The alley was a narrow throat of concrete and steam. Neon bled into puddles, turning the ground into bruised light. A pipe hissed somewhere above, dripping water in a slow metronome. Jing felt the city watching—curious, hungry, indifferent.
Nira stepped forward, her smile a faint crescent. Two Serpents flanked her—one tall and silent, the other wiry with quick hands. They didn't posture. They didn't talk. They just moved like the alley was theirs.
"Tonight you choose," Nira murmured. "Arena or clan."
Roku's palm lifted, heat shimmering like a thin veil. Maya's heel sank a breath into the concrete, ready to make the alley obey. Jing's fingers hovered over his flask—and stopped. Anchor. Tide.
"Together," Maya said, and the word landed like a stone.
The Serpents struck first.
Close-Quarters Flow
The wiry one—eyes like sharp wire—darted in with a flick of water that wasn't a whip, wasn't a bind. It was subtle pressure at Jing's wrist, coaxing a tendon to betray its owner. Jing felt the wrongness—bloodbending-adjacent, not full control, but a theft of his body's honesty.
He refused it. He rolled his wrist through the pressure and bent a thin ribbon from the puddle underfoot, slipping it between his skin and the Serpent's intent. The ribbon broke the coaxing like a wedge. Jing snapped the ribbon upward and turned it into a small splash in the man's eyes. The Serpent blinked—half a second.
Roku stole that half-second. He brushed heat in a gentle arc, not burning, just expanding the air so the Serpent's next step felt like walking into a warm pocket. The man misjudged distance by a fingertip. Maya slammed her heel. Concrete bulged like a knuckle and caught the Serpent's foot, pinning it in a shallow cup.
The tall Serpent moved without a sound. He flicked his fingers and the puddles along the wall rose into thin sheets—sudden curtains of water designed to blind. Jing cut two with narrow chops, turned a third into harmless rain, and rolled under the fourth. The tall Serpent twisted his wrist as if pulling a thread, and Jing felt the tug at his elbow—subtle, surgical, cruel.
He breathed. Anchor. Tide.
He bent the drip from the broken pipe into a thread and braided it with the alley's damp, forming a thin, elastic band between his forearm and the concrete wall. When the Serpent tugged, the band flexed first, absorbing the wrong command. Jing pushed back with a sharp flick and the band snapped, slapping the Serpent's knuckles.
Nira smiled, watching. She hadn't moved. She didn't need to. She was measuring.
"Pretty," she said softly. "Poetry that refuses prose."
Knife Rhythm
Steel flashed—no bending, just a short blade cocked low. The wiry Serpent broke his foot free and slashed at Maya's thigh. She didn't dodge. She bent the concrete at her shin into a small ridge, lifted the blade's line, and made it strike stone instead of flesh. The metal screeched, sparks bit the air, and Maya used the ridge like a hinge. She drove the Serpent backward and stamped. Concrete rose behind him, barring his retreat.
Roku stepped sideways to cut an angle on the tall Serpent. The man flicked water at Roku's eyes, an insult more than a strike. Roku didn't blink. He heated the air at his left ear and cooled it at his right, making the alley's breath feel wrong. The Serpent's next step faltered. Roku's palm sliced downward, and the man's coat smoldered without catching flame—an elegant warning.
"Don't," Roku said.
The tall Serpent did. He tried to bind Roku's wrist with a water twist and found the twist unraveling against a pressure he couldn't see. Heat and air. Craft. He snarled for the first time.
Nira's voice slipped between moments. "Tian Ming."
Jing didn't look at her. He kept his eyes on hands and feet, on droplets and breath. The wiry Serpent feinted left and threw a low water lash at the back of Jing's ankle—the trick that made bodies stumble into blades. Jing didn't throw a wall. He laid a slick coin of water under his own heel, turned the stumble into a slide, and pivoted. His knee brushed concrete, his palm touched puddle, and he lifted a compact, dense ball of water with a twist that his father once used to pour soup without spilling.
He launched it—quick, precise. It smacked the wiry Serpent's temple and burst, equal parts slap and sting. The man reeled, not injured, but angry.
The tall Serpent came in hot, hands open. He tried a deep pull at Jing's shoulder, the kind of wrong touch that makes joints follow invisible orders. Jing countered with elastic—thin bands of water that slipped between skin and command, folding the pull into a soft stretch that lied to the Serpent's intent. The man's eyes flashed with frustration. He was good. Jing was honest.
"Stop testing," Roku snapped at Nira without looking. "Pick a path."
Nira's smile didn't move. "We are. Yours."
Pressure And Choice
The alley narrowed when the crowd swelled at its mouth, silhouettes piling up from nearby stalls. Someone recognized the ferret emblem. Someone shouted. Phones appeared—eyes with memory. The Serpents didn't care. They carved space with presence.
The wiry Serpent lunged at Jing again, blade low, water flicks designed to make nerves misfire. Jing couldn't make the alley safer, but he could make his body smarter. He slowed his breath to four count—inhale, exhale. He bent a film over his forearm—thin, just enough to become a second skin. When the blade scraped, it slid. When the flick tugged, it dampened.
Maya moved like the alley was hers. She lifted a slab and turned it vertical—a wall—and then shoved it without moving her hands, making the slab glide forward like a door. The wiry Serpent tried to slip around; the slab kissed his shoulder and made him choose: collide or back off. He backed off.
The tall Serpent tried to bind Roku's ankle. Roku heated a coin of air above his foot—the coin expanded and the bind failed to grip. He tapped the tall Serpent's shoulder with two fingers. The coat smoked. "Last warning," Roku said, voice quiet. That tone didn't threaten. It promised.
Nira's eyes held Jing's. "They'll keep coming," she said. "They'll keep asking. You can answer now or later. The clan is patient."
Jing's heartbeat hammered. He wanted to break something. He wanted to run—to water, to noise, to light—and hide. Instead, he lifted his hands and let them be steady. "I answer now," he said, and his voice didn't shake. "No."
Something in the alley changed. It wasn't the sound. It wasn't the light. It was the math—pressure redistributed, hunger shifting. The Serpents moved as if the word had struck them.
The wiry one attacked harder. The tall one reached deeper. Nira watched like a teacher grading difficult work.
They pressed Jing into the alley's worst geometry—narrow, wet, blind to the crowd's sightlines.
A cheap trick in street fights. Make witnesses see motion, not detail. Make memory muddy.
Maya ripped concrete at her heel into a low wedge and tossed it like a block toward the narrow, breaking the geometry. The wedge hit the wall and lodged, creating a pocket for Jing's footwork. Roku heated the air not into a dome, not a wall—into a thread that ran along the ceiling. Steam rose off the pipe and the thread carried it into a soft curtain above the Serpents' heads. Vision warped.
Jing stepped into the pocket Maya made and pulled a stream from the puddle—not wide, not showy—thin and tuned, a violin string of water. He plucked it with two fingers as he moved. The stream vibrated, ripples chasing down its length and touching the water slicks the Serpents had laid. The slicks quivered—subtle, but enough to make footing feel wrong.
The wiry Serpent misstepped and corrected with a slash. Jing dipped and turned the slash into an excuse to plant his palm. He pulled a second string, plucked it, tuned it to the first. The alley's water became music—ripples cancelling ripples, tremors soothing tremors. His feet found honesty. Theirs didn't.
"Poetry," Nira whispered. "Always poetry."
Maya's wall-door shoved again, hard this time. Concrete slid and jammed the wiry Serpent against the alley's bins with a thud that made metal complain. He hissed and shoved back. Maya held.
The tall Serpent reached for Jing's elbow—quick, precise, wrong. Jing cut the reach with a small splash that slapped the man's knuckles and bent a ribbon around the wrist, turning the grasp into a gentle loop that the Serpent would have to unwrap before he could try again. He didn't unwrap. He yanked—and the loop tightened, harmless and frustrating.
Roku stepped into the tall Serpent's space and lowered his palms. The air cooled. Then warmed. Then cooled. He changed temperature in such gentle pulses that the body didn't notice until breathing felt like walking uphill. The Serpent pulled back with a curse. "Enough," he spat.
"You first," Roku said.
Nira's Hand
Nira moved for the first time. Three small steps. No bending. No flourish. She simply arrived where Jing's breath and the alley's steam met.
"Do you remember their faces?" she asked, voice so soft it wouldn't carry beyond them. "The night the clan came. Do you remember the ones who held you under the water? Do you remember the hand on your throat?"
Jing's stomach lurched. He saw gray sky and red snow, his mother's hair in his face, his father's hand on his shoulder that last clean minute of day. He tasted metal. He felt the pull—hideous, heady—the urge to use wrong power to shut all mouths at once.
Anchor. Tide.
"I remember my mother's breath," he said. "I remember water lifting me."
Nira's smile thinned. "Then you remember that the clan owns the breath too."
Her fingers twitched. The alley's puddles shivered. The drip paused mid-fall. Jing felt a hand at his ankle—no hand, no touch—just the suggestion of being held by something that wasn't his choice. He almost broke.
Maya's heel slammed. Concrete rose under Jing's foot a finger-width, severing the suggestion like cutting a thread. Roku's heat moved across Jing's shoulders—warmth that said live. Jing inhaled. The drip fell again and splashed.
"No," Jing said, more to himself than to Nira. "No."
Nira's eyes cooled like night water. "Then run for as long as you can."
She stepped back. The tall Serpent lifted his hands, slow. The wiry Serpent pushed off the bins, knife gone, hands open. They didn't strike again. They flowed backward into shadow like water leaving a stone.
Nira's voice drifted over the retreat. "We'll speak soon. The clan is patient."
They were gone. The alley held their echo long enough for the crowd to decide what they'd seen. Murmurs rose. A few claps. A shout: "Ferrets!"
Jing sagged against the wall, breath shaking. He didn't drop the flask. He didn't open it. He closed his eyes and counted: one, two, three, four—inhale. One, two, three, four—exhale.
Maya touched his shoulder—brief, steady. "You didn't break."
Roku's scarf hung loose, color dulling as his heat faded. "You chose," he said. "Keep choosing."
Jing nodded. The choice had teeth. It would bite again. He wanted to be brave. He wanted to be clean. He wanted to be more than a boy remembering snow and blood.
"Tomorrow," he said.
"Tomorrow," Maya echoed.
Roku glanced toward the alley mouth, where the city pressed close like a curious animal. "And tonight," he added, "we sleep with the door barred."
They walked out into neon and market voices. The city swallowed them and then offered them back to the street as three silhouettes with a small banner stitched into their jackets. The ferret looked like defiance.
The warehouse was quiet when they returned. The banner's frayed stitches caught lamplight. Jing washed his face at the sink, watching water turn from clear to city-gray, then clear again. He cupped his hands and breathed into them, feeling the heat of his own body—mundane, human.
Maya's phone buzzed. She frowned. "My father. The investors want a private exhibition. He wants us polished."
Roku snorted softly. "We'll give them polish. And grit."
Jing dried his hands and looked at the mat with its scuffs and taped edges. "We need more than grit. We need… us."
Maya nodded. "We build it."
Roku tapped the table once with his knuckles. "Dawn."
Jing lay on the practice mats that night and listened to the warehouse breathe. Pipes ticked. Wind spoke in the cracks of old boards. He didn't dream of blood. He dreamed of tide.
Dawn Drills
Morning sliced the warehouse into light and shadow. They trained until the floor learned their names. Maya taught the ring to hum with their steps. Roku turned heat into a metronome. Jing tuned water to their breath. They failed. They adjusted. They mapped new rhythms.
At noon, a message flashed across Maya's screen: Storm Vipers confirmed. Evening match—prime slot.
Kaze would flip. Rin would glitter ice. Daichi would shake stone. The crowd would roar. The Serpents would watch.
Jing tied his hair, fingers steady. He touched the dented flask and didn't open it. He looked at his team.
"Tonight," he said.
Maya's smile was small and fierce. "Tonight."
Roku's eyes warmed. "We make the ring ours."
Outside, Republic City inhaled. The arena lights would burn. The alleys would hold their shadows. The clan would wait. The crowd would chant.
And the Fire Ferrets would step into a ring that asked for more than fight ... it would ask for their choice, again and again, until the season itself decided who they really were.