Tsuna's voice was steady. Detached.
His words sounded like small talk over morning tea, not a death sentence. And yet, the weight of those words pressed down like a tombstone.
The Wildfang leader—bleeding, pinned, and humiliated—felt it. That oppressive gravity. That invisible noose tightening around his soul.
This wasn't a choice.
It was an execution in slow motion. A coin toss where both sides were heads.
He had fought to be king of Harlem. One of the Three Tyrants, feared by gangs and cops alike. And now, this stranger—this pretty boy with calm eyes and a neutral tone—was telling him Harlem was no longer his.
It burned.
But he wasn't a fool.
His shoulder throbbed, his men were surrounded, and the man with the red "六" in his eyes still watched him like a cat does a dying rat.
"I… I choose to submit," he finally growled, bowing his head.
Pride shattered, but life preserved.
Tsuna nodded with all the grace of a noble emperor giving audience. "Very good."
Then his eyes turned forward—toward Harlem.
"Now go," he commanded. "Inform every gang, every syndicate, every crook in Harlem. They have one hour. One hour to choose: submission or annihilation."
Meanwhile, in Hell's Kitchen…
If Harlem was a warzone, then Hell's Kitchen was its shadow—less violent on the surface, but far more insidious beneath.
The buildings were ancient, cracked like old bones. Graffiti painted over older graffiti. The streets smelled of piss and regret. But here, unlike Harlem, the gangs wore masks of civility. They killed at night, in alleyways, not under the sun.
Crime in Hell's Kitchen was a cancer—quiet, systemic, spread through generations.
And in that rot lived the black-market miracle workers: the street doctors.
None were more infamous—or more drunk—than Ham Lane.
Fifty-something, balding, stained lab coat he hadn't washed in years. No license. No degree. Just a bottle of rotgut whiskey and a few YouTube videos worth of surgical knowledge.
He'd never been a brilliant man.
He wasn't some disgraced genius or misunderstood healer.
Ham was just a drunk with steady hands and no morals.
And in Hell's Kitchen, that was enough.
People couldn't afford hospitals here. They couldn't afford to be seen. Some had criminal records, others had immigration warrants, and most simply had no money. So when they were shot, stabbed, or sick—they came to Ham.
Even if he killed a few patients every month, even if rumors swirled about missing organs and shady deals, people still came.
That morning, 6 a.m., Ham was dead drunk. Again.
The last night's surgery had been brutal—a bullet lodged deep in a guy's kidney. He'd botched the extraction, destroyed half the organ, but hey—the guy lived. Probably.
He slumped in his broken recliner, bottle in one hand, half-conscious.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Someone was at the door.
Ham groaned. His head throbbed. His liver wept.
"I'm comin', I'm comin', Christ…"
He staggered to the door, kicked aside an empty syringe, and threw it open.
Standing outside was a woman.
Young. Pale. Almost too pale.
Her long hair was pinned back with an elegance that didn't belong on these streets. Her kimono—lavender branches and red blossoms—looked like something stolen from a museum. And her smile…
Her smile was wrong.
It was the kind of smile that made you feel like a spider just crawled up your spine.
Ham blinked. "Lady, you lost? This ain't a tea shop."
He burped. Hard.
"Sorry," he muttered, waving the booze-fume away. "Rough night."
The woman didn't even flinch. She bowed gently, hands folded at her waist.
"It's quite all right," she said, voice soft like falling snow. "I'm here with a few questions, Doctor."
"Doctor? Ha! Lady, that's generous…"
She tilted her head, still smiling. "They say you drink before every operation. Is that true?"
Ham chuckled. "Hell yeah. Whole neighborhood knows that. Helps the hands stop shakin'. Wanna test me?"
"I believe you," she said sweetly. "They also say… you kill a lot of your patients."
He paused. "I ain't God. People die."
She took a step closer. "And they say you sometimes take their organs. To sell. To the gangs."
That made him freeze.
He squinted at her. "What kind of trick question is that?"
Her smile widened.
"I heard it from your former patients."
Then her hand moved—so fast, Ham barely saw it.
It wasn't a punch. It wasn't a stab.
It was a surgical incision.
Her fingers—delicate and bone-white—transformed into a blade, plunging into his belly.
"GAAAHHH—!!"
Pain. White-hot, soul-searing pain.
Ham collapsed backward, clutching his gut, blood pouring through his fingers.
She stepped inside calmly, her hand buried to the wrist in his abdomen.
"Oh, don't pass out yet," she whispered. "Thirty people are waiting for organ transplants. You've taken enough to share."
Ham's eyes bulged as he felt her hand move inside him.
"You monster… you're—"
"I'm a doctor," she said sweetly.
And with one final jerk of her arm, she pulled free—
Holding his kidney.
Still warm.
Still dripping.
"Doctor Tamayo," she said to no one in particular. "At your service."