Richard stood on the rooftop, clarinet in hand, eyes locked on Korkin. Anros slumped nearby, broken and whimpering, his hope pinned on the new arrival. Korkin's aura pulsed—dense, sharp, built for breaking things. Dangerous.
Korkin tilted his head, sizing Richard up. "You're not leaving, are you?" he said, voice low, almost amused. "Fine by me."
Richard's grip tightened. "You worked for my father," he said, voice steady but edged. "He paid you well, didn't he? You and Burrows. Why throw in with Anros?"
Korkin snorted, cracking his knuckles. "Paid, sure. But it was a job, kid, not loyalty. Anros had deeper pockets. Simple math." His eyes narrowed, a faint smirk tugging. "Don't think I'm scared of you. I'm offering you a way out—Nen to Nen. Take it, or I take you apart."
Richard didn't flinch. "A way out?" His voice dropped, cold. "You helped kill them. My family. You don't walk away from that."
Korkin's smirk faded.
"Have it your way," he said, aura flaring. "Let's dance."
He lunged, mouth opening wide. His tongue shot out, unnaturally long and tough, like a whip laced with aura. Enhancement (Kyōka)—his Hatsu turned his tongue into a weapon, fast and brutal, aiming to coil Richard like a snake.
Richard dodged, aura sparking with Ten to brace his move. "Disgusting," he muttered, recalling the Yin Beasts' grotesque tricks. Korkin's Nen was worse—amphibian, relentless. He kept his distance, knowing Crazy Sonata needed space to work.
Korkin pressed forward, tongue lashing again. "Can't run forever," he taunted, voice muffled but smug. "Your little song won't save you up close."
Richard's hand twitched, aura pulsing elsewhere—Burrows' Post-Mortem Nen, coiled in the clarinet.
"Bullet," he whispered, directing it. A shadow flickered, and a Nen bullet screamed from the side, aimed at Korkin's chest.
Korkin twisted at the last second, aura flaring with Gyo to his shoulder. The bullet grazed him, blood spraying, but he stayed up, eyes wide. "What the hell?" he snapped, scanning the roof. "Who's there?"
No one answered. Korkin mistook the attack for a hidden ally, not Richard's absorbed Emission (Hōshutsu). Richard stayed silent, letting the mistake fester. Korkin's focus split, and that was enough.
Richard raised the clarinet and played. Crazy Sonata's notes rolled out, soft but piercing, his Hatsu sinking into the air. Korkin's smirk twitched, eyes flickering. "Damn it," he growled, feeling the pull—his thoughts clouding, anger spiking.
"Stop that noise!" Korkin roared, charging. His tongue whipped out, faster now, aura blazing. Richard dodged again, but Burrows' Post-Mortem Nen moved too—a faint shape, rushing Korkin, fists glowing with aura. It wasn't stronger than Korkin, but it didn't fear death, tying him up.
Korkin snarled, batting the phantom back, but it kept coming, relentless. "Get off me!" he shouted, aura straining. The notes dug deeper, and his swings grew wilder, less precise. Sonata was breaking him, bit by bit, his Enhancer focus crumbling under madness.
Richard kept playing, circling wide. Korkin's face twisted, eyes reddening, control slipping. He clawed at his own mouth, fingers digging, as if to rip out the chaos inside. Then, with a scream, he grabbed his tongue—his pride, his Hatsu—and tore it free. Blood gushed, spraying the roof.
Korkin staggered, slamming his head against the concrete—once, twice, three times—until his skull cracked, blood pooling. He fell, aura gone.
Anros' scream cut through the silence, raw and broken. His face was white, eyes wide, like he'd seen hell itself. "Please," he choked, crawling despite his shattered limbs. "Spare me… I'm sorry…"
Richard stopped playing, clarinet lowering. "Sorry?" His voice was quiet, but it shook with something deeper—years of loss, bottled tight. "When you killed them, did you stop to feel sorry? When you sent Burrows after me, did you care?"
Anros sobbed, shaking his head, words failing. Richard raised the clarinet, no hesitation. "This is for them," he said, and brought it down. A dull crack ended Anros' cries, his body still.
Richard stood over him, chest heaving, the rooftop silent but for the wind. The Vellucci name had cost him everything. Now, it was done.