Ikari and Mysemi sat in the modest living room of Ongaku’s house. Fresh green tatami mats lined the floor, their faint grassy scent blending with the aroma of old wood and steam from the tea. A low lacquered table stood at the center, polished smooth from years of use. The room was clean—meticulously so—but sparsely decorated. The only personal touch was a faded photograph on the far wall: Ikari in his military uniform, flanked by two much younger sisters. The smiles in that photo felt like echoes now.

Ongaku entered carrying a tray. She set it down with care: a ceramic cup of tea for Mysemi, and two stoneware flasks along with a bottle of aged sake for herself and Ikari. Mysemi wrapped her hands around the warm cup, breathing in the scent of jasmine as her eyes drifted toward the bottle.

“I don’t suppose you know why she’s keeping an eye on us?” Ikari asked, watching Ongaku closely as she knelt across from him.

Mysemi took a sip, her eyes still on the sake. Ongaku offered a tight smile, dipping her gaze to the floor.

“Maybe she wants you,” she said, trying for levity. “You two had that fling, didn’t you?”

Ikari scoffed and waved it off. “That wasn’t serious. And she’s not watching me out of jealousy. Something’s off.”

He set his cup down gently, the soft click sounding far louder in the quiet. His gaze sharpened.

“You’re hiding something, Ongaku.”

Ongaku clicked her tongue, avoiding his eyes. “Guess there’s no keeping secrets from you,” she muttered. “I overheard something... but I’m not sure what it means.”

Ikari leaned forward. “What did you hear?”

“It was a few days ago. I caught her on the phone—it sounded like she was taking orders from someone.”

Ikari’s brow furrowed. “Kushina doesn’t take orders. She gives them.”

“I know,” Ongaku said, voice low. “But she mentioned needing to get a key and...”

“And?” Ikari’s voice dropped, taut with tension.

“She said something about finding Shana.”

Ikari shot to his feet, nearly toppling the table. He stormed toward the door.

“Brother, no—!” Ongaku scrambled after him. “Shit.”

At the entrance, Ikari jammed his feet into his boots. “What are you doing?” she demanded.

“Getting answers.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

He didn’t reply. He just kicked on his second boot and yanked open the door.

Ongaku rushed to slip on her sandals, glancing back. Mysemi hadn’t moved, still clutching her cup, one hand slowly twisting the sake bottle in place. Ongaku’s lips pressed into a thin line. There wasn’t time to argue about her sister’s drinking—not with Ikari ready to burst through walls.

She followed him out, the wooden porch groaning beneath their steps. Her sandals slapped softly as she hurried to catch up. Ikari crossed the street in four long strides, his eyes locking with Kushina’s through her window. Her face drained of color.

“Brother…” Ongaku warned.

Ikari grabbed the door handle and found it locked. “KUSHINA!” he roared, slamming his fist against the frame. “Open up! I know you’re in there!”

A crash of glass shattered the air.

Ongaku ducked around the side of the house. “Um. Brother…”

“Not now,” Ikari growled, stepping back to kick in the door.

“Yes, now! She’s running!”

“What?” He froze mid-kick, then turned just in time to see Kushina bolting down the road, her coat flaring behind her like wings of smoke.

“Kushina! Don’t you run from me!”

He took off, pounding after her, and Ongaku—swearing under her breath—charged after them both.

Sakura Yusuka pushed open the bar’s door, the hinges creaking as it swung wide. Her footsteps thudded on the worn wooden floor, the scent of old alcohol and cleaning solvent clinging to the air. She was nineteen, slim, and tanned, with a small-town kind of pretty. Her bob haircut framed her face, sharp as the anger in her eyes.

Inside, the place was quiet—just Kitomi and Izuna at the far end, their low voices mingling with the faint hum of a fridge behind the bar. A ceiling fan clicked overhead, stirring the stale air. The bar’s architecture feigned size: a raised stage, scattered instruments with cables coiled beside them, and a shuttered DJ booth. Tables and couches were pushed to the walls, empty, the upholstery faded from years of use.

Sakura stomped up to the bar, boots striking the floor with controlled force. She planted her hands on her hips. “What’s this?” she snapped, her voice cutting through the stillness. Her eyes narrowed at Kitomi and Izuna.

Kitomi smiled. “Hey, Saku—”

“What are you doing with Izuna?”

Kitomi placed a hand on Izuna’s shoulder. “Didn’t know he was your lost puppy.”

“He’s more mine than yours.”

Izuna shot Sakura down with a glance. “Don’t start with me, Sakura.” His eyes locked onto hers. “I’ve had just about enough of your nonsense.”

The words knocked the breath out of her. Sure, things had been off between them for a while, but never like this. Not in public. She’d once thought they’d leave this backwater town together, make it big in Tokyo. She’d joined his music gigs because of it, even though things had gone sour after she started working for Kushina. But what else was there to do in Serito?

From behind them came a new voice—soothing, even-toned, and mature.

“My two favorite people,” Amika Yusuka said as she entered, her low heels tapping against the floor. Her words were light, but her eyes weren’t. The scent of lavender clung faintly to her. Amika owned the bar and shared Sakura’s last name, though nobody knew why, and most didn’t care. She always looked after Izuna, never tangled with Kushina. That alone kept her in Izuna’s good graces.

“Evening,” Izuna said, sitting up straighter on the bar stool.

“So, are you two ready for your set tonight?”

“We are,” he said, then shot a glance at Sakura. “Right?”

Sakura forced a nod, still stung by his earlier words. “Yeah, of course.”

“Good,” Amika was already moving away. “You’re on after the first act. I’d better get them set up.”

A scream cut through the air from outside, sharp and sudden. A woman sprinted past the open door, boots slapping against the pavement. All three of them turned to look.

“Was that—,” began Izuna, just as a man and another woman ran past, “Kushina?”

Kitomi stood with a sigh, pushing her stool back. “I better see what’s up.” She leaned in, kissed Izuna on the cheek, and threw a glance at Sakura before heading out. “Don’t wait up.”

Sakura took Kitomi’s seat, her fingers curled loosely around the edge of the bar as she stared at the door. She wasn’t about to go chasing after her boss—not now.

Izuna shrugged and turned back to his drink. The clink of glass against wood followed.

Sakura swallowed. “Izuna?”

“What?”

“Um, is there anything between you and... and Kitomi?”

Izuna didn’t even look at her. “I don’t see how it’s any of your business if there was.”

The answer hit harder than she expected. “She’s insane.”

Izuna scoffed. “You’re one to talk.” He shifted in his seat as the stage lights flickered on, casting harsh white beams across the floor. The bar was still quiet, but the low murmur of new arrivals began to build near the entrance. They’d be up there soon, front and center, pretending everything was fine. But knowing it wasn’t.

“Kushina!” Ikari was sick of running, not tired, but his blood was beginning to boil. Behind him Ongaku kept up, just barely, hiking up her kimono so it wouldn’t get in the way, her wooden sandals slapping on the tar.

Ahead of them Kushina ran hard, one arm swinging wildly as she screamed and barked into her phone, she took a corner, Ikari and Ongaku followed, and stopped dead. Before them was the town hall, a squat, fat building kneeling in the centre of town. Kushina’s headquarters. Surrounded by twenty men and women holding pistols and rifles.

Kushina spun to face Ikari, sweating, breathing heavy, but with a smile plastered across her face. Ikari reached for the revolver stuck in the back of his belt, hand pausing on the grip.

“Brother.” Ikari looked over his shoulder at Ongaku, and followed her gaze. Behind them another ten of Kushina’s soldiers stood, guns aimed at the siblings.

Ikari gritted his teeth, “Well, now this is fuck up isn’t it?”

 The floor throbbed under his boots. Bass rolled through Amika’s bar like thunder, shaking dust from the rafters. Izuna’s fingers moved fast over the keys, right hand juggling sliders and dials. Sweat soaked the back of his neck. Lights—red, violet, electric blue—flashed across the crowd, painting faces that pulsed with movement.

Sakura’s voice cut through the noise. Clean. Sharp. Not perfect, not polished, but real. She didn’t sing like a pop star. She sang like someone trying to claw her way out of a collapsing world.

“This is what you wanted… This is what you asked for…”

And the room believed her.

Izuna didn’t look at the crowd. Didn’t need to. He felt them. Every cheer. Every stomp. The way they moved, all tethered to the beat, to him. For once, his head wasn’t filled with debts or threats or things left unsaid. Just sound. Just rhythm. Just her voice... and his hands.

He threw himself into the next build-up, fingers hammering the keys. His breath came hard. Chest tight. This—this—was what made everything else worth it. This was why he stayed. Why he risked it all. Not for credits. Not for favors. For this. The fire under his skin when a drop landed just right, when the crowd moved like one thing, when the sound felt like all there was in the world

Sakura hit the final chorus like a punch to the ribs. Raw. Beautiful. Izuna backed her up with a surge of chords, letting the synth cry underneath her voice. The room came undone. Screaming. Jumping. Nothing mattered except this exact second in time.

Then silence.

And for half a heartbeat, it was holy.

The crowd exploded. Hands in the air. Voices hoarse. Sakura’s eyes found his through the blur. She was smiling.

He let the sound die slow, trailing off into ambient echoes.

And then he saw him.

Back left of the crowd. Half in shadow. Some kid, maybe sixteen, hood low, fingers fast and subtle as he handed off a packet. The buyer slipped it into her coat without blinking. Business as usual.

Izuna’s stomach tightened. Another one of Kushina’s dogs. And for a moment, just a moment he look like Sakura. And that’s because he did.

Same look. Same corner. Same mistake.

The beat was gone. The lights still blinked, but the moment had passed. All that was left was heat and the ache in his hands. And the truth.

She’d dealt once. Maybe more. And he’d looked the other way.

He wasn’t sure he could do it again.

A loud bang cracked in the distance, and for a brief while Izuna thought it was a gunshot. But that couldn’t be right.

Could it?