Dahlia's eyes widened as she snapped her attention back toward the man standing near the counter, suddenly seeing him in an entirely different light. Haruka Sakura, the name tied to G.A.R.O., the dreaded task force responsible for much of the violence and carnage that had shaken Japan nearly a decade earlier, was standing only a few feet away from them as though he were nothing more than another customer who had wandered into the wrong café.
Sakura raised an eyebrow and narrowed his gaze toward Daichi, and the look alone was enough to make the younger man go rigid. Dahlia felt herself swallow hard despite trying not to, because there was something unsettling about the way Sakura studied him, something sharp and instinctive that made it feel less like a man recognizing a face and more like a predator trying to remember where it had seen its prey before.
"You look familiar, kid," Sakura said. "Have we met?"
"No!" Daichi blurted before catching himself and forcing his voice back under control. "I mean, no, sir. I don't think we have. I've never seen you before in my life."
For a moment, Sakura simply looked at him before the hardness in his expression eased. "Relax, kid, you're not in trouble, and I'm not mad," he said as he rubbed the back of his head. "I'm just cursed with this face. Doesn't exactly do me any favors around kids."
Daichi let out a nervous laugh that sounded far too forced to fool anyone at the table, while Dahlia gave him a level stare from the side. "Yeah, scary face, kids… got it," he muttered, trying and failing to sound casual.
Sakura's attention drifted toward the simmering hotpot in the middle of the table, and he breathed in the rich aroma before giving a short laugh. "That sure smells good," he said. "Sukiyaki sounds about perfect this time of year, especially with weather like this." He glanced once more toward the three of them before turning back toward the entrance. "Anyway, tell Master that Sakura sends his regards. You kids enjoy your dinner, and I'll get out of your hair."
"Now, for the real reason I called this conference," Umemiya said through the LCD screen, drawing Dahlia, Light, and Daichi's attention back toward the broadcast as camera flashes washed the stage in bursts of white. "I'm sure all of you are aware of what happened last night, and of the tragedy suffered by the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department, as well as the people of Shibuya."
The moment Sakura heard Umemiya's voice, his body went rigid, his hand tightening around the door handle until the knuckles stood out. Dahlia noticed the change immediately, and Light and Daichi glanced toward him as well before all three slowly returned their attention to the screen.
"Let it be known that the Tojo Group condemns the actions of the criminal organization known as the Midnight Run Association," Umemiya declared, his usually warm expression hardened by the gravity of the subject. "That kind of violence and barbarism has no place in our city. The Tojo Group has already reached out to Superintendent General Takahata Ando, and just as we have many times before, the Tojo Foundation will provide financial assistance to the families of those who lost their lives in the line of duty. Their bravery deserves to be honored, and their sacrifice will not be forgotten."
Sakura's grip tightened further around the handle, and a shadow passed across his face that Dahlia could not help but notice.
"In addition to that, the Tojo Group has pledged direct assistance to the city of Tokyo and to anyone whose home, business, or property was damaged during last night's incident," Umemiya continued. "We will help cover repairs, replacements, and restoration wherever possible, and that includes public infrastructure affected by the destruction."
The reporters immediately broke into overlapping murmurs, microphones lifting as camera flashes intensified.
"Umemiya-san, Umemiya-san," one reporter called as he pushed his microphone closer to the podium. "This isn't the first time you or the Tojo Group have provided large-scale aid to the people of Tokyo, or even Japan as a whole. Your philanthropy has earned you enormous public support and gratitude. What drives you to keep doing this?"
Umemiya smiled faintly before looking out across the room. "Well, it's a matter of public record that I'm an orphan," he said. "I lost my parents when I was nine, and I spent most of my childhood in an orphanage. For a long time, I was in a very bad place, and to put it simply, life was hard. A lot of us grew up believing the world was cruel by default, and that anytime someone offered help, there was probably a price hidden somewhere behind it."
He paused for a moment before continuing. "My parents, especially my late father, lived by a very simple philosophy. He believed that if you had the power to do something good for another person, then you had a moral obligation to do it. Not because you expected anything back, and not because it made you look good, but because it was the right thing to do."
His gaze moved across the reporters. "I've tried to live by that same principle ever since. I want to help people who can't help themselves, and I want people to know there is still someone out there willing to offer a hand without asking for anything in return. No catch, no strings attached, because we care."
His smile softened.
"Because I care."
"That's incredible, Umemiya-san. You're an inspiration!" another reporter said, though her expression quickly sharpened. "Which is more than many people are saying about Governor Omura. There's growing criticism that last night's tragedy was the result of his failures in leadership. Would you care to comment?"
Umemiya immediately raised both hands with a nervous grin. "Now, now, I'm not really in a position to start throwing opinions around about politics," he said. "Governor Omura has held office for a long time, and I'm sure there are still plenty of people who support him."
"That support appears to be disappearing quickly," the reporter pressed. "His approval ratings have taken a significant hit, while his opponent is gaining ground by the day." She grinned slightly. "Have you ever considered running for higher office yourself, Umemiya-san? Governor of Tokyo, perhaps, or even Prime Minister someday?"
"Oh, heavens, no," Umemiya replied with a loud laugh. "I've done well enough with the Tojo Group, but I'm definitely not a politician, and I'd probably be a terrible fit for that kind of job."
He smiled again, then suddenly glanced down behind the podium. "But before we wrap this up, there is one thing I wanted to show everyone."
Umemiya reached down and lifted a plant wrapped in a black polybag, proudly setting it where the cameras could see. Several clusters of cherry tomatoes hung from the stems. "Ta-da! Check this out. I've been growing this little beauty for the past six months."
Daichi, Dahlia, and Light all stared at the screen with equally slack expressions, while the reporters at Millennium Tower seemed just as confused. The entire press room fell into a silence so complete that the only audible response was a faint, collective, "Eh?"
"It's a hybrid I came up with myself," Umemiya continued enthusiastically, seemingly oblivious to the bewilderment around him. "It took me a few tries because I had to cross several different variants, and I finally got the sweetness where I wanted it, but the skin still has enough—"
Before he could finish, someone stepped into frame and gently took him by the arm.
"Hai, hai, Ume-chan, that's enough gardening for one press conference," Tsubakino said with an amused smile as they began steering him away from the podium. "Let's get you back upstairs before you start explaining soil composition too." Tsubakino glanced toward the cameras and gave the reporters a playful wink. "Thank you all for coming."
The room immediately erupted back into questions as everyone snapped out of their stupor.
"But Tsu-kun, I haven't even explained the cross-pollination yet," Umemiya complained as he was ushered away.
"There'll be plenty of time for that later," Tsubakino replied. "Back to work."
****
The broadcast ended a moment later, the live feed from Millennium Tower cutting back to the newsroom as the anchors resumed their coverage of the unrest still gripping Tokyo.
Daichi groaned and leaned back in his chair. "Yeah, I forgot he can be kind of a goof sometimes," he said with a soft chuckle. "My uncle says it makes his reflux worse just watching Umemiya-san go off-script like that."
An audible scoff came from the doorway, and all three of them immediately looked toward Sakura. The older man pulled his cap back over his head, yanked the door open, and stepped outside without another word. Through the tall glass windows, they watched him stride down the street, his posture rigid and his expression hardened into something that looked far darker than simple irritation.
"You weren't kidding when you said there was bad blood between them," Dahlia said, her dark eyes following Sakura until he moved farther down the road. "That didn't look like some old grudge. Whatever happened between them, he still carries it like it happened yesterday." She frowned slightly. "I can't help wondering what really happened."
"Beats me, Dahlia," Daichi replied with a small shrug. "Nobody seems to have a straight answer, not even my uncle. He's asked Umemiya-san about it more than once, but the guy always shuts the conversation down before it goes anywhere."
His eyes remained on the window for another moment before his expression grew more serious. "But you're right about one thing. Whatever Sakura-san feels toward him, it isn't just anger anymore. That's the kind of hate that's had years to settle in."
"Still, what are the odds that the one guy we were just talking about suddenly walks in on us?" Light asked with a nervous chuckle, her ears twitching as she glanced toward the door Sakura had disappeared through. "I mean, seriously, talk about a coincidence."
"Yeah, these coincidences are really starting to pile up, aren't they?" Dahlia replied, one eyebrow lifting before a grin tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Maybe we should start talking about somebody famous, like Symboli Rudolf, and see if she comes strolling through that door next."
"Ooo, I'd love to meet the Emperor," Light said, her expression brightening almost immediately. "I see her everywhere, on magazine covers, posters, advertisements, and I'm pretty sure one of the tracks even has this huge plush of her sitting near the entrance."
"Speaking of Rudolf," Daichi said as he turned toward Dahlia, "did you know that—"
"She has an older brother named Symboli Rufus, and he's the one training Midnight Queen and Nevermore?" Dahlia cut in with a deadpan look.
Daichi blinked, but before he could recover, Dahlia kept going.
"And he's a trainer at Tokyo Tracen now, but overseas he built this whole reputation as some legendary heel trainer called the Kingslayer?" Her grin widened. "Sorry, Daichi, Logan already beat you to that one."
Daichi turned toward Light for backup, only for her to raise both hands with an apologetic smile. "Logan told me too."
He groaned and rolled his eyes before rubbing at his temple. "Great, looks like I'm behind the curve again. Still, that's a lot to take in. I didn't even know the Symboli family had a son, let alone one who wasn't an uma." Daichi gave a dry little laugh, though it faded almost as soon as it appeared. "Guess he's that one family member nobody ever talks about, and every family's got at least one of those."
His expression dimmed as his thoughts turned inward. "Mine would be Uncle Hiragi. I lost count of how many times my dad used to tell me, 'Study hard, or you'll end up just like that worthless fool Hiragi,' like the man was some walking cautionary tale." He mimicked his father's tone with a bitter edge before letting out a sigh. "Wouldn't surprise me if I've been added to that list too by now."
"Daichi…" Light said softly, her expression gentling as she looked at him.
"Anyways." He tapped a finger against his chin as he thought it over. "What I don't get is why. He may not be an uma himself, but he's accomplished a hell of a lot as a trainer. Honestly, he's probably up there with people like Kouji Okino and Hana Tojo by now."
"I don't know," Dahlia said as she leaned back slightly, "but from everything Logan told me, it sounds like Rufus is coming at the racing world from both directions. He's got one foot in the Twinkle Series and the other in the Regalia Series, and I get the feeling he's not planning to stop until he's standing at the top of both."
"Well, if I'm being fair," Light said, "I might not have known him as Symboli Rufus, but I definitely know him by his stage name, Sol of Xero, and I'll admit I'm a pretty big fan of their music."
"Wait, Rufus is Sol, the Sol?" Daichi asked, his eyes widening. "Man, I'm a huge fan. I've been listening to Xero since they first started putting stuff out." His expression softened as he looked down for a moment. "Their music got me through some really bad times."
"You and me both," Light said with a warm smile. "I have all their albums too, even the B-track limited edition release."
Daichi's eyes lit up immediately. "No way, you actually have Unshatter? I've been trying to find that thing for years!"
Dahlia rolled her eyes and folded her arms, though the smile on her face betrayed her amusement. "God, you two are such nerds."
"We're not!" Daichi and Light exclaimed at exactly the same time.
They both froze and stared at each other for half a second before the absurdity of it finally sank in, and all three of them broke into laughter.
****
Logan pressed a finger against his left nostril and blew hard through the other, dislodging the clot before wiping away the remnants with the back of his hand, then tucking it back into his pocket. He worked his jaw slowly afterward, still feeling the sting left behind by the beating he had taken only a few hours earlier. The sun had begun to sink beyond the city, the autumn air turning colder as long shadows stretched across the surrounding buildings and the last golden light faded beneath the glow of amber streetlamps.
Everywhere Logan looked, people seemed glued to whatever source of information they could find, whether it was younger pedestrians staring down at their phones, older men and women buried behind newspapers, or crowds gathered outside electronics stores where rows of televisions were all tuned to the same thing.
The news had been running on a constant loop across every channel, with anchors, pundits, commentators, and government officials all trying to make sense of the disaster that had unfolded the night before. The Minister of State had already appeared more than once, clearly displeased with Governor Omura's public tantrums and repeated failures to offer anything resembling reassurance, while even the Minister of Defense had gone on record promising that the Japan Self-Defense Forces would remain on standby should another escalation of that scale occur.
It had been hours since Logan was released from custody, and despite his willingness to remain behind bars if it meant sparing Lightning the paperwork and political headache, she had refused to entertain the idea. She told him to leave, get some rest, and wait until things settled before they talked again.
Logan could have gone straight back, but instead he found himself retracing the route of the Stakes, moving from one section of the course to another until eventually reaching Shibuya Crossing itself. He needed to see the aftermath with his own eyes, rather than through shaky footage and television reports, and every block seemed to offer another reminder of how far the night had spiraled out of control. Storefronts stood shattered beneath temporary coverings, sections of asphalt were scarred by blasts and impacts, mangled police cruisers sat behind cordons with their frames burned black, and evidence markers surrounded spent shell casings while crime-scene investigators worked methodically through the debris.
Beneath one concrete underpass, the charred remains of a semi still sat where it had burned, its twisted frame dark against the stained concrete around it. With every new scene, something heavier settled in Logan's chest, something unfamiliar enough that he could not quite put a name to it.
Watching races like these from behind a screen had always been different. Back then, the girls running them had been strangers, people with no connection to him beyond whatever interest he had in the race itself, and whether they made it home in one piece had ultimately been their burden to carry. Logan had made peace with that long ago. They entered knowing the risks, accepted the cost, and lived with whatever consequences came afterward, because everyone was entitled to make their own choices, even stupid ones.
That distance was gone now. Dahlia and Light had changed it.
Saburo's call had eased some of the fear gnawing at him, because both girls were alive and safe for the moment, but even that reassurance only carried so far. Dahlia had slipped past C.H.A.S.E. this time and survived everything the MRA had thrown at her, but there would be other races, other nights, and other chances for the law to finally catch up with her. No matter how much she had learned, how much stronger she had become, or how much she had accomplished, Logan could no longer pretend that skill alone would always be enough to carry her through. And for the first time since agreeing to train her, he found himself wondering how many more races she could survive before one of them became her last.
The streets leading back toward Rococo were crowded with people, almost all of them glued to whatever source of information they could get their hands on. Some stared down at phones, others clutched newspapers or stood gathered around storefront televisions, and everywhere Logan went he could hear the strain in their voices as conversations drifted between fear, anger, and disbelief.
Parents worried aloud about their children and whether Tokyo was still safe, while others were far less restrained, cursing Governor Omura with colorful language and openly declaring that he had just guaranteed himself a final term in office. Even with the city still moving around him, Logan could not shake the feeling that what happened in Shibuya had not been an ending, but the opening act of something much worse.
By the time he reached the next intersection, Rococo was barely a stone's throw away, and Logan could already make out the familiar shape of the café ahead. He slowed when a man stepped out from behind the corner, followed by two others, and his expression immediately soured at the sight of three hooligans in ill-fitting suits loud enough in color to offend anyone with working eyesight.
"Well, well, look who it is," the first man said as he sauntered closer with that same wide-legged swagger Logan had always found irritating, both hands buried in his pockets. "Logan-san, fancy runnin' into ya here. Heard you been real busy too, eh?"
"You know, I've pegged you for a hell of a lot of things, Nishi," Logan replied as his expression darkened. "But stupid's climbin' real damn fast on that list." He rolled his neck until it cracked and settled his weight evenly between his feet. "I've had a really, really rough night, so if you came here lookin' for an ass-kickin', congratulations, you found the right guy."
Nishitani's mouth twisted into a scowl. "I'd watch that mouth of yours, gaijin. Believe me, I'd love nothin' more than to have the boys beat ya within an inch of your life," he said, his tone carrying the rough swagger of someone who had spent too long solving problems with fists. "But Dojima-sama's still got this weird obsession with ya. He watched the Stakes, saw the whole damn thing, and more importantly, he saw who won, that little bird you've been trainin'."
A sharper grin spread across his face. "So, here's how it's gonna go. You and your girl throw in with the Dojima Family, race under our banner, and every win sends forty percent our way. You keep the rest, and while you're at it, you train whoever the boss puts in front of ya and keep those wins comin'. In return, Dojima-sama gives ya whatever ya want, money, protection, connections, the whole damn package."
Logan stood there for a moment before letting out a long, exhausted breath and dragging one hand through his hair. "Now I can see where you caught the stupid from. Turns out it's contagious." His gaze hardened as he stepped forward. "Your boss ain't just stupid, he's a goddamn moron. You've been comin' around for almost a year askin' me the same question, and every single time I told you to shove it up your ass and piss off."
He cracked his knuckles as his jaw tightened. "Now me and my girl finally got somethin' good goin', and suddenly you think you can crawl in from the gutter, slap your name on it, and demand a cut?" His teeth bared in a humorless grin. "You know what, maybe Dojima-san's just too illiterate to understand plain Japanese. Maybe he'll finally get the message when I send you back to him in a box."
This time, Nishitani did not flinch, and he did not shrink back the way Logan expected. Instead, his scowl slowly twisted into a grin.
"You know," Nishitani said, "I was really hopin' you'd say that."
Then Logan heard it, the steady scrape and tap of loafers against asphalt coming from every direction, too many sets of footsteps to belong to a single group passing by. Men emerged from the left and the right, then from farther up the street, and when Logan glanced over his shoulder, several more were already closing in from behind. Every one of them seemed to share the same sense of style, if it could even be called that, with gaudy, ill-fitting suits, fake jewelry glinting beneath the streetlights, and cheap sunglasses that looked like they had come straight off a discount rack.
Some had patchy stubble from clearly losing a fight with a razor, while others had lip and ear piercings arranged with the kind of effort meant to look dangerous but somehow landing somewhere closer to ridiculous. Smirks and crooked grins sat on nearly every face, all of them carrying the same smug arrogance, while baseball bats, crowbars, lengths of wood, and other improvised weapons rested across shoulders or hung loosely at their sides. By the time they had finished surrounding him, Logan counted at least twenty.
"See, Dojima-sama's given ya more chances than most people ever get, and the boss really don't like hearin' no," Nishitani said as he cracked his knuckles and rolled one shoulder. "Whatever the boss wants, the boss gets, and if I'm bein' real with ya, Logan-san, I'm gettin' pretty damn sick of your attitude too."
Logan let out a dismissive scoff and slowly looked around at the men surrounding him. "And what in God's green Earth do you think you're gonna accomplish with this?" he asked, gesturing toward the crowd with one hand. "Even if every one of you somehow managed to put me on my ass, what makes you think I'd suddenly wake up tomorrow with a change of heart and start workin' for your boss?"
He shook his head as his expression darkened. "Dojima ain't a smart man, and neither are you. Either that, or he's been playin' playground bully for so long he actually started believin' people will fall in line just because he's bigger, louder, and meaner than whoever he's pushin' around."
He shifted his stance slightly, his eyes moving from one thug to the next as the amusement disappeared from his face. "So, here's what I'm gonna do. I'm givin' you and your boys an opening, because I made a promise to myself a long time ago that I'd always give dumb bastards like you one chance to walk away before things get ugly."
His gaze settled on Nishitani again. "And believe me when I say you really don't wanna do this, because there are people out there who feel exactly the same way about you that you apparently feel about me. They're sick of your crew, sick of your boss, and sick of the shit you've been pullin', and I've been keepin' some of them from actin' on that for a hell of a long time."
Logan glanced around at the twenty men hemming him in before looking back at Nishitani, his jaw tightening. "But if you go through with this, that changes. After today, I ain't gonna be able to hold them back anymore, and frankly, I'm not sure I'm gonna want to."
Nishitani scoffed and spat to the side. "The hell are ya goin' on about, gaijin? Standin' there talkin' like you're the scariest son of a bitch in this part of Tokyo, when everybody knows ya ain't nothin' but some washed-up legend turned ex-con." He leaned in slightly, his grin sharpening as the men around them tightened the circle. "If anything, ya oughta be on your knees thankin' us for givin' ya a chance to run with the big boys."
He straightened and rolled his shoulders before looking Logan up and down with open contempt. "Now we're done talkin'. So, what's it gonna be? Ya gonna be a good little dog, wag your tail, and do what yer told, or are we gonna have to beat that attitude outta ya?"
Logan's gaze leveled on him. "Before we get down to business, I got a question," he said, drawing Nishitani's attention. "Back then, you brought up my daughter, which means you know. The old lady and I got an understanding, and it's been naggin' at the back of my head ever since how some gutter rat like you got let in on somethin' that's been kept tighter than a nun's asshole."
Nishitani smirked. "What, slipped your mind?" he taunted. "Sure, most of the boys ain't in on the little 'secret,' but the Tojo top brass were at your wedding. Hell, I bet half of 'em were friendly with you back then, but Oyabun never liked your ass, and I'd wager he wasn't the only one."
He scoffed and shook his head. "The old lady lies down with a gaijin, has herself a half-breed daughter, then that same half-breed grows up and lies down with another gaijin. Guess the apple really don't fall far from the tree."
His grin curled uglier. "Dojima-sama told us the truth a long time ago, and if anything, that's just one more reason a whore like that shouldn't be sittin' pretty at the top of the Tojo Clan when she's so damn eager to spread her legs for outsiders."
"Goddamn, ain't you got a mouth on you." Logan chuckled, though the grin spreading across his face carried no warmth. "Since your boss-slash-pimp's got such loose lips, maybe he should've also told you what happened to the last son of a bitch who ran his mouth about Hornet and Melody's blood."
His eyes darkened. "Let's just say there was a sword involved and one hell of a lot of blood." Logan tilted his head slightly. "Matter of fact, Dojima oughta remember real well. He was sittin' right there when it happened."
Nishitani scoffed and spat onto the ground. "There you go again with that made-up bullshit, tryin' to scare us with ghost stories." His expression hardened. "I don't give a shit what kinda fairy tale you wanna cook up, gaijin. This is happenin' one way or another."
Logan let out a long sigh and reached for the jacket slung over his shoulder, gripping the hem before pulling it free in one smooth motion and tossing it aside. His red flannel remained beneath it, and he rolled both sleeves up to his elbows with slow movements. Nishitani's gaze caught on the ink running along Logan's left arm, and for a moment Logan expected the same reaction he had seen before, that brief spark of recognition followed by the sudden realization of exactly who they were dealing with, but Nishitani only sneered.
"You know, now that I'm gettin' a better look at it, that's some pretty nice ink," Nishitani said with a dismissive scoff as his eyes traced the tattoo along Logan's arm. "What, ya get that scratched on while ya were inside?"
His gaze narrowed, but the arrogance never left his face. "Still don't get why that tub of lard took one look at it and ran off pissin' himself. Started blabbin' all kinds of shit that didn't make a lick of sense, but whatever." Nishitani gave a small shake of his head. "Far as I'm concerned, that ink don't mean a damned thing to me."
Logan glanced around at the rest of the men and found the same blank arrogance on every face, not a trace of recognition among them. He gave a small shake of his head before curling his hands into fists and lowering himself into a fighting stance.
"Oh, it will," he said, his expression hardening as he settled his weight. "Now how about you boys quit flappin' your gums and actually do somethin' about it?" His face twisted with contempt as he beckoned them forward with one hand. "Bring it!"
"Waste this damned gaijin!" Nishitani snarled.
The circle broke all at once as the men surged toward Logan from every direction.
****
The junction erupted into chaos as Nishitani's men closed in from every direction, swinging fists, bats, pipes, and whatever else they had brought with them, but Logan moved through the rush with brutal efficiency. He ducked beneath one swing, slipped past another, twisted out of the path of a kick, and answered every failed attack with something of his own. His fists crashed into flesh and bone, splitting lips, opening eyebrows, and crushing noses until blood sprayed across the asphalt, while his boots hammered into ribs, stomachs, and joints with enough force to fold men where they stood.
He sidestepped one attacker and drove a kick into his gut, then turned on his heel and snapped a roundhouse into another man's neck, sending him crashing hard to the pavement as teeth and blood scattered across the road.
Another man came at him with a steel pipe, but Logan ducked under the swing and buried a fist into his stomach hard enough to make him double over. Before the man could recover, Logan pivoted and drove another punch into the face of the thug beside him, then spun on the balls of his feet and hooked a kick into the first man's head, sending him sprawling across the ground.
A baseball bat came whistling toward him from the side, and Logan raised his arm just enough to catch it beneath his elbow before trapping it against his body and hammering two punches into the attacker's face. His knuckles split skin with each impact, crushing the man's cheek and eye socket, and with a violent twist Logan snapped the bat before grabbing the thug by the shirt and dragging him downward into a rising knee. Bone cracked beneath the impact as blood splattered across Logan's jeans, and he threw the man aside before turning toward the next one.
His gaze locked onto Nishitani, and for the first time the smirk on the thug's face began to disappear.
One by one, the men Nishitani had brought were collapsing unconscious around them, their weapons scattered across the junction and their bodies sprawled over the wet asphalt. The confidence he had worn so easily only moments earlier started giving way to something much closer to panic.
Nishitani grabbed one of the men trying to hang back and shoved him forward. "You get him, go on, get him!" he snarled. "What're ya waitin' for?"
The man charged Logan and threw a wild punch, but Logan slipped aside before blocking the follow-up and answering with two hard strikes to the face. The first snapped the man's head back, while the second opened his lip and sent blood across his cheek. Logan drove another punch into his gut, forcing him to bend forward, then lifted his boot and slammed it into the side of the man's knee.
The joint buckled sideways with a sickening crack, and an almost inhuman scream tore from his throat before Logan finished him with a brutal cross to the face. Blood sprayed from the impact, and the man was already unconscious before his body struck the pavement.
Logan had another man clenched by the front of his jacket, driving his fist into the thug's face twice in rapid succession until cartilage gave way beneath his knuckles and several front teeth broke loose. He was already pulling back for another strike when he heard something cut through the air behind him, a thin metallic hiss that was far too familiar to mistake for anything else. Logan had heard that sound too many times in too many places, the unmistakable scrape of a blade being drawn free, and judging by the length of the sound, it was no pocketknife.
His head snapped over his shoulder just in time to see one of Nishitani's men rushing him from behind with a tantō gripped in both hands, the blade angled forward and ready to drive straight into his back.
Before Logan could turn fully, another sound tore across the junction, the rapid hammering of shoes against pavement as someone sprinted toward them at a speed that made several heads turn at once. Nishitani's eyes widened as he looked back and saw a man in a windbreaker and baseball cap closing the distance with frightening speed, while the two thugs behind him barely had time to react.
"Hey, who the hell are—"
The stranger launched himself forward before the man could finish, driving his knee directly into the thug's face with enough force to fold him backward. Blood sprayed across the stranger's slacks as he planted one foot against the falling man's shoulder and used the collapsing body as a platform, propelling himself into the air with such height that nearly everyone below instinctively looked up.
Nishitani and the remaining men could only stare as the stranger cleared them entirely, twisting twice in midair with one leg extended. Logan sidestepped at the last possible moment, and the stranger came down hard against the knife-wielding thug, his foot crashing into the side of the man's neck with enough force to snap his head violently sideways. Saliva sprayed from his mouth, his eyes rolled white, and the tantō slipped from his fingers before his body slammed head-first against the asphalt.
The stranger did not pause to admire the result. He surged immediately toward the men behind Logan, driving a knee into the next one's chest before following with a punch and a low kick that folded him almost instantly. Another stepped in and received an elbow across the jaw, while the man beside him was dropped by a kick to the ribs before he could even bring his weapon up. One by one, they went down without ever being given enough time to recover or reorganize.
Logan released the unconscious thug still hanging from his grip and let him collapse onto the road, his attention shifting fully toward the stranger who had just thrown himself into the fight.
The man was powerful, but more than that, he was efficient in a way that immediately caught Logan's attention. His control over the crowd was nearly flawless, the kind of movement that came from someone who had spent years fighting multiple opponents at once. He never wasted a second after putting someone down and never threw a strike without purpose, moving from one target to the next before the others could adjust. Even more telling was where he chose to hit. Every punch and kick went toward vulnerable points, aimed at places designed to cripple, stun, or inflict as much pain as possible in the shortest amount of time.
One of the thugs swung a wide hook at him, but the stranger caught the arm, twisted hard, and broke it at the elbow before the man could pull away. A scream tore from the thug's throat, only to be cut short when the stranger drove his forehead into his face and hurled him to the pavement.
There was something else in the way he fought, though, something Logan recognized immediately because he had seen it in himself often enough. The stranger was not merely trying to win, and he was not interested in putting men down cleanly. There was anger behind every strike, something deeply personal and barely restrained, as though each blow was meant to punish rather than simply incapacitate.
In that respect, he fought almost exactly like Logan did.
The stranger caught another man by the front of his shirt and dragged him close before hammering a fist into his face. The first strike split his lip, the second snapped his head sideways, and the third opened his brow, but the stranger kept going, driving his fist into the same ruined face again and again until blood coated his knuckles and the man had long since stopped resisting. Only then did he release him, letting the battered body crumple onto the asphalt as he drew his bloodied hand back.
"Who did you say you work for?" the stranger asked as he reached up and pulled off his cap, revealing two-toned hair split between black and white while mismatched eyes of silver and gold settled squarely on Nishitani. "Dojima, was it? I assume you're referring to Sohei Dojima of the Dōjima-gumi."
Logan raised an eyebrow as he studied him more closely. The man looked around his age, somewhere in his late thirties and edging toward forty, and although there was still something faintly boyish beneath the wrinkles and hard lines carved into his face, his expression erased any softness that might have remained. He carried himself like someone who had spent far too many years walking through violence and had long since stopped being surprised by what people were capable of.
"Oi, I asked you a question, scumbag," he said as he stepped forward, his gaze never leaving Nishitani. "Or are you both stupid and deaf?"
"Hah?" Nishitani's face twisted with irritation. "Who the hell do you think you're talkin' to, you weird-ass lookin' mother—"
A hand suddenly landed on his shoulder. "Aniki."
Nishitani turned, ready to tear into the man beside him, only to stop when he saw that all the color had drained from the thug's face. When he looked around, he realized the reaction had spread through the rest of the men still standing, each of them frozen where they were with their eyes locked on the man before them.
"The hell are all you slack-jawed sons of bitches gawkin' at?" Nishitani snapped.
"It's him," the man whispered, his knees shaking so badly they looked ready to give out. "T-that's Commander Haruka Sakura."
Nishitani's expression went slack almost instantly, and when he looked back toward Sakura, the arrogance had vanished from his face. "You mean…" He raised a trembling finger. "The Wolf of Tokyo? The same crazy son of a bitch behind G.A.R.O.?"
Logan's expression hardened the moment he heard the name. G.A.R.O. was something he had first learned about years earlier, back when Bee and her mother returned to Japan. It wasn't long before the Great Dissolution of Delinquency and the Three-Year War followed. Bee had kept him updated while he remained in the States, telling him about the curfews, the checkpoints, and the constant fear of gangs of underage delinquents who had taken over streets and neighborhoods with almost no restraint.
Her mother Takao had made certain she always had a security detail, and by the time the war ended, life had slowly begun returning to normal. What Bee had never described in detail was the price paid to get there, the bloodshed, the broken bodies, and the countless lives shattered before G.A.R.O. finally brought the golden age of delinquency to its knees.
And now the man who had stood at the front of that charge was standing only a few feet away from him.
A dark smile tugged at Sakura's lips as he looked over the remaining thugs. "So even the pond scum know me by name," he said, rolling his neck until it cracked. "And here I thought the Tojo Clan had gone legit. What the hell is Dojima still doing running around like he's managing some old-school yakuza outfit?"
He stepped closer, walking past Logan without sparing him more than a glance. "Unless, of course, he's doing all this without Takao-sama knowing."
That possibility seemed to hit the men harder than anything else Sakura had said.
Sakura's smile sharpened. "So, let me ask you boys something. What do you think happens when G.A.R.O. starts knocking on the doors of Tojo Headquarters and asking why one of their subsidiaries is running a racketeering gig in the middle of Tokyo?"
His eyes narrowed as he continued forward. "More importantly, what do you think Dojima-san is gonna do to the idiots responsible when he realizes you're the ones who brought the wolves straight to his front door?"
Sakura's expression twisted into something colder as he looked over the remaining men. "And even if, by some miracle, you idiots manage to worm your way out of G.A.R.O. breathing down your necks, Takao-sama's gonna have the entire Dōjima-gumi skinned alive the second she finds out you've put everything she spent years building in jeopardy," he said. "I've heard plenty of stories about her over the years, and despite that sweet-grandmother act she has going on these days, she was never exactly known for being forgiving."
Logan let out a quiet snort, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. "Understatement of the damned century."
Nishitani's face twisted with rage as whatever fear had flickered there was swallowed by wounded pride. "S-shut your damned mouth, freak!" he snarled before jerking his head toward the men still standing around them. "There's fourteen of us and only two of you. You ain't snitchin' on anybody once we dump whatever's left of you into the bay, so I don't give a damn who the hell you think you are or what kind of legend you used to be."
He bared his teeth and jabbed a finger toward Sakura. "You don't scare us, and you sure as hell don't scare me, so you should've kept your damned nose outta this, copper."
Logan stepped up beside Sakura and flexed his bruised hands before cracking his knuckles again. "Well, that's a damned shame," he said, his expression hardening as he looked over the men ahead of them. "Because you're at least three short." He then glanced sideways toward Sakura. "Need a hand?"
Sakura's mismatched eyes shifted toward him, but when they settled on the tattoo running along Logan's left arm, he paused for a fraction of a second and studied it more carefully before looking forward again. "Funny, I was about to ask you the same thing."
"Well, then," Logan said as the remaining men shouted and surged forward all at once, weapons raised and fists already cocked back. His jaw tightened as he stepped into their charge. "Let's get this done."
One of the men reached him first with his arm drawn back for a punch, and Logan moved to meet him before the strike could ever land.
****
The pinch of beef and stewed cabbage held between Daichi's wooden chopsticks was halfway to his mouth, broth dripping slowly from the edges back into the bowl, when a sudden commotion outside made him stop. Dahlia and Light reacted almost at the same time, their ears twitching toward the noise as the three of them listened more carefully. At first, they assumed someone nearby had simply turned a television up too loud, probably streaming one of those over-the-top gangster movies, but the sounds quickly became too distinct to dismiss as surround sound.
Groans, shouted curses, cries of pain, and the unmistakable impact of fists and bodies carried clearly through the street, forcing all three of them to exchange a look before setting their bowls down, pushing their chairs back, and hurrying toward the front door.
The moment they pushed outside, they saw the source of the commotion in the distance, where two men were caught in the middle of an all-out brawl against nearly a dozen others. Fists slammed into faces, kicks folded bodies at the waist, and one man screamed loud enough to carry across the street when his arm was bent at an angle it clearly was not meant to go. Light immediately raised a hand toward her mouth, her eyes widening, while Daichi's expression went slack as he tried to process what he was seeing.
"Is that… Logan-san, and…" Light's gaze shifted toward the other man with the two-toned hair before recognition settled in. "Sakura-san?"
"What the hell is going on?" Daichi asked, still staring at the chaos. "One minute everything's quiet, and the next it looks like half the damn neighborhood decided to start a war."
Dahlia's face tightened as she stepped forward, but Daichi reacted on instinct and reached for her arm. His hand missed, and before either of them realized what had happened, his fingers caught around her tail and pulled her back. Dahlia's entire body went rigid as her eyes widened, heat rushing instantly into her face while she snapped her head toward him.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?!" Daichi cried out, still focused on stopping her. "You're banged up from head to tail, you're not gonna run out there and—"
He stopped abruptly when his eyes dropped toward what he was holding, and the color in his face changed almost as quickly as Dahlia's. Light's expression went completely slack as the realization settled over all three of them, because if there was one thing every person in society knew, it was that touching an uma's ears without permission was already a major taboo, while grabbing her tail was something else entirely.
Daichi let go immediately and clasped his hands together as he bowed in rapid apology. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. That was an accident, I swear!"
Dahlia shook her head, doing her best to force the flush out of her face as she turned back toward the fight. "Forget about it. I'm gonna go help him, because I can't just stand here while Logan's getting jumped by a whole damned gang."
Before she could take another step, a large presence moved past them and a heavy hand settled on her shoulder, stopping her in place. Dahlia turned and found Saburo standing beside her, broad and imposing as ever, a packed shopping bag hanging from one hand while his expression made it clear he had already taken in everything happening down the street.
"Master?"
Saburo gave a tired shrug and handed the shopping bag over to Dahlia. "Honestly, you can't leave this damned place alone without somebody stirring up shit," he muttered as he pinched the bridge of his nose. He then looked toward Daichi and jerked his chin in his direction. "Hey, kid, do me a favor and get your uncle on the phone. Tell him to get his ass down here if he knows what's good for him, and tell him to bring the damned cavalry."
Daichi blinked at him. "Wait, Uncle Hiragi? But how the hell do you even know—"
"Trust me, kid, I'll explain later, and even if I told you now, you probably wouldn't believe me anyway," Saburo replied before looking between the three of them. "What I need from you is simple. Get back inside, lock the door, and finish your dinner. No matter what you hear out here, you stay put, because Logan and I will be back before long."
He removed his apron and handed it to Light, who accepted it almost automatically. "Here, hold on to this for me, will you?" Saburo said as he started toward the commotion, rolling the sleeves of his red Hawaiian shirt up his forearms while his expression settled into something far more serious. "Man, I'm getting too damned old for this shit."
Dahlia, Light, and Daichi exchanged one last uncertain look before deciding, for once, to do exactly as they were told. By the time they stepped back inside the café, Daichi already had his phone pressed to his ear and was waiting for the call to connect.
"Um, Unc, you're gonna think I'm messing with you, but… you know that café downtown called Rococo?"
****
Logan and Sakura moved around each other with surprising ease as the brawl swallowed the intersection, ducking beneath wild swings, weaving past pipes and bats, and answering every opening with a knee, a kick, or a fist driven into whatever target presented itself. Cries of pain rang out between the sharp impacts of knuckles against flesh and boots against ribs, followed by the groans of men collapsing unconscious onto the asphalt and the harsher screams that came whenever something gave way beneath a strike.
Logan caught one attacker by the wrist, twisted hard, and wrenched the arm out of its socket before shoving him aside, while Sakura drove an elbow into another man's neck with enough force to make him crumple. A moment later, Sakura snapped an uppercut beneath another thug's chin, sending blood and teeth spraying upward before he launched himself into a spinning roundhouse that knocked the man clean off his feet.
They fought very differently, and Logan noticed it almost immediately. His own style was grounded, controlled, and built around strength, balance, and timing, while Sakura moved with far more agility and instinct, bouncing around the chaos with the kind of reckless energy that seemed impossible for a man pushing forty. Logan had to admit the man was impressive, because none of that speed came at the expense of power, and every punch or kick still landed with enough force to break something.
Even so, part of Logan groaned inwardly at the way Sakura fought, because beneath all that experience, his style still looked exactly like it had been born in high school street fights. There was very little form to it, almost no textbook discipline, just wild, erratic movement sharpened over years of throwing hands with hoodlums who fought the same way until instinct had refined it into something brutally effective.
Logan could tell Sakura had been studying him too, his mismatched eyes flicking over every controlled step, every measured counter, and every strike that stopped exactly where Logan wanted it to. It would not have taken long for Sakura to realize that Logan had been trained hard and trained properly, because there was nothing improvised about the way he moved. Logan slipped beneath another punch, drove his foot into the attacker's stomach hard enough to fold him forward, then stepped in with several punches before following with an elbow to the chest, a knee to the gut, and a final kick across the side of the man's face that sent him barreling onto the road.
Another thug rushed Logan from the side, but Sakura got there first, sprinting in and vaulting over Logan's shoulder before twisting in midair and driving the back of his heel into the man's face. The attacker dropped instantly, and for a brief moment Logan and Sakura met each other's eyes, neither saying a word as the acknowledgment passed between them before both turned back toward the remaining men.
By then, Nishitani had lost nearly all the bravado he had started with. Barely a handful of his people were still standing, and the sight of bodies scattered across the intersection had finally begun to crack through whatever confidence he had left. Then came the sound of two heavy impacts behind him, followed by startled cries, and when Nishitani spun around, one of his men came flying past him and hit the asphalt hard enough to skid.
His eyes snapped toward the source and settled on a broad-framed older man with long gray hair tied into a ponytail and a short beard tracing his jaw and mouth. Saburo had one massive hand wrapped around the throat of the second thug, squeezing with such force that the man's attempts to pry himself free quickly lost strength. His punches against Saburo's arm turned weaker by the second until his body finally went limp, foam gathering at the corner of his mouth as Saburo released him and let him collapse onto the ground.
"'Bout time you showed up, old man!" Logan snarled as he turned and drove his fist into another attacker's face, breaking the man's nose with a wet crack. "What, you had to hit every damned bathroom for a piss break on your way back?"
"Can it, Logan!" Saburo shouted back while rolling one shoulder. "You ain't been back five minutes and you're already knee-deep in a free-for-all. Does supper with you always come with a damn knuckle sandwich on the side?"
Saburo then leveled his gaze on Nishitani, his expression darkening as he took him in. "So, you're the prick behind all this, huh? Let me guess, Nishitani?" He cracked his knuckles slowly. "You're the son of a bitch who's been sendin' Logan home lookin' like he got dragged through a bar fight every other week. Nice to finally put a face to the name."
Nishitani reached into his jacket and flicked open a knife, baring his teeth as he held it forward. "I don't know who the hell you are, old man, but don't think I'm above gutting some senior citizen."
Saburo barked out a laugh and stepped toward him. "Try me, you limp-dicked piece of shit. I used to eat little punks like you for breakfast and still have room for seconds."
Nishitani shouted and charged, thrusting the blade toward Saburo's torso, but the old man did not retreat. Instead, he caught the blade in his bare hand and clamped down hard enough to stop it cold. Nishitani's eyes widened as blood began slipping between Saburo's fingers, and when he tried to wrench the knife free, he found the older man's grip locked around it like a vice.
Saburo lunged forward and smashed his forehead into Nishitani's face, breaking his nose with a burst of blood that sprayed across both of them. Nishitani's hand released the knife on instinct, and Saburo immediately flipped the weapon around, bent low, and drove it deep into the back of Nishitani's right calf.
The scream that tore from Nishitani echoed across the intersection as his leg buckled beneath him, and he grabbed at his thigh while trying to keep his balance. Saburo gave him no chance to recover, lifting one foot and stomping down on the knife handle to drive the blade even deeper. Nishitani collapsed fully this time, screaming again and again while blood rapidly darkened the fabric of his slacks. Saburo watched him for half a second before driving a brutal kick across his face, spraying blood over the asphalt and knocking him flat.
Only two of Nishitani's men were still standing in front of Logan and Sakura when a furious voice suddenly tore across the intersection.
"What the hell is goin' on here?!"
Everyone turned toward the source, where a man in his mid-forties was striding toward them in a gray suit jacket over a maroon shirt, matching slacks, and polished black shoes. His platinum-blond hair was spiked upward, and when he bared his jagged, shark-like teeth, his expression looked ready to tear into whoever had caused the mess. Several cars and SUVs pulled in behind him almost at once, doors opening as people in black suits stepped out and spread across the street.
The man's eyes swept over the bodies scattered across the road, some unconscious and others still writhing and groaning in pain, and his face twisted with fury until his gaze finally landed on Sakura.
For the briefest moment, that anger faltered, only to return with a tightened jaw. Sakura's expression changed too, though only for a second before it hardened again. The man looked away first, but the moment his eyes found Nishitani bleeding on the ground, the fury returned in full. Nishitani looked back at him and went completely still.
"Nishitani," the man spat as he stormed toward him, irritation already twisting across his face. "Of course it's freakin' you. It's always you. Leave it to Dojima and his pack of rabid chihuahuas to screw things up for everybody!"
He bared his teeth and jabbed a finger in Nishitani's direction. "I just happened to be in this damned neighborhood runnin' an errand for Umemiya-san, and for once the day was actually peaceful. I was startin' to think that maybe, just maybe, the gods had finally decided not to shovel shit straight into my face."
His expression darkened even further. "But no, once again, ya sons of bitches had to show up and wreck everything. God, this is exactly why I can't stand ya Dojima-gumi assholes, because somehow every time there's a mess nobody asked for, one of you idiots is already standin' in the middle of it!"
"Hiragi-san!" Nishitani stammered as he forced himself upright, limping badly on the ruined leg. "I-I can explain, ya gotta believe me. We were just followin' orders, I swear!"
"Oh, don't tell me yer throwin' yer boss under the bus already," Hiragi snapped as he closed the distance. "Ya got any idea what the hell ya just did here? Any idea what kind of mess ya dragged everybody into?"
His jaw tightened as he jabbed a finger toward Nishitani. "I swear, if Kazama-san doesn't have ya cuttin' off yer damn pinkie for this, Takao-sama's gonna do a hell of a lot worse once she hears what ya pulled, and—!"
Hiragi went rigid the moment his eyes caught the blood running down Saburo's hand, the thin streams slipping from his fingertips and pattering against the asphalt beneath them. Whatever anger had already been on his face deepened instantly, his jaw tightening as he stared at the wound before slowly turning back toward Nishitani.
"We didn't do nothin' serious, honest!" Nishitani spluttered, the words tumbling over one another as panic overtook whatever pride he had left. "Dojima-san just wanted that gaijin on his payroll, that's all. None of this would've happened if he'd just listened and—"
Nishitani never got the chance to finish.
Hiragi stepped in and drove his fist straight into Nishitani's mouth with enough force to shatter several teeth on impact. The blow sent him flying backward before his body slammed against the asphalt, and a scream tore from his throat as both hands flew to his face. Blood and saliva spilled between his fingers as he spat onto the road beside him, then frantically ran his tongue over what remained of his teeth before touching the jagged edges with trembling fingertips.
"M-motherf—!" Nishitani cried as he looked back toward Hiragi, pain and outrage twisting his face. "I just got these fixed! I took out a freakin' advance for that shit, ya son of a—"
"Ya stupid son of a bitch!" Hiragi roared at the top of his lungs, his expression contorted with such fury that Nishitani's protest died immediately. He thrust an arm toward Saburo, barely able to contain himself. "Do ya have any idea who this man is? Well, do ya, punk?"
Nishitani looked toward Saburo, then back toward Hiragi, confusion beginning to replace the anger on his face. Logan and Sakura remained silent nearby, their expressions unreadable as they watched the exchange unfold.
"W-what?" Nishitani muttered. "He's just some old fart who—"
"Shut yer damned mouth!" Hiragi snapped, cutting him off so sharply that Nishitani flinched.
Before anyone else could speak, every man in a black suit who had arrived with Hiragi moved into formation around them. They turned toward Saburo almost as one, spread their feet, placed both hands firmly against their knees, and bowed deeply from the waist. Hiragi immediately joined them, lowering his head with the same rigid respect.
The remaining color drained from Nishitani's face. In their world, that kind of bow was not offered casually, and it was certainly not given to just anyone.
"Otsukaresama des!" the men called out in unison, their voices carrying loud and clear across the intersection. "Sōchō!"
Hiragi slowly raised his head, though he kept his posture respectful before turning his gaze back toward Nishitani. "Apparently Dojima-san couldn't be bothered to teach ya, and apparently ya couldn't be bothered to learn for yerself," he said, his eyes narrowing. "So lemme make this real simple for ya. The man standin' in front of ya is Hattori Saburo."
Nishitani's lips parted, but no words came out.
Hiragi's expression hardened further. "The former Eighth Chairman of the Tojo Clan."
Nishitani's eyes widened as he looked back toward Saburo, whose darkened gaze had settled squarely on him with a weight that suddenly made the old man seem far more dangerous than he had a moment earlier. Whatever color remained in Nishitani's face drained away as recognition finally struck.
"No… it can't be," he muttered, his voice falling to little more than a breath as his lips trembled. "Akaryū no Saburo… the Red Dragon of the Tojo Clan."