The knock was insistent, but it was the voice that followed—young, nervous—that had Vel stirring. Not Riot's teasing cadence, but Pip, one of the newer kids, barely sixteen.
"V-Vel? Sir? It's, um, it's time. Mikaze said to wake you."
Vel was already pushing himself up, the sheets pooling around his waist. The movement pulled at the sore muscles in his back, a dull ache beneath the sprawling, mysterious tattoo on his dark skin. He cleared his throat, making his voice softer than its usual gravel.
"I'm up, Pip. You can come in."
The door creaked open slowly, and Pip's wide eyes peered in. He held a steaming mug in both hands, careful not to spill. "I brought you coffee. Mikaze said you'd need it. And… um. Congratulations? For today."
Vel's stern expression softened at the edges. He took the mug, his fingers brushing Pip's. The kid had a faint bruise on his jawline, a souvenir from a scrap last week. Vel's gaze lingered on it for a half-second too long, a silent promise of retribution for whoever had put it there.
"Thanks, kid," he said, his voice low. "You eaten yet?"
Pip nodded quickly. "Yeah. Rez made breakfast for everyone."
"Good." Vel took a sip of the coffee. It was perfect. They knew how he took it. This small, daily act of care was the bedrock of the SXV. He looked at Pip, really looked at him. "You holding up alright? That jaw still giving you trouble?"
Pip's shoulders straightened, a flush of pride at the leader's attention. "Nah. It's nothing. Really."
Vel gave a slow, single nod of approval. "You're tough. Now, go tell the chaos committee I'll be out in a minute."
Pip grinned, the nervousness gone, and ducked out
----------------------------------
The water was scalding, a liquid hammer pounding the night's violence from his muscles. Under the roar of the spray, Vel's mind was clear, fixed on a single, burning point: the diploma. It wasn't a piece of paper; it was a weapon. A legitimate one. With it, he could apply for the business licenses, create a real front that wasn't just a shell. A garage, a logistics company—something that would give his crew real paychecks, real social security numbers, a foundation that wasn't just crumbling concrete and stolen electricity. He saw a future where Pip learned to code instead of throw a punch, where Lira had a real bedroom. The water washed over him, sluicing away the grime of the casino, and for a moment, the path ahead seemed clean, sharp with purpose.
Then, a prickle, like static, traced the intricate lines of the tattoo spanning his dark skin. A sudden, deep warmth flared, unrelated to the water.
He stilled, hands braced against the tile. He turned his head, looking over his shoulder through the steam.
There. For a single, impossible heartbeat, the silvery ink glowed, a faint, pulsing deep purple that lit the thorns and obscured faces from within. It vanished instantly.
The headache was an ice-pick to his brain. Sharp, blinding, it drove him to his knees, a gasp ripped from his lungs. The roar of the water became a cacophony of distorted screams and shattering metal. A feeling of profound, gut-wrenching loss swallowed him whole.
Then, it was over.
The pain receded, leaving a dull throb behind his eyes. The water was just water. The tattoo was just ink. But the vision of a stable future now felt fragile, threatened by the ghost on his skin that was beginning to wake up.
---
An hour later, he was in the back of their beat-up sedan, the stiff graduation gown feeling like a costume over his clothes. Riot was at the wheel, humming tunelessly as he wove through traffic with reckless, fluid grace.
"Relax, Boss-man," Riot said, catching Vel's tense expression in the rearview. "We get you there in one piece. Promise. Mostly."
In the passenger seat, Ace half-turned, his gaze sharp. "You good, Vel? You look like you saw a ghost."
"He just showered with the weight of our future, Ace. It's heavy," Mikaze said from beside Vel, his voice low. He was meticulously adjusting his own tie, the designated diplomat for this foray into the straight world.
"I'm fine," Vel grunted, the lie effortless. The dull ache in his skull persisted, a secret counterpoint to the ceremony ahead.
They pulled up to the imposing school gates, a world away from their warehouse. Students in identical blue gowns milled about, flanked by proud, nervous parents.
"Look at this. So... orderly," Ace muttered, his nose wrinkling as if smelling something foul.
"Remember the plan," Mikaze said, turning to Vel. "We blend in. We are proud, quiet graduates. We get the diploma. We leave."
"Bor-ing," Riot sang from the driver's seat. "But I'll be right here, engine running. You never know."
Vel nodded, his eyes scanning the crowd. He saw the possibilities again—the legitimate future, the lifted standard of living for every single kid back in the lair. He pushed the memory of the glowing tattoo and the headache deep down. This was for them.
As he, Mikaze, and Ace moved through the crowd, they formed an island of sharp edges in a sea of soft celebration. Ace glared at anyone who looked too long. Mikaze offered polite, tight-lipped smiles. And Vel walked with a stillness that commanded a different kind of space, his gaze missing nothing.
They found their seats in the vast auditorium. The principal's voice droned on about potential and bright futures. Vel tuned it out. His future was already written in the scars on his knuckles and the loyalty of his people. This was just a formality. A necessary step to steal a piece of their world and use it to fortify his own.
When his name was called, "Velasquez Reyes," he walked across the stage with a predator's grace that seemed to suck the sound from the room. He accepted the leather-bound folder from a beaming administrator who didn't see the war in his eyes. Their hands brushed; hers were soft. His were calloused, the knuckles bruised.
He didn't smile. He simply took it, his grip firm. As he turned to face the flash of cameras, he didn't see the crowd. He saw Pip's eager face, Lira's hopeful smile, Rez's nod of approval.
He had the key. Now, it was time to unlock the door and burn the house down.
The air in the rented hall was thick with the smell of cheap punch, sweat, and the giddy exhaustion of finished chapters. The SXV crew formed a watchful, slightly out-of-place nucleus in the corner. Their celebration was a low-frequency hum of shared looks and subtle nods, a stark contrast to the shrieking laughter and chaotic dancing around them. Vel had the diploma tucked securely under his arm, the leather folder feeling like a stolen slab of another life.
"Alright, that's enough 'blending' for one lifetime," Ace muttered, cracking his neck. "My face hurts from not scowling."
"Agreed," Mikaze said, his eyes already scanning the most efficient path to the exit. "We've been seen. The objective is complete. Time to exfiltrate."
Riot, who had somehow procured a cup of punch, grinned. "I dunno, I'm kinda enjoying the ambiance. It's like a zoo, but with worse music."
Vel gave a single, sharp nod. "Let's go." The word was a release. The crew moved as one, a school of piranhas gliding through a sea of guppies, heading for the double doors and the freedom of the night.
They were steps from the exit, the cool night air already washing over them, when a voice, bright and slightly breathless, cut through the din.
"Vel? Vel, wait!"
The entire crew froze. It wasn't a threat, not in the way they understood threats. But it was an unknown variable. Hands subtly drifted toward pockets, eyes narrowed. They turned as a unit.
And there she was. Daisy Brown. Her name came to him from a fog of school registers and group projects she'd always tried to make actual collaborations. She stood framed in the hallway light, her cheerful yellow dress a splash of sun in the dimness. Her face was flushed, her smile genuine and unguarded.
She took a hesitant step forward, her eyes on the diploma under his arm. "I just... I didn't get a chance to say congratulations. That was a really brave speech you gave in Econ last semester. I always thought..." She trailed off, finally seeming to notice the wall of silent, intense young men flanking him. Her smile wavered slightly.
Ace's expression was a thundercloud of impatience. Mikaze's was one of quiet alarm. Riot just looked fascinated.
Vel felt the shift happen inside him, the gears grinding as he switched from the leader of the SXV back to Velasquez Reyes, graduate. The dull throb in his skull, a remnant of the shower's mystery, pulsed once. He could feel the weight of the crew's stares, their silent question: How do we handle this?
He took a small, deliberate step forward, placing himself slightly between Daisy and his brothers. It was a subtle gesture, but one his crew would understand: Stand down. This is mine.
"Thanks, Daisy," he said, his voice quieter than usual, sanded of its usual edge. He didn't smile, but the harsh lines of his face softened a fraction.
"I just thought maybe..." she continued, gathering courage, "you know, we could all... hang out sometime? Now that school's over?" Her gesture vaguely encompassed the intimidating figures behind him.
For a fleeting second, Vel saw the world through her eyes: a normal future, with normal friends, and normal hangouts. A world where his biggest concern wasn't territorial disputes or a glowing tattoo. It was a world as alien to him as his was to her.
He saw Mikaze tense, already calculating the security risk. He felt Ace's disbelief radiating like heat.
Vel's gaze held Daisy's for a moment longer. He saw the hopeful, naive kindness there. A part of him, a part he kept buried deep, recognized it as something precious and fragile.
"I'm pretty busy," he said, the words final but not unkind. "But thanks. For asking."
He gave her a slow, single nod, a gesture of respect and closure. Then he turned, the moment broken. The crew fell in behind him instantly, their formation tighter than before, swallowing him back into their fold.
As they pushed through the doors into the liberating darkness, the last thing Vel heard was Riot's low whisper, "Boss, you're a heartbreaker."
But Vel wasn't thinking about Daisy. He was thinking about the two worlds that had just collided, and the impossible chasm between them. He had his diploma. He had his war. And the glimpse of that other, simpler life only solidified his resolve. That world wasn't for him. His was right here, in the shadows, with his people. Everything else was just noise.
The car door slammed shut, sealing them in a bubble of familiar scents—old leather, engine grease, and the faint, metallic tang of the city. Riot pulled away from the curb, the school and the brief, bewildering encounter with Daisy Brown shrinking rapidly in the rearview mirror.
Silence settled in the car, thick and heavy. Vel stared out the window, watching the orderly streetlights blur into streaks. Behind his eyes, the memory flickered—the searing purple glow, the ice-pick headache, the cacophony of screams. It felt like a warning from a part of himself he'd long ago bricked up.
Futile, he thought, the word a solid, final thing in his mind. He wouldn't let phantom pains cloud his focus. Not today.
He made a conscious decision, like flipping a switch. He pushed the vision down, deep into the same dark corner where he kept his fear.
"Right," Vel said, his voice cutting through the quiet. He turned from the window. "Enough of that. It's done."
Ace grinned. "Damn right it's done. Time to celebrate for real."
As Riot parked the car by the warehouse, Vel noticed something unusual. The usual raucous noise from inside was absent. No thumping bass, no shouting. Just a strange, waiting silence.
"Everything quiet?" Vel asked, his instincts, ever on alert, pricking up.
Mikaze's face was unreadable. "They're probably just... waiting."
Exchanging a glance with Ace, Vel pushed the heavy metal door open.
The main space of the lair was dark, save for a single, flickering light in the center. The entire crew—all twenty of them—were gathered in a wide, silent circle. For a heart-stopping second, Vel thought something was wrong.
Then, as one, they erupted.
"CONGRATULATIONS, BOSS!"
The lights snapped on, revealing a scene that stole the breath from Vel's lungs. In the center of the circle, on a rickety table usually littered with engine parts, sat a cake. It was wildly lopsided, frosted in a chaotic mess of blue and white, their SXV symbol clumsily iced on top in shaky black lines. It was clearly homemade, clearly a mess, and clearly the most magnificent thing he had ever seen.
Pip stood beaming next to it, covered in what looked like powdered sugar. Lira bounced on her heels, unable to contain her excitement.
"You... you made this?" Vel asked, his voice uncharacteristically soft, the carefully constructed walls around his heart cracking.
"Surprise!" Lira shouted, darting forward to grab his hand and pull him toward the cake. "We saved all the good sprinkles for the top! Mikaze said we couldn't use the emergency fund for a real one, so we made it ourselves!"
Ace let out a roaring laugh, clapping Vel on the back so hard he stumbled a step. "Look at that! It's got character!"
Mikaze smiled, a real, warm, uncalculated smile. "We thought the diploma deserved a proper tribute from its real shareholders."
Vel looked at the lopsided cake, at the expectant, proud faces of his crew—his family. The last chill of the strange vision vanished, burned away by the sheer, overwhelming warmth of the moment. The past and its ghosts could wait. The future and its wars would come.
But tonight, he was home. He was celebrated. He was loved.
"Forget the diploma," Vel said, his voice thick with an emotion he rarely showed. He put a hand on Pip's shoulder and looked at every single face in the room. "This is the prize."
He was handed a knife. As he cut the first slice into the lopsided masterpiece, a cheer went up that shook the very foundations of the warehouse, a sound of pure, triumphant joy that no corporate casino or forgotten memory could ever touch.
The lopsided cake was half-devoured, the air sweet with frosting and the easy comfort of shared history. They were sprawled across couches and floor mats, a tangled, relaxed heap of limbs and laughter. The formal tension of the graduation had completely melted away.
"Remember," Riot chuckled, pointing a finger at Vel, "that time in Mr. Hendrick's chemistry class? When you were supposed to be identifying unknown substances and you just stood up, declared the whole system 'flawed,' and walked out?"
Ace nearly snorted out his drink. "He didn't just walk out! He took the Bunsen burner with him. Said we needed a 'better heat source' for the lair."
"It was efficient," Vel said, a rare, relaxed smirk on his face. "And Hendrick's curriculum was flawed."
"That's how you got me," a quieter voice piped up. It was Pip, looking down at his plate with a shy smile. "I was that scrawny kid getting shoved into lockers outside that same classroom. You walked out, saw it, and just… shoved the guy back. Then you looked at me and said, 'This place is a circus. You wanna see a real show?'"
Mikaze nodded, a fond look in his eyes. "And then he proceeded to recruit every misfit, every kid the system had thrown away or forgotten. One by one. Not by asking, but by seeing them."
"He saw me trying to hotwire a generator behind the gym," Rez added, his tone dry but amused. "Instead of turning me in, he asked if I could bypass a biometric scanner."
The stories wove together, a tapestry of rebellion and found family. They weren't just stories of trouble; they were origin stories. How a lonely, fierce boy named Velasquez Reyes became the leader 'Vel,' and how a collection of outcasts became the SXV.
It was in the middle of this warm, noisy reminiscing that Lira, who had been listening with wide, admiring eyes, scrambled to her feet. She climbed onto the crate that had held the cake, putting herself just above everyone else.
"Everyone, shush!" she commanded, clapping her hands together. The room quieted, all eyes turning to her. She pointed a small, decisive finger at Vel. "Vel. You got a diploma today. And we got you a cake. But you didn't give a speech at the school. So you have to give one now. For us."
A chorus of enthusiastic agreement rose from the crew. "Yeah, Boss! Speech! Speech!"
Vel, who had been leaning back against a couch, sighed. The relaxed smirk was gone, replaced by a more familiar, serious expression. But the warmth in his eyes remained. Ace nudged him hard with his elbow. "Come on, man. Don't leave the people hanging."
Pushed to his feet, Vel stood in the center of the circle. He looked around the room, at every single face—the fierce, the clever, the brave, the broken, all now whole in this space they had built together. The silence that fell was respectful, expectant.
He cleared his throat, his voice low and steady, but carrying to every corner of the room.
"They gave a lot of speeches today," he began. "About potential. About the future." He paused, his gaze sweeping over them. "They were talking about a future that doesn't include people like us....".
The roar of affirmation was still hanging in the air, the power of Vel's words still ringing in their ears, when the world outside exploded.
It wasn't a knock. It was a concussive BOOM that slammed against the warehouse's corrugated metal walls, making the entire structure shudder. The few remaining glasses on a nearby table rattled and fell, shattering on the concrete. The joyous roar in the room was cut off as if guillotined, replaced by a deafening, ringing silence.
Vel froze, his fist still over his heart, his head cocked. Every instinct in his body went from warm to wire-taut in a nanosecond. The celebratory light in his eyes was snuffed out, replaced by the cold, assessing glare of a commander under siege.
"Contact!" Rez barked, already moving toward a stack of crates that housed their monitoring equipment.
The crew didn't panic. They moved. The family from moments ago became a militia in a heartbeat. Ace was at Vel's side in an instant, his earlier laughter replaced by a feral snarl. Mikaze's face paled, but his mind was already racing, calculating exits and threats.
"What was that?" Lira whispered, her small voice trembling.
Vel didn't answer. He strode to the large, grimy window that overlooked the access road, carefully peeling back a corner of the cardboard patch covering a crack. Ace and Mikaze flanked him, peering through other gaps.
The sight that met them was one that shouldn't have been possible.
The narrow, potholed street was flooded with people. But it wasn't a random crowd. On one side, clad in their signature ash-grey jackets and wielding tire irons and chains, was the Grey Fog. On the other, in their oil-stained denim and motorcycle leathers, were the Wrecking Crew. Dozens of them. A small army.
Rival gangs. Sworn enemies. Now standing shoulder-to-shoulder, their collective attention fixed on the SXV's hideout. The source of the boom was clear: a dumpster had been overturned and set ablaze, its orange flames casting dancing, monstrous shadows on their grim faces.
"How...?" Mikaze breathed, his voice tight with disbelief. "They'd never work together. It's impossible."
"Nothing's impossible if the price is right," Vel said, his voice dangerously low. The heat of his speech had turned to ice in his veins. His mind, moments ago filled with visions of a legitimate future, was now a war room map. "Titan."
The single word explained everything. The corporate giant they'd humiliated had just made their first move. They hadn't sent their own security; they'd bought out the neighborhood, turning the two forces that kept the SXV in check into a single, unified hammer.
A figure stepped forward from the combined mob—a hulking man from the Wrecking Crew named Jax, his face a roadmap of old brawls. He cupped his hands around his mouth.
"Reyes!" he bellowed, his voice echoing in the sudden quiet. "You and your little study group have caused a big damn problem! Come on out and negotiate!"
The joyous night was over. The cake, the speeches, the celebration—all of it was ash now, as surely as the burning dumpster outside.
Vel let the cardboard flap fall back into place, plunging his face into shadow. He turned to his crew. Every trace of the graduate was gone. This was the leader who had promised to make his enemies gaze into the eyes of death.
"They bought a war," Vel said, his voice cutting through the tense silence. "I'll give them one."
The command left no room for argument. "Pip, Lira, everyone under sixteen—into the panic room. Now. The rest of you, nobody opens a door, nobody shows a face. This is not a debate."
Vel's voice was calm, absolute. It was the tone that had pulled them from a dozen fires. Without a word, the younger kids were herded toward the hidden reinforced closet, their eyes wide with a fear they hadn't felt minutes ago during the celebration.
As they moved, Vel walked to a worn weapons locker. The click of the lock was unnaturally loud in the tense silence. He reached inside and pulled out two sheathed daggers. The leather-wrapped hilts were well-worn, familiar in his hands. He drew them both with a soft, metallic whisper. The blades were different—one slightly curved, the other straight as a needle. Down the length of each, words were etched in stark, capital letters: CARNAGE and PURGATORY.
"Vel, you can't just go out there alone—" Mikaze started, his face ashen.
"They're not here for a conversation. They're here for a show of force," Vel interrupted, his back to them as he strode toward a jagged opening in the wall that led to a maintenance ledge. "So I'll give them one. Stay inside."
Before another word of protest could be uttered, he was through the opening and into the night. The cool air hit his face. Five stories below, the mob seethed. He didn't hesitate. He vaulted over the ledge into open air.
For a heart-stopping second, he fell in silence. Then, he crossed his arms, pressing the flat of the daggers hard against the rough concrete wall of the building. A shower of orange sparks erupted, twin tails of fire screeching in the night as CARNAGE and PURGATORY bit into the wall, slowing his descent. It was not a drop; it was a controlled, terrifying strike from heaven. The sound was a nails-on-a-chalkboard scream that cut through the mob's jeers, silencing them instantly.
He landed in a low, perfect crouch in the center of the access road, the impact echoing in the sudden quiet. The daggers, still glowing hot from friction, were now held loosely at his sides. Sparks dripped from the blades like molten tears. The overturned dumpster crackled behind him, painting him in flickering shades of orange and black.
He rose slowly to his full height, his dark skin gleaming in the firelight, the massive tattoo on his arms seeming to shift and writhe in the chaotic light. He didn't look at the crowd; he looked through them, his gaze cold and impersonal.
The atmosphere didn't just become tense; it solidified, becoming a physical thing you could choke on. The unified front of the Grey Fog and Wrecking Crew fractured in that single, impossible moment. Men who had been shouting threats moments ago took an unconscious step back. The sight wasn't just of a man—it was of a force of nature. A king descending from his castle to walk among the rabble.
Jax from the Wrecking Crew recovered first, his bravado sounding hollow. "Think a fancy entrance scares us, Reyes?"
Vel's head turned slowly, his eyes locking onto Jax. He didn't smile. He didn't scowl.
"It should," Vel said, his voice calm, carrying effortlessly in the dead silence. "Because it means I'm not here to talk. I'm here to deliver a message. You're pawns. Titan paid you to be a problem. But look around." He gestured with the hilt of PURGATORY at their combined numbers. "You brought an army to my door. That doesn't make you a threat. It makes you a target."
He took a single step forward. The entire mob shifted back as one.
"Who wants to be the first to deliver my reply?"
The sea of hostile faces parted, and a man who could only be the Wrecking Crew's boss stepped forward. He was a mountain of muscle and scars, his head shaved and a thick, jagged tattoo of a broken gear on his neck. In his hands, he carried a polished katana, the firelight glinting coldly along its single edge. He moved with a swagger that said he'd won a dozen fights before they even started.
"Kaito," someone from the Grey Fog ranks muttered, a mix of respect and fear in his voice.
Kaito stopped a dozen paces from Vel, the tip of his katana pointing downward. "Reyes. Heard you got a fancy piece of paper today. Congratulations." His voice was a gravelly mockery. "Now let me give you a real lesson. The lesson of the—"
Vel didn't let him finish.
He didn't roar. He didn't telegraph. He became a blur of motion so fast it was barely a shift in the air. One second he was standing, calm and still. The next, he had closed the distance.
Kaito, startled by the impossible speed, began to bring his katana up in a defensive arc. It was a futile gesture.
Vel's left dagger, CARNAGE, swept upward, deflecting the katana's hilt with a sharp clang, knocking the blade harmlessly wide. In the same, seamless motion, his body still driving forward, his right dagger, PURGATORY, shot forward—not in a slash, but in a single, brutal, upward thrust.
The blade, etched with its ominous name, slipped perfectly beneath Kaito's sternum, piercing his heart.
Kaito's eyes bulged. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. A wet, gurgling gasp was the only sermon he would ever give. The katana slipped from his fingers, clattering to the ground a moment before his knees buckled.
Vel didn't wait for the body to fall. He ripped PURGATORY free in a spray of crimson and let Kaito's massive form collapse to the asphalt with a heavy, final thud.
The entire exchange lasted three heartbeats.
Silence. Absolute, deafening silence, broken only by the crackle of the burning dumpster. The mob's collective bravado vanished, replaced by a primal, gut-wrenching fear. They had expected a brawl, a negotiation, a show of force. They had not expected an execution.
Vel stood over Kaito's body, his dark skin spattered with blood, the firelight dancing in his cold eyes. He didn't look at the corpse. He looked at the crowd, his gaze sweeping over the pale, stunned faces of the Grey Fog and Wrecking Crew.
He raised his voice, calm and clear, cutting through the night.
"That was the only message," he said, the words dropping like stones into the silent street. "The next one who takes a step toward my home doesn't get a quick death."
He took a single step forward. The entire mob, as if controlled by a single nerve, stumbled backward in a chaotic shuffle. Men tripped over each other to get away from the calm, blood-soaked figure and the lifeless eyes of their fallen leader.
The king had delivered his decree. And it was written in blood.
The sight of Kaito—a man known for dismantling entire crews with that katana—hitting the asphalt before his boast had even faded from the air sent a seismic shock through the mob. For a heartbeat, pure, undiluted terror held them frozen. But terror, in a crowd this size, has two faces: one that flees, and one that becomes reckless, desperate fury.
A voice, shrill with panic, shrieked from the Grey Fog's ranks. "He's just one man! OVERWHELM HIM!"
The dam broke. The fear curdled into a violent, collective impulse. Dozens of enforcers from both gangs, their individual courage forged in the heat of a pack, surged forward as a single, chaotic entity. Chains whistled through the air, tire irons were raised, and switchblades flicked open. The goal was no longer a duel; it was a slaughter by numbers, a tidal wave of flesh and steel meant to bury Vel where he stood.
Inside, Mikaze, Ace, and Rez were a blur of motion, finally crashing through the main warehouse door.
"VEL!" Ace roared, his own knives already in hand, ready to carve a path to his brother's side.
But they were a precious few seconds too late.
The first wave hit Vel.
He didn't try to hold ground. He moved into them, becoming a vortex of controlled, lethal motion. CARNAGE and PURGATORY were no longer just daggers; they were extensions of his will. He ducked under a swinging chain, and PURGATORY found the attacker's thigh, severing the hamstring with a brutal, precise cut. The man screamed, collapsing. A tire iron came down from his left; CARNAGE met it, deflecting it into the face of another assailant with a sickening crunch of bone.
He was a phantom, a dancer in a storm of violence. Every pivot was a slash, every dodge was a stab. He moved with an economy of motion that was terrifying to behold, each movement designed not just to defend, but to permanently disable. A stab to a shoulder joint, a deep gash across a weapon arm, a precise cut behind a knee. He wasn't just fighting; he was dismantling, creating a groaning, bleeding barrier of wounded bodies around himself.
But the numbers were immense. A blow from a metal pipe he couldn't fully avoid glanced off his ribs, and he grunted, feeling the bruise blossom instantly. A knife grazed his bicep, leaving a hot line of fire in its wake. He was bleeding, his breaths coming in sharp gusts. The circle was tightening.
Just as it seemed the tide would truly engulf him, the cavalry arrived.
It wasn't a gentle reinforcement. It was a cataclysm.
Ace hit the edge of the mob like a cannonball, his roar of pure rage preceding him. He didn't bother with finesse; he plowed into the backs of the attackers, his heavy knives hacking and slashing, creating instant chaos in their rear.
From the flank, Rez moved with silent, deadly efficiency. He didn't engage in the brawl. He used a compact crossbow, the thwip of the bolt almost silent. A Grey Fog enforcer raising a bat over Vel's exposed back suddenly gasped, a bolt embedded in his lung. Another clutched at his thigh, falling. Rez was a surgeon, methodically disabling threats from a distance.
Mikaze, meanwhile, didn't head for Vel. He headed for the source. He vaulted onto the hood of a wrecked car, his voice cutting through the din, not with a shout, but with a cold, projected authority that demanded attention.
"THE WRECKING CREW IS BROKEN!" he yelled, pointing at Kaito's corpse. "THE GREY FOG IS FIGHTING THEIR WAR FOR THEM! Look at who falls! It's your brothers bleeding for Titan's money! Is it worth it?"
His words were a psychological scalpel, expertly wielded to exploit the fragile, bought alliance.
The momentum shattered. The surging tide of the mob broke against the anvil of Vel's ruthless defense and the hammer of his crew's arrival. Men who had been pushing forward now looked around, seeing their leaders dead or silent, their own ranks bleeding, and a new, coordinated enemy in their midst.
The fight wasn't over, but the desperate gamble to overwhelm Vel had failed. He stood, bloodied but unbroken, at the center of a ring of carnage, his crew now forming a deadly perimeter around him. The message was now undeniable: the SXV was not a target. It was a fortress. And its king was a god of war.