Cutscene: Takeshi

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Salt and rust scraped Tak's throat raw with each breath. He shifted his weight, trying to find a less painful position on the concrete as he adjusted his grip on the binoculars. The plastic was warm, almost hot from hours of use. Below, water slapped against weathered pylons while the warehouse's metal siding creaked and groaned. His own shallow breaths filled the spaces between. A distant siren wailed, then faded - just another night in the Bay.

Shouldn't even be here. Boss Seo's orders had been clear enough - stick to the usual spots, keep it simple. But he'd caught that first flicker of movement, strangers slipping in and out of the warehouse. No colors, no crew markings. Nothing that made sense. So he'd stayed, watching.

Which meant spending most of the last day crouched on this rooftop, the older teenager's knees screaming at him the whole time. The concrete felt custom-designed to destroy joints, each tiny shift sending needles of pain up his legs. His stomach twisted - partly hunger, mostly the constant edge of knowing he was somewhere he shouldn't be. Sure, Hardkour had driven the Empire out of this chunk of territory yesterday, but they never stayed gone long. Like vultures circling a corpse, they always came back.

But this... this wasn't vultures. Not with how they moved, not with those weapons he'd spotted.

Tak scanned the shadows again, mapping the spaces big enough to hide an army. Or worse - capes. The movements he'd seen didn't match any crew he knew. Not Empire swagger, not the Dragons' precise formations. Too quiet for Triads. He traced the building's outline through the lenses, marking each exit point, each broken window that could hide a sniper.

No signs, no tags, no faces he recognized from his usual surveillance runs. Just... outliers. His fingers tightened on the binoculars. Wrong place, wrong time.

Five of them so far, each one wrong in their own way. His watch ticked past another hour as Tak pieced together what he could see. None of it added up to anything he recognized. The pit in his stomach grew deeper with each passing minute.

The ache in his spine had gone from annoying to brutal, but he kept his pose rigid.

That fighter's instinct, the one that had saved his ass more times than Tak could count, hummed a warning in his gut. Something coming. His knuckles brushed the binoculars as he exhaled, steadying himself. A cold breeze carried the smell of the bay, making him shiver despite the warmth of the night.

The air shifted — soft but sharp, like reality bending under new weight.

A thump behind him.

Quiet. Deliberate. Too deliberate. Tak's body moved before his mind caught up, spinning as the binoculars swung from one hand. Training kicked in: center mass, guard up, ready to-

Red mask. Blond hair. White lenses staring back, blank and unreadable.

Boss.

Tak's throat went dry as he forced himself to straighten, pulse thundering in his ears. "Boss," he managed, the word clipped. His foot slid back on instinct, putting space between them. Hardkour didn't move. Just perched there on the edge, one knee up, other leg dangling over empty air like the six-story drop meant nothing. Capes.

Tak let out a slow breath, trying to steady his nerves. Hardkour didn't acknowledge the greeting, didn't even seem to register it. His focus was somewhere else, somewhere sharp and distant. Tak knew better than to ask where.

"Just tell me what's going on," Hardkour said, voice flat. No patience, no warmth.

Tak swallowed, nodding quick. The binoculars swung from his fingers as he started talking, words coming fast. "Boss Seo had me checking the usual hot spots, but I ended up finding some new capes. Ones that don't fit anywhere. Not doing hero stuff, not gang stuff. Just... there." He cleared his throat. "Been keeping an eye on that warehouse," Tak said, jerking his chin toward the shadowy building. "Spotted these new players going inside. They’re... weird."

Hardkour's mask didn't move, but Tak felt the weight of his attention shift, zeroing in.

"Yeah," Tak continued, voice steadier now as he found his rhythm. "Just a small group. I've been watching for about a day; there’s five of them. Boss Seo told me about some guys to keep on the lookout for, I think these might be it.

Hardkour's lenses tilted toward the warehouse, but he said nothing. Tak swallowed and pressed on.

Tak listed them off, voice clipped. "First guy's definitely a brute. Big. Bad dye job on a red leather vest. Cargo pants. Ground shakes a little when he walks. Second's... twitchy. Rail-thin. Spiky hair. Goggles. No shirt and a blue tattoo on his chest—looks like a brain, or something close."

He paused, glancing at Hardkour for a reaction.

Nothing.

So he kept going.

"Third's a black dude with a blue mohawk. Neon blue tracksuit." A tremor raced through Tak's hands as his fingers tightened around the binoculars. Metal dug into his palms through the thin plastic coating. "Fourth guy's all black. Quiet. Sniper rifle—folds up. Might be Tinkertech." His eyes swept over the warehouse's broken windows, mind mapping bullet trajectories and firing angles from each vantage point. The rifle's sleek design stuck in his memory — too advanced for the typical street gangs, too clean for an Empire 88 hitter. "Haven't seen him use it yet, but he's been scoping out the place more than the others. Had to duck out when he makes the rounds.”

Night wind pushed salt-heavy air between them as he watched Hardkour. The cape hadn't moved, but the space between them crackled with something electric, dangerous. Power radiated off him in waves that made Tak's teeth ache. He shifted his weight, ribs screaming as muscle and bone protested the movement. Each breath brought fresh spikes of pain as he forced out the last description.

"Fifth's different." His voice dropped with each word, barely above a whisper. The memory of that fluid movement sent ice through his veins. "Silver costume. Full face mask. Moves like an acrobat—fast, smooth. Like..." The words caught in his throat as phantom images flashed - that silver blur cutting through shadows, defying physics. "Scary smooth."

Hardkour's head tilted.

Just a fraction.

Just enough.

Those blank lenses locked onto Tak like crosshairs, and the air grew dense with each passing second. The subtle shift in his posture sent warning signals firing through Tak's brain. His animal instincts screamed at him to move, to run.

"Sound familiar?" The question slipped out before he could stop it. Tak's throat closed up as silence flooded the space between them, thick as the bay's salt-rust stink. The distant sound of traffic felt like it belonged to another world entirely.

Metal groaned beneath Hardkour's boots as he leaned forward. His frame coiled tight, muscles bunching under that costume like steel cables ready to snap. Tak had witnessed this before—the moment before Hardkour unleashed hell. His heart hammered against his ribs, each beat sending tremors through his chest.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Concrete scraped against his shoes as Tak eased back. The roof's edge loomed closer with each step, but Hardkour's presence made the whole world feel claustrophobic. Wind whipped his jacket around his legs as he moved. Great. Here we go. Someone's about to die. The thought sparked through his mind as Tak caught that telltale tension in Hardkour's shoulders, the way his fists clenched at his sides.

Even the air seemed to retreat from the cape's growing rage.

Slique.

The name burned in Tak's mind like acid.

Boss Seo's warnings echoed: not just muscle, not just another cape. This was personal.

A San Francisco mercenary with a reputation for being untouchable, uncatchable. Now here playing house in a dead thrift store, like painting that target on his back was smart when the boss was still around and holding a grudge.

And Hardkour?

Grudges were currency in his world. Tak had seen what happened to people who crossed the boss. The lucky ones ended up in hospital beds. The others...

Knuckles cracked through the night. Sharp. Deliberate.

Tak's gaze snapped to those flexing fingers, watching them curl and uncurl. His pulse thundered in his ears as sweat trickled down his spine. Don't go off, boss. Not yet.

"Where is he?" A killer's whisper that made the hairs on Tak's neck stand up.

Tak's hand twitched toward his backpack strap before he caught himself.

Weakness wasn't an option, not with Hardkour wound this tight. "In there, boss, right fucking there." He jerked his chin at the warehouse, forcing steel into his voice while his heart tried to escape through his throat. Streetlights cast weird shadows across the building's face, turning broken windows into watching eyes. "Used to be a thrift store. They've been holed up for a couple days. Not much activity, but they're definitely in there."

Hardkour's boots scraped concrete as he tipped forward over the edge. Tak's muscles tensed, ready to lunge forward—but of course the boss didn't fall. He hung there like gravity was optional, like the laws of physics bent around him just because he said so. The sight made Tak's skin crawl as memories of other rooftops, other nights filled his mind.

The boss never fell.

His targets did.

The air vibrated with suppressed energy as Hardkour stared down at the building. Tak recognized that tension, knew what came after. He'd seen it before—seen the aftermath.

Seen what happened when the boss decided to snap.

Last time, Hardkour threw a full-sized truck through a building and set half a block on fire.

Being collateral wasn't on Tak’s agenda.

Another step back, shoulders hunching as he tried to shrink away. Rough concrete caught at his heel. Okay, Tak, think. You're getting paid for this. Get ahead of it.

"Before you do anything, boss…" Tak's voice caught in his throat, raw from hours of silence. Wind whipped his jacket as he steadied his tone. No orders — you never tried to tell a boss what to do.

But he had to slow this down. "Just hold up a sec."

Hardkour's head turned with mechanical precision. Those blank lenses fixed on Tak's face, reflecting nothing but darkness. "What?"

Cold sweat trickled down Tak's spine as he felt that attention press down on him. His fingers flexed, muscle memory from a hundred fights urging him to take a stance. Careful. The roof's edge yawned behind him, a thirty-something foot drop to unforgiving concrete.

He slid sideways, each movement calculated to avoid sudden moves. The makeshift surveillance post he'd built near the roof's edge beckoned - a lifeline. "Been busy while I was watching," he said, keeping his voice flat.

The cobbled-together setup squatted on a warped desk: satellite dish scored from a dumpster two blocks over, wires stripped and twisted into new configurations, headphones patched with electrical tape.

Hardkour stood motionless, but his attention shifted like a searchlight sweeping the gear. Static crackled from the headphones, echoing his silence. "What's this?"

"Recon." Tak's fingers found the dish's edge, cold metal anchoring him to reality as his heart hammered against his ribs. Rust flaked under his touch, staining his fingertips red. The familiar technology steadied him, gave him something concrete to focus on besides the killing machine three feet away.

"It's a basic rig," he continued into the vacuum of Hardkour's silence. His hands moved over the equipment, muscle memory taking over. "Directional mic. Bugged the place last night when they went for supplies." The headphones clicked under his touch, plastic worn smooth from hours of use. "Picks up chatter from a few hundred meters. Figured it might give us a leg up. Thought you'd wanna know what's going on before youwe, uh... jump in."

Hardkour's attention remained locked on the equipment, weighing, measuring. Tak forced air into his lungs, trying to ignore how the cape's presence made the whole rooftop feel like a cage. The boss hadn't moved yet - that was something. Better than watching him tear through walls.

"They're not talking much." Words spilled out as Tak settled into the familiar rhythm of intel work, hands ghosting over dials and switches he'd adjusted a hundred times tonight. "Mostly logistics. Supply routes. Security patterns." His throat tightened as he hit the important part. "But the silver guy?" He risked a glance at Hardkour's clenched fists before pushing on. "He's usually out there himself, doing little flips and tricks, keeping up practice, I guess.”

The boss's fingers uncurled fractionally. Tak's racing pulse slowed a tick as the immediate threat of violence ebbed. Hardkour's stance shifted, but with purpose now. Good. He's processing. Work with that.

"Silver guy." Hardkour dragged the words out like they hurt. "Slique. What else about him?"

Tak nodded once, sharp and precise. His stomach rolled as memories from intelligence briefs surfaced. He'd never met Slique, but the reports painted a clear picture: mercenary through and through, body count as high as his rates. The kind of guy who shouldn't have made this personal, but somehow had.

"Yeah," Tak's voice scraped out rough from hours of silence. His throat burned as he watched Hardkour's mask for any hint of reaction. "He's giving orders. Running things. The others pretty much seem to follow what he says." A chill ran down his spine as memories of that silver blur flashed through his mind. "Guy keeps his head down when he's not moving.” The words caught in his throat before he pushed them out. "Like he figures you might be watching."

That last line hit like a hammer strike.

Hardkour's head tilted, lenses catching the dim glow of distant streetlights. His whole frame shifted - just enough to tell Tak he wasn't about to launch himself off the roof. Not yet.

"So…" The word hung in the air as Tak felt sweat trickle down his neck. Every muscle in his body screamed at him to run, but he held his ground. "Figured you might wanna do some recon first." His hand drifted toward the surveillance setup, fingers trembling slightly as they gestured to the cobbled-together equipment.

Static crackled through the headphones as wind whistled between buildings, Hardkour taking a few steps toward the setup. Tak's heart hammered against his ribs as the boss closed the distance. The boss's gloved fingers hovered over the headphones. The leather creaked as his hand flexed.

For a brief moment, Tak dared to hope. Maybe I can stall him long enough to get a few blocks out of range.

"What else?" Hardkour's voice sliced through the ambient noise. Each word carried the weight of barely-contained violence. The frustration beneath that controlled tone made Tak's skin crawl.

"Uh, right." Tak's mind raced as he sorted through hours of intel. His fingers drummed against his thigh, an unconscious tell he couldn't quite suppress. "The group's been quiet most of the day. No heavy movement. No reinforcements coming in." His eyes darted to the warehouse, mapping sight lines he'd memorized over countless hours. "But they've been checking their gear. Constantly. Like they're prepping for something big. I caught mentions of timing - 'soon,' 'tonight.' Nothing specific, but..." The pressure in his chest built with each word. "It's coming."

A ripple passed through Hardkour's shoulders - subtle, but enough to make Tak's breath catch. Words spilled out of him, filling the dangerous silence. "The sniper? He's got the high ground inside. Covering exits like a pro. Their insurance policy." His hand swept toward the warehouse, painting invisible lines between firing positions. "The others spread out in coverage patterns. No blind spots, no gaps. They know what they're doing."

"And Slique?" The name came out as a growl.

"He's been moving. Constant motion," Tak pushed the words out fast. "Never stays still long enough to track properly. But..." His voice slowed as he remembered watching that fluid grace, that impossible speed. "He's fast. Really fast. Caught him running what looked like combat drills earlier. Not just athletic moves — military-grade stuff. These guys… they’re trained."

Don't break it. Please don't break it. The thought echoed as he watched Hardkour's grip tighten on the headphones. The tension crackled like ozone before a storm - raw power waiting to be unleashed.

Hardkour's voice cut through the static. "Turn it on."