Before he became the demon the world feared, Dylan Daniels was just another boy — quiet, brilliant, and invisible to the world.
A top student at Eastbridge University, Dylan's life was a monotonous cycle of lectures, late-night studying, and silent walks through crowded halls where no one noticed him.
No one, except her.
Alessia.
She was everything Dylan wasn't — radiant, full of life, dazzling with effortless beauty. Her pink hair was like a flame in the crowd, turning heads wherever she went.
Every guy in college secretly, or openly, dreamed of her. But Alessia didn't want them.
She wanted Dylan — the boy who sat alone in the back of class, who blushed when she spoke to him, whose shy smiles were rare and precious.
They became inseparable.
Study sessions turned into late-night conversations.
Café dates turned into stolen kisses.
They promised each other the world.
In whispered voices beneath the stars, they vowed they would marry someday — no matter what life threw at them.
For the first time in his life, Dylan believed he could be happy.
That he could be enough.
But fate is cruel to dreamers.
One rainy evening, Alessia vanished.
At first, Dylan thought it was a misunderstanding — maybe her phone was dead, maybe she was overwhelmed with exams.
Days passed. Then weeks.
When she finally returned, she wasn't the same.
Her voice was cold. Her eyes hollow.
"I can't see you anymore," she said flatly.
"I'm marrying someone else."
Dylan begged for an explanation.
She gave none.
Later, through whispered rumors and drunken bar talk, Dylan learned the sickening truth:
A powerful gangster — a filthy predator — had set his eyes on Alessia.
He took her, ripped her away from the life she had built, from the love she had chosen.
He threatened her, her family, Dylan himself.
With no other choice, Alessia agreed to marry him.
Dylan broke.
Whatever light was left in him shattered like glass.
He abandoned everything — college, friends, dreams.
He infiltrated the gang, the very monster's lair, playing the part of a desperate, angry youth.
He earned their trust through calculated brilliance and unspeakable violence,
setting traps, exposing rival groups, and proving his loyalty in blood.
No one suspected what brewed beneath Dylan's calm, calculating exterior.
No one realized the depth of his rage — not until it was too late.
On the night of Alessia's wedding, Dylan made his move.
The heavy wooden doors of the grand hall burst open with a violent crack.
The music, once swelling with laughter and strings, stopped mid-note.
Every guest turned toward the entrance, stunned — wine glasses frozen halfway to lips, wedding toasts dying on tongues.
There stood Dylan.
No suit.
No flowers.
No invitation.
Only venom in his eyes and a pistol in each hand, glinting under the chandelier's golden light.
Behind him, shadows moved — masked figures from his growing gang, each carrying rifles, machetes, and rage.
For a heartbeat, the world held its breath.
Then Dylan raised his right hand and fired a single shot into the air.
BANG.
The room erupted into chaos.
Screams.
People scrambling over tables, trampling each other, trying to escape.
But the doors slammed shut behind Dylan's men, trapping everyone inside.
There would be no survivors.
Dylan moved like a specter through the carnage, calm as a surgeon dissecting a corpse.
The first bullet found the best man — a bulky gangster who reached for his waistband too slow.
BANG.
Right between the eyes.
The second bullet tore through the throat of a bridesmaid who lunged at him in panic.
Her blood sprayed across the white wedding cake, dripping down like crimson tears.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Every shot was precise, clinical, merciless.
Dylan's men fanned out, cutting down guests who screamed for mercy.
The marble floors, once polished for celebration, became slick with blood.
Champagne flutes shattered.
Flower petals soaked up crimson.
A violinist, still clutching his instrument, gurgled as he bled out on the stairs.
At the center of the chaos, the groom — the monster who had stolen Alessia — tried to flee, dragging her by the wrist.
"Get me out of here!" he roared at his men, but they were dying faster than he could scream.
Dylan stalked toward them through the haze of gunfire and smoke, his gaze locked on the groom like a predator marking prey.
Two of the groom's bodyguards rushed Dylan, roaring.
He didn't blink.
He side-stepped the first, slashing his throat open with a hidden blade.
The second raised his pistol, but Dylan shot him through the wrist — then the kneecap — then the heart.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Effortless.
Mechanical.
Cold.
Cornered, the groom shoved Alessia forward like a shield, pointing a gun at her temple.
"Back off, you son of a bitch!" he shouted, voice shaking.
Dylan stopped, tilting his head slightly.
For a moment, something like sadness flickered behind his dead eyes.
But then he smiled — a slow, cruel smile.
"You think she'll save you?" Dylan said softly.
"You think anything will?"
In a blink, he raised his pistol and fired.
The bullet missed Alessia by an inch, blasting through the groom's shoulder.
He screamed, dropping the gun, dropping her.
Dylan walked toward him, slow and deliberate, as the man writhed on the floor.
"You stole from me," Dylan said, voice low, deadly.
"You thought you could take what was mine and walk away."
The groom tried to crawl, leaving a trail of blood.
Dylan stepped on his spine, pinning him down.
He leaned down, whispered something no one else heard — a curse, a promise, a goodbye —
and then, without hesitation, emptied his pistol into the man's head.
The body twitched once, twice — then went still.
Alessia lay trembling a few feet away, dress torn, makeup running down her cheeks in black rivers.
She looked up at him — not at the boy she loved, but at the monster he had become.
Tears streamed down her face.
"Dylan... please..." she gasped.
"I'm pregnant... It's yours... Please don't... please..."
For a fraction of a second, time froze.
The gun in Dylan's hand trembled.
The cold mask cracked — and underneath, there was a flicker of the boy he had been.
But it was fleeting.
Love had broken him once.
He would not allow it again.
He raised the pistol.
First — a shot to her stomach.
BANG.
Alessia screamed, clutching her belly.
Then, as she collapsed, begging with her eyes, Dylan stepped closer.
He looked down at her, his face carved from stone.
"I loved you," Dylan whispered.
"And that was my mistake."
He pressed the barrel to her forehead.
BANG.
And Alessia was gone.
The flames climbed higher, fed by overturned tables and broken oil lamps.
The grand hall — once a monument to wealth and pride — became a tomb.
Dylan turned away, leaving the bodies cooling in the ashes behind him.
His men followed, silent and blood-smeared.
As they disappeared into the night, a new legend was born —
the legend of Dylan Daniels, the Reaper of Tokyo.