KENJI
The air at the south dock is thick with the smell of saltwater, rust, and copper. The concrete is slick with blood, reflecting the harsh industrial lights.
Bodies lie scattered around us, broken and still. My men move through the carnage with quiet efficiency, checking for survivors. There are none.
I stand over one of the Rakurai men. His arm lies a few feet away, severed at the elbow. My sword did that. It was a clean cut. Beside me, Tokito wipes a smear of blood from his cheek with the back of his hand, his knuckles raw and bruised.
It's quiet now, except for the lapping of water against the dock pillars.
I look down at the headless corpse at my feet. My blade had taken the head off in one smooth, powerful arc. It rolled near a stack of crates. I walk over, bend down, and pick it up by the hair. The face is frozen in a final mask of shock.
I turn and toss it underhand to Tokito. "Here. A souvenir for you. Looks like he could use a friend."
