Maki Nishimura: Ch.5 - "Where the River Hides Him"

“The Juggernaut Returns”
Location: Tokyo Dome, Locker Room – Immediately following the 60-Man Ronin Rumble

The roar of the Tokyo Dome still echoed faintly through the steel hallways of the arena, like the aftermath of a passing typhoon. Inside the Ultimate Wrestling locker room, chaos reigned—but it was the rare kind born of celebration. Champagne bottles hissed open. Gear bags were flung aside. Bruised bodies danced in adrenaline-drenched euphoria.

The victorious side of the 60-Man Ronin Rumble—the survivors of a battle that blurred the line between wrestling and war—stood gathered, arms raised, sweat glistening, voices hoarse. Absent was Drake Nygma, the man who had won it all. His name was still being shouted by the crowd outside, but no one could find him.

In his place stood Maki Nishimura. Wrapped in a white bath towel stained quickly with sweat and blood at the shoulders, her sumo-worn frame leaned silently against a set of lockers. Her dark hair clung to her face, a face that had once been painted with war-ready kabuki lines—now wiped away, replaced only by quiet.

She wasn’t celebrating. Not really.

Rupert Mudcock, bloated with pride and excess, waddled through the locker room like a cigar-chomping general after a won campaign. His personal breathing unit fogged from his own breath, but he didn’t care. He was high on victory. He slapped backs, gripped hands, and nodded like a man who thought he was immortal.

Then he saw her.

Rupert Mudcock: There she is! The Juggernaut Jewel herself... the goddamn cornerstone of the Rumble. You—Maki—you made history out there. You showed Tanaka how foolish he was in firing you from AAPW!

She didn’t move. Her eyes, half-lidded, stared straight ahead. Rupert approached and lowered his voice, tone shifting from carnival barker to something closer to human.

Rupert Mudcock: You eliminated Daichi fucking Sasaki. Do you understand the headlines that’s gonna make in the morning? You proved something tonight, Maki.

Maki exhaled, nostrils flaring slightly. She finally turned her head to face him.

Maki: Ricky should’ve seen it.

Rupert paused. Even through his filtered breathing mask, there was an audible deflation and a flicker of discomfort in his piggish eyes.

Rupert Mudcock: Yeah... yeah. Kid had a lot of spirit. I’m sorry for your loss. Really. But what you did tonight? That’s the kind of thing they wrote epics about in old kingdoms.

He leaned closer, lowering his voice beneath the cheers and laughter of the rest of the room.

Rupert Mudcock: You’re one win away from the tag team tournament final. But you need a partner. And let me guess... You want to find one mid-bracket?

She nodded once. It was all the confirmation he needed.

Rupert Mudcock: You got momentum. You got sympathy. Hell, you’ve got Japan behind you. So sure. I’ll allow it. You get one substitute, your pick. But choose carefully.

Maki: I already have.

Rupert Mudcock: ...Let me guess. Takuma Sato?

She didn’t answer, but the look in her eyes said it all.

Rupert Mudcock: Thought so. Can’t blame you. Guy saved your ass out there against those Commie North Korean bastards who thought they were too good to fight in the Rumble with us.

He sighed, stepping back with a touch of theatricality.

Rupert Mudcock: Problem is, Sato’s gone underground. Been smuggling himself into the Dome in private transport under aliases. Yamamoto wants his head on a stick after what he said on that live mic. And the Yakuza don’t just forget.

Maki clenched her jaw.

Maki: I’ll find him.

Rupert Mudcock: Even if you do, he’s damaged goods. Guy’s masked like the Phantom of the Opera, stitched together after that barbed wire cage fiasco. Dr. Drake said he looks like a puzzle put together poorly. Whatever that means… it gievs me the willies just thinking about it!

Maki: I said—I’ll find him.

Rupert studied her for a moment longer. Then, with a grin and a slap to her arm, he stepped back into the chaos of celebration.

Rupert Mudcock: I’m not standing in your way, Juggernaut. Go find your samurai.

She watched him leave, then returned her gaze to the locker in front of her. It had a nameplate on it still: “Ricky Wolfie King.”

She reached out, touched the worn sticker, and peeled it off.

Maki (whispering): You’ll be in the final with me. One way or another.

Lights fade to black as the cheers from the corridor beyond swell once more.

The Smuggler
Location: Underground loading dock below the Tokyo Dome, later that night.

Fluorescent lights flicker above steel crates and cargo vans. A cold draft cuts through the air, accompanied by the hum of distant generators. The victory celebrations upstairs have faded, replaced with the heavy quiet of late-night logistics.

Maki Nishimura steps through the shadows of the underground corridor, her bruised frame cloaked in a long black hoodie. Her eyes are bloodshot from earlier tears, but they now burn with intent. She walks with purpose, passing utility carts and metal doors, finally arriving at Bay 7—the discreet loading zone where the 'unofficial' transport comes and goes.

A wiry man in his late 40s with a grizzled beard and nicotine-stained fingers smokes a clove cigarette near a white unmarked van. He stiffens when he sees Maki approaching.

Maki: You're Shun Fukuda, right?

Shun: (glancing around nervously) You got the wrong guy.

Maki: (steps closer, voice sharp) Don’t bullshit me. I know you’ve been driving for Mudcock's underground routes. In and out of the Dome. I need to know where Takuma Sato is.

Shun: (inhales, looks her over) Lady, I don't want that kind of trouble. You know who he's running from, right? The Yamamoto Clan's not screwing around. I talk, I'm good as fired and Sato’s as good as dead.

Maki: (leans in) We all have death warrants hanging over us in this war. I'm not asking you to fight them. I'm asking you to point me in the right direction.

Shun: (pauses, eyes flicker) You think just because you survived the Punishers, you’re untouchable now? If the Yakuza find him with you, you're dead, girly…

Maki: (quietly) I don't feel untouchable. I feel hollow. Two weeks ago, I buried the man who believed in me more than anyone ever did. Tonight, I walked into a warzone alone and crawled out covered in other people’s blood. If you think fear scares me now, you haven’t been watching.

Shun: (grits teeth, flicks cigarette away) Damn it…

Maki says nothing, her presence looming. Shun glances toward the van, then back at her. His hands tremble slightly.

Shun: Fine. I drive him once a week. Last time was earlier tonight. I drop him near the Sumida River by a closed-down sake brewery. Guy never says a word unless it's about keeping the engine running. The whole place is boarded up, but the side entrance still works. It’s got that spray-painted dragon skull on the shutters. You see that you’re in the right place.

Maki: (nods once) Thank you.

Shun: Don't thank me. If you get caught sniffing around there, he might think you're Yakuza and kill you for all I know. I’d watch your back, he strikes me as the silent and deadly type.

Maki: (turns to leave) I don't die easily. Plus, Sato’s a good person deep down inside. I’ve followed his career.

Shun: No one who has experienced as much evil as this world has brought to his doorstep stays sane forever. Keep your eyes open… I don’t think he’s been right since that crazy match he had with the North Koreans.

Maki disappears into the shadows, her path now clear. Shun exhales deeply, watching her vanish as if watching a ghost walk into a storm.

Location: Abandoned Sake Brewery, Sumida River - Late Night

A cold wind hissed through the alleys by the Sumida River, carrying with it the scent of city rot and the metallic tang of the tide. Moonlight glanced off the glass of a broken streetlamp as Maki Nishimura stood before a boarded-up brewery, the kind of place Tokyo tried to forget. Rusted steel shutters sealed its fate, but one bore a symbol: a dragon skull, spray-painted in faded crimson.

She stepped forward, her boots crunching broken glass as she lifted the shutter with a grunt. The groan of warped metal echoed out into the night before she disappeared inside, swallowed by shadow.

The interior was silent—abandoned vats, collapsed shelving, floorboards warped from years of moisture and mold. The air was thick with dust and old alcohol. She moved carefully, her senses alert.

Then—

A blur of movement. A black-clad shadow dropped from the ceiling rafters.

Takuma Sato: YAMAMOTO!?

A knife flashed in the dark.

Maki: Sato! It’s me!

The blade stopped inches from her throat. Sato stood before her, panting, arm tense. A black tactical mask covered the lower half of his face, bandaged beneath from a fresh laceration. His eyes were bloodshot and haunted.

Takuma Sato: …Nishimura?

Maki didn’t flinch. She met his gaze. Slowly, his arm dropped.

Takuma Sato: You trying to get yourself killed?

Maki: I didn’t come here to die.

Sato: Then you picked a bad night and the worst place. How did you find me?

Maki: I talked to your driver.

Sato: Shun? That snitch bastard.

Maki: He didn't want to help. I made him.

Sato said nothing, just turned his back and walked deeper into the dark. A beam of moonlight cut through the cracked ceiling, illuminating the ruin around them. Maki followed. His movements were stiff, favoring his right side. He looked like a ghost held together with sutures, tape, and pain.

Maki: You look like hell.

Sato: What do you want Maki?

Maki: I need you help…

He stopped, resting a hand against an overturned barrel.

Takuma Sato: You're here about the tournament?

Maki: I need a partner.

Takuma Sato: No.

Maki: I'm not asking.

Sato: And I'm not volunteering.

He turned to her again, his voice brittle.

Takuma Sato: Do you have any idea what it took just to survive tonight? To get in and out of the Dome without a bullet in my back? Yamamoto's dogs are everywhere. I'm one mistake away from being nothing but a footnote in his vendetta against my father.

Maki: So you’re hiding.

Sato: I’m surviving… long enough to find my mother and get out of Japan…

Maki: You’re not going to find her hiding in here.

Sato stepped forward, close now, their breath clouding in the cold air.

Takuma Sato: Don't lecture me on survival. Not you. Not after what I saw in that cage. You think I don't know what it's like to bury people? I watched Valora get dragged onto a plane in chains crippled with two broken legs! I watched Abbigail scream through a ventilator. And my mother? God knows if she's even still alive.

Maki: You think you're the only one carrying ghosts?

Sato: Ricky?

Maki: Two weeks ago, I buried him. Alone. He died thinking he had time. He thought he'd wrestle again. He thought the world would wait. It didn’t.

Sato: I'm sorry.

Maki: Don’t be. I don't want your pity. I want your fists.

Sato: Why me?

Maki: Because you hate Lim as more than I do.

Sato: …

Maki: Because you want revenge. Because you need something to fight for again. Because they think you're broken.

He said nothing. A gust of wind rattled the siding. Maki turned away.

Maki: If you want to rot in this tomb, fine. But if you want to remind the world who the hell Takuma Sato is—meet me in that ring.

She walked toward the exit, pulling her hood back over her head.

Sato: Maki.

She stopped.

Takuma Sato: Just for the Tournament.

Maki: Unless we win the whole damn thing…

He nodded once.

Takuma Sato: Right…

Maki left the old building quickly and disappeared from Sato’s sight. The master of the Iron Fisted Heart punch let out a long sigh as he stood in the moonlight. No matter what, he did it was always another fight and wars all around him…