Harukichi-gumi Headquarters – Yuma's Training Grounds
The elevator doors slid open, spilling Amuy and Raiden into what they assumed would be a sleek dojo.
Instead, it looked like a thrift shop had exploded.
Beanbags slouched beside heavy weight benches. Neon lights flickered against faded tatami mats. Loud music, some bizarre mix of jazz and trap, blared from speakers hidden in the corners. A massive "Behave!" banner hung crookedly on the far wall, the letters outlined in glitter like a middle school art project.
Yuma stood in the center, barefoot, wearing loose black pants and a white hoodie with "#1 Coach" printed in pink across the chest. His green hair was tied back messily, and he was sipping from a juice box.
"Well, look at that," Yuma said, grinning. "Masaru's shiny new pets. Welcome to my kingdom."
Amuy tilted his head slightly. "This is your training space?"
Raiden's tone dripped with sarcasm. "Looks more like a college dorm… for someone with no self-control."
"Exactly," Yuma replied, throwing his arms wide. "Combat's supposed to be fun. A fight is like dating, you both need to know who's in control… and there should be a little music."
"Do you… actually train here?" Amuy asked.
Yuma grinned. "Only the strong survive in this environment. You think you can keep your focus while a strobe light's in your eyes and a beanbag's calling your name? That's the real battlefield."
Raiden let out a short, disbelieving laugh, the kind that said she couldn't decide if Yuma was brilliant or just an idiot.
Yuma circled them slowly, hands behind his back in exaggerated "samurai master" fashion. "Masaru might be watching you two. When he starts paying attention, it goes one of two ways. Promotion… or a funeral. And sometimes both."
He stopped in front of Raiden, squinting at her posture. "Too stiff. You stand like a cop."
She adjusted her stance. "Better?"
"Worse." Yuma said with a mock grimace. "Now you look like an accountant trying to do yoga."
Raiden snorted, and Yuma spun toward Amuy.
"You." he said, suddenly serious. He stepped in close, his voice lowering. "You've got something in your soul that looks… tangled. Like you're not here, even when you are."
Amuy's gaze tightened. "I'm here."
"Maybe." Yuma said lightly, stepping back with a grin. "Or maybe you're somewhere else, and your body's just playing along." He clapped his hands loudly, instantly back to his usual energy. "Alright! Enough soul-searching. Let's see if you two can keep up with me."
The rest of the session blurred between mock duels, Yuma offering them snacks mid-spar, and Raiden managing to tag him once, which he pretended was a fatal wound, staggering dramatically onto a beanbag.
Before they left, Yuma called out, "One last thing. Masaru likes pets that bite back. Don't wag your tails too much, or he'll get bored… and when he's bored, he redecorates."
Neither of them asked what that meant.
Elsewhere – Harukichi-gumi Operations Wing
Fischer sat on a bench in a dim hallway, elbows resting on his knees, his face tilted toward the floor. The energy in his grinless expression was rare, not sadness, but a low thrum of irritation at himself.
Masaru's words from the meeting still rang in his ears: "You failed."
He flicked a coin between his fingers, letting it spin over his knuckles, also thinking about Amya's deal. Vogro sat beside him, fiddling with a small mechanical contraption, while Zimandarada leaned against the wall, hood shadowing his face.
A knock on the wall drew Fischer's attention. A low-ranked member stood there, fidgeting.
"Uh… orders from the top. There's a gang in District 12 refusing to pay tribute. You're to clear it out."
Fischer caught the coin mid-spin. "Clear it out. Of course." He leaned back, running a hand over his jaw. "More grunt work… Dang, I gotta do some work again…"
Vogro grinned. "Think of it as cardio."
But then Fischer's smile slowly returned, a flicker of something else in his eyes. "Wait… maybe I can make something out of it. A little art to get my morale up."
Zimandarada groaned. "Oh no. Here we go again."
"What?!" Fischer feigned offense. "Last time was beautiful. The lighting, the symmetry"
"The screaming," Vogro added.
"-was part of the composition!" Fischer finished. "This time, I'm thinking… something urban. Streetlights. Shadows. A statement about how rebellion always dies in the spotlight."
Zimandarada muttered, "You're lucky Masaru hasn't banned you from expressing yourself."
"He doesn't get it." Fischer said, standing up and stretching his arms. "Art needs blood. And tonight… I'm feeling inspired."
District 12 – Midnight
The gang's hideout was a two-story dive, lit by a single buzzing sign over the door. Loud voices and off-key singing spilled out into the alley.
Fischer walked straight through the front entrance, not even slowing when two guards moved to stop him. Black flames whispered along his arms as he passed, and both men collapsed, heads rolling away before their bodies hit the floor.
Inside, chaos froze into silence. A dozen gang members stared as Fischer stepped into the middle of the room, Vogro, Zimandarada and Axel fanning out behind him.
"Evening," Fischer said casually. "I hear you're behind on your payments."
One man raised a pistol, but the shot never came. Black fire tore through him, his scream swallowed in an instant.
The rest broke into a panic, but it didn't matter. Fischer moved like a shadow given shape, cutting down anyone in his path. The black flames didn't just burn, they sculpted, shaping the dead like clay in his hands.
Vogro lit a cigarette, glancing at Fischer's work. "You're insane."
He's dragged the gang members' bodies into a perfect spiral on the warehouse floor, their limbs angled like clock hands. At the very center, a single survivor, tied to a chair, gagged, and blindfolded, has a crude crown made of broken glass bottles on their head. Above them, Fischer's painted a giant, messy red clock face on the wall, its hands pointing to midnight.
He clicks his tongue. "Time's up."
Fischer, Axel, Vogro, and Zima stepped out of the gang's territory, the street around them eerily quiet. Not a single shout or whisper followed. The silence spoke louder than screams ever could.
Vogro adjusted his bizarre glasses. "Well… that was efficient."
Axel carrying something absurd, a whole vending machine he ripped from the gang's hideout 'for snacks later' says "They no even use machine. I save it."
Fischer gave him a side glance. "…You mean you stole it."
Axel proudly says "I borrow forever."
Zima chuckled under his hood. "He's got a point."
Fischer shook his head with a small laugh. "Remind me to never introduce you to my neighbors."
The four of them continued down the empty street, their shadows stretching under the streetlights, leaving nothing behind but the memory of what they'd done.