Rain hammered the city, pooling in the cracks of a narrow alley shrouded by neon and shadow. Beneath a flickering sign, four figures huddled, hands trembling as they drew syringes and pipes from battered pockets. Their laughter was sharp, broken—jagged with the memory of violence.
"The bitch begged," one slurred, voice thick with malice. "Did you see her face? Pathetic.
Another barked a laugh, tossing a spent needle into the gutter. "Bet she's still lying where we left her. Nobody cares."
A third, gaunt and twitching, wiped his mouth. "We should find another. That one was too easy."
Above them, a silhouette loomed on the rooftop—a man wrapped in black, motionless beneath a jet-black umbrella. The rain slid from the fabric in silver sheets, never touching the figure's immaculate coat. His hair was midnight, his glasses glinting with a cold blue tint that caught the city's dying light. He watched, silent, the reflection of the alley's filth mirrored in the icy sheen of his lenses
In his hand, a katana rested—a blade forged with the clean, merciless lines of Kurozora, the Black Sky The weapon's presence was a promise: swift, inevitable judgment.
Without a sound, the Blue Tented Reaper vanished from the rooftop. The umbrella clattered to the ground, forgotten. In the blink of an eye, he stood at the mouth of the alley, Kurozora unsheathed, rain hissing along its edge.
The first addict turned, confusion twisting to terror. The katana flashed—a single, precise arc. Blood splattered the wall, hot and bright against the rain-slick brick. The second man staggered back, mouth open in a scream that never came; the blade found his throat, severing flesh and silence alike. The third tried to run, slipping in the filth, but the Reaper's blade caught him mid-fall, splitting bone and hope.
The last survivor collapsed, pleading, but the Black Reaper's face was a mask—emotionless, untouched by the carnage. The blue tint of his glasses glimmered in the darkness, reflecting only the void within.
He wiped the blade clean on a corpse's jacket, sheathed it, and disappeared into the rain—leaving only silence, and the legend of the man called Kuroyasha, the Blue-Tinted Reaper.