The rooftop was chaos.
Rain pounded against steel, turning the surface slick and treacherous. The helicopter's rotors carved through the storm, their deafening roar mixing with the howling wind. The city below flickered in distorted reflections across the wet rooftop, an abyss stretching far beneath them.
In the center of it all—Akihiro and Takeda stood locked in a brutal, beautiful dance of violence.
Then—they moved.
Takeda lunged, his knife slicing through the rain like a silver fang. Akihiro reacted instantly, tilting his head just enough for the blade to skim past his cheek—close enough that it nicked his skin, leaving a thin red line.
Akihiro's grin widened.
He retaliated. The metal pipe spun in his grip, a blur of motion. He brought it down with terrifying force—aiming for Takeda's wrist.
Takeda parried. His knife twisted, the blade catching the pipe's edge in a spark of steel on steel. He stepped in, using the deflection to close the distance, his shoulder slamming into Akihiro's chest.
Akihiro staggered—but Takeda didn't let up.
His knee shot forward, driving toward Akihiro's ribs. Akihiro twisted, absorbing the blow, his body flowing with the impact rather than resisting it. He dropped low, his leg sweeping out—trying to take Takeda's footing.
But Takeda was already in the air.
He vaulted over Akihiro's attack, flipping mid-air and landing behind him in one seamless motion. The moment his feet touched the ground, he struck. His knife flashed toward Akihiro's spine.
Akihiro, laughing, bent backward at an unnatural angle, dodging by a hair's breadth. The knife's tip sliced through the space where his neck had been. Without hesitation, Akihiro kicked up from his position, his foot hammering into Takeda's wrist.
The knife flew from Takeda's grasp—spinning through the rain before embedding itself in the helicopter door with a dull thunk.
Akihiro capitalized.
He lunged, his hand grabbing the back of Takeda's head—and smashed his face against the helicopter's window. The reinforced glass cracked from the impact, spiderwebbing from the point of collision.
Takeda grunted—but his counter was immediate.
Before Akihiro could press the advantage, Takeda's elbow drove into his ribs—once, twice—each strike carrying bone-crunching force. Akihiro gasped, but his grin never wavered.
Takeda pivoted.
He grabbed Akihiro by the collar and—**with sheer brute strength—**hurled him against the helicopter's metal hull.
Akihiro's back hit first. The entire aircraft shook.
Takeda was on him instantly, fist crashing into his jaw before he could even recover. Then another. And another. Each strike was clean, controlled, and devastatingly efficient.
But then—Akihiro caught Takeda's wrist.
And his grin twisted into something wicked.
He yanked Takeda forward—right into his own rising knee.
CRACK.
Takeda's head snapped back, blood splattering into the rain. But instead of staggering, he used the momentum—rolling with the force to bring his elbow down like a guillotine toward Akihiro's skull.
Akihiro blocked—barely.
The impact nearly made his knees buckle, his arms shaking under the weight. But then—his foot shot up, catching Takeda under the ribs with a vicious heel kick.
Takeda was sent flying.
He crashed against the rooftop railing, steel groaning under the force. But instead of falling, he caught himself—one hand gripping the edge, the other already reaching for his fallen knife.
Akihiro didn't give him the chance.
He rushed forward, pipe spinning like a war fan, every movement fluid, unpredictable.
Takeda ducked the first strike—but the second one slammed into his forearm, numbing his fingers before he could fully grip his weapon.
Then—Akihiro dropped the pipe mid-motion.
In that split-second, Takeda realized his mistake.
Akihiro **snatched the knife right off the rooftop floor—Takeda's own weapon—**and drove it forward.
Takeda barely managed to twist—but not fast enough. The blade grazed across his side, slicing through his jacket, a shallow but deep enough wound opening across his ribs.
For the first time—Takeda's expression changed.
Not pain.
Annoyance.
He exhaled sharply and stepped back, shaking the rain from his hair. His chest rose and fell steadily, but his eyes—their cold calculation remained unchanged.
Akihiro tilted his head. "You're tougher than you look, old man."
Takeda touched the blood soaking into his shirt. "And you're slower than I expected."
Akihiro let out a sharp, delighted laugh. "Still testing me, huh?"
Takeda rolled his shoulders, adjusting his stance. "I don't care about testing you." His gaze sharpened. "I just want to see if I am strong enough to kill a member of the takeda clan."
He took a step forward, the rain painting dark streaks down his face.
"Why don't you stop holding back and use it?"
Akihiro's grin faltered slightly.
Takeda's voice was calm—a blade hidden in silk.
"The Takeda clans blood runs through your veins. Show me the true power of the Takeda Clan. Show me your Inverted Eyes (倒視 - Tōshi)."
Silence.
Only the rain and the thunder remained.
Hah…" A breathy, humorless chuckle. "You want me to use that?"
"I want to see if you're still worth killing."
For a long moment, Akihiro said nothing. His posture, once so loose and playful, went eerily still.
Then, after a beat—he tilted his head, grinning once more.
"That eager to see?" he murmured.
Takeda narrowed his eyes. "I know you're still holding back."
"Sorry to break it to you but I haven't mastered it. I can't use it at will. It just comes on its own"
"I see how disappointing. But still it's impressive. Even the current head of the takeda clan turned 27 before he could even awaken it, or so I heard"
"Ah your talking about my old man?"
"You have no respect even for your own father it seems, I would have to teach you manners before I send you to the afterlife"
"Alright let's end this"
Akihiro's fingers flexed.
For the first time that night—he looked serious.
Time was running out, he had to end this quickly. He had to stop messing around.
Then—he lunged.
BACK IN TOKYO
The air was thick with the scent of blood.
Ren staggered through the dimly lit corridor, his body barely holding together. Every step was agony—his muscles screamed, his breath came ragged. His outfit was soaked with blood, some his, some not.
But he kept moving.
The facility was eerily silent. Bodies littered the halls—fresh kills, the echoes of past violence still hanging in the air.
Ren reached the lab.
The door was slightly ajar. Inside, the fluorescent lights flickered weakly, casting long, uneven shadows.
And in the center of the room—Kaede stood over Doctor Yusuke's lifeless body.
The scientist was slumped over his desk, his throat ripped open, blood pooling across the pristine floor. His fingers—gone. Severed cleanly at the knuckles.
Ren leaned against the doorway, breath heavy. He took in the scene, then exhaled.
"Good job," he muttered.
Kaede didn't turn around.
"You don't sound surprised."
Ren stepped forward, glancing down at Yusuke's mangled corpse. His gaze flicked to the missing fingers.
He narrowed his eyes.
"Why'd you take his fingers?"
Kaede finally looked at him.
Her expression was unreadable.
"I didn't."
Ren frowned.
Kaede's voice was quiet. "By the time I got here… he was already dead."
Silence.
Something cold coiled in Ren's stomach.
A new player was in the game.
And whoever they were—they had gotten here first.