Perched in a large pine tree, Kitomi watched. The rough bark scratched at her thighs, and the sharp scent of sap clung to her nose. The drug had ensured that Mysemi would do her bidding, and remember none of it. The perfect crime. She had instructed the girl to break into Sakura's house and kill the woman.
But something went wrong.
Kitomi wasn't sure if it was the alcohol, the girl's natural resistance, an incorrect dose, or something else. Her eyes followed Mysemi as she stumbled through the window, the faint creak of the floorboards betraying her steps. She fought with Sakura—sharp cries and the thud of bodies echoing through the still night—then started eating the woman's food. That was unexpected.
No matter though. Kitomi watched as Izuna and Ezra burst in, the tension snapping like a drawn wire, and the chaos of the fight bloomed. That put a smile on her face.
With a wedge driven between Izuna and her romantic rivals, she could swoop in and take him for herself.
At least, that was the plan.
But then those damn Seigaku's showed up, with Kushina's men in tow, flying down the road, guns at hand, trying to kill them. And Izuna would be caught in the crossfire.
Technically, Kitomi worked for Kushina. Technically. That wouldn't stop her from killing the 'master' or her men—especially now that they were in her way.
Kitomi clicked her tongue and scurried down the tree, bark scraping her palms. She had people to murder.
The gunshot cracked through the air, deafening Izuna. He jammed his hands over his ears, wincing as sharp ringing filled his head. A second blast followed—louder, closer. He looked up just in time to see Ikari fire again. The revolver's cartridge spun with a mechanical click, stopped, the hammer snapped back, then dropped with a heavy thud. Fire flared from the muzzle.
Bullets zipped past, the air hissing in their wake. They struck the asphalt with sharp cracks, pinged off a parked van with metallic clangs, and ricocheted off a lamp post, the sound sharp and jarring. Pain shot through Izuna's left arm—a hot, stabbing sting. He looked down. Blood.
Ongaku grabbed his wrist without a word and dragged him behind a thick pine tree. The bark scraped against his back as she shoved him into cover. Ikari fired his last shot and ducked in beside them, breathing hard.
"Let me see your arm," Ongaku said. She pulled it straight, her fingers pressing along the muscle with quick precision. "Good—it's just a graze. You'll live. How are we doing on ammo?"
"I'm out," Ikari muttered.
Izuna yanked his arm back. Blood ran down it, warm and steady, dripping from his fingertips onto the dry pine needles below. "Who the hell are you people?" he asked, eyes flicking between the two of them.
Ikari and Ongaku exchanged a look.
"Not now," Ikari said. "We'll discuss this another time."
"Ha," Ongaku laughed once, low and bitter. "If we survive this. So, what's the plan?"
"I... I don't know," Ikari admitted.
Ongaku rolled her eyes. "Of course not."
"Well, whatever. This has nothing to do with me," Izuna said, stepping out from behind the tree.
"Hey guys!" he shouted.
A bullet screamed past his head, close enough to lift strands of his hair. Ikari lunged and yanked him back into cover.
"Are you insane?"
"Let go of me!"
"It's Izuna!" a voice shouted from down the street, closer now. "He's one of them—kill him too!"
Izuna sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping. He ran his uninjured hand through his hair, sticky with sweat and grit. "Well, this is just great. Fucking perfect."
Ongaku stared at him with concern, then she looked past him her eyes narrowing and brow furrowing. "Who, is that?"
Izuna and Ikari followed her gaze. Across the road, just off to the side was a short, but pretty woman, shimming down the tree.
"Kitomi?" Izuna frowned. She looked over at him, smiled and waved.
The bastards had shot Izuna—his arm was bleeding, the wound a dark smear barely visible in the low light. At first Kitomi wasn't sure if she would kill them or lead them away. They were her collogues, friends even, or so she'd led to believe. But they'd sealed their fate once Izuna started to bleed.
She looked over at Izuna, standing in the shadows with the Seigaku's. His face was pale, lit only by the faint orange spill of a distant streetlamp. She gave a little smile, a short wave.
"Hey guys!" she called, stepping out from under the pine tree. The air was cool and damp, heavy with the smell of dirt and gun smoke. Seven of them stood in a loose cluster, breathing hard, their clothes clinging with sweat despite the night chill. One lifted his rifle, the barrel glinting under the flickering lamp.
He was going to die first.
A hand reached over and pushed the muzzle down.
"That's Kitomi, you idiot."
The man's voice trembled. "Oh shit, Saitō-san. Sorry. Are you here to help us hunt those... people?"
"Yeah," Kitomi said, skipping lightly toward him. The gravel crunched under her shoes. Behind them, six bodies lay sprawled on the road, limbs twisted, blood pooling black in the dark. Ikari wasn't a half-bad shot.
"But I don't have a gun. Lend me your spare."
"Of course!" He unholstered his pistol and handed it to her. It was warm from his body, the grip slick with sweat.
"Thanks. Go on ahead," she said, motioning him forward with the pistol. He nodded, nervous, and started toward the tree where Izuna was hiding.
Kitomi stepped back quietly. Then again. Her back hit the edge of the road where the curb crumbled into weeds.
She raised the pistol, leveled it at the man who'd pointed his rifle, and pulled the trigger.
The crack tore through the silence.
His head jerked forward, blood spraying onto the pavement.
"What the hell?!"
The others turned, but too slowly.
Kitomi aimed and fired again. The flash of the muzzle lit her face in quick bursts. One man went down with a grunt, another with a choked yell.
She kept shooting. Short, controlled bursts. Each shot kicked back into her hands. Aimed. Fired. Aimed. Fired. One by one, they fell.
The last man turned to run. She shot him in the leg.
He dropped hard onto one knee, screaming and clutching his thigh, blood already soaking through his pants.
"Saitō—why?!"
Kitomi tilted her head slightly, the pistol steady in her grip.
"Because he's mine."
She pulled the trigger one last time. The shot punched through his neck, and he hit the ground with a gurgling gasp. Blood pulsed out across the pavement in thick, dark streams.
Blue and red lights flashed at the entrance to Serito, casting pulses over the cracked asphalt and surrounding trees. A dozen and a half police cars sat in a loose blockade, engines idling, exhaust rising in faint streams beneath the chill night air. The scent of oil and burned rubber clung to the road.
In front of the vehicles stood Matoba. By title, he was the chief of police for the entire region. In practice, his authority barely reached past the walls of his own station.
Kushina checked the time on her phone. 00:02. Dealing with Ikari was becoming more trouble than she'd planned.
"Matoba-san," she said, walking toward him, her boots clicking against the concrete. "What brings you to our fine town at this hour?"
"We've been receiving reports of gunfire all night," he said, shifting his weight. His uniform looked stiff and out of place in the dim, rural dark. "Is there some kind of civil war going on in there?"
"Not gunfire. Fireworks, crackers—all that. It's a celebration," she replied coolly.
Three sharp cracks rang out in the distance. Then a scream. Another shot followed, echoing faintly over the fields.
"That's—"
"Fireworks," she said again.
Matoba rubbed the back of his neck. Sweat glistened on his brow despite the cold.
"I know we have an arrangement, but this is—"
"My arrangement goes far above your head," Kushina said, her voice low. "The government stays out of Serito. In return, we handle their dirty work. This agreement has held for six hundred years. You will not break it tonight."
"Kushina—"
"Matoba, do not make me repeat myself."
Matoba held her gaze for a moment, then stepped back, shoulders stiff, eyes wide.
"Very well. Enjoy your festival." He raised a hand and signaled to the officers behind him.
Engines revved softly as the cars began to turn. One by one, the cruisers pulled away, their lights fading down the highway as if the town no longer existed. If Serito was going to tear itself apart tonight, the police would have nothing to do with it.
Ezra had just finished helping Sakura tie up the strange girl when it started.
Gunfire. Shouting. Screams.
Dozens of voices, overlapping, chaotic. Then the sharp report of rifles and pistols cut through the night like a buzzsaw through wet bone.
Ezra grabbed Sakura by the collar and yanked her down. They slammed flat against the wooden floor just as a bullet punched through the window and shattered the mirror above the dresser. Glass exploded, tinkling over them like deadly snow.
Then silence. The kind of silence that wasn't real. The kind that pressed against your eardrums and screamed underneath, ready to burst open again. Ezra's heartbeat thundered in her chest, each thump echoing louder than the gunshots had. Her hands trembled. She hadn't even realized she was holding her breath until her lungs burned for air.
Sakura whimpered, maybe from pain, maybe from fear. Ezra couldn't tell. Couldn't care. Not right now.
She crawled to the broken window, eyes scanning the darkness, heart in her throat. Then she saw them.
Bodies.
Dozens of them. Strewn across the street like discarded dolls. Limbs twisted. Blood pooling. Some still twitching.
And not strangers.
These were Kushina's people. Her crew. Ezra recognized faces, even in the dark. Faces she'd fought beside. Eaten with. Laughed with.
Dead.
"What the bloody hell is going on?" she snarled, stumbling out the door, boots crunching over spent shell casings. She knelt beside one of the corpses, checking for signs of life she knew weren't there.
Not Izuna. He wasn't among them. Thank God. But that was the only mercy tonight offered.
Sakura's voice drifted out from the house behind her. "What is this?" Her face was swelling fast—ugly bruise spreading from cheekbone to jaw where Mysemi had smacked her face into the counter.
Ezra shook her head. "I don't know. But I'm going to find Kushina. Figure out what the hell just happened."
Sakura pointed a thumb back toward the house. "What about her?" Mysemi, bound and fortunitly still unconscious.
"Lock her in the bathroom or something. We'll deal with her later."
Sakura hesitated, then nodded. "Okay. I'll come with you."
"No," she said softly, a thread of sympathy weaving into her voice. "You've been through enough tonight. Get some rest. I'll find you when it's over."
For a moment, Sakura didn't move. Just stood there, framed in the doorway, a girl who'd been shoved face-first into hell and told to smile.
Then she nodded again. Slower this time.
Ezra turned back toward the bodies, toward the dark.
She was going to find whoever had done this.
And make them pay.
Amika was halfway through a much-needed gin when the knocking started.
She'd been hearing fireworks all night—at least, that's what she told herself. Loud cracks and staccato bursts that sounded far too much like gunfire. But that couldn't be right. Her forty-something ears must've been playing tricks on her again. She sighed, rolled her eyes, and took one last swig of her drink, draining it in a single swallow. Then she got up.
The knocking came again. More insistent.
"What do you think you're doing making a racket at—" she snapped the door open—and froze.
Standing on her porch were Ikari, Izuna, Kitomi, and Ongaku.
Blood ran down Izuna's arm in thin, dark rivulets. Kitomi held a pistol. Ongaku cradled a rifle like it was part of her. And Ikari—calm, grim Ikari—had a revolver in his hand, still warm.
The sight was surreal. Like something out of a bad dream.
"I'm sorry about this," Ikari said. His voice was steady, but his eyes were twitching, scanning the dark behind her. "But this is the only place they won't look."
Amika blinked. Then she stepped aside. "Well, get in then."
She led them inside. Ikari collapsed onto the couch like his bones had turned to liquid. Kitomi and Ongaku followed, settling into the living room with all the grace of hunted animals. Meanwhile, Amika took Izuna by the arm, her fingers tightening as she saw the bleeding more clearly.
"Bathroom. Now."
Izuna didn't argue. He just followed her down the hall, breathing shallow, face pale.
She fetched the first aid kit, clicked it open and snipped back his blood-soaked sleeve. The wound was ugly, but clean—no shrapnel, no deep muscle damage. Just a gash. Painful, but survivable.
"You're lucky," she said, winding gauze around his arm. "Looks worse than it is."
Izuna grimaced. "Amika-san… How do you know them?"
She paused. Her hands stilled.
"They're… family."
"That man—he called me his brother. But that's not true. That can't be right. Can it?"
Amika nodded. Just once.
"It is."
Izuna's mouth opened, but the words didn't come out right away. His face twisted. "And you never told me?" he whispered. "All this time… I thought I was alone. How do you even know he's my brother?"
"Because," she said quietly, "he's my nephew. Just like you."
Something broke in his face. "You—" He stood, backing away. His hands curled into fists, his body shaking with rage. "You knew. You knew and you said nothing! You left me in that damn orphanage. You let me rot in there thinking I had no one!"
"Izuna—" Amika looked down. "I know you're angry. You have every right to be. But I had my reasons. We all did. And I swear to you, we'll tell you everything."
She looked up and met his eyes.
"But not now. We need to survive this. Then… we talk."
Izuna didn't respond. Just stood there, fists trembling. Then, without a word, he turned and walked back to the living room.
She followed.
Ikari talked when she entered. He told her everything. The firefight. The ambush. Mysemi. Kushina.
When Ikari was done, silence settled over the room. Heavy as smoke.
Amika broke it.
"So," she asked quietly, "what are you going to do?"
Ikari stood.
"I'm going to end this."
"How?" Ongaku asked, eyes wide, voice brittle.
"I know where Kushina lives," he said. "I'll go alone. I can sneak in, find out where Mysemi is. Get her out."
"You can't!" Ongaku jumped to her feet. "You'll be killed!"
Ikari placed a hand on her shoulder. "It's easier if I go alone. I can reason with her. We were close once."
His voice faltered slightly. Just for a moment.
Amika caught it. "And if you can't reason with her?"
Ikari's face hardened.
"Then I kill her," he said. "And anyone else who stands in my way."
Dark bags clung to Kushina's eyes. She checked her phone. 02:04. To say it was a long night would be an understatement. Ikari had vanshied, despite their best efforts to find them. That was for the best. Kushina hoped he would stay that way, killing him would only bring her trouble, but he'd forced her hand when he shot Aoi, as justified as he was.
She stepped inside, the hallway dim and silent. Her shoes came off with a tired kick, left near the entrance. The lights flicked on with a soft click, flooding the room with cold brightness that made her squint. All she wanted was sleep, but she doubted it would come even if she tried.
Instead, she turned toward the living room. A stiff drink was in order.
She froze in the doorway.
Ikari sat on her favorite sofa, one leg crossed over the other, a revolver loose in his grip, lazily pointed in her direction.
"Ikari," she said, heart thudding once, hard. "Jesus. What are you doing here?"
"Putting an end to this."
Kushina clenched her jaw, her eyes flicking to the sideboard stocked with sake, whiskey, and a few half-finished bottles of wine. She walked over, picked the whiskey, and poured herself a glass, her hand steady despite the tension in the room.
"You think it's that easy?" she asked quietly. "I never wanted any of this. But you had to go and kill that boy."
"He shot at me first."
"Maybe. But it didn't stop there, did it?" She took a sip and turned to face him. "How many of my men have you killed tonight? Thirty? Forty?"
Ikari didn't answer.
"Even if I told them to stand down, they wouldn't listen now. You know better than anyone how intoxicating revenge is."
"Then I'll leave," he said. "All of us."
"You should've done that instead of coming here."
"And leave my sister behind?" His voice hardened. "Even you aren't that stupid. Just tell me where she is."
"How the hell should I know?"
"Your people took her!"
"What?"
Ikari stood. The revolver lifted, his grip tightening around the handle.
"I'm not in the mood, Kushina. Tell me where she is. I don't want to kill you. But I will."
"You—"
"Mommy?"
Ikari's eyes snapped toward the archway dividing the room from the hall.
A small girl stood there, barely knee-height, pink pajamas wrinkled from sleep, rubbing at her eyes with balled fists. She blinked at him, then waddled across the floor and clung to Kushina's leg.
"Mommy, who's that?" she asked, pointing at Ikari.
Kushina stared at him, eyes cold.
"That," she said, "is your father."