Tokyo Dome: AAPW Locker Room
1 Hour Until Ronin Rumble Night 2 Event
The room was dead quiet, except for the overhead light's faint hum, flickering like it couldn’t decide whether to die or fight. Guren Onimaru sat on a battered wooden stool, his broad shoulders hunched, his eyes fixed on the roll of tape in his hands. The tape peeled off in long, deliberate strips, the sound sharp and clean in the otherwise silent space.
He started with his left hand, wrapping it with the precision of a surgeon preparing for battle. Each layer was snug, calculated. His knuckles, scarred and worn, peeked out like old war stories no one wanted to hear.
Guren: They say every man’s got a moment that defines him. A line in the sand. You cross it, and there’s no going back. For most people, it’s something clean—a job, a family, a dream. Me? My line wasn’t clean. It was messy. Blood in the rain kinda messy. And it didn’t come with a happy ending. Not yet.
He tightened the tape around his wrist, the motion jerky but firm. His eyes burned with a mixture of focus and something deeper—regret? Rage? Maybe both.
The muffled sound of the crowd outside filtered through the concrete walls. It was distant, like thunder before a storm. He didn’t flinch.
Guren: A few hours from now, that crowd’s gonna lose their minds. Fifty-nine men, all clawing for the same thing, stepping over each other’s bodies to get it. And me? I’ll be there too, but I’m not fighting for them. I’m not fighting for glory, or money, or AAPW. I’m fighting because that’s the only thing I’ve ever known. The only thing I’m good at.
The tape ran out, the end snapping against his wrist with a faint crack. Guren stared at his hand, flexing his fingers as if testing the weight of his past.
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips—a cold, joyless thing.
Guren: But there’s a difference between me and them. They’re stepping into that ring hoping to make a name for themselves. I’m stepping into that ring to remind them why they call me ‘Lights Out.’
His right hand reached for another roll of tape, but for a moment, it trembled—barely noticeable, but enough. His jaw tightened as he grabbed the tape and began the process again.
The flickering light buzzed louder, casting jagged shadows across the room. Shadows that twisted and danced as if mocking him.
Guren: You’d think a guy like me would’ve figured it all out by now. But demons don’t leave you when you run. They wait. They hide in the shadows. And when the time’s right, they remind you of who you are. Of what you’ve done.
The camera slowly zoomed in on his knuckles as the tape tightened. The scars stood out like roadmaps leading somewhere dark. His voice dropped almost to a whisper.
Guren: My line in the sand? It wasn’t in a ring. It wasn’t under the bright lights. It was in the rain, one night in Tokyo. And it didn’t just change me—it made me.
The room dimmed as the flashback began, the faint sound of rain growing louder until it consumed everything.
Crack of thunder Echos
The rain fell in sheets, drowning Tokyo’s neon glow. Streets that should have been alive with sound were quiet, except for the steady water drum on asphalt. The alley was dark, the kind of dark where bad decisions thrived. Guren Onimaru stood there, the rain soaking through his suit, brass knuckles gleaming in his hand like a promise he didn’t want to keep.
A man knelt before him, tied up and trembling. His face was a canvas of fresh bruises and old scars. Behind him, two Yakuza thugs loomed, their faces hidden in shadows but their intentions clear.
Thug: Boss says he’s gotta learn. Make it messy.
The man started to plead, his voice shaking like it might break under the weight of his fear.
Debtor: Please! I’ve got a family. Kids. I’ll pay it back, I swear—just give me time!
Guren stared at him, unmoving. The brass knuckles felt heavier than usual like the weight wasn’t just in the metal. The man’s words echoed, bouncing around Guren’s skull, scraping at something he didn’t want to feel.
Guren (Voiceover): Kids. They always mention the kids. Like that’s supposed to make it easier to spare them, it doesn’t. It just makes it harder to look away. But looking away’s not in the job description.
He stepped forward, his shoes splashing in the puddles. The man flinched as Guren raised his fist, but his hand froze mid-air. The rain felt colder now, and the alley was quieter. His breath slowed, the sounds of the world drowning in his hesitation.
Guren (Voiceover): I told myself it was just another job. One more lesson for one more loser who couldn’t pay his dues. But the truth? He wasn’t scum. He wasn’t a fighter. He was just... human. And that’s the problem with humans—they make you feel things. Things you can’t afford in this line of work.
From the shadows came the sharp click of heels. A figure stepped forward, an umbrella shielding her from the rain. Ayame Takeda, calm as a cat with a mouse in its claws. She didn’t flinch as her eyes locked with Guren’s. Her voice cut through the storm like a knife through silk.
Ayame: Are you going to hit him, Guren? Or is this the moment you finally wake up?
The thugs turned to her, confused. Guren didn’t. His eyes stayed on the man in front of him—the pathetic, broken man whose life hung on the edge of a decision. The brass knuckles dropped from Guren’s hand, clattering against the wet pavement.
The thugs stepped forward, their body language screaming anger, but Guren raised his hand, stopping them in their tracks. He didn’t speak to them, only to Ayame.
Guren: I’m done.
Guren (Voiceover): Walking away from the Yakuza wasn’t brave. It wasn’t some grand act of rebellion. It was survival. I wasn’t just saving that man—I was saving what was left of me.
Ayame smirked, an expression that was half amusement, half approval. She tilted her umbrella just enough for the rain to hit Guren’s shoulder.
Ayame: Good. Now, let’s see if you’re ready for something real.
She turned and walked away, her heels clicking softly against the wet pavement. Guren didn’t move for a long moment, the rain soaking him, his brass knuckles lying forgotten at his feet. The debtor sobbed quietly, the thugs muttered curses under their breath, but Guren? He just stood there, listening to the rain.
Guren (Voiceover): That was the night I drew my line in the sand. The night I stopped being a weapon and started being a man. But the thing about lines? They don’t erase what’s behind them. And the shadows? They follow you, no matter how far you think you’ve gone.
The rain blurred the scene as the memory faded, transitioning back to the locker room. The sound of the rain softened, replaced by the muffled roar of the crowd preparing for the Ronin Rumble.
The rain faded, but its chill lingered. Back in the locker room, the dim light flickered erratically, throwing jagged shadows across the walls. Guren Onimaru sat motionless, staring at his half-wrapped fist. His fingers flexed, testing the tape’s grip as if he was trying to hold onto something that kept slipping away.
He leaned forward, grabbed the roll of tape again, and resumed wrapping his other hand. The motions were steady, mechanical, but his jaw clenched like a vice.
Guren: That was the night everything changed. I walked away from the Yakuza, from their games, their rules, their lies. But walking away doesn’t mean you leave it behind. The past? It’s like smoke—it clings to you no matter how far you run.
The tape rolled tighter around his knuckles. Guren stared at the scars crisscrossing his hands. Each one told a story, and none had a happy ending.
Guren: Ayame called it a new start. Said she was offering me a shot at something better. A cleaner kind of fight. But no fight’s ever clean, not really. There’s always blood. The question is, whose?
The muffled roar of the crowd outside seeped through the walls again, distant but insistent. Guren tilted his head, listening, but his mind focused on that rainy night's memory. He tugged the tape taut and snapped it off with a quick jerk, his voice dropping into a low growl.
Guren: That’s when I made the promise. No more brass knuckles. No more guns. No more shadows. Just my fists. If I’m gonna take someone down, I’ll do it face-to-face. No tricks, no shortcuts. A clean hit. The only kind of truth left in this world.
He flexed his fingers again, testing the tightness of the tape. The light above steadied for a moment, its harsh glow illuminating the oni emblem on his jacket hanging nearby.
Guren: A few hours from now, I step into the ring with fifty-nine men who think they’re ready for war. They’re not. They don’t know what war is. War isn’t glory. It isn’t lights and cameras and shiny belts. War is survival. And survival? That’s what I do best.
He stood up slowly, the stool creaking under the shift of weight. He walked to his jacket and pulled it off the hook. The oni stared back at him, a reminder of who he’d been and who he still fought to leave behind.
Guren: Tonight, it’s not about survival for me. It’s about proving something. To them. To Ayame. To myself. Because no matter how far I’ve come, those demons in the shadows? They’re still watching. Waiting. And the only way to beat them is to remind myself why I’m still standing.
He slipped on the jacket, the weight of it familiar but heavier tonight. The flickering light buzzed again, casting his shadow long and jagged on the wall.
Guren: Fifty-nine men are gonna learn the hard way. The ring’s not a playground, and it’s not a warzone. It’s a reckoning. And when the lights go out, the only thing left standing in the dark... will be me.
The camera panned to the stool, and the roll of tape was discarded on the floor. The roar of the crowd grew louder as Guren walked toward the door. He paused momentarily, his hand on the handle, before pushing it open. His boots echoed down the hall as the scene faded to black.