Tremor had only been in Tokyo for an hour and was already amazed at how far it had come since he left it eight years prior. On ever corner technology was being embraced, the city was growing, and the people too. But it was also very strange to him, all of it seemed artificial, synthetic, a party full of fake smiles and hushed whispers. Was it a good thing to be dragged along the the rope of progress? Or was all this advancement costing the people, the city, something internally? He could do nothing but hypothesis as he stode through one of the meticulously designed parks that had sprang up to compliment the urban-planning of the metropolis. 

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The perfectly manipulated pond to his right reflected very little beauty to Harada. All he saw was smog traced silhouettes of tastelessly tall buildings and a stream of incessant traffic flowing through the bloodstreams of the city. His ld life was not long behind him, days of pain, of pride, of servitude. He was the fist of the Yakuza not long ago, a fist that one did not cross. Tremor did not miss that life. No, but that life may have very well missed him. The only reason he had agreed to come back to this place was the first-hand information that a certain little birdy possessed. A birdy that was late. It made meditating on his life very difficult with the sense of urgency on his mind. It would be best not to dwell in the place your enemies called home after all.