Kenny Volcano: Enter the Inferno

The thing about chaos is that it doesn’t knock—it kicks the door in and drags you out before you can ask if you’re still dreaming.

The night sky stretched wide and clear, the stars brighter than usual thanks to the government-mandated lockdown. The stillness was eerie, beautiful in a way, but it didn’t sit right with Kenny Volcano. He shifted his weight, gaze locked on the peaceful cityscape below. The streets were too quiet. People were confined to their homes, told it was for their own good—another layer of control disguised as safety. But maybe a little chaos was exactly what they needed to break the monotony. Something to shake them awake, give the cops a reason to earn their pay instead of collecting it from the comfort of their couches.

Kenny rolled his neck, vertebrae cracking in a series of satisfying pops. The world didn’t need more heroes—heroes were as dull as the rules they enforced. Monsters, though? Monsters made people think, forced them to act. And if there was one thing Kenny loved more than chaos, it was making sure people woke up from their self-imposed slumber.

He grinned, a toothy, wolfish smile, hidden only by his gas mask. His eyes gleamed under the neon haze that lingered in the air, fractured reflections of convenience store signs and alleyway graffiti glowing around him. Blovid-13? He scoffed under his breath. What a convenient excuse for governments to take a tighter grip, while their citizens became prisoners in their own homes, glued to glowing screens. Sheep and Wolves, a tale as old as time.

“Oh no, save us, mighty government,” he muttered in a mocking falsetto, spinning on his heels. “Save us from the big, bad germs and keep us warm in our little cells while you make rules you’ll break the moment we stop looking.”

He rolled his shoulders and cracked his knuckles, each pop a promise of mischief waiting to happen. Lockdowns? Lockdowns were just dares. And Kenny Volcano never backed down from a dare. He thrived in chaos—an agent of beautiful, messy entropy. He didn’t care if it was right or wrong; all he wanted was to tip the scale, knock it off balance, and laugh as the pieces scattered in every direction.

"Let’s see what happens when we poke the hornet’s nest," he whispered, slipping a Molotov cocktail from his backpack. The glass bottle glimmered in the moonlight, liquid sloshing within, ready to ignite the night. He gave it a gentle shake, the same way a child might rattle a toy. "The streets are too quiet. Let’s give 'em a reason to talk."

With a practiced flick, he sparked a lighter and kissed the flame to the rag wick. The fire danced in his eyes—wild, untamable, just like him. Kenny admired it for a moment, as if it was a lover he could never quite hold. "A little love letter to the pigs."

He wound up and sent the Molotov sailing through the air, where it crashed through the window of a police precinct. The explosion shattered the silence, glass raining down like stars, as flames greedily devoured the dark. Alarms blared.

Beautiful.

As chaos bloomed, Kenny slipped into the shadows, laughing. The night had begun. The symphony of the building fire and the sirens blaring added a subtle shift to the night, making it a memorable one.

Kenny leaned against a graffitied wall, basking in the glow of his handiwork. The distant roar of flames and the wail of sirens filled the night, setting his pulse racing. "The pigs are wide awake now," he muttered under his breath, flipping his hood up. "Let’s see if they can keep up."

He strolled along narrow streets, whistling a tuneless melody. Every so often, a curtain twitched—a cautious face, peering from behind glass, only to retreat. Kenny grinned beneath his mask. People always hide when things get loud. They wanted to be safe, and tonight, safety was slipping away, one spark at a time. Fear was fickle and could turn to anger. That’s what he was counting on.

The first squad car skidded into view at the far end of the street, its lights slicing through the night. Somewhere, a police drone whirred to life, scanning the alleyways for movement. Kenny cursed and broke into a sprint, laughing under his breath as adrenaline kicked in.

Boots slapped the pavement behind him. "Oi! Freeze" an officer shouted.

"Freeze? In this weather?" Kenny shot back with a wild laugh, barely slowing his pace. "Buddy, I am the heat!"

Another officer appeared at the corner ahead of him, baton in hand. "ここで止まるんだ！(Stop right there!)"

Kenny skidded to a halt just long enough to make eye contact. "Uh… No thanks." He lobbed a smoke grenade between them. It exploded in a thick cloud of gray, sending the officer stumbling back, coughing and cursing.

"くそっ！(Damn it!)"

Kenny slipped through the smoke and into the labyrinthine backstreets. The sound of radios crackling with orders filled the air, but he knew the police couldn’t navigate these alleyways as well as he could. He dashed down another corridor, climbed over a chain-link fence, and disappeared into the night.

Later, Kenny leaned against a vending machine tucked into the shadows, catching his breath. He fed a coin into the machine and waited for the satisfying clink of a cold can dropping into the tray. He cracked it open, savoring the bitterness of the coffee as he surveyed the silent street.

The news on his phone was already buzzing with reports. A precinct on fire, chaos in the streets. But then, buried beneath it all, a warning in Japanese: “(Haruki Tanaka prepares to respond)."

They were waking up. Kenny took a slow sip of coffee, unfazed. "Took your time, didn’t you?" he whispered to the empty street. He knew they wouldn’t rush. The Yakuza didn’t react—they planned. But when they moved, they always moved with finality.

He checked the time. 3:17 AM. Quiet again… but not for long.

The streets were unnervingly still. No flickering neon lights. No late-night delivery bikes. Just heavy silence, weighing down the air like an omen. Kenny’s skin prickled. The kind of stillness that meant something was wrong.

He turned a corner—and froze.

A man stood at the far end of the alley, arms folded. He wore a crisp black suit, his face a mask of calm indifference. Another man appeared to Kenny’s left, and one more to his right. No sudden moves. Just quiet, steady precision. Their presence filled the air with an unspoken warning: You don’t belong here.

The man in the center spoke first, his voice quiet but sharp. "お前… 誰だ？(Who are you?)"

Kenny shrugged, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Just out for some air.”

The leader’s eyes narrowed, his expression cold. “外国人か… (Foreigner...)” He spat the word like it tasted rotten.

Kenny grinned beneath his mask. “Yeah, yeah. Gaijin, right? Big scary foreigner shaking things up. But hey, I like the vibe here—thought I’d stick around, see what happens.”

The Yakuza leader’s lips curled into a cold, humorless smile. “ここでルールは我々のものだ (The rules here… are ours).”

Kenny’s hand drifted toward his pocket, casual. “Relax. I understand you, I just don’t speak Japanese. No need to get twitchy. I’m just feeling things out.”

One of the enforcers stepped forward, cracking his knuckles. “大きな口だな (Big mouth).”

Kenny tilted his head, grin sharpening. “Yeah? Feel free to shut it.”

The Yakuza leader held up a hand, stopping the enforcer from advancing. His eyes never left Kenny. "もう遅い。選ぶ時間はない (It’s too late. No time to choose)."

Kenny’s pulse quickened. He could feel the net tightening around him. Fighting his way out was an option—but not a good one. The Yakuza weren’t like cops. They didn’t call backup, didn’t make arrests. They simply… cleaned up.

Kenny kept his hands loose at his sides, his grin faltering just a little beneath the mask. He could feel it—the weight of their intentions pressing down on him, cold and final. There were no warnings here, no room for misunderstandings. The Yakuza didn't believe in loose ends. They’d break him, not just physically but in a way that left nothing to salvage.

He needed to get out. Fast.

But panic wouldn’t help. No, Kenny knew chaos was like a dance—you had to lead it. You couldn’t fight sharks by swimming faster; you needed to bleed somewhere else and let them follow the trail.

The leader stepped forward, slow and deliberate, as if daring Kenny to twitch. "終わりだ (It’s over)."

Kenny snorted, shifting his weight slightly to his back foot. "You say that like it’s a done deal." He gave them a lazy shrug. "Where’s the fun in that?"

The enforcer to the left, still itching for violence, clenched his fists. "黙れよ、ガイジン (Shut up, foreigner)."

The leader didn’t respond. His expression stayed calm, but there was a flicker of annoyance—just enough to give Kenny what he needed: a moment of distraction.

Kenny’s fingers danced near his pocket—careful, steady. In one fluid motion, he palmed a small firecracker he always kept handy, a relic from an earlier bit of mischief. It wasn’t much, but sometimes a small boom was all it took to make people flinch.

He smiled under the mask, cocking his head like a curious bird. "Hey, ever hear of a gaijin party trick? Boom—you’re the guest of honor."

The enforcer sneered, taking another step forward., opening his mouth to speak, before he could finish, Kenny flicked the firecracker to the ground between them. A sharp BANG echoed in the narrow alley, louder than it had any right to be. The flash was bright, the noise disorienting. It didn’t scare them—it pissed them off.

But anger? That was just another kind of chaos. And Kenny loved chaos.

"行け！(Get him!)" one of them barked, lunging forward.

Kenny was already moving. He spun on his heel and dashed down the alley before they could recover, vaulting over a trash bin, his boots barely hitting the ground. The moment stretched thin—each second a heartbeat that could mean freedom or a knife in the back.

He heard their footfalls behind him, steady and relentless, but the firecracker had given him just enough of a head start. He took a sharp turn into a side alley, spotting a pile of old pallets leaning against a fence. Without thinking, he kicked them down, blocking the path behind him. A shout rang out, angry and frustrated.

"Run, run, run..." Kenny whispered, a wild grin splitting his face as his feet pounded the pavement. "Faster, faster! Keep ahead, or you’re dead!" He let out a soft laugh, rounding the corner like the chase was a game only he knew how to win.

The Yakuza were fast, but Kenny knew these streets weren’t as familiar to them as their own territory. The alleys around here were a maze—a labyrinth of old buildings, forgotten shortcuts, and dead ends. And he knew just where he was headed.

Ahead, he spotted what he was looking for: an open drainage tunnel beneath a crumbling overpass. Low, dark, and foul-smelling—perfect. He slipped inside, crouching low, the sound of rushing water masking his movements.

He listened as the Yakuza closed in, their footsteps slower now, methodical.

"どこに行った？(Where did he go?)" one of them growled.

"探せ (Search)," the leader commanded, voice still calm.

Kenny pressed himself against the damp wall of the tunnel, breathing through his nose to avoid breathing heavily, inhaling the stench of the pipe. He could hear them spreading out above him, cursing softly in Japanese. They hadn’t lost him, at least not yet. But they didn’t know where to look. And that was good enough.

For a brief second, the chase was still. Kenny waited, heart pounding in his chest, counting the seconds in his head. He could hear them muttering, frustrated but not panicked. They don't panic, Kenny thought with a grin. They just get meaner.

He slipped his hand into his jacket, feeling the cool metal of a butterfly knife tucked in his pocket. It was a last resort, if things went really bad. But not yet. Not while the night still had tricks left to play.

Above him, one of the enforcers kicked over a pile of debris. "くそ…見つからない (Damn it… can’t find him)."

The leader’s voice drifted down low and patient. "見つかるさ (He’ll turn up)."

Kenny rolled his eyes, resisting the urge to laugh. "Yeah, maybe. But not tonight, boys."

The enforcers eventually departed, spreading out and searching in various alleys. When the coast was clear, Kenny slid out of the tunnel like a snake shedding its skin, silent and quick. He slipped through a side alley, heading toward a broken neon light, unlit due to the lock-down. The chase might’ve ended for now, but he knew they wouldn’t forget him.

The Yakuza didn’t take kindly to being humiliated. This wasn’t over, not by a long shot.

But Kenny didn’t care. He was alive, and that was enough. Of course, later on could be a little bit of a risk, but for now, those in power get to feel a little pressure.

Kenny found shelter in an abandoned arcade, the lock easy to break. The machines long silent, their screens dark. He slumped into a broken race car game, grabbing the steering wheel, as if he was about to take off on a high speed chase. "Ahhh… that’s the stuff," he murmured, savoring the taste of victory, however fleeting it was.

He heard a ding from his phone—the only notification he bothered keeping on: his ‘professional’ email. With a lazy swipe, he pulled it up. Subject: Contract Opportunity. It was from some schmuck named Devin Zeagal. Wait... wasn’t he that washed-up actor from those cheesy '80s flicks? Kenny snorted. "Probably needs a stunt double or someone to take a punch for him."

Curiosity got the better of him, and he opened the email, skimming through the usual corporate nonsense: recommendation from a dojo… rival federation… blah blah blah… Then, one phrase made him pause: 60 Wrestler Ronin Rumble—supremacy in Japan. Kenny grinned under his mask.

“Now that sounds interesting.” He tapped out a reply, quick and careless: I’ll see you tomorrow.

The Ronin Rumble loomed on his mind now. Sixty people, each one fighting tooth and nail for their shot at bringing glory to their federation. But glory wasn’t what Kenny wanted. No, he wanted chaos—a mass of bodies, rules breaking down, pure and utter chaos.

Kenny could picture it already: sixty wrestlers, piled on like sardines in a can, each trying to be the last standing. Alliances would form and shatter in minutes. The refs? They’d lose control by the first five minutes. He could almost hear the bones crack and feel the spray of blood against his face. Hell, the sooner he gets in the ring, the faster it would run out of control.

“Can’t wait to see what rules they’ll try to shove down our throats then." he whispered, resting his head against the cracked vinyl seat. "Sixty dreams. Sixty egos waiting to be crushed. And me?" He chuckled softly. "I’m just there to watch it all burn. I don’t care about winning. That’s for losers who care about the rules. Me? I’ll just make sure they all remember my name."

He laughed softly to himself, resting in the shadows. The Yakuza might be hunting him. The police might be closing in. But that was tomorrow’s problem.

Tonight? Tonight, the world sparked a little bit of chaos.