Chapter Text
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Hokuto’s hand trembles slightly as he pours another shot of cheap whiskey. The amber liquid sloshes against the glass, nearly spilling over the rim. He steadies himself, focusing on the simple task, trying to ignore the weight of eyes tracking his every movement across the dilapidated karaoke bar.
“More ice,” Takashi grunts, sliding his glass forward.
Hokuto nods, reaching for the plastic bucket.
The ice cubes clink against each other, the sound amplified in the momentary lull of conversation. July heat presses in through the broken air conditioning, making the abandoned karaoke bar feel like a pressure cooker despite the late hour. Sweat trickles down his spine, dampening the back of his thin t-shirt.
“Hey, pretty boy.” Ryo’s voice cuts through the humid air. “Bring that bottle over here.”
Hokuto obeys, crossing the room with measured steps. The floorboards creak beneath his feet, each sound marking his progress toward the corner booth where Ryo lounges like a self-appointed king. The leather upholstery is cracked and peeling, but Ryo treats it like a throne nonetheless.
“What the fuck are you looking at, Takashi?” Ryo suddenly barks, his left eye—perpetually half-closed—narrowing even further.
Hokuto freezes mid-step, bottle clutched against his chest. He doesn’t turn around, he doesn’t need to. He knows exactly what Takashi was looking at.
“Nothing, boss,” Takashi mumbles, the ice in his glass rattling as he probably shifts uncomfortably.
“Didn’t look like nothing.” Ryo’s voice drops dangerously low. “Looked like you were eyeing what belongs to me.”
The familiar possessive pronoun makes Hokuto’s skin crawl. What, not who. He forces himself to continue walking, to place the bottle on the table with steady hands.
The neon sign outside flickers, casting the room in alternating shadows and sickly green light. For a moment, Ryo’s face looks like something from a nightmare—all sharp angles and cruel intention.
“I wasn’t—” Takashi begins.
“Shut up.” Ryo grabs Hokuto’s wrist, yanking him down onto the torn vinyl seat. “Sit.”
Hokuto complies, his body following orders while his mind drifts elsewhere. He’s learned this survival tactic over the past three years—be present enough to respond, absent enough to endure.
Ryo’s arm snakes around Hokuto’s waist, fingers digging possessively into his hip. “You all remember that raid last week? The one by the station?”
Shimada, ever the loyal Lieutenant, straightens up from his slouched position against the wall. “Yeah, boss. That was some impressive shit.”
“Damn right it was.” Ryo’s chest puffs up. “Show them the article.”
Shimada reaches into his back pocket, producing a folded newspaper clipping. The paper is already worn at the creases, evidence of how many times it’s been unfolded and passed around. He smooths it out on the sticky tabletop with something approaching reverence.
“See that?” Ryo jabs a finger at the headline: Late-Night Raid Leaves Shimokitazawa Shop Owners Demanding Increased Police Presence. “That’s us making our mark.”
Hokuto stares at the article, reading between the lines. The description mentions masked perpetrators, organized tactics, precision timing. Nothing like the chaotic, impulsive Orphans.
His gaze catches on a detail—a signature tag left at the scene, described but not pictured. A crescent moon with three stars.
The Moonrunners. The gang from Suginami City, known for their calculated strikes and distinctive graffiti tag. Hokuto had heard whispers about them from customers at the convenience store before Ryo decided he shouldn’t work there anymore.
“They’re saying we’re the most dangerous gang in the area now,” Ryo continues, voice swelling with unearned pride.
Hokuto keeps his face carefully blank, eyes downcast. It wasn’t you. It wasn’t any of you.
The thought sits dangerous in his mind, a secret he knows better than to voice. The Orphans barely qualify as a gang—thirty members strong at most, more talk than action, more delusion than danger.
“To the Orphans!” Shimada raises his glass, eyes gleaming with reflected neon. “Making Shimokitazawa tremble!”
The others join in the toast, alcohol sloshing over glass rims as they knock drinks together.
The karaoke bar feels smaller tonight, the walls pressing in like a slowly closing trap. Through the grimy window, Hokuto catches glimpses of real life—people hurrying past, umbrellas tilted against the summer drizzle, neon signs blurring into watercolor smears. A world moving forward while he remains static, trapped in this purgatory of someone else’s making.
“Hey.” Ryo’s breath is hot against his ear, sour with cheap alcohol. “You’re looking distracted. Something more interesting out there than in here?”
“No,” Hokuto whispers, turning away from the window. “Nothing at all.”
Ryo drains his glass and slams it down hard enough to make the others flinch. “Alright, show’s over. Get your asses back out there. We’ve got a reputation to maintain.”
The command cuts through the smoky haze of the room. Orphans begin to stir, downing drinks and gathering jackets. Hokuto watches their familiar ritual—the straightening of shoulders, the practiced swagger, the transformation from drunken boys to would-be gangsters.
“Shimada, take Takashi and check on that record shop. Make sure they remember what happens when protection payments come in late.” Ryo’s fingers drum against Hokuto’s hip, the rhythm irregular and impatient. “The rest of you—spread out. Be visible. Make sure everyone in Shimokita knows who runs these streets.”
The words are so hollow they almost echo. Hokuto stares at a water stain on the ceiling, shaped vaguely like the map of Japan. He’s memorized every crack and imperfection in this room over three years of captivity disguised as salvation.
“Not you,” Ryo says as Hokuto automatically begins to rise. “I want to celebrate with my pet tonight.”
The possessive term lands like a physical weight on Hokuto’s shoulders. He remains seated as the others file out, their eyes carefully averted. Only Takashi risks a final glance back, something unreadable flickering across his face before Shimada yanks him through the door.
The room empties, leaving behind the lingering smell of cigarettes, spilled alcohol, and too many bodies in too small a space. Outside, rain continues to fall, pattering against windows filmed with years of grime. Hokuto watches a droplet trace a meandering path down the glass, wishing he could follow it out into the night.
“What are you thinking about?” Ryo’s voice drops to what he probably imagines is seductive. He shifts Hokuto in one fluid motion until Hokuto is sitting across his lap, their faces uncomfortably close.
“Nothing important,” Hokuto murmurs, the practical response automatic as breathing.
“Good.” Ryo’s hands slide under Hokuto’s shirt, palms hot against cool skin. “You know what day it is?”
Hokuto searches his memory. Not Ryo’s birthday. Not any gang anniversary he can recall. “Tuesday?”
Ryo laughs, the sound grating. “Three years ago today. That’s when I found you, remember? Huddled in that doorway during the storm, soaking wet, looking like a drowned cat.”
The memory surfaces unwillingly. Rain much heavier than tonight’s gentle drizzle. The crushing realization that his wallet was gone—stolen while he slept on a park bench. The growing awareness that Tokyo had no interest in another dreamer with empty pockets.
“You were pathetic,” Ryo continues, his lips brushing against Hokuto’s neck. “No money. No ID. No place to go. What would have happened to you if I hadn’t stepped in?”
Hokuto closes his eyes. “I don’t know.”
“You’d be dead.” Ryo bites down gently on the tender skin where neck meets shoulder. “Or worse. I saved you.”
Saved me for what? The thought flares bright and dangerous before Hokuto carefully extinguishes it.
“I know,” he whispers instead. “I’m grateful.”
“Are you?” Ryo pulls back, studying Hokuto’s face with uncharacteristic intensity. His perpetually half-closed eye gives him a skeptical expression even when he’s sincere. “Sometimes I wonder.”
Alarm ripples through Hokuto’s body. Ryo questioning his gratitude never leads anywhere good.
He reaches up, touches Ryo’s face in a gesture he’s learned looks like affection. “Of course I am,” he says, forcing warmth into his voice. “You gave me shelter when I had nothing. You protected me.”
The words taste like ash, but they have the desired effect. Ryo’s expression softens, his ego soothed by the familiar litany of praise.
“That’s right,” he murmurs, hands moving to Hokuto’s hips. “I take care of what’s mine.”
He guides Hokuto off his lap, positioning him until Hokuto is kneeling between his legs on the sticky floor. The neon sign outside flickers again, casting the room in momentary darkness before flooding it with sickly green light.
“Why don’t you show me how grateful you are?” Ryo’s hand moves to the back of Hokuto’s head, fingers tangling in his hair. “On your knees is where you belong anyway.”
Hokuto stares at the worn denim of Ryo’s jeans, at the belt buckle that’s left bruises on his skin more times than he can count. The room seems to tilt slightly, reality blurring at the edges as his mind prepares to retreat to that quiet, distant place it goes during these moments.
Outside, the rain intensifies, drumming against the roof like impatient fingers. A car passes, headlights briefly illuminating the room before plunging it back into shadow. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbles—a summer storm gathering strength.
Hokuto reaches for Ryo’s belt, his movements mechanical and practiced. His mind drifts upward, hovering somewhere near that water stain on the ceiling, watching himself from a distance as his hands work at the buckle.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, his grip tightening in Hokuto’s hair. “Show me how thankful you are.”
The sound of frantic knocking cuts through the room like a gunshot. Hokuto’s hands freeze on Ryo’s belt, relief washing over him in a wave so powerful he almost sways.
“What the fuck?” Ryo growls, his fingers tightening painfully in Hokuto’s hair before shoving him backward.
Hokuto lands hard on his tailbone, palms slapping against the sticky floor to catch himself.
The knocking continues, more urgent now.
“Boss! Boss!” Shimada’s voice is pitched higher than usual.
Ryo’s face contorts with rage. “Whoever’s on the other side of that door better be fucking dying.” He zips his pants with angry, jerking motions, then points at Hokuto. “Get up. Open it.”
Hokuto rises on unsteady legs, his knees aching from the hard floor. His mind slowly returns to his body, that distant, floating feeling receding like fog under morning sun. He crosses to the door, each step bringing him more firmly back into himself.
When he pulls it open, Shimada nearly falls into the room, breathless and wide-eyed. Rain glistens on his jacket, his hair plastered to his forehead.
“The Warriors,” he pants.
The name alone carries enough weight to make Hokuto’s stomach drop. Even in his sheltered existence, he’s heard of them—the gang from Nakano, ruthlessly efficient and genuinely dangerous in ways the Orphans could only pretend to be.
“What about them?” Ryo demands, standing now, irritation warring with interest on his face.
“They’re here. In Shimokitazawa.” Shimada’s words tumble out in a rush. “Takashi spotted them coming out of Good Heavens Bar. Some kind of deal went down. Five of them—including their Warlord. They’re heading this way, boss. They’ll pass right by us.”
The change in Ryo is immediate and disturbing. His annoyance vanishes, replaced by a hungry gleam that Hokuto recognizes all too well—the look he gets when he thinks an opportunity for glory has presented itself.
“The Warriors,” Ryo repeats, savoring the name. “In our territory.”
Hokuto watches the delusion take hold, sees the moment when Ryo’s perception detaches completely from reality. In Ryo’s mind, the Orphans are already transforming from what they are—a collection of lost boys playing at being gangsters—into what they are not: a force to be reckoned with.
“Get everyone,” Ryo ordered Shimada. “Everyone. I want them here in five minutes. We’re gonna block their path.”
Shimada hesitates, a flicker of sanity crossing his features. “Block the Warriors?”
“You heard me.” Ryo’s voice drops dangerously. “This is our territory. They need to learn some respect.”
This is suicide, Hokuto thinks, the words so clear in his mind he almost fears he’s spoken them aloud. But Ryo isn’t looking at him; his attention is fixed entirely on Shimada.
“Go. Now.” Ryo’s command leaves no room for argument.
Shimada nods, casting one last uncertain glance at Hokuto before disappearing back into the rain.
Ryo turns, and the expression on his face makes Hokuto take an involuntary step backward. There’s something feverish in his eyes, a kind of manic energy that spells danger for everyone in his orbit.
“This is it,” Ryo says, more to himself than to Hokuto. “This is how we make our name. The gang that stood up to the Warriors.”
The gang that got destroyed by the Warriors, Hokuto corrects silently. He's heard enough stories, snippets of conversation from the Orphans, rumors that filter through Shimokitazawa’s narrow streets. The Warriors aren’t just another gang—they’re organized, disciplined, and utterly merciless to those who challenge them.
“Let’s go,” Ryo orders, grabbing his jacket from the back of a chair.
Hokuto blinks. “Me?”
“Yes, you.” Ryo’s grin is sharp-edged and unpleasant. “You’re coming with us.”
Fear spikes through Hokuto’s chest. In three years, Ryo has never involved him in gang business—has kept him deliberately isolated, a possession to be displayed and used in private, hidden away during anything resembling Orphans’ official activities.
“But I don’t—”
Ryo crosses the room in two quick strides, his hand closing around Hokuto’s upper arm with bruising force. “I didn’t ask what you want. You’re coming with me.” He leans in close, his breath hot against Hokuto’s ear. “It’s time you see what I’ve built. What you belong to.”
Hokuto doesn’t resist as Ryo drags him toward the door. What would be the point? Three years of captivity have taught him the futility of direct opposition.
Outside, the rain has intensified, washing Shimokitazawa’s streets in sheets of water that reflect the neon signs in fractured, dancing light. Orphans materialize from doorways and side streets, converging on the karaoke bar with a mixture of excitement and apprehension.
Ryo pulls Hokuto close, arm wrapped possessively around his waist as they step into the downpour. “Watch and learn, pet. Tonight, everyone will know the Orphans aren’t to be fucked with.”
Water soaks through Hokuto’s thin shirt, plastering it to his skin. He shivers, though not from cold. Something is shifting, some invisible balance tipping. He can feel it in the electric charge of the air, in the nervous energy of the gathering Orphans, in the iron grip of Ryo’s fingers against his ribs.
“There,” Takashi hisses, pointing down the rain-slicked street.
Five figures materialize through the downpour, moving with unhurried confidence despite the weather. They walk in a loose formation that nonetheless suggests practiced coordination.
Hokuto finds himself cataloging each one.
On the far left walks a broad-shouldered man with a purposeful stride. His steps are measured and sure, shoulders squared against the rain.
Beside him is a taller figure, his gait more fluid, almost casual. He carries a bottle of gin, swinging it lazily from two fingers. Despite his relaxed demeanor, there's something coiled in his movement, like a spring under tension.
On the far right walks a slim man with defined cheekbones visible even through the rain. He moves with a quiet grace, his eyes constantly scanning their surroundings.
To the immediate right of the central figure is a man of average height with an easy, rolling gait. There’s something steady about him, a grounding presence that makes the space around him seem calmer somehow.
But it’s the central figure who captures and holds Hokuto’s attention. Smaller than the others but commanding the space around him with an authority that needs no physical intimidation. He walks with measured steps, unhurried yet purposeful. Rain streams down his face, but he makes no move to wipe it away. His eyes—dark and steady—survey the scene before him with detached assessment.
The Warlord.
A chill that has nothing to do with the rain ripples through Hokuto. He’s seen powerful men before—Ryo pretends to be one—but this is different. This man doesn’t need to convince anyone of his authority. It simply is.
Despite himself, Hokuto shrinks back, putting more of Ryo’s body between himself and the approaching Warriors. His instinct for self-preservation screams at him to run, to disappear into the labyrinthine alleys of Shimokitazawa. But Ryo’s fingers dig into his arm, holding him in place like an anchor.
The Warriors continue their advance, seeming to take no special notice of the Orphans blocking their path. Water splashes beneath their boots, the sound unnaturally loud in the sudden hush that has fallen over the street.
“What do we have here?” The tall one with the gin bottle finally breaks the silence, his voice carrying easily through the rainfall. He takes a casual swig from the bottle, his eyes sweeping over the assembled Orphans with amused disdain.
The Warlord says nothing, just continues his steady assessment. His gaze moves from face to face, cataloging, memorizing.
When his eyes briefly meet Hokuto’s, something shifts in his expression—so subtle Hokuto might have imagined it.
Hokuto looks away quickly, focusing instead on the puddle forming around his shoes. Water ripples outward in concentric circles as raindrops hit its surface. He counts them silently, trying to calm his racing heart.
Ryo steps forward, dragging Hokuto with him. “You’re on Orphans territory,” he announces, his voice pitched louder than necessary. “We don’t remember inviting the Warriors to Shimokitazawa.”
The silence that follows feels charged, dangerous. Hokuto risks a glance upward to find the Warlord studying Ryo with the dispassionate interest one might give an unusual insect.
“Orphans,” the Warlord finally says, the word neutral in his mouth, neither question nor acknowledgment. His voice is surprisingly melodic, with a quality that cuts through the rain without shouting.
The Lieutenant shifts slightly, positioning himself at a better angle to the Warlord’s right. The movement is subtle but speaks volumes about their dynamic—always protecting, always ready.
“That’s right.” Ryo puffs out his chest. “This is our territory. You’re trespassing.”
Hokuto winces at the childish bravado in Ryo’s voice. Does he really not see what’s standing before him? These aren’t boys playing at being gangsters. These are men who’ve fought and bled for their positions, who carry violence in their stance like a second skin.
The rain intensifies, drumming against the pavement in a deafening roar. Lightning flashes, briefly illuminating the scene in stark white light—the Orphans, uncertain and damp; the Warriors, unmoved and imposing.
In that flash, Hokuto sees the Warlord’s face clearly for the first time, and the sight steals his breath.
Beautiful isn’t the right word—too soft, too simple. The Warlord’s features are sharp, almost delicate, but there’s nothing delicate about the cold assessment in his eyes or the set of his jaw. This is beauty weaponized, refined into something dangerous.
Hokuto shrinks further behind Ryo, torn between fear and a strange, unwelcome fascination. He shouldn’t be noticing such things. Not now. Not with tension crackling in the air like the lightning overhead.
The Warlord tilts his head slightly, raindrops sliding down his jaw. “We’re just passing through,” he says, voice neutral but carrying a subtle edge. “Heading back to our cars.”
The simplicity of the statement seems to catch Ryo off-guard. Hokuto feels the momentary tension in Ryo’s body, the slight loosening of his grip as his mind recalibrates. The Warriors aren’t here for territory. They aren’t here for the Orphans at all. They’re just... walking.
But Ryo recovers quickly, his fingers digging deeper into Hokuto’s arm. “Nobody crosses Orphans territory without paying the toll,” he declares, raising his chin in what Hokuto recognizes as his practiced tough-guy pose.
The statement hangs in the rain-soaked air, absurd in its audacity. Hokuto’s stomach twists with secondhand embarrassment and genuine fear. Does Ryo truly not understand who he’s challenging?
“A toll.” The Warlord repeats the word without inflection, his expression unchanging. Water streams down his face, but he makes no move to wipe it away.
“That’s right,” Ryo says, emboldened by the lack of immediate retaliation. “Or we can settle this another way.” He gestures vaguely toward the assembled Orphans, who shift uncomfortably.
The Warriors remain unmoved, their stillness more intimidating than any threat. The broad-shouldered one on the left rolls his shoulders almost imperceptibly, a casual movement that nonetheless speaks of readiness. The unpredictable one with the gin bottle takes another swig, his eyes gleaming with something that looks disturbingly like anticipation.
“You know,” Ryo continues, his voice taking on that mocking edge Hokuto has learned to dread, “I always wondered why the Warriors followed someone like you.” He waves dismissively at the Warlord. “Pretty boy like that—looks more like he belongs in a host club than running a gang.”
Hokuto’s breath catches in his throat. Oh god. Oh no. He wishes he could disappear, melt into the rain and wash away down a storm drain. Anywhere but here, witnessing this disaster unfold.
The Warlord’s expression doesn’t change. Neither does his Lieutenant’s, though something flickers in his eyes—not anger, but something closer to weary recognition, as if he’s heard this particular insult a hundred times before.
The silence stretches, broken only by the steady drumming of rain. Then, almost imperceptibly, the downpour begins to lighten. Droplets that had been falling in sheets now come in a gentle patter, then individual drops, spaced further and further apart.
When the Warlord finally speaks, his voice is calm, almost conversational. “We’ve heard some interesting things about the Orphans.”
The shift in topic is so unexpected that Ryo blinks in confusion. “What?”
“Rumors,” the Warlord continues, his gaze sweeping over the assembled gang members before returning to Ryo. “About how you operate in Shimokitazawa.”
The rain stops completely, as if on cue. Water drips from awnings and gutters, the only remnants of the downpour. In the sudden absence of rainfall, the silence feels oppressive.
“Extorting local businesses,” the Warlord says, ticking off points on his fingers with casual precision. “Harassing civilians. Claiming territory you can’t actually defend.” His eyes shift briefly to Hokuto, then back to Ryo. “Keeping someone against their will.”
Each accusation lands like a physical blow. Hokuto feels exposed, as if the Warlord has somehow seen through the careful façade he’s maintained for three years. His cheeks burn despite the cool night air, shame and hope warring within him. How could he know?
Ryo’s grip on Hokuto’s arm tightens painfully. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he spits, but there’s a new note in his voice—uncertainty mixing with bravado.
“Don’t I?” The Warlord’s gaze flicks to Hokuto again, lingering this time. There’s something in that look—not pity, but recognition. Understanding.
Hokuto’s heart hammers against his ribs. He wants to look away but can’t. For three years, he’s been invisible—a possession, not a person.
But the Warlord sees him. Actually sees him.
“This is Orphans business,” Ryo insists, pulling Hokuto closer, using him as both shield and trophy. “Our territory. Our rules.”
The Warlord’s eyes never leave Hokuto’s face. “Is it?” he asks quietly.
The question hangs in the damp air between them. Hokuto isn’t sure if the Warlord is asking about the territory or something else entirely. All he knows is that something has shifted, some invisible balance tipping. The rain has stopped, but the electricity in the air remains.
“You know nothing about us,” Ryo snarls, yanking Hokuto closer like a child clutching a favored toy. “The Orphans run Shimokitazawa. Everyone here knows it. Everyone respects us.”
The Warlord’s expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his eyes—a cold amusement that makes Hokuto’s skin prickle.
“Respect?” The Warlord lets the word hang in the damp air. His gaze flicks to Ryo’s hand gripping Hokuto’s arm, then back to Ryo’s face. “Real men don’t need to parade their possessions to prove their worth. But then again—” his voice drops, soft enough that only those closest can hear “—real men don’t need to force others to kneel for them either.”
The words land with devastating precision. Hokuto feels Ryo’s body go rigid against him, feels the exact moment when rage overtakes reason. Ryo’s face contorts, ugly with humiliation and fury.
“You fucking—” Ryo doesn’t finish. Instead, he shoves Hokuto violently away, as if suddenly disgusted by his presence.
Hokuto stumbles backward, feet slipping on the wet pavement. His arms windmill uselessly as he tries to catch his balance, but momentum carries him down. He lands hard, palms slapping against puddles, water soaking through his jeans. Pain shoots up from his tailbone.
Everything happens at once after that.
Ryo lunges toward the Warlord, a wild haymaker telegraphed so clearly it might as well have been announced. The Warlord simply steps aside, letting Ryo’s momentum carry him forward into empty air.
As Ryo stumbles past, the Warlord’s elbow comes down sharply between his shoulder blades, driving him face-first into the wet pavement.
The street erupts into chaos.
Orphans surge forward in a disorganized wave. The Warriors move with practiced precision, each one engaging multiple opponents without apparent concern.
Hokuto tries to scramble backward, away from the melee, but his hands slip in the puddles. Before he can regain his balance, someone grabs his arm—not roughly, but firmly. He flinches instinctively, expecting pain.
“This way,” says a calm voice.
Hokuto looks up to find the Warriors’ Lieutenant crouched beside him, his expression concerned but controlled. Without waiting for a response, he pulls Hokuto to his feet and guides him toward the edge of the street, placing himself between Hokuto and the fight.
“Stay here,” the Lieutenant says, positioning Hokuto against a wall. His eyes are kind but serious. “When you see an opening, run. Get away from here.”
Hokuto stares at him, bewildered by this unexpected assistance. “Why are you—”
The Lieutenant’s attention shifts abruptly. In one fluid motion, he pivots, arm extending to catch an Orphan mid-tackle. The move looks almost gentle, like redirecting a wayward child, but the effect is devastating. The Orphan’s own momentum becomes a weapon against him as the Lieutenant guides him face-first into the wall beside Hokuto.
The Orphan—Takashi, Hokuto realizes—slides to the ground, dazed and bleeding from his nose.
“You deserve better than this,” the Lieutenant says to Hokuto, so matter-of-factly it takes a moment for the words to register. Then he turns and rejoins the fight, leaving Hokuto pressed against the wall, heart hammering against his ribs.
The battle unfolds before him like some violent street performance. Each Warrior moves with distinct purpose, their fighting styles as different as their personalities.
The broad-shouldered fighter that Hokuto had first noticed is a hurricane of controlled violence. He doesn’t waste movement, doesn’t showboat. Each punch is deliberate, economical, designed to incapacitate rather than show off. Three Orphans surround him, and he dispatches them with methodical efficiency, never seeming rushed or concerned.
The unpredictable one with the gin bottle fights like he’s at a party rather than a street brawl. He laughs as he dodges punches, his movements fluid and almost dance-like. The bottle becomes a prop in his performance—sometimes a distraction, sometimes a weapon. He seems to be enjoying himself immensely, calling out encouragement to his opponents even as he lays them out on the wet pavement.
The quiet one with the sharp cheekbones moves like water, flowing around attacks rather than meeting them head-on. His style is defensive, redirecting rather than initiating, but no less effective for it. Hokuto watches him guide an Orphan’s momentum into another attacker, causing them to collide painfully.
The Lieutenant is perhaps the most balanced fighter, combining strength with technique. He seems to anticipate his opponent’s moves before they make them, always a step ahead, always in the right position. There’s something protective in his stance, too—he continually repositions to keep the others’ backs covered, a guardian as much as a fighter.
But it’s the Warlord who commands Hokuto’s attention. He fights with cold precision, each movement exact and purposeful. Unlike the others, who engage multiple opponents, he focuses solely on Ryo. It’s not a fight so much as a systematic dismantling. The Warlord doesn’t seem angry or even particularly exerted—he simply takes Ryo apart piece by piece, exploiting every weakness, countering every desperate attack.
He’s teaching him a lesson, Hokuto realizes, transfixed by the brutal efficiency of it. Not out of cruelty or revenge, but because it’s necessary—because some people only understand the language of pain.
Water drips from awnings overhead, the only remnant of the rain that had washed these streets clean just minutes ago. Hokuto’s clothes cling to his skin, cold and uncomfortable, but he barely notices. His eyes remain fixed on the unfolding battle, on the Warriors moving like a single organism with five distinct parts, on the Orphans falling one by one.
On the Warlord, who fights like he leads—with absolute conviction and zero hesitation.
The Warlord backs Ryo toward where Hokuto presses against the wall. Ryo’s face is a mess of blood and rainwater, his earlier bravado shattered like glass. He stumbles, nearly falling, desperation making his movements wild and uncoordinated.
Another Orphan—Shimada—rushes to help his leader, swinging a length of chain in wide, clumsy arcs. The tall Warrior sidesteps effortlessly, moving closer to Hokuto’s position. Shimada’s chain whips through empty air before wrapping around a nearby signpost with a metallic clang.
“Pathetic,” the tall one mutters, close enough now that Hokuto can smell the gin on his breath. “Not even worth the effort.”
The Warlord ducks under one of Ryo’s increasingly desperate punches, then drives his fist into Ryo’s solar plexus with surgical precision.
Ryo doubles over, gasping for air that won’t come, and crumples to his knees.
“This is a waste of time,” the Warlord says, his voice flat with boredom. He doesn’t even look at Ryo anymore. Instead, his gaze sweeps the street where the remaining Orphans still struggle against the other Warriors.
The fight continues around them, but the outcome is already clear. The Warriors are merely going through the motions now, toying with their opponents like cats with wounded mice. Pride has given way to desperation for the Orphans, their movements growing more frantic as the inevitability of defeat settles over them.
The tall one kicks Shimada’s legs out from under him, sending him sprawling face-first into a puddle. “Got any ideas to wrap this up faster, Taiga?” he asks the Warlord, rolling his shoulders. “I’m getting bored,”
Hokuto watches Taiga’s—the Warlord—eyes narrow slightly—the first real expression he’s shown during the entire confrontation. His gaze drifts toward the abandoned karaoke bar across the street, the Orphans’ unofficial headquarters. Something calculates behind those dark eyes, a strategy forming.
“Give me your bottle, Jesse,” Taiga says, extending his hand without looking at the tall one.
The tall one—Jesse—raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Didn’t take you for a drinker mid-fight, Boss.” Despite his teasing, he hands over the half-empty gin bottle without hesitation.
Taiga unscrews the cap and takes out a lighter from his pocket. The motion is so casual it takes Hokuto a moment to understand what’s happening. By then, Taiga has already torn a strip from his own shirt and is stuffing it into the bottle’s neck.
A Molotov cocktail, Hokuto realizes, his stomach dropping. He’s going to burn it all down.
For three years, that karaoke bar has been both prison and sanctuary for Hokuto. The place where Ryo first brought him, promising protection in exchange for services rendered. The place where Hokuto learned to disappear inside himself during the worst moments. The place where he kept his few possessions—his notebooks, his pens, the dog-eared copy of the book of poems that he read whenever Ryo left him alone.
He should feel something at the thought of it burning—fear, perhaps, or even satisfaction. Instead, there’s only a hollow emptiness, as if he’s watching a scene from someone else’s life.
Taiga flicks the lighter, the flame dancing in the post-rain darkness. He touches it to the makeshift wick, which catches immediately. The cloth burns bright orange, illuminating his face from below in demonic light.
“What are you—” Ryo begins, finally regaining his breath. His eyes widen as understanding dawns.
Taiga ignores him completely. With one fluid motion, he hurls the flaming bottle toward the karaoke bar. It arcs through the night air, a comet of destruction, before crashing through one of the half-boarded windows.
The explosion is more sound than fury—a dull whump followed by the tinkling of broken glass. Then flames begin to lick at the window frame, hungry and eager.
The effect on the Orphans is immediate and electric. Heads turn, bodies freeze, and a collective cry of alarm rises above the sounds of combat.
“The bar!” someone shouts. “It’s burning!”
The fight forgotten, Orphans break away from their opponents and scatter toward the building. Some run to save their possessions, others simply flee into the night, not wanting to be associated with whatever comes next.
Ryo staggers to his feet, his face a mask of disbelief and rage. “You—you can’t—” he sputters, but there’s nothing behind the words. No threat, no authority. Just the hollow protests of a man watching his small kingdom crumble.
Hokuto watches the flames spread, consuming the peeling paint and rotted wood with voracious appetite. Black smoke billows into the night sky, carrying with it the ashes of three years of his life. The notebooks filled with his private thoughts. The small treasures he’d collected. The hiding places he’d found when things got bad.
All of it, burning.
And yet, as he stands there watching, Hokuto feels something unexpected unfurling in his chest—not grief, but a strange, wild relief. The flames are destroying everything, yes, but they’re also setting him free. Burning away the ties that have bound him to this place, to these people, to the person he was forced to become.
The Orphans are finished. Their headquarters in flames, their leader humiliated, their reputation shattered beyond repair. Whatever happens next, nothing will be the same.
Where do I go?
The question hits him with sudden, brutal clarity. For three years, his world has been defined by Ryo’s commands and the karaoke bar’s walls. Now both are gone, leaving him untethered in the night.
Hokuto takes a tentative step forward, then another. His legs feel strange beneath him, as if they belong to someone else.
I could go anywhere.
The thought is terrifying and exhilarating all at once. He could find a quiet corner to sleep tonight, then figure out the rest tomorrow. Maybe head back to Shizuoka, though the thought of facing his parents after all this time makes his stomach clench.
He’s so lost in these thoughts that he doesn’t notice Ryo until a hand clamps around his wrist, fingers digging into the soft flesh with bruising force.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Ryo’s voice is ragged, his face a mess of blood and humiliation. His eyes dart wildly between Hokuto and the Warriors, who stand watching the confrontation with varying degrees of interest.
“Let go of me.” Hokuto’s voice comes out steadier than he expects, fueled by something new and fragile taking root inside him.
Ryo’s grip tightens painfully. “You’re mine,” he hisses, pulling Hokuto closer. His breath reeks of blood and desperation. “You think they want you? You think anyone else would take you in? You’re nothing without me.”
The words are familiar—Ryo’s favorite weapons, designed to cut deep and remind Hokuto of his place. But tonight, with the karaoke bar burning and the Warriors watching, they sound different. Hollow. Pathetic.
“I said let go.” Hokuto twists his arm, trying to break free.
The slap comes fast and hard, snapping his head to the side. Pain blooms across his cheek, hot and sharp. Before he can recover, Ryo shoves him backward, then follows with a vicious kick to his ribs that sends him sprawling onto the wet pavement.
Not again, Hokuto thinks, curling instinctively to protect himself from the next blow. Please, not again.
But the blow never comes.
Instead, there’s a blur of movement, and suddenly Ryo is flying backward, his feet leaving the ground entirely before he crashes into a nearby vending machine with enough force to dent the metal.
Taiga stands over him, expression unchanged despite the violence of his action. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t posture. He simply waits for Ryo to struggle back to his feet before methodically taking him apart.
Each punch lands with surgical precision—jaw, solar plexus, kidney. Taiga doesn’t waste energy on theatrics. He doesn’t need to. Every movement communicates absolute control, absolute dominance.
Ryo tries to fight back, throwing wild, desperate punches that Taiga doesn’t even bother to block. He simply isn’t there when the blows should land, moving with an economy of motion that makes Ryo look clumsy and slow by comparison.
“You have nothing now,” Taiga says, his voice quiet but carrying in the night air as he drives his fist into Ryo’s stomach. “No territory.” Another punch, this one to Ryo’s already-broken nose. “No respect.” A brutal uppercut that lifts Ryo onto his tiptoes. “No power.”
Ryo crumples to his knees, blood pouring from his nose and mouth. He looks small suddenly, diminished in a way that has nothing to do with his physical position.
Taiga looks down at him, expression cold. “The stray cat is under the Warriors now.”
Ryo spits blood onto the pavement. For a moment, Hokuto thinks he might try to fight again—his body tenses, shoulders hunching forward—but then something breaks in him. The last of his defiance drains away, replaced by naked fear.
He scrambles backward, away from Taiga, away from the burning bar, away from the wreckage of his reputation. Then he’s on his feet, staggering into the darkness, not looking back.
Just like that, it’s over. Three years of his life, ended in a street fight and a fire.
“Hey.” The voice is gentle, pulling Hokuto back to the present. The Lieutenant crouches beside him, concern etched across his features. “That looks like it hurts.”
Hokuto touches his cheek, wincing at the tenderness. “I’ve had worse.”
Something flickers in the Lieutenant’s eyes—understanding, maybe, or sympathy. “Let me help you up. We should get those ribs looked at.”
Hokuto hesitates, looking from the Lieutenant to Taiga, who stands watching the burning building with an unreadable expression.
“We’ve got a first aid kit back at headquarters,” the Lieutenant continues, offering his hand. “Patch you up properly.”
The kindness in his voice makes Hokuto’s throat tighten unexpectedly. He’s gone so long without genuine concern that he’s not sure how to respond to it.
“Why?” he asks, the word barely audible over the crackling flames.
The Lieutenant’s smile is small but genuine. “Because you need help. That’s reason enough. By the way, I’m Yugo,” he says, his hand still extended, patience in his eyes. “And you’re coming with us.”
It’s not quite a question, but not quite a command either. There’s space in his words for Hokuto to refuse, though what that refusal would mean remains unclear.
What choice do I have? The thought is bitter, but realistic. With the karaoke bar burning and Ryo gone, he has nowhere to go, no one to turn to. The Warriors might be dangerous, but right now they’re his only option.
Hokuto takes Yugo’s hand, wincing as the movement sends pain shooting through his ribs.
“Juri,” Yugo calls, not looking away from Hokuto. “Give us a hand here.”
The slim Warrior with the defined cheekbones approaches, his movements fluid and unhurried. Up close, his eyes are surprisingly gentle, at odds with the precision of his fighting.
“Can you stand?” Juri asks, his voice quiet.
Hokuto nods, though he’s not entirely sure. He tries to push himself upright, but his ribs protest sharply, and he can’t quite suppress a gasp of pain.
“Easy,” Yugo says, sliding an arm around his waist. “Juri, get his other side.”
Juri complies without comment, positioning himself on Hokuto’s left. Between them, they lift him carefully to his feet, supporting his weight when his legs threaten to buckle.
“I can walk,” Hokuto insists, though the world tilts alarmingly when he tries to take a step.
“Sure you can,” Yugo agrees amiably, not loosening his grip. “But humor us anyway.”
The other Warriors have gathered around Taiga, who stands a few feet away, watching the burning karaoke bar with detached interest. The flames have begun to die down, having consumed most of the building’s flammable exterior. The structure itself, made primarily of concrete and metal, remains standing, though blackened by smoke and scarred by fire.
Taiga turns away from the smoldering ruin, his eyes meeting Hokuto’s briefly before sliding away. There’s no emotion in that gaze, no triumph or satisfaction, just cool assessment. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a spray can, the metal catching the firelight as he shakes it with practiced ease.
“What’s he doing?” Hokuto asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
Yugo’s arm tightens slightly around his waist. “Marking territory.”
Taiga approaches the blackened wall of the karaoke bar, uncapping the spray can with a flick of his thumb. The hiss of the aerosol cuts through the night as he begins to paint, his movements quick and precise. The paint gleams wet and golden against the scorched surface—a large, stylized “W” that dominates the wall.
Warriors, Hokuto realizes, watching as Taiga steps back to examine his work.
“Shimokitazawa is Warrior territory now,” Yugo explains, confirming Hokuto’s thoughts. “The Orphans are finished.”
And what about me? Hokuto wants to ask, but the words stick in his throat. What happens to the stray cat now that he’s been claimed by new owners?
The spray can disappears back into Taiga’s jacket. He turns to face his gang, eyes sweeping over them before landing on Hokuto. For a moment, something flickers in those dark depths—not quite emotion, but perhaps a shadow of it.
“We’re done here,” Taiga announces, his voice carrying easily despite its low volume. “Let’s go.”
The Warriors move immediately, falling into formation around their leader with practiced ease. Hokuto watches them, these five men who dismantled his world so efficiently, and feels a strange mixture of fear and fascination.
“Can you make it to the car?” Yugo asks, adjusting his grip on Hokuto’s waist. “It’s not far.”
Hokuto nods, though his ribs throb with each breath and his legs still feel unsteady beneath him. Pride makes him want to walk on his own, to show these strangers that he’s not as weak as he appears, but reality keeps him leaning against Yugo’s solid support.
“Just a few blocks,” Juri adds, his voice soft and strangely reassuring. “Take it slow.”
They begin to move, Hokuto sandwiched between them, their steps measured to accommodate his painful shuffle. Behind them, the karaoke bar continues to smolder, the golden “W” gleaming like a brand against its blackened walls.
Warrior territory now, Hokuto thinks, casting one last glance over his shoulder at the ruins of his past life.
And what does that make me?
⚜️
The summer night air hits Hokuto's face as they emerge from the alley, the contrast between the heat of the burning building and the slight breeze making him shiver. Each step sends jolts of pain through his ribs, but he forces himself to keep moving, leaning heavily on Yugo and Juri.
“Just up ahead,” Yugo says, nodding toward a small parking lot tucked between two buildings.
Hokuto blinks in surprise as they approach. Two cars sit waiting in the shadows—not the stolen junkers or motorcycles the Orphans favored, but vehicles that look almost... legitimate.
The sleek lines of a modified Silvia catch the moonlight, its matte black paint absorbing the glow from nearby streetlamps. Beside it, a Crown sedan waits, less flashy but somehow more imposing with its dark windows and subtle presence.
The Warriors move with practiced efficiency. Shintaro, the broad-shouldered one, twirls a set of keys around his finger and heads for the Silvia.
“I’ll drive,” he announces, shooting a glance at Jesse. “You riding shotgun?”
Jesse grins, all wild energy despite the fight. “Hell yeah. Taiga, you’re with us.”
Taiga doesn’t respond verbally, just moves toward the car with that same measured pace, sliding into the back seat without comment. His face remains unreadable, eyes forward, thoughts locked away behind that mask of indifference.
“Guess that leaves us with the Crown,” Yugo says beside Hokuto, his arm still steady around Hokuto’s waist. “Can you manage a few more steps?”
Hokuto nods, though his legs feel increasingly unsteady. The adrenaline that kept him upright is fading, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion that makes even breathing seem like too much effort. But he forces himself forward, determined not to collapse in front of these strangers.
The Crown's back door swings open, and Yugo helps him toward it with Juri supporting his other side. The interior looks clean, almost new—nothing like the trash-filled vehicles Ryo occasionally acquired through dubious means.
“Careful with your head,” Juri murmurs as they maneuver him into the back seat.
The leather feels cool against Hokuto’s skin as he sinks into it, unable to suppress a small sigh of relief at being off his feet. His ribs throb in time with his heartbeat, and he presses a hand against his side, wondering if anything is broken or just badly bruised.
Juri slides into the passenger seat while Yugo circles around to the driver’s side. The car dips slightly as they settle in, and then the engine purrs to life—a smooth, well-maintained sound that speaks of care and attention.
These people aren’t like the Orphans at all, Hokuto thinks, watching as Yugo adjusts the mirrors with practiced movements. There's organization here. Purpose.
Through the windshield, he sees the Silvia’s taillights flare red as Shintaro starts the engine. The car pulls out of the lot with fluid grace, nothing like the jerky, amateur driving Hokuto had grown accustomed to with the Orphans.
“We’ll follow them back to headquarters,” Yugo says, glancing at Hokuto in the rearview mirror. “It’s about twenty minutes, depending on the traffic. Try to rest if you can.”
Rest seems impossible with his body aching and his mind racing, but Hokuto leans his head against the cool window anyway, watching as Shimokitazawa slides past. The neighborhood he’s known as a prison for three years looks different from this vantage point—smaller somehow, less threatening.
“You’re bleeding,” Juri observes, turning in his seat to look at Hokuto. “Your lip.”
Hokuto touches his mouth, fingers coming away red. He hadn’t even noticed. “I’ll be fine,” he says automatically, the response ingrained after years with Ryo.
Juri’s eyes linger on him for a moment longer, something like understanding flickering in their depths before he turns back to face the front.
The car follows the Silvia through the late-night streets, moving deeper into Tokyo. Hokuto watches the city transform around them—Shimokitazawa’s bohemian charm giving way to busier districts, neon signs reflecting off the Crown’s polished surface.
I haven’t left this neighborhood in three years, he realizes, a strange vertigo washing over him. The world beyond Ryo’s territory had begun to feel abstract, almost mythical. Now it rushes past his window, very real and achingly beautiful in its urban chaos.
“Where are we going?” he finally asks, his voice barely audible over the hum of the engine.
“Nakano,” Yugo answers, eyes on the road as he navigates through a yellow light. “Warriors territory.”
Nakano. Hokuto tries to remember what he knows about the area—fragments of information gleaned from overheard conversations and glimpses of news reports. The Warriors’ home turf. A place he’d never expected to see.
The memory of Taiga’s words suddenly surfaces in Hokuto’s mind. Under the Warriors now. Three simple words that had changed everything in an instant. He’d been so focused on the chaos—the fight, the fire, the escape—that he hadn’t fully processed what Taiga had declared to Ryo.
“Back there,” Hokuto says. “Your leader told Ryo that I’m... under the Warriors now.” He hesitates, uncertain how to phrase the question burning in his mind. “Does that mean I belong to your gang instead?”
The words hang in the air. Hokuto watches Yugo’s eyes in the rearview mirror, searching for some hint of what awaits him. Has he simply traded one owner for another?
Yugo’s gaze meets his briefly before returning to the road. “Taiga said what he needed to say for Ryo to back off. That’s all.” His voice is matter-of-fact but not unkind. “Whether you want to be one of the Warriors or not—that’s up to you.”
Up to me? The concept feels foreign, almost incomprehensible after three years of having every choice made for him. Hokuto stares out at the passing city lights, trying to absorb this unexpected freedom.
“No one owns anyone in the Warriors,” Juri adds, turning slightly in his seat. “That’s not how we operate.”
Hokuto’s fingers trace the edge of his seat belt, feeling the texture of the nylon strap as he considers their words. Choice. Freedom. Concepts that had become abstract, theoretical things during his time with the Orphans.
“I don’t...” he starts, then stops, reorganizing his thoughts. “I have nowhere else to go.” The admission comes out flat, a simple statement of fact rather than a plea for sympathy. “No money. No ID. Nothing.”
The car slows for a red light, and the sudden stillness amplifies the weight of his situation. Three years ago, he’d arrived in Tokyo with dreams and plans—a job that fell through, an apartment he couldn’t afford. Now he sits in a stranger’s car with nothing but the clothes on his back and bruises that map the geography of his captivity.
“You can stay for a while,” Juri says into the silence. “Get your bearings. Then leave when you’re ready.” His tone is casual, as though offering temporary shelter to a battered stranger is commonplace. “We’ve taken in strays before. Some stay, some go. No obligation either way.”
Strays. The word should sting, but instead, Hokuto finds it oddly comforting. Strays can find new homes. Strays can be taken in, cared for. Strays aren’t owned.
“Is that true?” he asks, directing the question at Yugo, who seems to be the more practical of the two.
Yugo nods, the movement visible even from behind. “We’re not saints, but we’re not monsters either. The Warriors have rules, principles.” He accelerates smoothly as the light changes. “You won’t be forced to do anything you don’t want to do.”
Something unfamiliar unfurls in Hokuto’s chest—a tentative, fragile thing he barely recognizes as hope. The sensation is so unexpected that he almost recoils from it, conditioned to expect disappointment.
“What would I do there?” he asks, trying to imagine fitting into this organized, purposeful gang after being little more than Ryo’s plaything.
Juri shrugs one shoulder. “Heal, first. Then we’ll see what you’re good at.”
What I’m good at. Hokuto hasn't thought about his skills or talents in so long. Before Tokyo, he’d been a decent writer, had dreams of running a bookstore someday. Those ambitions feel like they belonged to someone else now, a ghost from another life.
The car turns onto a wider street, and Hokuto watches a group of late-night revelers spill out of a bar, laughing and supporting each other. Normal people living normal lives. The sight makes his throat tighten with an emotion he can’t name.
“Is this real?” he asks quietly, not entirely meaning to speak aloud. “Or is there something you’re not telling me?”
The question hangs between them as the car continues through the night-drenched streets. Hokuto studies both men, looking for signs of deception. Three years with the Orphans has taught him that kindness always comes with a price, that nothing is ever freely given.
“I guess that’s something you'll have to decide for yourself,” Yugo says finally. “We can tell you how things work with us, but words are just words until you see for yourself.”
Hokuto nods slowly, understanding the truth in this. Trust isn’t something he can simply choose to give anymore—it’s been beaten and broken out of him too many times.
Yet as they drive deeper into Warriors territory, that fragile hope refuses to die. Maybe, just maybe, these people represent something he’d stopped believing in: a way out. Freedom. A chance to reclaim some part of himself that Ryo couldn’t destroy.
Or maybe it’s too good to be true—another trap with a different face.
The car slows as they turn onto a side street in Nakano, and Hokuto straightens slightly, wincing at the pull on his ribs. Ahead, the Silvia’s brake lights flare red as it approaches what looks like an industrial building—three stories of weathered brick with few windows visible from the street.
Is this their headquarters?
It’s nothing like he expected. No flashy signs or obvious gang markings, just an unremarkable structure that blends perfectly with the surrounding warehouses and workshops.
The Silvia stops before a large metal garage door set into the building’s face. For a moment, nothing happens. Then Hokuto notices a small camera mounted above the entrance, its lens glinting in the moonlight. Someone is watching them.
The garage door begins to rise with a mechanical hum. Shintaro pulls the Silvia forward into the revealed space, and Yugo follows in the Crown, guiding it carefully through the entrance.
Inside, the garage is surprisingly well-maintained—clean concrete floors, organized tool cabinets along one wall, and space for several vehicles. Nothing like the chaotic, trash-strewn places the Orphans used.
The contrast makes Hokuto’s chest tighten with a mixture of hope and suspicion.
The Silvia’s doors open as Yugo parks the Crown beside it. Taiga emerges first, his movements fluid despite the fight earlier. He doesn’t look back as he heads toward a door at the far end of the garage, Jesse bouncing along beside him, energy still radiating from his lanky frame. Shintaro follows a few steps behind, hands shoved in his pockets.
“Let’s get you inside,” Yugo says, cutting the engine.
Hokuto nods, bracing himself for the pain that will come with movement. The car door opens, and he turns carefully, swinging his legs out. The simple action sends fire through his side.
Two figures stand nearby—a young man with bleached blonde hair and multiple earrings, and beside him, an even younger-looking boy with shoulder-length black hair. Both wear the same black waistcoats as the others.
“Who’s this?” the blonde one asks, eyes fixed on Hokuto with undisguised curiosity.
“Hokuto,” Yugo answers, moving to help him stand. “He’s coming from Shimokitazawa. The Orphans had him.”
Something in the way Yugo phrases it—not as a possession but as a condition—makes Hokuto’s throat tighten. He grips Yugo’s offered arm, pulling himself upright with a sharp intake of breath.
“What happened?” the younger one asks, eyes wide as he takes in Hokuto’s battered state.
“Later, Genta,” Juri says, coming around to Hokuto’s other side. “Let’s get him inside first.”
The blonde steps forward, his expression shifting from curiosity to efficiency. “I’ll take him. You two look dead on your feet.”
“Thanks, Noel,” Yugo says, though he doesn’t immediately release his supportive hold on Hokuto’s waist.
Noel approaches, and Hokuto tenses involuntarily. The Warrior notices and slows his advance, hands raised slightly.
“Just going to help you walk,” he explains, voice gentler than Hokuto expected. “Ribs?”
Hokuto nods, surprised by the accurate assessment.
“Been there,” Noel says with a grimace of sympathy. “We’ll get you patched up.”
He slides an arm carefully around Hokuto, taking over from Yugo with practiced ease. The transition is smooth, considerate of his injuries in a way that makes Hokuto blink in confusion. Such care feels alien after years with the Orphans, where pain was currency and weakness was exploited.
“Genta, get the first-aid kit,” Noel instructs the younger Warrior. “The big one from the kitchen, not the small one.”
Genta nods and darts ahead through the door.
Noel guides Hokuto forward, matching his pace to Hokuto’s pained shuffle. “Step’s coming up,” he warns as they approach the door. “Just one.”
The consideration for such a small detail sends an unexpected wave of emotion through Hokuto. He swallows hard against it, focusing instead on the mechanics of lifting his foot high enough to clear the threshold.
They enter a hallway that opens quickly into a large, open space. Hokuto takes in the scene with widening eyes—a sprawling common area with mismatched couches arranged in a U-shape, a large television mounted on one wall, and beyond that, what looks like a dining area and industrial-sized kitchen. The space feels lived-in, comfortable despite its utilitarian bones.
“Let’s get you to the couch,” Noel says, steering him toward the seating area.
Hokuto scans the room instinctively, noting exits, windows, potential weapons—habits ingrained by years of captivity. He spots Taiga standing near the kitchen, speaking in low tones to a Warrior Hokuto hasn’t seen before. Jesse has sprawled across one of the armchairs, while Shintaro perches on a table edge, fingers dancing over his phone screen.
“Here we go,” Noel says, easing him down onto the center couch. The cushions are worn but clean, yielding comfortably beneath his weight.
Genta reappears, clutching a large plastic case with a red cross emblazoned on the top. “Got it!”
“Good.” Noel takes the kit, placing it on the coffee table. “Now get some ice packs from the freezer and fill a water bottle.”
As Genta rushes off to complete these tasks, Hokuto watches the efficient, almost domestic scene unfold around him. Warriors move through the space with the easy familiarity of people who belong, who feel safe. It’s nothing like the tense, volatile atmosphere of the Orphans’ hideout, where everyone walked on eggshells around Ryo’s unpredictable moods.
This feels like... a home, he realizes with a jolt. Not just a hideout or a crash pad, but somewhere people actually live.
The thought is so unexpected that he doesn’t notice Noel speaking to him until the Warrior gently touches his shoulder.
“Sorry,” Hokuto mumbles, blinking back to awareness. “What did you say?”
“I need to check your injuries,” Noel repeats patiently. “Is that okay?”
Is that okay? When was the last time someone had asked his permission for anything?
“Yes,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “That’s okay.”
Noel’s hands hover near the hem of Hokuto's shirt. “I need to see your ribs. Can I help you take this off?”
Another choice. Another moment where his voice matters. The novelty of it makes Hokuto’s throat tighten.
“I can do it,” he says, though he’s not entirely sure he can. Pride, that forgotten emotion, flickers to life inside him.
He grips the bottom of his shirt and tries to lift, but the movement sends daggers of pain through his side. He gasps, freezing mid-motion.
“Let me,” Noel says, not unkindly. His hands are gentle but efficient as he eases the fabric up, careful not to drag it against Hokuto’s skin. “Lift your arms as much as you can—just a little is fine.”
Hokuto complies, gritting his teeth against the pain.
The shirt comes off, and cool air hits his exposed skin. He resists the urge to cross his arms over his chest, to hide the evidence of three years under Ryo’s control.
Noel’s expression remains professionally neutral as he surveys the damage. Hokuto knows what he sees—the fresh bruises blooming across his ribs from tonight’s beating, layered over older injuries in various stages of healing. The cigarette burns scattered across his shoulders. The thin scar beneath his collarbone where Ryo had carved into him during a jealous rage.
“Breathe in for me,” Noel instructs, fingers probing gently along Hokuto’s ribcage. “Slowly.”
Hokuto inhales, wincing as the expansion of his lungs presses against tender spots.
“Good. Now out.”
He exhales, watching Noel’s face for reactions, for disgust or pity. He finds neither, just focused assessment.
“Bruised, not broken, I think,” Noel concludes. “But pretty bad. You’ll need to take it easy for a while.”
Genta returns, arms full of ice packs and a water bottle tucked under his chin. “Got everything!”
“Perfect timing,” Noel says, taking the supplies. He wraps an ice pack in a thin towel and presses it gently against Hokuto’s side. “Hold this here. It’ll help with the swelling.”
Hokuto takes the pack, the cold seeping through the towel and numbing the worst of the pain. The simple remedy feels like luxury after years of untreated injuries.
“Drink,” Noel says, uncapping the water bottle and handing it to him. “Slowly.”
The water is cool and clean, nothing like the tepid tap water he’d grown accustomed to. Hokuto sips carefully, suddenly aware of how thirsty he is, how his body craves the most basic care.
Across the room, Taiga’s voice cuts through the background noise. “War room. Now.” His tone brooks no argument as he gestures to Yugo, Juri, Jesse, and Shintaro. “We need to talk.”
The four Warriors straighten immediately, responding to the command with practiced ease. Hokuto watches as they move toward a staircase at the far end of the room, following Taiga’s retreating form.
“What’s happening?” he asks Noel, unable to keep the anxiety from his voice. Are they deciding his fate? Planning what to do with their new “stray”?
“Just a debrief,” Noel answers, applying antiseptic to a cut on Hokuto’s forearm. The sting makes him hiss. “Sorry. They always meet after operations. Standard procedure.”
Operations. Such a clinical term for the violence he witnessed. The Warriors speak a different language than the Orphans, one of strategy and protocols rather than chaotic impulse.
“Will they...” Hokuto starts, then falters, unsure how to phrase his concern.
“They’ll probably be a while,” Noel says, misinterpreting his question. “Taiga likes thorough reports.”
The antiseptic burns as Noel dabs it on a particularly deep cut near Hokuto’s collarbone. The pain draws him back to his immediate reality—his battered body, the strange surroundings, the uncertain future.
“This one might need stitches,” Noel murmurs, examining the wound.
“It’s fine,” Hokuto says automatically. “It’s not that deep.”
Noel raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. “At least let me butterfly it closed.”
Hokuto nods, watching as Noel’s fingers work with practiced precision, applying small adhesive strips to pull the edges of the cut together. The methodical care is hypnotic, almost soothing.
“Genta,” Noel says without looking up from his work, “go to the supplies room and grab some clothes. Something comfortable. T-shirt, sweatpants. Maybe one of the hoodies.”
“On it!” Genta bounces to his feet, eager to help.
“And grab a clean towel,” Noel calls after him. “From the new stack, not the old ones.”
As Genta’s footsteps fade, Hokuto feels the full weight of his exhaustion pressing down. The adrenaline has completely drained from his system, leaving behind nothing but pain and bone-deep weariness. His eyelids feel heavy, his thoughts sluggish.
“You can shower once we’re done here,” Noel says, applying another ice pack to a particularly vivid bruise on Hokuto’s shoulder. “Might help with the soreness.”
A shower. Clean clothes. Simple comforts that feel like unimaginable luxury.
Hokuto’s throat tightens with an emotion he can’t name—gratitude mixed with disbelief, hope tangled with suspicion.
Genta returns, arms loaded with a small stack of folded clothes topped with a fluffy white towel. His face beams with the satisfaction of a completed mission.
“Here you go!” he announces, depositing the pile beside Hokuto on the couch. “I got the softest stuff I could find.”
Hokuto touches the fabric with hesitant fingers. The hoodie is dark gray, worn thin in places from repeated washing. The sweatpants are black, simple, and look infinitely more comfortable than the jeans he’s been wearing for days. The towel is surprisingly plush—nothing like the threadbare rags Ryo had grudgingly allowed him to use.
“The bathroom’s this way,” Genta says, bouncing slightly on his toes. “I can show you.”
Noel finishes taping the last butterfly bandage in place. “You good to walk?”
Hokuto nods, though he’s not entirely sure. The ice has numbed the worst of the pain, but movement still sends dull throbs through his ribs. He pushes himself up from the couch, clutching the clothes to his chest like armor.
“First floor or second?” Noel asks Genta.
“First,” Genta answers. “Figured the stairs would be tough.”
Another small consideration that catches Hokuto off guard. The Orphans would have laughed at his struggle, would have made him crawl up stairs just to watch him suffer.
Genta leads the way, chattering as they move through the space. “The bathroom’s really big. We have like, five showers and everything. It used to be some kind of factory, I think, before the Warriors took it over.”
Hokuto follows slowly, each step a careful negotiation with his battered body. He listens to Genta’s rambling, letting the normalcy of it wash over him. The young Warrior seems genuinely excited to help, with none of the cruel undertones Hokuto has learned to expect.
They stop before a door marked simply “Bathroom.”
“Here we go,” Genta says, pushing it open.
Hokuto steps inside and blinks in surprise.
Bathroom seems inadequate for the space before him—it’s more like a small bathhouse. Five shower stalls line one wall, separated by tiled partitions. A row of sinks with mirrors stretches along another, and beyond them, toilet stalls. There’s a changing area with benches and hooks for clothes.
“Towel hooks are there.” Genta points. “The middle shower has the best pressure, but they’re all pretty good. Soap, shampoo, and conditioner are already in there.”
Hokuto stands frozen, overwhelmed by options after years of having none. Which shower to use. How long to stay in. What water temperature to choose. Such simple decisions suddenly feel monumental.
“Take your time,” Noel says, seeming to understand Hokuto’s hesitation. “No one will bother you.”
No one will bother you. Four words that sound like a promise of sanctuary.
“Thank you,” Hokuto manages.
Noel nods, then guides Genta out.
The door closes with a soft click, leaving Hokuto alone in the vast, tiled space.
The silence envelops him. For the first time in three years, he stands in a room by himself, without eyes watching, without the threat of Ryo’s sudden anger.
The realization makes his knees weak.
He moves to the middle shower as Genta suggested, setting his clean clothes on a nearby bench. His fingers tremble as he turns the knob, and water rushes forth—clear and plentiful. He adjusts the temperature, marveling at this simple control.
Stripping off his remaining clothes, Hokuto steps under the spray. The water hits his shoulders and cascades down, washing away days of grime, sweat, and fear. He closes his eyes, letting it sluice over his face, mingling with tears he hadn’t realized he was shedding.
The soap is nothing special—some generic brand—but it smells clean and fresh as he works it into a lather. He washes carefully around his injuries, wincing when the water stings an open cut. The pain grounds him, reminds him this is real, not some elaborate dream his desperate mind has conjured.
Steam fills the stall as Hokuto stands under the spray longer than necessary, reluctant to leave this moment of privacy and peace. Eventually, the water begins to cool, forcing him to shut it off.
He dries himself with the towel—so soft it feels like a caress against his abused skin—and pulls on the borrowed clothes. The sweatpants hang loose on his hips, and the hoodie envelops him in fabric that smells of laundry detergent and something else, something that speaks of safety. He rolls up the sleeves, revealing the bruises circling his wrists like bracelets.
When he emerges from the bathroom, Noel is waiting in the hallway, leaning against the wall with casual patience.
“Feel better?” he asks.
Hokuto nods, the simple question catching in his throat. Better is such an inadequate word for the transformation of being clean, of wearing clothes that don’t carry Ryo’s scent, of standing in a space where he doesn’t need to brace for a blow.
“Hungry?” Noel asks, pushing off the wall. “I can heat something up. We usually have leftovers.”
The mention of food makes Hokuto realize he hasn’t eaten since morning, but exhaustion overwhelms even hunger. His limbs feel leaden, his mind foggy with fatigue.
“I just want to sleep,” he admits, the words barely above a whisper. “If that’s okay.”
“Of course it’s okay,” Noel says, as though Hokuto’s preferences matter, as though his wants are valid considerations. “Food can wait till morning.”
The adrenaline that’s kept Hokuto functioning—through the fight, the burning bar, the car ride, the shower—drains away completely, leaving him swaying slightly on his feet. The day’s events crash over him like a wave, threatening to pull him under.
“I think I need to sit down,” he murmurs, the edges of his vision going gray.
“Whoa, steady there,” Noel says, catching Hokuto’s elbow as he sways. “Let’s get you off your feet.”
Hokuto nods weakly, unable to form words as the room tilts around him. His legs feel disconnected from his body, like they might fold beneath him at any moment.
“Kitchen’s closest,” Noel says, guiding him with a firm but gentle grip. “Genta, clear a spot on the island.”
Hokuto lets himself be steered across the room, focusing on placing one foot in front of the other. The kitchen island comes into view—a large stainless steel surface gleaming under overhead lights. Genta scrambles ahead, pushing aside a few stray items to create space.
“Up you go,” Noel says, helping Hokuto hoist himself onto one of the stools. The surface feels cool through the thin sweatpants.
Hokuto sits with his shoulders hunched, head hanging forward as he tries to gather his scattered thoughts. The borrowed hoodie smells of detergent and something else—something human and unfamiliar but not threatening. He breathes it in, letting the scent ground him in this strange new reality.
“Head between your knees if you feel dizzy,” Noel instructs, a hand steady on Hokuto’s back.
Why are they being so kind? The question circles in Hokuto’s mind, persistent and unanswerable.
“Just breathe,” Genta says, hovering nearby with wide, concerned eyes. “In and out, nice and slow.”
Hokuto obeys, drawing air carefully into his lungs, mindful of his bruised ribs. Each breath sends a dull throb through his side, but the pain helps clear his head. The kitchen comes into sharper focus—industrial-sized refrigerators, a massive stove, countless cabinets. A space designed to feed many mouths.
“Better?” Noel asks after a few minutes.
Hokuto nods, straightening slightly. “Sorry,” he murmurs, embarrassed by his weakness.
“Nothing to be sorry for,” Noel replies with a dismissive wave. “You’ve had a hell of a night.”
A hell of a night. A hell of three years. Hokuto almost laughs at the understatement but catches himself. Laughter still feels dangerous, a liberty he’s not sure he’s allowed.
“Think you can make it upstairs?” Noel asks. “The sleeping area’s on the second floor.”
Hokuto glances toward the staircase, calculating the effort required against his remaining strength. “I can try.”
“We’ll help,” Genta offers eagerly. “One on each side, right, Noel?”
“That’s right,” Noel confirms. “Take it slow, no rush.”
They ease him off the stool, Noel on his left, Genta on his right. Hokuto leans more heavily on Noel, aware of Genta’s smaller frame. Together they navigate toward the stairs, a strange three-legged creature moving with careful coordination.
The staircase looms like a mountain. Hokuto stares up at it, steeling himself.
“One at a time,” Noel encourages. “We’ve got you.”
The ascent is slow and painful. Each step sends jolts through Hokuto’s ribs, drawing hissed breaths between clenched teeth. Halfway up, they pause to let him rest, his forehead pressed against the cool wall.
Finally, they reach the second floor. Hokuto’s shirt clings to his back with fresh sweat, his breathing shallow and quick.
“Almost there,” Genta says, leading them down a hallway.
They pass several closed doors before reaching a large room at the end. Genta pushes it open to reveal a spacious area filled with futons laid out in neat rows. Some are already occupied, lumps of blankets rising and falling with the steady breathing of sleep.
“Common sleeping area,” Noel explains in a hushed voice. “Most of the guys crash here.”
The sight of sleeping Warriors—vulnerable, peaceful—strikes Hokuto as profoundly intimate. With the Orphans, sleep was dangerous, a state of weakness to be exploited. Here, these men rest without guards, without fear.
Genta moves to an empty space and quickly unfolds a futon, arranging blankets and a pillow with practiced efficiency. “Here you go,” he whispers, fluffing the pillow with unnecessary enthusiasm.
They guide Hokuto to the prepared bed. The futon looks impossibly inviting, a promise of rest his body craves desperately.
“Wait,” Genta says, darting away. He returns moments later with an extra pillow. “For your chest. If you cough, hold it against your ribs. Helps with the pain.”
The thoughtful gesture catches Hokuto off guard. Such specific care feels foreign, almost uncomfortable in its kindness.
“You should sleep upright for a while,” Noel advises, arranging pillows against the wall. “At least for the first few nights. Better for your ribs.”
Hokuto nods, too exhausted to question the advice. With their help, he settles onto the futon.
“There,” Noel says, stepping back. “That should do it.”
“Do you need anything else?” Genta asks, hovering anxiously. “Water? Another blanket?”
Hokuto shakes his head, unable to process any more offerings. “This is... enough,” he manages, the words inadequate for the overwhelming gratitude he feels.
“Get some rest,” Noel says, resting a hand briefly on Hokuto’s shoulder. “Morning’s soon enough to figure everything else out.”
As they move away, dimming the lights as they go, Hokuto lets his eyes drift closed. The events of the night swirl in his mind—the fight, the fire, the Warriors taking him in. None of it makes sense, least of all the kindness.
His body surrenders to exhaustion before his mind can make peace with the contradictions.
The last thing he registers is the unfamiliar sound of peaceful breathing around him, the gentle rhythm of men who sleep without fear.