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.