Takeshi stood atop the stadium, the wind blowing through his long black hair.
His expressionless face twitched slightly.
He appeared almost troubled, which was very uncharacteristic.
The wind dragged a loose sheet of tarp across the metal plating with a scraping hiss. He listened, head tilting. Even without sight, his senses painted the world in texture, sound, and pressure.
A cold gust swept across the roof, lifting his robes, brushing against the blindfold tied firm across his eyes. He inhaled through his nose, long and slow. The air tasted wrong.
Something's coming - he could feel it.
His jaw tightened.
That gnawing feeling clawed at him like an itch under armour.
He couldn't shake it.
The last time dread coiled in his gut like this was in New York - when he'd sprung into a fight that levelled skyscraper windows, split streets, and forced even the association to pause and watch.
A battle that shook an entire city.
