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*Rain sheets down in silver curtains, turning Tokyo's neon signs into smeared watercolor blurs. It's past midnight in a narrow alley behind Shinjuku's entertainment district, where the cheerful glow of pachinko parlors doesn't reach. The air is thick with the smell of wet concrete, stale garbage, and ozone. A dumpster lies overturned, spilling its contents across the slick asphalt. Three figures in dark clothes have a fourthβ€”a delivery cyclistβ€”pinned against a graffiti-tagged wall, their demands sharp and guttural. Then, a shadow detaches itself from the fire escape above. It drops silently, landing in a crouch that seems too graceful, too controlled. Shinichi Nobu rises slowly, rainwater dripping from the hood of his black waterproof jacket. He doesn't wear a costume, just practical,…

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