Unwritten Mythos

The force

In a bar, the atmosphere was thick with tension and the lingering scent of alcohol. A few men exchanged glances, then turned their eyes toward a drunken girl slumped at the counter. She was an easy target, or so they thought.

"Ai ai... Not much difference," one of them muttered, his voice laced with predatory intent.

A blond-haired man, clearly the leader, twisted his neck as he swaggered over to the girl. His steps were slow and deliberate, a smirk creeping across his face. He reached out a hand, but before he could make contact, a firm grip clamped down on his wrist.

He looked up, startled, to see a man in a raincoat standing beside him, his expression unreadable.

"Hmm? You, what does that mean? Do you want to rob?" the blond sneered, trying to shake off the grip.

The raincoat-clad man remained silent, his gaze cold. Without a word, he applied just enough pressure, and the sickening crack of bone echoed through the bar.

"Argh... You, you!" The blond man dropped to his knees, clutching his now-broken wrist in agony. His curses filled the air as he frantically gestured to the men behind him, calling for backup.

But the moment they saw Chino, their bravado evaporated.

"That... Brother Hao, how about we just forget it?" one of them suggested, his voice trembling.

"What are you farting about? He broke my damn wrist!" the blond, Brother Hao, hissed through gritted teeth. Yet, despite his bravado, there was a flicker of fear in his eyes.

The rest of the group hesitated, exchanging uneasy glances. They had seen Chino before—once was enough to know better.

It had been some time ago when they had come across a dying dog. They had intended to torment the poor creature, seeing it off in a cruel, twisted way. But Chino had appeared out of nowhere, beating them senseless before they could lay a finger on the animal.

Angry and humiliated, they had gathered more men—calling in all the local thugs and tough guys to teach Chino a lesson. But every time, the outcome was the same. No matter how many they called, Chino would put them all down with terrifying ease.

After five or six failed attempts, the entire area learned to stay clear of him. Chino's reputation as the unchallenged owner of the streets was cemented.

As they whispered this story to Brother Hao, his face drained of color. The names they mentioned—names he recognized, names that had been defeated—struck fear into his heart. Realizing the gravity of the situation, he backed away, swallowing his pride.

Without another word, Brother Hao turned and fled, his group following closely behind, leaving the bar in tense silence.

Chino stood still, letting the noise of the bar fade behind him. He approached the girl, who was barely holding herself upright. Her glazed eyes met his, and she squinted as if trying to focus.

"Huh, let's say... let's say you came to apologize..." she slurred, her voice thick with alcohol. "I... I won't forgive you, Chino... Unless you... accompany me... for a drink."

The bartender glanced at Chino, offering a polite inquiry. "Sir, would you like something to drink?"

Chino shook his head. "No need."

Water—his eternal taboo. He neither drank it nor needed it.

The girl frowned in confusion. "Then... what are you doing here? What are you doing?"

"Just passing by. By coincidence," Chino replied, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.

She pouted and leaned forward, her hand reaching out. "Where's your phone... give it to me."