paint my scars beautiful

⚜️

Hokuto’s hand trembles slightly as he pours another shot of cheap whiskey. The amber liquid sloshes against the glass, nearly spilling over the rim. He steadies himself, focusing on the simple task, trying to ignore the weight of eyes tracking his every movement across the dilapidated karaoke bar.

“More ice,” Takashi grunts, sliding his glass forward.

Hokuto nods, reaching for the plastic bucket.

The ice cubes clink against each other, the sound amplified in the momentary lull of conversation. July heat presses in through the broken air conditioning, making the abandoned karaoke bar feel like a pressure cooker despite the late hour. Sweat trickles down his spine, dampening the back of his thin t-shirt.

“Hey, pretty boy.” Ryo’s voice cuts through the humid air. “Bring that bottle over here.”

Hokuto obeys, crossing the room with measured steps. The floorboards creak beneath his feet, each sound marking his progress toward the corner booth where Ryo lounges like a self-appointed king. The leather upholstery is cracked and peeling, but Ryo treats it like a throne nonetheless.

“What the fuck are you looking at, Takashi?” Ryo suddenly barks, his left eye—perpetually half-closed—narrowing even further.

Hokuto freezes mid-step, bottle clutched against his chest. He doesn’t turn around, he doesn’t need to. He knows exactly what Takashi was looking at.

“Nothing, boss,” Takashi mumbles, the ice in his glass rattling as he probably shifts uncomfortably.

“Didn’t look like nothing.” Ryo’s voice drops dangerously low. “Looked like you were eyeing what belongs to me.”

The familiar possessive pronoun makes Hokuto’s skin crawl. What, not who. He forces himself to continue walking, to place the bottle on the table with steady hands.

The neon sign outside flickers, casting the room in alternating shadows and sickly green light. For a moment, Ryo’s face looks like something from a nightmare—all sharp angles and cruel intention.

“I wasn’t—” Takashi begins.

“Shut up.” Ryo grabs Hokuto’s wrist, yanking him down onto the torn vinyl seat. “Sit.”

Hokuto complies, his body following orders while his mind drifts elsewhere. He’s learned this survival tactic over the past three years—be present enough to respond, absent enough to endure.

Ryo’s arm snakes around Hokuto’s waist, fingers digging possessively into his hip. “You all remember that raid last week? The one by the station?”

Shimada, ever the loyal Lieutenant, straightens up from his slouched position against the wall. “Yeah, boss. That was some impressive shit.”

“Damn right it was.” Ryo’s chest puffs up. “Show them the article.”

Shimada reaches into his back pocket, producing a folded newspaper clipping. The paper is already worn at the creases, evidence of how many times it’s been unfolded and passed around. He smooths it out on the sticky tabletop with something approaching reverence.

“See that?” Ryo jabs a finger at the headline: Late-Night Raid Leaves Shimokitazawa Shop Owners Demanding Increased Police Presence. “That’s us making our mark.”

Hokuto stares at the article, reading between the lines. The description mentions masked perpetrators, organized tactics, precision timing. Nothing like the chaotic, impulsive Orphans.

His gaze catches on a detail—a signature tag left at the scene, described but not pictured. A crescent moon with three stars.

The Moonrunners. The gang from Suginami City, known for their calculated strikes and distinctive graffiti tag. Hokuto had heard whispers about them from customers at the convenience store before Ryo decided he shouldn’t work there anymore.

“They’re saying we’re the most dangerous gang in the area now,” Ryo continues, voice swelling with unearned pride.

Hokuto keeps his face carefully blank, eyes downcast. It wasn’t you. It wasn’t any of you.

The thought sits dangerous in his mind, a secret he knows better than to voice. The Orphans barely qualify as a gang—thirty members strong at most, more talk than action, more delusion than danger.

“To the Orphans!” Shimada raises his glass, eyes gleaming with reflected neon. “Making Shimokitazawa tremble!”

The others join in the toast, alcohol sloshing over glass rims as they knock drinks together.

The karaoke bar feels smaller tonight, the walls pressing in like a slowly closing trap. Through the grimy window, Hokuto catches glimpses of real life—people hurrying past, umbrellas tilted against the summer drizzle, neon signs blurring into watercolor smears. A world moving forward while he remains static, trapped in this purgatory of someone else’s making.

“Hey.” Ryo’s breath is hot against his ear, sour with cheap alcohol. “You’re looking distracted. Something more interesting out there than in here?”

“No,” Hokuto whispers, turning away from the window. “Nothing at all.”

Ryo drains his glass and slams it down hard enough to make the others flinch. “Alright, show’s over. Get your asses back out there. We’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

The command cuts through the smoky haze of the room. Orphans begin to stir, downing drinks and gathering jackets. Hokuto watches their familiar ritual—the straightening of shoulders, the practiced swagger, the transformation from drunken boys to would-be gangsters.

“Shimada, take Takashi and check on that record shop. Make sure they remember what happens when protection payments come in late.” Ryo’s fingers drum against Hokuto’s hip, the rhythm irregular and impatient. “The rest of you—spread out. Be visible. Make sure everyone in Shimokita knows who runs these streets.”

The words are so hollow they almost echo. Hokuto stares at a water stain on the ceiling, shaped vaguely like the map of Japan. He’s memorized every crack and imperfection in this room over three years of captivity disguised as salvation.

“Not you,” Ryo says as Hokuto automatically begins to rise. “I want to celebrate with my pet tonight.”

The possessive term lands like a physical weight on Hokuto’s shoulders. He remains seated as the others file out, their eyes carefully averted. Only Takashi risks a final glance back, something unreadable flickering across his face before Shimada yanks him through the door.

The room empties, leaving behind the lingering smell of cigarettes, spilled alcohol, and too many bodies in too small a space. Outside, rain continues to fall, pattering against windows filmed with years of grime. Hokuto watches a droplet trace a meandering path down the glass, wishing he could follow it out into the night.

“What are you thinking about?” Ryo’s voice drops to what he probably imagines is seductive. He shifts Hokuto in one fluid motion until Hokuto is sitting across his lap, their faces uncomfortably close.

“Nothing important,” Hokuto murmurs, the practical response automatic as breathing.

“Good.” Ryo’s hands slide under Hokuto’s shirt, palms hot against cool skin. “You know what day it is?”

Hokuto searches his memory. Not Ryo’s birthday. Not any gang anniversary he can recall. “Tuesday?”

Ryo laughs, the sound grating. “Three years ago today. That’s when I found you, remember? Huddled in that doorway during the storm, soaking wet, looking like a drowned cat.”

The memory surfaces unwillingly. Rain much heavier than tonight’s gentle drizzle. The crushing realization that his wallet was gone—stolen while he slept on a park bench. The growing awareness that Tokyo had no interest in another dreamer with empty pockets.

“You were pathetic,” Ryo continues, his lips brushing against Hokuto’s neck. “No money. No ID. No place to go. What would have happened to you if I hadn’t stepped in?”

Hokuto closes his eyes. “I don’t know.”

“You’d be dead.” Ryo bites down gently on the tender skin where neck meets shoulder. “Or worse. I saved you.”

Saved me for what? The thought flares bright and dangerous before Hokuto carefully extinguishes it.

“I know,” he whispers instead. “I’m grateful.”

“Are you?” Ryo pulls back, studying Hokuto’s face with uncharacteristic intensity. His perpetually half-closed eye gives him a skeptical expression even when he’s sincere. “Sometimes I wonder.”

Alarm ripples through Hokuto’s body. Ryo questioning his gratitude never leads anywhere good.

He reaches up, touches Ryo’s face in a gesture he’s learned looks like affection. “Of course I am,” he says, forcing warmth into his voice. “You gave me shelter when I had nothing. You protected me.”

The words taste like ash, but they have the desired effect. Ryo’s expression softens, his ego soothed by the familiar litany of praise.

“That’s right,” he murmurs, hands moving to Hokuto’s hips. “I take care of what’s mine.”

He guides Hokuto off his lap, positioning him until Hokuto is kneeling between his legs on the sticky floor. The neon sign outside flickers again, casting the room in momentary darkness before flooding it with sickly green light.

“Why don’t you show me how grateful you are?” Ryo’s hand moves to the back of Hokuto’s head, fingers tangling in his hair. “On your knees is where you belong anyway.”

Hokuto stares at the worn denim of Ryo’s jeans, at the belt buckle that’s left bruises on his skin more times than he can count. The room seems to tilt slightly, reality blurring at the edges as his mind prepares to retreat to that quiet, distant place it goes during these moments.

Outside, the rain intensifies, drumming against the roof like impatient fingers. A car passes, headlights briefly illuminating the room before plunging it back into shadow. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbles—a summer storm gathering strength.

Hokuto reaches for Ryo’s belt, his movements mechanical and practiced. His mind drifts upward, hovering somewhere near that water stain on the ceiling, watching himself from a distance as his hands work at the buckle.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his grip tightening in Hokuto’s hair. “Show me how thankful you are.”

The sound of frantic knocking cuts through the room like a gunshot. Hokuto’s hands freeze on Ryo’s belt, relief washing over him in a wave so powerful he almost sways.

“What the fuck?” Ryo growls, his fingers tightening painfully in Hokuto’s hair before shoving him backward.

Hokuto lands hard on his tailbone, palms slapping against the sticky floor to catch himself.

The knocking continues, more urgent now.

“Boss! Boss!” Shimada’s voice is pitched higher than usual.

Ryo’s face contorts with rage. “Whoever’s on the other side of that door better be fucking dying.” He zips his pants with angry, jerking motions, then points at Hokuto. “Get up. Open it.”

Hokuto rises on unsteady legs, his knees aching from the hard floor. His mind slowly returns to his body, that distant, floating feeling receding like fog under morning sun. He crosses to the door, each step bringing him more firmly back into himself.

When he pulls it open, Shimada nearly falls into the room, breathless and wide-eyed. Rain glistens on his jacket, his hair plastered to his forehead.

“The Warriors,” he pants.

The name alone carries enough weight to make Hokuto’s stomach drop. Even in his sheltered existence, he’s heard of them—the gang from Nakano, ruthlessly efficient and genuinely dangerous in ways the Orphans could only pretend to be.

“What about them?” Ryo demands, standing now, irritation warring with interest on his face.

“They’re here. In Shimokitazawa.” Shimada’s words tumble out in a rush. “Takashi spotted them coming out of Good Heavens Bar. Some kind of deal went down. Five of them—including their Warlord. They’re heading this way, boss. They’ll pass right by us.”

The change in Ryo is immediate and disturbing. His annoyance vanishes, replaced by a hungry gleam that Hokuto recognizes all too well—the look he gets when he thinks an opportunity for glory has presented itself.

“The Warriors,” Ryo repeats, savoring the name. “In our territory.”

Hokuto watches the delusion take hold, sees the moment when Ryo’s perception detaches completely from reality. In Ryo’s mind, the Orphans are already transforming from what they are—a collection of lost boys playing at being gangsters—into what they are not: a force to be reckoned with.

“Get everyone,” Ryo ordered Shimada. “Everyone. I want them here in five minutes. We’re gonna block their path.”

Shimada hesitates, a flicker of sanity crossing his features. “Block the Warriors?”

“You heard me.” Ryo’s voice drops dangerously. “This is our territory. They need to learn some respect.”

This is suicide, Hokuto thinks, the words so clear in his mind he almost fears he’s spoken them aloud. But Ryo isn’t looking at him; his attention is fixed entirely on Shimada.

“Go. Now.” Ryo’s command leaves no room for argument.

Shimada nods, casting one last uncertain glance at Hokuto before disappearing back into the rain.

Ryo turns, and the expression on his face makes Hokuto take an involuntary step backward. There’s something feverish in his eyes, a kind of manic energy that spells danger for everyone in his orbit.

“This is it,” Ryo says, more to himself than to Hokuto. “This is how we make our name. The gang that stood up to the Warriors.”

The gang that got destroyed by the Warriors, Hokuto corrects silently. He's heard enough stories, snippets of conversation from the Orphans, rumors that filter through Shimokitazawa’s narrow streets. The Warriors aren’t just another gang—they’re organized, disciplined, and utterly merciless to those who challenge them.

“Let’s go,” Ryo orders, grabbing his jacket from the back of a chair.

Hokuto blinks. “Me?”

“Yes, you.” Ryo’s grin is sharp-edged and unpleasant. “You’re coming with us.”

Fear spikes through Hokuto’s chest. In three years, Ryo has never involved him in gang business—has kept him deliberately isolated, a possession to be displayed and used in private, hidden away during anything resembling Orphans’ official activities.

“But I don’t—”

Ryo crosses the room in two quick strides, his hand closing around Hokuto’s upper arm with bruising force. “I didn’t ask what you want. You’re coming with me.” He leans in close, his breath hot against Hokuto’s ear. “It’s time you see what I’ve built. What you belong to.”

Hokuto doesn’t resist as Ryo drags him toward the door. What would be the point? Three years of captivity have taught him the futility of direct opposition.

Outside, the rain has intensified, washing Shimokitazawa’s streets in sheets of water that reflect the neon signs in fractured, dancing light. Orphans materialize from doorways and side streets, converging on the karaoke bar with a mixture of excitement and apprehension.

Ryo pulls Hokuto close, arm wrapped possessively around his waist as they step into the downpour. “Watch and learn, pet. Tonight, everyone will know the Orphans aren’t to be fucked with.”

Water soaks through Hokuto’s thin shirt, plastering it to his skin. He shivers, though not from cold. Something is shifting, some invisible balance tipping. He can feel it in the electric charge of the air, in the nervous energy of the gathering Orphans, in the iron grip of Ryo’s fingers against his ribs.

“There,” Takashi hisses, pointing down the rain-slicked street.

Five figures materialize through the downpour, moving with unhurried confidence despite the weather. They walk in a loose formation that nonetheless suggests practiced coordination.

Hokuto finds himself cataloging each one.

On the far left walks a broad-shouldered man with a purposeful stride. His steps are measured and sure, shoulders squared against the rain.

Beside him is a taller figure, his gait more fluid, almost casual. He carries a bottle of gin, swinging it lazily from two fingers. Despite his relaxed demeanor, there's something coiled in his movement, like a spring under tension.

On the far right walks a slim man with defined cheekbones visible even through the rain. He moves with a quiet grace, his eyes constantly scanning their surroundings.

To the immediate right of the central figure is a man of average height with an easy, rolling gait. There’s something steady about him, a grounding presence that makes the space around him seem calmer somehow.

But it’s the central figure who captures and holds Hokuto’s attention. Smaller than the others but commanding the space around him with an authority that needs no physical intimidation. He walks with measured steps, unhurried yet purposeful. Rain streams down his face, but he makes no move to wipe it away. His eyes—dark and steady—survey the scene before him with detached assessment.

The Warlord.

A chill that has nothing to do with the rain ripples through Hokuto. He’s seen powerful men before—Ryo pretends to be one—but this is different. This man doesn’t need to convince anyone of his authority. It simply is.

Despite himself, Hokuto shrinks back, putting more of Ryo’s body between himself and the approaching Warriors. His instinct for self-preservation screams at him to run, to disappear into the labyrinthine alleys of Shimokitazawa. But Ryo’s fingers dig into his arm, holding him in place like an anchor.

The Warriors continue their advance, seeming to take no special notice of the Orphans blocking their path. Water splashes beneath their boots, the sound unnaturally loud in the sudden hush that has fallen over the street.

“What do we have here?” The tall one with the gin bottle finally breaks the silence, his voice carrying easily through the rainfall. He takes a casual swig from the bottle, his eyes sweeping over the assembled Orphans with amused disdain.

The Warlord says nothing, just continues his steady assessment. His gaze moves from face to face, cataloging, memorizing.

When his eyes briefly meet Hokuto’s, something shifts in his expression—so subtle Hokuto might have imagined it.

Hokuto looks away quickly, focusing instead on the puddle forming around his shoes. Water ripples outward in concentric circles as raindrops hit its surface. He counts them silently, trying to calm his racing heart.

Ryo steps forward, dragging Hokuto with him. “You’re on Orphans territory,” he announces, his voice pitched louder than necessary. “We don’t remember inviting the Warriors to Shimokitazawa.”

The silence that follows feels charged, dangerous. Hokuto risks a glance upward to find the Warlord studying Ryo with the dispassionate interest one might give an unusual insect.

“Orphans,” the Warlord finally says, the word neutral in his mouth, neither question nor acknowledgment. His voice is surprisingly melodic, with a quality that cuts through the rain without shouting.

The Lieutenant shifts slightly, positioning himself at a better angle to the Warlord’s right. The movement is subtle but speaks volumes about their dynamic—always protecting, always ready.

“That’s right.” Ryo puffs out his chest. “This is our territory. You’re trespassing.”

Hokuto winces at the childish bravado in Ryo’s voice. Does he really not see what’s standing before him? These aren’t boys playing at being gangsters. These are men who’ve fought and bled for their positions, who carry violence in their stance like a second skin.

The rain intensifies, drumming against the pavement in a deafening roar. Lightning flashes, briefly illuminating the scene in stark white light—the Orphans, uncertain and damp; the Warriors, unmoved and imposing.

In that flash, Hokuto sees the Warlord’s face clearly for the first time, and the sight steals his breath.

Beautiful isn’t the right word—too soft, too simple. The Warlord’s features are sharp, almost delicate, but there’s nothing delicate about the cold assessment in his eyes or the set of his jaw. This is beauty weaponized, refined into something dangerous.

Hokuto shrinks further behind Ryo, torn between fear and a strange, unwelcome fascination. He shouldn’t be noticing such things. Not now. Not with tension crackling in the air like the lightning overhead.

The Warlord tilts his head slightly, raindrops sliding down his jaw. “We’re just passing through,” he says, voice neutral but carrying a subtle edge. “Heading back to our cars.”

The simplicity of the statement seems to catch Ryo off-guard. Hokuto feels the momentary tension in Ryo’s body, the slight loosening of his grip as his mind recalibrates. The Warriors aren’t here for territory. They aren’t here for the Orphans at all. They’re just... walking.

But Ryo recovers quickly, his fingers digging deeper into Hokuto’s arm. “Nobody crosses Orphans territory without paying the toll,” he declares, raising his chin in what Hokuto recognizes as his practiced tough-guy pose.

The statement hangs in the rain-soaked air, absurd in its audacity. Hokuto’s stomach twists with secondhand embarrassment and genuine fear. Does Ryo truly not understand who he’s challenging?

“A toll.” The Warlord repeats the word without inflection, his expression unchanging. Water streams down his face, but he makes no move to wipe it away.

“That’s right,” Ryo says, emboldened by the lack of immediate retaliation. “Or we can settle this another way.” He gestures vaguely toward the assembled Orphans, who shift uncomfortably.

The Warriors remain unmoved, their stillness more intimidating than any threat. The broad-shouldered one on the left rolls his shoulders almost imperceptibly, a casual movement that nonetheless speaks of readiness. The unpredictable one with the gin bottle takes another swig, his eyes gleaming with something that looks disturbingly like anticipation.

“You know,” Ryo continues, his voice taking on that mocking edge Hokuto has learned to dread, “I always wondered why the Warriors followed someone like you.” He waves dismissively at the Warlord. “Pretty boy like that—looks more like he belongs in a host club than running a gang.”

Hokuto’s breath catches in his throat. Oh god. Oh no. He wishes he could disappear, melt into the rain and wash away down a storm drain. Anywhere but here, witnessing this disaster unfold.

The Warlord’s expression doesn’t change. Neither does his Lieutenant’s, though something flickers in his eyes—not anger, but something closer to weary recognition, as if he’s heard this particular insult a hundred times before.

The silence stretches, broken only by the steady drumming of rain. Then, almost imperceptibly, the downpour begins to lighten. Droplets that had been falling in sheets now come in a gentle patter, then individual drops, spaced further and further apart.

When the Warlord finally speaks, his voice is calm, almost conversational. “We’ve heard some interesting things about the Orphans.”

The shift in topic is so unexpected that Ryo blinks in confusion. “What?”

“Rumors,” the Warlord continues, his gaze sweeping over the assembled gang members before returning to Ryo. “About how you operate in Shimokitazawa.”

The rain stops completely, as if on cue. Water drips from awnings and gutters, the only remnants of the downpour. In the sudden absence of rainfall, the silence feels oppressive.

“Extorting local businesses,” the Warlord says, ticking off points on his fingers with casual precision. “Harassing civilians. Claiming territory you can’t actually defend.” His eyes shift briefly to Hokuto, then back to Ryo. “Keeping someone against their will.”

Each accusation lands like a physical blow. Hokuto feels exposed, as if the Warlord has somehow seen through the careful façade he’s maintained for three years. His cheeks burn despite the cool night air, shame and hope warring within him. How could he know?

Ryo’s grip on Hokuto’s arm tightens painfully. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he spits, but there’s a new note in his voice—uncertainty mixing with bravado.

“Don’t I?” The Warlord’s gaze flicks to Hokuto again, lingering this time. There’s something in that look—not pity, but recognition. Understanding.

Hokuto’s heart hammers against his ribs. He wants to look away but can’t. For three years, he’s been invisible—a possession, not a person.

But the Warlord sees him. Actually sees him.

“This is Orphans business,” Ryo insists, pulling Hokuto closer, using him as both shield and trophy. “Our territory. Our rules.”

The Warlord’s eyes never leave Hokuto’s face. “Is it?” he asks quietly.

The question hangs in the damp air between them. Hokuto isn’t sure if the Warlord is asking about the territory or something else entirely. All he knows is that something has shifted, some invisible balance tipping. The rain has stopped, but the electricity in the air remains.

“You know nothing about us,” Ryo snarls, yanking Hokuto closer like a child clutching a favored toy. “The Orphans run Shimokitazawa. Everyone here knows it. Everyone respects us.”

The Warlord’s expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his eyes—a cold amusement that makes Hokuto’s skin prickle.

“Respect?” The Warlord lets the word hang in the damp air. His gaze flicks to Ryo’s hand gripping Hokuto’s arm, then back to Ryo’s face. “Real men don’t need to parade their possessions to prove their worth. But then again—” his voice drops, soft enough that only those closest can hear “—real men don’t need to force others to kneel for them either.”

The words land with devastating precision. Hokuto feels Ryo’s body go rigid against him, feels the exact moment when rage overtakes reason. Ryo’s face contorts, ugly with humiliation and fury.

“You fucking—” Ryo doesn’t finish. Instead, he shoves Hokuto violently away, as if suddenly disgusted by his presence.

Hokuto stumbles backward, feet slipping on the wet pavement. His arms windmill uselessly as he tries to catch his balance, but momentum carries him down. He lands hard, palms slapping against puddles, water soaking through his jeans. Pain shoots up from his tailbone.

Everything happens at once after that.

Ryo lunges toward the Warlord, a wild haymaker telegraphed so clearly it might as well have been announced. The Warlord simply steps aside, letting Ryo’s momentum carry him forward into empty air.

As Ryo stumbles past, the Warlord’s elbow comes down sharply between his shoulder blades, driving him face-first into the wet pavement.

The street erupts into chaos.

Orphans surge forward in a disorganized wave. The Warriors move with practiced precision, each one engaging multiple opponents without apparent concern.

Hokuto tries to scramble backward, away from the melee, but his hands slip in the puddles. Before he can regain his balance, someone grabs his arm—not roughly, but firmly. He flinches instinctively, expecting pain.

“This way,” says a calm voice.

Hokuto looks up to find the Warriors’ Lieutenant crouched beside him, his expression concerned but controlled. Without waiting for a response, he pulls Hokuto to his feet and guides him toward the edge of the street, placing himself between Hokuto and the fight.

“Stay here,” the Lieutenant says, positioning Hokuto against a wall. His eyes are kind but serious. “When you see an opening, run. Get away from here.”

Hokuto stares at him, bewildered by this unexpected assistance. “Why are you—”

The Lieutenant’s attention shifts abruptly. In one fluid motion, he pivots, arm extending to catch an Orphan mid-tackle. The move looks almost gentle, like redirecting a wayward child, but the effect is devastating. The Orphan’s own momentum becomes a weapon against him as the Lieutenant guides him face-first into the wall beside Hokuto.

The Orphan—Takashi, Hokuto realizes—slides to the ground, dazed and bleeding from his nose.

“You deserve better than this,” the Lieutenant says to Hokuto, so matter-of-factly it takes a moment for the words to register. Then he turns and rejoins the fight, leaving Hokuto pressed against the wall, heart hammering against his ribs.

The battle unfolds before him like some violent street performance. Each Warrior moves with distinct purpose, their fighting styles as different as their personalities.

The broad-shouldered fighter that Hokuto had first noticed is a hurricane of controlled violence. He doesn’t waste movement, doesn’t showboat. Each punch is deliberate, economical, designed to incapacitate rather than show off. Three Orphans surround him, and he dispatches them with methodical efficiency, never seeming rushed or concerned.

The unpredictable one with the gin bottle fights like he’s at a party rather than a street brawl. He laughs as he dodges punches, his movements fluid and almost dance-like. The bottle becomes a prop in his performance—sometimes a distraction, sometimes a weapon. He seems to be enjoying himself immensely, calling out encouragement to his opponents even as he lays them out on the wet pavement.

The quiet one with the sharp cheekbones moves like water, flowing around attacks rather than meeting them head-on. His style is defensive, redirecting rather than initiating, but no less effective for it. Hokuto watches him guide an Orphan’s momentum into another attacker, causing them to collide painfully.

The Lieutenant is perhaps the most balanced fighter, combining strength with technique. He seems to anticipate his opponent’s moves before they make them, always a step ahead, always in the right position. There’s something protective in his stance, too—he continually repositions to keep the others’ backs covered, a guardian as much as a fighter.

But it’s the Warlord who commands Hokuto’s attention. He fights with cold precision, each movement exact and purposeful. Unlike the others, who engage multiple opponents, he focuses solely on Ryo. It’s not a fight so much as a systematic dismantling. The Warlord doesn’t seem angry or even particularly exerted—he simply takes Ryo apart piece by piece, exploiting every weakness, countering every desperate attack.

He’s teaching him a lesson, Hokuto realizes, transfixed by the brutal efficiency of it. Not out of cruelty or revenge, but because it’s necessary—because some people only understand the language of pain.

Water drips from awnings overhead, the only remnant of the rain that had washed these streets clean just minutes ago. Hokuto’s clothes cling to his skin, cold and uncomfortable, but he barely notices. His eyes remain fixed on the unfolding battle, on the Warriors moving like a single organism with five distinct parts, on the Orphans falling one by one.

On the Warlord, who fights like he leads—with absolute conviction and zero hesitation.

The Warlord backs Ryo toward where Hokuto presses against the wall. Ryo’s face is a mess of blood and rainwater, his earlier bravado shattered like glass. He stumbles, nearly falling, desperation making his movements wild and uncoordinated.

Another Orphan—Shimada—rushes to help his leader, swinging a length of chain in wide, clumsy arcs. The tall Warrior sidesteps effortlessly, moving closer to Hokuto’s position. Shimada’s chain whips through empty air before wrapping around a nearby signpost with a metallic clang.

“Pathetic,” the tall one mutters, close enough now that Hokuto can smell the gin on his breath. “Not even worth the effort.”

The Warlord ducks under one of Ryo’s increasingly desperate punches, then drives his fist into Ryo’s solar plexus with surgical precision.

Ryo doubles over, gasping for air that won’t come, and crumples to his knees.

“This is a waste of time,” the Warlord says, his voice flat with boredom. He doesn’t even look at Ryo anymore. Instead, his gaze sweeps the street where the remaining Orphans still struggle against the other Warriors.

The fight continues around them, but the outcome is already clear. The Warriors are merely going through the motions now, toying with their opponents like cats with wounded mice. Pride has given way to desperation for the Orphans, their movements growing more frantic as the inevitability of defeat settles over them.

The tall one kicks Shimada’s legs out from under him, sending him sprawling face-first into a puddle. “Got any ideas to wrap this up faster, Taiga?” he asks the Warlord, rolling his shoulders. “I’m getting bored,”

Hokuto watches Taiga’s—the Warlord—eyes narrow slightly—the first real expression he’s shown during the entire confrontation. His gaze drifts toward the abandoned karaoke bar across the street, the Orphans’ unofficial headquarters. Something calculates behind those dark eyes, a strategy forming.

“Give me your bottle, Jesse,” Taiga says, extending his hand without looking at the tall one.

The tall one—Jesse—raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Didn’t take you for a drinker mid-fight, Boss.” Despite his teasing, he hands over the half-empty gin bottle without hesitation.

Taiga unscrews the cap and takes out a lighter from his pocket. The motion is so casual it takes Hokuto a moment to understand what’s happening. By then, Taiga has already torn a strip from his own shirt and is stuffing it into the bottle’s neck.

A Molotov cocktail, Hokuto realizes, his stomach dropping. He’s going to burn it all down.

For three years, that karaoke bar has been both prison and sanctuary for Hokuto. The place where Ryo first brought him, promising protection in exchange for services rendered. The place where Hokuto learned to disappear inside himself during the worst moments. The place where he kept his few possessions—his notebooks, his pens, the dog-eared copy of the book of poems that he read whenever Ryo left him alone.

He should feel something at the thought of it burning—fear, perhaps, or even satisfaction. Instead, there’s only a hollow emptiness, as if he’s watching a scene from someone else’s life.

Taiga flicks the lighter, the flame dancing in the post-rain darkness. He touches it to the makeshift wick, which catches immediately. The cloth burns bright orange, illuminating his face from below in demonic light.

“What are you—” Ryo begins, finally regaining his breath. His eyes widen as understanding dawns.

Taiga ignores him completely. With one fluid motion, he hurls the flaming bottle toward the karaoke bar. It arcs through the night air, a comet of destruction, before crashing through one of the half-boarded windows.

The explosion is more sound than fury—a dull whump followed by the tinkling of broken glass. Then flames begin to lick at the window frame, hungry and eager.

The effect on the Orphans is immediate and electric. Heads turn, bodies freeze, and a collective cry of alarm rises above the sounds of combat.

“The bar!” someone shouts. “It’s burning!”

The fight forgotten, Orphans break away from their opponents and scatter toward the building. Some run to save their possessions, others simply flee into the night, not wanting to be associated with whatever comes next.

Ryo staggers to his feet, his face a mask of disbelief and rage. “You—you can’t—” he sputters, but there’s nothing behind the words. No threat, no authority. Just the hollow protests of a man watching his small kingdom crumble.

Hokuto watches the flames spread, consuming the peeling paint and rotted wood with voracious appetite. Black smoke billows into the night sky, carrying with it the ashes of three years of his life. The notebooks filled with his private thoughts. The small treasures he’d collected. The hiding places he’d found when things got bad.

All of it, burning.

And yet, as he stands there watching, Hokuto feels something unexpected unfurling in his chest—not grief, but a strange, wild relief. The flames are destroying everything, yes, but they’re also setting him free. Burning away the ties that have bound him to this place, to these people, to the person he was forced to become.

The Orphans are finished. Their headquarters in flames, their leader humiliated, their reputation shattered beyond repair. Whatever happens next, nothing will be the same.

Where do I go?

The question hits him with sudden, brutal clarity. For three years, his world has been defined by Ryo’s commands and the karaoke bar’s walls. Now both are gone, leaving him untethered in the night.

Hokuto takes a tentative step forward, then another. His legs feel strange beneath him, as if they belong to someone else.

I could go anywhere.

The thought is terrifying and exhilarating all at once. He could find a quiet corner to sleep tonight, then figure out the rest tomorrow. Maybe head back to Shizuoka, though the thought of facing his parents after all this time makes his stomach clench.

He’s so lost in these thoughts that he doesn’t notice Ryo until a hand clamps around his wrist, fingers digging into the soft flesh with bruising force.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Ryo’s voice is ragged, his face a mess of blood and humiliation. His eyes dart wildly between Hokuto and the Warriors, who stand watching the confrontation with varying degrees of interest.

“Let go of me.” Hokuto’s voice comes out steadier than he expects, fueled by something new and fragile taking root inside him.

Ryo’s grip tightens painfully. “You’re mine,” he hisses, pulling Hokuto closer. His breath reeks of blood and desperation. “You think they want you? You think anyone else would take you in? You’re nothing without me.”

The words are familiar—Ryo’s favorite weapons, designed to cut deep and remind Hokuto of his place. But tonight, with the karaoke bar burning and the Warriors watching, they sound different. Hollow. Pathetic.

“I said let go.” Hokuto twists his arm, trying to break free.

The slap comes fast and hard, snapping his head to the side. Pain blooms across his cheek, hot and sharp. Before he can recover, Ryo shoves him backward, then follows with a vicious kick to his ribs that sends him sprawling onto the wet pavement.

Not again, Hokuto thinks, curling instinctively to protect himself from the next blow. Please, not again.

But the blow never comes.

Instead, there’s a blur of movement, and suddenly Ryo is flying backward, his feet leaving the ground entirely before he crashes into a nearby vending machine with enough force to dent the metal.

Taiga stands over him, expression unchanged despite the violence of his action. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t posture. He simply waits for Ryo to struggle back to his feet before methodically taking him apart.

Each punch lands with surgical precision—jaw, solar plexus, kidney. Taiga doesn’t waste energy on theatrics. He doesn’t need to. Every movement communicates absolute control, absolute dominance.

Ryo tries to fight back, throwing wild, desperate punches that Taiga doesn’t even bother to block. He simply isn’t there when the blows should land, moving with an economy of motion that makes Ryo look clumsy and slow by comparison.

“You have nothing now,” Taiga says, his voice quiet but carrying in the night air as he drives his fist into Ryo’s stomach. “No territory.” Another punch, this one to Ryo’s already-broken nose. “No respect.” A brutal uppercut that lifts Ryo onto his tiptoes. “No power.”

Ryo crumples to his knees, blood pouring from his nose and mouth. He looks small suddenly, diminished in a way that has nothing to do with his physical position.

Taiga looks down at him, expression cold. “The stray cat is under the Warriors now.”

Ryo spits blood onto the pavement. For a moment, Hokuto thinks he might try to fight again—his body tenses, shoulders hunching forward—but then something breaks in him. The last of his defiance drains away, replaced by naked fear.

He scrambles backward, away from Taiga, away from the burning bar, away from the wreckage of his reputation. Then he’s on his feet, staggering into the darkness, not looking back.

Just like that, it’s over. Three years of his life, ended in a street fight and a fire.

“Hey.” The voice is gentle, pulling Hokuto back to the present. The Lieutenant crouches beside him, concern etched across his features. “That looks like it hurts.”

Hokuto touches his cheek, wincing at the tenderness. “I’ve had worse.”

Something flickers in the Lieutenant’s eyes—understanding, maybe, or sympathy. “Let me help you up. We should get those ribs looked at.”

Hokuto hesitates, looking from the Lieutenant to Taiga, who stands watching the burning building with an unreadable expression.

“We’ve got a first aid kit back at headquarters,” the Lieutenant continues, offering his hand. “Patch you up properly.”

The kindness in his voice makes Hokuto’s throat tighten unexpectedly. He’s gone so long without genuine concern that he’s not sure how to respond to it.

“Why?” he asks, the word barely audible over the crackling flames.

The Lieutenant’s smile is small but genuine. “Because you need help. That’s reason enough. By the way, I’m Yugo,” he says, his hand still extended, patience in his eyes. “And you’re coming with us.”

It’s not quite a question, but not quite a command either. There’s space in his words for Hokuto to refuse, though what that refusal would mean remains unclear.

What choice do I have? The thought is bitter, but realistic. With the karaoke bar burning and Ryo gone, he has nowhere to go, no one to turn to. The Warriors might be dangerous, but right now they’re his only option.

Hokuto takes Yugo’s hand, wincing as the movement sends pain shooting through his ribs.

“Juri,” Yugo calls, not looking away from Hokuto. “Give us a hand here.”

The slim Warrior with the defined cheekbones approaches, his movements fluid and unhurried. Up close, his eyes are surprisingly gentle, at odds with the precision of his fighting.

“Can you stand?” Juri asks, his voice quiet.

Hokuto nods, though he’s not entirely sure. He tries to push himself upright, but his ribs protest sharply, and he can’t quite suppress a gasp of pain.

“Easy,” Yugo says, sliding an arm around his waist. “Juri, get his other side.”

Juri complies without comment, positioning himself on Hokuto’s left. Between them, they lift him carefully to his feet, supporting his weight when his legs threaten to buckle.

“I can walk,” Hokuto insists, though the world tilts alarmingly when he tries to take a step.

“Sure you can,” Yugo agrees amiably, not loosening his grip. “But humor us anyway.”

The other Warriors have gathered around Taiga, who stands a few feet away, watching the burning karaoke bar with detached interest. The flames have begun to die down, having consumed most of the building’s flammable exterior. The structure itself, made primarily of concrete and metal, remains standing, though blackened by smoke and scarred by fire.

Taiga turns away from the smoldering ruin, his eyes meeting Hokuto’s briefly before sliding away. There’s no emotion in that gaze, no triumph or satisfaction, just cool assessment. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a spray can, the metal catching the firelight as he shakes it with practiced ease.

“What’s he doing?” Hokuto asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

Yugo’s arm tightens slightly around his waist. “Marking territory.”

Taiga approaches the blackened wall of the karaoke bar, uncapping the spray can with a flick of his thumb. The hiss of the aerosol cuts through the night as he begins to paint, his movements quick and precise. The paint gleams wet and golden against the scorched surface—a large, stylized “W” that dominates the wall.

Warriors, Hokuto realizes, watching as Taiga steps back to examine his work.

“Shimokitazawa is Warrior territory now,” Yugo explains, confirming Hokuto’s thoughts. “The Orphans are finished.”

And what about me? Hokuto wants to ask, but the words stick in his throat. What happens to the stray cat now that he’s been claimed by new owners?

The spray can disappears back into Taiga’s jacket. He turns to face his gang, eyes sweeping over them before landing on Hokuto. For a moment, something flickers in those dark depths—not quite emotion, but perhaps a shadow of it.

“We’re done here,” Taiga announces, his voice carrying easily despite its low volume. “Let’s go.”

The Warriors move immediately, falling into formation around their leader with practiced ease. Hokuto watches them, these five men who dismantled his world so efficiently, and feels a strange mixture of fear and fascination.

“Can you make it to the car?” Yugo asks, adjusting his grip on Hokuto’s waist. “It’s not far.”

Hokuto nods, though his ribs throb with each breath and his legs still feel unsteady beneath him. Pride makes him want to walk on his own, to show these strangers that he’s not as weak as he appears, but reality keeps him leaning against Yugo’s solid support.

“Just a few blocks,” Juri adds, his voice soft and strangely reassuring. “Take it slow.”

They begin to move, Hokuto sandwiched between them, their steps measured to accommodate his painful shuffle. Behind them, the karaoke bar continues to smolder, the golden “W” gleaming like a brand against its blackened walls.

Warrior territory now, Hokuto thinks, casting one last glance over his shoulder at the ruins of his past life.

And what does that make me?

⚜️

The summer night air hits Hokuto's face as they emerge from the alley, the contrast between the heat of the burning building and the slight breeze making him shiver. Each step sends jolts of pain through his ribs, but he forces himself to keep moving, leaning heavily on Yugo and Juri.

“Just up ahead,” Yugo says, nodding toward a small parking lot tucked between two buildings.

Hokuto blinks in surprise as they approach. Two cars sit waiting in the shadows—not the stolen junkers or motorcycles the Orphans favored, but vehicles that look almost... legitimate.

The sleek lines of a modified Silvia catch the moonlight, its matte black paint absorbing the glow from nearby streetlamps. Beside it, a Crown sedan waits, less flashy but somehow more imposing with its dark windows and subtle presence.

The Warriors move with practiced efficiency. Shintaro, the broad-shouldered one, twirls a set of keys around his finger and heads for the Silvia.

“I’ll drive,” he announces, shooting a glance at Jesse. “You riding shotgun?”

Jesse grins, all wild energy despite the fight. “Hell yeah. Taiga, you’re with us.”

Taiga doesn’t respond verbally, just moves toward the car with that same measured pace, sliding into the back seat without comment. His face remains unreadable, eyes forward, thoughts locked away behind that mask of indifference.

“Guess that leaves us with the Crown,” Yugo says beside Hokuto, his arm still steady around Hokuto’s waist. “Can you manage a few more steps?”

Hokuto nods, though his legs feel increasingly unsteady. The adrenaline that kept him upright is fading, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion that makes even breathing seem like too much effort. But he forces himself forward, determined not to collapse in front of these strangers.

The Crown's back door swings open, and Yugo helps him toward it with Juri supporting his other side. The interior looks clean, almost new—nothing like the trash-filled vehicles Ryo occasionally acquired through dubious means.

“Careful with your head,” Juri murmurs as they maneuver him into the back seat.

The leather feels cool against Hokuto’s skin as he sinks into it, unable to suppress a small sigh of relief at being off his feet. His ribs throb in time with his heartbeat, and he presses a hand against his side, wondering if anything is broken or just badly bruised.

Juri slides into the passenger seat while Yugo circles around to the driver’s side. The car dips slightly as they settle in, and then the engine purrs to life—a smooth, well-maintained sound that speaks of care and attention.

These people aren’t like the Orphans at all, Hokuto thinks, watching as Yugo adjusts the mirrors with practiced movements. There's organization here. Purpose.

Through the windshield, he sees the Silvia’s taillights flare red as Shintaro starts the engine. The car pulls out of the lot with fluid grace, nothing like the jerky, amateur driving Hokuto had grown accustomed to with the Orphans.

“We’ll follow them back to headquarters,” Yugo says, glancing at Hokuto in the rearview mirror. “It’s about twenty minutes, depending on the traffic. Try to rest if you can.”

Rest seems impossible with his body aching and his mind racing, but Hokuto leans his head against the cool window anyway, watching as Shimokitazawa slides past. The neighborhood he’s known as a prison for three years looks different from this vantage point—smaller somehow, less threatening.

“You’re bleeding,” Juri observes, turning in his seat to look at Hokuto. “Your lip.”

Hokuto touches his mouth, fingers coming away red. He hadn’t even noticed. “I’ll be fine,” he says automatically, the response ingrained after years with Ryo.

Juri’s eyes linger on him for a moment longer, something like understanding flickering in their depths before he turns back to face the front.

The car follows the Silvia through the late-night streets, moving deeper into Tokyo. Hokuto watches the city transform around them—Shimokitazawa’s bohemian charm giving way to busier districts, neon signs reflecting off the Crown’s polished surface.

I haven’t left this neighborhood in three years, he realizes, a strange vertigo washing over him. The world beyond Ryo’s territory had begun to feel abstract, almost mythical. Now it rushes past his window, very real and achingly beautiful in its urban chaos.

“Where are we going?” he finally asks, his voice barely audible over the hum of the engine.

“Nakano,” Yugo answers, eyes on the road as he navigates through a yellow light. “Warriors territory.”

Nakano. Hokuto tries to remember what he knows about the area—fragments of information gleaned from overheard conversations and glimpses of news reports. The Warriors’ home turf. A place he’d never expected to see.

The memory of Taiga’s words suddenly surfaces in Hokuto’s mind. Under the Warriors now. Three simple words that had changed everything in an instant. He’d been so focused on the chaos—the fight, the fire, the escape—that he hadn’t fully processed what Taiga had declared to Ryo.

“Back there,” Hokuto says. “Your leader told Ryo that I’m... under the Warriors now.” He hesitates, uncertain how to phrase the question burning in his mind. “Does that mean I belong to your gang instead?”

The words hang in the air. Hokuto watches Yugo’s eyes in the rearview mirror, searching for some hint of what awaits him. Has he simply traded one owner for another?

Yugo’s gaze meets his briefly before returning to the road. “Taiga said what he needed to say for Ryo to back off. That’s all.” His voice is matter-of-fact but not unkind. “Whether you want to be one of the Warriors or not—that’s up to you.”

Up to me? The concept feels foreign, almost incomprehensible after three years of having every choice made for him. Hokuto stares out at the passing city lights, trying to absorb this unexpected freedom.

“No one owns anyone in the Warriors,” Juri adds, turning slightly in his seat. “That’s not how we operate.”

Hokuto’s fingers trace the edge of his seat belt, feeling the texture of the nylon strap as he considers their words. Choice. Freedom. Concepts that had become abstract, theoretical things during his time with the Orphans.

“I don’t...” he starts, then stops, reorganizing his thoughts. “I have nowhere else to go.” The admission comes out flat, a simple statement of fact rather than a plea for sympathy. “No money. No ID. Nothing.”

The car slows for a red light, and the sudden stillness amplifies the weight of his situation. Three years ago, he’d arrived in Tokyo with dreams and plans—a job that fell through, an apartment he couldn’t afford. Now he sits in a stranger’s car with nothing but the clothes on his back and bruises that map the geography of his captivity.

“You can stay for a while,” Juri says into the silence. “Get your bearings. Then leave when you’re ready.” His tone is casual, as though offering temporary shelter to a battered stranger is commonplace. “We’ve taken in strays before. Some stay, some go. No obligation either way.”

Strays. The word should sting, but instead, Hokuto finds it oddly comforting. Strays can find new homes. Strays can be taken in, cared for. Strays aren’t owned.

“Is that true?” he asks, directing the question at Yugo, who seems to be the more practical of the two.

Yugo nods, the movement visible even from behind. “We’re not saints, but we’re not monsters either. The Warriors have rules, principles.” He accelerates smoothly as the light changes. “You won’t be forced to do anything you don’t want to do.”

Something unfamiliar unfurls in Hokuto’s chest—a tentative, fragile thing he barely recognizes as hope. The sensation is so unexpected that he almost recoils from it, conditioned to expect disappointment.

“What would I do there?” he asks, trying to imagine fitting into this organized, purposeful gang after being little more than Ryo’s plaything.

Juri shrugs one shoulder. “Heal, first. Then we’ll see what you’re good at.”

What I’m good at. Hokuto hasn't thought about his skills or talents in so long. Before Tokyo, he’d been a decent writer, had dreams of running a bookstore someday. Those ambitions feel like they belonged to someone else now, a ghost from another life.

The car turns onto a wider street, and Hokuto watches a group of late-night revelers spill out of a bar, laughing and supporting each other. Normal people living normal lives. The sight makes his throat tighten with an emotion he can’t name.

“Is this real?” he asks quietly, not entirely meaning to speak aloud. “Or is there something you’re not telling me?”

The question hangs between them as the car continues through the night-drenched streets. Hokuto studies both men, looking for signs of deception. Three years with the Orphans has taught him that kindness always comes with a price, that nothing is ever freely given.

“I guess that’s something you'll have to decide for yourself,” Yugo says finally. “We can tell you how things work with us, but words are just words until you see for yourself.”

Hokuto nods slowly, understanding the truth in this. Trust isn’t something he can simply choose to give anymore—it’s been beaten and broken out of him too many times.

Yet as they drive deeper into Warriors territory, that fragile hope refuses to die. Maybe, just maybe, these people represent something he’d stopped believing in: a way out. Freedom. A chance to reclaim some part of himself that Ryo couldn’t destroy.

Or maybe it’s too good to be true—another trap with a different face.

The car slows as they turn onto a side street in Nakano, and Hokuto straightens slightly, wincing at the pull on his ribs. Ahead, the Silvia’s brake lights flare red as it approaches what looks like an industrial building—three stories of weathered brick with few windows visible from the street.

Is this their headquarters?

It’s nothing like he expected. No flashy signs or obvious gang markings, just an unremarkable structure that blends perfectly with the surrounding warehouses and workshops.

The Silvia stops before a large metal garage door set into the building’s face. For a moment, nothing happens. Then Hokuto notices a small camera mounted above the entrance, its lens glinting in the moonlight. Someone is watching them.

The garage door begins to rise with a mechanical hum. Shintaro pulls the Silvia forward into the revealed space, and Yugo follows in the Crown, guiding it carefully through the entrance.

Inside, the garage is surprisingly well-maintained—clean concrete floors, organized tool cabinets along one wall, and space for several vehicles. Nothing like the chaotic, trash-strewn places the Orphans used.

The contrast makes Hokuto’s chest tighten with a mixture of hope and suspicion.

The Silvia’s doors open as Yugo parks the Crown beside it. Taiga emerges first, his movements fluid despite the fight earlier. He doesn’t look back as he heads toward a door at the far end of the garage, Jesse bouncing along beside him, energy still radiating from his lanky frame. Shintaro follows a few steps behind, hands shoved in his pockets.

“Let’s get you inside,” Yugo says, cutting the engine.

Hokuto nods, bracing himself for the pain that will come with movement. The car door opens, and he turns carefully, swinging his legs out. The simple action sends fire through his side.

Two figures stand nearby—a young man with bleached blonde hair and multiple earrings, and beside him, an even younger-looking boy with shoulder-length black hair. Both wear the same black waistcoats as the others.

“Who’s this?” the blonde one asks, eyes fixed on Hokuto with undisguised curiosity.

“Hokuto,” Yugo answers, moving to help him stand. “He’s coming from Shimokitazawa. The Orphans had him.”

Something in the way Yugo phrases it—not as a possession but as a condition—makes Hokuto’s throat tighten. He grips Yugo’s offered arm, pulling himself upright with a sharp intake of breath.

“What happened?” the younger one asks, eyes wide as he takes in Hokuto’s battered state.

“Later, Genta,” Juri says, coming around to Hokuto’s other side. “Let’s get him inside first.”

The blonde steps forward, his expression shifting from curiosity to efficiency. “I’ll take him. You two look dead on your feet.”

“Thanks, Noel,” Yugo says, though he doesn’t immediately release his supportive hold on Hokuto’s waist.

Noel approaches, and Hokuto tenses involuntarily. The Warrior notices and slows his advance, hands raised slightly.

“Just going to help you walk,” he explains, voice gentler than Hokuto expected. “Ribs?”

Hokuto nods, surprised by the accurate assessment.

“Been there,” Noel says with a grimace of sympathy. “We’ll get you patched up.”

He slides an arm carefully around Hokuto, taking over from Yugo with practiced ease. The transition is smooth, considerate of his injuries in a way that makes Hokuto blink in confusion. Such care feels alien after years with the Orphans, where pain was currency and weakness was exploited.

“Genta, get the first-aid kit,” Noel instructs the younger Warrior. “The big one from the kitchen, not the small one.”

Genta nods and darts ahead through the door.

Noel guides Hokuto forward, matching his pace to Hokuto’s pained shuffle. “Step’s coming up,” he warns as they approach the door. “Just one.”

The consideration for such a small detail sends an unexpected wave of emotion through Hokuto. He swallows hard against it, focusing instead on the mechanics of lifting his foot high enough to clear the threshold.

They enter a hallway that opens quickly into a large, open space. Hokuto takes in the scene with widening eyes—a sprawling common area with mismatched couches arranged in a U-shape, a large television mounted on one wall, and beyond that, what looks like a dining area and industrial-sized kitchen. The space feels lived-in, comfortable despite its utilitarian bones.

“Let’s get you to the couch,” Noel says, steering him toward the seating area.

Hokuto scans the room instinctively, noting exits, windows, potential weapons—habits ingrained by years of captivity. He spots Taiga standing near the kitchen, speaking in low tones to a Warrior Hokuto hasn’t seen before. Jesse has sprawled across one of the armchairs, while Shintaro perches on a table edge, fingers dancing over his phone screen.

“Here we go,” Noel says, easing him down onto the center couch. The cushions are worn but clean, yielding comfortably beneath his weight.

Genta reappears, clutching a large plastic case with a red cross emblazoned on the top. “Got it!”

“Good.” Noel takes the kit, placing it on the coffee table. “Now get some ice packs from the freezer and fill a water bottle.”

As Genta rushes off to complete these tasks, Hokuto watches the efficient, almost domestic scene unfold around him. Warriors move through the space with the easy familiarity of people who belong, who feel safe. It’s nothing like the tense, volatile atmosphere of the Orphans’ hideout, where everyone walked on eggshells around Ryo’s unpredictable moods.

This feels like... a home, he realizes with a jolt. Not just a hideout or a crash pad, but somewhere people actually live.

The thought is so unexpected that he doesn’t notice Noel speaking to him until the Warrior gently touches his shoulder.

“Sorry,” Hokuto mumbles, blinking back to awareness. “What did you say?”

“I need to check your injuries,” Noel repeats patiently. “Is that okay?”

Is that okay? When was the last time someone had asked his permission for anything?

“Yes,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “That’s okay.”

Noel’s hands hover near the hem of Hokuto's shirt. “I need to see your ribs. Can I help you take this off?”

Another choice. Another moment where his voice matters. The novelty of it makes Hokuto’s throat tighten.

“I can do it,” he says, though he’s not entirely sure he can. Pride, that forgotten emotion, flickers to life inside him.

He grips the bottom of his shirt and tries to lift, but the movement sends daggers of pain through his side. He gasps, freezing mid-motion.

“Let me,” Noel says, not unkindly. His hands are gentle but efficient as he eases the fabric up, careful not to drag it against Hokuto’s skin. “Lift your arms as much as you can—just a little is fine.”

Hokuto complies, gritting his teeth against the pain.

The shirt comes off, and cool air hits his exposed skin. He resists the urge to cross his arms over his chest, to hide the evidence of three years under Ryo’s control.

Noel’s expression remains professionally neutral as he surveys the damage. Hokuto knows what he sees—the fresh bruises blooming across his ribs from tonight’s beating, layered over older injuries in various stages of healing. The cigarette burns scattered across his shoulders. The thin scar beneath his collarbone where Ryo had carved into him during a jealous rage.

“Breathe in for me,” Noel instructs, fingers probing gently along Hokuto’s ribcage. “Slowly.”

Hokuto inhales, wincing as the expansion of his lungs presses against tender spots.

“Good. Now out.”

He exhales, watching Noel’s face for reactions, for disgust or pity. He finds neither, just focused assessment.

“Bruised, not broken, I think,” Noel concludes. “But pretty bad. You’ll need to take it easy for a while.”

Genta returns, arms full of ice packs and a water bottle tucked under his chin. “Got everything!”

“Perfect timing,” Noel says, taking the supplies. He wraps an ice pack in a thin towel and presses it gently against Hokuto’s side. “Hold this here. It’ll help with the swelling.”

Hokuto takes the pack, the cold seeping through the towel and numbing the worst of the pain. The simple remedy feels like luxury after years of untreated injuries.

“Drink,” Noel says, uncapping the water bottle and handing it to him. “Slowly.”

The water is cool and clean, nothing like the tepid tap water he’d grown accustomed to. Hokuto sips carefully, suddenly aware of how thirsty he is, how his body craves the most basic care.

Across the room, Taiga’s voice cuts through the background noise. “War room. Now.” His tone brooks no argument as he gestures to Yugo, Juri, Jesse, and Shintaro. “We need to talk.”

The four Warriors straighten immediately, responding to the command with practiced ease. Hokuto watches as they move toward a staircase at the far end of the room, following Taiga’s retreating form.

“What’s happening?” he asks Noel, unable to keep the anxiety from his voice. Are they deciding his fate? Planning what to do with their new “stray”?

“Just a debrief,” Noel answers, applying antiseptic to a cut on Hokuto’s forearm. The sting makes him hiss. “Sorry. They always meet after operations. Standard procedure.”

Operations. Such a clinical term for the violence he witnessed. The Warriors speak a different language than the Orphans, one of strategy and protocols rather than chaotic impulse.

“Will they...” Hokuto starts, then falters, unsure how to phrase his concern.

“They’ll probably be a while,” Noel says, misinterpreting his question. “Taiga likes thorough reports.”

The antiseptic burns as Noel dabs it on a particularly deep cut near Hokuto’s collarbone. The pain draws him back to his immediate reality—his battered body, the strange surroundings, the uncertain future.

“This one might need stitches,” Noel murmurs, examining the wound.

“It’s fine,” Hokuto says automatically. “It’s not that deep.”

Noel raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. “At least let me butterfly it closed.”

Hokuto nods, watching as Noel’s fingers work with practiced precision, applying small adhesive strips to pull the edges of the cut together. The methodical care is hypnotic, almost soothing.

“Genta,” Noel says without looking up from his work, “go to the supplies room and grab some clothes. Something comfortable. T-shirt, sweatpants. Maybe one of the hoodies.”

“On it!” Genta bounces to his feet, eager to help.

“And grab a clean towel,” Noel calls after him. “From the new stack, not the old ones.”

As Genta’s footsteps fade, Hokuto feels the full weight of his exhaustion pressing down. The adrenaline has completely drained from his system, leaving behind nothing but pain and bone-deep weariness. His eyelids feel heavy, his thoughts sluggish.

“You can shower once we’re done here,” Noel says, applying another ice pack to a particularly vivid bruise on Hokuto’s shoulder. “Might help with the soreness.”

A shower. Clean clothes. Simple comforts that feel like unimaginable luxury.

Hokuto’s throat tightens with an emotion he can’t name—gratitude mixed with disbelief, hope tangled with suspicion.

Genta returns, arms loaded with a small stack of folded clothes topped with a fluffy white towel. His face beams with the satisfaction of a completed mission.

“Here you go!” he announces, depositing the pile beside Hokuto on the couch. “I got the softest stuff I could find.”

Hokuto touches the fabric with hesitant fingers. The hoodie is dark gray, worn thin in places from repeated washing. The sweatpants are black, simple, and look infinitely more comfortable than the jeans he’s been wearing for days. The towel is surprisingly plush—nothing like the threadbare rags Ryo had grudgingly allowed him to use.

“The bathroom’s this way,” Genta says, bouncing slightly on his toes. “I can show you.”

Noel finishes taping the last butterfly bandage in place. “You good to walk?”

Hokuto nods, though he’s not entirely sure. The ice has numbed the worst of the pain, but movement still sends dull throbs through his ribs. He pushes himself up from the couch, clutching the clothes to his chest like armor.

“First floor or second?” Noel asks Genta.

“First,” Genta answers. “Figured the stairs would be tough.”

Another small consideration that catches Hokuto off guard. The Orphans would have laughed at his struggle, would have made him crawl up stairs just to watch him suffer.

Genta leads the way, chattering as they move through the space. “The bathroom’s really big. We have like, five showers and everything. It used to be some kind of factory, I think, before the Warriors took it over.”

Hokuto follows slowly, each step a careful negotiation with his battered body. He listens to Genta’s rambling, letting the normalcy of it wash over him. The young Warrior seems genuinely excited to help, with none of the cruel undertones Hokuto has learned to expect.

They stop before a door marked simply “Bathroom.”

“Here we go,” Genta says, pushing it open.

Hokuto steps inside and blinks in surprise.

Bathroom seems inadequate for the space before him—it’s more like a small bathhouse. Five shower stalls line one wall, separated by tiled partitions. A row of sinks with mirrors stretches along another, and beyond them, toilet stalls. There’s a changing area with benches and hooks for clothes.

“Towel hooks are there.” Genta points. “The middle shower has the best pressure, but they’re all pretty good. Soap, shampoo, and conditioner are already in there.”

Hokuto stands frozen, overwhelmed by options after years of having none. Which shower to use. How long to stay in. What water temperature to choose. Such simple decisions suddenly feel monumental.

“Take your time,” Noel says, seeming to understand Hokuto’s hesitation. “No one will bother you.”

No one will bother you. Four words that sound like a promise of sanctuary.

“Thank you,” Hokuto manages.

Noel nods, then guides Genta out.

The door closes with a soft click, leaving Hokuto alone in the vast, tiled space.

The silence envelops him. For the first time in three years, he stands in a room by himself, without eyes watching, without the threat of Ryo’s sudden anger.

The realization makes his knees weak.

He moves to the middle shower as Genta suggested, setting his clean clothes on a nearby bench. His fingers tremble as he turns the knob, and water rushes forth—clear and plentiful. He adjusts the temperature, marveling at this simple control.

Stripping off his remaining clothes, Hokuto steps under the spray. The water hits his shoulders and cascades down, washing away days of grime, sweat, and fear. He closes his eyes, letting it sluice over his face, mingling with tears he hadn’t realized he was shedding.

The soap is nothing special—some generic brand—but it smells clean and fresh as he works it into a lather. He washes carefully around his injuries, wincing when the water stings an open cut. The pain grounds him, reminds him this is real, not some elaborate dream his desperate mind has conjured.

Steam fills the stall as Hokuto stands under the spray longer than necessary, reluctant to leave this moment of privacy and peace. Eventually, the water begins to cool, forcing him to shut it off.

He dries himself with the towel—so soft it feels like a caress against his abused skin—and pulls on the borrowed clothes. The sweatpants hang loose on his hips, and the hoodie envelops him in fabric that smells of laundry detergent and something else, something that speaks of safety. He rolls up the sleeves, revealing the bruises circling his wrists like bracelets.

When he emerges from the bathroom, Noel is waiting in the hallway, leaning against the wall with casual patience.

“Feel better?” he asks.

Hokuto nods, the simple question catching in his throat. Better is such an inadequate word for the transformation of being clean, of wearing clothes that don’t carry Ryo’s scent, of standing in a space where he doesn’t need to brace for a blow.

“Hungry?” Noel asks, pushing off the wall. “I can heat something up. We usually have leftovers.”

The mention of food makes Hokuto realize he hasn’t eaten since morning, but exhaustion overwhelms even hunger. His limbs feel leaden, his mind foggy with fatigue.

“I just want to sleep,” he admits, the words barely above a whisper. “If that’s okay.”

“Of course it’s okay,” Noel says, as though Hokuto’s preferences matter, as though his wants are valid considerations. “Food can wait till morning.”

The adrenaline that’s kept Hokuto functioning—through the fight, the burning bar, the car ride, the shower—drains away completely, leaving him swaying slightly on his feet. The day’s events crash over him like a wave, threatening to pull him under.

“I think I need to sit down,” he murmurs, the edges of his vision going gray.

“Whoa, steady there,” Noel says, catching Hokuto’s elbow as he sways. “Let’s get you off your feet.”

Hokuto nods weakly, unable to form words as the room tilts around him. His legs feel disconnected from his body, like they might fold beneath him at any moment.

“Kitchen’s closest,” Noel says, guiding him with a firm but gentle grip. “Genta, clear a spot on the island.”

Hokuto lets himself be steered across the room, focusing on placing one foot in front of the other. The kitchen island comes into view—a large stainless steel surface gleaming under overhead lights. Genta scrambles ahead, pushing aside a few stray items to create space.

“Up you go,” Noel says, helping Hokuto hoist himself onto one of the stools. The surface feels cool through the thin sweatpants.

Hokuto sits with his shoulders hunched, head hanging forward as he tries to gather his scattered thoughts. The borrowed hoodie smells of detergent and something else—something human and unfamiliar but not threatening. He breathes it in, letting the scent ground him in this strange new reality.

“Head between your knees if you feel dizzy,” Noel instructs, a hand steady on Hokuto’s back.

Why are they being so kind? The question circles in Hokuto’s mind, persistent and unanswerable.

“Just breathe,” Genta says, hovering nearby with wide, concerned eyes. “In and out, nice and slow.”

Hokuto obeys, drawing air carefully into his lungs, mindful of his bruised ribs. Each breath sends a dull throb through his side, but the pain helps clear his head. The kitchen comes into sharper focus—industrial-sized refrigerators, a massive stove, countless cabinets. A space designed to feed many mouths.

“Better?” Noel asks after a few minutes.

Hokuto nods, straightening slightly. “Sorry,” he murmurs, embarrassed by his weakness.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Noel replies with a dismissive wave. “You’ve had a hell of a night.”

A hell of a night. A hell of three years. Hokuto almost laughs at the understatement but catches himself. Laughter still feels dangerous, a liberty he’s not sure he’s allowed.

“Think you can make it upstairs?” Noel asks. “The sleeping area’s on the second floor.”

Hokuto glances toward the staircase, calculating the effort required against his remaining strength. “I can try.”

“We’ll help,” Genta offers eagerly. “One on each side, right, Noel?”

“That’s right,” Noel confirms. “Take it slow, no rush.”

They ease him off the stool, Noel on his left, Genta on his right. Hokuto leans more heavily on Noel, aware of Genta’s smaller frame. Together they navigate toward the stairs, a strange three-legged creature moving with careful coordination.

The staircase looms like a mountain. Hokuto stares up at it, steeling himself.

“One at a time,” Noel encourages. “We’ve got you.”

The ascent is slow and painful. Each step sends jolts through Hokuto’s ribs, drawing hissed breaths between clenched teeth. Halfway up, they pause to let him rest, his forehead pressed against the cool wall.

Finally, they reach the second floor. Hokuto’s shirt clings to his back with fresh sweat, his breathing shallow and quick.

“Almost there,” Genta says, leading them down a hallway.

They pass several closed doors before reaching a large room at the end. Genta pushes it open to reveal a spacious area filled with futons laid out in neat rows. Some are already occupied, lumps of blankets rising and falling with the steady breathing of sleep.

“Common sleeping area,” Noel explains in a hushed voice. “Most of the guys crash here.”

The sight of sleeping Warriors—vulnerable, peaceful—strikes Hokuto as profoundly intimate. With the Orphans, sleep was dangerous, a state of weakness to be exploited. Here, these men rest without guards, without fear.

Genta moves to an empty space and quickly unfolds a futon, arranging blankets and a pillow with practiced efficiency. “Here you go,” he whispers, fluffing the pillow with unnecessary enthusiasm.

They guide Hokuto to the prepared bed. The futon looks impossibly inviting, a promise of rest his body craves desperately.

“Wait,” Genta says, darting away. He returns moments later with an extra pillow. “For your chest. If you cough, hold it against your ribs. Helps with the pain.”

The thoughtful gesture catches Hokuto off guard. Such specific care feels foreign, almost uncomfortable in its kindness.

“You should sleep upright for a while,” Noel advises, arranging pillows against the wall. “At least for the first few nights. Better for your ribs.”

Hokuto nods, too exhausted to question the advice. With their help, he settles onto the futon.

“There,” Noel says, stepping back. “That should do it.”

“Do you need anything else?” Genta asks, hovering anxiously. “Water? Another blanket?”

Hokuto shakes his head, unable to process any more offerings. “This is... enough,” he manages, the words inadequate for the overwhelming gratitude he feels.

“Get some rest,” Noel says, resting a hand briefly on Hokuto’s shoulder. “Morning’s soon enough to figure everything else out.”

As they move away, dimming the lights as they go, Hokuto lets his eyes drift closed. The events of the night swirl in his mind—the fight, the fire, the Warriors taking him in. None of it makes sense, least of all the kindness.

His body surrenders to exhaustion before his mind can make peace with the contradictions.

The last thing he registers is the unfamiliar sound of peaceful breathing around him, the gentle rhythm of men who sleep without fear.

🐍

Sunlight cuts across Hokuto’s face, dragging him from the depths of dreamless sleep. He flinches, eyes squeezing shut against the unexpected brightness.

A mistake—the sudden movement sends pain radiating through his ribcage, and he gasps, one hand flying to press against his side.

Hokuto forces his eyes open, blinking away the haze of sleep as unfamiliar surroundings swim into focus. High ceilings. Industrial beams. Rows of neatly folded futons where bodies had lain the night before.

The memories rush back—the fight at the karaoke bar, Taiga’s cold efficiency, the Orphans scattered like leaves, the building engulfed in flames.

He pushes himself up to sitting, wincing as his ribs protest. The room is empty, though sounds drift up from below—voices, laughter, the clatter of dishes.

Normal sounds. Human sounds. The Warriors going about their day while he slept through the morning.

Hokuto runs a hand through his hair, the borrowed clothes hanging loose on his frame. He doesn’t belong here, but he doesn’t belong anywhere else either.

What happens now?

He swings his legs over the edge of the futon, testing his strength. His body aches in a dozen places, but nothing feels insurmountable. Slowly, he pushes himself to standing, swaying slightly as blood rushes from his head.

The door swings open, and Hokuto startles, instinctively stepping back, one arm raised in reflexive defense.

“Whoa, easy there.” Noel stands in the doorway, hands raised in a placating gesture. “It’s just me.”

Hokuto lowers his arm, embarrassment heating his cheeks. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” Noel steps into the room. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m …” Hokuto pauses, the automatic fine dying in his lips. When was the last time someone had asked that question and actually wanted an honest answer? “Sore. But better than I expected.”

Noel nods. “That’s good. You had us worried for a bit there.”

“What time is it?”

“Almost eleven.” Noel gestures to the digital clock. “Everyone just left for duty.”

Eleven? Hokuto can’t remember the last time he slept past dawn. With the Orphans, oversleeping meant punishment—sometimes subtle, sometimes not.

“I should have—” he starts, another apology forming.

“You should have rested, which is exactly what you did.” Noel cuts him off gently. “I’ve been checking on you every hour or so. Wanted to be around in case you woke up disoriented.”

The thought of Noel quietly entering the room throughout the morning, making sure he was alright, leaves Hokuto speechless. Such consideration feels alien after years of neglect.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he finally manages.

“Wanted to.” Noel shrugs, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Besides, you took a beating last night.”

Hokuto touches his cheek where Ryo’s ring had caught him in a slap. The skin is tender, but the pounding headache has subsided to a dull throb.

“Thank you,” he says, the words feeling inadequate.

Noel jerks his head toward the stairs. “The others demolished breakfast hours ago, but we’ve got leftover tempura from dinner last night. You hungry?”

Hokuto’s stomach answers before his mouth can, letting out an embarrassingly loud growl that echoes in the quiet room. He presses a hand against it, as if that might somehow silence the sound after it’s already escaped.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Noel says with a smile that reaches his eyes.

Hokuto follows him downstairs, each step sending tiny shocks of pain through his bruised body. He catalogs the sensations—the sharp ache in his ribs, the dull throb in his shoulder, the tightness across his back where Ryo had slammed him into a wall two days ago. Old pain mixing with new.

The Warriors’ headquarters looks different in daylight. What seemed cavernous and shadowed last night now feels almost homey, with sunlight streaming through high windows, catching dust motes that dance in the air. The concrete floors are worn but clean, the furniture mismatched but arranged with purpose.

When they reach the kitchen, Hokuto spots Genta wiping down countertops, his movements quick and efficient. At the sound of their footsteps, he turns, his face instantly brightening.

“You’re up!” Genta exclaims, tossing the rag aside. “How are you feeling? You slept forever. We were starting to wonder if you’d sleep through the whole day.”

The rapid-fire questions catch Hokuto off guard. He’s not used to this kind of enthusiasm directed at him—not without ulterior motives lurking beneath.

“I’m okay,” he says, the default answer when he doesn’t know what response is expected.

“Genta, heat up some of that tempura for our guest,” Noel says, moving toward a cabinet. “I’ll make tea.”

“On it!” Genta springs into action, pulling containers from the refrigerator with practiced ease.

Hokuto stands awkwardly at the edge of the kitchen, unsure where to place himself. With the Orphans, the kitchen had been off-limits unless he was serving them. He’d eaten their leftovers, standing in corners or hidden away in his small room.

“Sit,” Noel says, nodding toward a stool at the kitchen island. “You look like you’re about to fall over.”

Hokuto obeys, grateful for the direction. The stool is sturdy beneath him, and he watches as Genta arranges pieces of tempura on a plate, popping them into a small countertop oven to reheat.

“It’s just us here right now,” Genta explains, moving with the restless energy of youth. “The other Homekeepers are out on errands.”

“Homekeepers?” Hokuto repeats, the unfamiliar term catching in his throat.

Genta and Noel exchange a glance.

“Right, you wouldn’t know about our divisions,” Noel says, placing a kettle on the stove. “The Warriors are organized into four groups, each with their own responsibilities. Makes things run smoother.”

“Noel and I are Homekeepers,” Genta adds proudly, checking on the tempura. “We take care of headquarters, run errands, handle the cooking and cleaning. Boring stuff, but important.”

“Not boring,” Noel corrects, selecting a tea bag from a wooden box. “Essential. The Warriors would fall apart in a week without us.”

Hokuto tries to absorb this information, picturing the structured organization beneath the gang’s surface. It’s nothing like the chaotic, self-serving mess of the Orphans, where hierarchy existed solely to determine who could abuse whom.

“What are the other divisions?” he asks, surprising himself with his curiosity.

The kettle whistles, and Noel pours steaming water into a mug before answering. “There’s the Fighters under Jesse—they handle most of the combat situations. The Lookouts under Juri gather intelligence and maintain connections with other groups. And the Engineers under Shintaro handle technical support, vehicles, weapons—anything that needs fixing or modifying.”

Genta slides the plate of golden-brown tempura in front of Hokuto, along with a small dish of dipping sauce. “Here you go! It’s shrimp and vegetables. I made it myself yesterday.” The pride in his voice is unmistakable.

Hokuto stares at the food—crisp, beautiful, and prepared specifically for him. His throat tightens unexpectedly.

“Thank you,” he manages, picking up a piece of shrimp tempura.

The first bite is an explosion of flavor—perfectly seasoned, still crisp despite being reheated. He can’t remember the last time he ate something this good.

Noel sets the mug of tea beside his plate. “Green tea. Figured it would be gentle on your stomach after everything.”

Hokuto nods gratefully, taking a sip. The warmth spreads through his chest, soothing in a way that goes beyond physical comfort.

“So all Warriors belong to one of these divisions?” he asks, trying to understand the structure of this new world.

“Pretty much,” Genta says, leaning against the counter. “New members usually start as Homekeepers for a month before they’re assigned elsewhere, if they don’t choose Homekeepers. It helps everyone learn the basics and figure out where they fit best.”

“Unless they have a specific skill set from the start,” Noel adds, watching Hokuto eat with quiet satisfaction. “Then they might go directly to one of the specialized divisions.”

Hokuto takes another bite of tempura, considering this information. A system with clear roles and purposes. A place where everyone fits somewhere.

“What about the … leaders?” he asks, remembering the term Yugo had used last night.

“Core 5,” Noel says, refilling Hokuto’s tea without being asked. “That’s what we call our leadership—Taiga, Yugo, Juri, Jesse, and Shintaro. Each leads a division, except Taiga. Taiga handles everyone.”

Hokuto takes another bite of tempura, trying to visualize the hierarchy. “So Taiga is above the others?”

“Yes and no,” Noel says, his expression thoughtful. “Taiga’s the Warlord—final decision maker. But the Core 5 operate as a unit most of the time.”

Genta bounces on his heels, clearly eager to contribute. “It’s like—regular stuff goes through the divisions, but Core 5 business is serious business.”

The way Genta’s voice drops dramatically on “serious” almost makes Hokuto smile. Almost. The muscles in his face remember the motion but can’t quite complete it. Three years with the Orphans has trained his expressions into careful neutrality.

“What counts as Core 5 business?” Hokuto asks. The structure here fascinates him—so different from the Orphans’ chaotic power plays.

Genta and Noel exchange another glance.

“Territory negotiations,” Noel finally says. “Major conflicts with other gangs. Relationship with the police.”

“Police?” Hokuto can’t hide his surprise. The Orphans lived in constant fear of police raids, bribing officers when necessary but otherwise avoiding all contact.

“Yeah!” Genta says, his excitement returning. “Core 5 meets with Sergeant Mamiya at least once a week. He used to be a Warrior, you know, before he got arrested and then recruited by the police.”

Hokuto nearly chokes on his tea. A former gang member becoming police? And still maintaining contact with his old gang? It seems impossible.

“That’s... allowed?” he asks carefully, setting down his mug.

Noel shrugs. “It’s complicated. Nakano police have an... understanding with the Warriors. We help them with certain matters, they look the other way on others.”

“Help them?” Hokuto repeats, struggling to imagine what a gang could offer law enforcement.

“The Warriors have eyes and ears everywhere,” Noel explains. “Sometimes the police need information from places they can’t easily access. Sometimes they need something handled quietly.”

“Dirty work,” Hokuto says, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

To his surprise, Noel nods. “Sometimes. But Taiga has lines he won’t cross. No civilians get hurt. No children involved. No drugs.”

These boundaries, stated so matter-of-factly, stun Hokuto into silence. With the Orphans, there had been no lines, no principles—just whatever served Ryo’s ego and ambitions in the moment.

“It’s not just dirty work,” Genta adds, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Sometimes they need our help with intelligence gathering. Like last month, when those foreign diplomats’ kids went missing.”

“Genta,” Noel warns, his tone sharpening slightly.

“What? It was in all the papers,” Genta protests. “We helped find them when the police couldn’t get into those underground clubs.”

Hokuto absorbs this information, trying to reconcile it with everything he thought he knew about gangs and police. The Warriors operate in some gray area he hadn’t known existed—not purely criminal, not entirely legitimate.

“So the police... trust you?” he asks, the concept still foreign to him.

“Not all police,” Noel clarifies. “Sergeant Mamiya is our main contact. He vouches for us with his superiors when necessary. It’s a delicate balance.”

Hokuto finishes the last piece of tempura, his mind whirling with these revelations. The Warriors aren’t just stronger than the Orphans—they’re something entirely different. A structured organization with divisions, leadership, and even connections to legitimate authority.

“The Core 5 handle all that,” Genta says, gathering Hokuto’s empty plate. “They meet with Mamiya at Crossroads Bar for poker and information exchange.”

“Poker?” Hokuto repeats.

Noel smiles. “Provides cover for the meetings. Just looks like friends playing cards.”

The image forms in Hokuto’s mind—five gang leaders and a police sergeant, cards in hand, exchanging information over poker chips. It’s so far removed from his experience with the Orphans that it might as well be from another world.

“It’s all about balance,” Noel says, watching Hokuto’s expression. “The Warriors provide a service, maintain order in our territory, and in return, we get certain... considerations.”

“And protection,” Genta adds. “For ourselves and for civilians in our area.”

Protection. The word echoes in Hokuto’s mind. Isn’t that what Ryo had promised him three years ago? Safety and shelter in exchange for his servitude?

Yet here, protection seems to mean something different—something that extends beyond the gang itself to the community around it.

“It’s complicated,” Noel says, perhaps seeing the conflict in Hokuto’s eyes. “But it works, most of the time.”

Hokuto stares at his empty plate, suddenly realizing Noel has already whisked it away and is washing it in the sink. He’s been so lost in thought about the Warriors’ structure that he hadn’t noticed finishing his meal. The simple act of someone cleaning up after him feels foreign—with the Orphans, he’d been the one washing dishes, cleaning up messes, serving without acknowledgment.

“So,” Genta says, breaking into his thoughts, “wanna see the rest of the place? I could give you the tour.”

Hokuto glances at Noel, who’s drying his hands on a dish towel.

“I’ll pass,” Noel says, hanging the towel on a hook. “Got some tasks Yugo left me before he headed out this morning.” He offers Hokuto a small nod. “You’re in good hands with Genta, though.”

Genta beams at the compliment, practically bouncing on his toes.

“Just don’t overwhelm him,” Noel adds, heading toward the door. “And remember, he’s still recovering.”

“I won’t! Promise!” Genta calls after him.

As Noel disappears, Hokuto feels a momentary pang of anxiety. Noel’s calm presence had been reassuring, a steady anchor in this unfamiliar place. But Genta’s enthusiasm is hard to resist, and Hokuto finds himself curious about this strange new world he’s stumbled into.

“So this is the kitchen,” Genta says, gesturing to the space around them with a flourish. “Obviously. But did you notice it’s not just any kitchen?”

Hokuto looks around more carefully now. What he’d registered as simply “big” earlier now reveals itself as professionally equipped. The stove has six burners and a flat-top grill. Two large refrigerators stand side by side. The counter space seems endless compared to the cramped kitchen at the karaoke bar.

“It’s... industrial,” Hokuto observes.

“Restaurant-grade everything,” Genta confirms proudly. “We need it to feed everyone.”

Hokuto runs his fingers along the edge of the counter, cool stainless steel beneath his touch. “How many Warriors are there exactly?”

“Around seventy total,” Genta says, leading Hokuto to the adjoining space. “About forty are based here in Nakano. The rest are split between our territories in Ueno and Asakusa.”

Seventy. The number stuns Hokuto. The Orphans had barely managed thirty members, and even that had seemed chaotic. How does a group this size function without collapsing under its own weight?

“This is the dining area,” Genta continues, sweeping his arm toward a large open space dominated by a massive wooden table. “We can fit about twenty people here comfortably. For big meetings or celebrations, we push back the furniture in the living room and set up extra tables.”

Hokuto tries to imagine seventy Warriors gathered together, eating and talking. The mental image is overwhelming after years of eating alone in corners or serving the Orphans their meals.

“And through here is the living room,” Genta says, not waiting for Hokuto’s response before moving on.

The living room is even larger than the dining area—a sprawling space with multiple couches arranged in a U-shape around a large coffee table. A television hangs on one wall, while shelves filled with books, magazines, and DVDs line another. In one corner, two pool tables stand side by side, with a dartboard mounted on the wall nearby.

“This is where most people hang out when they’re not on duty,” Genta explains. “Movie nights on Fridays. Sometimes Jesse organizes tournaments on the pool tables—he cheats, though, so watch out if you ever play him.”

Hokuto takes it all in, trying to process the normalcy of it. This doesn’t look like a gang headquarters—it looks like an oversized communal living space, like something from a college dormitory or a large family home.

“You have movie nights?” he asks, the concept almost absurdly ordinary.

“Yeah! Jesse picks the worst action movies, but Juri sometimes chooses these artsy films that make Taiga fall asleep.” Genta grins. “Last week we watched this old yakuza film from the 70s, and Yugo kept pointing out all the things they got wrong about gang life. It was hilarious.”

The image of these feared gang members gathered around a TV, arguing about movies, is so at odds with Hokuto’s experience that he almost wants to laugh. Almost.

“It’s a lot to take in,” he says instead, his voice soft.

Genta’s expression softens. “Yeah, I guess it would be. When I first got here, I couldn’t believe places like this existed. After running away from home, I was sleeping in parks, stealing food. Then Taiga found me.” His eyes take on a distant look. “Four years ago now.”

“Four years?” Hokuto asks, surprised.

Genta nods. “Yeah, when I was sixteen. Youngest Warrior ever. Taiga has a soft spot for me, though he’d never admit it.” Pride colors his voice. “The Warriors became my family when my real one failed me.”

Family. The word hits Hokuto like a physical blow. He’s forgotten what that feels like—to belong somewhere, to people who care whether you live or die.

“Come on, I’ll show you the garage next,” Genta says, already moving toward another doorway. “It’s where we keep the vehicles.”

Hokuto follows. The word “family” lingers in his mind, stirring something long-dormant inside him. He pushes the feeling down—hope is dangerous, has always been dangerous in his experience.

They pass through a short hallway and enter a large open space that smells of motor oil and metal. Hokuto recognizes it vaguely from last night—remembers being half-carried through here, his vision blurring with exhaustion and pain as they’d arrived at the Warriors’ headquarters.

“This is it,” Genta announces with a flourish. “Our garage.”

The space is surprisingly empty. Hokuto had expected to see several vehicles, given the size of the Warriors, but there’s only a single motorcycle positioned in the center of the concrete floor. It’s partially disassembled, tools scattered around it in what appears to be an organized chaos.

“Where are all the vehicles?” Hokuto asks, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space.

“Out on missions,” Genta explains. “Core 5 have two cars—Juri or Yugo usually drive the Crown, and Shintaro drives the Silvia. Jesse and Taiga can’t drive a car to save their lives, so they usually switch shotgun between the two cars. But they each have their own motorcycle.”

Hokuto moves closer to the motorcycle, careful not to disturb any of the tools laid out on a cloth beside it. The bike is beautiful even in its partially dismantled state—vintage styling with modern components, painted a deep metallic black with subtle gold accents.

“That's Yugo’s,” Genta supplies, noticing Hokuto’s interest. “He’s been working on it all week. Something about the suspension needing adjustment.”

Hokuto nods, though he knows nothing about motorcycles. “So this garage only holds two cars?” he asks, looking around at the empty space that could clearly accommodate more.

“Five bikes and four cars comfortably,” Genta corrects. “But most Warriors park in the lot next door. We have an arrangement with the owner.” He grins. “First-come, first-serve for the indoor spots, except for the Core 5. They always get priority.”

Hokuto takes in the high ceiling, the organized tool cabinets along one wall, the oil-resistant flooring with a drainage system. Like everything else in the Warriors’ headquarters, the garage is thoughtfully designed and well-maintained.

“You can’t just open the garage door from outside, by the way,” Genta explains. “There’s a keypad with a code. Changes weekly for safety. Inside, we have to have at least one Homekeeper here to open it when someone returns.”

“That’s... your job?” Hokuto asks.

“One of them,” Genta confirms. “We take turns. Security’s important, especially with the Crown and Silvia. Those are the Core 5’s main vehicles for official business.”

Hokuto tries to picture it—Warriors coming and going, missions being executed, the careful choreography of vehicles and security protocols. It’s all so organized, so deliberate.

“Do you drive?” Genta asks suddenly.

The question catches Hokuto off guard. “No,” he admits. “I never learned.”

“Me neither, not yet,” Genta says with a shrug. “Yugo’s teaching me basics, but I’m not allowed to take anything out alone until I turn twenty-one. Taiga’s rule.”

His gaze drifts back to Yugo’s motorcycle. The machine is powerful, dangerous—yet Genta speaks of learning to ride it with casual enthusiasm, as if it’s a normal rite of passage. As if dangerous things can be approached with proper guidance rather than fear.

“Does everyone learn eventually?” Hokuto asks, unable to imagine himself behind the wheel of a car or astride a motorcycle.

“If they want to,” Genta replies. “No one’s forced. Some Warriors prefer to stick to public transportation or walking. But most of us learn the basics at least.”

Choice again. The concept keeps appearing in different contexts—division assignments, movie nights, even learning to drive. The Warriors’ world seems built on options rather than obligations.

Hokuto runs his fingers along the smooth curve of the motorcycle’s fuel tank, feeling the cool metal beneath his touch. Three years ago, he couldn’t have imagined standing in a place like this, contemplating choices rather than merely surviving the next hour.

“Let’s head back to the entranceway,” Genta says, already moving toward the door. “There’s more security stuff I should probably show you.”

Hokuto follows, as they return to the large foyer area. In daylight, he can appreciate the details he missed—the concrete floors softened by worn rugs, the sturdy coat hooks lining one wall, the large whiteboard covered in neat handwriting that must be the command center Noel mentioned.

“So this is our main entrance,” Genta explains, gesturing to the heavy steel door. “Triple-reinforced, multiple locks, and a peephole. Plus—” he points to a small monitor mounted on the wall “—cameras showing the exterior.”

Hokuto studies the security system with newfound interest. The Orphans had relied on numbers and intimidation rather than actual security measures.

“There’s another keypad outside,” Genta continues, tapping the electronic panel beside the door. “Code changes weekly, just like the garage. Core 5 decides the new codes every Sunday night and announces them at the Monday morning briefing.”

“Has anyone ever...” He hesitates, unsure how to phrase the question without sounding accusatory. “I mean, has a Warrior ever given the code to someone they shouldn’t?”

Genta’s expression shifts, becoming slightly more serious. “Once. About a year ago. Guy named Aoi—he wasn’t really thinking. Gave the code to his girlfriend because she wanted to surprise him with lunch.”

Hokuto waits, expecting to hear about severe punishment. With the Orphans, such a breach would have resulted in a beating at minimum.

“What happened to him?” he finally asks when Genta doesn’t continue.

“Oh, nothing serious,” Genta shrugs. “Taiga was pissed, but Yugo talked him down. Aoi got assigned to night security duty for a month and had to apologize to everyone. The girl turned out to be harmless—actually works at a ramen shop nearby now. Sometimes gives Warriors extra gyoza.” He grins. “So I guess it worked out okay.”

The casual response stuns Hokuto. A security breach met with proportional consequences rather than excessive violence.

His gaze drifts across the entranceway, taking in the various notices on the whiteboard, the neat row of boots and shoes against one wall. A framed photograph catches his attention—a large group shot hanging beside the security monitor.

“What’s that?” he asks, moving closer.

The photo shows about thirty Warriors gathered together, all wearing the distinctive black waistcoats. They stand in front of what looks like the same warehouse they’re in now, though the exterior appears freshly painted in the image. Some faces he recognizes—the Core 5, Noel. Genta looks impossibly young, standing in the front row with a wide grin.

But what draws Hokuto’s attention is the center of the photo. A tall man with a commanding presence stands there. His smile is easy, confident, and the others seem oriented toward him like planets around a sun.

And there, standing slightly to the right, is Taiga. He looks different somehow—younger, less burdened, a half-smile playing on his lips as he looks not at the camera but at the man in the center.

“That’s our group photo from two years ago,” Genta explains, coming to stand beside Hokuto. “Yugo insists on taking one every year. Says it’s important to document our history.”

“Who’s that?” Hokuto asks, pointing to the central figure. “The one in the middle.”

Genta’s expression shifts subtly, his usual enthusiasm dimming. “That’s Myuto. He was our Warlord before Taiga.”

Was. The past tense hangs in the air between them.

“Taiga wasn’t always in charge?” Hokuto asks carefully.

“No.” Genta’s voice has lost some of its bounce. “Taiga took over last year after... well, after Myuto died.”

Hokuto studies the photo more closely now, noting the easy camaraderie between Myuto and Taiga. Whatever their relationship had been, it clearly went beyond mere gang hierarchy.

“How did he—” Hokuto starts to ask, but Genta turns away from the photo, his usual energy seemingly diminished.

“Anyway, that’s the entranceway!” Genta says with forced brightness. “Security’s super important, especially now that we’ve expanded into Shimokitazawa.”

The abrupt change of subject isn’t subtle, but Hokuto recognizes the boundaries of what he’s allowed to ask. Some wounds are still too fresh, some stories not his to hear—at least not yet.

“Let’s check out the workshop next,” Genta says, his energy rebounding as he leads Hokuto away from the photo.

They cross through the living area toward a doorway at the back of the first floor. Even before they enter, Hokuto hears the metallic sounds of tools and the low murmur of voices. The scent of oil and metal grows stronger as they approach.

“This is where the magic happens,” Genta announces, pushing open the door.

The workshop is smaller than the garage but still impressively equipped. Oil-stained concrete floors stretch beneath workbenches laden with tools and parts. Overhead racks hold more equipment, and the walls are covered with pegboards displaying even more implements, all meticulously organized.

Two men occupy the space, neither looking up as Genta and Hokuto enter. One sits hunched over a motorcycle part, his hands moving with practiced precision as he adjusts something with a small wrench. The other man sits before a desk with multiple screens, his fingers flying across a keyboard.

“Hey guys,” Genta calls out. “Got someone for you to meet.”

The man at the workbench glances up first. He’s baby-faced, with short black hair and silver earrings catching the light. His expression is neutral as he assesses Hokuto, neither welcoming nor hostile.

“This is Machu,” Genta explains. “He’s our main mechanic. Keeps everything running smooth.”

Machu offers a brief nod before returning to the part in his hands. “The stray from Shimokitazawa,” he says, not looking up again. “Jesse told us over breakfast.”

Stray. The term makes Hokuto’s stomach tighten.

“And that’s Shizu,” Genta continues, gesturing toward the man at the screens. “He handles our tech stuff.”

Shizu swivels in his chair, revealing a young man with wavy brown hair and glasses. Unlike Machu’s indifference, Shizu’s gaze is intensely curious as he studies Hokuto.

“So you’re the one who survived the Orphans for three years,” Shizu says, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Impressive.”

Hokuto shifts uncomfortably. Survived feels like the wrong word. He didn’t fight or resist; he simply endured. There’s no pride in that.

“What are all these?” Hokuto asks, changing the subject as he gestures toward the screens that have captured his attention. Each displays a different area of what he recognizes as the Warriors’ headquarters—the entrance, the kitchen, the garage, and several other spaces he hasn’t seen yet.

Shizu’s expression brightens at the question. “Security system. We’ve got cameras throughout the building—well, except private sleeping areas and bathrooms, obviously. Basic privacy and all that.”

Hokuto moves closer, fascinated by the comprehensive view of the building. On one screen, he can see Noel in what looks like a storage room, taking inventory.

“You watch everyone all the time?” he asks, unsure whether to be impressed or unsettled.

“Not actively,” Shizu explains, typing something that changes the configuration of the displays. “The system records everything, but we only monitor in real-time when necessary. Or if something triggers the motion sensors during quiet hours.”

“Engineers, Homekeepers, and Core 5 have access through our phones too,” Machu adds, surprising Hokuto by joining the conversation. He holds up a smartphone with a cracked screen showing the same security feed. “Makes night duty easier.”

Hokuto studies the screens, noting how the cameras are positioned to cover every angle of each room. It’s both reassuring and slightly intimidating. “Did you build all this?” he asks Shizu.

“The hardware was already here,” Shizu says with a modest shrug. “But I designed the software interface and added the mobile access. Shintaro helped with some of the encryption.”

“Shintaro’s our Scout, but he knows tech stuff too,” Genta explains. “He and Shizu went to the same college before they both dropped out.”

Hokuto nods, adding this detail to his growing mental map of the Warriors’ interconnections.

“The whole building’s wired,” Shizu continues, clearly warming to his subject. “Security, communications, even climate control. We can lock down sections remotely if needed.”

“It’s saved our asses more than once,” Machu says, returning to his workbench. “Especially when rival gangs get ideas about testing our defenses.”

The casual mention of gang conflicts reminds Hokuto of his precarious position. He's witnessing the inner workings of a powerful organization—one that clearly has enemies.

“Come on,” Genta says, sensing Hokuto’s discomfort. “Let’s finish the first floor. Laundry room’s next.”

As they leave, Hokuto glances back at the screens one last time. In one corner display, he catches a glimpse of himself and Genta from above, walking toward the door. The strange sensation of seeing himself from this removed perspective—small, uncertain, following in Genta’s wake—makes his chest tighten.

He wonders how many eyes have watched him since his arrival, how many Warriors have observed his movements through these omnipresent cameras.

The thought follows him as Genta leads him to a small but functional laundry room near the back exit.

“Two industrial-sized washer-dryers,” Genta explains, patting one of the machines affectionately. “Homekeepers handle all the communal stuff—bedsheets, towels, tablecloths. Everyone’s responsible for their own clothes, though.”

Hokuto nods, remembering how at the karaoke bar, he’d washed everything by hand in a sink—his clothes, the Orphans’ clothes, the bar towels, everything.

“And down there—” Genta points to a door at the end “—is the basement. Mostly storage, but we can set up emergency sleeping space up there if needed.”

Hokuto stares at the door, wondering what other secrets this building holds.

“Ready to see upstairs?” Genta asks, already moving toward the main staircase. “That’s where the sleeping quarters are.”

Hokuto follows, his mind still processing everything he’s seen. He follows Genta up the staircase, each step creaking slightly beneath their weight. The second floor opens before them, more compact than the sprawling first level but still meticulously organized. Morning light filters through windows at each end of a long hallway, casting geometric patterns across the polished floorboards.

“This is where we all sleep,” Genta explains, gesturing broadly. “You already saw some of it last night, but probably don’t remember much, huh?”

Hokuto nods, memories of last night fragmented and hazy.

“Here’s the bathroom again,” Genta says, pushing open a door to reveal the space where Hokuto had showered the previous night. “Noel makes sure it stays clean. We have a rotation for bathroom duty.”

They continue down the hallway, passing the large room where Hokuto had slept. In daylight, he sees it’s one of several similar spaces—large rooms with capacity for multiple people, storage closets lining the walls.

“These are the common sleeping areas,” Genta explains. “Five rooms like this one, each fits about twelve to fifteen Warriors. We store the futons during the day and lay them out at night.”

Hokuto peers into the room where he’d slept, recognizing the corner where his borrowed futon had been. The space is transformed now—floor clear, futons stacked neatly in storage closets, sunlight streaming through windows that had been covered with blackout curtains at night.

“How do you decide who sleeps where?” he asks.

“By division, mostly,” Genta replies. “Fighters together, Lookouts together, that kind of thing. Makes sense since they’re often on similar schedules. You stayed in the Homekeepers’ room last night.”

Hokuto nods, adding this information to his mental map.

They continue down the hallway until they reach a section that feels different—more private somehow. Five doors are spaced evenly along one wall, each identical except for small personalized touches. A small dried flower hanging from one doorknob, a worn sticker on another, subtle markers of individuality.

“Core 5’s private rooms,” Genta explains, his voice dropping slightly as if entering sacred space. “Taiga’s is at the end, then Yugo’s next to him. Jesse, Shintaro, and Juri have the other three.”

Hokuto studies the closed doors, each representing a sanctuary for the Warriors’ leadership. The privilege of privacy, of personal space—something he hasn’t experienced in years.

“We clean the common areas,” Genta continues, “but the Core 5 handle their own rooms. Well, except Jesse and Taiga. Yugo usually ends up cleaning theirs because it gets so bad.”

The casual observation makes Hokuto smile faintly. The thought is oddly comforting.

“What’s that?” Hokuto asks, noticing a door at the end of the hallway with a simple “Private” sign mounted on it.

“War Room,” Genta replies, his expression shifting to something more serious. “That’s where the Core 5 plan operations, resolve disputes, make all the big decisions. Nobody goes in without an invitation.”

Hokuto wonders if his own future was discussed in that room last night, if Taiga and the others debated what to do with the stray they’d collected from Shimokitazawa.

“Can we look inside?” he asks, curiosity overcoming caution.

Genta shakes his head emphatically. “No way. That room is serious business. Only Core 5 have the code for the lock, and even other Warriors need permission to enter.”

Hokuto nods, understanding.

“Come on, there’s more,” Genta says, leading him back toward the center of the hallway. He points to a pull-down ladder mounted in the ceiling. “That goes to the attic. Mostly storage up there, but we can convert it to emergency sleeping quarters if needed.”

Hokuto stares up at the closed hatch, imagining the space beyond.

“And now,” Genta says, his energy visibly building as he bounces slightly on his toes, “for the best part.”

He leads Hokuto toward a metal fire escape stairwell at the end of the hallway. As they approach, Genta’s excitement becomes almost palpable.

“Last stop on the tour,” he announces, pushing open the door to reveal another flight of stairs leading upward. “The rooftop. You’re gonna love this.”

Hokuto follows, curiosity pulling him forward. After the enclosed spaces of the warehouse, the promise of open air calls to something deep within him. He climbs the metal steps behind Genta.

“There’s a keypad outside too,” Genta explains as they ascend, “similar setup to the entrance downstairs. But there’s no keypad on this side since it’s an emergency exit. Once you’re up here, you can always get back inside.”

Hokuto nods, filing away this information with all the other security details he’s been absorbing.

Genta pushes the door open, and sunlight floods the stairwell, momentarily blinding Hokuto. He blinks against the brightness, then steps through the doorway—and his breath catches in his throat.

The rooftop stretches before him, an unexpected oasis above the urban sprawl. Tokyo unfolds in every direction, a concrete ocean dotted with skyscrapers and bisected by the snaking lines of train tracks. The morning sun casts everything in a golden haze, softening the hard edges of the city.

But it’s not just the view that stuns him. The Warriors have transformed what should be a barren industrial rooftop into something that feels almost like a home.

“This is...” Hokuto trails off, words failing him as he takes in the space.

“Pretty awesome, right?” Genta grins, clearly pleased by Hokuto’s reaction. “We spend a lot of time up here when the weather’s good.”

Hokuto moves forward, drawn to the center of the roof where a covered area has been created. A corrugated metal roof supported by steel beams shelters a collection of mismatched furniture—shipping crate benches, weathered recliners, floor cushions in black and gold. String lights hang overhead, unlit in the daylight but promising warm illumination at night.

“That’s the Sanctuary,” Genta explains, following Hokuto’s gaze. “Main hangout spot. We usually gather there in the evenings.”

His attention shifts to the southwestern corner, where an unexpected splash of green breaks up the urban landscape. Plants of various sizes grow in repurposed containers—an old bathtub, paint buckets, wooden crates. Herbs, vegetables, and even a few flowers thrive despite the unlikely setting.

“The garden,” Genta says with evident pride. “Juri started it, but lots of us help maintain it now. The tomatoes are amazing in summer.”

Hokuto approaches, drawn to the unexpected life flourishing in this harsh environment. He touches a basil leaf gently, releasing its fragrance into the air. Something about these plants surviving—thriving, even—atop a gang headquarters in the middle of Tokyo strikes him as profoundly hopeful.

“And over there’s the gathering space,” Genta continues, pointing to the northwestern area where a circle of chairs surrounds what appears to be a makeshift fire pit. “For celebrations or just hanging out. Shintaro likes to grill stuff there.”

Hokuto turns slowly, taking in the entire panorama—both the rooftop itself and the sprawling city beyond. From here, he can see the Chuo Line trains passing to the south, Tokyo Skytree rising in the distance to the east. The urban landscape stretches to the horizon in every direction, a concrete jungle where the Warriors have carved out their territory.

“You can see Nakano Broadway from here,” Genta points out, indicating a large building not far away. “And that’s what used to be Sunplaza over there. On clear days, you can even see all the way to Shinjuku.”

All of this belongs to them, Hokuto thinks, overwhelmed by the scale. Not just this building, but the territory it overlooks. And now Shimokitazawa too.

“Well, that concludes our tour!” Genta announces with theatrical finality. “Any questions?”

Hokuto has a thousand questions swirling in his mind, but one rises above the others as he looks around at the carefully constructed sanctuary.

“How can you afford all this?” he asks quietly.

Genta’s expression turns thoughtful. “You mean the headquarters?”

Hokuto nods, gesturing broadly at everything they’ve seen. “The building, the equipment, the vehicles... everything. It must cost a fortune.”

“It’s complicated,” Genta admits, leaning against the parapet wall. “The building itself was abandoned when Myuto found it. The Warriors fixed it up over time.” He pauses, considering how much to share. “As for money... we have various income streams.”

“Like protection money?” Hokuto asks, thinking of how gangs typically operate.

“Partly,” Genta acknowledges. “Some businesses pay us to keep other gangs away. But it’s not extortion—we actually protect them.” He sounds defensive, as if this distinction matters deeply to him. “We also do... other jobs.”

“What kind of jobs?”

Genta’s eyes dart around before he leans in closer, lowering his voice. “Let’s just say we’re connected to certain markets that operate outside normal channels.”

“Black market?” Hokuto asks, the words barely audible over the distant hum of traffic below.

“We prefer ‘alternative business opportunities,’” Genta says with a mischievous grin. “We move things for people who need discretion. Information, rare items, services—you’d be surprised who needs help staying off official records.”

Hokuto’s mind flashes to the Orphans’ pathetic attempts at establishing territory. This is an entirely different level of organization.

“Both sides use us,” Genta continues. “Politicians with secrets, wealthy collectors who want items with questionable provenance, even cops who need things done outside their jurisdiction.”

Hokuto nods slowly.

“But like we said, Taiga has strict rules,” Genta adds quickly, as if sensing Hokuto’s unease. “No weapons dealing, no drugs, no hurting civilians. We’re not monsters.” There’s pride in his voice. “That’s why some other gangs think we’re soft. But they don’t understand that there’s power in having lines you won’t cross.”

The rooftop breeze ruffles Hokuto’s hair as he absorbs this information. The Warriors operate in moral gray areas, but with boundaries—unlike the Orphans, who had none.

“And there’s always the trust fund,” Genta adds with a conspiratorial smirk.

“Trust fund?”

“Well, it’s more of an urban legend,” Genta says, lowering his voice dramatically. “But word is Taiga comes from serious money. Like, serious money. Old family, major connections.”

Hokuto’s eyebrows rise. “Really?”

“Supposedly he ran away but managed to clean out his trust fund first.” Genta seems delighted to share this gossip. “That’s why we can afford nice stuff sometimes. The Warriors started with a decent bankroll.”

The idea of Taiga coming from wealth seems both incongruous and strangely fitting. There’s something in his commanding presence that speaks of privilege, even as he moves through the underground world with practiced ease.

“No one talks about it directly,” Genta continues, warming to his subject. “But you can see it sometimes—the way he handles himself in certain situations, how he knows things that street kids don’t usually—”

“Genta.” The stern voice cuts through their conversation like a knife.

Hokuto turns to see Noel standing in the doorway to the stairwell, arms crossed over his chest. His expression is more exasperated than angry, like a parent who’s caught a child sneaking cookies.

“What did I tell you about spreading rumors?” Noel sighs, walking toward them.

Genta’s cheeks flush pink. “I was just giving him the full picture.”

“You were gossiping,” Noel corrects, but there’s fondness beneath the reprimand. He turns to Hokuto. “Don’t mind him. Genta has an active imagination.”

“So it’s not true?” Hokuto asks, curious despite himself.

Noel’s expression softens. “Taiga’s past is his business. We all came from somewhere, but what matters is who we choose to be now.” He gives Genta a pointed look. “And who we choose to be is people who respect each other’s privacy.”

Genta looks down, properly chastised but still with a hint of mischief in his eyes. “Sorry, Noel.”

Noel’s words hang in the air between them, and Hokuto finds himself oddly comforted by the older man’s defense of privacy. After three years with the Orphans, where his every movement, thought, and feeling belonged to Ryo, the concept feels almost sacred.

“Tour’s over anyway,” Noel says, his tone gentler now. “What do you want to do now, Hokuto? Rest is always an option—you’ve been through a lot.”

The question catches Hokuto off guard. What does he want to do? For years, his days have been structured around others’ demands and desires. The sudden freedom to choose paralyzes him.

“If you’re tired, I’d recommend moving to the living room,” Noel continues, filling the silence. “The couches are comfortable, and you’d have something to watch at least. Better than staring at the ceiling in an empty room.”

Hokuto considers this. The thought of horizontal surfaces and quiet is tempting—his body still aches from the beating, and exhaustion lurks at the edges of his consciousness.

But the idea of lounging while others work around him feels wrong somehow. At the karaoke bar, idleness was punished. Even in moments of apparent rest, he’d been performing for someone else’s benefit.

“Could I...” The words stick in his throat, unfamiliar and awkward. “Could I shadow one of you while you work instead?”

Noel’s eyebrows rise slightly, and Genta perks up beside him.

“You don’t have to earn your keep here,” Noel says carefully. “You’re recovering.”

“I know,” Hokuto says, though he’s not sure he believes it. “It’s not that. I just—”

I don’t know how to be still. I don’t know how to exist without purpose.

“I’d rather be useful.”

Noel studies him, and Hokuto feels transparent under that gaze, as if the older man can read every anxiety written across his soul.

“You can shadow me!” Genta volunteers eagerly. “I’m on laundry duty today. It’s boring but—”

“He can shadow me,” Noel interrupts, his decision seemingly made. “I’m doing inventory in the storage room. It’s quiet work, nothing strenuous. Is that okay?”

It takes Hokuto a moment to realize the question is directed at him. “Yes,” he says quickly. “Thank you.”

Genta pouts dramatically. “Fine, but you’re missing out on quality laundry folding techniques.”

“Maybe next time,” Hokuto offers, surprised by how easily the words come.

“I need to finish the sheets anyway,” Genta sighs, heading toward the stairwell. “See you at lunch!”

As Genta disappears down the stairs, Hokuto turns back to the city view, taking a final moment to absorb the panorama before him. The vastness of Tokyo stretches in every direction, a concrete ocean where he’s been drowning for years.

Yet standing here, above it all, he feels a curious lightness.

🐍

The scent of fried pork cutlets fills the crowded living area as Hokuto balances his plate on his knees. The Warriors’ dinner hour has transformed the space into something both chaotic and intimate—bodies sprawled across couches, perched on armrests, and seated cross-legged on the floor. Nearly thirty gang members crowd the room, their conversations creating a symphony of overlapping voices that rises and falls like ocean waves.

Hokuto sits sandwiched between Noel and a quiet Homekeeper named Katsuki on one of the smaller couches. Across from them, Genta and Konpi argue good-naturedly about the proper way to eat tonkatsu.

“You’re drowning it,” Katsuki mutters as Konpi pours a lake of sauce over his cutlet.

“It’s not tonkatsu without sauce," Konpi retorts, taking an exaggerated bite and closing his eyes in satisfaction.

The normalcy of it all—this casual bickering over dinner—creates a strange knot in Hokuto’s chest.

Is this what family feels like? The thought surfaces before he can suppress it.

His attention drifts to the far corner where the Core 5 have claimed territory. They don’t sit apart from everyone else—there’s no special table or obvious hierarchy—but the Warriors naturally leave a small bubble of space around them, like planets orbiting suns.

Taiga sits slightly removed, one leg stretched out, his plate balanced on the arm of his chair. He eats methodically, his focus seemingly elsewhere. Occasionally, his gaze sweeps the room in what Hokuto recognizes as a security check—cataloging exits, monitoring potential threats, accounting for every member. Even during meals, he remains the Warlord.

“Is he always so...” Hokuto whispers to Noel, unsure how to finish the question.

“Intense?” Noel supplies, following his gaze to Taiga. “Pretty much. Though this is actually him relaxed.”

His attention shifts to Juri, who sits on a floor cushion near Taiga’s feet. Unlike the Warlord’s rigid posture, Juri lounges with casual grace, occasionally offering quiet comments that make Shintaro gesture wildly in response.

Shintaro sits cross-legged beside Juri, talking animatedly between bites, his hands painting invisible diagrams in the air. His energy seems barely contained by his skin, like he might vibrate out of existence if he sits still too long.

But it’s the interaction between Jesse and Yugo that truly captures Hokuto’s attention.

Jesse leans against the wall next to where Yugo sits, his body angled toward the Lieutenant like a flower seeking sunlight. As Hokuto watches, Jesse steals a piece of pork from Yugo’s plate with lightning-quick fingers.

“Hey!” Yugo protests, swatting at Jesse’s hand.

“Sharing is caring, Lieutenant,” Jesse grins, popping the stolen morsel into his mouth with exaggerated satisfaction.

“Get your own extra piece,” Yugo grumbles, but he shifts his plate slightly closer to Jesse anyway.

Jesse’s eyes never leave Yugo’s face, his expression so nakedly adoring that Hokuto has to look away, feeling like he’s intruding on something private. When he glances back, Jesse is leaning down to whisper something in Yugo’s ear that makes the Lieutenant roll his eyes, though a smile tugs at his lips.

“Are they...?” Hokuto starts to ask Noel, keeping his voice low.

“Together?” Noel finishes, following his gaze. “No. Though not for lack of trying on Jesse’s part.”

“It seems pretty obvious,” Hokuto observes, watching as Jesse drapes himself dramatically over Yugo’s shoulders, earning another eye roll.

“To everyone except Yugo,” Noel confirms with a small smile. “Or maybe he just pretends not to notice. Either way, it’s been going on for years.”

Around the room, Hokuto notices other Warriors watching the interaction with varying degrees of amusement. Two younger members exchange knowing looks when Jesse offers Yugo his last bite of rice. Even Taiga’s expression softens marginally when he glances their way, something almost like fondness crossing his face before it’s replaced by his usual stoicism.

“Does everyone know?” Hokuto asks.

“It’s the Warriors’ worst-kept secret,” Genta chimes in, leaning forward. “We have a betting pool on when Yugo will finally acknowledge it.”

“Betting pool?” Hokuto repeats, surprised.

“Managed by yours truly,” Genta says proudly. “Current pot is almost 50,000 yen. Juri’s got money on ‘never’ but I think he’s just being dramatic.”

“Betting on your superiors’ love lives,” Katsuki sighs. “So respectful.”

“It’s not disrespectful,” Genta protests. “It’s investment in their happiness.”

The conversation dissolves into good-natured bickering, but Hokuto’s attention returns to Jesse and Yugo. There’s something painfully familiar about the way Jesse orbits Yugo—the careful dance of someone who wants more than they can have.

Hokuto recognizes that hunger, has felt it himself in moments of weakness, dreaming of connections that seemed impossible in the prison of his life with the Orphans.

Jesse says something that makes Yugo laugh, a full-bodied sound that momentarily cuts through the ambient noise of the room. Jesse’s face transforms at the sound, his expression so transparently joyful that Hokuto has to look away again, his chest tight with an emotion he can't name.

What must it be like, he wonders, to love someone and not hide it? To want without fear?

The chatter gradually subsides as the Warriors finish their meals. Hokuto notices how plates empty and conversations wind down, yet no one leaves. Instead, they settle deeper into their seats, an expectant energy replacing the casual dinner atmosphere.

When Taiga sets his plate aside with a soft clink, the room falls completely silent. The transition happens so naturally that Hokuto almost misses it—one moment lively conversation, the next absolute attention. No one called for order. No one needed to.

“Updates,” Taiga says, the single word carrying the weight of command without raising his voice.

A woman with short-cropped hair stands from her position near the kitchen. “Border patrol along Toshima reports increased Rogues activity, but no direct confrontations. They’re watching, not moving.”

Taiga nods once. “Keep the schedule as planned but add a second person to night shifts.”

“Already done,” she replies before sitting.

Hokuto watches, fascinated, as several Warriors speak in turn—each report concise, each response from the Core 5 equally efficient. There’s a rhythm to it, like a well-rehearsed dance where everyone knows their steps.

A muscular man with a red tag on his collar reports on weapons inventory. Shintaro interrupts with questions about specific items. Juri asks about negotiations with a local mechanic. Jesse jumps in with colorful commentary about a skirmish that makes several Warriors laugh despite the seriousness of the topic.

The efficiency of it strikes Hokuto as beautiful in its way—thirty people moving as one organism, sharing a common language of subtle nods and half-finished sentences. The Orphans’ meetings had been chaos—Ryo shouting orders while everyone talked over each other, nothing ever truly resolved.

“Noel,” Taiga says, his eyes shifting to the couch where Hokuto sits.

Noel straightens slightly beside him. “Homekeeper division running smoothly. Supply run completed yesterday. Inventory updated. Genta’s been orienting our new member to the headquarters layout and protocols.”

Hokuto feels a flush creep up his neck as several pairs of eyes flick toward him. He keeps his gaze down, fingers picking at a loose thread on his borrowed sweatpants.

“And?” Taiga prompts.

“He’s healing well,” Noel adds. “No complications from his injuries.”

Taiga nods, seemingly satisfied, before addressing the room at large. “As most of you know, we’ve acquired Shimokitazawa. The fire department and police are still investigating the incident at the Orphans’ headquarters. We’ll wait until they clear out before approaching businesses about protection arrangements.”

Hokuto’s ears perk up at the mention of Shimokitazawa.

“When we spoke with the owner at Good Heavens Bar last night,” Taiga continues, “he mentioned that business owners will be wary of new management. They’ve dealt with the Orphans’ empty promises and harassment. We’ll need to establish credibility.”

Something twists in Hokuto’s chest. The words form before he can stop them.

“You should talk to Kaoru-san first.”

The room goes deadly quiet. Hokuto freezes as every head turns toward him, including Taiga’s. His heart hammers against his ribs as he realizes what he’s done—interrupted the Warlord during an official meeting.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

But he’s started now, and the silence stretches painfully. He swallows hard and continues, his voice smaller but steady.

“She runs the small business owners’ association. They meet every Tuesday morning at her tea shop. If you convince her, the others will follow. She protected them from the worst of Ryo’s demands.”

The silence that follows feels like standing on thin ice, waiting for it to crack. Hokuto keeps his eyes fixed on his hands, now clenched tightly in his lap. He can feel Noel’s tension beside him, the subtle shift of his body as if preparing to intervene.

From the corner of his eye, Hokuto sees Juri lean forward slightly, his expression curious rather than angry. Shintaro’s head tilts, eyes narrowing in calculation. Jesse’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

Hokuto swallows hard, his throat suddenly dry. Every eye in the room remains fixed on him, waiting.

“Kaoru-san owns Tsukimasa on the corner of the shopping arcade,” he begins, his voice gaining strength as he focuses on the facts rather than his fear. “She’s been there for thirty years. The Orphans left her mostly alone because she brings everyone together. When Ryo demanded more protection money last year, she organized the other shops to stand together.”

He pauses, memories flooding back of quiet conversations overheard while serving tea to Ryo, of hushed meetings in back rooms that he wasn’t supposed to know about.

“She has their trust. The flower shop owner, the bookstore family, even the foreign couple who opened the new café—they all look to her. If you convince her you’re different from the Orphans, she’ll help the others see it too.”

Taiga’s gaze remains steady, his expression revealing nothing. “Different how?”

The question catches Hokuto off-guard. He expected dismissal, not curiosity.

“The Orphans took without giving anything back,” he says carefully. “They’d demand protection money then disappear when actual trouble came. Kaoru-san wants security for the neighborhood, not just empty promises.”

Shintaro leans forward, eyes bright with interest. “So we demonstrate actual protection capabilities, establish visible patrols, maybe handle a few troublemakers publicly to show we’re effective.”

“And fix things,” Hokuto adds, emboldened by the lack of negative reaction. “There’s a broken streetlight near the station that’s been out for months. The city won’t repair it, and it’s made that area dangerous at night. Small things like that would show you’re not just there to collect payments.”

Jesse grins widely. “I’m good at fixing things. Well, breaking them first, then fixing them.”

“You’re only good at the breaking part,” Yugo mutters, but there’s fondness in his exasperation.

Taiga cuts through the sidebar with a raised hand. The room falls silent again.

“Noel,” he says, shifting topics with jarring abruptness. “Assessment of his injuries?”

The sudden change makes Hokuto’s stomach drop. He’s overstepped, talked too much. His fingers dig into his thighs as anxiety floods his system.

Noel straightens beside him. “Bruised ribs, not broken. Multiple contusions, malnutrition. Nothing life-threatening.”

“Timeline for recovery?” Taiga presses.

“A week, maybe ten days,” Noel answers. “The bruising will take longer to fade completely.”

Hokuto keeps his eyes down, feeling like they’re discussing a piece of equipment rather than a person. Is this where they decide I’m not worth the trouble? The thought sends a cold wave through him. Where would he go? Back to Shimokitazawa where Ryo might still have friends? Back to Shizuoka where nothing waited for him?

“The police and fire department should complete their investigation by then,” Taiga says, his tone matter-of-fact. “You’ll come with us to Shimokitazawa next week.”

It takes a moment for Hokuto to realize Taiga is addressing him. His head snaps up, confusion replacing fear.

“Me?” The word comes out higher than he intended.

“You know the business owners,” Taiga states, as if it’s the most obvious conclusion. “They’ll be more receptive if someone they trust makes the introductions.”

“But I—” Hokuto starts, then stops, unsure how to articulate his jumble of emotions. Trust isn’t what the shopkeepers feel toward him. Pity, maybe. Sympathy for the boy they all knew was Ryo’s plaything. The thought of facing them again, of standing beside the Warriors as if he belongs there, makes his chest tighten painfully.

“I’m not—they don’t—” he tries again, but the words tangle on his tongue.

“You served the Orphans,” Taiga says, cutting through his stammering. “You listened. They talked around you like you were furniture, which means you know things even they don’t realize you know.”

“Your knowledge is valuable,” Taiga continues, his tone softening slightly, though his expression remains unreadable. “We can use it, or we can stumble around blind. Which do you think is better for the neighborhood?”

Hokuto recognizes the trap in the question. If he refuses, he’s choosing to let Shimokitazawa suffer. If he agrees, he’s binding himself to the Warriors, becoming complicit in whatever comes next.

“I’ll help,” he says finally.

Taiga nods once, the matter settled. “Good. Rest. Heal. Be ready.”

There’s no room for argument in his tone. No space for the fear still churning in Hokuto’s gut. The decision has been made, and like so many times before, Hokuto finds himself swept along by currents stronger than himself.

🐍

No. No, please. I don’t want any more.

Hokuto’s eyes snap open, his heart hammering against his ribs. The phantom taste of whiskey burns his throat, and phantom hands still crawl across his skin. For a moment, he’s back in that karaoke room, Ryo’s fingers digging into his jaw, forcing the liquor down while the other Orphans laugh.

Drink up, pretty boy. We’re just getting started.

He blinks hard, forcing reality back into focus. Not the karaoke bar. Not with them. The Warriors’ headquarters. Darkness surrounds him, broken only by the faint blue glow of a digital clock—2:04 AM.

Around him, soft breathing fills the room where the Housekeepers sleep. Genta’s distinctive snore rumbles from two futons away. Noel sleeps silently near the door, ever the watchful one even in slumber.

Hokuto’s shirt clings to his skin, damp with cold sweat. He peels it away, feeling the cool air hit his chest. His ribs throb dully, but the physical pain is nothing compared to the memories that won’t let him rest.

They can’t touch me anymore, he thinks, but his body doesn’t believe it. Every shadow in the room could be Ryo. Every sound might be an Orphan coming to reclaim what they considered theirs.

Sleep is impossible now. Hokuto carefully pushes himself up, wincing as his bruised ribs protest. The floor creaks slightly beneath him, and he freezes, watching the other Housekeepers for any sign of disturbance.

No one stirs. He exhales slowly.

The journey to the kitchen feels endless. Each step must be measured, each movement silent. He passes through the darkened hallway, guided only by memory from Genta’s tour and the faint emergency lights near the exits.

The main living area comes into view, and Hokuto pauses.

Two Warriors—fighters, judging by the red tags on their waistcoats draped over the back of the couch—are sprawled across the furniture. One sleeps sitting up, head tilted back at an uncomfortable angle. The other is curled into a ball, taking up barely any space despite his size. Hokuto doesn’t know their names yet, can’t match faces to the dozens of Warriors he was introduced to at dinner.

He holds his breath as he passes them, placing each step with excruciating care. The kitchen doorway is just ahead, promising water and maybe a moment of peace.

The linoleum floor feels cold beneath his bare feet. He reaches for a glass from the drying rack, his hand trembling slightly. The tap runs softly as he fills it, and he drinks deeply, trying to wash away the imaginary whiskey still burning his throat.

It doesn’t help. The nightmare clings to him like a second skin.

On his way back, something catches his eye—a sliver of darkness that doesn’t match the rest. The door to the rooftop is slightly ajar, a thin gap between the door and the frame.

Hokuto frowns. Hadn’t Genta emphasized security during the tour? Doors locked, windows secured, everyone accounted for.

I should close it, he thinks, approaching slowly.

His hand reaches for the handle, but then he hesitates. Through the gap, he catches a glimpse of the night sky, a scattering of stars barely visible through Tokyo’s light pollution.

Open air. Space. Freedom.

Before he can reconsider, Hokuto pushes the door wider and steps through, careful to keep it from closing behind him. The night air hits him immediately, cooler than inside but still warm with summer heat. The city sprawls below, a sea of lights and shadows, distant but somehow comforting in its vastness.

The rooftop garden Genta showed him earlier looks different in darkness—more wild, more secret. The plants cast strange shadows, and the string lights are off, leaving only the ambient glow of the city to illuminate the space.

Hokuto moves to the edge, where a low concrete wall provides both safety and a place to sit. His ribs throb as he lowers himself down, but the pain feels distant now, secondary to the expanding feeling in his chest as he takes in the view.

Tokyo at night. How long has it been since he’s seen it like this, from above, with no one watching him? Three years of nights spent in that karaoke bar, serving drinks, serving himself up at Ryo’s command. Three years of artificial light and stale air.

He draws a deep breath, then another. The nightmare’s grip loosens slightly. Here, under the open sky, the memories seem less immediate, less powerful. Not gone—never gone—but diluted by the immensity of the world beyond them.

Hokuto leans back, tilting his face toward the hidden stars. Maybe I can just stay here for a while, he thinks. Just until the sun comes up. Just until I’m certain I won’t dream again.

“Can’t sleep?”

The voice cuts through the silence like a blade. Hokuto’s body reacts before his mind can—muscles tensing, breath catching, heart slamming against his bruised ribs. His fingers grip the concrete edge so hard they ache.

He turns toward the sound, eyes frantically searching the darkness. In the shadows near the garden’s edge, a figure sits motionless on one of the milk crates. The ember of a cigarette glows orange, briefly illuminating Taiga’s face as he takes a drag.

Hokuto's throat closes. Of all people to encounter alone, the Warriors’ Warlord—the man who burned down the Orphans’ headquarters with casual indifference, who had looked at Ryo like he was nothing more than an insect to be crushed.

“I’m sorry,” Hokuto says, the words tumbling out automatically. “I didn’t know anyone was up here. I’ll go back inside.”

He pushes himself up too quickly. Pain shoots through his side, making him wince.

“Stay if you want.” Taiga’s voice is flat, neither invitation nor command. “Roof’s big enough.”

Hokuto freezes. Which response is safer? Which mistake costs more?

His mind races through scenarios, calculating risks like he’s done countless times with the Orphans. Wrong choice with Ryo meant pain. What does it mean with Taiga?

“I don’t want to disturb you,” Hokuto says carefully, testing the waters.

Taiga exhales a cloud of smoke that dissipates into the night air. “You’re not.”

Something in his tone—or perhaps what’s missing from it—makes Hokuto reconsider. There’s no expectation in those two words, no hidden demand. Just a statement of fact.

Slowly, Hokuto moves away from his spot at the edge. Not returning to the door, but not sitting beside Taiga either. He chooses a wooden bench a few feet away, positioned so he can see both Taiga and the exit. His body settles into the familiar tension of alertness disguised as relaxation.

The silence stretches between them, punctuated only by the distant sounds of the city and the soft crackle of Taiga’s cigarette when he inhales. It should be uncomfortable, this wordless sharing of space, but somehow it isn’t. There’s a strange relief in not having to perform, not having to anticipate what someone else wants from him.

“Can’t sleep,” Taiga says again, not quite a question this time.

Hokuto considers mentioning the nightmare, the phantom hands, the whiskey burning down his throat. But those are weaknesses, vulnerabilities he’s not ready to expose. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

“It takes me time to adjust to new places,” he says instead. Not exactly a lie, but not the whole truth either. “Different sounds, different smells.”

Different people who might hurt him in different ways. He doesn’t say that part.

Taiga nods once but offers no comment, no platitude about how Hokuto will adjust soon or how he’s safe now. Hokuto finds himself oddly grateful for the absence of empty reassurances.

The cigarette’s ember brightens as Taiga takes another drag. In that brief flare of light, Hokuto catches a glimpse of the Warlord’s profile—sharp jaw, straight nose, eyes focused on something distant. Not the city below, but something only he can see.

Hokuto wonders what Taiga thinks about during these solitary moments. Strategy for the Warriors? The territories they control? The people under his protection? Or something entirely separate from his role as Warlord?

The question nearly makes it to his lips before he swallows it back. Questions were dangerous with the Orphans. Too much curiosity meant punishment. Better to be silent, to observe, to learn the rules before testing any boundaries.

So Hokuto sits quietly, focusing on the vastness of the sky above and the city below. Tokyo pulses with life even at this hour—distant traffic, occasional sirens, neon signs painting the low-hanging clouds in artificial colors. It’s beautiful in its chaos, in its indifference to the small dramas playing out within its sprawl.

His breathing slows gradually, matching the rhythm of the night. The lingering tension from the nightmare begins to unwind, muscle by muscle. Not gone completely, but loosened enough that he no longer feels like he might shatter at any moment.

From his peripheral vision, Hokuto notices Taiga shift slightly, tapping ash from his cigarette onto the rooftop floor. The movement is casual, unhurried. There’s something almost meditative in Taiga’s stillness, as if he’s completely comfortable in his own silence.

Suddenly, the question builds in Hokuto’s chest, pressing against his ribs until he can’t contain it anymore. Something about the darkness makes it easier to speak, as if the night offers a thin veil of protection.

“Why did you want me to talk to the business owners in Shimokita?”

The words hang in the air between them. Hokuto tenses immediately, waiting for the rebuke. Questions were dangerous with the Orphans—showing too much curiosity often earned him a backhand or worse.

Taiga takes another drag of his cigarette, the ember glowing brighter for a moment. He doesn’t look at Hokuto when he answers.

“You know them. We don’t.”

The simplicity of the response catches Hokuto off guard. He expected... what? A power play? A reminder of his place? Instead, Taiga states it like an obvious fact, something so self-evident it barely needs saying.

“But I’m new,” Hokuto says carefully. “I don’t understand why you’d trust me with something important.”

Taiga exhales smoke that curls upward into the night. “Doesn’t matter if you’re new. You lived there for three years. You know which shops struggle to make rent. Which owners hate the Orphans but paid anyway. Which ones Ryo threatened versus bribed.” He shrugs. “Information like that matters.”

Hokuto blinks, processing this. For three years, the Orphans had treated him like property—a thing to be used, displayed, and discarded when convenient. His knowledge, his observations, his very thoughts were irrelevant unless they served Ryo’s immediate desires.

Yet here was Taiga, the Warriors’ Warlord, valuing something Hokuto possessed that couldn’t be taken by force.

“I didn’t think anyone would care what I noticed,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

“That’s their mistake.” Taiga’s tone remains neutral. “You were under the Orphans for three years. Served drinks. Listened to conversations. Watched people when they thought nobody was watching them.” He takes another drag. “People like you see everything because everyone thinks you’re invisible.”

People like you.

The words strike Hokuto like a physical blow. Not because they’re cruel, but because they’re true. He had become invisible—a ghost drifting through the karaoke bar, present but not acknowledged except when needed. And in that invisibility, he’d learned to observe, to catalog weaknesses and strengths, to understand the rhythms of Shimokitazawa in ways even Ryo never bothered to.

“You’re more valuable than they let you believe,” Taiga continues, crushing his cigarette against the concrete. “The Orphans were too stupid to see it.”

Hokuto’s breath catches. He stares at Taiga’s profile, trying to detect any hint of manipulation or mockery, but finds none.

“I—” he starts, then stops, unsure how to respond. Three years of calculated submission have left him ill-equipped for recognition. “Thank you” feels inadequate, and “you’re wrong” feels like a lie.

Instead, he looks back out at the city, giving himself time to steady his breathing. Tokyo sprawls below them, indifferent to his confusion. The lights blur slightly as unexpected tears prick at his eyes.

Valuable. When was the last time anyone had used that word to describe him as a person rather than a possession?

“The café owner, Kaoru-san,” Hokuto says finally, his voice steadier than he feels. “Her husband died two years ago. Cancer. The medical bills almost bankrupted her. Ryo offered to ‘forgive’ three months of protection money if she’d let the Orphans use her back room for meetings.” He pauses. “She hated every minute they were there, but she never complained. Not once.”

The words flow easier now, like a dam breaking. “The bookstore next door—the owner pretends to be half-deaf so he doesn’t have to acknowledge the gangs, but he hears everything. The bar on the corner waters down their alcohol when they know gang members are coming in. The ramen shop owner has a baseball bat under his counter that he’s never had the courage to use.”

Hokuto realizes he’s been talking too much, revealing too much of himself in these observations. He falls silent, waiting for Taiga to dismiss him or lose interest.

Instead, Taiga turns to look at him directly for the first time since Hokuto stepped onto the roof. In the dim light, his expression is unreadable, but his gaze is steady and focused.

“See?” Taiga says quietly. “Valuable.”

That single word, spoken without performance or agenda, cuts through Hokuto’s defenses more effectively than any threat or manipulation ever could. He feels suddenly exposed, as if Taiga can see straight through the careful walls he’s built around himself.

Hokuto feels stripped bare under Taiga’s gaze, more naked than he ever felt with the Orphans. This is different—not the exposure of flesh but something deeper. His observations, his mind, the quiet watchfulness he’d cultivated as survival, now laid out and deemed worthy. The vulnerability of it makes his chest tight.

He looks away, unable to hold Taiga’s steady gaze. The city lights blur together as he blinks back the moisture in his eyes. He won’t cry. Not here. Not in front of the Warlord.

“I just paid attention,” Hokuto says, his voice barely audible above the distant hum of traffic. “Anyone would have noticed those things.”

“No,” Taiga says, the single word firm enough to draw Hokuto’s eyes back to him. “Most people don’t notice shit unless it affects them directly.”

Hokuto considers this. It’s true that Ryo never bothered to learn the names of shop owners unless they were late with payments. The Orphans saw Shimokitazawa as nothing but territory to claim, people as nothing but resources to exploit. They never noticed how Kaoru-san always kept fresh flowers on her counter, even when she could barely afford rent, or how the bookstore owner arranged poetry collections by emotion rather than author.

“I had nothing else to do,” Hokuto admits. “Watching people... it was like reading a story. Sometimes it was the only thing that felt real.”

Taiga makes a sound—not quite agreement, not quite dismissal. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out another cigarette but doesn’t light it. Instead, he rolls it between his fingers, a thoughtful gesture that seems almost unconscious.

Silence settles between them again, but it feels different now. Less guarded, though no less careful.

Hokuto finds himself relaxing slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing. The nightmare that drove him up here seems more distant now, its grip loosened by this strange, quiet moment of recognition.

The city continues its nocturnal rhythm below them. Time feels suspended up here, disconnected from the rules that governed his existence for three years.

Taiga stands abruptly, pocketing the unlit cigarette. The sudden movement makes Hokuto tense again, his body reacting to the change before his mind can process it. Old habits, old fears resurface. Is he being dismissed? Did he say something wrong? Should he leave first?

But Taiga doesn’t look angry or impatient. He simply stretches. His face remains impassive in the dim light, but something in his posture has shifted—a slight loosening, as if their conversation has relieved some invisible burden.

“Getting cold,” Taiga says, though the summer night is still warm.

Hokuto nods, unsure if this is his cue to leave as well. He braces himself to stand, anticipating the pain in his ribs, when Taiga speaks again.

“Roof’s always open.” He gestures vaguely at the space around them. “Door code is 1904. Changes on the first of each month.”

Hokuto blinks, processing this information. “I—thank you,” he says, the words feeling inadequate.

Taiga shrugs, as if it’s nothing. “You don’t need permission to come up here. From me or anyone else.” He pauses, looking out at the city for a moment before adding, “You don’t need permission to breathe.”

The words hit Hokuto like a physical force.

Taiga moves toward the door, his footsteps quiet on the rooftop floor. He pauses at the threshold, hand on the handle. “Night,” he says, not looking back.

Then he’s gone.

Hokuto remains on the bench, stunned into stillness by the enormity of what just happened.

You don’t need permission to breathe.

He looks up at the night sky, at the vastness above Tokyo’s glow. The air feels different now, charged with possibility.

Slowly, deliberately, Hokuto draws in a deep breath, feeling his lungs expand, his ribs protest slightly, and then release.

Another breath, deeper this time.

And another.

Each inhale is a choice. Each exhale is his own. No one watching, no one counting, no one deciding when it’s enough.

For the first time in three years, Hokuto breathes freely.

🐍

Paint flecks dry between his fingers, hardened into a second skin. Taiga flexes his hand, watching the acrylic crack along his knuckles.

Red. Black. Gold. The colors of last night’s fury.

The canvas across the room stares back accusingly — a mess of violent strokes and chaotic forms that somehow took shape in the dark hours after he’d left Myuto’s grave. He doesn’t remember making half of it.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice rough from disuse.

Eight o’clock glares from his phone. He’s been awake for 23 hours straight.

Taiga rolls his shoulders, feeling the stiffness of sleeping hunched over his workbench. The small studio apartment smells of turpentine and cigarettes. His sanctuary. His prison. The one place no one — not even Yugo — knows exists.

The floor is a battlefield of empty spray cans and crumpled sketches. Evidence of a night spent fighting ghosts.

One year. One fucking year since Myuto stepped off that train platform and into oblivion.

The Warriors had visited his grave yesterday, standing in a tight circle while rain pounded their shoulders. No one had cried. No one had spoken. They didn’t need to.

Taiga drags himself to the tiny bathroom, flicking on the harsh fluorescent light. The mirror shows a stranger — hollow-eyed, pale, with dark circles that look like bruises. Paint streaks his face like war paint. Or tears.

“You look like shit,” he tells his reflection.

The reflection doesn’t argue.

Water runs black and red down the drain as he scrubs his hands. Some paint refuses to budge, embedded in the creases of his palms. Like blood that won’t wash away.

He splashes cold water on his face, shocking his system into alertness. The Warriors need their Warlord today, not this hollow-eyed ghost. He can’t afford weakness.

Taiga grabs a hair tie from the sink edge, gathering his dark hair into a ponytail. His fingers move automatically, muscle memory taking over.

Myuto had worn his hair long too. Said he never had time to cut it. Taiga had started growing his out after the funeral, though he’d never admit why.

The face in the mirror hardens. The Warlord reasserting control.

He pulls on yesterday’s jeans and a clean black t-shirt from the duffel bag he keeps here. His Warriors waistcoat hangs by the door — the only thing in the studio that looks properly cared for. The golden snake emblem catches the morning light, scales gleaming.

Taiga runs his fingers over it before putting it on. The weight settles on his shoulders, familiar and heavy.

One last look at the canvas before he leaves. In the daylight, it’s even more brutal — a cityscape in flames, buildings melting into abstract forms that might be faces.

Myuto’s face, if he squints. Or maybe his own. He can’t tell anymore.

He doesn’t cover it. No one will see it anyway.

The small black stone sits on his workbench, smooth and flat. Taiga picks it up, turns it over in his palm. Myuto had given it to him the day they formed the Warriors, told him it was for good luck.

Some fucking luck.

He pockets the stone and locks the door behind him, checking it twice. This place is the only thing that’s truly his. The only space where he doesn’t have to be Kyomoto Taiga, Warlord of the Warriors. Where he can just be the mess he really is.

The morning air hits him like a slap. Tokyo is already awake, already moving. Delivery trucks rumble past. A businessman hurries by, eyes glued to his phone. None of them know that yesterday marked a death. None of them care that Myuto’s absence still tears a hole in Taiga’s chest.

He checks his phone. Three missed calls from Yugo. Seven texts. Typical. He should have told someone he wouldn’t be back last night, but after the cemetery, he couldn’t face them. Couldn’t bear their concern, their careful avoidance of Myuto’s name.

Taiga types a quick message: On my way.

The city swallows him as he walks, another anonymous figure in the morning rush. Ten minutes to headquarters. Ten minutes to transform from the broken man in the studio to the leader they all need.

Nakano Station looms ahead, a concrete monument to everything Taiga can’t face. The morning crowd flows around it like water around a stone, commuters streaming in and out of its gaping entrance.

His steps falter, then stop altogether.

One year, and he still can’t walk past this fucking place without feeling his lungs collapse.

A train whistles somewhere inside the station. The sound slices through him like a blade. Suddenly he’s back there—Shinagawa Station, Myuto’s face in the closing gap of train doors, the sickening thud that followed. The moment everything changed.

Taiga’s heart hammers against his ribs. His vision narrows, the edges darkening like burning paper.

Not here. Not now.

He forces himself to breathe, leaning against a vending machine. Cold metal against his palm. Something real to anchor him.

A businessman gives him a wide berth, probably thinking he’s drunk or high. Taiga doesn’t care.

The stone in his pocket digs into his thigh. He reaches for it, gripping it so tightly the edges cut into his palm. Pain helps. Pain is real.

“You’re fine,” he mutters to himself, voice lost in the street noise. “You’re fucking fine.”

He’s not fine. He hasn’t been fine since Myuto stepped off that platform. Since the moment Taiga realized he wasn’t quick enough, strong enough, good enough to save him.

Another train pulls in, the sound of its brakes a mechanical scream that sets his teeth on edge. Taiga turns his back to the station, focusing on a cigarette advertisement across the street. The model’s smile is plastic, meaningless, but it’s better than looking at those tracks.

Walk away. Just walk the fuck away.

His legs feel weighted, but he forces them to move. One step. Another. Each one carrying him further from the station and the memories it holds.

He hasn’t set foot inside since that day. Takes his motorcycle everywhere now, or one of the cars. Anything to avoid those steel coffins on rails.

The crowd thins as he turns down a side street. Here, the morning feels different—quieter, with the sun casting long shadows between buildings.

His breathing steadies. The darkness recedes from the edges of his vision.

The train disappears from view, taking its phantom screech with it. Taiga loosens his grip on the stone, slipping it back into his pocket. His palm shows the imprint of its edges, a temporary constellation pressed into flesh.

He walks faster now, putting distance between himself and Nakano Station. The familiar streets of their territory ground him.

The Warriors’ headquarters comes into view—an unassuming warehouse from the outside, home on the inside. Two lookouts nod at him from their positions. He acknowledges them with the barest tilt of his chin. They won’t mention his absence last night. They know better.

Taiga stops at the entrance, hand hovering over the keypad. Inside, they’ll be waiting. Yugo with his concerned eyes. Jesse with his forced jokes trying to lighten the mood. Shintaro planning something elaborate to distract everyone. Juri watching silently, seeing too much.

He’s not ready for any of them. Not with Myuto’s ghost still clinging to his shoulders. Not with his hands still stained with paint that looks too much like blood.

But ready or not, he’s their Warlord. And Warlords don’t get the luxury of falling apart.

Taiga straightens his shoulders, setting his face into the mask they expect. Cold. Controlled. Capable.

He punches in the code with steady fingers, the electronic beep confirming his entry.

The door opens to the familiar smell of coffee and the low hum of morning conversation. He steps inside, letting the Warriors’ headquarters envelop him. The mask settles more firmly in place with each step.

The Warriors’ main space is already bustling when Taiga enters. At least twenty members crowd the open living area, their black waistcoats standing out against the morning light streaming through the windows. The smell of rice and nori fills the air.

Taiga pauses at the threshold, letting his presence register before fully committing. It’s a habit—assess before engaging. The room hasn’t noticed him yet, giving him precious seconds to compose himself.

His gaze sweeps across the familiar faces, cataloging expressions, postures, potential problems. The routine helps center him, pushing Myuto’s ghost a little further back.

The Core 5’s usual table sits in the corner of the dining area—their unspoken territory. Jesse sprawls in his chair, leaning toward Yugo with that fucking grin that never seems to leave his face. He’s saying something that makes Yugo’s eyes crinkle at the corners, that rare genuine smile breaking through his Lieutenant façade.

Here we go again. Taiga watches Yugo’s expression shift—interest, warmth, then the familiar shuttering as he catches himself. The practiced withdrawal that follows is so predictable Taiga could time it on a stopwatch.

Three years of this dance. Three fucking years of Jesse’s obvious feelings and Yugo’s careful distance. It’s exhausting just watching it.

Yugo says something that makes Jesse throw his head back in laughter. Too loud, too early, too much—everything about Jesse is always too much. But Taiga can’t deny the way the sound cuts through the heaviness that’s been suffocating headquarters since yesterday’s cemetery visit.

Shintaro hunches over his tablet at the table, barely touching his food, probably lost in some strategy simulation. Typical. The kid would forget to eat entirely if someone didn’t put food in front of him. Juri sits beside him, quiet as always, nursing a cup of tea while watching the room with those observant eyes that miss nothing.

Taiga’s attention drifts to the kitchen where the Homekeepers move with practiced efficiency. Noel directs the morning routine, his bleached hair visible above the others as he reaches for plates on high shelves.

And there—partially hidden behind the kitchen island—stands Hokuto. Two weeks with the Warriors, and he still looks like he might bolt at any sudden movement. His bruises have faded, but the wariness in his eyes hasn’t. The way he holds himself—slightly hunched, taking up minimal space—speaks of the three years he spent as the Orphans’ plaything.

But there’s something different today. Hokuto’s hands move confidently as he shapes rice into triangles, his fingers precise and methodical. He’s talking quietly with Konpi, who nods along to whatever Hokuto is saying. Not quite comfortable, but not the terrified stray they’d brought home either.

The small changes register in Taiga’s mind. Hokuto’s hair trimmed neatly around his ears. Clothes that actually fit him, probably Noel’s doing. The way he occasionally meets someone’s eyes instead of staring at the floor.

Progress. Slow, but real.

The room finally notices his presence. Conversations falter, then resume at a slightly lower volume.

Respect, not fear. At least he’s managed that much of Myuto’s legacy.

Genta spots him from the kitchen and bounces over—the kid always seems to move on springs, energy barely contained.

“Morning, Boss!” Genta’s voice is too bright, too cheerful. Taiga wonders if the kid ever has a bad day. “Onigiri? We have salmon, tuna mayo, and umeboshi.”

Taiga nods, not trusting his voice yet.

The kid beams like he’s been given a gift and darts back to the kitchen, returning moments later with a plate of rice balls and a steaming mug of coffee, black as tar.

“Slept in?” Genta asks, then immediately looks like he regrets it.

Taiga takes the coffee, letting the heat seep through the ceramic into his palms. “Something like that.”

Genta hovers, clearly wanting to say more but sensing Taiga’s mood. Smart kid. He settles for a quick bow before retreating to safer territory.

The coffee burns Taiga’s tongue, but he welcomes the pain. It grounds him, pushes back the fog of exhaustion. Twenty-four hours without real sleep is catching up to him. The onigiri sits untouched on his plate, his stomach knotted too tight for food.

Yugo catches his eye from across the room, a question in his gaze.

Taiga gives a slight shake of his head.

His Lieutenant frowns but doesn’t push. Another thing to be grateful for.

The room continues its morning rhythm around him—conversations overlapping, laughter punctuating the hum of activity. Life continuing as if yesterday wasn’t the anniversary of their world falling apart.

As Taiga makes his way toward the Core 5’s table, he catches Hokuto watching him. Not the furtive glances most people give him, but a direct, thoughtful observation.

When their eyes meet, Hokuto doesn’t look away immediately. Instead, there’s a flicker of something—recognition, maybe. As if he sees past the Warlord mask to the exhaustion beneath.

The moment passes quickly. Hokuto returns to his task, but Taiga feels strangely exposed. Like someone has glimpsed the studio apartment with its chaos of paint and emotion.

It’s unsettling. No one looks at him that way. No one except Myuto, once. 

Taiga shakes off the unsettling feeling and focuses on the coffee in his hand. The bitter liquid burns a path down his throat, grounding him in the present. His body demands fuel, even if his mind resists. He grabs the nearest onigiri and devours it in three mechanical bites, barely tasting the salmon filling.

The food and caffeine hit his system like a jolt of electricity. Not enough to erase twenty-four sleepless hours, but enough to function. To lead.

Decision made, he straightens his shoulders and raises his voice just enough to carry across the room. “Stray Cat. Noel. A word.”

Conversations pause as heads turn toward him. He ignores the ripple of attention, keeping his eyes fixed on the two he’s summoned.

Noel responds immediately, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel before making his way over. Hokuto hesitates, uncertainty flashing across his face before he follows, keeping a careful half-step behind Noel.

Taiga waits until they stand before him, noting how Hokuto’s eyes dart briefly to the exit before settling somewhere near Taiga’s shoulder. Not quite meeting his gaze, but not staring at the floor either. Progress.

“How are you feeling?” Taiga asks Hokuto directly, his voice neutral.

Surprise registers on Hokuto’s face—quick, then gone. “I’m... fine.” The pause betrays his confusion at being asked.

Taiga turns to Noel. “Status on his injuries?”

Noel’s professional demeanor kicks in, his usual maternal energy channeled into a clinical report. “Fully healed. The bruising on his ribs has faded completely. No lingering issues with mobility.” He glances at Hokuto with a hint of pride. “He’s been helping in the kitchen all week without any problems.”

“He went outside yesterday,” Noel adds, and Taiga catches the significance. Their stray venturing beyond the safety of headquarters. “Genta took him along the grocery route. Familiarization exercise.”

Taiga nods, filing away this information. Another small victory. He studies Hokuto more carefully now, noting the slight change in posture since their rooftop conversation. Still cautious, but the terror has receded from his eyes. The constant tremor in his hands is gone.

“The business association in Shimokitazawa,” Taiga says abruptly. “When do they meet?”

Hokuto blinks, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “Tuesdays,” he answers after a moment. “Every Tuesday at ten. Kaoru-san hosts at her café.”

“Today is Tuesday,” Taiga realizes aloud. He turns toward the Core 5 table, catching Yugo’s attention. “Anything pending today?”

Yugo shakes his head. “Nothing that can’t wait. Patrol rotation is covered. Shintaro finished the security upgrades yesterday.” A pause, then with careful neutrality: “Did you have something in mind?”

The question hangs in the air. Taiga feels the weight of eyes on him. He hadn’t planned this, but the opportunity aligns too perfectly to ignore.

“We’re going to Shimokitazawa,” he announces, decision crystallizing as he speaks. “Core 5 and Hokuto. If they meet at ten, we should head out within the hour.”

The plan forms as he articulates it. A formal introduction to the business owners would establish their legitimacy in the newly acquired territory. Better than the violent first impression they’d made with the Orphans. And having Hokuto along—someone the locals knew—would ease the transition.

“Today?” Hokuto’s voice is quiet but tinged with something that might be alarm.

Taiga fixes him with a steady gaze. “Problem?”

Hokuto swallows visibly. “No, it’s just—” He stops, recalibrates. “They’ll recognize me.”

“That’s the point,” Taiga says. “You know them. They know you. Makes things smoother.”

Hokuto’s discomfort is palpable. Three years as the Orphans’ property in that neighborhood—everyone would have seen his humiliation, his captivity. Going back means facing those memories, those witnesses.

Taiga understands reluctance born from shame. Understands all too well.

“You won’t be alone,” he adds, the words coming out gruffer than intended.

Something shifts in Hokuto’s expression—surprise again, followed by a fragile resolve. He nods once, a jerky movement that betrays his nervousness.

“Good.” Taiga turns to the Core 5 table. “Wheels up in forty-five.”

The energy in the room transforms immediately. Orders given, purpose established. The Warriors respond to the shift, conversations becoming more focused as the Core 5 begin preparations.

Yugo approaches, lowering his voice for Taiga’s ears only. “You sure about this? Today of all days?”

The unspoken concern hangs between them. After yesterday. After the cemetery.

Taiga meets his Lieutenant’s gaze steadily. “Can’t put life on hold for the dead.”

The words taste like ash in his mouth, but they’re necessary. The Warriors need their Warlord functioning, not drowning in grief. Shimokitazawa needs securing. The business association needs to understand who’s protecting them now.

And maybe—though he won’t admit this—he needs the distraction. Needs something to focus on besides the anniversary and the ghost that won’t stop haunting him.

Yugo studies him for a moment longer, then nods. “Forty-five minutes,” he confirms, already mentally organizing the logistics.

🐍

The first drops hit the concrete as Taiga ducks into the Crown’s backseat, the smell of rain and leather mingling in his nostrils. The garage door rumbles open ahead, revealing sheets of water already slashing across the pavement outside. Perfect weather for his mood—the sky finally catching up with the storm inside his head.

“Fucking typical,” Jesse says from the front passenger seat, cranking his window down an inch to listen to the downpour. “Weather app said sunny all day.”

“When has that thing ever been right?” Yugo slides behind the wheel, adjusting the rearview mirror with practiced precision. His eyes briefly meet Taiga’s in the reflection, a silent check-in that Taiga acknowledges with the slightest nod.

The Silvia’s engine growls to life ahead of them, its sleek black form gleaming under the garage lights. Shintaro revs once—showing off—before easing forward with uncharacteristic restraint. Hokuto’s silhouette is just visible in the back seat, head turned to watch the rain.

“At least we’re not on the bikes,” Jesse says, stretching his long legs into the footwell. “Remember that time in Shibuya? When it started hailing?”

“You looked like a drowned rat,” Yugo replies, lips twitching as he starts the Crown’s engine. The car rumbles to life, its deep bass vibration traveling through the seats. “Complained for a week about your leather jacket.”

“It was genuine leather, man! Cost me three fights’ worth of cash.”

The Silvia pulls out into the rain, tires cutting through puddles already forming on the asphalt. Yugo follows, maintaining a careful distance as they emerge from the sanctuary of headquarters into the gray deluge.

Taiga leans his head against the cool window, watching rivulets chase each other across the glass. The rain transforms Tokyo, softening its hard edges, washing away the grime to reveal the gleaming skeleton beneath. On days like this, the city feels almost clean.

“So,” Jesse says, twisting in his seat to face Yugo, “about that new ramen place near Nakano Station. Heard the chef trained in Hakata. We should check it out. Tonight, maybe?”

Yugo keeps his eyes on the road, but Taiga catches the slight tightening of his hands on the steering wheel. “We’ve got the Shimokitazawa thing. Might run late.”

“After, then.” Jesse’s voice drops a register, the flirtation unmistakable. “I’m starving for something good.”

A familiar tension fills the car—Jesse pushing, Yugo pulling back while clearly wanting to give in.

Taiga shifts in his seat. Myuto would have locked these two in a closet by now. The thought comes unbidden, bringing with it a sharp pang that he ruthlessly suppresses.

“You’re always starving,” Yugo counters, but there’s a softness to his voice that betrays him. “And since when do you care about chef training?”

“I’m cultured as fuck,” Jesse protests, grinning. “Besides, I like watching you eat. You get this little crease right here—” He reaches over, finger hovering near Yugo’s forehead.

Yugo swats his hand away, but not before Taiga catches the flush creeping up his Lieutenant’s neck. “Eyes on the road, asshole.”

“My eyes are exactly where I want them.”

The rain intensifies, drumming against the roof in a chaotic rhythm. Through the gray curtain, Taiga watches the Silvia’s taillights glow red at an intersection. Juri’s profile is visible as he turns to say something to Hokuto in the back seat.

“Just fuck already,” Taiga mutters, the words escaping before he can filter them.

The car goes silent. In the rearview mirror, Yugo’s eyes widen fractionally.

Jesse recovers first, barking out a laugh that fills the car. “See? Even the boss thinks we should.”

“Taiga,” Yugo starts, his voice strained between embarrassment and something deeper.

“Your personal lives are your own,” Taiga cuts him off, keeping his tone neutral. “Just tired of the tension.”

It’s not entirely true. The tension between them is irritating, yes, but it’s also a welcome distraction. Their push-pull dynamic fills space that might otherwise be occupied by memories. By grief. By the ghost that rides his shoulders, especially today.

Better to focus on Jesse’s shameless flirting and Yugo’s conflicted responses than to think about empty seats and promises left unfulfilled. Better to be annoyed at the living than lost in thoughts of the dead.

The Silvia takes a turn toward the expressway, and Yugo follows, wipers fighting a losing battle against the downpour. Tokyo blurs beyond the windows, buildings and lights smearing into watercolor impressions of themselves.

“Maybe we should just get it over with,” Jesse says, his voice quieter now, the joking edge gone. “What do you think, Yugo?”

The question hangs in the rain-soaked air between them. Taiga watches Yugo’s profile, sees the war playing out across his features.

Yugo shifts uncomfortably in his seat, eyes fixed on the road with deliberate concentration. “Not the time or place, Jesse.”

The words land with a finality that silences even Jesse’s persistent charm. The rejection isn’t harsh—Yugo’s voice never loses its gentle edge—but it’s firm enough that Jesse’s usual comeback dies on his lips. He turns to face the window, shoulders slightly hunched, an unfamiliar posture for someone who typically takes up as much space as possible.

Taiga watches the interaction with detached curiosity. Yugo’s hesitation makes little sense. The attraction between them is obvious, has been for years. They orbit each other like binary stars, their gravity undeniable.

Yet Yugo keeps creating distance, maintaining boundaries that seem increasingly arbitrary.

The silence stretches, broken only by the rhythmic sweep of wipers and the percussion of rain against metal. Taiga doesn’t fill it. Let them sit with their choices, their unspoken words. His own thoughts are heavy enough without carrying theirs too.

Outside, Tokyo passes in a rain-blurred procession of buildings and lights. The expressway gives way to narrower streets as they approach Shimokitazawa. The neighborhood looks different in daylight, even through the filter of rain—less threatening, more worn around the edges. Hints of the artistic community shine through despite the weather: a mural here, a string of paper lanterns there, signs advertising underground music venues and vintage clothing shops.

The Silvia’s brake lights flare as Shintaro pulls into a small parking lot, the same one they’d used the night they took down the Orphans. Taiga remembers the walk to Good Heavens Bar, the reconnaissance, the calm before they upended the neighborhood’s power structure. Only two weeks ago, but it feels distant somehow.

Yugo parks beside the Silvia, cutting the engine. The sudden silence amplifies the drumming of rain on the roof.

“We’re here,” he announces unnecessarily, maybe just to break the tension.

Jesse nods, his usual energy subdued. “Let’s get this over with.” He reaches for the door handle but pauses, turning back to Yugo with an uncharacteristically serious expression. “We’re good, right?”

Something complicated passes across Yugo’s face. “Always,” he says, the single word carrying more weight than a paragraph could.

Jesse’s smile returns, dimmer than usual but genuine. “Good. Can’t have my favorite Lieutenant mad at me.”

“I’m your only Lieutenant,” Yugo replies, the familiar rhythm of their banter partially restored.

“Exactly.”

Taiga exits the car before their reconciliation can fully blossom, stepping into the downpour. The rain hits hard, soaking through his jacket in seconds. Across the lot, Shintaro, Juri, and Hokuto huddle under umbrellas, having come better prepared.

Yugo joins him a moment later, pulling a collapsible umbrella from his jacket pocket and opening it with a snap. He holds it over both of them, a gesture Taiga accepts without comment.

Jesse emerges last, making a theatrical show of dismay at the weather before ducking under Yugo’s umbrella on the opposite side, taking the umbrella from the Lieutenant’s hand.

“You’re always prepared,” Jesse says to Yugo, bumping shoulders with him. “Boy Scout in another life?”

“Just not an idiot in this one,” Yugo replies, but there’s no bite to it.

They cross the lot to join the others. Hokuto stands slightly apart, shoulders hunched under a black umbrella Juri must have given him. His eyes dart around the familiar surroundings, landing on everything but the Warriors. He looks ready to bolt, a cornered animal calculating escape routes.

Fear or memory? Taiga wonders. Maybe both. This neighborhood holds nothing but pain for him—three years of captivity disguised as protection. Taiga recognizes the weight of those chains, invisible but heavier than steel.

“Stray Cat,” Taiga says, keeping his voice neutral. “Lead the way to the tea shop.”

Hokuto’s eyes finally meet his, wide and uncertain. “It’s—it’s just down this street and left at the second alley.” His voice is barely audible above the rain. “Kaoru-san opens early, even in weather like this.”

“Then let’s not keep her waiting.” Taiga gestures for Hokuto to take point.

Hokuto hesitates, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. For a moment, Taiga thinks he might refuse, might turn and run into the labyrinthine streets where he surely knows every hiding place.

But then something settles in his expression—not quite resolve, but maybe its distant cousin—and he nods once, stepping forward.

“This way,” he says, starting down the rain-slicked street.

Taiga follows, conscious of the others falling in behind them.

The rain continues its assault, rendering the world in shades of gray and silver, washing away color and definition. The tea shop materializes through the rain like a mirage, its warm yellow light spilling onto the wet pavement. A simple wooden sign hangs above the door: Tsukimasa Tea Shop. Nothing fancy, nothing pretentious. Just a neighborhood fixture that’s probably weathered decades of Tokyo’s evolution.

Hokuto slows as they approach, his steps becoming hesitant. His knuckles whiten around the umbrella handle. The look on his face reminds Taiga of cornered prey—eyes darting, body tense, preparing for pain.

“It’s just Kaoru-san,” Taiga says, keeping his voice low enough that only Hokuto can hear. “You said yourself she’s reasonable.”

Hokuto swallows visibly. “She is.”

“You don’t have to go in,” Taiga offers, surprising himself. “Juri can take you back to the car.”

Hokuto looks at him, really looks at him for maybe the first time since they met. Something shifts in his expression—a flicker of determination breaking through the fear.

“No,” he says. “I want to.”

He closes his umbrella, shakes it once, and reaches for the door. His hand trembles slightly, but he slides it open with a gentle scraping sound.

A bell chimes overhead as they enter, bringing with it the rich aroma of tea and something baking—cinnamon, maybe. The warmth wraps around Taiga like a physical thing after the chill of the rain. 

He blinks, adjusting to the light and the unexpected crowd. The tea shop is packed—at least twenty people crammed into the small space, sitting around tables and standing in clusters. Older men and women mostly, dressed in the practical clothes of shopkeepers and business owners. The Tuesday morning business association meeting, just as Hokuto had mentioned.

Every head turns toward the door. The conversations die mid-sentence.

For a heartbeat, tension crackles in the air like static electricity. Taiga’s muscles tense instinctively, reading the room for threats, calculating angles and distances to the nearest exit.

Then a woman steps forward—mid-sixties, silver-streaked hair pulled back in a neat bun, spine straight as a sword. Kaoru, presumably. Her eyes skip over Taiga entirely, fixing instead on the slight figure beside him.

“Hokuto-kun?” Her voice carries a tremor of disbelief.

Hokuto ducks his head in a reflexive bow. “Kaoru-san. I—”

He doesn’t finish. The woman crosses the space between them in three quick steps and grips his shoulders, examining him with intense scrutiny.

“We thought—” She stops, composing herself. “When we couldn’t find you after the fire, we feared the worst. That Ryo and his thugs had left you there.”

Hokuto’s head snaps up, genuine shock written across his features. “You... looked for me?”

Something twists in Taiga’s chest, sharp and unexpected. The naked surprise in Hokuto’s voice speaks volumes. Three years in this neighborhood, and he never realized people cared enough to search for him in the ashes.

“Of course we looked!” A balding man calls from across the room. “Checked the hospitals, too.”

“The police and fire department said they didn’t find any human remains,” adds a woman with thick glasses. “But with those Orphans, who knows what they might have done.”

Murmurs of agreement ripple through the crowd. Taiga watches them with narrowed eyes, reassessing. These aren’t just business owners afraid of the new gang moving in. They’re a community. One that apparently counted Hokuto among their own, despite his status with the Orphans.

Kaoru’s gaze finally shifts to Taiga, then to the other Warriors behind him. Her eyes harden, but she doesn’t back away.

“And who might you be?” she asks, her tone cooler but not hostile.

Before Taiga can answer, Hokuto speaks. “They’re the Warriors. From Nakano.” He hesitates, then adds, “They helped me. After the fire.”

Helped. An interesting choice of words for burning down a building and beating his captors senseless. But not entirely inaccurate.

Kaoru studies Taiga with the shrewd assessment of someone who’s seen gangs come and go. “The ones who dealt with Ryo and his boys?”

Taiga inclines his head slightly. “We’ve taken over Shimokitazawa,” he says, keeping his voice neutral. No point in sugar-coating it. “I wanted to meet the business association directly. Hokuto suggested you’d be the one to talk to.”

“Did he now?” Kaoru’s expression softens as she glances back at Hokuto. “Always the observant one, weren’t you? Even when those thugs had you running their errands, you noticed things.”

A murmur runs through the room, and Taiga catches fragments of conversation.

“—always polite, that boy—”

“—brought medicine when my husband was sick—”

“—never took more protection money than ordered—”

Taiga’s gaze shifts to Hokuto, who stands frozen in apparent disbelief, eyes wide as he takes in the room full of people who not only recognized him but had worried about him. Who had searched for him in the aftermath of violence.

Hokuto clears his throat, his voice still soft but steadier than before. “Kaoru-san, everyone... Taiga-san wants to speak with you all. About Shimokitazawa.”

The atmosphere tenses again. Kaoru’s expression cools, the maternal concern she showed Hokuto replaced by the wariness of a community leader who’s dealt with gangs before. She steps back, creating space between herself and Taiga—not retreating, but establishing a boundary.

“I’m listening,” she says, arms folded across her chest.

Taiga steps forward, conscious of the Warriors at his back and the room full of wary shopkeepers before him. No point in dancing around the subject. These people have survived the Orphans; they understand how territory works in Tokyo.

“Shimokitazawa is under Warriors protection now,” he states, keeping his voice level. “That means changes.”

A ripple of unease moves through the room. An older man near the back mutters something that sounds like “same shit, different gang.” Taiga ignores it.

“Protection means protection money,” he continues. “But it also means actual protection.”

“Ryo said the same thing,” the woman with thick glasses challenges. “Then raised his rates every month while his boys harassed customers.”

“And broke my delivery truck window when I was late with payment,” adds a middle-aged man with flour-dusted hands. “Some protection.”

Taiga had expected this. The skepticism is reasonable after years under the Orphans’ incompetent extortion. He glances at Hokuto, who stands with his shoulders hunched, eyes darting between Taiga and the business owners. His presence here is a gamble that might still pay off.

“We’re not the Orphans,” Taiga says, meeting Kaoru’s steady gaze. “We don’t make promises we can’t keep.”

“Pretty words,” Kaoru replies. “But why should we believe you’ll be any different?”

Taiga reaches into his jacket pocket, feeling the stone there. He runs his thumb over its smooth surface once before pulling out a folded paper instead.

“Because I’m offering you a trial run,” he says, unfolding the document he and the Core 5 had drafted during their meetings in the War Room over the past two weeks. “One month of Warriors protection. No charge.”

Surprise registers on several faces. Kaoru’s eyes narrow, suspicious rather than impressed.

“And after this month?”

“Standard rates. Lower than what the Orphans were charging.” Taiga places the paper on the nearest table. “Written agreement. We don’t change terms without notice.”

A balding shopkeeper scoffs. “And we’re supposed to trust a piece of paper?”

“No,” Taiga answers honestly. “You’re supposed to judge us by our actions during the trial month. Warriors will patrol Shimokitazawa daily. You’ll have direct contact numbers for emergencies.”

He pauses, remembering something Hokuto had mentioned during one of the planning sessions. A detail that had seemed insignificant at the time, but now might prove useful.

“We’ll also fix the broken streetlight near the station,” he adds. “The one the city’s been ignoring for months.”

Kaoru’s eyebrows rise slightly. “The one by the east exit?”

Taiga nods, silently thanking whatever instinct had made him file away that particular detail from Hokuto’s rambling two weeks ago. “It’s a security issue. Should have been addressed already.”

The room quiets, the business owners exchanging glances. Taiga can read the calculation happening behind their eyes—weighing the devil they knew against the one standing before them. The Orphans were incompetent but predictable. The Warriors are an unknown quantity, potentially more dangerous precisely because they seem more organized.

“And if we refuse?” Kaoru asks, her voice steady despite the implied challenge.

The room tenses. This is the moment where Ryo would have threatened, would have demonstrated his power through intimidation or violence. It’s what they expect from Taiga too—the new gang boss establishing dominance.

Myuto would find another way.

The thought comes unbidden, bringing with it a clarity Taiga hadn’t expected. He doesn’t need to threaten these people. Fear creates compliance, but not loyalty. Not stability.

“You won’t get the benefits of our protection,” he says simply. “But we’re not here to strong-arm shopkeepers or terrorize civilians. That’s not how we operate.”

It’s the truth, even if it’s not the whole truth. The Warriors don’t waste resources punishing those who can’t or won’t pay—they simply don’t extend their protection to them. In a neighborhood like Shimokitazawa, with its narrow alleys and tight community, selective protection creates its own pressure.

Kaoru studies him, skepticism still evident in her expression. “Fine words,” she says. “We’ve heard plenty of those before.”

“Then judge us by our actions,” Taiga replies. “Starting today.”

Kaoru’s eyes narrow. She turns abruptly, focusing instead on Hokuto.

“Hokuto-kun,” she says, her voice softening around the edges. “You’ve been with these Warriors for... how long now?”

The question hangs in the air. Taiga doesn’t interrupt, curious what Hokuto will say. The boy looks startled to be addressed directly, eyes widening slightly before darting down to the floor.

“Two weeks,” Hokuto answers, voice barely audible above the rain drumming against the roof.

“And how have they treated you?” Kaoru presses. “The truth, now.”

Taiga keeps his expression neutral, though something tightens in his chest. It’s a clever move on Kaoru’s part—using Hokuto as a measuring stick. The boy has no reason to lie for them, no allegiance beyond the temporary shelter they’ve provided.

Hokuto looks up, first at Kaoru, then with a quick, uncertain glance toward Taiga. Something passes through his eyes—not fear, which Taiga had expected, but something more complex.

“They gave me choices,” Hokuto says finally. His voice grows steadier with each word. “They asked what I wanted instead of telling me. They...” He pauses, swallows. “They gave me the code to the roof.”

The code to the roof? Of all the things Hokuto could have mentioned—the medical treatment, the food, the safety—he focuses on that small gesture Taiga had made almost without thinking.

“The roof?” Kaoru looks confused.

“It means I can go somewhere quiet whenever I need to,” Hokuto explains, a flush creeping up his neck. “Without asking permission. Without...” His voice drops. “Without being followed.”

The simplicity of it hits Taiga like a physical blow. Such a small thing to him—an afterthought, really—but to Hokuto, it represented a freedom he hadn’t known in years. The ability to be alone with his thoughts, to exist in a space without scrutiny or demand.

Kaoru’s expression softens as she studies Hokuto’s face. She reaches out, patting his arm with weathered hands.

“Three years,” she says, not to Hokuto but to the room at large. “This boy suffered under Ryo and those Orphans for three years. Running their errands, bearing their abuse.” She turns to face Taiga directly. “But he never lost his kindness. Never stopped warning us when collections were coming. Never stopped checking on old Yoshiro-san when he was sick.”

Murmurs of agreement ripple through the room. Taiga watches Hokuto shrink under the attention, clearly uncomfortable with being discussed this way.

“So,” Kaoru continues, straightening her spine. “If Hokuto-kun says you’ve treated him well, then maybe there’s something to your fine words after all.”

She moves to the table where Taiga had placed the agreement, picking it up with careful hands. Her eyes scan the document, lingering on certain sections.

“One-month trial,” she repeats, looking back at Taiga. “No charge.”

Taiga nods once. “As stated.”

“And you’ll fix the streetlight.”

“Within the week.”

Kaoru sets the paper down, smoothing it with her palm. “Very well. If Hokuto-kun trusts you...” She glances at the young man, who looks startled at the suggestion that his opinion carries such weight. “Then I suppose we can extend the same courtesy. For one month.”

Relief washes through Taiga, though he keeps it from showing on his face. This is better than he’d hoped for. All because of Hokuto’s endorsement.

“Smart decision,” he says, inclining his head slightly to acknowledge her choice.

“Don’t mistake caution for trust,” Kaoru warns. “We’ve dealt with gangs before. The Orphans weren’t the first, and you won’t be the last.” She gestures around the room. “We’re still here. We endure.”

There’s steel in her voice, the same resilience Taiga has seen in neighborhoods across Tokyo. The shopkeepers and business owners who bend but don’t break, who adapt to each new power structure while maintaining their own quiet authority.

“Understood,” Taiga says, meaning it.

Kaoru nods, then turns back to Hokuto, her expression softening again. “You look better already,” she says quietly. “Thinner, but... lighter somehow.”

Hokuto ducks his head, clearly unused to such direct concern. “I’m fine, Kaoru-san.”

“Good.” She pats his arm again. “You were always too gentle for those thugs. Maybe these Warriors will prove a better fit.”

Maybe they will, Taiga thinks, studying Hokuto’s profile. The boy who survived three years of captivity without losing his essential nature. Who remembered a shopkeeper’s sick husband and a broken streetlight.

Who values the freedom to be alone on a rooftop above all other comforts they’ve provided.

“We should get going,” Taiga says, nodding to Yugo. They’ve accomplished what they came for—better than expected, in fact. No need to linger and risk upsetting the fragile truce they’ve just established.

Yugo catches his signal and straightens, nudging Jesse, who’s been fidgeting beside him throughout the entire exchange. Juri and Shintaro are already moving toward the door, sensing the shift in energy.

As Taiga turns to leave, Kaoru’s voice cuts through the murmur of conversation.

“Wait just a moment,” she says, her tone brooking no argument despite addressing the leader of the gang that now controls her neighborhood. “Hokuto-kun isn’t going anywhere until he’s had some proper tea.”

Taiga pauses, surprised by the woman’s audacity. He turns to see Kaoru’s weathered hand firmly gripping Hokuto’s wrist, pulling him deeper into the shop rather than toward the exit. The other business owners are already closing in around him, creating a barrier of bodies between Hokuto and the Warriors.

“Sit, sit,” urges the baker with flour-dusted hands, guiding Hokuto toward an empty chair. “You’re all bones, boy. Did these new ones not feed you either?”

“I want to hear everything,” says the woman with thick glasses, already pouring tea into a delicate cup. “After that fire, we thought—”

“Is that bruise from those Orphans or these ones?” demands a stern-faced man, tilting Hokuto’s chin to examine a fading mark.

Hokuto looks overwhelmed, his eyes wide as he’s engulfed by the attention of at least a dozen shopkeepers. His gaze finds Taiga’s across the room, a silent plea for... what? Rescue? Permission? Taiga can’t quite read it.

What he does recognize is the protective circle forming around Hokuto—these people have claimed him as one of their own, regardless of his association with either gang. It’s unexpected, this fierce community ownership of someone Taiga had assumed was merely tolerated.

“Let’s step out,” Taiga murmurs to the others, making the decision quickly. “We’re out of place here.”

Jesse looks confused, glancing between Hokuto and Taiga. “We just leaving him?”

“He’s not a prisoner,” Taiga replies, the words coming out sharper than intended. He softens his tone. “Give them a few minutes. We’ll wait outside.”

Yugo nods in understanding, already moving toward the door. Shintaro follows, while Juri gives Taiga a searching look that he chooses to ignore.

The bell chimes overhead as they exit the tea shop, stepping onto the wet pavement. The rain has stopped, leaving behind that peculiar freshness that follows a summer downpour—the scent of wet concrete and clean air, a brief respite from Tokyo’s usual haze.

“That went well,” Yugo says, coming to stand beside him. “The old lady seems tough, but fair.”

“She reminds me of my grandmother,” Jesse adds, stretching his arms overhead. “Tiny but terrifying.”

Taiga doesn’t respond, his attention caught by the stark reminder of their presence in this neighborhood. Across the street and down the block, the charred skeleton of the karaoke bar stands as a monument to the Warriors’ arrival. The blackened beams jut against the clearing sky like broken bones, the collapsed roof creating a jagged silhouette.

And there, dominating what remains of the front wall, is the massive golden “W” Taiga had spray-painted two weeks ago. His signature is unmistakable—bold, aggressive strokes that flow with a controlled energy he rarely allows himself to express except through art. The gold paint gleams against the fire-darkened surface, untouched by the rain.

The bell chimes again behind them. Taiga turns to see Hokuto stepping out of the tea shop, a small package clutched in his hands and Kaoru hovering at his elbow. She’s saying something to him, her expression stern but affectionate.

Hokuto nods, ducking his head in that habitual gesture of deference. But as he turns toward the Warriors, something happens that catches Taiga off-guard.

Hokuto smiles.

It’s small and hesitant, barely more than a slight upturn of his lips, but it transforms his entire face. The perpetual wariness that shadows his features lifts momentarily, revealing a glimpse of who he might have been before the Orphans—before three years of survival stripped away everything but necessity.

Something shifts in Taiga’s chest, an unfamiliar tightness that he doesn’t care to examine too closely.

🐍

“You’ve got enough food here to feed half of Tokyo,” Noel says, eyebrows raised as Jesse unloads another bag onto the kitchen counter.

Taiga shifts the weight of two cloth bags from one hand to the other, the unfamiliar burden making his shoulders ache. The drive back from Shimokitazawa had taken twice as long as it should have—every shopkeeper apparently determined to send Hokuto off with some token of their affection. What should have been a straightforward negotiation turned into an impromptu community reunion.

“We tried to leave,” Yugo explains, setting down a box of what appears to be handmade sweets. “But then the bakery owner showed up with bread, and the vegetable seller heard we were there and brought fresh produce, and then—”

“They wouldn’t take no for an answer,” Jesse cuts in, grinning as he pulls out a bottle of premium sake. “Not that I tried very hard. Look at this stuff!”

Genta materializes from nowhere, eyes wide with excitement as he surveys the bounty. “Holy shit, is that milk bread? And pickles?” He reaches for a carefully wrapped package, practically vibrating with enthusiasm.

Hokuto stands in the center of it all, looking simultaneously pleased and mortified. He clutches a small cloth-wrapped bundle to his chest like it might shield him from the attention.

“I’m sorry,” he says, the words directed at Taiga, though his eyes remain fixed on the floor. “I didn’t expect them to—”

“Don’t apologize,” Taiga cuts him off, dropping the bags onto the counter with more force than necessary. The lack of sleep is catching up to him, making his movements clumsy and his thoughts fuzzy around the edges. “This is exactly what we wanted. Goodwill.”

Noel shoots Taiga a concerned look before turning to Hokuto with a warm smile. “Come on, let’s get all this sorted.”

“I’ll help!” Genta volunteers, already digging through the nearest bag.

Taiga watches as Hokuto is gently absorbed into the domestic scene, his thin shoulders gradually relaxing as Noel asks questions about the various items. The contrast between this moment and the tense meeting with Kaoru just hours ago makes something twist in Taiga’s chest—a sensation he doesn’t have the energy to examine.

“I’m going to my room,” he announces to no one in particular. “Don’t disturb me unless something’s on fire.”

He doesn’t wait for acknowledgment, turning on his heel and heading for the stairs. His body feels leaden, each step requiring conscious effort. Thirty hours without sleep isn’t his record, but combined with the emotional drain of Myuto’s anniversary and the unexpected events in Shimokitazawa, it’s enough to push him to his limits.

The second-floor hallway stretches before him, mercifully empty. Taiga counts the doors automatically. Five steps to his door. Four. Three.

Inside his room, Taiga lets the carefully maintained façade slip. His shoulders slump as he leans against the closed door, exhaling slowly through his nose. The space before him is deliberately sparse—a platform bed with neatly folded blankets, a simple desk, a metal wardrobe. No decorations on the walls except for the patches of his own graffiti that he allows himself, abstract designs in black and gold that no one else would recognize as his work.

He shrugs off his waistcoat, hanging it on the rack at the back of the door before crossing to the desk, dropping his keys, cigarette pack, lighter, and phone with a clatter that sounds too loud in the silent room. The only personal item visible is the framed photograph propped against the wall—Taiga and Myuto, arms slung around each other’s shoulders, standing in front of the abandoned warehouse that would become their headquarters.

They look impossibly young. Taiga’s hair is shorter, his expression more open. Myuto grins at the camera with the easy confidence that drew people to him like moths to flame. Four years ago, fresh from their split with the Rogues, full of plans and righteous anger and the unshakable belief that they could build something better.

Taiga picks up the frame, his thumb tracing the edge. The photo was taken just days after they’d claimed this building—before the renovations, before recruiting most of the members, before the Warriors became what they are now.

Just four friends with a vision: Taiga, Myuto, Yugo, and Shintaro.

You’d be surprised by what we’ve become, he thinks, setting the frame back down with careful precision. I still don’t know if it’s what you wanted.

The exhaustion hits him in a sudden wave, making the room tilt slightly. Taiga sinks onto the edge of the bed, not bothering to remove his boots. He should shower, should check in with Shintaro about the security updates, should review the protection payments due this week.

Instead, he lies back, one arm flung over his eyes to block out the afternoon light filtering through the blinds.

Just five minutes, he tells himself. Five minutes to reset.

🐍

Five minutes stretches into darkness as Taiga’s consciousness slips away. The room fades, replaced by the humid press of a summer night from exactly one year ago.

Not a dream—a memory his mind won’t let him escape.

The train platform materializes around him. Shinagawa Station, crowded even at this late hour. Myuto stands beside him, face tight with concentration as they scan the crowd for pursuit.

“They’re coming,” Myuto mutters, positioned at Taiga’s left shoulder. “Two minutes, tops.”

Jesse shifts his weight from foot to foot, knuckles still bloody from their earlier escape. “Train’s almost here. We’ll make it.”

But Taiga knows they won’t. Even as the scene unfolds—the same way it always does—he feels the familiar sinking certainty in his gut. This ends only one way.

Myuto checks his phone, then tucks it away. “The captain’s here. He’ll try to stop the train.”

“Fuck,” Taiga hisses. He spots the police captain pushing through the crowd, radio already at his lips. “He’s calling the conductor.”

The approaching train’s headlights illuminate the platform in harsh white. Myuto’s face hardens with decision, and Taiga knows what comes next. He tries to grab Myuto’s arm—tries to change the outcome—but his body won’t respond. He’s locked in the memory, forced to watch it play out again.

“Stay together,” Myuto says, his voice steady despite everything. “Get on that train. I’ll handle this.”

“No.” The word tears from Taiga’s throat, raw and desperate. “We stick together. That’s the rule.”

Myuto’s smile is brief but genuine. “Sometimes the rules need breaking, Lieutenant. Keep them safe.”

The train doors open. Passengers flood out, creating momentary chaos. Myuto uses the confusion to break away, moving with purposeful strides toward the police captain. Taiga lunges after him, but Jesse and Yugo hold him back.

“He knows what he’s doing,” Yugo says, though his voice cracks with uncertainty.

“We have to trust him,” Jesse says, already pulling Taiga toward the open train doors.

The scene slows, details sharpening with cruel clarity. Myuto reaches the captain, landing a precise blow that sends the radio skittering across the platform. The two men grapple, Myuto keeping the officer occupied, preventing him from signaling the conductor to hold the train.

Taiga struggles against Jesse’s grip as they drag him into the train car. “Let me go! We can’t leave him!”

The doors begin to close. Through the narrowing gap, Taiga watches as Myuto glances back, meeting his eyes one last time. There’s no fear there—only fierce determination and something like peace.

The doors seal shut. The train lurches forward.

What happens next should be hidden by the train’s movement, but in the dream, Taiga sees it all. The backup officers swarming the platform. Myuto, surrounded, fighting with everything he has. The local train arriving on the opposite track. The moment when Myuto, cornered and desperate, is pushed—or jumps—into its path.

The sound that follows isn’t real—Taiga was too far away to hear it—but his mind supplies it anyway: the sickening impact, the screech of emergency brakes, the screams of witnesses.

In the dream, the train window becomes a screen, forcing him to watch as Myuto’s body—

Taiga jerks upright, a hoarse cry strangled in his throat. His heart hammers against his ribs, sweat soaking through his shirt despite the room’s cool temperature. For several seconds, he can’t place himself, the boundaries between dream and reality blurred by exhaustion.

Breathe. Just breathe.

Slowly, the room comes into focus. His room. Warriors headquarters. Safe. The digital clock on his desk reads 12:47 AM—he’s been asleep for nearly nine hours.

Taiga swings his legs over the side of the bed, pressing his feet against the cool floor to ground himself. His shirt clings uncomfortably to his back, and his mouth tastes sour. The dream—the memory—lingers like a physical presence, pressing against his skull.

“Fuck,” he whispers, voice rough.

Taiga fumbles for the cigarette pack on his desk. His fingers close around the crumpled box, counting the remaining cigarettes by touch.

Three left. Not enough.

The room suddenly feels like a cage, walls pressing in with memories he can’t outrun. He needs air. Space. Anything but the suffocating silence of his bedroom where ghosts wait in every shadow.

He shoves the cigarette pack  into his pocket, grabs his lighter, and yanks open his door.

The hallway stretches empty before him, most doors closed for the night. A faint glow spills from under Shintaro’s room—the Scout probably hunched over some new security design, oblivious to the hour. The soft murmur of voices drifts up from the first floor, punctuated by occasional laughter and the muted sounds of a movie.

Taiga moves toward the stairwell, his footsteps deliberately silent. The last thing he needs is conversation, questions about why he slept all day or how he’s feeling. The answer to both would be the same anyway: like shit.

The first floor is dimly lit, a handful of Warriors sprawled across couches in the living area. Someone’s streaming an action movie, the flickering light painting their faces in shifting colors. They glance up as he passes, a few nodding in acknowledgment before returning their attention to the screen.

No one calls out to him. They know better.

Taiga cuts through the kitchen, past the remains of dinner still scattered across the counters. The bags from Shimokitazawa have been emptied, their contents organized and stored. A small note in Noel’s handwriting sits propped against the microwave.

Food in the fridge if hungry. Don’t skip meals.

He ignores it, pushing through the back door and taking the service stairs two at a time. The cigarette pack crinkles in his fist as he climbs, the sound unnaturally loud in the concrete stairwell.

His mind races ahead to the rooftop—his sanctuary, the one place where the city feels manageable, where the air moves freely and the noise in his head quiets, if only for a moment.

Taiga reaches the door and pushes it open, the humid night air hitting his face like a damp cloth—

And freezes.

Two figures stand silhouetted against the city lights, bodies pressed together at the far edge of the roof. Even in the dim glow from the string lights, there’s no mistaking them. Jesse’s hands frame Yugo’s face, their lips locked in a kiss that looks like drowning—desperate and inevitable.

Taiga steps back silently, letting the door close enough to give them privacy but not enough to latch. Something uncomfortable twists in his chest—not embarrassment at witnessing the moment, but a sharp pang of something he refuses to name.

Something that tastes like loneliness.

Through the narrow gap, he watches Yugo pull away first, his hands coming up to create distance between them.

“I can’t,” Yugo says, voice carrying clearly in the night air. “Jesse, I can’t do this.”

Jesse doesn’t immediately release him, hands sliding down to rest on Yugo’s shoulders. “Why not? Give me one fucking reason that isn’t about the gang or some bullshit duty.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is that simple. You want this. I want this. What’s the problem?”

Yugo steps back, breaking contact completely. “I can’t explain it, okay? I just—I can’t.”

“That’s not a reason.” Jesse’s voice hardens with frustration. “That’s fear.”

“Then I’m afraid. Is that what you want to hear?”

The silence stretches between them. Taiga shifts his weight, causing the door to creak slightly. Both heads turn toward the sound.

“Shit,” Jesse mutters, spotting Taiga through the gap. “Perfect timing as always, boss.”

Taiga pushes the door fully open, stepping onto the roof with feigned casualness. “Don’t stop on my account. Just came for a smoke.”

Yugo’s face is unreadable in the half-light, but his posture radiates tension. “It’s fine. We’re done here anyway.”

“We’re not done,” Jesse says, but the fight has drained from his voice. “We’re just pausing this conversation.”

He brushes past Taiga, their shoulders colliding with more force than necessary. Taiga catches a glimpse of his face—jaw clenched, eyes bright with something raw and wounded. It’s the same expression Jesse wore at Myuto’s funeral, a naked pain he doesn’t bother to hide.

The door slams behind him, leaving Taiga and Yugo alone on the roof.

Taiga pulls a cigarette from the crumpled pack, tapping it against his palm. “So,” he says, “that looked complicated.”

Yugo says nothing, turning away to stare out at the city skyline.

The silence stretches between them, heavy with unspoken words. Taiga lights his cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating the tightness around Yugo’s eyes, the rigid set of his shoulders.

“You going to explain?” Taiga asks finally, exhaling smoke that dissipates into the humid night air. “Or are we pretending I didn’t see that?”

Yugo’s laugh is hollow, barely more than an exhale. “Nothing to explain. You saw everything.”

“Then why are you holding back?” Taiga takes another drag, studying his Lieutenant’s profile. “If you want him, take him. I’m not stopping you.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Seems pretty fucking simple to me.” Taiga flicks ash over the edge of the roof, watching the orange embers disappear into darkness. “You two have been dancing around each other for years. Just get it over with already.”

Yugo turns to face him, expression hardening. “You think I need your permission?”

“No,” Taiga says, “but I’m giving it anyway. If that’s what’s holding you back—some misguided loyalty bullshit—then drop it. I don’t care if you and Jesse fuck in the war room. It won’t change anything.”

The stone weighs heavy in Taiga’s pocket. He curls his fingers around it, grounding himself in its smooth surface as Yugo’s silence stretches on.

“That’s not it,” Yugo says finally, voice quiet but firm. “It’s not about permission.”

“Then what?”

Yugo meets his gaze directly, his eyes reflecting the distant city lights. “It’s about you.”

Something cool slides down Taiga’s spine. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means I can’t afford to be distracted right now.” Yugo’s words come faster now, as if a dam has broken. “Not when you’re like this—barely sleeping, disappearing for days, barely eating. You think I don’t notice? You think Jesse doesn’t?”

Taiga’s grip tightens around the cigarette. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You haven’t been since Myuto died.” Yugo steps closer, his voice dropping. “And that’s okay. No one expects you to be fine. But someone has to hold things together while you figure your shit out, and that someone is me.”

The words hit like a physical blow. Taiga’s chest constricts, anger flaring hot and sudden. “I don’t need a fucking babysitter.”

“No, you need a lieutenant who isn’t distracted by his own personal life.” Yugo’s face softens slightly. “Look, I’m not blaming you. But the truth is, you’re barely holding on. If I let myself get caught up with Jesse now—”

“So this is my fault?” Taiga cuts him off, voice sharp. “You’re putting your life on hold because you think I can’t handle my responsibilities?”

Yugo’s expression hardens. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s exactly what you said.” Taiga takes a final drag before crushing the cigarette under his boot. “Poor broken Taiga, one anniversary away from a complete fucking breakdown. Better put your own happiness on hold to make sure he doesn’t fall apart.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No, what’s not fair is you using me as an excuse.” Taiga steps closer, close enough to see the flash of hurt in Yugo’s eyes. “If you don’t want Jesse, just say it. Don’t hide behind some bullshit about protecting me.”

Yugo’s jaw clenches. “You don’t get it.”

“I get that you’re a coward.”

The words hang between them, too harsh to take back. Yugo flinches as if struck, and Taiga immediately regrets the outburst. But pride keeps him silent, keeps his face impassive even as shame curls in his gut.

“Maybe I am,” Yugo says finally, voice quiet. “But at least I’m honest about what scares me.” He moves toward the door. “When was the last time you could say the same?”

Before Taiga can respond, the door opens from the other side. Hokuto stands frozen in the doorway, his thin frame silhouetted against the stairwell light. His eyes dart between them, quickly assessing the tension.

“I’m sorry,” he says, already backing away. “I didn’t mean to interrupt—”

“You’re not interrupting anything,” Yugo says, his voice deliberately neutral as he steps past Hokuto. “I was just leaving.”

The door closes behind him with a soft click that somehow sounds final.

Taiga turns away, pulling another cigarette from the crumpled pack with unsteady fingers. His chest feels too tight, Yugo’s words echoing in his head.

You’re barely holding on.

“I should go,” Hokuto says softly.

Taiga wants to agree. Wants to be alone with his anger and the city lights and the weight of Yugo’s accusation. But something in Hokuto’s hesitant stance—the way he holds himself like he’s always preparing for a blow—makes Taiga reconsider.

“Stay if you want,” he says, the words coming out rougher than intended. He lights another cigarette, inhaling deeply. “Roof’s big enough for both of us.”

Hokuto takes a tentative step forward, then another, moving carefully as if approaching a wild animal. Taiga watches him from the corner of his eye, noting the way he keeps a calculated distance—close enough for conversation, far enough for safety.

The orange glow of his cigarette flares bright against the night sky. Taiga notices a rectangular shape in Hokuto’s hands, his slender fingers gripping what appears to be a book. Not a phone or tablet—an actual paper book with a worn spine and dog-eared pages. The sight is so incongruous with the rooftop setting that Taiga stares longer than he means to.

“What’s that?” he asks, nodding toward the object.

Hokuto glances down as if he’d forgotten he was holding it. “Oh. A book.” He shifts his weight, thumb brushing over the cover almost reverently. “The bookshop owner in Shimokitazawa gave it to me this afternoon.”

Taiga raises an eyebrow. “After our meeting with Kaoru-san?”

“Yeah.” Hokuto’s voice softens. “I stopped by his shop on the way back to the car. He used to let me read there sometimes, when...” He doesn’t finish the thought, but he doesn’t need to.

Taiga takes another drag, letting the smoke fill his lungs before releasing it slowly into the night air. “Didn't realize we’d been there that long.”

“We weren’t. It only took a minute.” Hokuto shrugs.

“What’s it about?” Taiga asks, surprising himself with the question.

Hokuto hesitates, as if unsure whether the conversation is a test. “Poetry. Japanese translations of Western poems.” His fingers trace the embossed lettering on the cover. “The shop owner remembered I liked this one.”

When was the last time I read a book? The question surfaces unbidden in Taiga’s mind. Not manga or the graphic novels Shintaro leaves scattered around headquarters. An actual book, with chapters and narrative and meaning.

He can’t remember.

Before the Warriors, maybe. Before Myuto’s death definitely. Back when life wasn’t measured in territories and protection payments and the constant vigilance of leadership.

“You read a lot?” Taiga asks, keeping his voice neutral despite the strange hollowness expanding inside him.

“When I can.” Hokuto’s eyes drop to the book in his hands. “With the Orphans, it wasn’t easy. But before that... and now...”

Now. As if the Warriors headquarters has already become a place where Hokuto feels safe enough to read. To lose himself in words. The thought is oddly satisfying.

“What’s your favorite?” The question escapes before Taiga can filter it.

Hokuto looks up, genuine surprise crossing his features. “Book?”

“Yeah.”

“I...” He pauses, considering. “There’s a novel called ‘A Man Called Ove.’ By Fredrik Backman. It’s about loss and connection. How people can be surrounded by others but still feel alone.”

The description hits too close to home. Taiga turns away, focusing on the glittering skyline rather than the unexpected insight from this quiet man who notices too much.

“Never read it,” he says flatly.

“It’s beautiful,” Hokuto continues, either missing or ignoring Taiga’s discomfort. “The way he writes—it’s like he sees all the things most people miss.”

Like you do, Taiga thinks but doesn’t say. Instead, he takes another drag, letting the nicotine burn away the strange vulnerability that’s crept into the conversation.

“Sounds depressing.”

“It is, sometimes,” Hokuto admits. “But there’s beauty in the sadness too.”

Taiga snorts. “Only someone who hasn’t seen real sadness would say that.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he regrets them. Hokuto has seen plenty of sadness—three years with the Orphans guaranteed that.

But Hokuto doesn’t flinch at the dismissal, just tilts his head slightly. “Maybe,” he says softly. “Or maybe it’s the only way to survive it.”

The simple statement lands with unexpected weight. Taiga thinks of his studio apartment, walls covered in violent splashes of color—beauty carved from pain. He thinks of Myuto’s smile in that last moment on the platform—peace in the midst of chaos.

“You should read it sometime,” Hokuto offers, the suggestion so tentative it barely qualifies as one.

“When exactly would I have time for that?” Taiga asks, but the edge in his voice has softened. “Running a gang isn’t exactly a nine-to-five.”

Hokuto shrugs, the movement small and careful. “We all need escape sometimes.”

The words echo Yugo’s earlier accusation. Barely sleeping, disappearing for days, barely eating. Escape.

Is that what he's been doing? Running from responsibilities, from memories, from the weight of leadership that never seems to lighten?

Taiga rolls the cigarette between his fingers, watching the ember pulse with each breath of wind. The silence stretches between them, not uncomfortable but charged with unspoken thoughts.

“Maybe,” he concedes finally, the word barely audible over the distant hum of the city.

“You read at night?” Taiga asks, gesturing toward the book with his cigarette. “When everyone else is asleep?”

“Usually, no.” Hokuto’s fingers trace the edge of the book, his movements almost hypnotic. “But tonight …”

He trails off, and Taiga waits. The city breathes beneath them, a living organism of light and sound. A train rumbles in the distance, its rhythm echoing the restless beat of Taiga’s thoughts.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Taiga prompts when the silence stretches too long.

Hokuto looks up, surprise flickering across his features as if he hadn’t expected Taiga to care enough to ask. The realization stings more than it should.

“No.” Hokuto shifts his weight, eyes darting toward the door as if calculating an escape route. “Dreams.”

Taiga understands immediately. Dreams. Nightmares. The ghosts that visit in the dark when defenses are down. He knows them intimately—Myuto’s face in that final moment, the screech of the approaching train, the way time seemed to stretch and compress all at once.

“About the Orphans?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.

Hokuto’s hand tightens around the book. “Sometimes.” His voice drops to barely above a whisper. “Sometimes about what would have happened if you hadn’t come that night.”

The admission hangs in the humid air between them. Taiga takes a final drag of his cigarette, letting the smoke fill his lungs until they burn. He hadn’t gone to Shimokitazawa to save anyone. Hokuto had been collateral, not the objective.

But looking at him now, standing on the Warriors’ rooftop with a book of poetry clutched like a shield, Taiga can’t bring himself to say that.

“We did,” he says instead, crushing the cigarette under his boot. “That’s what matters.”

Hokuto’s eyes meet his, searching for something Taiga isn’t sure he can provide. “I keep thinking they’ll come back. That Ryo will—” He stops abruptly, jaw tightening. “It doesn’t matter.”

But it does matter. Taiga sees it in the rigid set of Hokuto’s shoulders, the way his knuckles whiten around the book. Fear doesn’t disappear overnight, especially fear that’s been earned through experience.

“Ryo’s not coming back,” Taiga says, his voice hardening with certainty. “And if he’s stupid enough to try, he won’t leave alive this time.”

The promise hangs between them, violent but oddly comforting. Hokuto’s posture relaxes slightly, his grip on the book loosening.

“I know,” he says. “Logically, I know that. But at night...” He shakes his head, frustration crossing his features. “I was going to tell you something about the bookstore owner, actually.”

The sudden change of subject catches Taiga off guard. “What about him?”

“He mentioned that—” Hokuto hesitates, something shifting in his expression. His eyes dart to the door, then back to Taiga. “Actually, it can wait until morning. It’s not urgent.”

Taiga narrows his eyes, sensing the retreat. “You sure about that?”

“Yes.” Hokuto nods too quickly. “It’s just some gossip about businesses in the area. Nothing that can’t wait.”

Taiga studies him for a moment longer. Whatever Hokuto had come to say, he’s changed his mind—either because of Taiga’s earlier argument with Yugo or because he’s reconsidered the information’s importance. Either way, Taiga is too drained to press the issue.

“Fine,” he says, reaching for his cigarette pack only to find it empty. He crumples it in his fist, suddenly restless. “Tomorrow, then.”

Hokuto nods, clutching his book closer to his chest. “Tomorrow.”

The night air feels too thick, the rooftop too small. Yugo’s words echo in Taiga’s mind—you’re barely holding on—and the stone in his pocket seems to grow heavier with each passing second.

“I’m heading out,” Taiga says abruptly, already moving toward the door. “Lock up when you’re done.”

He doesn’t wait for Hokuto’s response, and he doesn't look back to see the confusion that likely crosses his face. The need to escape—from conversation, from headquarters, from the weight of leadership—pulses through him with undeniable urgency.

Taiga pulls the door open, the cooler air of the stairwell washing over him like relief. Behind him, Hokuto remains silent, a solitary figure against the backdrop of Tokyo’s endless lights.

The door closes with a soft click, leaving Hokuto alone with his book and his unspoken words. Taiga descends the stairs two at a time, the stone a constant reminder against his palm.

You’re barely holding on.

Maybe Yugo was right after all.