The world felt thick and distant, like wading through syrupy darkness. Beeps echoed in Takuma Sato’s mind, muffled and distorted, each pulse like a nail driven into his skull. Slowly, through the drugged haze, he became aware of his body—each limb weighted down, his skin tingling with sharp, uneven pain. His fingers twitched, barely responsive as if every nerve was wrapped in gauze.
Somewhere, he heard voices, their words indistinct, like whispers drifting through a fog.
Nurse (faintly, almost dreamlike): Vitals are stable… keep monitoring… blood loss is under control now.
Their words drifted in and out, but none of it seemed real. He was floating, tethered only by the dull, pulsing pain that began to pull him back into his body. As he blinked his eyes open, he saw the blurry outline of harsh and glaring lights above him. The lights seemed to tremble, wavering in his vision as though mocking him.
He tried to move, to lift his head, but a blinding, throbbing pain radiated across his face. Something bound his head, wrapping tight across his skin. Panic flared, igniting memories like oil to fire. The barbed wire tearing at his face, ripping into his flesh, the roar of the Tokyo Dome mingling with the cruel laughter of his enemies.
Lim (a distant echo in his mind): You’ll never forget this, Sato. We’ll make sure of it.
Sato’s heart thundered in his chest, the memories blurring with reality. His breathing quickened, and he struggled to sit up, desperate to break free from the suffocating weight around his head. His fingers clawed at the bandages as the voices faded, leaving only the steady beep of the heart monitor echoing in his ears.
Takuma Sato (whispering, dazed): No… no, I need… I have to get out of here.
The room tilted as he forced himself to stand, his body trembling with each step. The walls seemed to breathe, closing around him, shadows shifting sinisterly. He stumbled forward, clinging to the side of the bed for balance, and staggered toward the bathroom. His movements felt dreamlike, disconnected as if he were watching himself from somewhere far away.
He reached the bathroom door and pushed it open, flicking the light switch. The sudden brightness seared into his vision, and he winced, gripping the edge of the sink as his reflection came into view—or what he thought was his reflection.
What stared back at him was a stranger wrapped in blood-soaked bandages. His eyes hollow, sunken deep beneath layers of gauze and bruises; the only familiar feature left visible was his mouth, barely showing beneath the twisted bindings.
Takuma Sato: What… what did they do to me?
The memories surged up like a flood, pulling him under. Lim’s face looming above him, twisted in sadistic glee. The barbed wire, biting into his skin, pulling, ripping. The mocking laughter of his tormentors as they dragged his body across the canvas, his blood staining the mat.
Han (whispering from the past): I hope you enjoy scars, Sato. We’re making you a masterpiece.
He staggered, his hand gripping the sink so tightly his knuckles turned white. The bandages itched, pressing against his skin, reminding him of the deep, jagged wounds beneath. The urge to see—to know what they had done to him—overwhelmed every rational thought. With trembling fingers, he began to peel the bandages back, each layer clinging to his skin, pulling at dried blood and stitches.
Takuma Sato (whispering, breath hitching): Please… please, no… not like this…
His reflection became clearer with each piece he removed, revealing the truth of his face. Bruises, swelling, stitches forming grotesque patterns across his skin, patches of raw flesh held together by glue and staples. His face was a shattered puzzle, hastily reassembled, each line a testament to the horror he had endured.
As he removed the last layer, the full horror hit him, and his stomach lurched.
**Takuma Sato (whispering, desperate): No… no, this isn’t me. This can’t be me…
He stared at his reflection, the twisted image of his own face staring back at him, an unrecognizable monster. The memories surged again—barbs slicing, fists crashing, the jeering voices of his opponents echoing in the Tokyo Dome.
Lim (a mocking whisper): How does it feel, Sato? This is what you deserve for killing my father!
The memory twisted, merging with the present, until he could almost see Lim’s face in the mirror, grinning back at him.
Takuma Sato (screaming, frenzied): Get out of my head! GET OUT!
He pulled his fist back and slammed it into the mirror with all his strength, the glass shattering in a spiderweb of fractures. Blood dripped down his hand, mingling with the reflection of his broken face, and he let out a raw, guttural scream, the sound filling the empty hospital room.
The door burst open, and hospital staff rushed in, their eyes wide with alarm.
Nurse: Sir! Please, calm down! You’re going to hurt yourself!
Takuma Sato (shouting, voice raw): Get away from me! Don’t touch me!
He staggered back, pressing himself against the wall as if trying to escape the reality of his own reflection. Blood dripped from his knuckles, pooling on the floor, but he didn’t feel the pain—only the horror, the crushing weight of what he had become.
Orderly: Hold him! He’s in shock!
Several hands grabbed his arms, pinning him against the wall, but he fought against them, his voice a desperate, broken plea.
Takuma Sato (choking, barely coherent): Let go of me… I need… I need to see… this can’t be real…
A nurse hurried forward, syringe in hand, her voice soft but firm.
Nurse: This will help, Mr. Sato. It’s okay… we’re here to help you.
But he barely heard her, his mind still trapped in the nightmare, the faces of his tormentors flashing before him.
Han: Remember us, Sato. Remember what we did to you.
The sting of the needle pierced his skin, and warmth spread through his veins, the fight draining from his muscles. His head felt heavy, his vision blurring as the sedative pulled him down, down, into the waiting darkness.
Takuma Sato (whispering, fading): No… don’t… please…
The last thing he saw before the world slipped away was his own reflection in the shattered mirror, fragments of his face scattered among the broken glass, his eyes wide with terror.
The Next Morning
The hallway seemed to stretch forever as Sato walked, each step echoing down the sterile corridor, filling the silence that closed in around him. His head throbbed in sync with the unsteady pulse of his heart, each beat stirring memories he’d have preferred to leave buried. The faces of Abbigail, Valora, the North Koreans—they all flickered in his mind, blurred and blood-soaked. He tried to shake the images away, but they clung like shadows, reminding him of the wounds hidden beneath his bandages.
He reached Abbigail’s room, and the door felt heavier than he remembered as it creaked open. Inside, Samantha Topher’s glare met him immediately—sharp, unwavering, like she’d been expecting him. Behind her, Abbigail lay propped up, motionless. The bandages on her arms and neck were visible beneath the sheets, but her tear-streaked face held the greatest scars of all.
Samantha’s voice sliced through the silence, a bitter edge in each word.
Samantha Topher: So they released you. Free to walk around, while she can’t even lift her own hand.
Takuma forced himself to speak, though his voice sounded weak and foreign in his ears.
Takuma Sato: I...needed to see how she was. How both of you were.
Abbigail’s voice, hoarse and choked, barely rose above a whisper, but the bitterness in her tone burned like acid.
Abbigail Dresden: How am I doing? Takuma, I can’t even feel my body, and Valora...they took her.
The words tightened his chest, a nauseating guilt twisting in his stomach. He could barely form the question, his mind reeling as he struggled to understand.
Takuma Sato: They...took her? What...why?
Samantha’s expression darkened, her eyes narrowing as she spoke, each word hitting him like a punch to the gut.
Samantha Topher: Valora was only able to stay here because of Mudcock. He was paying off the government to keep her in Japan, to keep her fighting, to keep her useful and making money. But after that match? She was just a burden. Mudcock stopped paying, and the government decided she’d be more valuable to McStrump as an example. She’s already on her way to Guantanamo, with broken legs and all.
Takuma felt the floor give way beneath him, like he was falling, drowning in an ocean of consequences he hadn’t anticipated. He pictured Valora, strapped to a stretcher, helpless, whisked away by forces she couldn’t fight.
Takuma Sato: I didn’t know...you’d think she’d be allowed to recover…
Abbigail’s hollow eyes burned into him, her voice laced with fury and a profound, wrenching grief.
Abbigail Dresden: No, you didn’t think. You dragged us into this war and made us believe we could win. But you never protected us. You protected yourself.
Her words sliced through him, each one sharper than the last. He wanted to defend himself, say he’d fought for them all and risked everything. But the memories rose unbidden, images of Valora’s body crushed and broken, Abbigail’s scream as she collapsed. Each scene played back in merciless clarity, reminding him of his failures.
Samantha stepped forward, her voice like ice, cutting through his thoughts.
Samantha Topher: They believed in you, Sato, and you left them shattered and bleeding, broken beyond repair.
Takuma felt the air grow thick, suffocating. He wanted to breathe, to speak, but his throat felt locked, his words trapped beneath the weight of his guilt. He reached up instinctively, touching the bandages on his face, as though he could peel away the pain and regret hidden there. But the ache was too deep, too raw, and the room swayed around him.
Takuma Sato: I...I fought to protect us...I did everything I could… we won the match.
Abbigail’s laugh was bitter, a hollow sound that echoed in the sterile room.
Abbigail Dresden: Won the match! Who gives a shit!? Valora is facing a fate worse than death. And me? I’ll probably never walk again.
The reality of her words sank in, each sentence a hammer blow to his psyche. He could feel his heart pounding, each beat filling his chest with a raw, unrelenting ache. He stumbled back, his vision blurring as he tried to find anything to steady himself. But all he saw were their faces, twisted with betrayal and fury.
Abbigail Dresden: Get out. Just get out, Sato. I can’t stand to look at you.
He felt her words like a knife to the chest, driving into the hollow space where his strength once resided. Nodding, he turned, every step feeling like he was dragging his soul through broken glass. He made it to the door, each breath a struggle, each heartbeat a reminder of the weight he could never shed. As he stepped into the corridor, the silence pressed down, a heavy, inescapable reminder of the lives he had shattered.
At that moment, he realized that he had sacrificed everything for a victory that had only brought devastation, leaving behind a hollow, unending defeat. Perhaps he and Lightning Man had won the battle, but the North Koreans had ultimately won the war.
20 Minutes Later
Sato stepped out of the hospital, the cold night air prickling his skin, amplifying the ache deep in his bones. Tokyo’s neon-lit streets stretched out before him, silent and indifferent. He barely reached the curb's edge when a long, sleek limousine glided up to the sidewalk, its black paint gleaming under the streetlights like an oil slick.
The tinted window hummed down, revealing Rupert Mudcock seated in shadows, eyes sharp and waiting.
Rupert Mudcock:Sato. Get in the car.
Sato froze, his muscles tensing. Just the sound of Rupert’s voice was enough to bring the rage boiling up in his veins. The man had been the one to decide Valora’s fate, letting her rot, allowing her to be shipped off to hell on earth for his convenience. For a moment, Sato simply stared, his mind flickering with the faces of Abbigail, screaming in despair, Valora shackled and pale. The thought of trusting Rupert for even a second felt repulsive.
Takuma Sato: I’m not your puppet, Mudcock. You already got what you wanted from me.
Rupert sighed long, exasperated as if Sato’s defiance was some trivial inconvenience, his patience wearing thin.
Rupert Mudcock: I’m not here to debate ethics or reminisce about Valora. This is about your mother, Sato. Now get in.
Sato’s heart clenched, the single word cutting through his anger like a blade. Mother. He swallowed, resisting the urge to throw a punch right through the smirk on Rupert’s face. He knew Rupert was holding something back, a piece of the puzzle he needed, and that realization burned like acid. Gritting his teeth, Sato opened the limo door and slid inside.
The interior was immaculate, bathed in soft golden lighting that contrasted with the city’s harsh glow outside. The leather seats were cold against his skin, the luxury of it all seeming so removed from the violence and darkness of his recent days. Rupert studied him in the dim light, his lips curling slightly as his gaze traveled over Sato’s bandages, lingering on the bruises, the poorly stitched cuts.
Rupert Mudcock: I must say, they did a number on you. Your face looks like something a blind child put back together. It was quite the job.
The comment dug under his skin, but Sato held back, his expression frozen in hard silence. He knew Rupert was waiting for a reaction, eager to poke and prod until he found a crack. But Sato was used to this game. He knew better than to give Rupert that satisfaction.
After a beat, Rupert leaned back, his tone shifting to something colder and sharper as he gazed out the window.
Rupert Mudcock: In any case, I wanted to congratulate you personally. You took those North Koreans apart. The people are talking about you like you’re some kind of legend now.
Sato clenched his jaw, his voice a low murmur.
Takuma Sato: You think I care about being a legend? I just want my mother back.
The words hung in the air, heavy and bitter, and Rupert’s eyes narrowed as if appraising him anew. After a beat, Rupert’s gaze softened, but it was a practiced, almost mechanical gesture calculated to seem reassuring.
Rupert Mudcock: Fair enough. You’ll have what you want. But before I tell you, I need you to agree to something. You’re aware of the Ronin Rumble? Sixty men, one winner, and AAPW’s best will be coming for blood. I need you in that match, Sato.
Takuma blinked, his mind a whirl of emotions. Rupert’s promise dangled just out of reach, and the price of his compliance cut deeper than he’d expected.
Takuma Sato: So you’ll only tell me if I agree?
Rupert Mudcock: It’s a simple matter of loyalty, Sato. Don’t go chasing ghosts and burning yourself out before the Rumble. Once we’re through, you’ll have what you want. The location, everything.
A sigh escaped Sato, a sigh that felt like a weight being expelled from his lungs. He felt the restraint slipping, his need for answers overpowering his contempt. There was no other way; Rupert had orchestrated it so that he held all the power. With reluctance, Sato finally nodded.
Takuma Sato: Fine. Tell me where she is.
Rupert’s face split into a smile, a chillingly triumphant smile.
Rupert Mudcock: The investigators tracked her to the Tokyo Seaport. It appears she’s being held at the Kurāken no Suana. That’s as much as I can give you for now.
The name sank into Sato’s mind, ominous and foreign, each syllable twisting deeper into his thoughts. The Kurāken no Suana. An image rose in his mind of a dark, sprawling labyrinth beneath the port, shadowed and damp, a prison where only whispers escaped. He felt a thrill of dread and determination, a cruel combination that had been too familiar since stepping into Rupert’s world.
The limousine slowed to a stop. Sato could see the narrow alleyway leading to his hideout through the window. The shadows stretched like talons, beckoning him back to his sanctuary, where he’d been hiding ever since Yamamoto’s death sentence had fallen upon him.
Rupert’s voice, thick with a strange mix of amusement and detachment, interrupted his thoughts.
Rupert Mudcock: You’ve made a wise choice, Sato. Now, get some rest. Put a frozen steak on that face before it gets any worse.
The limo door swung open, and Sato climbed out, casting a final glance back at Rupert, who regarded him with that same unsettling smile. As the limo pulled away, leaving him standing in the dim glow of the streetlight, Sato felt a lingering chill settle over him. Rupert’s words echoed in his mind, each syllable a reminder of the trap he was now bound to.
With a final glance down the darkened street, he vanished into his hideout, his mind now a battleground of unresolved grudges, seething questions, and a sliver of hope too fragile to grasp.
For a moment, he paused, taking in the silence, the shadows, and the slow, rhythmic pounding of his heart. The Ronin Rumble loomed—a monster of a fight that would test his endurance and his resolve. But even then, through the haze of battles to come, he could still see her—his mother, waiting in the depths of the Kurāken no Suana, waiting for a son who would stop at nothing to bring her home.