Io was five years old when her parents left her on the street.
She remembered it with the kind of clarity that trauma burns into a child's mind—every detail sharp and cutting, even years later when she wished she could forget.
It had been raining that night, just like the night she'd run. The rain seemed to follow her, cold and relentless, as if the sky itself wanted to wash her away.
"Wait here," her mother had said, crouching down to Io's level. Her face was tired, worn thin by poverty and too many children and not enough food. "Mama needs to get something from the store. You wait right here, okay?"
Io had nodded, trusting and obedient.
"Be good," her mother added, and something in her voice had cracked.
Then she'd turned and walked away.
Io had waited.
One hour. Two hours. Three.
The rain soaked through her thin clothes. Her stomach growled—she'd already been hungry before her mother left, but now the hunger was a living thing, gnawing at her insides.
*She's coming back,* Io told herself. *Mama's coming back.*
But night fell, and the street emptied, and her mother never returned.
At dawn, shivering and crying, Io finally understood:
They weren't coming back.
None of them.
She was an extra mouth to feed in a family that already had too many mouths. Another expense they couldn't afford. Another burden they'd finally decided to shed.
They'd left her like people left trash on street corners—unwanted, disposable, forgotten.
Io was five years old, and she was alone.
The streets taught Io quickly: kindness was rare, cruelty was common, and if you wanted to survive, you had to be willing to do things that would make your hands dirty.
She learned to steal.
At first, it was clumsy—grabbing fruit from market stalls and running, getting caught more often than not, receiving beatings from angry vendors who saw a small Beast Folk girl and felt no mercy.
But hunger is a powerful teacher.
Within weeks, Io's hands became quick and precise. She learned which vendors watched their stock carefully and which were careless. She learned to move silently, to blend into crowds, to take what she needed and disappear before anyone noticed.
She slept in alleys, under bridges, in abandoned buildings. She ate scraps when she could steal them, went hungry when she couldn't.
Other street children avoided her—a Beast Folk kid in a predominantly human area was a target, a scapegoat, someone the authorities would blame first when anything went wrong.
So Io learned to be alone.
Learned that depending on people—even parents—meant inevitable abandonment.
Learned that the only person she could trust was herself.
For three years, she survived this way.
Stealing. Hiding. Fighting when she had to. Running when she couldn't fight.
And then, when she was eight years old, everything changed.
Io had made a mistake.
She'd stolen bread from the wrong vendor—one connected to the Akuma-gumi, a local gang that controlled the east district's black market. The gang didn't take kindly to theft, even from starving children.
Three men cornered her in an alley, their faces twisted with cruel amusement.
"Little beast," the leader sneered, grabbing her arm hard enough to bruise. "You know what we do to thieves?"
Io knew. She'd seen the bodies.
She fought—bit and scratched and kicked with desperate, feral energy—but she was eight years old and malnourished, and they were grown men with experience in violence.
They would have killed her.
But then—
"Oi." A new voice, calm and cold. "Let the kid go."
The gang members turned.
A man stood at the alley's entrance—mid-thirties, scarred face, dragon tattoo visible on his neck. Behind him, four others, all wearing the red arm bands of the Crimson Fang gang.
The Akuma-gumi leader laughed nervously. "Ryu-san. This doesn't concern the Crimson Fang. The brat stole from—"
"I said let her go."
Something in Ryu's voice made it clear this wasn't a request.
The Akuma-gumi members dropped Io and left, muttering curses under their breath.
Io stood there, shaking, waiting for this new threat to reveal itself.
But Ryu just crouched down to her level, his scarred face surprisingly gentle.
"You hungry, kid?"
Io nodded, too exhausted to lie.
"Come on then." He stood, gestured for her to follow. "Let's get you fed.
That night, Io ate the first real meal she'd had in three years.
The Crimson Fang operated out of an old warehouse on the district's edge—technically illegal, but the police rarely bothered them as long as they kept violence to a minimum and paid their bribes on time.
Inside, Io found something she'd never expected:
A family.
Not by blood—never by blood—but by choice.
There was Ryu, the leader, who'd saved her. Kenji, the second-in-command, who told terrible jokes and snuck her extra dumplings. Yuki, one of only three women in the gang, who taught Io how to braid her hair. Old man Tanaka, who'd lost his real family to disease and treated the gang like his children.
And others—fifteen in total—all of them outcasts, misfits, people who'd been abandoned or rejected or hurt by a society that had no place for them.
They took Io in without question.
Fed her. Clothed her. Gave her a futon in the corner of the warehouse that was *hers*, the first thing she'd truly owned since her parents left her in the rain.
"You're Crimson Fang now," Ryu told her, tying a red armband around her small arm. "That means you're family. And family doesn't abandon each other. Ever. You understand?"
Io had cried then—the first tears she'd allowed herself in three years.
"I understand," she whispered.
For the first time since she was five years old, Io felt safe.
The Crimson Fang weren't just criminals—they were survivors in a world that criminalized survival.
They taught Io everything:
How to pick locks. How to read people's intentions from their body language. How to move silently. How to fight with her hands, with weapons, with anything she could grab.
But more than that, they taught her *why* to fight.
"We don't hurt people for fun," Ryu explained one evening while teaching her basic knife work. "We protect our own. We take from those who have too much and give to those who have nothing. We're not heroes, Io. But we're not monsters either."
Io absorbed everything like a sponge desperate for water.
By age ten, she could pick any lock in under thirty seconds.
By eleven, she could disarm an adult attacker twice her size.
By twelve, she was the fastest runner in the gang, quick and small enough to slip through spaces others couldn't.
But more important than any skill—she was *happy*.
For the first time in her life, Io laughed without fear. Smiled without wondering when it would be taken away. Slept without nightmares of abandonment.
She had brothers now. Sisters. A father in Ryu, who never once made her feel like a burden.
"You're not extra," he told her once, when she'd asked why they kept her around. "You're necessary. You're ours. Got it?"
She'd nodded, unable to speak past the lump in her throat.
*Family,* she thought. *This is what family means.*
For four years, she belonged.
And then they came.
Io was twelve years old when the Black Serpent gang attacked.
She'd been asleep—exhausted from a day of training with Olivia when the first gunshot shattered the warehouse's quiet.
**BANG**
Io jolted awake, her hand instinctively reaching for the knife she kept under her pillow.
**BANG BANG BANG**
More gunshots. Shouting. Screaming.
"IO!" Yumi's voice, desperate and terrified. "RUN! GET OUT—"
The sound of Yumi'svoice cutting off. A body hitting the floor.
*No no no no—*
Io scrambled out of her futon, knife in hand, moving on pure instinct toward the main area of the warehouse.
The sight that greeted her would haunt her forever.
Bodies.
So many bodies.
Yumi's, who'd made her laugh just hours ago—face-down in a pool of blood.
, who'd taught her to read—slumped against the wall, eyes vacant and staring.
Io couldn't look at Yumi's.
And in the center of the carnage, Ryu.
He was on his knees, gut-shot, blood pouring between his fingers as he pressed them against the wound. Around him, ten Black Serpent members with guns drawn, their leader—a man with a snake tattoo covering half his face—laughing.
"Crimson Fang," Snake-face sneered. "More like Crimson *Corpses* now."
Ryu's eyes found Io across the warehouse.
Their gazes locked.
*Run,* his expression said. *Please, run.*
But Io couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Her family—her *family*—
"Well well," Snake-face followed Ryu's gaze, his smile widening. "One little rat survived. Should we—"
"No." Ryu's voice was weak but firm. He reached into his jacket with shaking, blood-slick hands, pulled out something that gleamed in the dim light.
His twin daggers.
The ones he'd carried for fifteen years, the ones he'd used to protect the Crimson Fang, the ones he'd promised to pass down to his successor when the time came.
"Io," Ryu called, his voice breaking. "Come here. Now."
Io's legs moved without permission, carrying her across the warehouse, past the bodies of people she'd loved, until she stood before Ryu.
He pressed the daggers into her hands. They were warm with his blood.
"Run," he whispered, his calloused hand cupping her face, smearing red across her cheek. "Run as far as your legs can take you."
"No." Io's voice cracked. "No, I won't leave you. I can't—I have no family without you, I have nothing—"
"No." Ryu smiled then—that same gentle smile he'd given her four years ago in an alley when he'd saved a starving street kid nobody else cared about. His hand trembled against her face. "No matter where you go. No matter how far you hide. No matter how strong you get..." His breath hitched, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. "I'll always be here. In your heart. Now and forever in your heart."
Tears streamed down Io's face, mixing with his blood.
"So live for us," Ryu whispered. "Live. Be strong. Survive. That's an order from your boss. You understand? That's an—"
**BANG**
A gunshot.
Ryu's hand fell from her face.
"GO!" he screamed with his last breath, shoving her backward with strength he shouldn't have had left. "GO GO GO—"
**BANG BANG BANG**
Three more shots. Four. Five.
Ryu's body jerked with each impact, but he stayed upright just long enough—long enough for Io to turn and run, his twin daggers clutched to her chest, his blood on her hands and face and clothes.
She ran.
Past the bodies.
Past Yuki and Kenji and Tanaka and all the others who'd given her a home when she had nothing.
Past Snake-face's shouts: "After her! Don't let the brat escape!"
Out into the night.
Into the rain.
*Of course it's raining,* some distant part of her mind thought. *It's always raining when I lose everything.*
Gunshots cracked behind her. Bullets whizzed past her head, embedding in walls and pavement.
But Io ran faster than she'd ever run before, fueled by grief and terror and Ryu's final command:
*Live.*
She ran until her lungs burned.
Until her legs gave out.
Until she collapsed in an alley three districts away, gasping and sobbing, Ryu's blood still warm on her skin.
She was twelve years old.
And she was alone again.
Io didn't know how long she'd been in that alley.
Hours? Days?
Time stopped meaning anything.
She clutched Ryu's daggers to her chest and stared at nothing, replaying the massacre over and over, seeing Kenji's face, hearing Yuki's cut-off scream, feeling Ryu's hand on her cheek.
*I should have stayed,* she thought numbly. *I should have fought with them. I should have died with them.*
*I should have—*
"You're bleeding."
Io's head snapped up.
A man stood at the alley's entrance, silhouetted against the dim streetlight. He wore all black—black pants, black jacket, black gloves. Even his face was obscured by shadows and the hood pulled low over his features.
"Go away," Io rasped, her voice destroyed from crying.
"That wound on your arm." The man stepped closer, and Io tensed, raising one of Ryu's daggers defensively. "It'll get infected if you don't clean it."
She hadn't even noticed the injury—a bullet graze across her left bicep, still bleeding sluggishly.
"I don't care," Io said.
"Liar." The man crouched just outside her striking range, careful and non-threatening. "You're still alive, aren't you? You ran. That means you want to live."
"I—" Io's voice broke. "They told me to run. I had to. I had to listen."
"Then keep listening." The man's voice was calm, measured, like someone used to talking people off ledges. "Come with me. I'll treat that wound. Feed you. Give you a place to sleep that's not a dirty alley."
"Why?" Io's hands shook on the dagger's grip. "Why would you help me? You don't even know me."
The man was quiet for a long moment.
Then: "Because someone helped me once. When I had nothing. When I was alone and broken and ready to die." He extended his hand. "Let me pay that forward."
Io stared at his outstretched hand.
She'd trusted once before. Let people in. Built a family.
And they'd all died.
Everyone she'd ever loved had either abandoned her or been torn away.
Why should this be different?
But Ryu's voice echoed in her mind: *Live. Be strong. Survive.*
*For them.*
Io took the man's hand.
The man's name was Kurogane—at least, that's what he told her to call him.
He lived in a compound outside the city, hidden deep in the mountains where authorities never ventured and satellites couldn't track. It was part dojo, part fortress, part armory.
"What is this place?" Io had asked on her first night, staring at the weapons lining the walls—swords, guns, garrotes, poisons, explosives.
"A school," Kurogane had answered simply. "For people who need to become something more than human. Something stronger. Something that can survive in a world that wants to kill them."
Over the next six years, Io learned what he meant.
Kurogane was an assassin—one of the best in the criminal underworld, a ghost who'd never been caught, never been identified, never failed a contract. He'd retired years ago, grown tired of killing, but his skills remained sharp as the blades he'd once wielded.
And he taught Io everything.
**YEAR ONE: FOUNDATION**
Physical conditioning. Running until her legs gave out, then running more. Push-ups until her arms trembled. Combat drills until her body moved on instinct rather than thought.
"Pain is temporary," Kurogane would say calmly while she gasped for breath. "Death is permanent. Which do you prefer?"
**YEAR TWO: COMBAT**
Hand-to-hand fighting. Grappling. Pressure points. How to kill with her bare hands in thirty different ways. How to disarm opponents twice her size. How to turn any object into a weapon.
"Everything is a weapon," Kurogane taught. "A pen. A belt. A glass of water. The environment. Your opponent's overconfidence. Learn to see the tools around you."
**YEAR THREE: WEAPONS MASTERY**
Ryu's twin daggers became extensions of her hands. She learned knife-fighting from a dozen different martial traditions. Then swords. Then guns—pistols, rifles, sniper rifles. Then exotic weapons: garrotes, poisoned needles, explosive charges.
"Specialize in everything," Kurogane said. "Be unpredictable. Be adaptable."
**YEAR FOUR: STEALTH**
How to move without sound. How to pick any lock. How to hack security systems. How to blend into crowds, become invisible in plain sight, adopt personas that made people see what she wanted them to see rather than what was real.
"The best assassin," Kurogane explained, "is one nobody remembers seeing."
**YEAR FIVE: PSYCHOLOGY**
How to read people. How to manipulate them. How to lie convincingly. How to resist interrogation. How to break someone's will with words alone.
"The mind is more dangerous than any weapon," Kurogane said. "Master yours. Exploit theirs."
**YEAR SIX: REFINEMENT**
Putting it all together. Simulated missions. Live targets—criminals, human traffickers, people the world wouldn't miss. Learning to kill efficiently, mercifully when possible, brutally when necessary.
"You're not a murderer," Kurogane told her after her first real kill—a man who'd been selling children on the black market. "You're an instrument of justice in a world that has none. Remember that."
By the time Io turned eighteen, she was unrecognizable from the twelve-year-old girl who'd fled a massacre in the rain.
She was faster, stronger, sharper.
She was a weapon forged in trauma and tempered in discipline.
She was undefeated—forty-seven training matches, forty-seven wins, including three against Kurogane himself.
"You've surpassed me," Kurogane admitted after their final sparring session, nursing bruised ribs while Io stood barely winded. "There's nothing left I can teach you."
Io had expected to feel pride at those words.
Instead, she felt empty.
"Why did you train me?" Io asked one night, sitting on the compound's roof, staring at stars she'd stopped believing in years ago.
Kurogane joined her, moving silently despite his age.
"Because you remind me of myself," he said after a long silence. "Alone. Angry. Carrying ghosts everywhere you go."
Io's hand instinctively touched the twin daggers at her waist—Ryu's daggers, cleaned and sharpened but never replaced.
"Does it ever stop?" she asked quietly. "The anger? The... emptiness?"
Kurogane was quiet for so long she thought he wouldn't answer.
Then: "No. But you learn to carry it. And eventually, if you're lucky, you find something—or someone—worth carrying it for."
"I had that once," Io whispered. "They all died."
"I know."
"So what's the point?" The words tore from her throat, raw and desperate. "What's the point of being strong if everyone I care about dies? What's the point of surviving if I'm alone?"
Kurogane turned to look at her, his expression hidden by shadows but his voice gentle.
"The point," he said, "is that you're still here. Still breathing. Still fighting. That means their deaths weren't meaningless. You're living the life they gave you. You're the proof that they mattered."
Io's vision blurred.
"I'm so tired," she admitted. "I'm so tired of losing people. Of being alone."
"Then don't be alone." Kurogane stood, offering his hand—just like he had six years ago in that alley. "The world is cruel, Io. But it's also full of people searching for the same thing you are: connection. Family. Purpose. You just have to be brave enough to reach for it again."
Io stared at his hand.
"What if I lose them too?"
"You will," Kurogane said bluntly. "Eventually. Everyone dies. But the alternative is spending your whole life alone, and that's not living. That's just surviving. And you've done enough of that."
Io took his hand and let him pull her to her feet.
"So what now?" she asked.
"Now?" Kurogane smiled—a rare expression on his usually stoic face. "Now you go out into the world. You use what I've taught you. You protect people who can't protect themselves. You build something worth fighting for. And maybe—maybe—you let yourself trust again."
"And if I can't?"
"Then you keep trying until you can." He placed a hand on her shoulder. "You're stronger than you think, Io. Ryu knew that. That's why he told you to live."
*Ryu.*
Io's hand touched the daggers again.
*I'll always be here. In your heart.*
"Okay," Io whispered. "Okay. I'll try."
At eighteen, Io left Kurogane's compound with three things:
Ryu's twin daggers.
Six years of training that made her one of the
deadliest people alive.
And a hollowness in her chest where her heart used to be.
She took contracts. High-paying, morally ambiguous work that let her use her skills and fill the void with purpose, even if that purpose was temporary.
She was efficient. Professional. Undefeated.
Forty-seven training victories became one hundred mission successes. Then two hundred. Then so many she stopped counting.
People in the underworld whispered her name with fear and respect: "The Twin Blade." "The Ghost." "The Undefeated."
But Io felt nothing.
No pride in her victories.
No satisfaction in her wealth.
No warmth in the cold, sterile apartments she rented and never called home.
She'd learned to survive.
But she'd forgotten how to live
Until—
Until she took a contract at Seika Academy.
The autumn wind carried the scent of rain as Io crouched in the shadows of Seika Academy's rooftop, her fingers adjusting the focus on her binoculars. Below, in the courtyard bathed in afternoon sunlight, her target sat on a bench surrounded by friends.
Hiro Mizuki. Seventeen years old. Transforming beast folk. Threat level: to be determined.
Through the lenses, she watched him laugh at something the pink-haired girl said—Kaede Nakamura, according to her files. The sound didn't reach her perch, but she could see the genuine warmth in his expression, the way his shoulders relaxed as he ate his lunch. The silver-haired girl beside him—Luna Shirogane, his childhood friend and roommate—said something that made him nearly choke on his food.
He looks normal, Io thought, her trained eye cataloging every detail. Harmless, even. But appearances are the most dangerous lies.
She'd been watching him for three days now. His morning routines, his class schedule, his social interactions. Everything about him screamed "ordinary teenage boy." But ordinary teenage boys didn't transform into seven-foot beasts. Ordinary teenage boys didn't have government files thick enough to require classified clearance.
Io lowered the binoculars, her expression unchanged. The rooftop access door was locked, but locks meant nothing to someone with her training. She'd leave no trace of her presence, as always.
"I'll confirm tonight," she murmured to herself, her voice barely a whisper against the wind. "Then I'll know what you really are."
The sun had long set by the time Io positioned herself in the tree across from Hiro's apartment building. The ancient oak provided perfect cover, its thick branches creating a natural blind spot from the street below. She'd spent the afternoon preparing—checking her equipment, reviewing her mission parameters, steadying her mind.
Emotion was the enemy of precision. Hesitation led to failure. She'd learned these lessons young, in training facilities that broke children into weapons. At twenty-four, she'd completed forty-seven missions without a single failure.
This would be number forty-eight.
Through her scope, she watched the apartment window. The lights were on, but the curtains remained closed. She adjusted her position, settling in to wait. Patience was as much a weapon as the twin daggers strapped to her thighs.
Minutes passed. Ten. Twenty. Thirty.
Then movement—the curtains parted slightly as someone entered the room.
Io's finger adjusted the scope's focus instinctively.
Hiro appeared in the window frame, fresh from a shower, a towel wrapped around his waist. Water droplets still clung to his skin, catching the light. He ran a hand through his damp hair, completely unaware of the eyes watching him.
Through the scope, Io observed with clinical detachment. Muscular build, she noted mentally. Above-average physical conditioning. Scars on the knuckles—evidence of hand-to-hand training or perhaps—
Her thoughts stuttered as Hiro removed the towel.
The scope showed everything in sharp detail. The defined lines of his abs, each muscle group clearly visible. The broad shoulders and strong arms that spoke of regular training. More scars—thin white lines across his ribs that suggested old wounds. The physique of someone who'd fought, who'd survived.
Heat flooded Io's face.
Her hands trembled slightly on the scope.
She'd seen countless bodies before—in combat, in training, in autopsy photos. The human form held no mystery to her. It was simply biology, mechanics, weak points to exploit.
So why was her heart suddenly pounding? Why did her face feel like it was on fire? Why couldn't she look away even as every professional instinct screamed at her to—
*CRACK!*
The branch beneath her boot gave way.
"Wh—!" Io's training kicked in instantly, her hand shooting out to grab a lower branch. She caught herself, but the damaged branch crashed to the ground below with a sound that seemed deafening in the quiet night.
She hung there, breathing hard, her face burning with mortification.
*I'm a professional,* she thought furiously. *I don't get distracted. I've never—I haven't—*
The realization hit her like cold water.
She'd never seen a man's body before. Not like this. Not in a context that wasn't clinical or combat-related. Her entire life had been missions, training, kill orders. There'd been no room for... for whatever *this* was.
Inside the apartment, she saw Hiro approach the window, now dressed in pajamas. He peered out into the darkness, his eyes scanning the street below. His gaze passed right over her position—the shadows were deep enough to hide her.
After a moment, he shrugged and closed the curtains.
Io remained frozen in the tree, her heart still racing, her mind a chaotic mess of thoughts she had no framework to process.
"Focus," she whispered to herself. "Mission. Target. Don't think about... about..."
She squeezed her eyes shut and forced her breathing to steady.
Tomorrow. She'd make contact tomorrow. Assess his abilities in person. And she would *not* let herself be distracted again.
The next day passed in a blur of surveillance. Io watched from various vantage points as Hiro attended classes, ate lunch with his friends, and eventually left campus alone as the afternoon faded to evening.
She followed at a distance, her movements fluid and silent. He was heading toward the border district—the area where human and beast folk territories met. Her research indicated his grandparents lived there. A visit, then. Predictable. Routine.
Good. Routine made targets vulnerable.
She waited outside the modest house as warm light spilled from its windows. Through gaps in the curtains, she could see Hiro sitting with an elderly couple—his grandfather's distinctive wolf ears and his grandmother's gentle smile. They talked, laughed, shared tea.
Io checked her watch. One hour passed. Then another.
By the time Hiro finally emerged, bowing respectfully to his grandparents at the door, night had fully fallen. The streetlights flickered to life as he began the walk home, hands in his pockets, his expression content.
Io moved ahead of him, using rooftops and shadows to get into position. The route he'd take passed through an empty stretch of road—old warehouses on one side, a small park on the other. No cameras. No witnesses.
Perfect.
She dropped silently to the ground and waited behind a tree, her heart rate steady, her mind clear. This was familiar territory. This was what she'd been trained for.
Footsteps approached. She counted them, measuring his pace.
Three. Two. One.
Io stepped out from behind the tree, blocking his path.
Hiro stopped short, his eyes widening slightly. In the harsh streetlight, she could see him clearly—still wearing his school uniform, a bouquet of now-wilted flowers in his hand, his expression shifting from surprise to caution.
"Are you Hiro Mizuki?" Her voice came out cold, professional. Perfect.
He studied her for a moment, his posture shifting subtly—weight balanced, ready to move. "Who's asking?"
"That doesn't matter." She took a step forward. "You're coming with me."
"No." His voice was firm, final.
Io's eyes narrowed. "I wasn't asking."
She moved before he could respond, her hands pulling the twin daggers from their sheaths with practiced ease. The blades sang as they cut through the air, and she closed the distance between them in a heartbeat.
Hiro dove to the side, the blade missing his throat by inches. But she'd anticipated the dodge—her second blade was already coming around in a backhand slash.
It connected.
A thin line of blood appeared on his cheek as he stumbled backward, his hand instinctively reaching up to touch the wound.
"What's your deal, lady?!" His voice held confusion more than anger.
Io didn't answer. Words were wasted breath. She pressed forward, her blades moving in the precise patterns drilled into her muscle memory. High slash, low stab, spinning strike. Each movement flowed into the next like a deadly dance.
Hiro backed away, dodging and weaving. His movements were good—better than good, actually. Enhanced reflexes, she noted. Probably a beast folk trait. But he wasn't fighting back, just evading.
"I don't want to fight you!" he said, ducking under a horizontal slash.
"Then die quietly!" Io punctuated her words with a rapid series of strikes. Left blade high, right blade low, feint, reverse, spin. Her breathing remained steady, controlled. This was what she excelled at.
But something was wrong.
He was too fast. Too aware. Every strike she made, he somehow predicted, moving just enough to turn what should have been fatal blows into glancing cuts. His arms were bleeding now, his uniform torn in several places, but none of the wounds were deep enough to slow him down.
*He's holding back,* she realized. *He's not even trying to counterattack.*
The thought ignited something hot and uncomfortable in her chest. Anger? Frustration? She wasn't sure.
Io leaped high, both blades raised above her head, putting all her strength into a downward strike designed to overwhelm his defenses.
Hiro's hands shot up.
*CLANG!*
He caught both blades between his palms.
Io's eyes widened. The force of her strike should have driven the blades clean through his hands, but he held them firm. Blood ran down his wrists where the sharp edges bit into his skin, but his grip didn't waver.
"I'm sorry," Hiro said, his voice strained with effort and something that sounded almost like genuine regret. "But I have school tomorrow."
His eyes began to glow.
Golden light poured from them, bright enough to cast stark shadows across his face. Io felt his hands heat up where they gripped her blades, felt the sudden surge of power that made the air itself seem to vibrate.
"What—" she started.
Then he transformed.
It wasn't gradual. One moment he was a teenage boy, the next his body was *changing*. His frame expanded violently, muscles bulging and reforming. Black fur erupted across his skin, streaked with vivid orange like flames. His face elongated into a wolf's muzzle, fangs glinting in the streetlight. Claws extended from his fingers with an audible *snick*.
In seconds, a seven-foot beast stood where Hiro had been.
Io's professional composure shattered. "What... what *is* that?!"
The beast's muzzle pulled back, revealing rows of sharp teeth. Then it *roared*—a sound so primal and powerful that Io felt it in her bones, felt every instinct in her body screaming at her to run.
*ROOOAAARRR!!!*
But assassins didn't run.
The beast charged.
Io barely processed the movement before it was on her. She brought her blades up in a defensive cross, bracing for impact.
The creature's fist slammed into her guard with the force of a freight train.
*BOOM!*
The impact sent shockwaves up Io's arms. Her feet left the ground, and suddenly she was flying backward, the world spinning. She slammed into a concrete wall hard enough to crack it, the air exploding from her lungs.
She hit the ground in a heap, vision swimming. Every part of her body screamed in pain. But through sheer force of will, she pushed herself up, gasping for breath.
*Move. Get up. Fight.*
The beast was already charging again.
Io rolled to the side just as its fist cratered the pavement where she'd been lying. Chunks of concrete exploded outward. She came up in a crouch, blades ready, and launched herself at its exposed back.
Her daggers struck scales and fur that felt hard as armor. The blades skittered off with barely a scratch.
*Impossible.*
The beast spun, its clawed hand sweeping toward her. Io ducked under it, going for its legs—if she couldn't hurt it, she'd take out its mobility.
But it was *fast*. Faster than anything that size had any right to be.
Its other hand caught her mid-strike, those massive fingers wrapping around her entire torso and *squeezing*. Io felt her ribs creak under the pressure. She slashed at its arm, her blades finally drawing blood—thin lines of red across black fur.
The beast growled and threw her.
Io twisted in midair, managing to land in a roll that bled off some of the momentum. She came up running, creating distance, her mind racing through options.
*Weak points. There have to be weak points. Eyes, throat, joints—*
She reversed direction suddenly, sprinting straight at the creature. It raised its fists to smash her, but at the last second she slid between its legs, blades flashing upward at the backs of its knees.
*CLANG! CLANG!*
The daggers struck something hard beneath the fur—bone or cartilage denser than steel. The impact sent painful vibrations up her arms, but she didn't stop. She rolled to her feet behind it, spinning to attack its back.
The beast's tail whipped around—she hadn't even noticed it had a tail—and caught her in the ribs.
Io flew sideways, crashing through a chain-link fence. She tasted blood. Her vision blurred. But her hands still gripped her daggers.
*Get up. Get up. GET UP.*
She forced herself to stand, swaying slightly. The beast approached slowly now, its glowing eyes fixed on her. It was giving her time to recover.
That made her angrier than the pain.
"Don't... don't you dare pity me," she spat, blood on her lips.
She attacked again, throwing everything she had into a flurry of strikes. High, low, feints, real attacks, using every technique she'd ever learned. Her blades became a blur of steel and moonlight.
The beast blocked, deflected, dodged. And slowly, methodically, it began to counter.
A punch slipped through her defense, glancing off her shoulder. The force spun her around. She recovered, struck at its face—it caught her wrist. She tried to stab with her other blade—it caught that wrist too.
They stood locked for a moment, Io's blades inches from the beast's throat, its massive hands wrapped around her wrists. She could feel the power in those hands, knew it could crush her bones like twigs.
Then it began to *squeeze*.
Pressure built on her wrists. Her bones creaked. The pain made her vision white out at the edges. She heard the sound before she felt it—two sharp *CRACK*s as the metal blades broke under the pressure.
The daggers shattered into pieces that fell like metal rain around their feet.
Io's legs gave out. She collapsed to her knees, her broken weapons useless in her hands, her body screaming in pain. Blood ran from dozens of cuts. Her ribs were probably cracked. Her wrists felt like they were on fire.
She'd lost.
The beast loomed over her, massive and terrible in the dim light. She looked up at it, expecting the finishing blow.
"Kill me," she said, her voice hoarse. "Finish it."
Silence.
Then, impossibly, the glow in its eyes began to fade. The beast's form shrank, fur receding, muscles compressing. In seconds, Hiro stood there again in his torn uniform, breathing hard, blood running down his arms from where he'd caught her blades.
He looked exhausted. Sad, even.
"Sorry," he said softly. "I don't use my power to hurt people."
He bent down, picking up his school bag from where it had fallen during the fight. Then he walked past her, his footsteps heavy.
"Get better weapons next time," he called over his shoulder.
Then he was gone, leaving her kneeling in the wreckage of their battle.
Io stayed there for a long time, unable to move. Not because of her injuries—she'd learned to push through worse pain. But because of something else, something she had no name for.
Her heart was racing, but not from exertion. Her body felt hot, feverish, but not from fever. Her hands trembled as she stared at the broken pieces of her daggers scattered around her.
*Someone beat me.*
The thought circled in her mind, foreign and strange. In ten years of active missions, she'd never lost a fight. She'd been shot, stabbed, poisoned, but never *beaten*. Never overpowered. Never spared.
*He could have killed me. Should have killed me. But he just... left.*
She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling her heart hammering against her ribs. The sensation was overwhelming, intense, completely outside her experience.
"What is this?" she whispered to the empty street.
No answer came. Just the sound of distant traffic and her own ragged breathing.
Finally, she forced herself to stand. Her legs wobbled but held. She gathered the pieces of her shattered daggers—evidence that needed to be disposed of—and limped into the shadows.
She had a new mission now. But its parameters had changed in ways she didn't fully understand.
The morning sunlight felt too bright as Io stood outside Seika Academy. She wore a professional blazer and skirt, her long hair tied back in a neat bun, glasses perched on her nose. The injuries from last night were hidden beneath makeup and careful positioning.
She'd spent hours after the fight making calls, pulling strings, activating old favors. By 3 AM, she'd had the position. By 6 AM, the paperwork was filed. By 8 AM, she was officially a teacher at Seika Academy.
Her superiors had approved the plan instantly. Deep cover observation. It made tactical sense.
But as she walked through the school's hallways, following the vice principal to her new classroom, Io knew the truth. This wasn't just about the mission anymore.
She needed to understand. Needed to know what he was, why he'd spared her, what that *feeling* in her chest meant.
The vice principal, Ms. Tanaka, opened the classroom door. "I'll be moving to administration," she announced to the surprised students. "This is your new homeroom teacher."
Io stepped forward, her expression perfectly neutral despite her racing heart. She bowed formally.
"Good morning, everyone. My name is Io Tsukishiro. I'll be your new homeroom teacher."
Polite applause rippled through the classroom. Her eyes scanned the faces, cataloging each one until—
There.
Third row, window seat. Hiro Mizuki.
His eyes widened as recognition hit him. She watched the color drain from his face, watched him sit up straighter, watched his hand instinctively move to his bandaged arms.
Their eyes met.
Io felt that strange heat flood through her again but kept her expression professional. "I look forward to working with all of you," she said, her voice steady.
She could see the panic in his eyes, the disbelief. It was almost satisfying.
*Now,* she thought, *let's see who you really are, Hiro Mizuki.*
---
By lunchtime, Io had established herself in the faculty office, claiming the desk that had been Ms. Tanaka's. From her position by the window, she had a clear view of the courtyard where students ate lunch.
She watched Hiro sit with his friends, watched him try to act normal even though his body language screamed tension. The silver-haired girl—Luna—kept asking him questions. He gave short answers, his attention repeatedly drifting toward the school building.
Toward her.
Io touched her chest where her heart continued its strange, rapid rhythm. The sensation hadn't faded. If anything, it was stronger now.
*Mission parameters: Observe. Assess. Report.*
But even as she repeated the familiar words in her mind, she knew something fundamental had shifted. She'd come here to determine if Hiro Mizuki was a threat.
Instead, she'd discovered she didn't know herself half as well as she thought.
The afternoon sun caught the broken pieces of her daggers, still in her bag, glinting like shattered stars. Evidence of her first defeat. Evidence of something else entirely.
Io didn't know what that something was.
But she intended to find out.