Summary: [REWRITTEN] Forcing her mouth open, he was quick to seek vengeance by yanking out one of her canines with the forceps. There was no one in the hospital except for them—there was no one to hear her scream. A serial killer is on the loose, and the only ones capable of stopping him are the scum of society; the Yakuza. Maybe the "Bad guys" aren't so bad after all…

A Murderous Enterprise—Prologue

The night loomed over a shadowy figure maneuvering through the darkness. The full moon's dull glow caught a glimpse of the blade grasped firmly in the figure's hand. Scarlet gleamed in the long-dead light, tainting the ground upon which it dripped. In the wreckage from which the figure descended laid a corpse, its soul stripped from its vessel far sooner than any deity intended. Bright headlights illuminated the scene for a brief moment, telling all that were watching the horrors that had taken place mere moments before.

Alas, just as quickly as the lights had turned on, they were speeding away, leaving only the shadows to watch over the corpse. The night was the fallen's only salvation, only redemption, only protection.

-/-/-

The next morning found the same scene wrapped in bright yellow tape. Every object in the vicinity of the blood spatter was sealed in plastic, sent away in hopes that something—anything—would finally tell them who was behind the crime.

The scene, the blood, the corpse, none of it was an original work. No, this had happened four times before, in the exact same manner. The locals were mortified—they thought they lived in the good part of Tokyo, where things like serial murder didn't happen.

-/-/-

In an office mere blocks away a man calmly sipped his coffee, although his dark eyes were set in a stone-cold glare in the direction of the office television. The news reporter standing in front of the crime scene—his masterpiece—was demonizing the reason that the woman was killed. He seethed internally as the reporter recapped the murders leading up to his latest crime. The police had apparently given him the name "The Shibuya Serial Killer," which he himself thought was dull, lackluster and thought up without the use of any real brainpower. Didn't such gallant public services warrant the police to use their five brain cells for what they're worth and give him a better name?

The man chuckled darkly to himself as he pressed the power button on his computer. They hadn't seen anything yet.