Clad in black suits that exude quiet menace,
their arms inked with dragons and tigers,
they speak in low, measured tones—calm, but never soft.
When disrespected, they strike without warning.

This is the image many hold of the yakuza.

Popular media—films, games, documentaries—often depict them as men who live by their own code.
Though rooted in the criminal underworld, they are presented with a kind of dark elegance.
In rooms thick with smoke, they make silent decisions.
A glance at the tattoo across one’s back, and no one dares stand in their way.

To many outside Japan, these “gentlemen of the underworld” still exist.
Not in hiding, but in plain sight—part of the country’s unspoken structure.

And yet, when one arrives in Japan, something feels amiss.

Tokyo. Kobe. Osaka.
Walk the streets, and you’ll find no sign of them.

Aren’t the yakuza still around?
Do their offices really exist?
Where did they all go?

But disappearance does not always mean extinction.

Some were swept away by time.
Others remained—by transforming.

The older generation moved underground in subtler ways.
They slipped into real estate, construction, speculative finance—
fronts that masked money laundering and shadowy profits.
The syndicate office became a company on paper.

Meanwhile, younger affiliates drifted toward looser formations:
semi-criminal youth groups, anonymous fraud rings.
No hierarchy.
No honor.
Only digital ties and transient loyalties.

The yakuza of today are no longer the structured brotherhoods of the past.
They survive in fragments, scattered through society,
each adapting to stay beneath the surface.

They no longer dress the part.
They walk the city in office attire or casual wear, blending in.

You would not know if the man beside you was a former gangster.
And perhaps he prefers it that way.

Yes—the yakuza still exist.
But not in the form you imagined.

The so-called gentlemen of the underworld may now be
nothing more than fading shadows of a fantasy already ending—
men no longer feared,
barely surviving at the edges of society.

“That’s great news, Tetsuo-kun! About time, huh?
Leave it to me—I’ll get in touch right away.”

He sounded like the lucky one.

Sakurada had spent the whole night wrestling with the decision.
But seeing Kawahara’s joy, and thinking of Yuto’s smile,
what once seemed impossible now felt obvious.

And for the first time, he realized—
seeing someone else happy could make him feel happy too.

The next day, Sakurada borrowed a slightly tight suit from Kawahara.
It smelled faintly of mothballs.

He went to meet the manager of a small metalworking factory.
The man had clearly been briefed by Kawahara;
he already knew Sakurada was an ex-yakuza.
Even so, he seemed kind, and told him they’d give an official answer tomorrow—
but to be ready, as he might start soon.

When Sakurada told Kawahara, the old man was overjoyed.

“Then we’re celebrating tomorrow, Tetsuo-kun!
I’ll pick up something special—maybe some nice beef.
Come by in the evening, alright?”

Everything was moving forward—almost too smoothly.
For the first time in years, Sakurada felt like his life was turning around.
He was still afraid of the outside world, but that night, he fell asleep happy.
Truly happy.

His eyes drifted to the corner of the room.

Two baseball gloves sat there, untouched.
He had bought them to play catch with his son.
But it had never happened.

Since then, he hadn’t found much value in his life.

Now, maybe things were finally changing.
Maybe he could live as a proper person.
The thought made his chest swell with heat.

The next day, on his way to Kawahara’s house, his phone rang.

“Mr. Sakurada?”

It was the factory manager.

“Ah, yes—thank you again for yesterday.
When should I come in?”

His voice was unexpectedly bright.

There was a pause on the other end.
When the voice returned, it was tighter—nervous.

“I heard… you killed someone.”

It felt like the world had gone silent.
As if all sound and color had drained from the air.

“N-no, that’s—”

He tried to explain.
But the manager continued:

“Mr. Kawahara told me you used to be in that world.
I was okay with that. Really.
But killing someone?
Even if you’ve done your time, even if you’ve turned over a new leaf—
my wife, my employees, they’re scared.
No matter how much I try to reassure them, it doesn’t work.
I hope you understand.”

He had taken the fall for another man.
A reckless decision, made in youth.
Part of him had believed it would earn respect.
Maybe even a future.

But out here, the stain didn’t fade.
It stayed with you, no matter what was true.

Kawahara’s disappointment was crushing.
But Sakurada himself felt even worse.

All the joy from the day before had vanished—
not gently, but violently, like a cruel loan shark demanding more than it was owed.

He sat, staring as Kawahara wandered into the kitchen.

“Let’s at least have something to eat.”

His voice was calm. Too calm.

Sakurada watched his back disappear behind the counter.
A wave of numbness swept over him.

He pictured Yuto’s face—
the disappointment. The silence.

No matter what he did,
no matter how hard he tried,
he couldn’t climb back up.
And he couldn’t bring happiness to anyone.

That truth settled into him like a weight.

But at least Yuto—still a child—
he shouldn’t have to feel this way.
Not yet.

That was when Sakurada noticed the envelope,
resting quietly on top of a small cabinet.

The envelope read, in simple handwriting:
Pension – October

The moment he realized what it was,
a chill ran down his spine.
Then came the pounding of his heart.

If I had what’s inside…
Yuto wouldn’t have to be disappointed.

The thought, dark and quiet, took hold of him.

He could hear Kawahara preparing food in the kitchen.

This might be his last chance.

That’s what it felt like.

Sakurada now sits on the usual park bench,
waiting for Yuto.

The wind has turned a little colder.
He tugs at his collar.

Beside him is a large paper bag.
Will Yuto be happy?

He’s not sure.

Then Yuto arrives, just as he always does.
He sees the bag. His face lights up.

Sakurada reaches in and pulls it out.

Two baseball gloves, and a ball.

“I figured this would be better than some video game.
Something you can really play with.
If you want… I’ll play with you, too.”

He tried to sound cheerful.

But Yuto’s smile faded.
He stood there, confused.
Then, as the meaning settled in, his face turned red.

“What is this?!
I can’t join them with this!
Did I ever say I wanted this?
Play with you? I didn’t ask for that!”

The outburst stunned Sakurada.

He said nothing.

And in the silence, he began to feel ashamed.

Maybe he hadn’t been trying to save Yuto.
Maybe he’d just been hoping Yuto would save him.

And maybe the boy had seen right through it.

He had no reply.
Time passed.

Eventually, Sakurada realized he was alone on the bench.

He doesn’t think Yuto goes to the park anymore.
But he can’t be sure.
He hasn’t been back himself.

The wind of the times is always cold.
It lifts the weak and the small,
and carries them off to nowhere.

No one hears them call out.