Grief 7.16

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

A bolt of lightning tore through the night, searing the air where Seo had been a split second before. His enhanced reflexes kicked in before his conscious mind could process the danger, body moving with inhuman speed that felt foreign after only a week since the boss's "promotion." The Ronin general hit the ground hard, reinforced muscles absorbing an impact that would have strained normal bones as he skidded across cracked asphalt. His leather jacket scraped against the rough surface, the sound crystal clear to his heightened senses in spite of the chaos around him as he rolled behind a dented Camry.

The sedan's faded green paint glinted like vomit in the flickering streetlights, windshield spiderwebbed with cracks that reminded him way too much of the patterns his tekkō-kagi left in flesh. Those same cracks only deepened as crackling energy slammed into a sad, graffiti-covered box of rust that had once been a mailbox, splitting it open like an over-ripe fruit. The smell of melting metal hit his enhanced senses an instant later, along with the acrid stench of burning paint and ozone that made his eyes water behind his mask.

"Fuck meeeeeee..." he hissed through gritted teeth, glancing at the ruined mailbox, now nothing but half-melted slag dripping onto the sidewalk. Kuso. The sight sent an involuntary shiver down his spine as memories of Lung's flames flickered through his mind. Tougher body or not, getting cooked wasn't on his agenda tonight.

He pressed his back against the car, twin Berettas clutched in his hands with the familiar weight of years of practice. The guns felt reassuring but he needed more than reassuring when faced with this level of clusterfuck. His palms were slick with sweat inside his fighting gloves, making the grips feel uncertain in his grasp despite his superhuman strength. His breaths came shallow and fast, heart hammering against his ribs like a taiko drum, but he forced them slower.

Calm. Control. You're a general now, man. Oyabun material. Look the part, Seo told himself, doing his best to keep what little he could together as another explosion rocked the street somewhere behind him. He was shaking and sweating harder than the night he got these powers,

The tiger mask felt heavy on his face as he adjusted it with the back of one hand, its metal edges pressing against his cheekbones hard enough to leave marks. "Fuck…"

First time wearing the damn thing—this symbol of his new authority, new powers—and he was already sweating under it, the moisture making his skin itch in the worst way. Right now it felt more like a fancy coffin lid than a badge of office. With what courage he could muster, he peeked over the car's hood, one eye twitching involuntarily as his enhanced vision caught every detail of the chaos. Shit.

Calling it a warzone might have been polite.

No, the street was a hellscape, the kind of fucked up bullshit you'd only ever expect from an action movie scene. The kind where the director got drunk on explosives and decided subtle wasn't in his vocabulary. The air itself seemed to vibrate with violence, thick with cordite and the metallic tang of spilled blood that his nose picked up like a shark in bloody water.

Gunfire rattled through the night air like some demented percussion section, sparking off streetlights and the twisted remains of old construction scaffolding. His enhanced reflexes let him track individual bullets as they ricocheted, sending golden sparks raining down in deadly beautiful arcs. To his left, a sleek black Hummer roared as its engine idled, its blue-red trim reflecting in the burning remnants of a shop window. The flames cast dancing shadows across its polished surface, making the vehicle look almost alive in the darkness, like some mechanical yokai waiting to pounce.

The Flying Dragons, in their blue-black streetwear—hoodies, chains, sneakers, cocky swagger—were firing in tight bursts toward the building in the middle of the street. Their gear probably cost more than his mother made in six months growing up, all designer labels and custom pieces that screamed more "Shibuya fashion" than "street wear", much less "gang war". Flashes of muzzle fire lit their faces, young and wild as they whooped and cheered like it was all some kind of game.

Kids playing at being yakuza, with real guns and real bodies hitting the ground.

And in the middle of chaos incarnate?

Ronin HQ.

The place didn't scream "gang hideout."

It looked like what it was meant to be: a fancy condo. Clean brickwork that probably cost more than all the cars on the street right now times ten, modern glass that reflected the firefight like some twisted mirror, a neatly landscaped front that somehow hadn't been ruined by years of ABB activity.

No graffiti.

No markers.

Nothing that should've given it away. The whole setup was meant to be invisible, hidden in plain sight among the other wannabe-high-end, forgotten buildings that dotted this part of the city.

Yet here they were.

The Dragons and Triad working together, which, honestly, should've been impossible.

Seo frowned as he worked it over in his head. These guys can't even share a parking lot without someone getting stabbed. No exaggeration there—he'd heard of three separate "business meetings" end in bloodshed at the start of the year.

His ears caught snippets of Mandarin and Cantonese mixing with the gunfire from the Dragons, the languages familiar after years of working the streets. Not only were both gangs historically ready to gut each other over pocket change, all the intel had screamed they were about to start a damn territory war. The idea that this whole time they were just gathering forces to do... this... God damnit, I fucked the dog on this one.

This was the kind of fuck-up that got people killed.

The kind of fuck-up Lung would kill you for. Let's make sure I live long enough to regret missing this one, yeah?

On the other end of the pockmarked street, the Sky Triad had blockaded the exit with their Toyota Land Cruisers, the vehicles arranged with military precision. Their men moved like they were auditioning for some Yakuza thriller—blazers with gold trim, designer sunglasses, shoes polished enough to blind—each motion calculated and cold.

Pistols and SMGs barked in controlled bursts, shots sparking off the condo's reinforced windows in a deadly light show his enhanced vision tracked with painful clarity. Both ends of the street were locked down tight, Hummers and Land Cruisers five deep on each exit. This wasn't just planned—this was fucking choreographed.

Inside HQ, his Ronin were giving as good as they got.

He could pick up the distinctive rhythms of their weapons—the firing pattern letting him know they were fighting back hard. A quick glance confirmed they'd barricaded the entrances and windows with whatever they could grab: flipped tables, filing cabinets, even that fancy couch he insisted on.

Smart thinking. Even though I fuckin' loved that couch.

You didn't survive long in this business without learning how to fortify a position.

But determination and furniture wouldn't hold forever. BTZZZ!

And then there was that lightning-slinging cocksucker.

Another bolt cracked through the night, vaporizing a chunk of the Lexus's hood barely three feet from his position. Seo's jaw clenched involuntarily, teeth creaking from the pressure. His mother would kill him if he came home with another cracked molar. He was already on thin ice with the old woman ever since Bakuda.

Where is that sparkplug piece of shit? He knew exactly who it was—that Dragon boss who'd been making noise about moving into the Bay with Lung gone. But Seo wasn't about to validate the guy by calling the fucker out.

Some people got off on that kind of recognition.

"Where the fuck is backup?" Seo growled, ducking back behind the car as a flurry of bullets peppered the pavement near his feet. The impacts sent tiny shards of concrete flying that battered him like miniature missiles. He pressed his back against the car door, knuckles whitening around his pistols as his strength threatened to warp the grips. "That fucking Meathead. I called him ten minutes ago."

Wesley had been his only option when everything went sideways, the first and last call he could make before the chaos made phone conversations impossible. Now all he could do was wait and hope the muscle-bound idiot remembered which street to turn down.

"Dō shita... how the fuck did they find us?" The Japanese slipped out unconsciously, his mother's language always surfacing when stress peaked. But he had a pretty good guess at the answer. The boss. Of course it's the boss.

The kid had been on an absolute tear lately, beating these guys senseless and gift-wrapping them for the cops. Six arrests last week alone, not counting that whole thing with the safe house. Seo's face twisted into a grimace at the memory. Right. The safe house.

Shattering glass sent him lower behind cover, hands moving automatically to reload one Beretta while keeping the other trained on potential threats. His enhanced coordination made the motion fluid, almost beautiful if you ignored the context.

They're here for him. Has to be. The boss has pissed them off enough for two lifetimes.

The lightning-slinger was the real problem though.

Every time Seo tried to get eyes on the situation, a bolt would streak toward his position, too fast to dodge if he wasn't already moving. Even with his enhanced reflexes, it was a close thing each time. The bastard was out there somewhere—too much smoke and too many bodies to spot him yet—but Seo could feel the electric charge in the air raising the hair on his arms.

"Perfect. Just perfect," Seo muttered, his enhanced hearing picking up the crackle of electricity building somewhere in the chaos. Ten minutes since he'd texted the boss: RONIN HQ UNDER SIEGE. WE R DYING!

Still no response.

Fuck.

No point panicking—yet. That's a fucking lie and you know it, Asada.

A flicker of movement caught his attention, enhanced vision cutting through the smoke and darkness. A Triad member in a slim black blazer was sprinting between cover, gold tie clip catching the light like a beacon. Seo's enhanced reflexes took over before conscious thought, both Berettas singing in perfect sync. The man crumpled mid-step, pistol skittering across the asphalt with a sound that rang crystal clear to Seo's heightened senses.

"One down," he muttered, lips curling into what his enhanced strength made feel like a death rictus rather than the grim smile he intended. "Only what, forty more to go? Wonderful."

The sarcasm had barely left his mouth when another lightning bolt split the night, the crack of thunder hitting his enhanced hearing like a physical blow. The surge of power hit a fire hydrant, water erupting from the ruptured pipe in a chaotic spray that his heightened senses transformed into thousands of individual droplets, each one a potential distraction. Seo winced, shielding his eyes against the sudden burst of mist while his other senses worked overtime to track threats through the impromptu rain.

He didn't need to look to know who was responsible. The electric charge in the air made his enhanced nervous system light up like a Christmas tree, every hair standing on end as his body screamed danger at him. Sliding around to the other side of the car, Seo's eyes scanned the rooftops with inhuman precision, searching for any sign of the lightning-slinger. Every time he shifted position, another bolt followed, precise and unrelenting.

Seo clenched his jaw, the tiger mask suddenly feeling heavier than ever. "Yeah, you want the fucking boss?" He checked his ammunition with practiced ease, enhanced coordination making the motion fluid even as his mind raced through scenarios. "Get in line, motherfucker."

A rapid series of crashes and shouts from the far end of the street sent Seo's enhanced senses into overdrive, his heightened vision catching every detail as one of the Land Cruisers crumpled under the impact of a Hummer. The vehicles ground against each other with a screech of twisted metal that made his sensitive ears ring. The momentary chaos gave him the opening he needed, superhuman speed and reflexes letting him dart to a new position behind a dented delivery van, the movement fluid despite the tension thrumming through his enhanced muscles.

His enhanced hearing picked up every detail of the gang war raging around him. Flying Dragons in their street fashion—hoodies emblazoned with blue dragons and cargo pants worth more than his first car—barked orders in a mix of accented English and Japanese. Their assault rifles thundered in a deadly rhythm his trained ear recognized as military-grade hardware.

Sky Triad members moved with the cold precision of heist experts, their compact submachine guns spitting precise bursts that sounded off like lethal rain. Two groups that had been at each other's throats since their inception, now working in semi-perfect sync with one goal: destroying everything he'd helped build.

He carefully guided his shots even as he fired quickly, scattering Dragons behind a shattered storefront. His vision tracked each individual shard of glass as it rained down, creating a deadly beautiful light show.

"This is complete bullshit," he hissed, skilled fingers making the reload of his Beretta look like a magic trick. His mind raced through scenarios—if this firefight dragged on much longer, the cops and PRT might actually decide to earn their paychecks for once and show up to the Asian Quarter for a reason other than "committing police brutality". Or, at least they'd direct that brutality at the fuckers trying to murder him and his men. That could work in his favor, give Seo an out that didn't end with him extra crispy or ventilated.

But explaining this clusterfuck to the authorities would be its own special hell.

A quick glance around cover let him spot a Dragon trying to flank the building. His enhanced reflexes took over, sending a bullet flying with inhuman precision. The gangster dropped with a sharp cry that his ears caught in perfect clarity, the sound of the man clutching his wounded leg almost lost under the chaos.

That's when Seo saw it—lightning slammed into the building's face, carving a jagged black scar into brick and mortar. His enhanced vision caught every crack spreading through the wall, telling him exactly what the sparkplug bastard was planning. "Shit. He's trying to flush us out like rats."

The Triads opened up with another coordinated volley, one round ricocheting off the pavement with a spark his enhanced eyes tracked like a camera flash. He shifted position, muscles coiling with superhuman tension as he prepared to move.

"Going to put down every last one of these yarou," he growled, Japanese mixing with English as his patience wore thin.

A deep rumble preceded the massive crash that yanked his attention left. His enhanced reflexes let him track the Hummer as it erupted into a fireball, debris flying in all directions like deadly shrapnel. He flinched as metal pinged off the van, his superhuman heart somehow hammering even faster. Did those idiots just use the RPG in my office? The one I specifically said was for my use only? His eye twitched. Eight racks of weapons budget up in smoke. Fantastic.

"Sure, boss," he muttered, sarcasm dripping like poison. "Take your sweet time. Maybe grab some green tea mochi for dessert while you're at it." His dark eyes swept the street, tracking the Dragons and Triad as they advanced in perfect coordination, combined firepower forcing his people deeper into the building. His tactical mind, sharpened by both experience and enhancement, raced through possibilities.

This isn't just about the boss anymore. The level of coordination, the timing, the intel—someone was pulling strings behind the scenes. Someone who could make sworn enemies work together like a well-oiled machine.

The distinctive sound of breaking glass made him spin, enhanced reflexes bringing his Berettas to bear as a Molotov cocktail sailed through the air. Flames erupted up the side of the condo, the orange glow reflecting off his tiger mask as his enhanced vision tracked the fire's spread. One thought cut through the chaos with crystal clarity: "Fuck me running. Cops are definitely gonna show now."

He didn't hate the idea of backup—cops, PRT, anyone—but he knew what that would mean.

Lockup. Interrogation.

A headache he didn't need.

Another crash ripped through the night, tearing the air apart with the kind of violence that demanded your full attention—like a car wreck you couldn't look away from, no matter how much you wanted to. Seo's head snapped toward the noise, heart sinking in the split second before his lips pulled into a sharp smile. one of the Dragons' Hummers had rammed headfirst into a Triad Land Cruiser, the two vehicles now a mess of twisted metal and leaking fluids.

On the ground, their respective owners were already at it—shouting, shoving, weapons half-raised.

Finally, s. Something good tonight.

His brain kicked into high gear, scanning the smoke-drenched chaos for any hint of movement that mattered. If they could just keep each other distracted, this clusterfuck might hold long enough for the boss to roll in.

Blue Eyes White Dragon to the rescue, like always. Right?

He wanted to believe it. But the thought sat uneasily in his chest, like something heavy and jagged pressing against his ribs.

Then came the footstep.

Slow. Deliberate. Heavy enough to carry over the distant shouts and gunfire.

Seo's body moved before his brain caught up, his grip tightening on the twin Berettas at his sides, the weight of them suddenly unbearable in his hands. He turned, breath catching as a figure emerged from the alley's smoke-choked shadows.

Broad-shouldered.

Armored like a tank.

Something massive clutched in their hands, the silhouette almost cartoonishly oversized—until you noticed how naturally they held it.

"Shit," Seo muttered, the word slipping out as reflex.

Then the figure stepped into the flickering light of a nearby streetlamp, and Seo blinked, his fear evaporating like fog under a heat lamp.

Dyed blonde hair on a square jaw.

Familiar enough to jolt his brain out of its fight-or-flight stupor.

He stared at the modified black boxing headgear sitting snug on that thick skull, the red visor glinting like some low-budget anime knockoff. And below all that, there it was—the same dumbass grin that always made Seo question whether this guy's brain was connected to anything at all.

"Meathead?"

Wesley Yang stood there, broad as a billboard and twice as bright in that sleeveless red motorcycle jacket of his. The black trim was almost subtle, but nothing could downplay the fact that the guy looked like a walking road flare.

"Smokey!" Wesley grinned, his voice a slow drawl that somehow carried over the chaos. His hand lifted the massive sledgehammer with the casual ease of someone carrying a baseball bat. Seo's eyes flicked to the weapon's handle—it looked as thick as his forearm.

Perfect.

"Why you dressed like that?" Wesley asked, grin widening like this was some schoolyard reunion.

Seo rolled his eyes, tamping down the urge to snap. The stress already had his teeth grinding, and Wes's dumb questions weren't helping.

"Shut up," he shot back, tone clipped. "It's Kiritora when I'm like this. Remember that, Zhu Hawk."

Wesley didn't flinch. Didn't even blink, the grin still glued to his face. "Yeah, sure thing, Smokey."

The big idiot stepped closer, planting himself at the alley's mouth like a living barricade. The easy swagger in his movements set Seo's nerves on edge, though he wasn't entirely sure why.

"Got your call," Wesley said, hefting the sledgehammer onto one shoulder like it weighed nothing. "Booked it. Took me a minute to get the new gear on, though." He gestured vaguely at his getup with his free hand, as if the bright red monstrosity needed explanation.

Seo's gaze flicked down again, taking in every detail of the stupidly oversized weapon. The thing was almost as tall as he was, its blunt head gleaming under the streetlights. It looked like the kind of weapon someone would use to pulverize a building—or a person, if Wes was in one of his moods.

Great. Just great.

"Rest of 'em should be here any minute now."

"Forget the rest of them," Seo growled, words coming sharper than intended, his scowl hidden behind the tiger mask. "We're only alive because the capes aren't blasting yet. Dragons and Triad are working together. Their capes are fucking working together."

"Whoa." Wesley tilted his head, the absurd red visor of his helmet catching the flickering streetlight as he glanced down at Seo. "You fucked up bad, didn't ya?"

"Not the time, meathead."

"Thought you said no nicknames."

"No, I said—" Seo started, only to duck as a flurry of bullets pinged off the alley wall to his right, sending chunks of brick and dust into the air. His hand shot up to shield his face, the move instinctive and far too late to be helpful. "I said, shut the fuck up and cover me!"

Without waiting for Wesley's reaction, Seo holstered one Beretta and launched himself forward, boots hitting the hood of the car in a blur of motion. The leap felt too light, his enhanced muscles making it almost effortless, even as the adrenaline in his veins made the world slow to a crawl. Mid-air, his free hand came up, the Beretta barking twice. Each shot echoed in his ears, sharp and clean against the backdrop of distant chaos.

The first bullet ripped through the shoulder of a Flying Dragons member, the man crumpling with a grunt and clutching the wound. The second found its mark dead center in another gangster's chest, sending him stumbling back into the barricade with a spray of crimson.

Seo hit the ground hard, boots skidding against the pavement as he ducked behind another car for cover. The air felt alive with static, his enhanced senses picking up every spark and pop of gunfire, every shout and distant crack of breaking glass.

Behind him, there was a grunt—low, guttural, and unmistakably Wesley.

A fraction of a second later, the car he'd just used as cover screamed across the street, skidding at a diagonal angle straight into the Dragons' makeshift barricade. The impact was cataclysmic, a crunch of metal on metal that sent debris scattering like shrapnel. Multiple gangsters dove for cover, and Seo's eyes darted to the massive dent in the car's side, already knowing who had caused it.

"What the fuck, man?!" Seo shouted, voice cracking as he dove toward a new piece of cover.

"You're welcome!" Wesley's voice rang out, all smug pride.

Before Seo could bark back, a burst of heat and light streaked past him, close enough that the static prickled along his exposed arms. The lightning bolt slammed into the pavement a few feet ahead, leaving a smoking crater that filled the air with the acrid stench of burnt asphalt.

His head whipped toward the source as he rolled to the side, instinct taking over. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The movement minimized his profile, but not by much. No guarantee it'd help if the next bolt was aimed better.

"We're gonna die out here if they don't show up soon," he hissed, voice low enough that even he barely heard it.

A new sound cut through the din—boots on pavement, deliberate and steady. Seo's head snapped toward the source, his grip tightening on the Beretta still in hand.

A sound cut through the noise—boots hitting pavement and Seo's gaze snapped up, his body tense and ready to spring.

Jonouchi. no, Roshi now.

Even in the middle of this warzone, the older man moved like he wasn't in a rush, like the bullets flying around him were a bad joke he wasn't laughing at. Roshi's presence carried that unnerving calm, the kind that made everything else feel louder and more chaotic by comparison.

Seo straightened slightly, his gaze locking onto the figure stepping into the fray.

His sleeveless black motorcycle jacket wasn't just gear—it was a damn statement. The golden dragon curling across his back gleamed in the flickering streetlights, an emblem that said look at me and regret it.

The reinforced yellow accents on his pants and those steel-toed boots? Yeah, those tied it all together, making him look more like a war machine than a man. Then there was the mask—full-face, etched with a dragon silhouette, its predator-yellow visor catching the light like a warning.

Roshi didn't waste a second. No grand entrances, no unnecessary words.

Just movement.

He closed the distance to the nearest Flying Dragon with that fluid precision that always felt a little too sharp, like watching a predator decide to pounce. His foot came up in a spinning arc that connected with the guy's chest, hard enough that Seo swore he heard something break.

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The guy hit the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

"Kiritora," Roshi barked, his tone cutting clean through the chaos. "Orders. Where's Haechi?"

Seo hesitated. just for a second. because Jonouchi—Roshi, he reminded himself—looked like he'd stepped straight out of someone's fever dream of a super-soldier. Fuckin surreal.

The same guy who lectured him on subtlety and patience now stood there like a goddamn action figure brought to life.

"On his way," Seo managed, gritting his teeth to force the words out. "Last I heard, anyway."

Before Roshi could respond, another figure emerged from the shadows—a sleek, polished blur that moved with too much confidence to be anything but deliberate.

Joon Lee—Haechi—slowed to a stop just short of their position, his angular blue mask catching the faint light. A dragon crest, subtle but unmistakable, marked the forehead, and his black-and-blue tactical gear looked so precise it was almost irritating. Even the faint glow of the wrist-mounted tablet on his arm screamed high-end.

Seo blinked, staring for a moment longer than he meant to. Seriously? He looks like he's about to drop a powerpoint mid-battle.

"Traffic was hell," Haechi said smoothly, voice calm behind the mask. He tilted his head toward the ongoing chaos. "How bad?"

"Bad." Seo's reply snapped out fast, clipped. "They've got a lightning thrower frying anything that moves. It's definitely you-know-who. Also, no time for fashion shows, Haechi. Focus up."

"Says the guy in a tiger mask."

Before Seo could fire back, a sharp laugh broke through the tension. Wesley—no, Zhu hawk, he reminded himself, because apparently, they were all playing dress-up tonight—grinned wide as he hefted his sledgehammer.

"Hey, at least Kiritora's got style," Wesley said, his tone that lazy, shit-eating confidence that grated on Seo's nerves. "And now we're all here. Let's show these pricks why they don't fuck with the mothafuckin' Ronin."

Style? Seriously? Seo bit back the retort burning at the back of his throat. Not the time.

Instead, he turned his focus back to the fight.

And then they moved.

It wasn't perfect. There was no choreography, no pre-planned strategy.

But somehow, it just clicked.

Roshi led the charge, his movements crisp and devastating. Every kick, every punch, every strike was precise—delivered with the kind of efficiency that made Seo realize just how far he still had to go. Never really learned how to fight. He didn't really have to, considering guns and swords did a much better job than fists.

Haechi flanked, slipping through the fray like a scalpel through flesh.

Calculated. Efficient.

His tablet glowed faintly as he barked out updates and directions over his earpiece to the Ronin still fighting back, his voice somehow steady even when the ground shook.

Wesley, on the other hand, was pure chaos. Raw strength and sheer mass in motion. The sledgehammer swung in arcs that shattered cover, crumpled barricades, and sent gangsters scrambling like roaches under a light.

And him?

He was the bridge.

His pistol barked out in sharp, measured bursts, as he moved instinctively, motions syncing with theirs in ways that felt natural—like they'd been fighting together for years, not minutes.

For the first time tonight, it felt like they might actually pull this off.

Roshi was a blur, years of skill and experience making his enhancements look even more inhuman than they already were.

Precision and strength wrapped in goju-ryu technique that made everything else happening around him look amateur at best. A triad grunt came at him swinging a crowbar, a full-force arc aimed right at Roshi's head.

But it didn't matter—Roshi caught it mid-swing, the steel screeching against his palm. A quick twist, and the guy's grip broke like it didn't even exist. The weapon clattered to the ground a second later, forgotten, as Roshi drove his elbow into the man's temple. The grunt crumpled like wet cardboard, out before his body hit the pavement.

Damn. Sensei's got moves.

Across the street, Haechi ducked behind the mangled remains of a vending machine. His wrist-mounted tablet flickered, blue light reflecting off his mask as his fingers flew across the interface. Calm as ever, he shouted something into their comms—orders, tactical updates, whatever—and then slid out of cover just long enough to deliver a kick to the nearest dragon's knee.

The angle was perfect.

Bone cracked, the guy folded with a sharp yell, and Haechi was already moving before the body hit the ground.

Meanwhile, Zhu Hawk was, predictably, loud as hell.

"Crowd control!" he bellowed, grinning like an idiot as his sledgehammer smashed into the side of a Humvee. The massive vehicle screeched under the force, skidding sideways until it crashed into the Dragons' barricade. The gangsters scattered like roaches, diving for cover as the makeshift wall crumbled around them.

Of course, the meathead was having the time of his life.

Seo, for his part, moved as best he could.

His Berettas were an extension of his hands, snapping off shots as he darted from cover to cover. Each bullet landed where it was meant to: a shoulder, a knee, a weapon ripped clean out of a hand. One Dragon spun backward, clutching his shoulder. Another dropped his gun entirely and bolted, slipping into the shadows without a second glance.

Good. Less mess to clean up later.

But just as the tide seemed to turn in their favor, the air shifted.

The ozone hit Seo's nose first. Sharp, metallic, an electric needle dragging down his sinuses.

His boots slid to a stop against the gritty asphalt, pulse spiking in a way he wasn't proud of. The Triad gangsters were already breaking formation, scrambling like roaches as they barked hurried commands into their earpieces. They didn't even look back as they bolted.

That's not normal.

Seo felt himself freeze, teeth itching as static crawled over his skin and the sharp tang of ozone hit his nose. "Electro-fucker!" he shouted. "Scatter!"

They didn't have a chance to.

The flash came fast—bright enough to turn night into searing white—and the crack that slammed into his chest like a physical blow.

The blast struck the Hummers, the explosion ripping one of them apart in a fiery display of force. Metal screeched as it flew, the shockwave throwing up a spray of debris and shrapnel. Seo barely had time to twist out of the way before a chunk of flaming wreckage slammed into the ground where he'd been standing.

"Fuck!" Wesley's voice, somewhere behind him, was half a grunt, half a yell as he dove for cover.

You and me both, meathead.

Roshi was already back on his feet, his movements deliberate despite the scorch marks marring his jacket. The man didn't hesitate, his posture as steady as ever, even as the chaos raged around them.

Haechi groaned somewhere nearby, sitting up with a pained grunt. He adjusted his mask with one hand while the other dragged his tablet closer, the faint blue glow flickering like nothing had happened.

And then there was Zhu Hawk.

Somehow, the idiot looked completely unfazed.

"That's all you got?!" he shouted, swinging the sledgehammer onto his shoulder like this was all just a warm-up.

Seo glared, the frustration boiling over before he could stop it. "Shut up and focus. We're not out of this yet."

He forced himself to his feet, rolling his shoulder to test the damage. It screamed in protest, but nothing felt broken. Good enough.

"Fuck me..." the words slipped out under his breath as he scanned the street again. The Dragons and Triad were regrouping, their movements sharper now, more coordinated. Whoever was running the show on the other side wasn't giving them time to recover.

We need to end this fast.

The smoke cleared just enough to reveal the source. Standing on the crumpled remains of the hummer was a figure—tall, lean, posed up like some dickhead grim reaper.

Even through the haze, Seo recognized the silhouette.

Tactical streetwear, black with faint blue-white accents that glowed like faint embers. Muscular arms — but still a good bit smaller than Wesley's — were wrapped in white cloth beneath compression sleeves, Lichtenberg scars snaking across his shoulders like a fucked-up art piece.

The mouth mask was what sold it, though: Black, featureless except for the faint shine of a thin, white-painted crack cutting on one side.

"...Inazuma."

He hadn't meant to say it aloud.

"Don't forget me."

The voice came from across the street, slick and mocking, soaked in smugness

Seo's head snapped toward it, heart sinking further. Perched casually on the hood of a wrecked hummer was another figure—thin, wiry, with a lazy posture that pissed Seo off on principle, mostly because he recognized it in the mirror half the time.

Red shirt, unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Arms like blackened glass, veined and jagged as if the skin itself was trying to rip free.

"Zhiyu," Seo muttered, jaw tight.

He was already calculating—options, angles, anything. The gangsters had scattered, but Inazuma wasn't alone, and the Ronin crew wasn't exactly in prime shape after the last volley.

"Kiritora." Roshi's sharp, clipped tone cut through the chaos as the man stalked up to his side, his presence radiating that unsettling calm.

Seo didn't turn. His grip tightened dangerously around the Berettas in his hands, sweat beading under his mask. "Yeah, I see them."

"We can't hold them."

"No shit."

Zhiyu yawned, exaggerated and loud enough to carry over the tension. "You boys planning something?" he gestured lazily with one molten arm. "Don't mind us. we'll wait."

"Asshole," Wesley muttered, stepping up beside Roshi with his massive sledgehammer slung over one shoulder. His grin was totally gone now, replaced by a focused edge that Seo didn't see often.

Haechi was last to join, mask catching the firelight as he moved into place. "Reinforcements?"

Seo shook his head.

"Plans?"

"Don't die."

"'Good plan."

"Shut up."

The words fell flat, even to his own ears, but he wasn't in the mood to sugarcoat anything. Not when crackling lightning starting to coil around Inazuma's fingers like they were alive.

Those hands.

Seo's eyes flicked between Inazuma's lightning-laced fingers and the swirling fireball that Zhiyu lazily spun in his palm. The flames reflected in Zhiyu's too-perfect features, casting jagged shadows that twisted as the fire danced.

And that hair—snow-white, catching the glow of his own damn flames like he'd planned the lighting for this entrance. It framed a face built for trouble, sharp and smug, the kind that practically screamed I'm better than you.

But it was the eyes that nailed it. red, piercing, alive with a malice that you couldn't help but notice.

"Shit." Like before, the word scraped out of him before he could stop it, hoarse and automatic.

Zhiyu's smirk widened, eyes narrowing as he soaked in Seo's discomfort. "It's actually pronounced Zhiyu," he drawled, voice slow and mocking. "But hey, points for effort."

Both of the bosses.

Seo's mind whirred, every thought colliding with the next. two fucking capes. his grip tightened on the Berettas, the cold metal biting into his palms as if grounding him. This wasn't just a gang war anymore—it was a massacre waiting to happen.

Then Seo saw it—purple smoke curling around the wreckage behind Inazuma. the fog thickened, solidifying, and in seconds, another figure took shape.

Shiiiiit.

She was tall, the kind of height on a woman that made her presence all the more noticeable, and her outfit wasn't helping. The backless white-and-purple jumpsuit was cut to turn heads, the fox-themed red gas mask doing nothing to soften the effect. Slits in the fabric revealed pale skin, every inch of it intentional. Then there was her hair—vibrant purple that spilled down her back, catching every flicker of light in the air.

Three.

Next to Zhiyu, another thud.

Seo flinched, his head snapping toward the sound as a second figure dropped into view.

And he recognized her, too. Shiiiiiiiiiiiit.

Neon green hair caught the light first, bright and loud against the sleek black-and-green skinsuit that clung to her frame. A matching bolero jacket hung loose, the trim catching the glow of the flames around them.

But it was the tech that sealed it.

Massive, tinker-made gauntlets, bulky enough to dwarf her slim frame but precise in their design, hummed faintly as she flexed her hands. The color scheme matched her outfit, and her green visor, paired with bulky headphones, hid her eyes entirely.

Four.

Behind him, Wesley shifted, his voice a low mutter. "This is bad, Smokey."

No shit. Seo's jaw tightened, a spike of irritation flaring in his chest. He couldn't let himself think like that—not right now. His body shifted as he adjusted his stance, scanning the street for better angles.

Inazuma's the distance hitter.

Range. Speed. Precision.

Zhiyu's the wildcard infighter.

Firepower and more firepower, the kind of combo that made every scenario worse. And the other two were the worst kinds of support... for them, at least.

The pieces fell into place, each one pointing to the same conclusion. Great. Fucking. Combo.

His fingers tightened around the Berettas, the leather of his gloves creaking as he gripped them white-knuckle tight. His eyes flicked between the capes and the chaos around them, every nerve on edge. Running wasn't an option—not with the Ronin HQ and their people still trapped in the middle of this clusterfuck.

The boss better be on his way, or we're fucked.

Inazuma moved first.

His descent was effortless.

The tall cape leaped from his perch with a fluidity that didn't belong to someone wearing combat boots. He landed softly, the weight of his arrival marked only by the faint hum of electricity that followed him. The charge buzzed in the air, crawling under Seo's skin, sharp and unrelenting.

"Shit," Wesley muttered, barely loud enough to catch over the din.

On the other side of the street, Zhiyu chuckled.

The sound grated—low and smooth, almost musical in the worst way. The fireball in his palm flared once, a bright, fiery pulse, before shrinking into a tight, concentrated orb of heat.

"Don't look so scared," Zhiyu teased, his voice carrying an edge of amusement that made Seo's teeth grind. "We didn't know y'all had this many capes, but even if we did, we're not here to fight."

"The fuck?" the words slipped out before Seo could catch them, his gaze darting between the armed gang members still holding their positions.

Wesley, crouched behind cover, shot a wary glance toward Seo. "Since when?"

Inazuma spoke next, his tone clipped and deliberate. "This is not a fight."

Zhiyu leaned into his smirk, letting the pause hang in the air like a taunt. "It's a warning."

"A message," Inazuma corrected, his sharp gaze flicking between the Ronin crew.

"To you and your boss," Zhiyu added, the grin never leaving his face.

"For fucking with us and ours," Inazuma finished.

Joon Lee shifted, his stance still tight, his muscles tense enough to snap. His voice came low, cutting through the tension for the first time. "Yours."

Zhiyu's grin widened, like he'd been waiting for that. "Yeah, we did a little merger before we hit the city. We're best buddies now—one big, happy Dragon Triad."

Seo's jaw clenched as he caught the phrase. Merger. A team-up was one thing but two gangs with that amount of firepower together… It was a powder keg on top of a declaration of war.

Inazuma's eyes darted toward Zhiyu, his expression unreadable beneath the mask. "Yes. With Lung no longer in the picture, we've decided to—"

"Make different moves," Zhiyu cut in, rolling the fireball across his knuckles like a coin.

From behind cover, Wesley's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Does that involve finishing each other's sentences?"

Zhiyu turned toward him, all grin and no warmth. "It involves me not frying you to hell as long as you listen."

Seo scoffed, stepping forward, his grip on the Berettas shifting. "Listen?" The word came sharp, bitter. "Listen to what?"

Inazuma's voice dropped lower. "A proposition for your boss."

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Hardkour stood motionless at the edge of the Ronin HQ rooftop. Fuckin' bullet holes everywhere.

The emergency lights from the cleanup crews bathed the scene in bursts of red and blue, faintly reflecting off the fires still being extinguished. His katana sat silent against his back, hilt jutting out at an angle like it was just waiting for someone stupid enough to push him.

The real show—the PRT and the cops—had already come and gone. Slow to arrive, and quick to leave, just like they always were when shit went down in former ABB territory.

In and out, no lingering, no questions asked

Greg's eyes swept over the street below, lingering on the husks of luxury cars now warped into grotesque, blackened shapes. Melted frames, tires long gone, the whole thing a graveyard of what used to scream money.

His fists clenched at his sides, the reinforced leather creaking faintly.

He barely noticed.

Behind him, the murmurs of his captains pressed against his focus.

"They're fucking kids, yeah, but they gotta know this shit ain't light?" Wesley's voice came first, gravelly and too casual for the mess they were standing in. He sounded like he was asking about the weather, not a gang war. "Don't add up. Triad's too calculated for this."

"It's a statement," Joon's tone followed, smooth and measured, the kind of calm that made everything else feel louder. "they didn't expect to win. they expected to send a message."

"No shit," Seo growled, irritation bleeding through every word. "The question is, who's the message for? Us, or—"

"Lower your voices." Jonouchi cut through, sharp, precise, like a slap. "The Tenryu hasn't said a word."

Greg didn't react, in his own head. It took me minutes to get here.

His eye twitched. Minutes.

Minutes for their base to be wrecked to shit.

He let their voices fade, his attention fixed on the barricade of Hummers that Seo told him had once stood defiantly across the street. Now, all that remained was a twisted pile of scrap metal. Bright yellow-clad firefighters swarmed the scene, trying to smother the stubborn flames that refused to die.

This is what they wanted.

The thought sat in the back of his head, heavy and sour. It didn't want to leave. His gut churned as his eyes dragged upward, away from the wreckage and back to the street. nothing but chaos. cleanup crews moving like ants, bright jackets flashing as they worked around the mess.

The talk behind him softened but didn't stop. Still there, quieter now, like they knew he wasn't tuned in but couldn't help themselves.

Greg turned anyway.

His gaze shifted to them—his captains—for the first time tonight.

The costumes should've stood out. It was the first time he'd seen them like this, all suited up and ready for war. But between everything else going on tonight, they barely registered.

Seo leaned against the rooftop railing, arms crossed tight. If someone didn't know better, they'd think he looked relaxed. Greg did know better.

The white tactical jacket clung to him, black tiger stripes stretching over his shoulders and down his sleeves. Flashes of light caught on his mask—a polycarbonate design, sharp-edged and sleek, with a tiger's face etched into it. It should've been impressive, something you couldn't look away from, but it pissed Greg off.

It hid too much.

Couldn't see Seo's expression. Couldn't see the jaw clenching, the brows furrowed. But the tension was there, thick and sharp, like another person standing next to him.

"You think the PRT'll be back?" Wesley asked, his voice cutting through the quiet. He stood there, the massive sledgehammer resting casually across his shoulder.

Joon snorted, soft and dismissive. "They've got enough on their plate without us. Just more gang violence — they'd rather we kill each other off."

"That's exactly what it is," Seo muttered, his voice tight with frustration. "Only difference is, we're the target."

Wesley jabbed back, tone lighter than the situation deserved. "PRT cleared out fast. I don't think they liked what they saw."

Joon answered before Seo could. "Neither did the cops. They don't stick around when they're out of their depth."

"They don't give a shit about our turf unless there's a cape to bring in," Seo growled. "That's the only reason they left without asking questions."

Jonouchi's voice cut through the rest, calm and precise, like it was the final word. "They have made it clear we are not their priority. Simple."

Greg's eyes flicked over to them again, landing on the biggest of the group.

Wesley.

He stood there, towering like a wall, the sledgehammer slung over one shoulder as if it weighed nothing. The bright red of his sleeveless armored motorcycle jacket was loud—too loud against the black trim—but it suited him in the worst way. His broad shoulders caught the firelight, muscles casting heavy shadows that only made him look bigger.

And the helmet. Of course.

The visor reflected the distant flames, glowing faintly as he shifted. Greg felt the familiar tug of irritation, the urge to roll his eyes bubbling up even in the middle of this mess. Of course Wesley picked the loudest colors possible.

Joon stood near the edge of the group, looking way too polished for the scene they were in. everything about him screamed tactical catalog cover model—clean-cut, spotless. His black-and-blue jacket didn't even have a speck of dust on it, the sharp lines of the fabric somehow standing out against the chaos around them. Matching gloves hung loosely behind his back, like he was waiting for someone to shake hands with.

Then there was the mask. angular, sharp-edged, and entirely blue, it hid his face but not the energy he carried. Composed, straight-backed, like this was a corporate meeting and not a post-apocalyptic street fight.

Greg tried to figure out how the hell the guy pulled that off.

Finally, Jonouchi stood off to the side, just far enough to make it feel like he wasn't really part of the group but still watching everything. The golden dragon etched into his mask gleamed faintly whenever the light hit it, the design carrying over to his sleeveless black jacket. It looked deliberate, like everything about him—practiced intimidation that made it impossible to tell if he was about to strike or just stand there forever.

His movements were small, disciplined, conserving energy even now. The yellow-tinted visor covering his eyes gave him a predator's look, gleaming faintly as his head turned toward the skyline.

Greg exhaled softly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. They're leaning into this whole cape aesthetic harder than I thought.

His gaze flicked between them again, the polished, intimidating uniforms somehow fitting perfectly against the aftermath around them. Looks good, though. Better than I expected for only a week in.

Below, the last of the fires finally gave up, the flames replaced by thick trails of smoke winding into the night sky. a few civilians lingered behind the barricades cops had set up earlier. Their voices were low, hushed whispers barely audible over the sounds of the cleanup crews.

Greg's gaze drifted upward, past the wreckage and toward the skyline. The faint lights of the city stretched out endlessly, blurring into the haze above the horizon.

"Boss."

Seo's voice cut through the quiet, low and steady as he stepped closer. Greg didn't look at him, keeping his eyes on the city lights.

"We need to talk."

Greg's jaw tightened slightly, but he didn't answer right away. The wreckage below told the story well enough: the gangs working together, their capes backing them up. The message wasn't subtle.

"They want to do business in the bay," Greg said finally. He turned his head just enough to meet Seo's gaze through the faint glow of his own mask.

"And they are willing to work with us?"

Seo nodded, his stance shifting slightly, arms still crossed as if bracing for something. "That's what they said."

Greg let the silence stretch for a moment, his gaze flicking back to the skyline. A hard frown tugged at the corner of his mouth, hidden beneath the mask.

"Yeah, no. Fuck that."