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 Housekeepers are out on errands.”

“Housekeepers?” 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 Housekeepers,” 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 Housekeepers for a month before they’re assigned elsewhere, if they don’t choose Housekeepers. 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 Housekeeper 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, Housekeepers, 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. “Housekeepers 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 Housekeepers’ 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 Housekeeper 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. “Housekeeper 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 Housekeepers 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.

🐍

Taiga folds his cards. “Fuck this hand.”

Sweat pools under his collar as the ancient air conditioner rattles ineffectively against the suffocating heat. The second-floor private room of Crossroads Bar feels like a sauna, windows sealed against eavesdroppers, cigarette smoke hanging heavy beneath the dim lights.

“Language, Warlord,” Mamiya chides, arranging his chips with the same precise movements he once used to clean his weapons. His police badge glints from inside his jacket pocket.

“Blow me, Sergeant,” Taiga says, reaching for his whiskey. The ice has long melted, leaving the amber liquid diluted and warm.

Just like his relationship with Yugo these past two weeks.

They sit across from each other at the poker table, maintaining the appearance of normal. Professional. As if Yugo hadn’t torn him apart on the rooftop fourteen nights ago. As if Taiga hadn’t seen the truth in every word.

You’re barely holding on.

Shintaro fans his cards dramatically, breaking Taiga’s spiraling thoughts. “The police academy clearly didn’t teach you how to bluff, Mamiya-san. Your left eye twitches when you’re sitting on garbage.”

“And your mouth runs when you’re about to lose money,” Mamiya counters, tossing chips into the center. “Two thousand more.”

Juri matches the bet with a lazy flick of his wrist. “Remember when he lost that week’s earnings trying to convince us he had a straight flush?”

“With three cards showing on the table?” Shintaro cackles. “Yugo nearly strangled him.”

“You were a terrible influence,” Mamiya says, directing the comment at Juri with a fondness that speaks to their history. “Still are, from what my sources tell me.”

Taiga watches the easy banter flow around him, feeling oddly disconnected.

Jesse tosses his cards down with a theatrical groan. “This game is rigged. I’m getting another drink.” He pushes back from the table, chair legs scraping against the wooden floor. “Anyone else need a refill?”

Yugo doesn’t look up from his cards. “I’m good.”

The tension between them crackles like static electricity. Taiga catches Jesse’s almost imperceptible flinch before his face slides back into its customary grin.

Two weeks since Taiga witnessed their kiss on the rooftop. Two weeks since Yugo pushed Jesse away, claiming Taiga’s instability as the reason.

The guilt sits like lead in Taiga’s stomach. He’s tried to approach Yugo about it twice, but the words stick in his throat each time. What would he even say? Sorry my fucked-up leadership is ruining your love life?

“I’ll take another,” Shintaro says, oblivious to the undercurrents. Or maybe choosing to ignore them. “And tell Kana-san to bring up that fancy shochu she keeps for the regulars.”

“Trying to get me drunk to improve your odds?” Mamiya asks, arching an eyebrow.

“As if I’d need to,” Shintaro scoffs, rearranging his chips with restless energy. “I’ve calculated the probability matrices. You’re going down tonight, Sergeant.”

The door opens before Jesse reaches it, and Kana appears with a tray of fresh drinks. She’s in her early thirties, sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued, the kind of woman who knows exactly what happens in her bar but chooses what to see.

“Thought you boys might be getting thirsty,” she says, setting down glasses with practiced efficiency. “How’s our favorite sergeant holding up against you sharks?”

“I’m bleeding them dry,” Mamiya lies smoothly, making Juri snort.

Jesse leans against the doorframe, all easy charm and fluid grace. “Kana-san, you’re a mind reader. Has anyone told you that you’re the most beautiful bar owner in Tokyo?”

“Every drunk who wants a free drink tells me that,” she replies, but her lips quirk upward. “Lucky for you, I have a soft spot for pretty faces.”

Taiga doesn’t miss the way Yugo’s knuckles whiten around his cards, or how he suddenly becomes intensely interested in arranging his chips. The lieutenant doesn’t look up, but a muscle ticks in his jaw.

Interesting.

For all Yugo’s talk about not being able to afford distractions, his body language screams of jealousy. Taiga files the observation away, another piece in the increasingly complicated puzzle of his second-in-command.

“Flattery won’t get you better cards,” Kana tells Jesse, refreshing everyone’s drinks despite their protests. “But it might get you an extra ice cube.”

“I’ll take what I can get,” Jesse says with a wink.

Mamiya clears his throat. “If we’re done with the flirting, I believe I was about to take all your money.”

“In your dreams,” Shintaro counters, bouncing his leg under the table. The movement shakes the cards slightly.

Taiga feels a headache building behind his eyes. “Fold,” he announces, tossing the cards face down. Another garbage hand. The night’s been nothing but crap cards and worse luck.

Mamiya’s eyes crinkle with satisfaction as a reveals a full house. “Finally some—”

“Four of a kind,” Yugo interrupts, laying down his cards with quiet precision. “Kings.”

Groans erupt around the table. Jesse whistles low, impressed despite himself. Yugo doesn’t celebrate, just methodically gathers the pot toward his already substantial pile of chips.

“That’s it. I’m cleaned out,” Shintaro declares, throwing his hands up in defeat. “You’ve been sandbagging all night, Lieutenant.”

Taiga watches Yugo’s hands as they stack chips with military precision. His Lieutenant’s face betrays nothing, but there’s tension in the careful way he avoids looking at Jesse. The distance between them has grown these past two weeks.

“Another round?” Mamiya asks. The room’s heat has left dark patches under his arms, his crisp police sergeant appearance wilting at the edges.

“Give me a minute to mourn my losses,” Jesse says, sprawling back in his chair and balancing it on two legs. “Yugo’s ruthless tonight.”

The small flicker in Yugo’s eyes at Jesse’s mention of his name doesn’t escape Taiga’s notice.

Kana returns with fresh ice and collects empty glasses. “Last call in thirty. Anything else you boys need before I close up downstairs?”

“Just the bill,” Taiga says. “Put it on our tab.”

After she leaves, they settle into the familiar rhythm of reshuffling, chips clattering as Yugo redistributes his winnings for another game. The momentary lull feels like the eye of a storm—a fragile pocket of calm surrounded by the chaos of their lives.

Mamiya clears his throat. “Got some news you might find interesting.” He keeps his voice casual, but Taiga immediately catches the shift in his posture. This is business now.

“Spill it,” Taiga says, abandoning any pretense of caring about the next hand.

“Your friend Ryo got picked up in Kabukicho last night.” Mamiya shuffles the deck with practiced hands, not looking up. “Assaulted one of the ladies at a host club. Pretty nasty scene.”

Taiga feels nothing at the news—no satisfaction, no surprise. Just empty confirmation of what he already knew about the Orphans’ former leader. “Fucker never could handle rejection,” he says flatly.

Jesse snorts. “Couldn’t handle much of anything. Still can’t believe they lasted as long as they did.”

“They survived on bluster and bullshit,” Yugo says, the first thing he’s offered to the conversation in nearly an hour.

Mamiya nods. “Speaking of the Orphans, I ran that background check on your new stray.”

The small black stone in Taiga’s pocket suddenly feels heavier. He’s been carrying it more often lately, running his thumb over its smooth surface during the quiet moments on the rooftop when Hokuto appears, both of them pretending they’re not there because sleep won’t come.

“And?” Taiga prompts when Mamiya pauses.

“Clean as they come. Born in Shizuoka, moved to Tokyo three years ago with a job lined up at some bookstore. Deal fell through, then got scammed out of his apartment deposit. No prior gang ties, no record.”

Juri leans forward, elbows on the table. “So how’d he end up with the Orphans?”

“Wrong place, wrong time,” Mamiya says with a shrug. “Homeless, desperate, Ryo offered shelter and protection. You can fill in the blanks.”

Taiga’s mind flashes to Hokuto’s scars, the faded cigarette burns and thin white lines that map a history of abuse. A month since they’d brought him back to headquarters, and he still flinches at sudden movements.

“He’s adjusting well,” Juri observes, as if reading Taiga’s thoughts. “The Homekeepers like him. Noel says he’s thorough, doesn’t complain.”

Yugo nods. “He’s quiet but observant. Good qualities.”

“Speaking of,” Juri continues, fixing Taiga with a pointed look, “he’s been with us for a month now. Needs to decide if he’s staying with the Housekeepers or moving to another division.”

Taiga thinks of their rooftop encounters—Hokuto with a book, Taiga with his cigarettes, neither acknowledging the nightmares that drive them there. The quiet understanding that’s developed between them, built on shared insomnia and unspoken pain.

“He’s still finding his place,” Taiga says finally. “No rush.”

“Fair enough,” Juri concedes, though his eyes linger on Taiga with that penetrating gaze that always makes him feel exposed. “But people need purpose. Direction.”

Don’t we all, Taiga thinks.

Mamiya shuffles the cards, his police-trained fingers moving with practiced efficiency. “One more thing,” he says, voice dropping lower. “Got some intel on that Shinagawa police captain.”

The name sends a jolt through Taiga’s system. Everything about that night lives in his nightmares—the screech of train brakes, Myuto’s final glance back, the sickening thud that haunts him still.

“What about him?” Taiga keeps his voice level, but his heart hammers against his ribs.

The room shifts. Yugo straightens, all traces of his earlier distraction vanishing. Shintaro stops fidgeting. Even Jesse’s perpetual motion stills.

“He’s out,” Mamiya says, setting the deck down. “Got fired last week. Bribery charges.”

Taiga’s fingers tighten around the stone. “Bribery.”

“Turns out he’d been on the take for years. Internal Affairs finally caught up with him.” Mamiya reaches for his drink, ice clinking against glass. “But here's the interesting part—they’re reviewing all his cases, and one file in particular caught my attention.”

The air conditioner rattles to a stop, leaving the room in suffocating silence. Taiga can hear his own pulse now, a steady drumbeat of dread and anticipation.

“The call that brought him to the station that night,” Mamiya continues. “It was a false tip. Someone fed him information that you guys were carrying drugs through his jurisdiction.”

Taiga’s vision narrows, the room fading around the edges. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you were set up.” Mamiya leans forward, voice barely above a whisper now. “Someone wanted that captain there, wanted him to catch you specifically.”

The implications crash through Taiga like a physical blow. Myuto didn’t die by accident. Someone engineered the entire situation.

“Who?” The word comes out as a growl.

Mamiya shakes his head. “That’s the problem. The records are incomplete—probably intentionally. The captain was covering his tracks.”

“Bullshit!” Taiga slams his fist on the table, chips jumping and scattering. “There has to be something.”

“Taiga.” Yugo’s voice carries a warning.

Taiga ignores it. “You’re telling me someone got Myuto killed, and there’s no fucking trail?” His voice rises, control slipping.

Mamiya holds up a placating hand. “I didn’t say there was nothing. Just not a name. The captain made one notation in his personal log—said the informant kept talking about ‘family business.’”

The word hits Taiga like ice water.

Family.

His eyes lock with Yugo’s across the table, seeing his own realization mirrored there. Then to Shintaro, whose normally animated face has gone completely still.

“The Rogues,” Shintaro whispers, the name falling into the room like a stone.

Taiga’s mind races back four years, to the gang they'd all left behind. The Rogues had called themselves a family, had used the word like a brand and a weapon. When Taiga, Myuto, Yugo, and Shintaro broke away to form the Warriors, they’d been labeled traitors. Family who betrayed family.

“Could be coincidence,” Juri offers, but his tone says he doesn’t believe it.

“There’s no such thing,” Taiga says, the stone cutting into his palm now as he squeezes it. “Not with this.”

Jesse leans forward, forearms on the table. “The Rogues fell apart two years ago. Most of them scattered or joined other gangs.”

“Not all of them,” Yugo says quietly. “Yasui still blames us for destroying what they built.”

The name sends another shock through Taiga’s system. Yasui, the Rogues’ second-in-command, who’d looked at Myuto like he hung the moon and at Taiga with pure hatred when they left.

“You think Yasui would set us up?” Jesse asks, skepticism clear in his voice. “That’s a long game for revenge.”

“You didn’t see his face when we walked away,” Shintaro says, uncharacteristically somber. “He told Myuto he’d regret choosing us over the Rogues.”

Taiga’s mind fills with fragments—Yasui’s rage, Myuto’s dismissal of the threat, the captain appearing at exactly the wrong moment on that fateful night. The pieces align with terrible clarity.

“How sure are you about the ‘family’ connection?” Taiga asks Mamiya, fighting to keep his voice steady.

“It’s what’s in the record,” Mamiya says carefully. “But records can be altered, especially by corrupt cops. I’m still digging.”

“Dig faster,” Taiga says, the words coming out like chips of ice. “I want every piece of information you can find.”

Yugo’s hand lands on his forearm. “Taiga, we need to think this through. If the Rogues—if Yasui—really did this…”

“Then he’s dead,” Taiga finishes, voice flat. “Simple as that.”

The silence that follows carries weight. They all know it’s not simple at all.

“Let me get concrete evidence first,” Mamiya says, his professional tone returning. “Before you start a war based on one corrupt cop’s notes.”

Taiga forces himself to breathe. Myuto wouldn’t want him charging in blind. Myuto would want him to protect the Warriors first.

“Fine,” he says finally. “But I want updates. Every scrap you find.”

Mamiya nods. “I’ll do what I can.”

Taiga pushes back from the table, the chair legs scraping against the floor. “I need some air.”

No one tries to stop him. They know better. The weight of Mamiya’s revelation presses against his chest, making the room’s stifling heat unbearable. The black stone burns in his pocket like a hot coal.

He descends the narrow staircase, each step deliberate as he fights to keep his composure. The main floor of Crossroads is nearly empty now, just a few stragglers nursing final drinks. Kana glances up from wiping down the bar, her eyes questioning, but Taiga shakes his head once. Not now.

The back door opens with a protesting creak. Night air hits his face, still humid but cooler than the suffocating poker room. The alley behind Crossroads smells of garbage and stale beer, but Taiga gulps it down like it’s mountain air.

Family business.

He leans against the brick wall, rough texture catching on his shirt. The alley is narrow, barely wide enough for the dumpsters that line one side. Above, neon signs from neighboring establishments cast the space in alternating shades of red and blue. It reminds him of police lights.

Taiga pulls the smooth black stone from his pocket, turning it over in his palm. Some fucking luck.

The truth hovers at the edges of his consciousness, too massive to fully comprehend. If Yasui really set them up—if Myuto’s death wasn’t just bad timing but calculated murder—then everything changes. The guilt Taiga’s carried for a year shifts, transforming into something darker, more volatile.

I should have killed him when I had the chance.

His mind flashes back to their final confrontation with the Rogues. Yasui’s face contorted with rage as Myuto announced they were leaving. The way his hand had twitched toward his knife before Taiga stepped between them. Taiga had been ready to end it there, but Myuto had pulled him back. “We’re better than that,” he’d said.

Better. The word tastes bitter now.

Taiga slides down the wall until he’s crouching, elbows on knees, stone clutched tight in his fist. The pressure builds behind his eyes, but he refuses to release it. Not here. Not now.

A cat startles from behind a dumpster, its eyes reflecting the neon glow before it disappears into deeper shadows. Taiga watches it go, envying its freedom to vanish.

The back door creaks, and Taiga tenses, ready to snap at whoever has followed him.

But no one emerges. The door hangs open an inch or two, then slowly swings closed again. Someone checked on him but respected his need for space. Probably Yugo.

You’re barely holding on.

The accusation echoes in his head, Yugo’s words from the rooftop cutting deeper now with this new knowledge. If Myuto was murdered—targeted specifically because of their decision to leave the Rogues—then Taiga’s leadership isn’t just about keeping the Warriors together.

It’s about avenging the man who should still be standing where he is.

🐍

The files scatter across the war room table as Taiga flips through another folder, fingers restless as they sift through papers gone yellow at the edges. His eyes burn from lack of sleep, but the adrenaline coursing through his veins makes rest impossible.

They’re all here somewhere.

The overhead light casts harsh shadows across the table, illuminating the history of a life he’d tried to leave behind. Police reports. Territory maps. Newspaper clippings. Three years with the Rogues, condensed into manila folders and rubber bands. Some official, some stolen before they left—insurance he never thought he’d need.

Taiga pulls another stack toward him. His fingers pause on a photograph, its corners bent and creased. Four faces stare back at him—younger, less haunted versions of themselves. Myuto’s arm is slung around Shintaro’s shoulders. Yugo stands with his typical straight posture. And Taiga, half-smiling despite himself, Myuto’s influence already working its magic.

We were just kids playing at being gangsters.

He sets the photo aside, careful not to smudge the glossy surface.

Another folder yields what he’s been looking for—a group shot of the Rogues at their peak. Thirty faces arranged in neat rows, the hierarchy evident in their positioning.

Front and center stands Sanada, the Warlord, face stern beneath a shock of bleached hair. And beside him, Yasui, his faithful lieutenant, thin-lipped and watchful.

The memory hits Taiga with unexpected force.

“That’s not how this works,” Yasui had said, voice dripping with contempt. “You can’t just decide to form your own gang. There are protocols. Permissions.”

Myuto had laugh—that full-bodied laugh that made even strangers smile. “Permissions? From who? The gang police?”

They stood in the Rogues’ meeting room, the four of them facing Sanada and Yasui. The tension was thick enough to choke on.

“From me,” Sanada said quietly. His voice never rose, never needed to. “You’re one of my best, Myuto. I groomed you for leadership.”

“Under you,” Myuto replied. “That’s not what we want.”

“We?” Yasui’s eyes narrowed, scanning across Taiga, Yuto, and Shintaro. “You’re taking them with you? Half our intelligence network?”

Shintaro shifted uncomfortably beside Taiga. Yugo remained perfectly still.

“They make their own choices,” Myuto said.

Sanada leaned forward, tattooed hands flat on the table. “You walk away, you’re nothing. No territory, no protection, no respect. You’ll be starting from less than zero.”

Myuto smiled—that infuriating, confident smile. “Then we’ll build something new. Something better.”

“Better?” Yasui spat the word. “Better than what we’ve given you? We made you, Myuto. You were nothing when Sanada found you.”

Taiga stepped forward then, unable to contain himself. “Watch your mouth.”

Yasui’s hand twitched toward the knife at his belt.

Taiga tensed, ready.

“Enough!” Myuto’s hand on his shoulder, pulling him back. “We’re not here to fight. We’re here out of respect, to tell you face to face.”

Sanada studied them for a moment. “You disappoint me, Myuto. I thought you understood power.”

“I do,” Myuto said. “That’s why we’re leaving. Your kind of power—it costs too much.”

Yasui’s face contorted with rage. “You’ll regret this. All of you.”

Myuto turned to leave, the others following. At the door, he paused, looking back at Sanada.

“I won’t be a Warlord like you. The Warriors will stand for something more than just control.”

Yasui’s voice followed them down the hallway. “You’ll come crawling back when the real world chews you up and spits you out!”

But they hadn’t. They’d built the Warriors from nothing, just as Myuto promised.

Taiga stares at Yasui’s face in the photograph, searching for what he missed. Had the hatred been there all along? The capacity for such calculated revenge?

He reaches for his cigarettes, lighting one with fingers that aren’t quite steady. The smoke curls toward the ceiling as he exhales, thoughts circling like vultures.

The Warriors will stand for something more.

Myuto had kept that promise. While Sanada ruled through fear, Myuto had built loyalty through respect and protection. The Warriors became a family—dysfunctional at times, but bound by something stronger than just shared territory or profit.

Taiga spreads more papers across the table. Personnel files Shintaro had copied before they left. Known associates. Family connections. Somewhere in this mess is the thread that connects Yasui to the Shinagawa police captain.

His eyes catch on another photo—Yasui with his arm around a younger man at some club opening. The caption identifies him as Yasui’s cousin.

Something about the face triggers Taiga’s memory.

He pulls out his phone, scrolling through the images Mamiya had sent earlier. The captain’s personnel file. Family connections.

There.

The connection isn’t direct, but it’s there. The captain’s wife’s maiden name matches Yasui’s mother’s family name. Distant relatives, maybe, but in family structures, even distant connections matter.

Taiga sits back, cigarette burning forgotten between his fingers. It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t bad luck. It was murder.

The ash drops onto the photo of Yasui, leaving a gray smudge across his face.

Taiga doesn’t wipe it away.

The door to the war room swings open, startling Taiga from his thoughts. He looks up, cigarette dangling from his lips, to find Yugo and Shintaro standing in the doorway. Yugo balances a tray of food in one hand, while Shintaro carries a pitcher of water and glasses.

“Thought you might need this,” Yugo says, his tone carefully neutral.

Taiga straightens, suddenly aware of how he must look—hunched over old papers, ashtray overflowing, eyes bloodshot. “Not hungry.”

“Didn’t ask,” Yugo replies, setting the tray down and pushing aside some files to make space. Onigiri, leftover gyoza, and sliced apples.

Shintaro pours water into three glasses without asking permission. “We figured you’d be in here. Juri said you took the Rogues’ files from the archive.”

The familiar irritation flares in Taiga’s chest. He takes a drag from his cigarette instead of snapping at them. “Just doing research.”

“Research,” Shintaro repeats, pulling up a chair. “At two in the morning. Alone. With no one knowing what you’re planning.”

“I’m not planning anything,” Taiga says, the lie bitter on his tongue.

Yugo gives him a look that says he’s not fooling anyone. “We’re here to help piece this together. And to make sure you don’t do anything stupid.”

“Like what?” Taiga challenges.

“Like charge into Rogues territory half-cocked and get yourself killed,” Shintaro says bluntly, already sorting through the scattered papers with efficient hands. “That would be counterproductive.”

“I wouldn’t—” Taiga starts, but the protest dies in his throat. They know him too well. The rage burning in his chest has been demanding action, not patience.

Yugo slides a glass of water toward him. “Drink. You look like shit.”

Despite everything—the awkwardness from their fight, the stubbornness in his own nature—Taiga feels a flicker of gratitude. He takes the water and drinks deeply, only now realizing how thirsty he is.

“So what have you found?” Shintaro asks, already creating neat piles from Taiga’s chaos, his quick eyes scanning documents.

Taiga stubs out his cigarette and pulls the relevant photos forward. “Yasui is related to the Shinagawa police captain. Not directly—it’s through marriage. The captain’s wife’s family connects to Yasui’s mother’s side.”

Yugo leans in, studying the photos. “That’s thin.”

“It’s enough,” Taiga insists. “Family structures—even distant connections matter. Especially when favors are involved.”

“And money,” Shintaro adds, already typing something into his phone. “I can dig deeper into financial connections.”

“Yasui always hated us for leaving,” Yugo says quietly. “But murder? That’s a long way from being pissed about loyalty.”

The stone weighs heavy in Taiga’s pocket. He pulls it out, rolling it between his fingers. “Myuto took something from them when we left. Not just manpower. Respect. Face.”

“Four years is a long time to wait for revenge,” Shintaro points out.

“The best revenge is served cold,” Taiga says, the words hollow in his mouth. “Yasui was always patient. Always calculating. He wouldn’t strike until he was sure it would hurt the most.”

Silence falls between them as the implications sink in. Yugo pushes the plate of onigiri closer to Taiga.

Taiga takes one, more to appease Yugo than from hunger.

“What exactly are we looking for?” Shintaro asks, his fingers tapping restlessly against the table. “Something that can bring the Rogues down? Evidence to take to the police?”

Taiga bites into the rice ball, buying time to organize his thoughts. The food tastes like ash in his mouth, but he forces himself to swallow. “I don’t know yet. But there’s something else.”

Yugo looks up, sensing the shift in Taiga’s tone.

“If Yasui waited four years to come after Myuto,” Taiga says slowly, the realization solidifying as he speaks, “what’s to say he’s finished? What if this was just the first move?”

Shintaro’s hands go still over the papers. “You think he’s coming for the rest of us.”

It’s not a question, and Taiga doesn’t treat it as one. The stone feels cold against his palm as he sets it on the table between them.

“Myuto was our heart,” Taiga says. “Killing him hurt us the most. But there were four of us who left that day. Four of us who stood in that room and told Sanada and Yasui we were done.”

“And three of us are still alive,” Yugo finishes, his expression hardening.

“If I were planning a complete revenge,” Taiga says, “I wouldn’t stop at one. Would you?”

The question hangs in the air. Outside, rain begins to fall against the windows, the soft patter a counterpoint to the silence that has fallen over the war room.

Taiga sets the stone back in his pocket. “We need to bring them down,” he says finally, the words simple but heavy with resolve. “All of them. Yasui, Sanada, the whole operation.”

Shintaro shakes his head, fingers tapping a rapid rhythm against the tabletop. “The Rogues fell apart two years ago, Taiga. They scattered after that territory war with the Jackals. Most of them joined other gangs or left the life entirely.”

“Scattered doesn’t mean gone,” Taiga says, the words scraping his throat raw. He reaches for the water again, trying to wash away the taste of ash. “And it sure as hell doesn’t mean Yasui forgot.”

The memories surge unbidden – Yasui’s face twisted with rage as they walked away, the way his fingers curled into fists at his sides. The promise in his eyes. Some hatreds don’t fade with time; they crystallize, becoming harder, sharper.

“Yasui was Sanada’s dog,” Taiga continues, voice low. “Followed him everywhere, handled the dirty work. If anyone would hold a grudge for four years, it’s him.”

Yugo leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. The yellow bandana tied around his bicep catches the harsh overhead light. “We don’t even know where Sanada is now. After the Rogues collapsed, he disappeared. Could be dead for all we know.”

“He’s not dead.” Taiga’s certainty surprises even himself. “Men like Sanada don’t just die. They wait. They plan.”

Shintaro’s fingers stop their dance across the table. “I can find them.”

Taiga looks up sharply. “How?”

“I still have contacts from back then. People who owed me favors, not the Rogues.” Shintaro’s eyes gleam with that familiar intensity, the look that means his mind is already racing ahead, connecting invisible dots. “Plus, I’ve been mapping Tokyo’s underground networks for years. If Sanada and Yasui are still in the game, they’ve left digital footprints.”

Taiga studies Shintaro’s face, searching for hesitation or fear. He finds none. Just that unwavering confidence that sometimes borders on recklessness. “It could be dangerous. If they’re watching us—”

“They won’t see me coming.” Shintaro cuts him off with a dismissive wave. “I’m not going to kick down doors, Taiga. Information gathering is what I do.”

The stone weighs heavy in Taiga’s pocket. He runs his thumb over its smooth surface. Myuto’s voice echoes in his head: Sometimes the rules need breaking, Lieutenant.

“Fine,” Taiga says finally. “But you don’t go alone. Take Jesse or Juri with you.”

Shintaro’s mouth twists in a half-smile. “Jesse’s about as subtle as a firework display. And Juri...” He shrugs. “I work better solo on this kind of thing.”

“This isn’t a debate,” Taiga snaps, the anger flaring hot and sudden. “You take backup or you don’t go at all.”

Yugo’s hand lands on Taiga’s forearm, a gentle pressure. “Let’s compromise. Shintaro does the digital digging from here. If he needs to meet contacts in person, then he takes someone with him.”

Taiga wants to argue, to insist on his way, but the exhaustion suddenly hits him like a physical blow. How long has he been awake now? Thirty hours? More? The edges of his vision blur slightly.

“First step is finding out where Sanada and Yasui are now,” Yugo continues, his voice steady and reasonable. “Then we figure out if they had anything to do with Myuto’s death. One step at a time.”

One step at a time. Another of Myuto’s favorite phrases. The coincidence isn’t lost on Taiga, and from the slight softening in Yugo’s expression, he’s remembering too.

“I’ll need access to some specialized equipment,” Shintaro says, already standing. The energy radiates off him in almost visible waves. “I’ve got most of it at my workstation, but there are a few things in storage.”

“Take what you need,” Taiga says. “But I want updates. Regular ones.”

“You’ll have them.” Shintaro gathers a few of the photos and documents, sliding them into a folder. “I’ll start now. The digital trail gets colder every day.”

Without waiting for a response, he’s moving toward the door, mind clearly already elsewhere. Typical Shintaro—once he locks onto a problem, everything else fades into background noise.

“And Shin,” Taiga calls after him.

The younger man pauses at the threshold, glancing back.

“Be careful.” The words feel inadequate, but Taiga can’t bring himself to say what he’s really thinking: I can’t lose anyone else.

Shintaro nods once, a quick jerk of his head, and then he’s gone, leaving Taiga and Yugo alone in the war room.

The silence stretches between them, heavy with unspoken words. Taiga stares at the scattered papers, seeing not the documents but the faces of his family—the ones he’s sworn to protect.

“You should get some sleep,” Yugo says finally, breaking the silence.

Taiga doesn’t look up. “Not yet.”

“Taiga—”

“I said not yet.” The words come out sharper than intended. Taiga exhales slowly, trying to release some of the tension coiled tight in his chest. “I need to think.”

They work in silence for almost an hour, the rustle of papers and occasional scribbled note the only sounds beyond the persistent rain. Taiga’s eyes burn from strain, but he forces himself to keep reading, searching for anything they might have missed. The familiar rhythm of working alongside Yugo gradually eases some of the tension between them.

“Wait.” Yugo’s voice cuts through the quiet. “Look at this.”

Taiga glances up to see Yugo holding a newspaper clipping, yellowed with age. “What is it?”

“Property records.” Yugo slides the paper across the table. “Three years ago, Yasui’s name appears on the deed for a warehouse in Shinagawa. Right near where—”

“Where Myuto died,” Taiga finishes, something cold settling in his stomach. He takes the clipping, studying the grainy image of an industrial building. “That’s too convenient to be coincidence.”

“Exactly.” Yugo leans forward, energized by the discovery. “And look at the company name on the paperwork—Mirai Holdings. I’ve seen that before.”

He rifles through another stack, pulling out a document with practiced efficiency. “Here. Mirai Holdings shows up in some of the business front listings Shintaro compiled before we left. It’s a shell company the Rogues use for money laundering.”

Taiga’s pulse quickens as the pieces start connecting. “So Yasui had a base of operations right where Myuto was killed. He could have been watching us, tracking our movements.”

“Or waiting for the right moment,” Yugo adds grimly. “The warehouse gives him a legitimate reason to be in the area, a place to meet with the police captain without raising suspicion.”

Taiga takes the stone, rolling it between his fingers as he thinks. “We need to know who else is involved. If Yasui was working with the captain, there could be other cops on his payroll.”

“Juri can help with that,” Yugo says, already making notes. “He’s got contacts in Shinagawa who might know something. And Mamiya might be able to dig deeper into the captain’s associates.”

Taiga nods, fatigue temporarily forgotten as purpose takes its place. “We need surveillance on that warehouse. If Yasui still uses it—”

“I’ll talk to Shintaro about setting something up,” Yugo promises. “Discreet, long-distance. We can’t risk them spotting us.”

A yawn escapes Taiga before he can suppress it, his body finally rebelling against the all-night research session. Yugo notices, of course—he notices everything.

“We should pack this up,” Yugo says, glancing at his watch. “It’s almost four. The early crew will be up soon.”

Taiga wants to argue, to push through the exhaustion, but he knows Yugo is right. They’ve found a lead—a solid one. Now they need clear heads to pursue it.

“Fine,” he concedes, starting to gather the scattered papers. “But tomorrow, we brief Core 5.”

They work in tandem, organizing the files with the efficiency of long practice. Taiga’s mind is already racing ahead, mapping out next steps, potential pitfalls, contingency plans. The familiar weight of leadership settles back onto his shoulders, momentarily displaced by the raw grief of discovery.

As they finish stacking the last of the folders, Yugo pauses, his hand resting on the table. “You were right, you know.”

Taiga looks up, confused by the sudden shift. “About what?”

“About me.” Yugo doesn’t meet his eyes, staring instead at the neat pile of documents. “I am a coward.”

The admission hangs in the air between them. Taiga remembers his harsh words on the rooftop—I get that you’re a coward—thrown in anger, not meant to stick.

“Yugo—”

“No, let me finish.” Yugo’s voice is quiet but firm. “Finding out the Rogues might be targeting us, that any of us could be next—it should change things. Make me want to take risks while I still can.” He shakes his head. “But it’s doing the opposite. The more danger we’re in, the less I can afford to be distracted.”

Taiga watches his friend’s face, seeing the conflict there. “This is about Jesse.”

It’s not a question, and Yugo doesn’t treat it as one. “If something happened to him because I wasn’t focused, because I put my feelings first...” He trails off, then straightens his shoulders. “Once the Rogues are dealt with, once we’re safe—then I’ll take the leap. But not before.”

The simple declaration holds such weight, such loyalty, that Taiga feels something loosen in his chest. This is the Yugo he knows—putting the family first, even at personal cost.

“You’re not a coward,” Taiga says quietly. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

Yugo looks up, surprise flickering across his face. “Are we actually having a conversation about feelings? Should I check if you have a fever?”

The dry humor breaks the tension, and Taiga feels the corner of his mouth twitch upward. “Shut up.”

“There he is,” Yugo says, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “I was worried for a second.”

They gather the last of their things, the early morning hour weighing on both of them. As they prepare to leave the war room, Taiga pauses at the door.

“So,” he says, the word hanging awkwardly. “Are we good?”

It’s not something he’d normally ask—not something he’d normally care about. But tonight has shifted something, reminded him of what’s at stake.

Yugo holds his gaze for a moment, then nods. “Yeah. We’re good.”

🐍

“It’s perfect,” Myuto says, arms spread wide as if claiming the night sky itself. “This is where we build everything.”

Taiga snorts, looking around the empty rooftop with its cracked concrete and rusted ventilation units. "It’s a shithole.”

“It’s our shithole.” Myuto’s grin catches the distant neon, his face half-illuminated in red and blue. He pulls a bottle of cheap sake from his backpack, uncorks it with his teeth. “First night on our own turf. Gotta mark the occasion.”

The memory shifts, blurs. They’re sitting on the edge, legs dangling over the three-story drop, passing the bottle back and forth. The city sprawls before them, a carpet of lights stretching to the horizon.

“You know what makes a good leader?” Myuto asks, words slightly slurred.

Taiga waits, watching his friend’s profile against the night.

“Someone who sees what could be, not just what is.”

Taiga wakes with a jolt, heart hammering against his ribs. The dream clings to him like smoke, Myuto’s voice so clear he half-expects to find him sitting at the foot of the bed.

But there’s only rumpled sheets and the harsh light of afternoon slanting through his blinds.

Fuck. He fumbles for his phone, squinting at the screen. 1:14 PM. Three missed calls from Yugo and a text:

Let you sleep in. Core 5 meeting pushed till after the monthly BBQ. Rooftop at 6. Don’t be late.

Taiga drops the phone onto his chest, running a hand over his face. The dream lingers behind his eyelids—Myuto alive, laughing, full of plans for a future he’d never see. The rooftop had been nothing then, just concrete and potential. Now it’s the heart of the Warriors’ home, exactly as Myuto had envisioned.

His stomach growls, an insistent reminder that he hasn’t eaten since... when? Yesterday afternoon? The nuts from Crossroads? He can’t remember.

Groaning, he swings his legs over the side of the bed and stumbles to the sink in the corner of his room. The cold water shocks him as he splashes it over his face, washing away the last cobwebs of sleep and memory. He avoids his reflection in the mirror—doesn’t need to see the dark circles he knows are there.

The hallway outside his room is quiet. No shouts from the common area, no music blasting from Jesse’s room, none of the usual chaos that fills headquarters.

Taiga pauses, listening. The silence feels wrong, like walking into an ambush.

In the kitchen, he finds Hokuto wiping down counters, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The newest Warrior looks up, startled, a flicker of something—wariness? habit?—crossing his face before he offers a small smile.

“Everyone’s out today," Hokuto says, answering the unasked question. “Yugo took a team to check on the Shimokitazawa shops. Jesse and Juri are meeting with the sergeant. Shintaro’s looking to buy surveillance equipment.”

Taiga grunts in acknowledgment, heading straight for the coffee maker. His brain feels wrapped in cotton, thoughts sluggish and disjointed. The dream has left him off-balance, raw in a way he doesn’t want to examine.

“I can prepare something to eat,” Hokuto offers, his voice careful, like he’s still testing boundaries. “There’s tonkatsu from last night.”

Taiga pauses, coffee scoop in hand. He’s not used to being taken care of—not since Myuto. Even Yugo knows better than to fuss over him.

But his stomach growls again, louder this time, making the decision for him.

“Fine,” he says, focusing on measuring coffee grounds.

Hokuto moves with quiet efficiency, pulling containers from the refrigerator, reheating food, his actions precise and economical. Nothing like the hesitant, broken man they’d found in Shimokitazawa a month ago. The bruises have faded from his face, though Taiga notices he still favors his left side slightly.

The kitchen fills with the smell of tonkatsu warming in the microwave. Hokuto slices cabbage with practiced ease, arranges it on a plate alongside the pork cutlet when it’s heated through. The coffee maker gurgles its last, and Hokuto pours a cup, setting it on the table with the food.

“Rice is almost done,” he says, turning back to the rice cooker.

Taiga sits, wrapping his hands around the coffee mug. The warmth seeps into his palms, grounding him in the present. The dream feels further away now, Myuto’s voice fading beneath the ordinary sounds of the kitchen—the soft beep of the rice cooker, the quiet movements of Hokuto preparing the meal.

Hokuto sets the plate in front of him with a quiet precision that speaks of long practice. The food is arranged with care—tonkatsu sliced in perfect strips, cabbage shredded fine, rice molded in a neat half-moon. Nothing fancy, just attention to detail.

“Anything else?” Hokuto asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

“This is fine,” Taiga says, already reaching for his chopsticks. “Thanks.”

Hokuto nods and steps back, returning to the sink where dishes from the morning are stacked. The quiet clatter of plates and gentle splash of water creates a strangely domestic soundtrack as Taiga eats.

The tonkatsu is good—crisp outside, tender within. Taiga devours it with the efficiency of someone who views food as fuel rather than pleasure, though he can’t deny the comfort of a hot meal after the dream. The coffee washes it down, bitter and bracing.

Between bites, Taiga finds his gaze drifting to Hokuto. The guy moves differently now than he did that first night in Shimokitazawa. Less hunched, less flinching. His hands move steadily through the tasks of washing, rinsing, drying. There’s something almost meditative in the way he works.

Hokuto’s shoulders are narrow beneath his borrowed t-shirt—one of Noel’s, probably. His dark hair falls across his eyes as he works, and he absently tucks it behind his ear with a wet hand. The gesture is oddly vulnerable.

He’s settling in. Good.

The Warriors need stability right now, not another broken piece to fix. Not with the Rogues circling, not with Yasui’s ghost haunting every lead they uncover. Not with Myuto’s death hanging over them all like—

Hokuto suddenly stiffens, his hands freezing mid-motion. He’s caught Taiga staring.

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately, eyes widening with alarm. “Did I—is something wrong?”

His body language shifts in an instant—shoulders drawing in, spine curving, making himself smaller. A defensive posture learned through pain.

Fuck.

“No,” Taiga says quickly, looking away. “Just spaced out. Thinking about... other shit.”

He stabs at the remaining piece of meat, irritated with himself for triggering Hokuto’s fear response. The guy’s been with them for only a month. Of course he’s still walking on eggshells, especially around the Warlord.

Hokuto doesn’t look convinced, but he nods and slowly returns to the dishes, movements more cautious now, self-conscious. The easy rhythm from before is gone.

Should say something. Clear the air.

But what? Taiga’s never been good with words. That was Myuto’s thing—knowing what to say to put people at ease. Taiga’s always relied on action, on showing rather than telling. And right now, he has nothing to show.

He finishes the last of his meal in silence, the food settling heavily in his stomach. When he’s done, he stands and carries his plate to the sink, deliberately casual.

“Thanks for the food,” he says, placing the dishes next to where Hokuto works. “It helped.”

Hokuto glances up, surprise flickering across his features. “You’re welcome,” he murmurs, taking the plate and adding it to his methodical process.

Taiga lingers for a moment, then steps back. The kitchen suddenly feels too small, too quiet. He’s used to being in motion—patrolling territory, meeting contacts, training with Jesse, planning with Yugo. Standing still makes his skin itch.

He checks his phone again. Still over five hours until the barbecue. Yugo and the others won’t be back until then. Juri’s out with his contacts. The rest of the Warriors are handling their usual duties.

What the fuck do I do with myself for five hours?

He could go to his studio, lose himself in paint and canvas. But the thought of being alone with his thoughts, with the fresh images from his dream, makes his chest tighten. The studio is for clarity, for processing—not for running away.

He could train, but his body feels leaden, the aftermath of too much tension and too little rest. Could check the security feeds, but Yugo or Shintaro would have alerted him to any issues. Could review territory maps, but they’ve been over them a dozen times already.

Taiga isn’t used to empty time. Doesn’t know what to do with it. As Warlord, there’s always something demanding his attention, always some fire to put out. He rarely stays at headquarters during daylight hours—too much to do in the streets, too many connections to maintain.

Now he’s stuck here, waiting, with nothing but the echo of his dream for company.

The kitchen feels suddenly claustrophobic. He needs air, space, something to focus on beyond the churning in his gut and the images flashing behind his eyes.

Taiga’s about to turn away when Hokuto clears his throat.

“Taiga...” His voice is hesitant, like he’s testing the sound of the name. “Yugo mentioned something to me this morning. About Jesse?”

Taiga stops, turning back. Hokuto’s still by the sink, dish towel twisted between his fingers, knuckles white with tension.

“He said Jesse would be training me. For self-defense.” The words come out carefully measured, as if Hokuto’s afraid of overstepping. “Is that true?”

“Yeah,” Taiga says, leaning back against the counter. “It’s important.”

Hokuto’s eyes drop to the floor. “I’m not a fighter.”

The words hang between them. Taiga studies him—the narrow shoulders, the delicate hands, the way he still sometimes flinches at sudden movements.

No, Hokuto isn’t a fighter. Not by nature, not by choice.

Neither was Genta.

“You don’t have to be a fighter,” Taiga says, crossing his arms. “But you need to be strong.”

Hokuto looks up, confusion written across his face.

Taiga sighs, searching for words. This is Yugo’s territory—explaining things, making people understand. But Yugo isn’t here, and Hokuto needs to hear this.

“Four years ago, we found Genta,” Taiga says, the memory sharp and clear. “Sixteen years old. Skinny as hell. Bruises all over. Ran away from home.”

Hokuto’s eyes widen slightly, his hands stilling on the towel.

“Kid couldn’t throw a punch to save his life,” Taiga continues. “Flinched at shadows. Reminded me of a stray cat—all bones and fear.”

He remembers Genta then—a trembling teenager huddled in an alley, blood trickling from his split lip, eyes huge with terror when the Warriors approached. So different from the confident young man who moves through headquarters now.

“Sounds familiar,” Hokuto murmurs, and there’s the ghost of a smile on his lips.

Taiga nods. “Yeah. He was like you. Lost. Hurt.” He pushes away from the counter, restless energy making it impossible to stay still. “We took him in. Made him a Housekeeper because he was a kid then. Never pushed him to fight.”

He paces a few steps, the kitchen suddenly too small to contain the memory.

“Six months in, three guys from the Blue Fangs jumped him while he was getting groceries. Cornered him in an alley.”

Hokuto’s face tightens with recognition—he knows what happens in alleys, what men do when they have power over someone weaker.

“Genta fought back,” Taiga says, a hint of pride creeping into his voice. “Broke one guy’s nose. Cracked another’s ribs with a garbage can lid. Third guy ran when he realized Genta wasn’t an easy target.” He stops pacing, facing Hokuto directly now. “Made it back to headquarters with the groceries. Bloody, but standing tall.”

The memory is vivid—Genta stumbling through the door, groceries clutched to his chest, face bruised but eyes blazing with a new fire.

Pride. Strength. The look of someone who discovered they weren’t helpless after all.

“You’re not training to become Jesse,” Taiga says. “You’re training so you can stand your ground. So you never have to feel trapped again.”

Hokuto absorbs this, his gaze dropping to his own hands. They’re steady now, no longer twisting the towel. When he looks up, there’s something new in his eyes—not quite determination, but the first flicker of it.

“When do I start?” he asks.

“Tomorrow,” Taiga says. “Jesse’s good. He’ll take it slow.”

Hokuto nods, straightening slightly. “Thank you.”

Taiga shrugs, uncomfortable with gratitude. “Warriors take care of their own.”

The words come automatically, something Myuto used to say. They hang in the air between them, weighted with meaning Taiga hadn’t intended.

Their own. Is that what Hokuto is now? One of them?

Taiga isn’t sure when that happened—when the stray they picked up from the Orphans’ wreckage became something more. But looking at Hokuto now, seeing the quiet resolve forming behind his eyes, Taiga knows it’s true.

“I’ll try,” Hokuto says softly. “To be strong.”

“You already are,” Taiga replies, the words escaping before he can think better of them. “You survived the Orphans for three years. That takes strength.”

Hokuto blinks, surprise flashing across his face. Then something else—a fragile warmth, like sunlight breaking through clouds.

“Different kind of strength,” he says, his voice barely audible.

“Same core,” Taiga counters. “Just needs direction.”

Hokuto considers this, then nods slowly. “Direction,” he repeats, testing the word. “I’d like that.”

The kitchen falls quiet again, but the silence is different now—less awkward, more contemplative. Taiga feels the restlessness in his bones settle slightly, his mind focusing on something beyond the nightmare, beyond Yasui, beyond the weight of leadership.

“You’ve been with us a month now,” Taiga says, remembering his conversation with Juri at Crossroads last night.

Hokuto looks up from the sink, hands stilling under the running water. “Has it been that long already?”

“Yeah.” Taiga leans against the counter, studying him. “You’ve settled in with the Housekeepers.” Not a question, but an observation.

Hokuto nods, shutting off the water and drying his hands on a nearby towel. “Noel’s been patient. Genta too.”

“Any interest in moving divisions?”

The question hangs between them. Hokuto’s eyes widen slightly, surprise flickering across his features. “I... I hadn’t thought about it.”

“No pressure,” Taiga adds, crossing his arms. “Just asking.”

Hokuto leans back against the sink, considering. His fingers twist in the dish towel—a nervous habit he hasn’t quite broken.

“I like being a Housekeeper,” he says finally. “It’s... steady. Predictable.” The corner of his mouth twitches upward. “Safe.”

Taiga nods. Makes sense. After three years of chaos and abuse with the Orphans, the structured routine of the Housekeepers would feel like sanctuary.

“But...” Hokuto hesitates, eyes dropping to the floor.

“But?” Taiga prompts.

“Noel and Genta have been saying things.” Hokuto’s voice grows quieter, as if he’s embarrassed. “About me maybe having the right skills for a Lookout.”

Interesting. Taiga hadn’t discussed this with Noel or Genta either. They’ve noticed the same things he has. “What do you think about that?” he asks, keeping his tone neutral.

Hokuto shrugs one shoulder, the gesture small and uncertain. “I don’t know if I’d be any good at it. Lookouts need to be... confident. Assertive.”

Like Juri. Like Chaka. Like Shime. Taiga sees his point.

“Lookouts need to see things others miss,” Taiga counters. “Need to read people. Situations.” He pauses, choosing his next words carefully. “You survived the Orphans by watching. Listening. Reading the room.”

Hokuto’s head snaps up, eyes widening. He looks startled, as if Taiga has just revealed something profound about him that he hadn’t recognized himself. “I... yes.” His voice is barely audible. “I had to know when Ryo was in a bad mood. When to be invisible. When to speak up.”

Taiga nods. “Same skills. Different application.”

Hokuto absorbs this, his brow furrowed in thought. Taiga can almost see him turning the idea over in his mind, examining it from different angles.

“I’m not saying you should switch,” Taiga clarifies. “Just that you could. If you wanted.”

“Would I...” Hokuto swallows visibly. “Would I have to leave the headquarters more? Go out alone?”

There’s a flicker of fear in the question—not surprising. The Orphans kept Hokuto isolated, trapped in their karaoke bar prison. The outside world probably still feels overwhelming.

“Not at first,” Taiga says. “You’d train with Juri. Start small. Local area only, with backup. Missions always mean you have a Fighter with you.”

Relief softens Hokuto’s features. “I see.”

“It’s up to you,” Taiga continues, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Standing still for this long makes his muscles itch for movement. “Stay a Housekeeper. Move to Lookout. Do both for a while. Switch later. Whatever works.”

“I don’t have to decide now?” Hokuto asks.

“No rush,” Taiga confirms. “Talk to Juri if you’re curious. See what Lookouts actually do.”

Hokuto nods, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “I’d like that. To learn more, I mean.”

“Good,” Taiga says. “That’s good.”

He means it. The Warriors need people who want to learn, to grow. Especially now. They need every advantage they can get.

“Thank you,” Hokuto says, that same surprised warmth from earlier returning to his eyes. “For giving me options.”

Taiga shrugs, uncomfortable with the gratitude. “That’s how it works here. Everyone finds their place.”

Everyone except me, he thinks suddenly. I didn’t find my place. I inherited it when Myuto died.

The thought ambushes him, bitter and unexpected. He pushes it away, focusing instead on Hokuto, who’s watching him with those observant eyes.

“I’ll think about it,” Hokuto promises. “About where I fit best.”

“Take your time,” Taiga says.

And he means it.

🐍

“That girl in the red skirt—third table from the right,” Jesse says, leaning in conspiratorially. “Tell me what she’s doing without looking directly at her.”

Hokuto keeps his gaze fixed on Jesse’s animated face, fighting the urge to turn his head. He takes a slow sip of his coffee instead, letting his peripheral vision do the work.

“She’s been on her phone for the last twenty minutes. Texting, not talking. She’s ordered nothing but water, and she keeps checking the mall entrance.” Hokuto sets his cup down. “She’s waiting for someone late.”

Jesse’s grin widens. “Not bad, Stray Cat. What else?”

Nakano Sun Plaza hums with midday activity around them. The food court buzzes with conversations, chair legs scraping against tile, the distant chime of the elevator. Hokuto tries to absorb it all without appearing to pay attention to anything but the conversation.

“She’s nervous,” he adds. “Keeps adjusting her hair and checking her reflection on her phone. Date, probably.”

Juri nods approvingly. “And the security guard by the west entrance?”

This is harder. The guard stands at the edge of Hokuto’s vision, almost out of range without an obvious turn of his head. He shifts slightly in his seat, as if getting comfortable, to widen his field of view.

“Changed positions three times in the last fifteen minutes. Keeps touching his earpiece. Something’s making him uneasy.”

Jesse whistles low. “You’ve got good eyes.”

“Three years of watching people’s moods change on a dime teaches you to notice things,” Hokuto says, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

A flash of something—understanding, maybe pity—crosses Jesse’s face before it’s replaced with his usual grin. “Their loss, our gain.”

Hokuto focuses on his breathing, the way Juri taught him. In for four, hold for four, out for four. The memories of the Orphans try to surface, but he pushes them back down. Not here. Not now.

“Your two o’clock,” Juri says softly. “Man in the business suit.”

Hokuto catches the figure in his peripheral vision. “Been here forty minutes. Third coffee. Keeps checking his watch and looking at the service corridor.”

“And?” Juri prompts.

Hokuto hesitates. “He’s... waiting for someone he doesn’t want to be seen with. His wedding ring catches the light when he moves his hand, but he keeps turning it inward, hiding it.”

Jesse claps his hands together. “Damn, you’re good at this. Taiga was right about you.”

The praise sends an unexpected warmth through Hokuto’s chest. A month ago, he could barely look any of them in the eye. Now he’s sitting in a public place, holding a conversation while cataloging the movements of strangers. Small steps, but steps nonetheless.

“Alright, new challenge,” Jesse announces, suddenly throwing an arm around Hokuto’s shoulders. The unexpected contact makes him flinch, but Jesse pretends not to notice. “I’m going to tell you about the time I single-handedly fought off six guys from the Midnight Crew, and you’re going to tell me what’s bullshit while still keeping track of everyone we’ve been watching.”

Juri rolls his eyes. “This should be interesting.”

Jesse launches into an increasingly outlandish tale involving a motorcycle chase, three bottles of shochu, and what he claims was “the most beautiful roundhouse kick Tokyo has ever seen.” His voice gets louder, his gestures more dramatic, deliberately creating a distraction.

Hokuto finds himself smiling despite the challenge. Jesse’s energy is infectious, and even Juri’s quiet interjections to correct the more ridiculous parts of the story make the knot in Hokuto’s chest loosen slightly.

But he doesn’t forget his task. The girl in the red skirt has been joined by a nervous-looking boy. The security guard has moved closer to the electronics store. The businessman has disappeared down the service corridor.

“Time,” Juri says after Jesse’s story reaches its improbable conclusion. “Let’s compare notes.”

Chaka and Rinne appear from their separate positions around the food court, sliding into empty chairs at their table. Chaka pulls out a small notebook.

“Alright, Stray Cat, what’ve you got?” Rinne asks.

Hokuto recites his observations—fourteen people in total, their movements, interactions, anything unusual.

When he finishes, Chaka nods approvingly.

“You missed the shoplifter at the bookstore,” Chaka says, “and the couple arguing by the escalator was actually rehearsing lines for a drama class. But everything else matches what I saw.”

“That’s impressive for your first real exercise,” Juri says quietly. “Especially with this one trying to break your concentration.” He tilts his head toward Jesse, who responds with an exaggerated look of innocence.

“What? I was helping him train under realistic conditions. People aren’t going to be quiet and accommodating when he’s gathering intel.”

Hokuto finds himself nodding. “He’s right. The Orphans were always loudest when something important was happening. It was their way of creating cover.”

The table falls momentarily silent at the mention of his former captors.

“Well,” Rinne says, breaking the tension, “looks like you’ve got the makings of a Lookout after all.”

Pride swells in Hokuto’s chest. He hasn’t felt useful—really useful—in years. At the Orphans, his value had been measured in other ways, none of them about his mind or his observations.

“Let’s try something more challenging,” Juri says, his voice pulling Hokuto from his thoughts. “Walking surveillance.”

Jesse claps his hands together. “My favorite! Stray Cat gets to hear about the time I took down those Rangers guys at the underground fight club.”

“That’s not actually what happened,” Rinne mutters, but Jesse ignores him.

“Chaka and Rinne will trail behind,” Juri explains, “making their own observations. We’ll compare notes after. The goal is to maintain awareness while moving through different environments.”

Hokuto nods, swallowing against the sudden dryness in his throat. The food court is one thing—contained, predictable. Moving through the mall means more variables, more people, more chances to miss something important.

“You’ll do fine,” Juri says, as if reading his thoughts. “Remember what we practiced.”

They stand, clearing their table. The Warriors’ waistcoat feels heavy on Hokuto’s shoulders as they walk toward the main concourse. It’s too big for him—belonged to a former member, Noel had explained when handing it to him—but wearing it feels significant. A uniform. A belonging.

Focus, he reminds himself. That’s not what this exercise is about.

Jesse launches into his story the moment they step into the stream of shoppers, his voice pitched just loud enough to be heard over the ambient noise. “So there I was, surrounded by these five Rangers guys—”

“I thought it was three,” Juri interjects mildly.

“Five sounds better for the story,” Jesse continues without missing a beat. “Anyway, they’d been talking shit about the Warriors all night, and I was just there to watch the fights, right?”

Hokuto lets Jesse’s voice become background noise as he catalogs their surroundings. Woman with three shopping bags, walking quickly toward the exit. Teenage boys loitering by the game store, one shoplifting something small while the clerk is distracted. Security camera above the jewelry kiosk, angled to cover the display case but not the area behind it.

“—so I told him, ‘That’s not a knife, this is a knife,’ except I didn’t actually have a knife–”

The mall opens into a central atrium, sunlight streaming through a glass ceiling. More people here. More movement. More to track. Hokuto feels his heartbeat quicken, but he keeps his breathing steady.

Group of office workers on lunch break. Couple arguing quietly by the fountain. Man in a maintenance uniform checking something in a service panel that doesn’t look quite right.

“—and then this guy, he must have been twice my size, comes at me with a broken bottle—”

They pass a cosmetics store where two women in uniform bow to potential customers. Behind them, a manager is scolding a younger employee, keeping her voice low but her gestures sharp.

“—which is when I realized I was actually fighting the Rangers’ second-in-command, though nobody told me that until later—”

The waistcoat feels warmer now, almost too warm. Hokuto resists the urge to adjust it.

“—so there I am, bleeding from my eyebrow, surrounded by his guys—”

They’re approaching the west exit now. The security guard from earlier is gone, replaced by a younger man who keeps checking his phone. Outside, through the glass doors, Hokuto spots a police car parked at the curb. Not unusual, but the officer inside isn’t moving, just watching the entrance.

“—and that’s when I pulled off the greatest comeback in underground fighting history!”

Jesse concludes his story just as they push through the doors into the humid air. The temperature shift is immediate, from the mall’s cool air conditioning to Tokyo’s sweltering heat. Hokuto’s waistcoat clings to his back, but he doesn’t remove it.

They walk a short distance from the entrance before stopping under the shade of a decorative maple tree. Moments later, Chaka and Rinne join them, both looking expectant.

“Alright, Stray Cat,” Chaka says, notebook already open. “What did you see?”

Hokuto recites his observations methodically, starting from when they left the food court and moving chronologically through their walk. The shoplifting teenagers, the maintenance worker, the manager scolding her employee, the new security guard, the police car outside.

When he finishes, Rinne gives a low whistle. “Not bad. You caught the shoplifters that security missed completely.”

“And the police officer watching the entrance,” Juri adds. “That’s significant. We’ll need to find out why he’s there.”

“You missed the pickpocket working near the fountain,” Chaka says, consulting his notes. “And the two Warriors from Shintaro’s division by the electronics store.”

Hokuto feels a flicker of disappointment. “I didn’t realize they were Warriors.”

“That’s the point,” Chaka says. “You won’t always know who’s who. But you still caught more than most would on a first walking exercise.”

“I think that’s enough for today,” Juri says, checking his watch. “You did well, Hokuto.”

Relief washes through Hokuto’s body. His t-shirt clings to his back beneath the oversized waistcoat, and his mind feels stretched thin from the constant vigilance. Still, there’s satisfaction mixed with the exhaustion.

He did well. Not perfect, but well.

“Back to HQ?” Chaka asks, tucking his notebook into his pocket.

Juri nods. “After we drop Jesse at Crossroads. Yugo asked him to check on something with Kana-san.”

At the mention of Yugo’s name, Jesse’s expression shifts—so quickly Hokuto might have missed it if he hadn’t been trained to notice exactly these kinds of details all afternoon.

The bright energy dims, just for a moment, before Jesse’s smile returns, slightly forced around the edges. “Yeah, Lieutenant’s orders,” he says, emphasizing Yugo’s title in a way that sounds deliberately casual. “Apparently Kana-san’s got some info about those new guys moving in near Suginami.”

They walk toward the parking lot, Jesse launching into another story about a fight he claims happened near Crossroads Bar. Hokuto half-listens, his mind cataloging the subtle changes in Jesse’s demeanor. The way he’s walking slightly ahead of the group instead of in the middle. The extra volume in his voice. The lack of Yugo anecdotes that usually pepper his stories.

It’s been like this for weeks now. Hokuto has watched from the sidelines as Yugo and Jesse—previously inseparable—maintain a careful distance from each other. Their interactions at headquarters have been cordial but stripped of the easy familiarity Hokuto had observed when he first arrived.

No casual touches. No inside jokes. Just the mechanical politeness of colleagues rather than friends.

Or whatever they were before, Hokuto thinks, remembering the night on the rooftop when he’d accidentally interrupted what seemed like an argument between Taiga and Yugo. Something about Jesse had been mentioned, though Hokuto had tried not to eavesdrop.

Not that it’s any of his business. Unlike the other Warriors, who Noel claims have a running betting pool on “when those two idiots will finally get their shit together,” Hokuto has no stake in their personal lives. He’s still finding his footing, still learning to exist as something more than property. Other people’s relationships are beyond his current capacity to navigate.

Still, he can’t help but notice the shadow that crosses Jesse’s face whenever Yugo’s name comes up, or the way Yugo’s eyes follow Jesse across rooms before deliberately looking away.

“Here we are,” Juri announces as they reach the parking lot. The Crown sits between Chaka’s and Rinne’s motorcycles, all three vehicles gleaming under the late afternoon sun.

“Shotgun’s yours, Stray Cat,” Jesse says, clapping Hokuto on the shoulder. “I’ll take the back since I’m getting dropped off first.”

Hokuto nods, oddly touched by the gesture.

“We’ll see you back at headquarters,” Chaka says, already straddling his motorcycle.

Rinne follows suit, both of them securing helmets.

Hokuto slides into the passenger seat, careful not to disturb anything. Jesse sprawls across the back, immediately propping his feet up on the center console until Juri shoots him a look that makes him reconsider.

“So, Stray Cat,” Jesse says as Juri navigates out of the parking lot, “what’d you think of your first real Lookout training?”

Hokuto considers the question. What does he think? The exercise pushed him in ways he hasn’t been pushed before—mentally rather than physically. It asked him to use skills he developed for survival in a way that might actually help others. It made him feel... useful.

“I liked it,” he says simply, watching Tokyo blur past the window. “It felt... right.”

In the rearview mirror, he catches Jesse’s genuine smile—the first one that’s reached his eyes since Yugo’s name was mentioned.

“Told you he’d be good at this,” Jesse says to Juri.

The conversation shifts to logistics—what information they hope Kana might have, whether they should bring anything back for the others at headquarters. Hokuto listens, absorbing details, filing away information that might be useful later.

Through it all, he can’t help noticing how Jesse’s eyes cloud slightly whenever Yugo is mentioned, how his jokes become a little louder, his gestures a little more exaggerated.

Compensating. Covering. Hiding something that clearly hurts.

Hokuto knows that technique all too well.

Crossroads Bar appears suddenly between a convenience store and a shuttered electronics shop. Hokuto might have missed it entirely if not for the subtle amber glow from its frosted windows and the small neon sign above the door. It looks nothing like the gaudy hostess clubs and pachinko parlors that dominate most of Tokyo’s nightlife.

“This is it?” Hokuto asks, peering through the windshield.

“Don’t let appearances fool you,” Juri says. “Kana-san runs the most valuable information hub in Nakano.”

Jesse’s already got one foot out the door before the engine stops. “Thanks for the ride. I’ll catch you guys later.”

Hokuto watches him closely—the forced casualness, the deliberate lack of eye contact with Juri, the slight tension in his shoulders. More tells that something’s off.

“Wait,” Juri calls, making Jesse pause halfway out of the car. “Yugo asked for the full report by tonight. Don’t get sidetracked.”

Jesse’s smile tightens. “When do I ever get sidetracked?”

“Tuesday. Last week. The week before that,” Juri lists flatly.

“Yeah, yeah.” Jesse waves dismissively. “I’ll get the info and be back before dinner. Later, Stray Cat.”

The door slams with slightly more force than necessary. Hokuto watches Jesse’s reflection in the side mirror as he approaches the bar, noting how his entire demeanor shifts—shoulders squaring, chin lifting, steps becoming more deliberate. Armor going up.

Juri sighs, pulling back into traffic without comment. They drive in silence for several blocks, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across the street.

“You noticed it too, didn’t you?” Juri asks finally, his eyes never leaving the road.

Hokuto hesitates, unsure if he should acknowledge his observations. In the Orphans, noticing too much could be dangerous.

But this isn’t the Orphans, and Juri isn’t Ryo.

“The tension between Jesse and Yugo,” he confirms quietly.

Juri nods, a small, sad smile touching his lips. “Jesse’s learning a hard lesson about timing. One we’ve all had to learn in some way.”

“What do you mean?”

“Yugo and Taiga...” Juri pauses, choosing his words carefully. “Since Myuto died last year, they’ve been... different. Romance is the last thing on either of their minds.”

Myuto. The name surfaces in Hokuto’s thoughts like a ghost. He’s heard it whispered through the halls of headquarters, seen the way conversations falter when it’s mentioned, noticed how Taiga’s expression shutters at even the slightest reference.

“Genta told me some of what happened,” Hokuto admits. “About how he died.”

Juri glances at him briefly before returning his attention to the road. “Genta tends to embellish, but the core of it is true enough. Myuto sacrificed himself so Taiga, Yugo, and Jesse could escape.”

Hokuto remembers Genta’s animated retelling, complete with sound effects and dramatic pauses. How Myuto, Taiga, Yugo, and Jesse had been cornered by police in Shinagawa Station after being falsely accused of a crime. How Myuto had forced his way off the train just as the doors were closing, fighting the police captain to ensure the others got away. How he’d been struck by an oncoming local train in the struggle.

“Taiga was Myuto’s lieutenant then,” Juri continues, his voice softening. “Yugo was third-in-command. They both watched it happen through the train windows. Couldn’t do anything to stop it. Jesse was there, too, but don’t let his demeanor fool you. Yugo and Taiga founded the Warriors with Myuto and Shin. His death changed them.”

The weight of that image settles in Hokuto’s chest. He thinks of Taiga on the rooftop, smoking alone in the dark. Of the tension that seems to radiate from him sometimes, like heat from pavement in August.

“So when Jesse...” Hokuto starts, then trails off, unsure how to phrase it.

“I’m guessing Jesse finally worked up the courage to tell Yugo how he felt,” Juri finishes for him, “And obviously, Yugo wasn’t ready. Couldn’t be ready. He’s too focused on keeping Taiga from self-destructing and the Warriors from falling apart.”

They stop at a red light, and Juri drums his fingers against the steering wheel. “Jesse took it personally. He doesn’t understand that it’s not about him.”

“It’s about Myuto,” Hokuto murmurs.

Juri’s eyes meet his, surprised and approving. “Exactly. It’s about grief and guilt and responsibility. Things Jesse doesn’t fully grasp because he processes emotions differently than Yugo does.”

The light changes, and they continue toward headquarters. Hokuto watches the city pass by, thinking about the complicated web of relationships he’s found himself tangled in. The Warriors aren’t just a gang—they’re a family still mourning one of their own.

“Genta says Taiga changed after Myuto died,” Hokuto says hesitantly. “That he used to be different.”

“We all changed,” Juri replies. “But Taiga... Taiga carried Myuto’s blood on his hands that night. He hasn’t washed it off yet, not really.” He pauses. “Some stains go deeper than skin.”

Hokuto understands that better than most. Some marks remain long after the bruises fade, some chains persist even when the locks are broken. He thinks of Taiga’s words on the rooftop—you don’t need permission to breathe—and wonders if Taiga himself remembers how to breathe freely anymore.

“Do you think they’ll ever...?” Hokuto gestures vaguely, not entirely sure what he's asking.

“Jesse and Yugo?” Juri’s smile is sad. “Maybe. Someday. When the weight of the past isn’t so heavy.”

He glances at Hokuto. “Or Taiga and his ghosts? That’s a harder question.”

🐍

Hokuto jerks awake with a gasp that tears through his throat. His heart hammers against his ribs like it might break through.

The room is dark, unfamiliar. For one terrifying moment, he doesn’t know where he is.

Then reality filters back—the Warriors’ headquarters, the Housekeepers’ sleeping area, the futon beneath him.

Not the karaoke bar. Not Ryo ’ s bed.

His t-shirt clings to his skin, damp with sweat. The nightmare feels different this time—sharper, more immediate. As if Ryo might materialize from the shadows at any moment.

Hokuto’s hands tremble as he pushes back the blanket, careful not to disturb the other Housekeepers sleeping nearby. Katsuki’s soft snores continue uninterrupted. Konpi shifts slightly but doesn’t wake.

Hokuto reaches under his futon, fingers searching until they find the worn spine of his book—a collection of poetry that the bookstore owner in Shimokitazawa had pressed into his hands the last time he’d visited. Next to it, the small reading light Shizu had given him yesterday with a casual “thought you might need this” that had left Hokuto momentarily speechless.

He slips from the room on silent feet, book and light clutched to his chest. The hallway is dimly lit, emergency lights casting soft pools of illumination every few meters. Hokuto moves through the shadows between them, an old habit from navigating the karaoke bar after hours when Ryo might be looking for him.

“Yo, Hokuto.”

He freezes, heart leaping into his throat before he recognizes Rinne’s voice. The fighter leans against the wall near the stairwell, arms crossed over his chest. Machu stands beside him, fiddling with what looks like a small radio.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Machu asks, glancing up from his tinkering.

Hokuto’s fingers tighten around his book. At the Orphans’ hideout, running into someone during night hours meant trouble—questions about where he was going, accusations of trying to escape, or worse, being dragged back to Ryo’s room.

“I—” His voice catches. “Just needed some air.”

He waits for the suspicion, the demand to return to bed, but it never comes.

“Roof’s nice this time of night,” Rinne offers instead, nodding toward the stairs. “Weather’s cleared up. You can see the stars.”

“Thanks,” Hokuto manages, surprise loosening the knot in his chest. He moves toward the stairs, then pauses. “Are you two... on patrol?”

Rinne grins. “Night watch. Someone's gotta keep an eye on things while everyone sleeps.”

“Shizu’s got the security system, but nothing beats actual eyes and ears,” Machu adds, returning to his device. “Plus, I’m testing these new radio transmitters. Better range, less interference.”

“That’s... smart,” Hokuto says, meaning it.

Rinne’s grin widens. “We have our moments. Enjoy your book.”

They return to their quiet conversation as Hokuto continues up the stairs, marveling at the interaction. No interrogation. No suspicion. Just a casual exchange between people who share a space. The concept is so simple, yet so profound after three years with the Orphans, where every movement was monitored, every action questioned.

The door to the roof yields to the code given to everyone last Monday. Cool night air washes over his face as he steps outside. True to Rinne’s word, the rain has stopped, leaving behind a clear sky dotted with stars—faint against Tokyo’s light pollution, but visible nonetheless.

Hokuto finds a dry spot near the garden, settling cross-legged with his back against a wooden crate. He clicks on the reading light, its gentle glow illuminating the pages without disturbing the night. The book falls open naturally to a dog-eared page, a poem about a traveler finding his way home after years of wandering.

The words blur slightly as his eyes fill with unexpected tears. He blinks them away, focusing on the rhythm of the verses, letting them wash over him like the night breeze. His hands have finally stopped shaking.

Down below, he can hear the faint sounds of Machu and Rinne making their rounds—footsteps, the occasional murmur of voices, a quiet laugh. Not searching for him. Not hunting him. Just doing their job, protecting their home.

Their home. Hokuto turns the page, wondering if it could ever be his too.

The door to the roof creaks open, and Hokuto startles, fingers tensing around his book. Old instincts die hard—the sudden presence of another person still sends a jolt of adrenaline through his system.

Taiga steps out onto the roof, silhouetted against the dim light from the stairwell. Even in the darkness, Hokuto can read the tension in his shoulders, the slight unsteadiness in his usually measured movements.

Their Warlord looks like a man running from something.

Hokuto remains perfectly still, not wanting to intrude on whatever private moment has driven Taiga to seek the roof’s solitude. But the small click of his reading light gives him away.

Taiga’s head turns sharply toward the sound, body tensing before recognition softens his posture.

“Hokuto.” Not a question, just an acknowledgment.

“Taiga.” Hokuto keeps his voice soft, matching the hushed quality of the night.

He watches as Taiga pulls a cigarette from his pocket, notices the slight tremor in his fingers as he lights it. The brief flare illuminates his face—shadows under his eyes, jaw tight with something that looks like pain.

Taiga moves to the edge of the roof, keeping a careful distance as if respecting Hokuto’s claim to this corner. He leans against the low wall, exhaling smoke that dissipates into the night air.

The silence between them isn’t uncomfortable, just present.

Hokuto returns his eyes to his book, but the words no longer register. His mind drifts to what Juri had told him earlier—about Myuto’s death changing everything, about how Taiga had transformed afterward.

Looking at him now, Hokuto can see the weight of it in every line of his body.

Now, watching Taiga smoke in silence, staring out at the Tokyo skyline like it holds answers to questions he can’t voice, Hokuto wonders if he’s dreaming of Myuto too.

Different nightmares, same darkness.

Hokuto’s gaze lingers a moment too long. Taiga turns, catching him staring, and Hokuto quickly looks away, heat rising to his cheeks. He focuses intently on his book, though the words swim meaninglessly before his eyes. He waits for a question, a comment, perhaps even irritation at being observed so openly.

But Taiga says nothing. When Hokuto risks another glance, Taiga has returned to contemplating the city below, smoke curling around him like a living thing.

The silence stretches between them, neither uncomfortable nor easy—just there, like the night itself. Hokuto turns a page he hasn’t really read, the soft sound barely audible over the distant hum of traffic. Taiga lights another cigarette from the dying ember of the first.

They exist together in the quiet, each carrying their own ghosts.

Hokuto's mind drifts to the poem he’d been reading—about a traveler finding his way home. He wonders if Taiga has ever felt at home anywhere, or if leadership has made him perpetually restless, always watching horizons for approaching threats.

The night air grows cooler. Hokuto pulls his knees closer to his chest, balancing his book against them. His reading light casts a small circle of warmth around him, while Taiga remains in shadow, the only indication of his presence the occasional flare of his cigarette and the faint scent of smoke carried on the breeze.

It strikes Hokuto as strange how comfortable this silence feels. With the Orphans, silence meant danger—the calm before Ryo’s unpredictable storms. Here, with Taiga, silence feels like respect. Two people sharing space without demands, without expectations.

Hokuto traces the edge of a page with his fingertip, feeling the slight texture of the paper. The nightmare that drove him here seems more distant now, less immediate.

He glances at Taiga again, wondering if he feels the same—if the roof offers him the same escape from whatever haunts his sleep.

Their eyes meet briefly across the darkness. This time, Hokuto doesn’t look away immediately. There’s something in Taiga’s expression—not vulnerability exactly, but a momentary absence of the walls he usually maintains.

For a heartbeat, Hokuto sees past the Warlord to the person beneath—someone carrying grief like a physical weight.

Then Taiga turns away, crushing out his cigarette against the wall. The moment passes, but something remains. Different paths, different pain, but a shared understanding of what it means to be haunted by the past.

Hokuto returns to his book, and Taiga lights another cigarette. The night continues around them, neither acknowledging the other again, yet both drawing a strange comfort from the other's presence.

Hokuto turns the page, but the words blur together, letters swimming before his eyes. The book feels heavier in his hands, his eyelids growing weighted. The late hour and emotional exhaustion are finally catching up to him, the adrenaline from his nightmare long since faded.

He blinks, forcing himself to focus on the poem—something about moonlight on water—but his mind drifts, thoughts becoming nebulous and dream-like. The small circle of his reading light seems to shrink, the darkness beyond it growing deeper.

A soft sound breaks through his haze. Hokuto looks up, startled back to alertness.

Taiga has slumped against the wall, his head tilted at an awkward angle. His cigarette—burnt down to the filter—dangles precariously from limp fingers. His chest rises and falls in the slow rhythm of sleep, face unguarded in a way Hokuto has never seen before.

Without the constant tension that usually animates his features, Taiga looks younger. Vulnerable. The hard lines of his face softened by exhaustion.

He’ll hurt his neck sleeping like that.

Hokuto marks his place in the book and sets it aside, watching Taiga for a moment longer. He should leave him be—return to his futon and let the Warlord have his privacy. That would be the sensible thing to do.

But he hesitates.

The roof is getting colder. Dew has begun to form on the metal surfaces, dampness seeping into the air. And there’s something unsettling about the idea of leaving Taiga alone, unconscious and exposed, even in the safety of their headquarters.

Hokuto rises quietly, decision made. He moves carefully toward Taiga, approaching with the caution of someone who knows what it means to be startled awake by unexpected touch.

He gently plucks the cigarette from Taiga’s fingers before it can burn him, crushing it out against the wall. The pack sits beside Taiga on the concrete, nearly empty. Hokuto pockets it along with the lighter.

“Taiga,” he whispers, keeping his distance. “Taiga, you fell asleep.”

No response. Just the steady rhythm of deep breathing.

Hokuto weighs his options. He could try to wake him, but something tells him Taiga needs this sleep desperately. He could find Yugo or Jesse, but that would mean leaving Taiga alone, and the thought sits uncomfortably in his chest.

Which leaves only one option.

Hokuto crouches beside the sleeping Warlord, carefully sliding one arm behind his back, the other under his knees. He pauses, reconsidering.

A piggyback would work better.

He shifts position, gently maneuvering Taiga forward until he can get his back against the Warlord’s chest. With careful movements, he pulls Taiga’s arms over his shoulders, securing them in place with one hand while the other hooks under Taiga’s legs.

Hokuto stands slowly, surprised by how light Taiga feels against his back. The Warlord is all lean muscle and bone, none of the bulk that Jesse carries. Taiga’s head lolls against Hokuto’s shoulder, breath warm against his neck.

For a moment, Hokuto remains perfectly still, half-expecting Taiga to wake, to push away, to demand an explanation. But the Warlord doesn’t stir.

When was the last time he actually slept?

Hokuto adjusts his grip, making sure Taiga is secure before moving toward the door. He shifts Taiga’s weight to free one hand, punching in the keycode with careful precision.

The door unlocks with a soft click, and Hokuto pushes it open with his shoulder.

Taiga mumbles something against his shoulder, the words indistinct but the tone distressed. His fingers tighten reflexively on Hokuto’s shirt.

“It’s okay,” Hokuto whispers, the words automatic, soothing. “You’re safe.”

He begins the careful descent, moving slowly to avoid jostling his burden. The stairs creak slightly under their combined weight, but Hokuto keeps his steps measured and deliberate.

At the bottom, he turns toward the hallway where he knows the Core 5’s rooms are located.

Hokuto stands at the threshold of Taiga’s room, the Warlord’s weight warm against his back. The door looms before him like a boundary he shouldn’t cross. He knows that everyone is off-limits, except for Noel and Yugo when it’s cleaning day.

This is his sanctuary.

Hokuto shifts Taiga’s weight, feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing against his shoulder blade. The alternative is leaving him on a couch in the common area where anyone could find him.

The thought makes Hokuto’s chest tighten.

Decision made, Hokuto reaches for the handle, half-expecting it to be locked. It turns easily under his touch.

The door swings open silently, revealing darkness beyond. Hokuto hesitates one final moment before stepping inside, carrying his burden across the threshold.

Moonlight filters through partially open blinds, casting silver-blue stripes across a surprisingly sparse room. Hokuto had expected... something else. Something that reflected Taiga’s status as Warlord.

Instead, the space feels almost temporary, as if its occupant hasn’t fully committed to staying.

A simple bed with dark sheets sits against one wall. A dresser stands opposite, its surface bare except for a small wooden box. No decorations hang on the walls. No personal items clutter the surfaces. Nothing to indicate the person who sleeps here—no hint of the man behind the title.

Hokuto moves carefully to the bed, turning so he can lower Taiga onto the mattress. The Warlord’s fingers remain tangled in Hokuto’s shirt, releasing only when he gently pries them loose.

Taiga immediately curls onto his side, one hand tucked beneath his cheek in a gesture so unexpectedly childlike that Hokuto feels like he’s witnessing something forbidden.

He pulls the blanket over Taiga’s sleeping form, movements cautious and deliberate. The Warlord doesn’t stir, his breathing deep and even. Up close, the shadows beneath his eyes look like bruises against his pale skin.

How long has he been running on empty?

Hokuto steps back, duty fulfilled. He should leave now, return to his own futon before someone notices his absence.

But his eyes catch on something propped against the wall beside the dresser—a framed photograph partially hidden in shadow.

Curiosity pulls him forward before he can think better of it. He moves closer, careful to keep his footsteps silent on the wooden floor. Crouching down, he studies the image in the dim light.

Two young men stand in front of what Hokuto recognizes as the Warriors’ headquarters—though in the photo, it’s clearly abandoned, windows boarded up, graffiti marring its walls. Taiga and another man have their arms slung around each other’s shoulders, triumph evident in their posture.

Hokuto’s breath catches. Taiga looks different—younger, certainly, but it’s more than that. His hair is shorter, falling just above his eyes instead of tied back as he wears it now.

But the most striking difference is his expression—open, unguarded, a genuine smile lighting his features in a way Hokuto has never witnessed.

The man beside him is Myuto. He grins directly at the camera, confidence radiating from his stance. The same grin Hokuto has seen in the group photo hanging in the entranceway—the one Noel pointed out during his first tour, explaining how the Warriors began.

Here, it’s just the two of them—Myuto and Taiga—at what must be the beginning of everything.

Hokuto stares at Taiga’s face in the photograph, at the openness that has since been replaced by careful control. He thinks of Juri’s words about how Myuto’s death changed everything, about the weight Taiga carries now. The evidence is right here—the before and after captured in image and reality.

Behind him, Taiga shifts in his sleep, murmuring something too quiet to make out. Hokuto turns, half-afraid he’s been caught, but the Warlord merely turns onto his other side, one arm reaching out across the empty space beside him.

Hokuto feels like an intruder now, witnessing grief he has no right to see. He carefully backs away from the photograph, leaving it undisturbed. His gaze lingers on Taiga’s sleeping form, seeing him with new eyes—not just as the Warriors’ intimidating leader, but as someone who lost his anchor and still found a way to keep everyone else afloat.

He sets down the cigarette pack and lighter on the table then moves silently toward the door.

His hand closes around the doorknob. Behind him, Taiga’s breathing continues, deep and even.

For once, it seems, their Warlord sleeps without nightmares.

🐍

Hokuto’s fist cuts through empty air as Jesse sidesteps with casual grace. Sweat drips down Hokuto’s temple, his breathing labored. They’ve been at it for twenty minutes, and he hasn’t landed a single hit.

“You’re telegraphing again,” Jesse says, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. “I can read your next move before you’ve even decided to make it.”

The morning sun beats down on the rooftop, turning the gym mats into miniature heat traps. Hokuto wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, nodding at Jesse’s criticism. His muscles ache from the unfamiliar exertion, but it’s his mind that’s really exhausted—racing through every possible approach, analyzing each movement before he makes it.

“I know,” Hokuto says, resetting his stance the way Jesse showed him. Feet shoulder-width apart, weight balanced, hands up to protect his face. “I’m overthinking it.”

“Fuck yeah, you are.” Jesse grins, circling him with predatory ease. “You’re trying to solve this like it’s a math problem. Fighting isn’t about thinking—it’s about feeling.”

From his position against the wall, Noel watches with careful eyes, first-aid kit open beside him. He’s been silent throughout the session, intervening only when Jesse’s demonstrations threaten to cross the line from instructive to painful.

“Again,” Jesse commands, raising his hands into guard position. “This time, don’t plan it. Just throw the punch.”

Hokuto takes a deep breath, trying to quiet the constant stream of calculations running through his head.

Left hook? No, he’ll expect that. Feint right then go left? He’s too fast. Maybe if I—

“I can literally see you overthinking right now,” Jesse interrupts, tapping his own forehead. “Your eyebrows do this little dance when you’re planning too hard.”

Heat rises to Hokuto’s cheeks. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Just hit me.” Jesse opens his arms wide, leaving his torso completely unprotected. “Free shot. Come on.”

Hokuto hesitates, eyes darting between Jesse’s face and his exposed midsection. It feels wrong—like he’s being offered something he hasn’t earned.

“I don’t—”

“For fuck’s sake,” Jesse sighs, dropping his arms. “Look, this isn’t about landing the perfect punch. It’s about learning to trust your instincts.” He approaches Hokuto, moving with that fluid confidence that makes everything look effortless. “When Ryo came at you, did you have time to plan your defense?”

The name sends a cold spike through Hokuto’s chest. “No.”

“Exactly. In a real fight, you don’t get time to workshop your strategy.” Jesse repositions Hokuto’s arms, adjusting his stance with surprising gentleness. “Your body needs to know what to do before your brain catches up.”

Hokuto nods, trying to absorb the lesson. The problem is, his instincts have been rewired after years with the Orphans. His body’s first response is to curl inward, to protect, to endure—not to fight back.

“Let’s try something different,” Jesse says, reading his hesitation. “I’m going to throw a slow punch. Don’t think about blocking it perfectly. Just stop it from hitting you.”

Hokuto swallows, nodding. “Okay.”

Jesse steps back, assumes a fighting stance, and telegraphs a right hook—moving at half-speed, his intention clear. Hokuto watches the fist approach, his mind immediately cataloging potential responses.

Sidestep? Block with forearm? Duck under?

The punch connects with his shoulder, light enough not to hurt but firm enough to make a point.

“You’re still thinking,” Jesse says, frustration edging his voice. “Your brain is getting in the way of your body.”

From the sidelines, Noel speaks up for the first time. “Maybe try closing your eyes?”

Jesse snaps his fingers, pointing at Noel. “Brilliant! That’s why you're the smart one.” He turns back to Hokuto. “Close your eyes.”

“But then I won’t see—”

“That’s the point. We’re bypassing your overthinking brain.”

Hokuto hesitates, then lets his eyelids fall shut. Darkness envelops him, immediately heightening his other senses—the feel of the morning breeze against his damp skin, the distant sounds of traffic below, Jesse’s steady breathing a few feet away.

“I’m going to touch your shoulder,” Jesse says. “When you feel it, just react. Don’t block me. Just move.”

Hokuto nods, tension coiling in his muscles as he waits.

Seconds stretch into what feels like minutes. Just as his concentration begins to waver, he feels pressure against his right shoulder.

His body moves before his mind can intervene—a quick pivot away from the touch, his arm coming up instinctively to brush the hand aside.

“There!” Jesse’s voice is triumphant. “That’s what I’m talking about. Open your eyes.”

Hokuto blinks against the sudden brightness. Jesse stands before him, grinning widely.

“That was good?” Hokuto asks, uncertain.

“That was natural,” Jesse corrects. “Your body knows how to protect itself when you get your brain out of the way.” He taps his own temple. “The problem isn’t that you can’t fight—it’s that you’re trying to think your way through something that should be instinctual.”

Hokuto considers this, rolling his shoulders to release some of the tension. “So I just... stop thinking?”

“Not completely. But you need to trust your body more than your mind right now.” Jesse resumes his fighting stance. “Let’s try again. Eyes open this time. I’m going to throw a punch, and you’re going to block it without planning your move.”

Hokuto mirrors Jesse’s stance, trying to quiet the analytical part of his brain that’s already assessing angles and trajectories. He focuses instead on Jesse’s center of gravity, the way the fighter shifts his weight subtly from one foot to the other.

Jesse’s fist flies toward him—faster this time, but still controlled.

Hokuto sees it coming, his mind immediately flooding with options, calculations, predictions—

The punch connects solidly with his guard, the impact reverberating up his arm.

“Better!” Jesse exclaims. “You still telegraphed your block—I could see it in your eyes—but you actually moved this time.”

Hokuto wipes sweat from his brow, still processing Jesse's advice about trusting his body over his mind. The morning heat intensifies as the door to the rooftop swings open with a metallic creak.

Taiga and Yugo step out onto the roof, both in loose t-shirts and sweatpants—the kind of casual clothes they only wear inside headquarters.

Hokuto’s stomach tightens as Taiga’s eyes find him, that piercing gaze lingering a beat too long. There’s a question in that look, unspoken but clear: Did you carry me to my room last night?

Heat rises to Hokuto’s cheeks that has nothing to do with the morning sun. He drops his gaze to the mat, suddenly fascinated by a frayed edge near his foot. The memory of Taiga’s weight against his shoulder, the soft rhythm of his breathing, the photograph beside his bed—it all floods back with uncomfortable clarity.

“How’s it going?” Taiga asks, his voice directed at Jesse but his eyes still flickering toward Hokuto.

Jesse bounces on his toes, energy radiating from him like heat off the mats. “Making progress. Baby steps, but progress.”

“He’s enjoying this too much,” Noel interjects from his position against the wall, closing the first aid kit with a decisive snap. “I think he likes having someone to boss around.”

“Not true,” Jesse protests, though his grin suggests otherwise. “I’m a natural-born teacher.”

Hokuto shifts his weight, hyperaware of Taiga’s presence. He doesn’t dare look up to see if the Warlord is still watching him, still silently questioning. Instead, he focuses on adjusting his stance, pretending to practice the form Jesse showed him.

Did he wake up when I put him in bed? Does he remember me pulling that blanket over him? Seeing that photo?

Yugo steps forward, breaking Hokuto’s spiral of thoughts. “Natural-born something, that’s for sure.” His tone is light but there’s an edge beneath it—the first words Hokuto has heard him direct at Jesse since that night on the roof.

The tension between them crackles like static electricity. Hokuto glances up in time to catch Jesse’s face cycling through emotions—hope, hurt, caution, determination—before settling back into his usual cocky smile.

“I’ve got moves you’ve never seen, Lieutenant,” Jesse says, the nickname somehow both respectful and teasing.

Something shifts in Taiga’s expression. He crosses his arms, leaning against the rooftop railing with deceptive casualness.

“Show him,” Taiga says suddenly.

Everyone turns to look at him.

“What?” Jesse asks.

“You and Yugo. Show Hokuto what a real sparring match looks like.” Taiga’s voice is neutral, but there’s a command beneath it. “He needs to see proper technique, not just your showboating.”

Hokuto holds his breath, sensing the deliberate manipulation in Taiga’s suggestion. It’s a transparent attempt to force Yugo and Jesse to interact, to bridge whatever chasm has opened between them.

Judging by the flash of realization in Yugo’s eyes, he recognizes it too.

For a moment, Hokuto thinks Yugo might refuse. The Lieutenant’s jaw tightens, his gaze flicking briefly to Taiga in what looks like silent accusation.

“I’m not dressed for it,” Yugo says finally, gesturing at his loose clothes.

“Neither is he,” Taiga counters, nodding toward Hokuto.

Jesse steps into the center of the mat, eyes locked on Yugo. “Come on, Lieutenant. For educational purposes.” He extends a hand, beckoning. “Unless you’re worried I’ve gotten better than you.”

The challenge hangs in the air. Hokuto watches Yugo’s internal struggle play out in minute expressions—the slight narrowing of his eyes, the almost imperceptible clench of his jaw.

Finally, Yugo sighs. “Fine. One round.” He steps onto the mat, rolling his shoulders. “Educational purposes only.”

Noel catches Hokuto’s eye and motions him toward the wall. Hokuto moves quickly, grateful to be out of the spotlight as he settles beside Noel.

“This should be interesting,” Noel murmurs, just loud enough for Hokuto to hear.

On the mat, Yugo and Jesse circle each other, both dropping into fighting stances with practiced ease. There’s a fluidity to their movements that speaks of countless hours training together, a familiarity that transcends their current tension.

“Watch their footwork,” Taiga says, suddenly beside Hokuto. His voice is low, instructional, giving no indication that anything unusual happened between them last night. “Jesse’s flashier, but Yugo’s more efficient.”

Hokuto nods, hyperaware of Taiga’s proximity. He focuses on the sparring match, trying to ignore the question that still lingers in the air between them. As Jesse and Yugo begin to trade blows—testing defenses, measuring responses—Hokuto wonders if this forced interaction will heal their rift or deepen it.

Either way, he suspects Taiga has set this in motion for reasons beyond his simple education.

The first exchange between Jesse and Yugo is measured, controlled. Hokuto watches their movements with rapt attention, trying to absorb every nuance. There’s none of Jesse’s playful energy from earlier—his face has transformed into a mask of concentration, eyes tracking Yugo’s every shift in weight.

Yugo moves with surprising grace for someone who claims he isn’t dressed for sparring. His footwork is precise, economical, just as Taiga pointed out. Where Jesse seems to bounce and flow, Yugo plants himself with deliberate intention, never moving without purpose.

They trade testing jabs, neither committing fully. It’s like watching two predators circle each other, assessing strengths and weaknesses before the real engagement begins. Hokuto finds himself holding his breath, transfixed by the dangerous dance unfolding before him.

Then Jesse feints left, spins, and nearly lands a kick to Yugo’s side.

“Getting slow in your old age, Lieutenant?” Jesse taunts, resuming his stance with a growing smile.

Something shifts in Yugo’s expression—the stern concentration cracks, revealing a flash of competitive spirit beneath. “Just giving you a handicap,” he replies, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

The next exchange is faster, more fluid. Jesse throws a combination that Yugo blocks with practiced ease, countering with a swift strike that Jesse barely dodges.

“Nice try,” Jesse says, dancing backward. “But I’ve been watching you for years. I know all your moves.”

“Do you now?” Yugo’s voice carries a challenge that wasn’t there before.

They move again, faster still. Jesse attempts a sweep that Yugo jumps over, using the momentum to press forward into Jesse’s space. For a breathless moment, they’re chest to chest before Jesse spins away, laughing.

“You’re going to have to get closer than that if you want to pin me down, Lieutenant.”

Oh, Hokuto thinks, heat rising to his cheeks. This isn’t just sparring anymore.

The realization dawns that he’s witnessing something intimate. Each block, each counter-attack carries meaning beyond the physical movement. Jesse’s flashy style isn’t just showing off; it’s an invitation. Yugo’s controlled responses aren’t just defense; they’re a deliberate restraint that’s slowly unraveling.

“Are they always like this?” Hokuto whispers to Noel.

“When they’re not fighting for real,” Noel murmurs back. “Just wait.”

As if on cue, Jesse executes a spinning kick that Yugo catches, using Jesse’s momentum against him. But instead of following through with the takedown, Yugo releases Jesse’s leg, allowing him to recover.

“Come on, Lieutenant,” Jesse goads, circling again. “Stop holding back. Show our new friend what you can really do.”

Yugo’s eyes narrow, but there’s unmistakable amusement there now. “You asked for it.”

What happens next is too fast for Hokuto to fully process. Yugo advances with sudden intensity, feinting high before dropping low. Jesse reacts a fraction too slow, maybe distracted by the rare smile playing at Yugo’s lips.

In a fluid sequence of movements, Yugo has Jesse’s arm locked, his balance compromised, and then—

They’re on the mat, Yugo straddling Jesse’s hips, one arm pinning Jesse’s wrist above his head, the other forearm pressed lightly across his throat.

“Yield?” Yugo asks, slightly breathless.

Jesse lies beneath him, chest heaving, that cocky smile still in place despite his defeat. “Maybe I like it down here.”

Definitely flirting, Hokuto confirms to himself, feeling like an intruder witnessing something not meant for an audience.

The victory secured, something changes in Yugo’s expression—the competitive edge melts away, replaced by awareness. Awareness of Jesse beneath him, of their bodies pressed together, of what this position might look like to observers.

But he doesn’t move. Neither does Jesse. They remain frozen, gazes locked in silent communication that Hokuto can’t begin to decipher.

One second stretches into three, into five, the moment suspended in the morning heat. Jesse’s smile softens into something more vulnerable, more honest than Hokuto has seen from him before. Yugo’s grip on Jesse’s wrist loosens, but his hand doesn’t withdraw.

Taiga clears his throat, the sound sharp in the weighted silence.

Yugo blinks, the spell broken. He releases Jesse and stands in one swift movement, adjusting his shirt with hands that aren’t quite steady.

“That’s how you use an opponent’s momentum against them,” he says, voice deliberately professional despite the flush creeping up his neck. “Always look for openings in their defense.”

Jesse remains on the mat for a moment longer, something raw and unguarded in his expression as he watches Yugo retreat.

“I should check on Genta,” Yugo says to no one in particular. “He was having trouble with the inventory.”

He doesn’t look at Jesse again as he heads for the door, his usual measured stride slightly hurried.

The door closes behind him with a metallic click.

Jesse sits up slowly, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. When he finally looks up, Hokuto catches a glimpse of such naked longing in his eyes that it feels like an invasion of privacy to witness it.

It’s gone in an instant, replaced by Jesse’s customary grin, but Hokuto knows what he saw.

Jesse pushes himself up from the mat, the carefree smile returning to his face though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I need water,” he announces, dusting off his pants. “Can’t teach on a dry throat.”

He strides toward the door, moving with deliberate casualness that feels like a performance. Hokuto recognizes the act—he’s seen it in himself too many times, that careful construction of nonchalance when everything inside feels raw and exposed.

The door closes behind Jesse, leaving an awkward silence in his wake. Hokuto shifts his weight from one foot to the other, unsure where to look or what to do with his hands. The tension on the roof has shifted but not dissipated—it’s merely changed form, from the charged energy between Jesse and Yugo to this uncomfortable aftermath.

Noel waits about thirty seconds before sighing. “I think we can safely say training’s over for today.” He moves toward the exercise mats, beginning to fold them with practiced efficiency. “Jesse’s not coming back anytime soon.”

“Should someone check on him?” Hokuto asks, though he already knows the answer.

“Best to leave him be.” Noel shakes his head. “When it comes to Yugo, Jesse needs his space after... whatever that was.”

Hokuto nods, understanding all too well the need to lick one’s wounds in private. His gaze drifts to Taiga, who stands at the edge of the roof, staring out at the Tokyo skyline. The Warlord’s expression is unreadable, but there’s a tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there before.

I need to say something about last night. Clear the air.

The thought makes Hokuto’s stomach twist, but he forces himself to move toward Taiga. Each step feels heavier than the last, his mind racing through possible reactions—anger, embarrassment, cold dismissal.

“Taiga,” he says softly, coming to stand beside him at the railing.

Taiga doesn’t turn, but the slight tilt of his head acknowledges Hokuto’s presence.

“About last night,” Hokuto begins, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry if I overstepped. You fell asleep and I didn’t want to leave you alone up here, so I...” He swallows, the words sticking in his throat. “I should have woken you instead of carrying you to your room. It won’t happen again.”

The silence that follows feels endless. Hokuto stares down at his hands gripping the railing, knuckles white with tension. He waits for the reprimand, the reminder of boundaries, the cold assertion of hierarchy.

“Thanks.”

The word is so unexpected that Hokuto nearly misses it. He looks up, searching Taiga’s profile for any sign of sarcasm or anger, but finds only the same inscrutable expression.

“You’re not mad?” Hokuto asks before he can stop himself.

Taiga finally turns to face him, dark eyes meeting Hokuto’s. “Why would I be mad?”

“I just thought... I went into your room without permission. I saw...”

The photo. The vulnerability. The grief etched into every line of your sleeping face.

“...things I probably shouldn’t have.”

Something flickers across Taiga’s features—not anger, but something more complex. “You did what you thought was right,” he says after a moment. “I would’ve done the same.”

The simple statement lifts a weight Hokuto didn’t realize he’d been carrying. He nods, unsure what else to say. The conversation feels incomplete, hovering on the edge of something deeper, but Hokuto doesn’t know how to bridge that gap.

Taiga seems to sense his uncertainty. “It’s fine, Hokuto,” he says, his voice softer than usual. “Really.”

There’s a gentleness there that catches Hokuto off guard, making his chest tighten with an emotion he can’t quite name.

Before he can respond, Taiga turns away, effectively ending the conversation.

Hokuto lingers for a moment longer, trying to think of something to say, but the words don’t come.

Behind them, Noel clears his throat. “Could use some help with these mats, if you’re not too busy contemplating the skyline.”

Grateful for the distraction, Hokuto moves to help Noel. He focuses on the simple task of folding and stacking the exercise mats, trying not to overthink Taiga’s reaction—or lack thereof.

As he works, he’s acutely aware of Taiga watching them.

“I should check on Shintaro,” Taiga says finally. “He was supposed to have that security system upgrade ready by noon.”

Hokuto looks up in time to see Taiga heading for the door, his movements fluid and purposeful. There’s no hesitation in his stride, no indication that anything unusual passed between them.

Just as he reaches the door, Taiga pauses, glancing back over his shoulder.

His eyes meet Hokuto’s for a brief moment—too brief to read, too deliberate to be accidental—before he disappears through the doorway.

🐍

Hokuto’s heart pounds against his ribs as he crouches behind a stack of moldy crates, his back pressed to the splintered wood. The warehouse smells of rust and neglect—a hollow corpse of industry that now houses secrets far more dangerous than forgotten machinery.

The earpiece crackles softly in his ear, Jesse’s voice coming through a controlled whisper. “Status check. Everyone good?”

“East side clear,” Juri’s calm voice responds.

“North corridor secure,” Umi adds.

Hokuto presses the small button on his earpiece. “West section…” His voice catches. He swallows and tries again. “West section clear.”

He feels Jesse’s eyes on him from across the shadowy space, that penetrating gaze that seems to see right through his carefully constructed calm. Hokuto gives a slight nod, though his damp palms and racing pulse tell a different story.

Don’t fuck this up. Don’t fuck this up. Don’t fuck this up.

The mantra loops in his head as he adjusts the small camera clipped to his collar. Two weeks of intensive training have brought him here—his first real mission as a Lookout. Not just shadowing anymore, but an active participant with actual responsibilities.

Jesse signals with two fingers, pointing toward a metal staircase that leads to a mezzanine level.

Hokuto nods, understanding the instruction without words. They need a better vantage point.

The concrete floor is littered with debris, making each step a potential betrayal. Hokuto places his feet with deliberate care, mimicking the way Jesse moves—heel to toe, weight distributed evenly, silent as a shadow.

The techniques Juri taught him replay in his mind: Stay low. Use cover. Move between points of concealment. Never silhouette yourself against light sources.

They reach the staircase, and Jesse motions for Hokuto to go first. The metal steps might groan under their combined weight, better to ascend one at a time.

Hokuto grips the railing, testing each step before committing his full weight. The stairs are solid, but decades of neglect have left them unpredictable.

Halfway up, a step shifts slightly under his foot. Hokuto freezes, breath caught in his throat. The sound seems deafening in the cavernous space, though logically he knows it’s barely audible.

He waits three heartbeats before continuing, moving even more carefully.

At the top, he flattens himself against the wall, scanning the mezzanine level. It’s cluttered with abandoned office furniture—desks tipped on their sides, filing cabinets with drawers hanging open like gaping mouths, chairs missing legs or backs. Perfect cover, but also perfect hiding places for potential threats.

Jesse joins him moments later, his presence reassuring despite the tension coiling through Hokuto’s body. They move in tandem now, Jesse taking point as they navigate through the debris toward the far side of the mezzanine, where a row of windows overlooks the main floor.

“Remember,” Jesse whispers, so low Hokuto has to strain to hear him, “we’re just eyes and ears tonight. No heroics.”

Hokuto nods. The mission parameters were clear: observe, document, retreat. The camera at his collar will capture everything they need—proof that the Black Vipers are using this location to store their stolen goods. Taiga was explicit about avoiding engagement.

They reach the windows, most of which are broken or missing entirely. Jesse crouches beneath one, gesturing for Hokuto to take position at the next. From here, they have a clear view of the warehouse’s main floor and the loading dock beyond.

The space below is largely empty, save for a few abandoned pieces of machinery and scattered debris. But there, near the far wall, is what they came for—a stack of wooden crates similar to the ones they hid behind earlier, but these are newer, their surfaces clean and unmarked by time.

“Target confirmed,” Jesse murmurs into his comm. “Northeast corner, approximately twenty crates. No visible guards.”

“Copy,” comes Juri’s response. “We’ve got movement at the east entrance. Two vehicles approaching.”

Hokuto feels his pulse quicken. This is it—the moment they’ve been waiting for. He adjusts his position slightly, ensuring his camera has a clear line of sight to the loading dock.

“Hokuto,” Jesse whispers, “focus on getting clear shots of faces. I’ll document the goods.”

Hokuto nods, his mouth too dry for words. He retrieves the small monocular from his pocket—not quite a proper scope, but powerful enough to identify individuals at a distance.

The rumble of engines grows louder, and headlights sweep across the loading dock as two black vans pull up. Hokuto counts six men emerging from the vehicles—all wearing the Black Vipers’ distinctive red bandanas either around their necks or tied to their arms.

“Six tangos,” Jesse reports quietly. “Standard patrol configuration. Two remain with vehicles.”

Hokuto raises the monocular to his eye, focusing on the faces of the men as they begin unloading more crates from the vans. He recognizes one of them from the dossier Shintaro prepared—Adachi, the Vipers’ second-in-command. The others are unfamiliar, likely lower-ranking members.

“Visual confirmation on Adachi,” he whispers into his comm, surprised by the steadiness of his own voice. “Plus four unknowns and two drivers.”

“Good work,” comes Juri’s voice. “We’ve got what we need. Prepare to exfil in three minutes.”

Hokuto continues documenting, mentally counting down the seconds. The men below work with practiced efficiency, stacking the new crates alongside the existing ones. One of them pries open a crate lid, revealing the gleam of electronics inside—laptops, tablets, smartphones still in their packaging.

“Merchandise confirmed,” Jesse reports. “High-end electronics, consistent with the store robbery last week.”

Two minutes now. Hokuto shifts his weight slightly, his legs beginning to cramp from maintaining the crouched position.

As he moves, his foot nudges something metallic—a discarded soda can, crushed and forgotten.

The sound it makes is small, barely a whisper of metal against concrete, but in the tense silence, it might as well be a gunshot.

Jesse’s head whips toward him, eyes wide with alarm.

Below, one of the Vipers looks up, scanning the mezzanine level with narrowed eyes.

“What was that?” the man calls out, his hand moving to his waistband where the outline of a gun is visible.

Hokuto’s blood turns to ice. I fucked up. I fucked up. I fucked up.

“Hold position,” Jesse breathes into the comm, so quietly Hokuto barely hears him. “Don’t. Move.”

The Viper below gestures to one of his companions, who nods and heads toward the staircase—the same one Hokuto and Jesse used minutes earlier.

“We’ve got a problem,” Jesse murmurs into his comm. “One hostile approaching our position. Juri, what’s your status?”

“East side secure,” comes the tense reply. “Need extraction?”

“Negative. Hold position.”

Hokuto’s heart hammers so loudly he’s certain the approaching Viper will hear it. He forces himself to take slow, shallow breaths, fighting the panic threatening to overwhelm him.

Jesse catches his eye, mouthing silently: Stay calm. Follow my lead.

The footsteps on the metal stairs echo through the warehouse, each one bringing the Viper closer to their position. Hokuto presses himself further into the shadows, willing his body to become part of the darkness.

The Viper reaches the top of the stairs, his silhouette visible against the dim light filtering through the broken windows. He’s young—probably not much older than Hokuto—with a red bandana tied around his upper arm and a pistol held loosely at his side.

“Anything up there, Hashi?” calls one of the men below.

“Not sure yet,” the young Viper—Hashi—replies, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. “Probably just rats.”

He moves further onto the mezzanine, his footsteps careful but not particularly stealthy. He hasn’t been trained like the Warriors have. He sweeps his flashlight across the cluttered space, the beam cutting through the darkness like a knife.

Hokuto holds his breath as the light passes just inches from where he’s crouched. The beam continues its arc, moving toward Jesse’s position.

For a heart-stopping moment, it illuminates the edge of Jesse’s boot—but the Viper doesn’t seem to notice, his attention already moving elsewhere.

“Nothing here,” Hashi calls down after a cursory inspection. “Just junk.”

“Well, check the rest of it,” comes the irritated reply. “We don’t need surprises.”

Hashi sighs but complies, moving deeper into the mezzanine, closer to where Hokuto and Jesse are hidden. The flashlight beam sweeps back and forth, creating shifting patterns of light and shadow.

Hokuto’s muscles ache from holding still for so long. A bead of sweat trickles down his temple, but he doesn’t dare wipe it away. Every instinct screams at him to run, but he forces himself to remain motionless, remembering Juri’s lessons on patience and discipline.

The Viper is less than ten feet away now, his flashlight beam sweeping dangerously close to their hiding spots. If he takes three more steps, he’ll have a clear line of sight to both of them.

Jesse catches Hokuto’s eye again, then makes a subtle gesture with his hand—Stay put. With movements so fluid they seem almost lazy, Jesse shifts his weight and reaches for something at his belt.

The Viper takes another step forward, and his flashlight beam finally falls directly on Hokuto’s crouched form.

“What the—” Hashi begins, raising his gun.

In one lightning-fast motion, Jesse emerges from the shadows behind him. Before the Viper can turn, Jesse’s arm wraps around his neck in a practiced chokehold, his other hand clamping over the man’s mouth to stifle any sound.

The Viper struggles, his legs kicking out and his free hand clawing at Jesse’s arm, but Jesse’s grip is like iron. The flashlight and gun clatter to the floor as the man’s eyes bulge, his face turning an alarming shade of red.

“Easy,” Jesse murmurs, his voice eerily calm. “Don’t fight it. Just go to sleep.”

Hokuto watches in horrified fascination as the Viper’s struggles gradually weaken. After what feels like an eternity but is probably less than a minute, the man goes limp in Jesse’s arms.

Jesse lowers him carefully to the floor, checking his pulse before looking up at Hokuto. “He’s fine,” he whispers, answering the unspoken question in Hokuto’s eyes. “Just taking a nap. Help me move him.”

Together, they drag the unconscious Viper behind a toppled filing cabinet, where he’ll be hidden from casual view. Jesse uses the man’s own bandana to bind his hands behind his back, then stuffs a wadded-up cloth into his mouth.

“That buys us maybe ten minutes before they come looking for him,” Jesse says, retrieving the fallen gun and tucking it into his waistband. “We need to move. Now.”

“Juri,” he whispers into his comm, “we’ve got a situation. One hostile neutralized, but his friends will notice soon. Need alternate exfil route.”

“Copy,” comes Juri’s tense reply. “Northeast corner, service ladder to roof. Umi and I will cover.”

Jesse nods to Hokuto. “You heard the man. Let’s go.”

They move quickly but quietly across the mezzanine, staying low and using the abandoned furniture for cover. Hokuto’s heart is still racing, but the paralyzing fear has been replaced by a strange, almost detached focus. His body moves on autopilot, following Jesse’s lead without conscious thought.

They reach the northeast corner, where a rusty metal ladder leads up to a small hatch in the ceiling. Jesse motions for Hokuto to go first.

“Quick and quiet,” he whispers. “Don’t look back.”

Hokuto nods, grasping the ladder’s cold rungs. It creaks slightly under his weight, but holds firm. He climbs swiftly, pushing open the hatch at the top to reveal a star-scattered sky above.

The night air hits his face like a blessing as he emerges onto the roof. He moves away from the hatch, making room for Jesse to follow. The rooftop is flat and featureless, save for a few ventilation units and the bulky shape of an old water tank.

Jesse appears moments later, closing the hatch quietly behind him.

“Juri, we’re on the roof,” he reports. “What’s your position?”

“East side fire escape,” comes the reply. “Moving to rendezvous now.”

Jesse leads the way across the rooftop, moving with the confident grace of someone who’s done this many times before. Hokuto follows, his earlier panic subsiding into a strange, buzzing adrenaline high.

They reach the eastern edge of the roof just as Juri and Umi appear, climbing up from the fire escape below.

“Everyone okay?” Juri asks, his eyes quickly scanning both of them for injuries.

Jesse nods. “Clean extraction, but they’ll be looking for their guy soon. We need to be gone before they raise the alarm.”

“The cars are three blocks south,” Umi says. “If we move now, we can be there in five minutes.”

“Then let’s move,” Jesse says, already heading for the fire escape.

Hokuto follows, his mind still processing what just happened. He was seen. He nearly compromised the mission. If Jesse hadn’t been there...

“Hey,” Jesse says softly, pausing to let Hokuto catch up. “You did good in there.”

Hokuto blinks in surprise. “I almost got us caught.”

“But you didn’t panic,” Jesse counters. “You held position, stayed quiet, followed instructions. That’s what matters your first time out.”

Before Hokuto can respond, a shout echoes from inside the warehouse—they’ve found their missing man.

“Time to go,” Jesse says, his voice hardening. “Now.”

They descend the fire escape in rapid succession, metal clanging beneath their feet. Stealth is secondary to speed now—they need distance more than they need silence.

At the bottom, they break into a run, sticking to shadows and side streets as they make their way toward the rendezvous point. Hokuto’s lungs burn and his legs ache, but fear and adrenaline keep him moving.

Three blocks feel like thirty, each step carrying the weight of potential discovery. But finally, they round a corner to find two nondescript sedans waiting, engines running.

“Get in,” Jesse commands, opening the back door of the first car.

Hokuto dives in, Jesse right behind him. Juri and Umi take the second car. Before the doors are even fully closed, both vehicles pull away from the curb, headlights off until they’re several blocks from the warehouse.

In the front seat, Shime glances back at them through the rearview mirror. “Everyone in one piece?”

“More or less,” Jesse replies, finally allowing himself to relax slightly. “Hokuto had his baptism by fire tonight.”

Hokuto leans back against the seat, his heart still racing. The reality of what just happened is beginning to sink in. He was seen. A man was hurt—not by his hand, but because of his mistake. The mission was compromised, even if they ultimately succeeded.

“Hey,” Jesse says, noticing his expression. “Don’t do that. Don’t go down that rabbit hole. We got what we came for, and everyone’s walking away. That’s a win.”

Hokuto nods, not trusting his voice. His hands are trembling now, the delayed shock setting in.

“First time’s always the hardest,” Jesse continues, his voice gentler than Hokuto has ever heard it. “It gets easier.”

“Does it?” Hokuto asks, finally finding his voice. “Or do we just get used to it?”

Jesse studies him for a long moment, something like respect flickering in his eyes. “Both, maybe. But that’s not a bad thing, Hokuto. It means you’re surviving.”

The car moves smoothly through Tokyo’s nighttime streets, putting distance between them and the warehouse with every passing second. Hokuto stares out the window, watching the city blur past—neon signs and streetlights smearing into streaks of color against the darkness.

He thinks about the unconscious Viper, about how easily Jesse took him down, about how close they came to discovery. He thinks about what might have happened if things had gone differently.

“Taiga’s going to be pissed,” he says finally.

Jesse shrugs. “Taiga’s always pissed about something. But we completed the mission. We got the intel, we got evidence of the stolen goods, we identified Adachi. That’s what matters.”

“We were supposed to avoid engagement,” Hokuto reminds him.

“Plans change in the field,” Jesse says simply. “You adapt or you die. Taiga knows that better than anyone.”

The next thing Hokuto knows is that the sedan’s engine cuts off, leaving Hokuto in sudden silence. He sits motionless as his ears adjust, the absence of the rumbling motor making the night seem unnaturally quiet. His pulse still hammers in his throat.

“We walk from here,” Shime announces, glancing at the rearview mirror one last time before killing the headlights.

Hokuto follows Jesse out of the car, his legs stiff from the tension of the ride. The cool night air hits his face, carrying the scent of rain-washed concrete and distant food stalls. Three blocks from headquarters—close enough for safety, far enough to avoid leading anyone back to their door.

The second sedan pulls alongside them, its tires crunching softly on loose gravel. Juri emerges first, face unreadable in the dim light of the parking lot. Umi follows, scanning their surroundings with practiced efficiency.

“Standard procedure,” Jesse murmurs, noticing Hokuto’s questioning look. “Never drive directly to base after an op. Cars get tagged, followed, remembered.”

“We switch missions vehicles every few weeks,” Shime adds, pocketing the keys. “Plates are registered to shell companies Shintaro set up. Harder to trace back to us.”

They move as a unit through back streets. Hokuto finds himself unconsciously mirroring their movements—walking close to buildings, avoiding pools of streetlight, keeping his head slightly down. He’s learning their rhythms, their silent language of survival.

“First time in a shell car?” Juri asks, falling into step beside him.

Hokuto nods. “The Orphans weren’t exactly... strategic.”

“No shit,” Jesse snorts from ahead. “That’s why they’re not around anymore.”

The headquarters comes into view. Juri approaches the entrance first, punching in the keycode with practiced efficiency.

The door clicks open, and he holds it as they file inside.

“Back safe,” Umi calls softly to Katsuki, who sits at the security monitors just inside the entrance.

The door closes behind them with a reassuring thud. Hokuto exhales, only now realizing he’d been holding his breath. The familiar smell of the Warriors’ headquarters—a mix of cooking spices, laundry detergent, and the faint metallic scent of weapons—washes over him.

“Mission debrief in twenty,” Juri announces.

Taiga. The name sends a jolt through Hokuto’s chest. He’ll have to face him, explain how he almost compromised everything. The Viper had seen his face—a rookie mistake that could have cost them all.

“Hey.” Jesse’s hand lands on his shoulder, surprisingly gentle. “First rule after a mission: breathe. You’re home. You made it.”

Home. There’s that word. Hokuto lets it settle in his mind as they move deeper into the building, the outside world and its dangers locked firmly behind them.

The group settles into the living area, the tension in Hokuto’s shoulders still refusing to release. His mind replays the warehouse moment on loop—the sound of his foot scraping concrete, the Viper’s head turning, the flash of recognition in the man’s eyes before Jesse took him down.

“Heads up,” Genta’s voice cuts through Hokuto’s spiraling thoughts.

A cold can of beer appears in front of his face. Hokuto takes it reflexively, the aluminum chilling his fingertips. Genta moves through their small circle, distributing cans to Jesse, Juri, and Umi with practiced efficiency.

“Figured you could use these,” Genta says, popping his own can open with a satisfying hiss. “Housekeeper’s intuition.”

Jesse cracks his beer and takes a long pull. “Fuck, that’s good. Nothing like almost getting caught to work up a thirst.”

Hokuto stares at his unopened can, watching condensation bead along the metal surface. He hasn’t had a drink since joining the Warriors. With the Orphans, alcohol meant vulnerability, meant Ryo’s hands getting rougher, his words cutting deeper.

“You don’t have to,” Juri says quietly, noticing Hokuto’s hesitation.

Hokuto pops the tab, the sharp crack making him flinch slightly. The first sip burns cold down his throat, bitter but somehow cleansing. He takes another.

Footsteps sound on the stairs—deliberate, measured.

Taiga. Hokuto recognizes the cadence immediately, his pulse quickening in response.

The Warlord descends into view, his expression unreadable as always. Dark circles shadow his eyes, but his gaze remains sharp, assessing. He wears the waistcoat over the same black t-shirt from this morning, now slightly rumpled.

“You’re back,” Taiga says, the simple observation carrying the weight of relief. He scans their faces, lingering a moment longer on Hokuto. “Updates?”

Juri straightens, shifting into report mode. “Confirmed the Black Vipers are storing stolen electronics in the Nerima warehouse. Approximately thirty high-end laptops, two dozen smartphones still in original packaging, and several crates of components.” He sets down his camera on the coffee table.

“Security?” Taiga asks.

“Minimal. Three guards rotating shifts, basic alarm system on the main entrance. Side loading dock is vulnerable—lock’s broken but disguised to look functional.” Juri’s voice is measured, clinical. “We’ve documented the layout and blind spots. Shintaro can use it to plan our approach if we decide to move on it.”

Taiga nods, processing. His eyes shift to Hokuto. “How did he do?”

The question sends a spike of anxiety through Hokuto’s chest. Before he can formulate a response, the words tumble out.

“I compromised the mission,” Hokuto admits, setting his beer down. “One of the Vipers saw me. I made noise when I shouldn’t have. Jesse had to intervene.” The confession burns in his throat worse than the alcohol.

“That’s not—” Jesse starts, but Taiga holds up a hand, silencing him.

“Is that what happened?” Taiga asks, his eyes never leaving Hokuto’s face.

Hokuto swallows hard. “Yes. I wasn’t careful enough.”

“Bullshit,” Jesse interrupts, ignoring Taiga’s gesture for silence. “That’s not what happened at all.” He turns to Hokuto. “You think I never fucked up on my first real mission? That any of us didn’t?”

Taiga’s expression remains neutral, but he drops his hand, allowing Jesse to continue.

“Look,” Jesse says, leaning forward. “Hokuto spotted the guard patterns before any of us. He identified the blind spots in their security. When that Viper came around the corner, yeah, he made a sound—but he also stayed calm enough to create a diversion that gave me the opening to take the guy down.”

Hokuto blinks in surprise. That’s not how he remembers it at all.

“He’s right,” Juri adds quietly. “You kept your head. That’s more than most do their first time out.”

“And he didn’t freeze when we had to bail,” Umi chimes in. “Kept pace with us across the rooftops, didn’t hesitate at the jumps.”

Taiga’s eyes narrow slightly, studying Hokuto with renewed interest. “Is that true?”

“I—” Hokuto starts, then stops. Were they in the same warehouse? The same mission? His perception of his own performance seems wildly different from theirs. “I don’t know. It didn’t feel that way.”

“It never does,” Taiga says, something like understanding flickering across his features. “The first time is always a mess in your head.”

Jesse grins, raising his beer. “Hell, my first mission with the Warriors, I tripped an alarm, puked from nerves, and still managed to get the job done.”

“I remember,” Taiga says dryly. “You also punched the wrong person.”

“Details,” Jesse waves dismissively, winking at Hokuto. “Point is, you did good. Better than good.”

Hokuto feels warmth spreading through his chest that has nothing to do with the beer. He looks down, uncomfortable with the praise but secretly savoring it. 

“You’re too hard on yourself,” Juri says, setting his beer down on the coffee table. His voice is quiet but carries a surprising weight. “Everyone here has stories about missions gone sideways.”

Hokuto glances up, finding Juri’s eyes fixed on him with that penetrating gaze that seems to see past surface thoughts.

“First time I went on recon with Myuto,” Juri continues, “I knocked over an entire shelf of inventory. Nearly got us both caught.” A shadow passes over his face at the mention of the former Warlord. “The point isn’t that you never screw up. It’s what you learn from it.”

“Truth,” Umi nods, leaning back against the wall. “Last month I stepped on broken glass during a stakeout. Made enough noise to wake the dead.”

Hokuto turns the beer can in his hands, watching the light play off the aluminum. The cold metal anchors him to the present moment, away from the spiraling self-criticism in his head.

“What did you learn tonight?” Taiga asks, his voice cutting through the others.

The question catches Hokuto off-guard. Not an accusation, but a genuine inquiry. He takes a moment, sorting through the chaotic impressions of the mission.

“Weight distribution matters more than I realized,” Hokuto says slowly. “I was watching my steps but not how I shifted my balance. And...” He pauses, another realization forming. “I need to trust my instincts more. I sensed someone coming but second-guessed myself.”

Taiga nods once, the gesture so slight Hokuto might have missed it if he hadn’t been watching for a reaction.

“Good. Apply that next time.”

Next time. Not if there is a next time.

“I will,” Hokuto says, straightening his shoulders slightly. “I promise I’ll do better.”

“You’ll do different,” Juri corrects. “Better comes with experience.”

Jesse claps his hands together, the sound echoing through the room. “Alright, enough of the after-school special. Genta!” he calls out. “Another round for the victorious Warriors!”

“Coming up!” Genta’s voice rings from the kitchen area.

Taiga accepts a fresh beer from Genta but doesn’t open it immediately. His eyes scan the group, lingering briefly on each face before settling on Jesse and Juri.

“War Room,” he says simply. “We need to discuss next steps with the Vipers intel.”

The words land like stones in still water, rippling through the group. The brief moment of celebration shifts into something more serious. Hokuto feels the change in atmosphere—the reminder that tonight’s mission wasn’t just about his performance but part of something larger.

Jesse drains his beer in one long swallow. “Can’t let a man enjoy his victory beer in peace,” he mutters, but there’s no real complaint in his voice.

Juri is already standing, his movements fluid and deliberate. He gives Hokuto a slight nod—acknowledgment, perhaps respect—before following Taiga toward the stairs. 

🐍

The impact of fist against leather sends a jolt through Hokuto’s arm, pain blooming across his knuckles despite the protection of the workout gloves. He welcomes it. The sharp sting is real, immediate—nothing like the phantom touches that haunt his dreams.

One-two. One-two-three.

Sweat trickles down his spine despite the night breeze. The rooftop is silent except for his labored breathing and the rhythmic thud of his punches against the bag.

Two in the morning, and Tokyo sprawls below him like a circuit board of light and shadow, but Hokuto keeps his focus narrow—just him and the bag swaying on its chain.

His muscles burn. Two weeks of this nightly ritual whenever the nightmares come, and he’s still not used to the exertion.

But that’s the point. Physical exhaustion doesn’t leave room for memories.

One-two. Duck. Uppercut.

The sequence Jesse taught him last week. His form is sloppy—he knows it without needing to see—but at this hour, with no one watching, technique matters less than release.

In his dream tonight, Ryo had been laughing. That particular laugh that always preceded pain, the one that made Hokuto’s stomach clench even before hands touched his body. Even now, fully awake, the echo of it makes him hit harder, faster.

One-two-three. One-two-three.

His breath comes in gasps. A month ago, he couldn’t have imagined this—standing under open sky, moving his body for no one’s pleasure but his own. The Warriors have given him this, among so many other things.

Space. Choice.

The punching bag itself appeared on the roof three days after Jesse caught him shadow-boxing at dawn.

No one mentioned it. No one asked for anything in return.

Hokuto pauses, pressing his forehead against the cool leather of the bag. His heart hammers against his ribs like it’s trying to escape. Maybe it is. Maybe parts of him are still learning they’re free.

“Your left hook needs work.”

Hokuto startles, spinning toward the voice. Taiga stands by the rooftop door, a shadow among shadows. How long has he been watching?

“Sorry,” Hokuto says automatically, then catches himself. Old habits. “I mean—I know it’s late.”

Taiga moves closer, moonlight catching the angles of his face. He’s wearing sweatpants and a tank top, hair loose around his shoulders. He looks younger without his usual intensity, almost vulnerable.

“Can’t sleep?” Taiga asks, though it’s barely a question.

Hokuto nods, using the back of his glove to wipe sweat from his forehead. “Dreams.”

He doesn’t need to elaborate. Since joining the Warriors, he’s learned that nightmares are common currency here. Everyone carries their ghosts.

“Your stance is too wide,” Taiga says, changing the subject with a grace Hokuto appreciates. “Makes you unstable.”

Hokuto looks down at his feet, suddenly aware of how his body is positioned. “Jesse showed me, but I think I forgot some parts.”

“Jesse fights like a tornado. Works for him.” Taiga moves behind the bag, holding it steady. “Try again. Feet closer together.”

It’s not a command but an invitation. Hokuto adjusts his stance, feeling the difference immediately—more balanced, more centered.

“Better,” Taiga says. “Now hit.”

Hokuto throws a punch, connecting with the bag. The impact feels different—cleaner, the force traveling through his arm rather than jarring his shoulder.

“Again.”

He strikes once more, then again. Each hit feels more controlled than the wild, desperate blows from before.

“You’re pulling back too soon,” Taiga observes. “Follow through. Imagine you’re hitting something behind the bag.”

Hokuto tries again, focusing on the extension. His fist connects, and this time he pushes forward, feeling the satisfying resistance.

“Good.” There’s no effusive praise in Taiga’s voice, just simple acknowledgment. Somehow that makes it mean more.

They fall into a rhythm—Hokuto striking, Taiga steadying the bag and occasionally offering corrections. The silence between them is comfortable, punctuated only by the sound of impact and Hokuto’s gradually steadying breath.

“I never thought I’d be doing this,” Hokuto admits after several minutes, pausing to flex his fingers inside the gloves.

“Fighting?”

“Having a choice about it.” Hokuto stares at his gloved hands. “With the Orphans, fighting meant... something else. Survival, not strength.”

Taiga’s eyes narrow slightly. “That’s not fighting. That’s enduring.”

The distinction hits Hokuto harder than any physical blow. Yes—that’s exactly it. For three years, he’d endured. Now he’s learning to fight, not just to withstand pain but to prevent it. To stand his ground.

“I still don’t know if I can actually hurt someone,” Hokuto confesses. “In a real situation.”

“You will if you need to.” Taiga steps away from the bag, crossing his arms. “But the best fighters rarely do. It’s about presence, not violence. Making someone think twice before they touch what’s yours.”

What’s yours. The concept still feels foreign to Hokuto—having things, spaces, boundaries that belong to him. “Is that why you fight?” he asks, curiosity overcoming his usual caution.

Taiga is quiet for so long that Hokuto thinks he won’t answer. When he does, his voice is low, almost private.

“I fight because the alternative is worse.” He turns slightly, gazing out at the city lights. “Standing still means getting buried.”

There’s history in those words, pain Hokuto can sense but not fully understand. He doesn’t press. Instead, he removes his gloves, flexing his reddened knuckles.

“Thank you,” he says simply. “For the help.”

Taiga nods once, still looking outward. “You’re improving. Juri mentioned your observation skills during daytime surveillance have sharpened too.”

Pride warms Hokuto’s chest. “The Lookout training helps. Seeing patterns, reading people—it’s starting to feel natural.”

“Good. We’re sending you with Shintaro tomorrow.” Taiga glances back at him. “Reconnaissance only. No engagement.”

The casual way he delivers this information makes something settle in Hokuto’s chest. Not quite belonging, not yet, but perhaps its precursor. “I’ll be ready,” he promises.

Taiga tilts his head, studying Hokuto with an appraising gaze. “You know, punching bags don’t hit back.”

A nervous flutter ripples through Hokuto’s stomach. “I’m aware of that particular design flaw.”

“Want to try something different?” Taiga rolls his shoulders, a subtle invitation. “Light sparring. Just movement and blocking.”

Hokuto's throat tightens. The thought of raising his hands against another person—against Taiga—sends a cold wave through him. Images flash: Ryo’s face contorted in rage, fists coming at him from all directions, the helpless feeling of being pinned down.

“I don’t think I’m ready for that,” he manages, voice smaller than intended.

Taiga doesn’t push, just shrugs. “Not about being ready. It’s about learning your body’s reactions. You can’t think your way through a fight.”

The words echo Jesse’s earlier lessons. Trust your instincts. Stop overthinking.

“What if I hurt you?” The question slips out before Hokuto can catch it, and he almost laughs at how absurd it sounds. Him, hurting Taiga.

A ghost of a smile touches Taiga’s lips. “I think I’ll survive.”

Hokuto hesitates, then nods once. “Okay. But... go easy.”

“That’s the point.” Taiga moves to the center of the open space, feet shifting into a casual stance. “No gloves. No power. Just movement.”

Hokuto mimics his position, feeling awkward and exposed. His hands tremble slightly as he raises them.

“Breathe,” Taiga reminds him. “I’m going to move toward you slowly. Just block or deflect.”

Taiga steps forward, right arm extending in slow motion toward Hokuto’s shoulder. The movement is deliberate, telegraphed—a teaching motion, not an attack.

Hokuto’s arm comes up automatically, knocking Taiga’s hand aside. The contact is brief, controlled.

“Good. Again.”

They repeat the movement, Taiga gradually increasing the speed. Hokuto’s blocks become smoother, more instinctual. The tight knot in his chest begins to loosen.

“Now you come at me,” Taiga instructs. “Slow punch toward my chest.”

Hokuto extends his arm, feeling strange being the aggressor. Taiga deflects easily, his movement fluid and efficient.

“Again. Faster this time.”

Hokuto complies, putting slightly more intent behind the motion. Taiga sidesteps, using Hokuto’s momentum to guide his arm past.

“You’re still thinking too much,” Taiga observes. “Your eyes give you away. You’re planning each move.”

“How do I stop?” Hokuto asks, frustrated with himself.

“You don’t. It happens when your body learns to react faster than your mind can process.” Taiga resumes his stance. “Let’s continue.”

They fall into a rhythm, trading slow-motion attacks and defenses. Hokuto gradually relaxes into the exercise, finding an unexpected calm in the structured exchange. There’s something almost meditative about it—action and reaction, give and take.

“Now we’ll move a little more freely,” Taiga says after several minutes. “Nothing hard, just flow.”

He begins circling, and Hokuto mirrors him. When Taiga throws a light jab, Hokuto blocks and counters with his own. The movements accelerate slightly, their bodies finding a natural tempo.

Hokuto’s mind quiets, his focus narrowing to the immediate space between them. For the first time, he’s not overthinking, just responding.

Taiga nods slightly, approval in his eyes. “That’s it.”

The encouragement sparks something in Hokuto—a flicker of confidence, unfamiliar but welcome. He feints left, then steps right, a move Jesse showed him last week.

Taiga reads it easily but gives an appreciative nod. “Good. Keep going.”

They continue circling, exchanging light strikes and blocks. Hokuto’s breathing steadies, his movements becoming more assured. This doesn’t feel like fighting—it’s more like a conversation, bodies communicating in a language he’s just beginning to learn.

Then it happens. Hokuto steps forward, intending a simple front kick toward Taiga’s midsection—a move practiced dozens of times with Jesse. But his foot slips slightly on the concrete, altering his trajectory. Instead of the controlled tap he intended, his shin connects solidly with Taiga’s ribs.

The impact is harder than anything they’ve done so far. Taiga grunts, taking a half-step back.

Horror floods Hokuto’s system. He drops his hands immediately, stepping back. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—”

Taiga waves off the apology, but his hand moves to his side. “It’s fine. Good connection.”

“Let me see,” Hokuto insists, guilt churning in his stomach. “Please.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Taiga lifts the edge of his tank top. A red mark is already forming along his ribs, promising to darken into a bruise.

“I’m so sorry,” Hokuto repeats, mortified. “We should put ice on that.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. It’s going to bruise. We should get you downstairs.”

Taiga looks like he might argue, then relents with a small nod. “Fine.”

They cross to the door, Taiga moving with barely perceptible stiffness. Hokuto punches in the code, double-checking that the door locks behind them as they descend the stairs.

The headquarters is quiet, most Warriors asleep. The night patrol must be making rounds outside—the main floor is deserted.

Hokuto leads the way to the kitchen, hyperaware of Taiga following behind him. “Sit,” he instructs, gesturing to a stool by the counter.

To his surprise, Taiga complies without argument.

Hokuto moves to the cabinet where the first aid supplies are kept, gathering ice pack, arnica gel, and a clean towel. He wraps the ice pack in the towel, turning back to Taiga. “Can you lift your shirt again?”

Taiga pulls the fabric up, revealing the mark that’s now darkening against his pale skin. Hokuto tries to maintain clinical detachment, but it’s difficult. This is Taiga—his leader, his protector. And Hokuto hurt him.

“It’s just a bruise,” Taiga says, reading his expression. “I’ve had worse from Jesse before breakfast.”

Hokuto doesn’t smile, carefully placing the wrapped ice against Taiga’s ribs. “Hold this here for fifteen minutes. Then we’ll apply the arnica.”

Taiga takes the ice pack, his fingers brushing against Hokuto’s. “You know, most people would be celebrating landing a hit on me.”

“I’m not most people,” Hokuto responds quietly, turning away to clean up the supplies. “And I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

“I’ll make some tea,” Hokuto says, needing something to do with his hands besides wringing them in guilt. The simple task might calm his racing thoughts—how quickly a moment of progress had turned into this. “It’ll help with the... everything.”

He fills the electric kettle, the rushing water drowning out his jumbled thoughts. Every few seconds, his eyes dart back to Taiga, who sits with the ice pack pressed against his ribs, expression unreadable. The kitchen feels smaller somehow with just the two of them, the silence broken only by the soft hum of the refrigerator and the gentle ticking of the kettle heating up.

“Could you grab something from the fridge for me?” Taiga asks, his voice cutting through Hokuto’s spiral of self-recrimination.

“Of course. What do you need?” Hokuto responds immediately, grateful for direction.

“Pack of cherry tomatoes. Top shelf.”

Hokuto blinks, momentarily thrown by the request. But he moves to the refrigerator without question, pulling open the door and scanning the contents. The bright red package sits exactly where Taiga said it would be.

He retrieves the container, fighting the instinctive curl of his lip. Tomatoes—especially the small, burst-in-your-mouth cherry variety—have always repulsed him. Something about the slick seeds and the way they pop between teeth sends an unpleasant shiver down his spine.

“Here,” he says, placing the package on the counter within Taiga’s reach.

Taiga sets the ice pack down briefly, pops open the container with one hand, and plucks out a tomato. He pops it into his mouth with the casual ease of someone enjoying a favorite snack.

Hokuto turns back to the tea preparation, pulling two mugs from the cabinet. Behind him, he hears the distinct sound of another tomato being eaten, then another. Each little crunch makes his shoulders tighten imperceptibly.

“You want one?” Taiga asks.

“No, thank you.” Hokuto keeps his voice neutral, focusing intently on measuring tea leaves into the strainer.

Another tomato disappears with a soft crunch. “You sure? They’re good.”

“I’m sure,” Hokuto says, perhaps a bit too quickly.

When he turns around with the steeping tea, Taiga is watching him with narrowed eyes, the ice pack balanced against his side, a half-eaten tomato between his fingers.

“You don’t like tomatoes,” Taiga states, not a question.

Heat rises to Hokuto’s cheeks. “Is it that obvious?”

“You look at them like they personally offended you.” Taiga pops the rest of the tomato into his mouth, maintaining eye contact as he chews. “Your nose wrinkles every time I eat one.”

Hokuto sets the mug of tea in front of Taiga, embarrassed to be so transparent. “Sorry. I didn’t realize I was making faces.”

“Don’t apologize for disliking something.” Taiga reaches for another tomato. “More for me.”

“They’re just so...” Hokuto searches for the right word, “slimy. On the inside. With all those seeds.”

Taiga raises an eyebrow, and then something unexpected happens. The corner of his mouth twitches upward, and a soft sound escapes—not quite a laugh, but its quieter cousin. It transforms his face, softening the sharp edges and making him look his actual age rather than years older.

Hokuto stares, momentarily forgetting about his tomato aversion. He’s never seen Taiga laugh before—not even this subtle version of it.

The sound seems to surprise Taiga himself, who quickly schools his features back to neutrality, though that hint of amusement lingers in his eyes.

“Slimy,” Taiga repeats, as if testing the word. “That’s exactly why I like them. The contrast between the firm outside and what’s inside.” He holds up another tomato, examining it before adding, “Plus, they explode.”

“That’s precisely what I hate,” Hokuto admits, settling onto a stool across from Taiga, cradling his own mug of tea. “The explosion. It’s... unpredictable.”

“Unpredictable,” Taiga echoes, rolling the word like he’s tasting it. “You’ve had enough unpredictable in your life.”

The observation lands with quiet precision. Hokuto stares into his tea, watching ripples form as his hand trembles slightly.

He sees right through me. The thought is both terrifying and oddly comforting.

“I like knowing what’s coming,” Hokuto admits. “Even if it’s bad, at least then I can prepare.”

Taiga studies him, those dark eyes missing nothing. “And the Warriors? Too unpredictable for you?”

“Sometimes.” The honesty slips out before Hokuto can filter it. “But in a different way. With the Orphans, I knew exactly what they wanted from me. Here...” He trails off, uncertain how to articulate the disorienting freedom of the past weeks.

“Here no one tells you what to be,” Taiga finishes for him, shifting the ice pack slightly against his ribs.

Hokuto nods, grateful for the understanding. “It’s like learning to walk again. I keep waiting for someone to give me orders, to tell me my purpose. But everyone just asks what I want instead.”

“And what do you want, Hokuto?”

The question hangs between them. Hokuto’s fingers tighten around his mug. What does he want? After three years of suppressing every personal desire, the question feels almost dangerous.

“I don’t know yet,” he confesses. “But I think I’m starting to figure it out.”

Taiga nods, accepting the incomplete answer. He sets down the ice pack, checking the bruise with clinical detachment. The mark has darkened, a stark contrast against his skin.

“Let me,” Hokuto says, reaching for the arnica gel. “This will help with the swelling.”

Taiga doesn’t object, lifting his shirt higher to expose the injury fully.

Hokuto uncaps the tube, squeezing a small amount onto his fingertips. He hesitates briefly before touching Taiga’s skin, hyperaware of crossing some invisible boundary.

“It’s cold,” he warns, then gently applies the gel.

Taiga remains perfectly still, watching Hokuto’s face rather than his hands. The scrutiny makes Hokuto’s cheeks warm, but he focuses on the task, keeping his touch clinical and efficient.

“You’re good at this,” Taiga observes. “The caretaking.”

“Noel taught me a bit.” Hokuto spreads the gel in careful circles. “And I picked things up when I worked part-time in a clinic before Tokyo.”

“Why’d you leave?”

The question catches Hokuto off-guard. He’s been with the Warriors for weeks now, but no one has asked about his life before the Orphans. It’s as if they’ve all tacitly agreed to let the past remain buried.

“I wanted more,” he says finally. “Shizuoka felt too small. I thought Tokyo would have opportunities—writing, something creative.” He gives a small, self-deprecating smile. “I was naïve.”

“We all start somewhere.” Taiga’s voice holds no judgment. “The mistake isn’t coming to Tokyo with dreams. It’s thinking the city owes you anything.”

Hokuto finishes applying the gel, wiping his fingers on a paper towel. “I learned that lesson pretty quickly.”

The understated truth of it hangs between them. How quickly Hokuto’s dreams had collapsed—the promised job that didn’t exist, the apartment he couldn’t afford, the desperation that led him to Ryo and the Orphans. All within weeks of arriving in the city.

“There,” Hokuto says, capping the tube. “You should reapply it in the morning.”

Taiga lowers his shirt, nodding thanks. He reaches for his tea, taking a slow sip. “You still write?”

The question surprises Hokuto again. “How did you know I—”

“You mentioned it. Just now.” Taiga’s gaze is steady. “Creative opportunities. Writing.”

“Oh.” Hokuto feels his face heat again. “I keep a journal. Nothing serious. Just thoughts, sometimes poems.”

He doesn’t mention that writing has been his lifeline, the one thing the Orphans couldn’t take from him. How he’d hide scraps of paper, jotting down lines during stolen moments alone, then destroying the evidence before anyone could find it.

“You should keep doing it,” Taiga says simply. “If it matters to you.”

Something about the way he says it—not as encouragement or empty praise, but as a statement of fact—makes Hokuto’s chest tighten. As if Taiga is acknowledging his right to create, to express, to exist beyond mere survival.

“I’m trying,” Hokuto admits. “It’s hard to find the words sometimes. For three years, I had to be careful with every thought, every expression.” He stares into his tea. “It becomes a habit, hiding yourself.”

Taiga is quiet for a moment, contemplative. “The Warriors aren’t the Orphans. You don’t need to hide here.”

“I know. Logically, I know that.” Hokuto traces the rim of his mug. “But my body doesn’t always believe it. Like tonight, with the sparring—I froze up because part of me is still waiting for the punishment.”

“There’s no punishment for defending yourself,” Taiga says, voice low but firm. “Or for accidentally landing a hit during practice.”

Hokuto looks up, meeting Taiga’s gaze directly. “Even when it’s on the Warlord?”

That ghost of a smile returns to Taiga’s lips. “Especially when it’s on the Warlord. Keeps me honest.”

The tension in Hokuto’s shoulders eases slightly. He takes a sip of tea, letting the warmth spread through him. Outside, rain begins to patter against the windows, soft and rhythmic.

“You know,” Taiga says after a comfortable silence, “you didn’t apologize for hitting me because I’m the Warlord.”

Hokuto tilts his head, questioning.

“You apologized because you thought you hurt me,” Taiga continues. “There’s a difference. Most people here fear the position more than they care about the person in it.”

The observation strikes Hokuto as profoundly sad. Is that what leadership means to Taiga? Respect built on fear rather than connection?

“I don’t fear the position,” Hokuto says carefully. “I respect what you do with it.”

Taiga’s expression shifts, something unreadable flickering across his features. He reaches for another tomato, popping it into his mouth rather than responding. The small crunch makes Hokuto wince involuntarily.

“Still gross?” Taiga asks, the lightness in his tone a deliberate shift.

“Deeply disturbing,” Hokuto confirms, grateful for the change in subject. “I don’t understand how anyone enjoys them.”

“What food do you like, then?” Taiga asks, closing the tomato container.

The question is so normal, so everyday, that it momentarily throws Hokuto. When was the last time anyone asked about his preferences? With the Orphans, he ate whatever was given to him, grateful for anything.

“I like sweet things,” he admits. “Mochi, especially. And katsudon—my grandmother used to make it on special occasions.”

“The cafes in Shimokitazawa,” Taiga says. “You knew them all. Were there for the pastries?”

Hokuto nods, surprised Taiga remembered that detail from their earlier conversations. “I’d save whatever money I could and buy something small. Just to taste something good, something I chose.”

He doesn’t add that those stolen moments in cafés were sometimes the only bright spots in weeks of darkness. How he’d savor each bite, making it last, storing the memory of sweetness to recall later when things got bad.

“Next time we’re in Shimokitazawa,” Taiga says, “you should show me which one’s best.”

The casual invitation catches Hokuto off-guard. Is Taiga suggesting they go together, just the two of them? Not for Warriors business but for... what? Pleasure?

Something shifts in Taiga’s eyes—a flicker of realization, maybe even alarm at his own suggestion. He straightens slightly on his stool, wincing almost imperceptibly as the movement pulls at his bruised ribs.

“For work,” Taiga clarifies, his tone returning to its usual pragmatism. “We’ll need to check in with the businesses there regularly. And sometimes the Warriors want something sweet after patrols.”

The explanation lands like a gentle correction. Of course it’s for work. What was Hokuto thinking? That the Warlord of the Warriors wanted to share mochi with him for the simple pleasure of his company?

Heat creeps up Hokuto’s neck. He stares into his tea, watching ripples form as his hands tremble slightly. The momentary fantasy—sitting across from Taiga in a sunlit café, nothing between them but conversation and sweet pastries—dissolves like sugar in hot water.

“Still,” Taiga adds, his voice softer than before, “you know the area. It makes sense for you to guide me.”

Hokuto looks up, finding Taiga’s gaze steady on him. There’s something in his expression that Hokuto can’t quite decipher—not quite regret for the clarification, but not entirely comfortable with it either.

“I’ll take you up on that,” Hokuto says, surprising himself with his boldness. “There’s a place near the station that makes daifuku with seasonal fruit. The owner used to slip me an extra when Ryo wasn’t looking.”

Taiga nods, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “I’d like to try it.”

A flutter stirs in Hokuto’s chest—not hope exactly, but something adjacent to it. Something fragile that he dares not examine too closely. It’s been so long since he’s felt anything beyond fear or resignation that he hardly recognizes the sensation.

The rain intensifies outside, drumming against the windows. In the dim kitchen, with steam rising from their mugs and the soft hum of the refrigerator creating a cocoon of white noise, Hokuto allows himself to exist in this moment.

Bruised ribs, tomato aversion, and all.

🐍

“Six o’clock. Blue jacket. Third time he’s circled the block.”

Hokuto keeps his voice low, lips barely moving as he pretends to read his book. The café’s outdoor seating provides the perfect vantage point—casual enough that no one questions his presence, positioned perfectly to observe the warehouse across the street.

“Got him,” Shintaro murmurs into his coffee cup, not looking up from his laptop. His fingers tap rapidly against the keyboard, the clicking blending with the ambient café noise. “Rinne?”

The radio in Hokuto’s ear crackles. “Following at twenty meters. Definitely not delivery. Wrong shoes.”

Hokuto turns a page he hasn’t read, eyes tracking Blue Jacket’s movements while appearing absorbed in his book. The man pauses at the corner, checking his phone before slipping into the alley beside the warehouse.

The morning sun beats down mercilessly, making Hokuto’s shirt stick to his back. August heat shimmers off the pavement, distorting the air above it. He shifts in his chair, adjusting his position to keep his sightline clear while maintaining his cover.

Don ’ t think about last night. Focus on now.

But fragments of his kitchen conversation with Taiga keep surfacing—the half-smile when Hokuto landed that kick, the casual invitation to visit cafés in Shimokitazawa, the way Taiga’s eyes had held his across steaming mugs of tea. That flutter in his chest returns, unbidden and unwelcome.

Stop it. This isn ’ t the time.

“He’s meeting someone,” Hokuto says, forcing his attention back to the mission. “Black SUV just pulled up behind the warehouse.”

Shintaro’s eyes flick up briefly before returning to his screen. “License plate?”

“Partially obscured. Mud or tape covering the last digits.”

“Deliberate,” Shintaro mutters. “Rinne, can you get closer?”

“Negative. Guard at the back door now. Big guy, looks armed.”

Hokuto watches as three men exit the SUV, their movements efficient and practiced. The tallest one—salt-and-pepper hair, expensive watch catching the sunlight—scans the area with the alertness of someone accustomed to looking for threats.

“The leader,” Hokuto says quietly. “He’s searching for surveillance. Don’t look directly at him.”

Shintaro slouches further behind his laptop, the picture of a bored student working on assignments. “Description?”

“Mid-fifties. Gray suit, no tie. Yakuza-adjacent, not core family. The watch is Rolex but last season’s model. New money trying to look established.”

Shintaro’s eyebrows rise slightly. “That’s... detailed.”

Hokuto shrugs, turning another unread page.

The men disappear into the warehouse, Blue Jacket holding the door with deference. Hokuto counts thirty seconds in his head before speaking again.

“Rinne, can you circle around? I need to see if there are other exits being watched.”

“On it.”

Hokuto sips his now-lukewarm coffee, conscious of how long they’ve been at the table. Any longer and they’ll draw attention from the café staff. He signals to Shintaro with a slight nod toward his empty cup.

“I’ll get refills,” Shintaro says, stretching as he stands. “Same as before?”

“Thanks.”

While Shintaro orders inside, Hokuto allows his gaze to drift naturally across the street, cataloging details. Two more guards have appeared at the front entrance, casually positioned but obviously watching the street. A delivery truck pulls up, and Hokuto notes how the guards tense, hands moving subtly toward concealed weapons before relaxing when they recognize the driver.

His earpiece crackles again. “Four men at the loading dock. They’re bringing in crates. Small, high-value items from the way they’re handling them. Electronics, maybe.”

“Like the Vipers’ warehouse,” Hokuto murmurs.

“Different players, same game,” Rinne responds. “Wait—someone’s coming out. Looks important.”

Shintaro returns with fresh coffee, sliding back into his seat with practiced nonchalance. “Update?”

“VIP exit,” Hokuto says, accepting his cup. “Rinne’s got eyes on—”

“Holy shit,” Rinne’s voice cuts in, tight with urgency. “Hokuto, the guy leaving—gray hair, suit—he just got handed an envelope. I heard a name.”

Hokuto feels his pulse quicken. “What name?”

“Yasui. They called him Yasui.”

The coffee cup freezes halfway to Hokuto’s lips. The name means nothing to him, but Shintaro’s reaction is immediate—his fingers stop mid-keystroke, his face draining of color so rapidly that Hokuto worries he might faint.

“Yasui?” Shintaro repeats, voice barely audible. “You’re sure?”

“Positive,” Rinne confirms. “They bowed deep. ‘Yasui-san, everything is arranged as requested.’ Then they handed over the envelope.”

Shintaro snaps his laptop closed, movements suddenly urgent. “We need to leave. Now.”

“What’s wrong?” Hokuto asks, already gathering his things, responding to the alarm in Shintaro’s voice.

“We need to tell Taiga,” Shintaro says, eyes darting to the warehouse and back. “Immediately.”

“Who’s Yasui?” Hokuto presses as they stand to leave.

Shintaro’s expression is grim, a stark contrast to his usually animated features. “The man who killed Myuto.”