Yuno Gasai slammed Matsuka into the concrete wall of the crowded club, timing it to the beat. The bass thudded through the floor, rattling her ribs. Strong for sixteen, though her face looked older. Her all-black outfit made her blend into the crowd: combat boots, jeans, leather jacket zipped halfway up over a fitted shirt. The only thing that stood out was the ruined bullet on a chain around her neck.

Her katana, Chobatsu, hung at her side, the lacquered sheath tapping her thigh with every step, a dull knock against her leg.

“You know what I want.”

“I don’t have it,” Matsuka said. His breath reeked of cheap whiskey, sharp and sour in her nose.

Yuno grabbed the hilt of Chobatsu. The grip was cold and familiar under her fingers.

“You sure you want to test me?” she asked. “You know who I am, don’t you?”

Matsuka swallowed hard, his throat jumping. She could hear it, barely, over the music.

He’d heard the stories. Everyone had. The girl who gutted three men with a smile. Who walked out of a warehouse covered in blood that wasn’t hers.

He fumbled in his back pocket and pulled out a silver wristwatch. He held it out, his fingers trembling so badly the metal rattled.

Yuno snatched it. The watch felt greasy. “If you steal from Kojiro again, you going to lose more than a few teeth.”

“Teeth?”

The hilt of her sword shot up, driving into his mouth with a sickening crack. It slid back into its scabbard, never fully drawn. Yuno turned to leave, not bothering to watch him spit blood, nor seeing the incisor drop on the sticky floor. The soles of her boots peeled away from the gum-laced tile with faint suction as she walked.

She pushed through the back door into a narrow alley behind the club. The air was cold and wet with old rain. She leaned against a wall slick with condensation, the brick rough against her shoulder blades. Her fingers rested near Chobatsu’s guard. Just in case.

A limo rolled up to the curb, tires hissing on the damp asphalt.

The back window lowered halfway. Yuno stepped up, slipped the watch inside, and took the envelope offered in return. The paper was thick, smooth, and slightly damp at the edges.

The window slid back up. The limo pulled away.

It wasn’t a clean life. But clean didn’t pay. Someone had to do the jobs Ikari wouldn’t, and living a normal life wasn’t for Yuno, it never had been. Besides, fighting was all she was good at, and they wouldn’t let her in a ring with a sword.

Her phone buzzed, a dull vibration through her jeans.

She pulled it from her pocket, thumbed the screen on, and read the message.

Mysemi was in trouble. Again.

No details. Just an address.

Serito. It was going to take the better part of two hours to get there, if she could find a train that was still running. Not that it mattered, she would do anything for Mysemi. She’d loved her since they were both kids.

She typed two words, then slid the phone back into her jacket. And even though she was tired, a smile touched her lips.

I’m coming.

Ongaku stood by the front door, barefoot on the worn tatami mats. The woven straw felt cool and slightly rough beneath her feet. Her kimono was stained dark, flecks of blood drying along the collar. It clung to her skin, stiff and sticky. She pressed her palm to the frame, trying to steady herself.

Amika’s voice carried over the floorboards as she spoke to the others in the living room. The faint creak of shifting weight punctuated her words. Ongaku glanced at her phone: 04:25. Ikari was late.

She paced in front of the door, toes curling into the woven straw. Each step made her muscles ache with fatigue, a deep burn in her thighs and calves. “Come on,” she muttered, “where are you, you idiot.”

A sharp knock rattled the door. The sound snapped through the quiet house. Ongaku spun and yanked it open. Cool air hit her face. Ikari staggered inside, one hand pressed against the back of his neck. His shirt soaked red. Fresh drops landed on the floor with soft, wet splats.

“Not again.”

She caught him under his arm and half-carried him to the couch. His weight dragged against her, warm and unsteady. “He’s hurt,” Ongaku called. “Amika, hurry!”

Amika appeared with a first aid kit and knelt beside them. Ongaku held Ikari upright as Amika opened the kit.

“That bitch shot you? I’m going to-”

He shook his head once, eyes flickering. “It wasn’t—” His words faded as his gaze blurred.

Amika ripped gauze and pressed it against the wound. The cloth darkened almost instantly, soaking up blood with a spreading heat. Ongaku knelt beside them, heart hammering, her pulse loud in her ears. She wiped sweat from her brow.

“Stay with me,” she whispered, a hand on his back.

His breathing slowed. His hand fell limply to his side, and his head lolled back. His eyes closed.

Ongaku sank beside him, chest heaving, every muscle trembling. The room silent except for her own ragged breaths and the faint rustle of gauze against skin.

The train rocked gently as it sped through the countryside, dull lights flickering overhead. The car was mostly empty. Just a few passengers scattered in their seats, staring at their phones or half-asleep with earbuds jammed in.

Yuno sat near the rear, legs crossed at the ankle, her katana propped against the seat beside her.

She stared out the window, watching the darkness blur past, one hand resting loosely on the hilt.

A couple entered the train car at the next stop—mid-thirties, touristy types. Matching backpacks. The scent of hand sanitizer and fresh laundry clung to them. They looked so clean. So ordinary. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed like that. They were chatting, quiet laughter between them, until the woman noticed Yuno.

She stopped walking.

Tugged on her partner’s sleeve.

He followed her gaze.

His eyes dropped to the katana. Then to Yuno’s leather jacket. The bullet around her neck. The scar above her left eyebrow. Her face, blank and unreadable.

Yuno looked up at him, gave him a weak smile and a nod. The couple shuffled down the aisle. Chose seats at the far end of the car, three rows away. Yuno blinked. Shifted in her seat. Her stomach growled. She dug a protein bar out of her jacket pocket, ripped it open with her teeth, and took a bite.

She could feel his eyes on her. She glanced up, just once, locking eyes with him over the wrapper. He snapped his head forward, stiffening like he’d been caught stealing. She went back to chewing.

And the train rolled on.

A bright orange light was the first thing Ikari saw. He was lying on his back, on something cold and hard. He turned his head and sharp pain rippled through his neck, a stabbing jolt that made his muscles twitch.

“Fuck,” he mumbled, barely able to get the words out.

“You’re finally awake, you dumbass,” Ongaku flicked his forehead. “I told you not to go alone.”

Ikari chuckled—a mistake. It hurt like hell. His chest tightened, ribs aching. He was laying on a table, in the kitchen it seemed. The faint smell of antiseptic clung to the air, mixing with something metallic. He was just glad to be alive.

“You should be careful. I stitched you up, but it’s going to take a while to heal.” Ikari followed the voice—Amika.

“Thank you,” he said, voice thin.

Amika shook her head. “No need for that. You were lucky, but we won’t know if you have any nerve damage until you’re able to move a bit.”

“Did you kill her?” It was Izuna, sitting next to Ikari. The blood inside pulsed sluggishly, warmth bleeding under both their skin. Ikari looked at the tube, then back at his brother.

Izuna shrugged. “I’m your only match. So did you kill Kushina?”

“No... I couldn’t.”

“You didn’t get a chance?”

“I did but—” Ikari sighed. “I just. I can’t kill her.”

Ongaku frowned, her brows pulling together. “What about Mysemi?”

“She doesn’t have her.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I don’t know where she is but... it’s not with Kushina.”

“Then,” Ongaku stepped back, her shoulders slumping. The fabric of her jacket rustled. “This was all for nothing, and that bitch shot you. I’m going to—”

“No, it wasn’t her. We can’t kill her.”

“What do you mean we can’t kill her? She’s been sending her men after us the entire night!”

“I know,” Ikari closed his eyes, bracing against the pain. His pulse pounded weakly in his temples. “I know.”

Kitomi stepped forward. She had been leaning against a wall, her arms crossed and her mouth shut. “The way I see it, we have three options. We run, fight, or die. Since you don’t seem like you want to fight any more, and I’m not willing to die, we have to run.”

“Maybe,” said Izuna. “I still don’t think I get what’s going on, but we clearly can’t stay here any more. But even if we wanted to run, Kushina will have the entire town locked down.”

“That’s fine,” said Amika. “There is a way out, one which Kushina won’t know about. We have to go to Berlin anyway.” She paused. “I can get us all there, and then... I don’t know, but we can figure things out. It will give us time.”

Izuna cocked his head at her. “Just who the hell are you? Some club manager shouldn’t be able to do all this.”

“That doesn’t matter right now.”

“All that’s left is finding my sister,” said Ongaku. “I won’t leave without her. Neither will Ikari.”

Izuna rubbed his chin, the bristle of stubble scratching audibly. For a moment, they stood in silence.

“She’s not... a blonde girl by any chance? A teen, about this tall.” He gestured with his hand.

Ongaku’s eyes widened, “You’ve seen her? You know where she is?”

Izuna shrugged. “Well, I know where she was. If she’s still there, she should be safe. She’s with a... friend.”

“Good. Then we only need to fetch her, and we can get out of this damn town.” Muttered Ikari, closing his eyes. He would give almost anything to just crawl into bed and stay there for a week, or two. But he doubted that would be an option any time soon. Kushina would likely follow them to Berlin, or send someone to finish them off. And she still knew something about Shana, his dear Shana.

The sky was bleeding into grey. Not quite dawn, not quite night. Just that in-between stillness when even the birds hadn’t started.

Yuno walked alone.

Boots crunching on gravel. The road to Serito was narrow, flanked by low walls and wilting hedges. Fog hung low, clinging to the ground like it didn’t want to leave. Her breath clouded in the chill.

Up ahead, a makeshift barricade of barrels and nailed planks had been thrown across the road. One man stood guard.

Middle-aged. Tired eyes. Bulletproof vest over a padded jacket. A handgun holstered at his side.

He straightened up when he saw her.

“You can’t go in,” he called.

Yuno didn’t stop walking.

“Town’s on lockdown,” he said. “Orders.”

Yuno stopped a pace away. Her face gave nothing.

“I need to find someone,”

He shook his head. “Don’t care if it’s your mother. You’re not getting through.”

His eyes drifted. Down to her hip. The long, worn scabbard. His hand moved, subtle, toward his own weapon.

“You even know how to use that thing?” His fingers hovered above the pistol.

Yuno unsheathed Chobatsu in one clean motion. A faint hiss of steel on steel.

The blade flashed once, too fast to follow. Then everything stopped.

Red glistened along the steel. Not dripping. Just a fine line, like a brushstroke.

She flicked it off with a sharp twist of her wrist.

Chobatsu slid back into its sheath with a quiet click.

The man just stood there.

Still.

Then his head slid off his shoulders.

It hit the ground with a dull thud. His body followed half a second later.

Blood pooled in the dirt, dark and steaming.

Yuno didn’t look back.

She stepped over the body, past the broken barricade, and into the village. She checked the GPS on her phone, it wasn’t far. Good, all she needed to do was go to where Mysemi was being held. And kill anyone she found there.