Ezra had just finished helping Sakura tie up the strange girl when it started.

Gunfire. Shouting. Screams.

Dozens of voices, overlapping, chaotic. Then the sharp report of rifles and pistols cut through the night like a buzzsaw through wet bone.

Ezra grabbed Sakura by the collar and yanked her down. They slammed flat against the wooden floor just as a bullet punched through the window and shattered the mirror above the dresser. Glass exploded, tinkling over them like deadly snow.

Then silence. The kind of silence that wasn't real. The kind that pressed against your eardrums and screamed underneath, ready to burst open again. Ezra’s heartbeat thundered in her chest, each thump echoing louder than the gunshots had. Her hands trembled. She hadn’t even realized she was holding her breath until her lungs burned for air.

Sakura whimpered, maybe from pain, maybe from fear. Ezra couldn’t tell. Couldn’t care. Not right now.

She crawled to the broken window, eyes scanning the darkness, heart in her throat. Then she saw them.

Bodies.

Dozens of them. Strewn across the street like discarded dolls. Limbs twisted. Blood pooling. Some still twitching.

And not strangers.

These were Kushina’s people. Her crew. Ezra recognized faces, even in the dark. Faces she’d fought beside. Eaten with. Laughed with.

Dead.

“What the bloody hell is going on?” she snarled, stumbling out the door, boots crunching over spent shell casings. She knelt beside one of the corpses, checking for signs of life she knew weren’t there.

Not Izuna. He wasn’t among them. Thank God. But that was the only mercy tonight offered.

Sakura’s voice drifted out from the house behind her. “What is this?” Her face was swelling fast—ugly bruise spreading from cheekbone to jaw where Mysemi had smacked her face into the counter.

Ezra shook her head. “I don’t know. But I’m going to find Kushina. Figure out what the hell just happened.”

Sakura pointed a thumb back toward the house. “What about her?” Mysemi, bound and fortunitly still unconscious.

“Lock her in the bathroom or something. We’ll deal with her later.”

Sakura hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. I’ll come with you.”

“No,” she said softly, a thread of sympathy weaving into her voice. “You’ve been through enough tonight. Get some rest. I’ll find you when it’s over.”

For a moment, Sakura didn’t move. Just stood there, framed in the doorway, a girl who’d been shoved face-first into hell and told to smile.

Then she nodded again. Slower this time.

Ezra turned back toward the bodies, toward the dark.

She was going to find whoever had done this.

And make them pay.

Amika was halfway through a much-needed gin when the knocking started.

She’d been hearing fireworks all night—at least, that’s what she told herself. Loud cracks and staccato bursts that sounded far too much like gunfire. But that couldn’t be right. Her forty-something ears must’ve been playing tricks on her again. She sighed, rolled her eyes, and took one last swig of her drink, draining it in a single swallow. Then she got up.

The knocking came again. More insistent.

“What do you think you’re doing making a racket at—” she snapped the door open—and froze.

Standing on her porch were Ikari, Izuna, Kitomi, and Ongaku.

Blood ran down Izuna’s arm in thin, dark rivulets. Kitomi held a pistol. Ongaku cradled a rifle like it was part of her. And Ikari—calm, grim Ikari—had a revolver in his hand, still warm.

The sight was surreal. Like something out of a bad dream.

“I’m sorry about this,” Ikari said. His voice was steady, but his eyes were twitching, scanning the dark behind her. “But this is the only place they won’t look.”

Amika blinked. Then she stepped aside. “Well, get in then.”

She led them inside. Ikari collapsed onto the couch like his bones had turned to liquid. Kitomi and Ongaku followed, settling into the living room with all the grace of hunted animals. Meanwhile, Amika took Izuna by the arm, her fingers tightening as she saw the bleeding more clearly.

“Bathroom. Now.”

Izuna didn’t argue. He just followed her down the hall, breathing shallow, face pale.

She fetched the first aid kit, clicked it open and snipped back his blood-soaked sleeve. The wound was ugly, but clean—no shrapnel, no deep muscle damage. Just a gash. Painful, but survivable.

“You’re lucky,” she said, winding gauze around his arm. “Looks worse than it is.”

Izuna grimaced. “Amika-san… How do you know them?”

She paused. Her hands stilled.

“They’re… family.”

“That man—he called me his brother. But that’s not true. That can’t be right. Can it?”

Amika nodded. Just once.

“It is.”

Izuna’s mouth opened, but the words didn’t come out right away. His face twisted. “And you never told me?” he whispered. “All this time… I thought I was alone. How do you even know he’s my brother?”

“Because,” she said quietly, “he’s my nephew. Just like you.”

Something broke in his face. “You—” He stood, backing away. His hands curled into fists, his body shaking with rage. “You knew. You knew and you said nothing! You left me in that damn orphanage. You let me rot in there thinking I had no one!”

“Izuna—” Amika looked down. “I know you’re angry. You have every right to be. But I had my reasons. We all did. And I swear to you, we’ll tell you everything.”

She looked up and met his eyes.

“But not now. We need to survive this. Then… we talk.”

Izuna didn’t respond. Just stood there, fists trembling. Then, without a word, he turned and walked back to the living room.

She followed.

Ikari talked when she entered. He told her everything. The firefight. The ambush. Mysemi. Kushina.

When Ikari was done, silence settled over the room. Heavy as smoke.

Amika broke it.

“So,” she asked quietly, “what are you going to do?”

Ikari stood.

“I’m going to end this.”

“How?” Ongaku asked, eyes wide, voice brittle.

“I know where Kushina lives,” he said. “I’ll go alone. I can sneak in, find out where Mysemi is. Get her out.”

“You can’t!” Ongaku jumped to her feet. “You’ll be killed!”

Ikari placed a hand on her shoulder. “It’s easier if I go alone. I can reason with her. We were close once.”

His voice faltered slightly. Just for a moment.

Amika caught it. “And if you can’t reason with her?”

Ikari’s face hardened.

“Then I kill her,” he said. “And anyone else who stands in my way.”

Dark bags clung to Kushina’s eyes. She checked her phone. 02:04. To say it was a long night would be an understatement. Ikari had vanshied, despite their best efforts to find them. That was for the best. Kushina hoped he would stay that way, killing him would only bring her trouble, but he’d forced her hand when he shot Aoi, as justified as he was.

She stepped inside, the hallway dim and silent. Her shoes came off with a tired kick, left near the entrance. The lights flicked on with a soft click, flooding the room with cold brightness that made her squint. All she wanted was sleep, but she doubted it would come even if she tried.

Instead, she turned toward the living room. A stiff drink was in order.

She froze in the doorway.

Ikari sat on her favorite sofa, one leg crossed over the other, a revolver loose in his grip, lazily pointed in her direction.

“Ikari,” she said, heart thudding once, hard. “Jesus. What are you doing here?”

“Putting an end to this.”

Kushina clenched her jaw, her eyes flicking to the sideboard stocked with sake, whiskey, and a few half-finished bottles of wine. She walked over, picked the whiskey, and poured herself a glass, her hand steady despite the tension in the room.

“You think it’s that easy?” she asked quietly. “I never wanted any of this. But you had to go and kill that boy.”

“He shot at me first.”

“Maybe. But it didn’t stop there, did it?” She took a sip and turned to face him. “How many of my men have you killed tonight? Thirty? Forty?”

Ikari didn’t answer.

“Even if I told them to stand down, they wouldn’t listen now. You know better than anyone how intoxicating revenge is.”

“Then I’ll leave,” he said. “All of us.”

“You should’ve done that instead of coming here.”

“And leave my sister behind?” His voice hardened. “Even you aren’t that stupid. Just tell me where she is.”

“How the hell should I know?”

“Your people took her!”

“What?”

Ikari stood. The revolver lifted, his grip tightening around the handle.

“I’m not in the mood, Kushina. Tell me where she is. I don’t want to kill you. But I will.”

“You—”

“Mommy?”

Ikari’s eyes snapped toward the archway dividing the room from the hall.

A small girl stood there, barely knee-height, pink pajamas wrinkled from sleep, rubbing at her eyes with balled fists. She blinked at him, then waddled across the floor and clung to Kushina’s leg.

“Mommy, who’s that?” she asked, pointing at Ikari.

Kushina stared at him, eyes cold.

“That,” she said, “is your father.”