. The quiet one breaks it. "His people. What do they think of him?"
"Respect. Not fear." The bruised guy doesn't hesitate. "He doesn't deal drugs, doesn't touch kids, doesn't run human auctions. Loans, gambling, shipping, protection, negotiations, assassinations when necessary. His syndicate is cleaner than most. He speaks softly to children, makes eye contact, and remembers names. His right hand, Delvador Chesed, handles logistics and intel. Left hand, Carmen Geburah, runs enforcement. Direct reports in Italy and Germany. He's looking into Japan, too, as far as I've heard. About five hundred soldiers. He built that from nothing at fifteen."
"You said he's different around family," the quiet one notes.
For the first time, the bruised guy smiles—a real one, small and private. "Around his people, he's quippy. Considerate. Caring. You get the real him, not the cathedral statue. And if someone hurts his family..." He flags the bartender for another round. "He won't raise his voice. He'll just end them. Quietly. Thoroughly. Then go back to his paperwork."
The young one exhales like he's been holding it in. "Italian, eighteen, cross knuckles, sin quirk, doesn't yell." He rubs his face. "What do we even call him when we meet him?"
"Boss works fine. Don Volcan if you want formal." The bruised guy shrugs. "He won't care. Just be honest. He's got Greed marks on his palm and Envy on the other. He'll probably read you the moment you walk in. Don't try to impress him. Don't lie. Just be straight. He respects that more than anything."
The quiet one nods slowly. "And the cross knuckles?"
"Functional and symbolic. The striking surface is shaped like a cross. He doesn't comment on it." The bruised guy stands, pulling out cash for the tab. "You'll see them on his belt. Iron. Heavy. He was raised a Christian. Left the church voluntarily—said he wouldn't stain it with his quirk. He still prays, I think. Doesn't talk about it."
The young one looks up at him. "You've been with him for two years?"
"Longest two years of my life. Best ones too." He tosses the cash on the table. "You'll understand once you've worked under him. He's not a good man. He'll tell you that himself. But he's fair, he protects his own, and he never asks you to do something he wouldn't do first. That's more than most bosses give." He nods toward the door. "Come on. He's expecting you."