The interior of Rococo lay dark and silent, illuminated only by the amber glow of the streetlamps filtering through the front windows and stretching long shadows across the vinyl wood flooring. Chairs had been flipped upside down over the tables for the night, while the warm light caught against the red-brick walls and the chrome finish of the coffee machines lining the space behind the café counter. A thin protective sheet had been drawn over the mugs, cups, and utensils arranged across the bar, but even with the kitchen long since closed, the air still carried the lingering scent of roasted coffee, freshly ground espresso beans, sweet cinnamon, and flavored syrups that seemed to have seeped permanently into every corner of the quaint little café.
The digital display on the microwave read four in the morning when the sound of heavy footsteps began thudding down the wooden staircase behind the service entrance, competing with the increasingly impatient rapping against the glass at the front of the store. Saburo yawned as he descended, an incoherent grumble rumbling in the back of his throat while he rubbed at one eye, his half-lidded stare and sour expression making it painfully obvious that whoever was outside had dragged him from what might have been the best sleep he had managed in months.
"Alright, alright, I'm coming, I'm coming, so cool your damned jets!" Saburo shouted as the knocking grew louder. He reached the bottom of the stairs while tugging his loosely worn yukata closed over his white pajamas, then slapped at the light switches until the café gradually came alive beneath the warm amber fixtures. "God help me if it's another one of those goshdarned Mormon or Jehovah's Witness types, because I swear I'm gonna rip that damned Bible outta their hands and shove it straight up their—"
The rest of the threat died in his throat.
Saburo stopped dead when he saw Light, Daichi, and Dahlia standing beyond the glass doors, with Dahlia barely upright between them and one arm draped over each of their shoulders. Her racing silks were torn almost beyond recognition, one sleeve scraped down through several layers of fabric and stiff with dried blood, while bruises, cuts, and swelling covered enough of her face that even from inside the café he could tell she was dangerously close to collapsing.
"Holy flipping hell," Saburo breathed as he immediately fumbled for the keys, unlocked the door, and pulled it open wide enough for all three of them to stagger inside. "What the hell happened to you?"
"The Stakes happened," Daichi replied as he and Light helped Dahlia across the threshold. "And somehow, Dahlia won."
"Wait, hold on." Saburo raised both hands as his eyes snapped toward her. "Dahlia won the Stakes?"
Dahlia managed to lift her head and gave him a crooked, exhausted smile before raising one thumb. "Yup, hard to believe, huh? I mean, I got punched, kicked, clobbered, smashed through a whole damned building, and had to outrun a train, but I crossed that line."
"A building… and a train?" Saburo repeated, his confusion deepening as he stared at her. "Kid, you're not making a damned bit of sense."
"It's a long story, Saburo-san," Light cut in, adjusting Dahlia's arm around her shoulders as the younger uma began sagging again. "But that wasn't even the worst part, because C.H.A.S.E. showed up afterward and…" She paused. "Everything's just a big mess."
"C.H.A.S.E.?" Saburo drew in a slow breath and released it, irritation immediately replacing the confusion on his face. "Goddammit, I knew it was only a matter of time before those bastards came crashing down on one of these races. I could see that coming from a mile away." His eyes traveled over Dahlia again, and whatever questions he still had were pushed aside by concern. "Forget it, we can talk about all that later, because right now you look like somebody ran you over, backed up, and did it again just to make sure."
He turned toward Light and Daichi, his tone shifting into something far more commanding. "Get her upstairs to Logan's place, and don't let her walk on her own if you can help it. Light, there should be fresh towels in the bathroom, so get those bloody clothes off her and clean her up as best you can while I grab my medical kit. We'll patch whatever we can tonight, and once the sun comes up, we're getting her to a hospital whether she likes it or not."
"You're making way too big a fuss, Master," Dahlia protested weakly. "I'll be fine. It's just a couple of scrapes and bruises, nothing serious."
"No offense, kid, but I've spent enough years getting the hell beaten out of me to know the difference between a scraped knee and somebody who just had her ass handed to her," Saburo replied, fixing her with a level stare. "You look like hell, you can barely stand, and I'm not interested in hearing any backtalk while you're dripping blood on my floor." He glanced toward Daichi and jerked his head toward the stairs. "Get moving before she keels over right here."
"On it," Daichi said as he adjusted his grip around Dahlia, exchanging a quick look with Light before the two of them started guiding her toward the rear staircase.
They had only taken a few steps when something suddenly occurred to Saburo.
"Wait, hold on a second," he called, causing all three of them to stop. His eyes moved from Daichi to Light and finally to Dahlia as a faint unease crept into his expression. "Where's Logan?"
None of them answered.
Daichi's face tightened, Light lowered her gaze, and whatever remained of Dahlia's exhausted smile disappeared as the three of them stood silently beneath the café lights. Saburo watched their expressions change, and before anyone could force the words out, the color slowly drained from his face as realization settled over him.
"Oh, no."
****
Logan's head snapped violently to the side as a bare knuckle crashed across his cheek, sending blood spattering over the dull concrete floor. Fresh cuts, bruises, and gashes covered his face, while another thin stream of blood worked its way from the corner of his mouth and traced along his jaw. The interrogation room was washed in the sterile glare of a single halogen fixture overhead, its faint electrical hum blending with the steady rush of air-conditioning through the vents, while a trace of perfume, more chemical than pleasant, lingered strangely within the confined space.
The room itself was barely larger than a small bathroom, containing little more than a steel table and two matching chairs, with no windows apart from the one-way mirror to Logan's left and the heavy door directly ahead of him. Another man in a black suit stood silently in the far-right corner, his expression carefully blank, though the nervous bob of his throat every few seconds told Logan exactly how uncomfortable he was with what he was witnessing.
Logan slowly shook the daze from his head and felt the cold steel cuffs biting into his wrists, his arms restrained behind the chair in a position that had become almost laughably familiar over the years. He had first learned the feeling in the back of a squad car, then through court appearances and eventually during the long years he had spent behind bars, so being chained to another chair barely registered anymore.
His gaze lifted toward the nearly balding detective standing across from him, who was grimacing and flexing the hand he had just used, apparently discovering that punching someone in the face hurt more than television made it look. Logan's eyes then drifted toward the one-way mirror, catching his own battered reflection beneath the harsh light, and as he studied the blood, swelling, and familiar defiance staring back at him, a slow smirk carved itself across his face, one he had not worn in a very long time.
"What the hell are you smiling about?" the detective demanded, flexing his bruised knuckles before taking another step closer. "Maybe this hasn't sunk in yet, but you're in a hell of a lot of trouble, Deschain. Obstruction of justice, assaulting a police officer, participating in an illegal gathering, involvement in an illegal race, and depending on how tonight shakes out, maybe we even find a way to tack manslaughter onto the pile."
Logan's eyes shifted toward the camera mounted high in the corner of the ceiling, where a tiny red indicator glowed from inside the casing. The detective followed his line of sight, glanced toward the camera, then looked back with an ugly sneer. "What, you worried about the camera?" he asked. "You think that thing's gonna save you?"
He answered his own question by hooking another fist across Logan's face, the crack of the impact filling the tiny room loudly enough that the silent man in the corner visibly flinched.
"I don't give a shit if you used to be the Hand of freakin' God!" the detective snarled as Logan slowly turned his face back toward him. "You oughta know your place by now, because in here, this is my house. I can do whatever the hell I want, and after what happened tonight, I can hang the whole damned disaster around your neck if I feel like it."
He leaned closer, his face tightening with anger. "So, before we're done, I'm gonna make sure you understand one thing real clearly, and that's that you ain't walking outta here in one piece."
The detective slapped his palm onto the document lying across the steel table, making the pen beside it jump and rattle against the surface. "Sign it, and maybe I put in a good word when this gets upstairs. You've already got ten years under your belt, so what's another ten?"
Logan's shoulders began to shake with a low chuckle as he slowly lifted his head, looked from the detective to the document, and spat a bloody mixture of saliva across the paper.
The detective recoiled with an angry cry, jerking his hand away and shaking droplets from his fingers as Logan looked up at him.
"Detective Okabe, right?" Logan asked, his bloodied grin widening. "First off, cut the whole bad-cop, dumb-cop routine, 'cause you ain't any damned good at it. Maybe it works on some dumbass you drag in off the street who's never seen the inside of an interrogation room before, but it sure as hell ain't workin' on me."
He tilted his head slightly and rolled his tongue against the blood along his teeth. "Second, this ain't my first rodeo, not with pigs like you, and definitely not with some jackass who thinks he's gonna railroad me into signin' whatever bullshit confession he puts in front of me because he can throw a punch that hits like a freakin' pussy."
Okabe's face contorted, but Logan only chuckled again.
"Feels different, don't it?" Logan continued. "Hittin' somebody who can't fight back compared to hittin' somebody who won't, especially when that somebody spent years gettin' his ass handed to him behind bars."
His expression darkened as he leaned as far forward as the cuffs would allow. "Let me tell you somethin', shitface. I've been beaten, kicked, clobbered, stabbed, whipped, cut, slammed into concrete, and carved up six ways to Sunday by men twice your size and twice as mean, and somehow I'm still sittin' right here lookin' at you."
The smirk disappeared from Logan's face, leaving something colder behind.
"I ain't some poor sap workin' nine to five who's scared you'll ruin his life, I ain't some kid you caught shopliftin' candy from a thrift store, and most of all, I ain't your goddamned wife." Logan's eyes narrowed as he held Okabe's stare. "So, if you're gonna keep hittin' me, quit swingin' like a scared little bitch, take off your damned pannies, and hit me like a man!"
Okabe's expression twisted as he raised his fist again, but before he could bring it down, Logan tilted his head. "And 'sides, should you really be standin' here beatin' the shit outta me instead of, I don't know…" Logan's eyes narrowed. "Gettin' your ass as far away from this place as humanly possible?"
Okabe's fist stopped in midair.
Logan's dark eyes flicked toward the man standing in the corner, and the brief flash of panic that crossed his face told him everything he needed to know. "You really oughta teach your boys to keep their damned mouths shut," Logan said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
"Heard plenty in the back of that squad car. Couldn't help themselves, could they? Just kept talkin' about how you and your little crew went full Leeroy Jenkins," he said. "Your little psychos behind the wheel tryin' to take racers out, the MRA answerin' in kind, the whole damned thing blowin' up in everyone's faces."
Logan leaned back, watching the color drain from Okabe's face. "I kept wonderin' which dumbass came up with a plan that stupid, and would you look at that, turns out it was you." His grin widened. "And you did it without your bosses signin' off on it, didn't you?"
The anger on Okabe's face faltered, replaced by something much closer to fear.
"Here's the thing, I know your type," Logan continued, his gaze leveling on him. "Corrupt pieces of pig shit who think they're untouchable because they've got a badge, a few friends in the right places, and enough dirt on everyone else to keep the machine runnin'." His expression darkened. "And more importantly, I know about that little pen you've been swimmin' in with… HR."
Okabe's eyes widened. Logan saw it and smiled.
"Yeah, thought that might get your attention," he said. "And if I'm right, HR's got some kind of arrangement with the MRA, which means you didn't just royally mess up, you stepped all over somebody else's deal and set the whole damned city on fire in the process."
He drew in a slow breath and exhaled. "So, when the sun comes up, everyone's gonna know. Tokyo P.D.'s gonna know, HR's gonna know, and the MRA sure as hell is gonna know, which means you're gonna have all three breathin' down your neck at the same time."
Logan's smirk returned, colder now. "And I gotta say, I admire the absolute balls on you, standin' here wastin' time beatin' the shit outta me when you should already be halfway to Cancun with a burn bag, a fake passport, and a whole new name."
He shifted against the cuffs, never taking his eyes off Okabe.
"'Cause believe me, jackass, you can hit me all night if it makes you feel better. This ain't nothin' compared to what they're gonna do to you when they catch up." Logan paused, and the look in his eyes sharpened. "That is, if she doesn't get to your ass first."
The silence settled heavily over the interrogation room, stretching long enough that even the faint hum of the air-conditioning seemed louder than before. Okabe planted one hand on the steel table and leaned closer, the anger on his face giving way to something colder as he studied Logan from across the narrow space.
"You think you've got all of this figured out, don't you?" he asked as a shadow fell across his features. "That's why you're sitting there looking so damned smug, like nothing I say or do can touch you."
He leaned in until only a short distance separated them, his eyes fixed on Logan's. "Maybe you are that hardass in the chair. Hell, you're right, I could beat on you all day and you'd probably just spit blood in my face and laugh about it." Okabe's mouth curled faintly before he added, "But can you honestly say the same thing about that girl of yours?"
Logan's eyes widened as the smirk vanished from his face, the meaning behind those words hitting him hard enough to leave his expression slack.
****
The glass sliding doors of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department rattled against their steel tracks as Lightning and Red stepped through the entrance, walking straight into the middle of absolute bedlam. Officers, detectives, administrators, and people in suits rushed across the polished lobby in every direction, humans and umas alike carrying armfuls of files, radios, evidence bags, and hastily printed reports while loose sheets of paper slipped from folders and scattered across the floor behind them. Phones rang from nearly every desk, voices overlapped at different volumes, and the constant hum of the escalators blended with the sharp clatter of loafers and boots pounding up and down the steps beneath the harsh white and amber glow spilling from the high ceiling.
Everything had gone to hell from the moment the race began, one mistake piling onto another until the entire operation had snowballed beyond anyone's control. Lightning's expression tightened as she crossed the lobby, her fists clenched so hard inside her gloves that her nails threatened to bite into her palms, while Red walked beside her with an expression every bit as severe.
Lightning knew her partner well enough to recognize the warning signs, because Red was many things, but quiet was rarely one of them. The man could run his mouth for hours when he wanted to, which meant that whenever he went this silent, something ugly was usually coiling beneath the surface, and after watching his beloved Shelby get nearly destroyed tonight, he looked wound tighter than she had seen him in a long time.
Lightning's sapphire eyes moved constantly across the lobby as they passed, catching officers who had stopped long enough to recognize her before quickly looking away. Some wore obvious concern, while others seemed ready to mutter something under their breath about how badly the operation had gone, but one look at her face was apparently enough to make most of them reconsider. Whatever resentment or criticism they were carrying could wait until she was somewhere out of earshot.
"Hey, about time you two got back," Detective Nishimura called as he approached from the side, his injured arm secured in a sling. He fell into step with them and glanced between Lightning and Red before his brow furrowed. "What the hell happened to you two?"
"Seriously," another voice added as Kaito hurried up alongside Red, looking them both over with growing unease. "You look like somebody died."
Red's expression twisted as he turned a glare on Kaito so sharp that the younger detective immediately flinched and decided not to elaborate.
Lightning released a tired breath through her nose. "His car's trashed, which is why I'd recommend not mentioning it again unless you enjoy living dangerously," she said before her expression hardened. "As for me, I got into it with a girl I was trying to arrest, she got away, and then Raiko Tempest showed up and got away too. On top of that, three of my girls were jumped somewhere else in the district, and whoever did it hurt them bad."
"Shit, seriously?" Nishimura asked, his eyebrows rising. "Which three?"
"Katsuragi Ace, Fenomeno, and Yaeno Muteki," Lightning replied. "Whoever took them down wasn't screwing around either, because all three of them got beaten badly enough to end up in intensive care."
"Damn, those were some of my favorites back when they were still running," Kaito said, his expression dropping before he looked toward Nishimura. "Don't you know Meno's dad?"
"And her grandfather before he retired," Nishimura replied. "Her old man's still an active detective up in Hokkaido." His eyes widened slightly as the implication settled in, and he turned back toward Lightning. "They're gonna make it, right?"
"They're alive, thank God, and the doctors have them stabilized," Lightning said, though the tension in her face never eased. "I know those girls, and if anybody can pull through this, they can. What about the department, though? Do we have casualty numbers yet?"
Nishimura's expression hardened. "At least thirty dead, maybe more once they finish counting, and there are plenty of injured officers on top of that. We've got some banged-up civilians, but somehow no confirmed civilian fatalities so far, which is about the only good news we've got." He shook his head grimly. "Can't say the same for the officers and SAT teams, especially the units O.R.O.C.H.I. tore apart."
"Goddammit," Lightning hissed through clenched teeth, anger tightening every line of her face. "We had the operation planned down to the damned minute, and everything was under control until those sons of bitches turned the whole district into a war zone."
"Speakin' of sons of bitches," Red said suddenly, his first words since they entered drawing every eye toward him. He cracked his knuckles slowly as his expression darkened. "Where's Okabe and Narukami? Light and me are gonna go have a little talk with those jackasses."
"Well," Kaito began, tilting his head as a faint, uneasy smirk crossed his face, "Nishi-san and I only just got back ourselves, but I've got a few friends around the precinct who say nobody's seen Narukami since he left the station with his partner."
He paused before adding, "Okabe, though, arrogant bastard that he is, apparently decided this was a great time to haul somebody downstairs into one of the interrogation rooms. Honestly, I don't know how anyone gets that stupid and still remembers how to breathe."
Nishimura, Lightning, and Red exchanged a look, but Red had already turned away before anyone could say another word. He started making a straight line for the elevators, and Lightning immediately followed close behind him.
"I know you two are pissed, but for the love of God, don't kill him!" Nishimura shouted after them as he hurried to catch up.
"Pissed?" Red snapped over his shoulder as his temper finally broke through. "Nishi, I passed pissed about three goddamned exits ago. I swear on my momma's grave, by the time I'm done with that son of a bitch, Hell's gonna look like freakin' Heaven."
Lightning said nothing, though the look on her face made it clear she was not particularly interested in talking Red down.
Several steps behind them, Kaito and Nishimura exchanged a worried glance before Nishimura muttered, "We better get after them before they do something stupid enough to turn tonight into an even bigger disaster."
Kaito quickened his pace beside him, though there was very little urgency in his expression. "Then again, maybe somebody beating the hell out of Okabe has been a long time coming."
"I ain't worried about that shithead Okabe," Nishimura replied as they chased after Lightning and Red. "I just don't want the poor janitor getting stuck mopping pieces of him off the floor when those two are finished."
****
"What's her name again?" Okabe asked, tilting his head as though he genuinely had to think about it. "Oh, right, Nightingale." A cruel grin spread across his face as he watched Logan carefully. "Pretty little thing, ain't she?"
Logan's expression darkened immediately, his eyes narrowing as his jaw clenched hard enough to make the muscles along his cheek twitch. The short chain between his handcuffs clicked against itself when he pulled against the restraints, the steel digging deeper into his wrists as the atmosphere inside the cramped interrogation room seemed to turn colder around him. Even the steady current of air-conditioning against his skin suddenly felt like ice.
"You know, when word got around that you'd thrown in with the MRA, I wasn't surprised in the slightest," Okabe continued, clearly enjoying the reaction he had finally managed to draw from him. "Birds of a feather and all that, but you playing trainer again? That one caught me off guard." He scoffed softly and shook his head. "Everybody in the MRA was betting against you and that little bird of yours, but holy hell, you two sure made a lot of people eat their words tonight."
Logan said nothing, though a sharp breath passed through his nostrils as his stare remained fixed on Okabe.
"I'm telling you right now, I don't give a shit what happens after tonight," Okabe said, leaning closer. "HR can bitch all they want, and the MRA can throw whatever tantrum they feel like throwing. The Chief's got my back because he needs me, and those fat pricks in HR need somebody to remind them that they ain't the law around here."
He bared his teeth as he spoke, bringing with him the rancid smell of stale cigarette smoke. "Worst thing I get is a suspension, maybe a few weeks of paid leave while everybody pretends to investigate. Wouldn't be the first time, and sure as hell won't be the last."
His grin widened as something uglier entered his expression. "But once I'm off the clock, that's different. I'm gonna start looking for that little bird of yours, knocking on doors, asking questions, squeezing people until somebody finally gives me her real name and tells me exactly where she sleeps." He watched Logan closely as he continued. "Then, I'm gonna take her, hurt her in ways she'll never forget, and when I'm finished, I'll hand whatever's left of her over to the Umagoya and make myself enough money for a nice long vacation."
Logan's gaze slowly dropped toward the floor, but the tension in his shoulders only grew tighter.
"And don't worry, Deschain, because I'll make sure the whole thing gets recorded," Okabe continued, mistaking the silence for helplessness. "Then I'll strap you into a chair, put the footage right in front of you, and make you watch every damned second of what happens to her so you can spend the rest of your life remembering that you couldn't do a thing to stop—"
Logan moved before Okabe could finish.
His boot drove into the side of Okabe's knee hard enough to buckle the detective's leg beneath him, drawing a cry from his throat as he collapsed against the table and sent the steel furniture screeching across the floor. Before Okabe could regain his balance, Logan lunged forward as far as the cuffs allowed and smashed his forehead into the detective's face, crushing his nose beneath the impact and sending blood pouring over his mouth.
Okabe staggered in close, stunned and disoriented, which gave Logan the opening he needed to clamp his teeth across the already ruined bridge of the man's nose. Okabe screamed as Logan bit down with savage force, the sound filling the enclosed room while the man in the corner froze in horror. Logan growled through clenched teeth and tore backward before driving a kick into Okabe's stomach, throwing him backwards into the wall hard enough to leave him slumped against the one way glass as blood spread across the floor between them.
Logan remained bent forward in the chair, breathing heavily as blood ran from his mouth and down his chin. He spat something wet onto the concrete near Okabe's shoe, and for several seconds the detective simply stared at it, seemingly unable to understand what he was seeing until his gaze finally settled on the torn piece of flesh lying at his feet.
A strangled sound escaped him as he turned toward the one-way mirror and caught sight of his reflection. His body began to shake.
Okabe raised trembling fingers toward the hole where his nose used to be, but the moment he touched his face, another cry tore from him and quickly became a full, terrified scream. The man standing in the corner remained rooted in place, too stunned by the sudden violence to intervene as Okabe stared at his own reflection in disbelief.
When he finally turned back, Logan was watching him through bloodied teeth with a cold, vicious smirk.
"You son of a bitch!" Okabe snarled, panic and fury colliding across his face as he ripped the pistol from his holster, racked the slide, and leveled it directly at Logan. His hands shook around the weapon as he pulled back the hammer. "You're dead, you hear me, dead!"
Before Okabe could squeeze the trigger, the interrogation-room door exploded inward with enough force to tear the lock from its housing and wrench the entire slab from its hinges. Twisted steel, splintered wood, bolts, and screws scattered across the concrete as the door crashed flat onto the floor with a deafening thud, startling both Okabe and the man standing in the corner into recoiling from the sudden violence.
"Okabe!" Lightning's voice tore through the cramped room as she stormed through the ruined doorway. "There you are, you punk-ass, nutless, cock-sucking piece of—!"
The insult died in her throat the instant she saw what was waiting inside.
Her sapphire eyes moved first to Logan, taking in the cuts and bruises covering his face, the blood running from his mouth and chin, and the handcuffs locking his arms behind the chair, before snapping toward Okabe and the pistol still clenched in his hand. For one brief moment, Lightning simply stared, her expression going completely slack as though her mind had refused to accept what she was seeing, and then something inside her seemed to break.
Her irises contracted to pinpricks as fury twisted across her face with such intensity that even Logan felt a chill run through him. He had known Lightning for years and had watched her lose her temper with Bee, with rivals, with officials, and with more idiots than he could remember, but never once had he seen an expression like this. A faint glow began emanating from her body as strands of her hair slowly lifted away from her shoulders, subtle enough that no one but Logan seemed to notice at first, while the air inside the tiny room became thick with a growing electrical charge and thin blue arcs crawled over her arms and shoulders.
Okabe finally recovered enough to swing the pistol toward her. He never got the chance to fire.
Lightning crossed the distance between them before the barrel had fully settled, her hand snapping around Okabe's wrist with enough force to stop him cold. She twisted once, violently, and the joint gave with a crack so loud it sounded like a gunshot. Bone punched through skin and tore through the sleeve of his shirt as the wrist folded at an impossible angle, blood spilling instantly down his forearm while a tortured scream ripped from his throat.
Lightning answered with a cry of her own and drove her right fist straight into his abdomen.
The impact folded Okabe around her arm before launching him backward into the wall. His spine and shoulders struck hard enough to crater the concrete, a small depression forming first before fractures burst outward in widening spiderwebs. Blood geysered from his mouth as his eyes bulged, and Lightning's fist remained buried deep against his gut for a fraction of a second while Logan stared in stunned disbelief.
He could almost hear the damage.
Ribs shattered beneath the blow with a sequence of wet, brittle cracks, fragments driving inward as the force compressed Okabe's torso. Blood poured from the ruined hole where his nose had been, seeped from his ears, and welled at the corners of his eyes while his body lost control under the trauma, urine darkening the front of his slacks as foul-smelling excrement leaked down the back of his legs and onto the floor.
Lightning did not stop. Her fists hammered into his ribs, stomach, chest, and face in a relentless barrage, each strike accompanied by the same furious cry tearing from her throat as blood splattered across her cheeks and soaked into the knuckles of her gloves. Okabe's head snapped from side to side beneath the punishment, fresh blood spraying from his mouth as teeth came loose and his already ruined face collapsed farther beneath the repeated impacts.
Every blow drove him harder into the wall, widening the fractures until the concrete behind him looked ready to break apart entirely. Lightning's fists had become slick with blood, but she kept hitting, rage pouring through every movement as though she could not even feel the damage she was doing to her own hands.
The man standing in the corner finally broke free of his shock and reached toward the holster at his side, but before his fingers could close around the grip, the unmistakable click of another pistol being leveled stopped him cold.
"Ah, ah, ah!" Red warned as he stepped into the doorway behind Lightning, his own sidearm already aimed squarely at the man's face. His expression was twisted with the same barely restrained fury. His tone dropped into a dangerous growl. "You reach for that piece, and I turn yer goddamned head into a canoe. Capisce?!"
The man froze with his hand suspended inches from the holster, then slowly lifted both arms above his head as his back pressed against the wall, nodding frantically while Lightning continued beating Okabe only a few feet away.
Lightning's fists came down with the force of sledgehammers, every impact driving through flesh and bone hard enough to send blood splattering across the floor, streaking the walls, and flecking the ceiling above them while fragments of enamel scattered across the concrete. Okabe's face grew less recognizable with every blow, swelling and breaking apart beneath the punishment until he looked like a jigsaw puzzle with pieces missing, while Lightning's gloves became soaked through with blood. Another furious cry tore from her throat as she seized him by the front of his shirt, ripped him away from the cratered wall, dragged him toward the steel table, and slammed him face-first into the chromed surface with enough force to dent it.
Before his body could sag, Lightning hauled him back up and drove his face down again, deepening the depression in the tabletop as blood smeared across the metal, then followed with a third slam that caved the steel farther inward and sent another spray of blood across the polished surface. She yanked him upright once more and let him sway on his feet for barely a second before pivoting sharply and driving a brutal back kick into the center of his chest, the blow lifting him completely off the floor and sending him crashing backward through the reinforced one-way glass.
The pane exploded around him as shards scattered into the observation room beyond, and Okabe's body struck the opposite wall hard enough to crater the surface before he collapsed heavily onto the floor amid the broken glass. Lightning remained where she stood, breathing hard as blood dripped steadily from her gloves and ran down over her knuckles, gathering in small puddles around her boots while the last of the fury slowly drained from her face.
When she finally turned back toward Logan, the rage that had consumed her was gone, replaced so completely by concern that the change in her expression was almost startling. Her eyes moved over the cuts, bruises, and blood covering his face before she immediately pulled off her gloves, tossed them aside, and crossed the room to him, cupping his face carefully in both hands as though afraid even the slightest touch might hurt him more.
"Are you okay?" she asked as she searched his face. "Are you hurt? What did that son of a bitch do to you?"
Logan blinked at her for a moment before a nervous chuckle slipped from him. "Would you believe me if I told you this ain't even the worst shape I've been in?" he said, tilting his head toward the shattered observation window. "Shit, remind me never to get on your bad side. I'm a mean son of a bitch when I need to be, but even I don't think I'd have walked away from the kind of ass-kickin' you just handed him."
Lightning bit down on her lower lip, guilt flickering across her face as her gaze drifted toward the broken glass before returning to him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for it…" she said, her words faltering as she struggled to finish the thought. "This wasn't how it was supposed to go, and I just…"
"Hey, hey, hey," Logan cut in gently, keeping his eyes on hers as his expression softened despite the blood streaking his face. "Don't do that to yourself. You're a cop, and sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. I ain't gonna hold that against you." He leaned slightly into her touch and managed a crooked smile. "Sides, it's gonna take a hell of a lot more than some limp-dick bastard like him to shake me up."
Lightning managed a faint smile as her sapphire eyes dropped to Logan's arms, still restrained behind the chair, but the softness vanished almost immediately when she turned toward the officer standing rigidly in the corner. "Keys," she demanded, holding out one hand as the man blinked at her in surprise. "KEYS!"
The officer glanced toward Red, but the detective merely lifted his pistol a fraction higher and fixed him with a hard stare. "You heard the lady," he said as the threat settled. "Now do it real slow. You reach for somethin' you ain't supposed to be reachin' for, and you're gonna spend the rest of the night breathin' through a tube, if you're lucky."
The man's eyes widened as he fumbled through his pockets with shaking hands, finally producing a small pair of silver keys and tossing them toward Lightning. She caught them cleanly and moved behind Logan, working the key into the cuffs until the lock gave with a metallic click. The restraints came free, and Logan immediately brought his hands forward and rubbed at the raw skin around his wrists.
"Man, it's been a long-damned time," Logan muttered, shaking his head as he flexed his fingers. "Still feels like it was yesterday."
He had barely gotten to his feet when Lightning threw her arms around him and held on tightly, burying her face against his chest as though the adrenaline that had been carrying her finally had somewhere to go. Logan's eyes widened for a moment before his expression softened, and he wrapped his arms around her in return as his eyes closed.
"Heh, and this still feels like yesterday for me too," he murmured.
Red's expression softened at the sight, but only for a second before his jaw tightened and he looked away, as though whatever weight had been pressing on his chest all night had suddenly grown heavier.
"Okabe, you piece of human slime!" Nishimura's voice cut through the room as the older detective appeared at the ruined doorway. "You're under arrest for—"
He stopped dead.
His eyes moved across the cratered wall, the blood smeared across the floor and steel table, and the shattered one-way glass leading into the observation room before his expression twisted into disbelief. "Gods above, what the hell happened in here?"
Kaito hurried past him and pulled open the door leading into the observation room, only to slow when he saw Okabe lying in a spreading pool of blood. A sharp whistle escaped him as he looked back over his shoulder. "Damn, Harlow-san. You really weren't kidding."
"You wish," Red replied, though there was no trace of humor in his face. He looked toward Kaito and jerked his chin toward the observation room. "You'd better call him an ambulance and tell 'em to move their asses, because he ain't got much time to waste."
His gaze then shifted toward the officer still pressed against the corner. "As for you, get your ass outta here and get the Chief on the line. Tell him he needs to bring his pasty ass down here pronto, because we've got business to discuss."
The officer nodded quickly and started toward the doorway, keeping himself pressed close to the frame as he slipped past Red and hurried into the hall. Red watched him go before turning back to Nishimura.
"Round up every clean cop we've got and start gettin' statements," he said, his expression hardening. "I want enough paperwork stacked up that those goddamned assholes in HR can't wriggle their way outta this, and I'll be damned if Yappy thinks he's gonna sweep the whole thing under the rug without gettin' his own ass burned in the process."
Nishimura gave a slow nod, casting one more look toward Lightning and Logan before releasing a heavy breath and heading back into the hallway.
Kaito already had his phone pressed to his ear as he stepped aside. "Moshi-moshi, officer down, I need an ambulance," he said, then paused as the dispatcher apparently asked for the location. "Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department." Another pause followed before his face tightened. "Yeah, I know how that sounds. It's a long story."
Red lowered his pistol, eased the hammer back down, and slid the weapon into his holster before looking once more toward Lightning and Logan beneath the harsh halogen lights. His shoulders sagged slightly as his gaze dropped, and he pinched the bridge of his nose while exhaling through clenched teeth.
"Goddammit all."
****
As the sun rose over Tokyo, it brought with it a heaviness that seemed to settle across the entire city. Even before the first amber rays reached the skyline, the presses were already running hot, feeding out page after page of black-ink headlines recounting everything that had happened across Shibuya the night before. Some publications kept their wording restrained, others leaned hard into shock, and more than a few openly condemned the failures that had allowed the situation to spiral so violently out of control.
The scars left behind by the Shibuya Stakes were impossible to ignore. Spent shell casings still littered sections of asphalt, bullet holes marked walls and storefronts, and shattered glass exposed ruined interiors to the morning air. One building had been torn open almost from top to bottom, a massive hole punched through multiple floors, while mangled vehicles sat abandoned along the streets where emergency crews had yet to clear them. On one rooftop, a crane was already working to wrench the twisted remains of a helicopter free from the structure as investigators and recovery teams moved through the wreckage below.
The streets remained packed with officers and emergency personnel, entire sections cordoned off behind caution tape while access points were controlled by police. Even the famous Shibuya Crossing had been sealed to the public, though none of that stopped the growing crowds from gathering along the perimeter with phones raised and cameras recording everything they could see.
Reporters moved constantly through the congestion, photographers snapped pictures of the damage, and newscasters were already delivering breaking-news segments across Japan and beyond as footage of the chaos spread around the world. For many watching from overseas, the images shattered the familiar perception of Japan as one of the safest countries in the world, replacing it with scenes that looked more like the aftermath of a battle.
At the Governor's Office, aides were already whispering that Omura had suffered a complete meltdown before he had even properly settled in for the day. The shouting had reportedly begun the moment he entered the building and continued all the way to his office, where he proceeded to call nearly everyone he could reach in positions of authority and unload his anger on them one by one. The only person he had failed to get through to was the Superintendent General himself, who had apparently ignored every call, which only sent Omura further over the edge.
Those close to Chief Ando, however, described a very different scene. Despite the hordes of reporters gathering outside the precinct and demanding answers, the man had remained eerily calm while his department worked through the fallout. Public opinion, at least for the moment, had swung heavily in favor of the police and especially C.H.A.S.E. for cracking down on the Shibuya Stakes, and whatever outrage had initially been building seemed to soften once news spread that Fenomeno, Katsuragi Ace, and Yaeno Muteki had all been seriously injured in the line of duty. Sympathy and admiration quickly began replacing anger, with much of the public focusing instead on the risks the agents had taken and the violence they had faced.
Red and Lightning, meanwhile, had spent the past several hours locked in debrief with every remaining member of C.H.A.S.E., along with Hidehito, going over the operation piece by piece and trying to make sense of how badly everything had unraveled. Neither of them was looking forward to what came next, because the microphones, cameras, and inevitable hard questions were already waiting outside. It was a song and dance they had both been through more times than they cared to remember, especially Lightning, but experience had never made her enjoy it any more.
Meanwhile, Melody and her friends had managed to slip away in the middle of the confusion, and although a few wandering officers gave them curious looks as they passed, none of them were stopped for questioning. Melody had come close once, her heart nearly leaping out of her chest when two officers called for her to stop, only for the pair to reveal that they were fans who wanted to congratulate her and, if she did not mind, ask for a photo and an autograph. Melody had barely recovered from the scare before turning a withering glare on Gurren, who found the entire ordeal far more amusing than she did. Afterward, the group finally split up, with some returning to Tracen while others headed home to sleep off the long night.
For Melody, the journey ended at the massive wooden doors of her family's estate, where she stepped out of the cab and watched it disappear down the road before making her way inside. The men in black suits and dark glasses stationed near the entrance merely bowed their heads as she passed, while she trudged forward with heavy eyes and a throat gone hoarse from hours of singing and shouting with her friends. Her entire body ached with fatigue, almost as though she had been the one running in the Stakes, and now that the adrenaline had finally burned away, exhaustion settled over her shoulders with the weight of a ton of bricks.
Her crimson eyes moved from side to side as she entered, half hoping she could make it to her room without crossing paths with any of the family's acquaintances and especially without running into her grandparents. She had told them she would be home late, which was already stretching their patience, but she had definitely not told them she would be out until morning.
Melody slipped off her shoes at the sunken entryway and tucked them neatly away before continuing deeper into the house. Her ears twitched as she listened for the familiar cadence of her grandparents' footsteps, while her tail flicked once behind her and she moved quietly through the hallway. Every servant she passed gave her some version of the same knowing look, and Melody responded by pressing a finger to her lips in silent warning. Some chuckled under their breath, others rolled their eyes, and a few simply carried on as though they had seen this exact routine too many times before.
The manor itself was vast and old, its open corridors looking out over lush gardens now scattered with fallen amber leaves from the changing season, while the trees beyond glowed gold beneath the dull morning light. The autumn chill bit softly at Melody's cheeks as she made her way toward the main living area, but before she could pass it, she stopped.
Her grandmother's voice drifted through the narrow gap of a partially closed sliding door. Melody raised an eyebrow. It was unusual for her grandparents to have guests this early in the morning, and even more unusual was the fact that the person speaking with her grandmother did not sound Japanese. There was something unmistakably foreign in the way he spoke, and that alone was enough to slow Melody's steps.
She bit down on her lower lip, already knowing that lingering there was a bad idea. Her grandmother had made it clear more times than Melody could count that family business was not something she was supposed to concern herself with, and every time Melody asked too many questions, she received the same promise that everything would be explained when she was older. Her grandmother had first told her that when she was five, yet Melody was thirteen now and somehow the answers had only become harder to get.
She knew most of the people her grandfather referred to as employees and had grown friendly with many of them over the years, enough that some had even told her she reminded them of their own daughters or granddaughters. Others were far less welcoming and looked at her with an unmistakable kind of disdain, as though her mere presence offended them.
Sohei Dojima immediately came to mind, since he had never bothered hiding the unkind things he muttered whenever she passed, while men like Daisaku Kuze, Futoshi Shimano, and Hiroki Awano were intimidating enough that Melody usually went out of her way to avoid them entirely.
Her gaze drifted toward the hallway leading to her room, and every sensible part of her insisted that she should keep walking, pretend she had heard nothing, and go to bed before anyone noticed she was home. Unfortunately, the more curious part of her had already won. Melody swallowed hard and quietly cursed herself as she stepped closer to the narrow opening in the sliding door, giving in to temptation exactly the way she always did. She got on her knees and peeked in through the space.
The tokonoma was vast enough to feel more like a private reception hall than part of a residence, nearly the size of two large living rooms and sealed off from the rest of the manor by several sets of sliding doors. Tatami mats covered the floor from end to end, while warm amber lighting traced the rich wooden pillars and frames that bordered the room. Traditional ink paintings of a tiger and a dragon stretched across the interior doors, their brushstrokes dark and elegant against the pale panels, while the scent of freshly brewed tea mingled with flowers and the faint sweetness of desserts and milk lingering in the air.
Melody knew her grandparents reserved the room for important guests, because most ordinary business was handled at Tojo Clan Headquarters, a place she had never been allowed to visit despite years of pleading and the same promise she had heard since childhood that she could go when she was older.
Her crimson eyes settled on the three people seated at a square table near the far end of the room. Her grandmother sat among them, radiant as ever in a white-and-gold kimono, while two men in black suits stood quietly behind her at opposite corners. Beside her was an older man Melody recognized immediately, his black hair streaked with gray and shaved close along the sides before gathering into a braided ponytail that fell down his back. Rounded black shades covered his eyes, his face was hard and deeply lined with age, and the tribal tattoo of a dragon running along the left side of his head had faded with the years. He wore a black suit with the collar of his white shirt left open, looking every bit as intimidating as Melody remembered.
"Uncle Draken?" Melody whispered to herself, her eyebrows lifting as she stared at her godfather. He wore the same serious expression he always did whenever something important was being discussed, his attention fixed on the conversation in front of him. "What's he doing here?"
Her grandmother's expression was equally hardened as she listened to the man seated across from her. There was something elegant in the way he spoke despite the thick foreign accent clinging to his words, each sentence measured without sounding stiff. He was dressed in a dark navy tuxedo, his gloved hands resting around the delicate handle of a fine china teacup while steam curled gently from the surface. With his back turned toward Melody, she could not make out his face, but there was something about the way he carried himself that unsettled her immediately, something she had noticed before in many of the men who came and went from the manor.
It was a kind of stillness that never felt peaceful, something cold and dangerous sitting just beneath the surface. Melody's tail flicked once behind her as she continued watching from the narrow gap in the door.
"You know, Melody-chin," a voice said from behind her, warm with amusement. "It's not very nice to eavesdrop."
Melody nearly jumped out of her skin. Her ears shot upright, her tail puffing out like a startled cat's as a shriek rose in her throat, but she clapped both hands over her mouth and forced it back down before spinning around with wide eyes.
Squatting there at her level was an older man in his early sixties, his platinum-gray hair swept back in a neat wave while a matching beard traced his jaw and framed his mouth. His mustache sharpened at the ends, and the wrinkles across his face deepened around an amused smile. He wore a black montsuki beneath a snow-white haori, the Tojo Clan emblem stitched in gold along the seams, while the garment hung loosely from his shoulders like a cape.
"Grandpa!" Melody hissed, pressing a hand to her chest. "Don't sneak up on me like that!"
"Gomen, gomen," the old man said, rubbing the back of his head with a sheepish smile. "It's kind of a bad habit of mine." The smile lingered for another moment before fading just enough for his expression to sharpen. "Speaking of sneaking around, though, weren't you supposed to be home a few hours ago?"
Melody's eyes widened as she immediately stiffened. "Um…" She brought her fingertips together and fidgeted with them. "I mean, I was supposed to be, but…"
"But?" her grandfather asked, tilting his head as one eyebrow rose.
Melody let out a slow sigh and lowered her gaze. "I'm sorry, Grandpa. We were in Akihabara doing karaoke, and then, well… you know what happened." She looked back up at him, her embarrassment giving way to something more earnest. "We were scared the police might stop us or arrest us for being around all that, and the last thing I wanted was for you and Grandma to have to come bail me out."
Her grandfather blinked, his expression going slack for a second before he tried to suppress a laugh and failed. "Oh, Melody-chin, sometimes you're so painfully straight-laced it hurts."
"It's not funny, Grandpa!" Melody protested, her cheeks puffing out as she scowled at him. "I was scared."
His laughter softened at once, and he reached out to pat her gently on the head. "Gomen, my darling, you're right. I shouldn't be laughing when you were genuinely frightened." His expression warmed as he looked her over, taking in the exhaustion beneath her eyes. "Tell you what, why don't you go take a long, hot bath and then crawl into bed for a few hours? You look completely worn out."
"But…" Melody glanced back toward the partially closed room before returning her gaze to him. "What about Grandma?"
"You leave your grandma to me," the older man replied, giving her a reassuring smile. "Besides, I'm sure she'll understand once she hears what happened, so don't worry about that right now." He waved one hand gently down the hallway. "Go on, off with you."
Melody's expression softened as she nodded. "Okay. I'll see you later, Grandpa."
She rose to her feet and started down the hallway, her steps light despite the exhaustion weighing on her, while the old man remained where he was and watched until she disappeared around the corner.
"What am I going to do with you?" he murmured to himself with an affectionate shake of his head.
Then his dark eyes shifted toward the room behind him, and the warmth disappeared from his expression. His posture straightened, the amusement drained from his face, and after releasing a deep, measured sigh, he turned and made his way toward the sliding door.
****
I know, Cavendish-san," Draken said, keeping his eyes level with the younger man seated across from him. "It is neither my place nor my authority to question how the MRA conducts its affairs, and I have no intention of pretending otherwise. However, I have to ask whether you genuinely believe what happened last night warranted a response of that magnitude."
Cavendish regarded him in silence for a moment before lowering his teacup onto its saucer with a movement so practiced and refined that it seemed almost ceremonial. "With all due respect, Mister Draken, the times are changing," he replied. "There is a new wind moving through Tokyo now, and it carries with it implications far greater than one race or one unfortunate evening. What is happening concerns the Association, the High Table, the URA, and, if matters continue along their present course, the world as we understand it."
His gaze settled on Draken with a quiet intensity that made even the older man visibly uneasy. "I am certain that a man in your position understands the nature of loyalty better than most, whether that loyalty is earned, purchased, coerced, threatened, blackmailed, leveraged, or maintained through some mutually beneficial arrangement between parties who would otherwise despise one another. The method is ultimately irrelevant, because once an understanding has been reached, everyone is expected to fulfil their part of it."
Cavendish paused only long enough to let the point settle. "The Association has made considerable investments throughout Tokyo, particularly in individuals and institutions possessing the means to interfere with our operations should they ever choose to do so."
He lifted the ornate teapot and poured until the cup was nearly full, the scent of Earl Grey rising with the steam from the amber surface. "We acknowledge limitations, and we are generally quite tolerant of incompetence when it is merely inconvenient, but what we will not tolerate is receiving little or nothing in return for those investments."
Reaching for the small golden tongs, he selected a sugar cube and dropped it into the tea. "No assurances." He added a second cube with the same unhurried precision. "No protection, no discretion, and apparently no understanding whatsoever of where the boundaries were drawn."
Cavendish returned the tongs to the sugar bowl before picking up a teaspoon and stirring slowly.
"Given the circumstances surrounding it, the Shibuya Stakes had been designated as one of the most important events of the year. The hounds were fed generously enough, and we made certain of that with what I would consider a rather substantial bonus, yet even then there were those who chose to bite the hand providing their supper because they convinced themselves that someone, somewhere, would protect them from the consequences."
He placed the spoon neatly against the saucer as his expression sharpened. "They began to believe that the rules applied only to others and that they themselves somehow stood above them."
His eyes remained fixed on Draken as he lifted the cup and took a measured sip. "That was a gross miscalculation on their part, in more ways than one." Cavendish lowered the cup slightly and regarded him over its rim. "I may not be yakuza, Mister Draken, but I rather doubt even you would tolerate that sort of insolence within your own house."
Draken's expression hardened, though he said nothing as Cavendish continued.
"I distinctly remember a passage attributed to Sun Tzu," Cavendish said, settling the cup back onto its saucer. "The Art of War has always been one of my favourite works of literature, and the principle is rather simple. When orders are unclear and the men fail to understand them, the fault belongs to the commander, but when those orders are perfectly clear and the men choose to disobey regardless, then the fault lies with the officers responsible for keeping them in line."
His gaze cooled as he folded his hands neatly before him. "And when those officers fail to control their own soldiers, examples must be made, because there are moments when a lesson delivered quietly will simply be ignored."
Cavendish allowed a brief silence to settle over the table before his eyes hardened further. "After what transpired last night, I very much doubt anyone in Tokyo will misunderstand the lesson again."
"Nevertheless, Cavendish-san," Takao said, her eyes still closed as she maintained an almost serene expression, "I think it would be fair to assume that despite the setbacks, the Association still made a considerable profit from the race."
"Quite so, Madam," Cavendish replied, lowering his teacup carefully onto the saucer. "Despite the inconveniences we encountered, the Master is thoroughly pleased with the outcome, particularly given the Tojo Group's continued support over the years. The Board recognizes that contribution, and I have been asked to extend its gratitude personally."
A thin smile touched Takao's lips as her golden eyes opened, though there was something far more dangerous than warmth behind them. "That being said, should I expect incidents like last night to become commonplace from this point forward?" she asked.
"I mean no disrespect toward the Board or the Chairman, but you and I both understand that this kind of bedlam creates terrible optics for the Table, and even worse ones for business." Her smile remained, though her expression hardened beneath it. "Especially when there is even the slightest possibility of the Tojo Group being associated with the fallout."
A brief silence settled between them before Cavendish inclined his head respectfully. "Rest assured, Madam, that neither the Board nor my Master has any desire to see a repeat of last night's spectacle. We will make every effort to ensure that our affairs remain where they belong, strictly within the shadows and well beyond the attention of the public."
He raised his gaze to meet hers again. "More importantly, you have my personal assurance that whatever happens within the Association will never be permitted to touch the Tojo Group as a whole."
"Forgive me, Cavendish-san," Draken said as his expression darkened and Cavendish turned to face him. "But I find that rather difficult to believe."
For several seconds, the two men simply stared at one another, neither willing to look away as the tension between them settled over the enclosed space and seemed to thicken the air. Before either could say anything more, the sliding door opened and an older man stepped inside, immediately drawing every eye toward him.
"Hi, hi, everyone," he greeted with a bright smile and an almost cheerfully casual tone. "Thanks for waiting."
The two men in black suits bowed at once, while Takao's expression softened as she inclined her head toward him. "Anata," she greeted, one ear twitching faintly.
"You're late," Draken said, pushing his sunglasses higher on the bridge of his nose as his dry tone cut cleanly through the room.
"Gomen, gomen, Ken-chin," the man replied, rubbing the back of his head. "Breakfast was too good, and the weather was way too comfortable, so I just couldn't bring myself to get up when I was supposed to." His attention then shifted toward the guest seated across from Takao. He waved like a child would to his friends. "Hi, hi, Cavendish-chin. It's been a long time."
Cavendish rose smoothly to his feet, straightened his jacket, and offered a respectful bow. "A long time indeed," he replied before lifting his head again. "Still, I must say, it is always a pleasure and an honor to find myself in the presence of the Ninth Chairman of the Tojo Clan."
He allowed the words to linger for a moment as his gaze settled fully on the man before him. "The legendary Manjiro Sano." A small smile touched the corner of his mouth. "Or would you rather I use the name by which so many others still remember you… Invincible Mikey?"
Mikey met his gaze, the pleasant smile never leaving his face even as the warmth behind it disappeared entirely, leaving an expression every bit as cold as the mid-autumn air beyond the manor walls.