Ezra had to speak to Kushina. If anyone knew what was happening, it was her. She moved fast up the street, boots crunching lightly on the gravel shoulder. A cold wind slid through her coat, needling past the seams. She tugged the collar higher, eyes locked on the house ahead.
Kushina's place. The biggest in Serito. No surprise there. She was the master.
Ezra slowed as she neared the property. The gate stood open. The front lights were on. Voices carried through the still air. Shouting.
One of them was Kushina.
The other… a man.
Ezra slipped around the side of the house, careful not to crunch the dry grass under her feet. She reached the window that overlooked the living room and crouched low. She leaned up just enough to see inside.
There.
Kushina stood, her daughter clutching her leg. Across the room stood a man. Ezra couldn't read the exact expression from here—shock, anger, something between the two—but she didn't need to.
Not with that revolver in his hand.
Pointed directly at Kushina.
Ezra dropped, back against the wall, and pulled her pistol from her jacket. A Walther CP99. It was a compact piece, but it could get the job done as well as any other.
She stood, raised the gun. Lined up her shot through the window. Took a deep breath in. Held it.
And fired.
A flash of light. An explosion. Pain.
Ikari's body jerked, his hand flying to the back of his neck where the searing burn radiated upward into his skull. He had to find the wound, stop the bleeding before it was too late.
A hole. The bullet had gone clean through the muscle at the back of his neck. Good. No pulse spurting out. It hadn't hit the artery. He'd live.
Probably.
He pulled his hand back, fingers slick with blood. He could feel it running down his back. The smell of iron filled his nose. No matter. This wasn't the first time he'd been shot.
"Ikari?" Kushina's voice seemed distant. Soft, like she actually cared. He turned his head and saw her kneeling, arms around her daughter, whispering comfort as the child sobbed against her.
His daughter.
No time for that now.
He shifted, grimacing, and looked toward the window. The glass was cracked, fragments hanging loose in the frame. Just outside, beneath the glow of a streetlamp someone stood. A woman—tall, but not much else. Both her hands clutched a small pistol, the muzzle trembling. Her wide eyes locked on him, frozen.
He raised his revolver.
She blinked, jerked in fear, and fired again. He dropped, gritting his teeth, and fired twice in return. She yelped, but he couldn't see how injured she was.
Didn't matter.
He couldn't kill Kushina. Not now. Probably not ever. She didn't even know where Mysemi was, and that had been the whole point.
There was only one thing left to do.
Run.
Mysemi woke to pressure in the back of her skull and a sharp sting when she moved. Her head throbbed. Her neck ached. Her body was twisted awkwardly against a cold kitchen cupboard.
She groaned—and realized she couldn't move her hands.
They were tied. Rough cord bit into her wrists behind her back. Ankles too. She rather liked being tied up, but not like this.
A shadow loomed. A girl. Standing above her.
Mysemi blinked, trying to clear the haze. The face wasn't familiar.
Where the hell was she?
The last thing she remembered was Ongaku's house. Falling asleep in her sister's bed.
But this wasn't Ongaku's kitchen.
"Who are you?" the girl asked.
"Mysemi," she mumbled. "Who are you?"
"Yusuka," the girl said. "Now you want to tell me why you broke into my house?"
"What?"
Sakura folded her arms.
"You broke my window," she said. "Why?"
"I don't remem…" Mysemi paused, the woman looked like she'd been a rather rough fight,"Oh. I see."
"See what?"
"I must've been drinking. I get a little… It doesn't matter. Sorry."
Sakura's eyes narrowed. "Oh no, you're going to be sorry."
She crouched, grabbed Mysemi by the arm, and hauled her up with surprising strength. Still bound, Mysemi stumbled as Sakura dragged her out of the kitchen and down the hall.
"Hey! Hey—" she protested, but Sakura didn't say a word.
She threw the bathroom door open, kicked Mysemi's legs out from under her, and shoved her inside. Mysemi hit the tile hard. The door slammed shut and locked behind her.
"Let me out!" Mysemi shouted, rolling to her side and kicking the door. "You can't just lock me in here!"
"I'll deal with you in the morning!" Sakura shouted back. "For now, stay put!"
Mysemi groaned and sat up as best she could. The restraints made it awkward. The bathroom was small, white tile, a mirror that needed cleaning, a low window above the toilet. Too small to squeeze through, even if she could get to it.
She twisted, got her fingers into her pocket, and managed to fish out her phone.
Twelve missed calls. All from Ikari.
She stared at the screen for a long second. Then ignored the calls.
She opened a new message and started typing with one thumb, slow and awkward but it would work.
Baby, I need you.
Ikari staggered down the street, one hand pressed tight to the back of his neck, the other clutching his revolver. Blood dripped in slow, fat drops onto the tar, steaming faintly in the cold. His boots scuffed against broken pavement. He didn't bother hiding his trail. Stealth was a luxury he couldn't afford.
The outskirts of Serito blurred past—shuttered stores, rusted signs, flickering lights. He pushed through the pain, through the dizziness, through the roaring in his ears that refused to fade. The adrenaline kept him moving. Kept him alive. For now.
He had to get back to Amika. She could patch him up. Probably. He stopped, and darted in a small alley between two shops. A short cut, he hoped.
A flash of movement.
Ikari's eyes snapped to up ahead, there was nothing. Just shadows between the low buildings. A glint of metal.
Too late.
A man burst out, swinging a length of pipe. Ikari ducked instinctively. The pipe whooshed over his head and slammed into the wall beside him with a clang that echoed down the street. Ikari drove his shoulder into the attacker's gut, sent him stumbling backward, then brought his elbow up into the man's chin. The attacker stumbled, Ikari grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled down hard. Ikari's knee meeting the man's face halfway. Bone crunched. The attacker dropped.
Three more came out of the dark.
Ikari fired once. One man fell, a hole between his eyes. The others closed in. One with a blade. The other bare-fisted, but fast.
The knife slashed toward his ribs. Ikari twisted, let it graze across his coat, and caught the attacker's wrist. He twisted the man's arm until the elbow face, then slammed his forearm into it, snapping the arm. A scream tore from the man's throat. The blade clattered to the ground. He drove a knee into the man's gut, then grabbed his head and crushed his temple against the wall. The man's body slid down the wall, leaving a red trail. He wasn't screaming now.
The last one came in swinging, wild and fast. Ikari blocked the punch with his forearm, jabbed into the man's throat, then pivoted and used his momentum to flip him face-first into the pavement. His head bounced and cracked. He didn't move again.
Ikari stood over the bodies, chest heaving. Blood ran down his spine. He felt cold, and hoped it was the night air and not his lack of blood.
Footsteps.
He turned just as a final man emerged from the shadows. He was tall and calm. A professional. A pistol in his hand.
They stared at each other across the few paces of cracked asphalt.
Ikari ducked and fired twice. The first shot went wide. The second punched into the man's thigh. He grunted, staggered, and raised his pistol. Ikari aimed for his chest, pulled the trigger. Nothing. He's ammo was out, again.
Ikari lunged, slammed into him, and they both hit the ground hard. Both guns skittered away. They grappled in the dirt, fists hammering, elbows landing hard. Ikari got a knee between them and shoved. The assassin rolled, reached for the weapon.
Ikari grabbed his coat collar and hauled him back, smashing his knee into the back of the man's neck. He didn't even have a chance to scream.
Ikari wiped blood from his mouth, retrieved his revolver, and limped back to the road.
Yuno Gasai slammed Matsuka into the concrete wall of the crowded club, timing it to the beat. The bass thudded through the floor, rattling her ribs. Strong for sixteen, though her face looked older. Her all-black outfit made her blend into the crowd: combat boots, jeans, leather jacket zipped halfway up over a fitted shirt. The only thing that stood out was the ruined bullet on a chain around her neck.
Her katana, Chobatsu, hung at her side, the lacquered sheath tapping her thigh with every step, a dull knock against her leg.
"You know what I want."
"I don't have it," Matsuka said. His breath reeked of cheap whiskey, sharp and sour in her nose.
Yuno grabbed the hilt of Chobatsu. The grip was cold and familiar under her fingers.
"You sure you want to test me?" she asked. "You know who I am, don't you?"
Matsuka swallowed hard, his throat jumping. She could hear it, barely, over the music.
He'd heard the stories. Everyone had. The girl who gutted three men with a smile. Who walked out of a warehouse covered in blood that wasn't hers.
He fumbled in his back pocket and pulled out a silver wristwatch. He held it out, his fingers trembling so badly the metal rattled.
Yuno snatched it. The watch felt greasy. "If you steal from Kojiro again, you going to lose more than a few teeth."
"Teeth?"
The hilt of her sword shot up, driving into his mouth with a sickening crack. It slid back into its scabbard, never fully drawn. Yuno turned to leave, not bothering to watch him spit blood, nor seeing the incisor drop on the sticky floor. The soles of her boots peeled away from the gum-laced tile with faint suction as she walked.
She pushed through the back door into a narrow alley behind the club. The air was cold and wet with old rain. She leaned against a wall slick with condensation, the brick rough against her shoulder blades. Her fingers rested near Chobatsu's guard. Just in case.
A limo rolled up to the curb, tires hissing on the damp asphalt.
The back window lowered halfway. Yuno stepped up, slipped the watch inside, and took the envelope offered in return. The paper was thick, smooth, and slightly damp at the edges.
The window slid back up. The limo pulled away.
It wasn't a clean life. But clean didn't pay. Someone had to do the jobs Ikari wouldn't, and living a normal life wasn't for Yuno, it never had been. Besides, fighting was all she was good at, and they wouldn't let her in a ring with a sword.
Her phone buzzed, a dull vibration through her jeans.
She pulled it from her pocket, thumbed the screen on, and read the message.
Mysemi was in trouble. Again.
No details. Just an address.
Serito. It was going to take the better part of two hours to get there, if she could find a train that was still running. Not that it mattered, she would do anything for Mysemi. She'd loved her since they were both kids.
She typed two words, then slid the phone back into her jacket. And even though she was tired, a smile touched her lips.
I'm coming.
Ongaku stood by the front door, barefoot on the worn tatami mats. The woven straw felt cool and slightly rough beneath her feet. Her kimono was stained dark, flecks of blood drying along the collar. It clung to her skin, stiff and sticky. She pressed her palm to the frame, trying to steady herself.
Amika's voice carried over the floorboards as she spoke to the others in the living room. The faint creak of shifting weight punctuated her words. Ongaku glanced at her phone: 04:25. Ikari was late.
She paced in front of the door, toes curling into the woven straw. Each step made her muscles ache with fatigue, a deep burn in her thighs and calves. "Come on," she muttered, "where are you, you idiot."
A sharp knock rattled the door. The sound snapped through the quiet house. Ongaku spun and yanked it open. Cool air hit her face. Ikari staggered inside, one hand pressed against the back of his neck. His shirt soaked red. Fresh drops landed on the floor with soft, wet splats.
"Not again."
She caught him under his arm and half-carried him to the couch. His weight dragged against her, warm and unsteady. "He's hurt," Ongaku called. "Amika, hurry!"
Amika appeared with a first aid kit and knelt beside them. Ongaku held Ikari upright as Amika opened the kit.
"That bitch shot you? I'm going to-"
He shook his head once, eyes flickering. "It wasn't—" His words faded as his gaze blurred.
Amika ripped gauze and pressed it against the wound. The cloth darkened almost instantly, soaking up blood with a spreading heat. Ongaku knelt beside them, heart hammering, her pulse loud in her ears. She wiped sweat from her brow.
"Stay with me," she whispered, a hand on his back.
His breathing slowed. His hand fell limply to his side, and his head lolled back. His eyes closed.
Ongaku sank beside him, chest heaving, every muscle trembling. The room silent except for her own ragged breaths and the faint rustle of gauze against skin.
The train rocked gently as it sped through the countryside, dull lights flickering overhead. The car was mostly empty. Just a few passengers scattered in their seats, staring at their phones or half-asleep with earbuds jammed in.
Yuno sat near the rear, legs crossed at the ankle, her katana propped against the seat beside her.
She stared out the window, watching the darkness blur past, one hand resting loosely on the hilt.
A couple entered the train car at the next stop—mid-thirties, touristy types. Matching backpacks. The scent of hand sanitizer and fresh laundry clung to them. They looked so clean. So ordinary. She couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed like that. They were chatting, quiet laughter between them, until the woman noticed Yuno.
She stopped walking.
Tugged on her partner's sleeve.
He followed her gaze.
His eyes dropped to the katana. Then to Yuno's leather jacket. The bullet around her neck. The scar above her left eyebrow. Her face, blank and unreadable.
Yuno looked up at him, gave him a weak smile and a nod. The couple shuffled down the aisle. Chose seats at the far end of the car, three rows away. Yuno blinked. Shifted in her seat. Her stomach growled. She dug a protein bar out of her jacket pocket, ripped it open with her teeth, and took a bite.
She could feel his eyes on her. She glanced up, just once, locking eyes with him over the wrapper. He snapped his head forward, stiffening like he'd been caught stealing. She went back to chewing.
And the train rolled on.
A bright orange light was the first thing Ikari saw. He was lying on his back, on something cold and hard. He turned his head and sharp pain rippled through his neck, a stabbing jolt that made his muscles twitch.
"Fuck," he mumbled, barely able to get the words out.
"You're finally awake, you dumbass," Ongaku flicked his forehead. "I told you not to go alone."
Ikari chuckled—a mistake. It hurt like hell. His chest tightened, ribs aching. He was laying on a table, in the kitchen it seemed. The faint smell of antiseptic clung to the air, mixing with something metallic. He was just glad to be alive.
"You should be careful. I stitched you up, but it's going to take a while to heal." Ikari followed the voice—Amika.
"Thank you," he said, voice thin.
Amika shook her head. "No need for that. You were lucky, but we won't know if you have any nerve damage until you're able to move a bit."
"Did you kill her?" It was Izuna, sitting next to Ikari. The blood inside pulsed sluggishly, warmth bleeding under both their skin. Ikari looked at the tube, then back at his brother.
Izuna shrugged. "I'm your only match. So did you kill Kushina?"
"No... I couldn't."
"You didn't get a chance?"
"I did but—" Ikari sighed. "I just. I can't kill her."
Ongaku frowned, her brows pulling together. "What about Mysemi?"
"She doesn't have her."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. I don't know where she is but... it's not with Kushina."
"Then," Ongaku stepped back, her shoulders slumping. The fabric of her jacket rustled. "This was all for nothing, and that bitch shot you. I'm going to—"
"No, it wasn't her. We can't kill her."
"What do you mean we can't kill her? She's been sending her men after us the entire night!"
"I know," Ikari closed his eyes, bracing against the pain. His pulse pounded weakly in his temples. "I know."
Kitomi stepped forward. She had been leaning against a wall, her arms crossed and her mouth shut. "The way I see it, we have three options. We run, fight, or die. Since you don't seem like you want to fight any more, and I'm not willing to die, we have to run."
"Maybe," said Izuna. "I still don't think I get what's going on, but we clearly can't stay here any more. But even if we wanted to run, Kushina will have the entire town locked down."
"That's fine," said Amika. "There is a way out, one which Kushina won't know about. We have to go to Berlin anyway." She paused. "I can get us all there, and then... I don't know, but we can figure things out. It will give us time."
Izuna cocked his head at her. "Just who the hell are you? Some club manager shouldn't be able to do all this."
"That doesn't matter right now."
"All that's left is finding my sister," said Ongaku. "I won't leave without her. Neither will Ikari."
Izuna rubbed his chin, the bristle of stubble scratching audibly. For a moment, they stood in silence.
"She's not... a blonde girl by any chance? A teen, about this tall." He gestured with his hand.
Ongaku's eyes widened, "You've seen her? You know where she is?"
Izuna shrugged. "Well, I know where she was. If she's still there, she should be safe. She's with a... friend."
"Good. Then we only need to fetch her, and we can get out of this damn town." Muttered Ikari, closing his eyes. He would give almost anything to just crawl into bed and stay there for a week, or two. But he doubted that would be an option any time soon. Kushina would likely follow them to Berlin, or send someone to finish them off. And she still knew something about Shana, his dear Shana.
The sky was bleeding into grey. Not quite dawn, not quite night. Just that in-between stillness when even the birds hadn't started.
Yuno walked alone.
Boots crunching on gravel. The road to Serito was narrow, flanked by low walls and wilting hedges. Fog hung low, clinging to the ground like it didn't want to leave. Her breath clouded in the chill.
Up ahead, a makeshift barricade of barrels and nailed planks had been thrown across the road. One man stood guard.
Middle-aged. Tired eyes. Bulletproof vest over a padded jacket. A handgun holstered at his side.
He straightened up when he saw her.
"You can't go in," he called.
Yuno didn't stop walking.
"Town's on lockdown," he said. "Orders."
Yuno stopped a pace away. Her face gave nothing.
"I need to find someone,"
He shook his head. "Don't care if it's your mother. You're not getting through."
His eyes drifted. Down to her hip. The long, worn scabbard. His hand moved, subtle, toward his own weapon.
"You even know how to use that thing?" His fingers hovered above the pistol.
Yuno unsheathed Chobatsu in one clean motion. A faint hiss of steel on steel.
The blade flashed once, too fast to follow. Then everything stopped.
Red glistened along the steel. Not dripping. Just a fine line, like a brushstroke.
She flicked it off with a sharp twist of her wrist.
Chobatsu slid back into its sheath with a quiet click.
The man just stood there.
Still.
Then his head slid off his shoulders.
It hit the ground with a dull thud. His body followed half a second later.
Blood pooled in the dirt, dark and steaming.
Yuno didn't look back.
She stepped over the body, past the broken barricade, and into the village. She checked the GPS on her phone, it wasn't far. Good, all she needed to do was go to where Mysemi was being held. And kill anyone she found there.