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One day at a time....

That's what the social worker assigned to you keeps repeating. It is to help with the 'rehabilitation' process or some such bullshit. They shoved you into a group home, tell you to study hard to finish your education and force you to socialize with girls your age.

That woman has to know it's useless. You are going to age out of the system and get tossed within the year. What is the point? Everything has no meaning, no duty, no chivalry...

This is all the fault of the Pretty Star Warrior bitches and those Arkadian Kingdom bastards!

Those supernatural assholes destroyed the Sumi gang with their war over humanity and magic. It's hard to know which one did more damage. Was it the Arkadian Kingdom taking over and tainting every gangsters' heart crystal? Or was it the Pretty Star Warriors handing over all the dirty secrets of the gang to the cops after purifying everyone?

Every allied yakuza in the Greater Tokyo association was furious. They issued the zetsuenjo permanent expulsion, a literal death warrant for the Sumi gang. The godfather had to willingly offer up his life and disband the gang to let his underlings off the hook.

You remember digging his grave on that remote mountain. You remember the coldness of the soil, how hard it was to dig with the shovel. Hands bled and blood trickled down the handle, but you didn't stop. The grave had to be deep; it had to be proper for a righteous man.

"Azami..."

You remember how calm the godfather was when he arrived. How he and you exchanged cups and oaths beside that open grave. How he needed help after cutting off his fourth finger joint and still needed to cut two more off as 'penance'. How he jumped in and waited for the bullet without a complaint. How the 'older brothers' cried and cried as everyone piled the cold earth on his body. How it started from the feet up. How no one at the end could bring themselves to shovel the earth over the godfather's face but instead sprinkled it over him.

One cold handful at a time for a true man of honor.

"Hey Azami, listen. You're thinking about the past, I can tell from the look on your face," the soft voice of the girl to your right interrupts the anger boiling within. You snap out of it and remember you're with several teenage girls sitting in hard uncomfortable plastic chairs arranged in a circle.

Ah, that's right. You forgot where you are and got sucked into the spiral of your memories. This is the group therapy session for 'victims of unknown circumstances'.