Ryosuke still hung there—suspended in the freezing dark of the containment cube. Frost clung to his shoulders, mist curling around his body like a shroud.
"Finally, Bobby..." he rasped, voice low and deep, edged with a Japanese accent that had only grown rougher with time.
Bobo chuckled softly, stepping into the cold mist.
"You look rough, Ryo."
A grin tugged at the corner of Ryosuke's mouth.
"Yeah, well… get me down from here, Bobby. My back is killing me."
Without hesitation, Bobo reached up and gripped one of the thick black suspension cords. With a metallic snap, he ripped it loose. Another followed. Then another. One by one, he tore them down.
Ryosuke fell like a weight unhooked—then landed hard, catching himself on a single foot. His metal-less right leg gone, he balanced perfectly on the one remaining, his posture still precise despite the brutal drop. His left arm was still pinned by the high-security restraint around his torso.
Mikey flinched at the impact, watching as Ryosuke stayed perfectly upright, breathing slow and steady like a man waking from hibernation.
Bobo stepped up beside him and wrapped one arm around Ryosuke's torso, helping him walk. Ryosuke, still hopping slightly, let himself lean into the support, their familiarity obvious in the silence between them.
Luce appeared at the mouth of the cube, her eyes soft with relief but her voice teasing.
"Heard you caused some trouble, Ryosuke."
Ryosuke gave a hoarse laugh, still breathless from the cold.
"I did, Luciana."
She tossed something at his feet with a metallic clang—his prosthetic leg and arm, gleaming in the light. "Thought you might want these back."
Ryosuke looked down at the limbs.
"You are a goddess, Luciana."
Bobo ripped the restraints from his torso, freeing his left arm.
He reached down and grabbed the mechanical leg, its silver plating marred with old scuffs and burn marks. With a practiced motion, he clicked it into the socket at his thigh. A quick flex of his knee. He twisted, tested it—and then slammed his foot into the ground.
CRACK.
The tile beneath him fractured with a spiderwebbed dent.
Mikey's eyes widened.
That's Ryosuke…?
He's kinda terrifying.
Ryosuke reached for the metal arm next, clicking it into place at the shoulder. The servo whined softly as he rotated it, stretching his neck to one side, letting the shoulder joint realign. The limb gleamed beneath the overhead lights—thicker than his original, matte black with custom engraving down the bicep.
Fully reassembled, Ryosuke exhaled slowly. His breath still fogged the air.
Bobo stepped up again and opened his arms.
"Come on."
Ryosuke grinned.
"Alright, Bobby."
The two embraced, a heavy pat on the back exchanged like a silent ritual. Not just a reunion—relief. Survival. Brotherhood.
Mikey watched them.
He's taller than me…
Shorter than Bobo, though…
Maybe 6'2"?
When they pulled apart, Bobo smiled.
"Glad to have you back, bud."
Ryosuke smirked.
"I would've gotten out eventually."
"Sure you would've," Luce said, walking over to throw her arms around him. "You're an idiot, Ryosuke."
He chuckled against her shoulder. "Sorry, Luciana… Had to find Tobi." His voice shifted slightly, trailing into something more serious. "Speaking of which…"
His eyes cut across the room.
He was looking at Mikey.
Then he pointed, expression confused.
"That's not Tobi. Who?"
Mikey blinked, suddenly realizing he was still the only one wearing a helmet. Slowly, he pulled it off, letting his curly hair fall free. He stepped forward awkwardly and offered a hand.
"Hey. Mikey."
Ryosuke didn't take it. He just looked at the hand, then back at Bobo.
"…Who?"
Bobo answered, calm and direct.
"That's Mikey Grant."
Ryosuke's eyes widened, his stare locking hard on Mikey. The name clicked like a detonator.
"…Desmond Grant's son?"
Bobo nodded.
Ryosuke turned to Mikey.
His expression shifted—less curiosity now, more weight behind his stare. He took Mikey's still-extended hand and gripped it firmly, his shake solid and sincere.
"Desmond Grant's son…" he said, a touch of wonder in his voice. "He talked about you all the time."
Mikey's brows raised slightly. He hadn't expected that.
Ryosuke held his gaze. "How is your father these days? I haven't seen him in years."
There was a pause. Mikey's expression dimmed, his lips pressed into a tight line. "He's dead."
Ryosuke froze.
"What?" he asked, sharp and breathless.
Mikey nodded, once, slowly. His jaw clenched. His eyes flicked to Bobo.
Bobo met his glance and confirmed with a slow, quiet nod of his own.
"I… am so sorry," Ryosuke said, his voice softer now, lower. "He was a kind man. A good man. I will not pry further."
He gave Mikey a single, solid pat on the back—no more words needed.
"It's alright," Mikey replied, forcing a small, tight smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
The silence hung a beat too long before Bobo cut through it.
"Amelia's here too."
That snapped Ryosuke's attention back to the mission.
"Correct. I saw her."
He took a step forward, his shoulders squaring, voice gaining strength.
"A man I did not recognize was questioning her. Tall. Bald head. Slit through his eyebrow."
Mikey stiffened instantly.
"Payne…"
Ryosuke turned.
"You know that man?"
Mikey gave a curt nod, jaw tightening.
"Yeah. I know him."
Ryosuke didn't press—just made a quiet note of the heat in Mikey's voice. Then his eyes drifted toward the distant echoes ringing through the facility.
"Is that gunfire I hear?" he asked calmly.
Bobo and Luce both nodded.
Ryosuke smiled, the corner of his mouth rising with something that could've passed for amusement—or nostalgia. "I do not know what you did," he said. "But good job."
Luce stepped closer, arms crossed but her voice direct.
"We need your help getting to Amelia. And we might need to go loud."
Ryosuke turned to her, posture already shifting into something sharper. He gave a nod.
"I need my weapon."
Luce jerked her chin toward the open crate.
"They stuck it in there. Right next to your limbs."
Ryosuke walked over with purpose, his movements smoother now, confident. He knelt beside the crate and reached in, pulling out something slim and unassuming—a rectangular black handle, sleek and smooth, with a brushed metal finish.
He held it like it was familiar. Precious.
"Kon'nichiwa… aitakatta yo, " he murmured to himself, in his native tongue.
With a swift downward flick of his wrist, a long black blade shot out from the handle, unfolding with a resonant metallic snap. The blade was long, straight-edged, and crafted of obsidian-dark alloy. It caught the cold light above and shimmered like midnight.
Mikey's eyes nearly popped out of his head.
A fuckin' sword?!
The blade hummed faintly with energy, a slight vibration in the air around it. Ryosuke tilted it upward and examined his reflection in the black steel—face half-shadowed, half-lit, his scar catching the light.
It was the face of a man who'd survived the worst and come back sharper.
The face of Ryosuke Saito, back in the fight.