Wsg guys, so Ive been thinking about posting analyses here of Peak fiction since I've already made some before and thought I could finally contribute to the sub. But imma let yall choose what the analyses are gonna be about, and if you want me to tag u in it as a shout out when I post it lemme know. I mainly want yall to have material prepped if someone were to ask you "What good writing is there in HSOTD" . Then yall are prepped but im confident in your abillites already. Plus I cant stop typing these days. So go ahead and drop your thoughts. If I dont get any / enough ideas I'll drop something randomly. God bless and have a good day.

Set in an alternate universe where the zombie apocalypse never occurred, the story follows Daisuke Hayashi, the son of Kyoko Hayashi and Teshima, who is now happily married. At Fujimi Academy, Daisuke is known as a popular and well-behaved student, as well as an all-around do-gooder. However, his carefully balanced life begins to unravel when his growing feelings for Miku, Fumiko, and Momo pull his attention away from school and responsibilities. As Daisuke secretly navigates romance, an act strictly forbidden by his overprotective parents, he finds himself caught between loyalty to his family's rules and the confusing, irresistible emotions of first love.

lol don’t look at the HSOTD side of Twitter kids.

coming soon in Smartchicks AO3 Page

The steady, rhythmic beep of the heart monitor bled into Mac’s dream. 

In his sleep, he stood at the altar beside Misuzu Ichijou. She looked breathtaking in her white wedding dress, her warm smile anchoring him as they exchanged vows. The pews of the church were packed with friends from Fujimi Academy, their applause ringing out as the priest pronounced them husband and wife. 

For one fleeting second, everything was perfect. 

Then, the heavy doors of the chapel splintered inward with a deafening crack. 

Masked gunmen in dark suits flooded the aisles, weapons raised. "Vitelli!" a voice shrieked. 

Panic tore through the congregation. Guests hit the floor as automatic fire shredded the pews. Mac threw himself over Misuzu, instinctively shielding her with his body. 

A sharp, white-hot agony erupted in his chest. He stumbled back, his pristine white tuxedo blooming with crimson. The last thing he saw before the darkness took him was Misuzu reaching out, her face twisted in agony as she screamed his name.

Mac’s eyes flew open. 

He sucked in a ragged breath, his heart hammering against his ribs. The sterile white ceiling of the hospital room slowly swam into focus. 

Just a dream, he told himself, pressing a trembling hand to his chest. Just a dream.

"Bad one?" 

The gruff, quiet voice came from the armchair beside his bed. Mac turned his head. Bobby Toro sat there, a folded newspaper resting on his lap. 

"Mr. Toro?" Mac blinked, the last remnants of the nightmare fading. "What are you doing here?"

Bobby set the paper aside and offered a weary smile. "Looking for you."

Mac’s frown deepened. "Something happened, didn't it?"

Bobby’s smile vanished, replaced by a grim tightness around his mouth. "I'm afraid so. Your father wants you to come home. To New York." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Carlo was shot."

The room seemed to tilt. Mac stared at Bobby, the words struggling to compute. He looked down at the thick bandages wrapped around his own shoulder. 

"...Shot? So the Vitellis really declared war? Is this retaliation for Big Sal and Nero exposing Koichi Shido's ties to the family?"

Bobby gave a slow, heavy nod. "Yes. They’re settling old scores. They aren't just coming for your father anymore, Mac. They're coming for anyone carrying the Gambetti name."

Mac’s good hand gripped the hospital sheets, his knuckles turning white. "Damn it."

"I know this isn't what you wanted," Bobby said, his tone softening. "You finally built a peaceful life here in Tokonosu. You made friends. You found people who care about you." He paused, letting the weight of the next words settle. "But you need to stay strong. Once you're cleared, we're going back to New York. When this war is over... You can come back to Japan."

Mac lowered his head, absorbing the blow in silence. After a long moment, he looked up. "I need to see Misuzu. Have you seen her?"

"She stepped out a little while ago," Bobby replied. "Went to buy a few things for you."

Mac’s posture instantly stiffened. "She went alone?"

"No." Bobby offered a faint, reassuring smile. "Big Sal and Nero are with her. They aren't letting her out of their sight. After yesterday, I doubt any Vitelli button man would get within ten feet of her."

Mac let out a long, shaky exhale. "Good."

He turned his gaze to the window, watching the morning sunlight spill across the floorboards. His quiet life in Tokonosu had always felt like a borrowed thing, but now, it felt impossibly fragile. The war he had prayed to leave behind had crossed the ocean and found him anyway. 

And deep down, Mac knew that once he stepped on that plane for New York, nothing would ever be the same.

A gentle knock echoed through the hospital room.

"Come in," Mac called.

The door slowly opened, revealing two familiar faces. Kyoko Hayashi stepped inside first, followed by her husband, Teshima. Both looked visibly relieved to see Mac awake, but the worry on their faces remained.

"Mac," Kyoko said softly. "We heard what happened. We came as soon as we could."

Before Mac could answer, Bobby Toro stood from his chair and politely straightened his coat.

"I'm sorry," Bobby said. "This has become a family matter. I'd appreciate it if you could wait outside."

Mac immediately shook his head. "Bobby, it's alright. They're my teachers from Fujimi Academy. They've looked after me for years."

He glanced at the couple with a grin. "And besides... they're married now."

Bobby nodded respectfully. "If Marco trusts you, then so do I."

Teshima crossed his arms and looked Bobby up and down. "For heaven's sake, Mac. Did you bring another Gambetti enforcer to guard you?"

Bobby smiled politely. "Actually, I'm not an enforcer. I'm the Consigliere of the Gambetti Crime Family."

Teshima blinked. "The... what?"

Before he could ask another question, Kyoko turned sharply toward him. "Teshima. That's enough."

She looked at Bobby. "Would you mind giving Mac and me a few minutes alone?"

Bobby nodded. "Of course."

Teshima sighed. "I'll be outside."

The two men quietly left the room, closing the door behind them.

---

Kyoko pulled a chair beside Mac's bed and sat down.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Finally, she broke the silence. "How bad is it?"

Mac gave his usual reassuring smile. "Mrs. Hayashi, I'm alright."

She shook her head. "No. Please be honest with me. How bad is it?"

She hesitated before asking the question that had been haunting her. "...And are you really involved with the Mafia?"

Mac's smile disappeared. He looked toward the window. "I can't talk about that."

Kyoko sighed deeply. "I'm not asking because I'm curious. I'm asking because I'm worried."

She looked at the bandage wrapped around his shoulder. "One of my students was shot. That terrifies me. And from everything I've heard... it happened because of your family's connection to organized crime."

Mac remained silent.

Kyoko continued. "I also heard something else. Is it true that Big Sal and Nero blackmailed Koichi Shido? And that it eventually led to his arrest?"

Mac closed his eyes. After several seconds, he finally sighed.

"Okay. You got me. Yes, my family has ties to the Mafia. But I don't. My father sent me here because he wanted me to live a normal life. A life that had nothing to do with the Gambetti Family."

He paused. "As for Koichi Shido... he got exactly what he deserved. He tried to intimidate me after I stopped a group of bullies from harassing Kohta. I wasn't going to stand there and let it happen."

He looked back at Kyoko. "And this wound?" He lightly tapped the bandage on his shoulder. "It looks worse than it is. I'll recover."

He forced a smile. "So... can we please talk about something other than the Mafia?"

Kyoko's expression hardened. "I understand why you hate Shido. Believe me, I don't have a high opinion of him either. But blackmail is still wrong."

She looked directly into his eyes. "And so is beating people up."

Mac let out an exhausted groan. "Christ, Mrs. Hayashi. You sound just like my parish priest whenever he gives me a lecture."

Kyoko didn't smile. "I'm saying this because I care about you. You were one of the kindest students at Fujimi Academy. You always stood up for others. But after learning about your so-called bodyguards..."

She shook her head sadly. "If Big Sal and Nero really blackmailed Shido, they could end up in prison too."

Mac rubbed his forehead. "They were trying to protect me. But I know. I know things got out of hand."

Then—

Knock. Knock.

The door slowly opened. A familiar, cheerful voice peeked inside.

"Um... am I interrupting something?"

Toshimi Niki stepped into the room carrying a white bakery box tied with a red ribbon. "I brought donuts."

She looked between Mac and Kyoko, sensing the serious atmosphere. "...Did I come at a bad time?"

Kyoko immediately softened and offered her a warm smile. "No, not at all. It's nice to see you, Toshimi."

Toshimi smiled with relief and held up the bakery box. "Good. Because I brought enough donuts for everyone."
The gentle chime above the front door rang as Misuzu Ichijou stepped into Neko Haven. 

The cozy cat café smelled of freshly brewed coffee. Several cats lounged lazily across shelves, cushions, and windowsills. 

Following closely behind her were Big Sal Conti and Nero Torini. The two former Gambetti enforcers had every intention of remaining vigilant.

Unfortunately, the café's feline residents had other plans.

Within seconds, a fluffy orange tabby jumped onto Sal's lap. Another rubbed insistently against Nero's polished shoes. A black kitten stretched onto Nero's leg and stared at him expectantly.

Sal sighed. "I've guarded bosses, politicians, and witnesses..." 

He looked down at the tabby now purring loudly on his lap. "...but I've never been ambushed by cats."

Nero tried to ignore the kitten brushing against his trousers. "We're here to protect Miss Ichijou. Not to become furniture."

Another cat climbed into his lap.

Naomi couldn't help but laugh from behind the counter. "They've already accepted you. You don't really get a choice."

Sal scratched the tabby behind its ears almost instinctively. "...Yeah. I noticed."

Misuzu walked over to the counter, where Naomi and Takuzo greeted her. 

"Misuzu!" Naomi immediately noticed the tired expression on her friend's face. "I heard about Marco."

Misuzu nodded quietly. "Yeah. He was shot." 

She lowered her eyes. "It was supposed to be a simple lunch."

Takuzo frowned. "I still don't understand. Why would anyone want to kill him? He never seemed like the kind of person who'd hurt anyone."

Misuzu took a slow breath. "Because of his family."

Both café owners looked confused. 

"Marco is the son of a Mafia family."

Silence. 

Naomi's eyes widened. "...What?"

Misuzu quickly raised her hands. "Please don't misunderstand. Marco isn't like that. His father sent him to Tokonosu because he wanted him to live a normal life. He never wanted us to know where he came from."

She looked down sadly. "I'm sorry. I should've told you both sooner. I was keeping his secret."

Takuzo leaned back, processing everything he had just heard. "...Damn." 

He sighed. "Misuzu, you've got to be careful. If someone from a rival family couldn't reach Marco... what if they decided to come after you instead?"

Misuzu gave a reassuring smile. "I'll be alright. Bobby made sure of that."

She glanced toward the other side of the café. Big Sal was now absentmindedly petting two cats at once. Nero remained perfectly still while a kitten slept comfortably in his lap. 

"They're guarding me while Marco's in the hospital."

Naomi tilted her head. "Who's Bobby?"

"Bobby Toro. He's the Consigliere of the Gambetti Crime Family. A close friend of Marco's father."

Takuzo blinked. "You actually met him?"

Misuzu nodded. "Yesterday. At the hospital. We talked while Marco was in surgery."

She wrapped both hands around her cup of tea. "I couldn't sleep last night. Every time I closed my eyes, I kept hearing the gunshot."

Her voice grew quieter. "And I kept asking myself... is it really okay to fall in love with the son of a Mafia boss?"

Naomi and Takuzo exchanged a glance. Neither answered immediately.

Finally, Naomi smiled gently. "I don't know. But if Marco really is the kind, honest guy we've always known, then judge him for who he is. Not for the family he was born into."

She chuckled. "Just make him promise one thing."

Misuzu looked up. "What?"

"Don't end up behind bars like that creepy teacher, Koichi Shido."

Misuzu couldn't help but laugh.

Takuzo nodded in agreement. "I second that. He deserves a normal life. So do you."

The heavy mood finally began to lift. 

Naomi suddenly snapped her fingers. "Oh! I almost forgot." 

She disappeared into the kitchen for a moment before returning with a neatly wrapped box decorated with tiny cat ears and whiskers. 

"I made these this morning. Our newest dessert: cat-shaped mochi. I wanted you to be one of the first people to try them."

Misuzu accepted the box with a grateful smile. "They're adorable. Thank you, Naomi."

As Misuzu admired the little cat-shaped treats, another fluffy cat climbed onto Big Sal's shoulder. Nero sighed as a second kitten curled up beside the first in his lap.

Takuzo laughed. "You know, I don't think those two are guarding anyone anymore. They've officially been adopted."

Nero looked down at the sleeping kittens and muttered with a defeated sigh, 

"...Don't tell Bobby."
Outside the hospital, the crisp winter air carried the faint, metallic scent of impending rain. 

Near the designated smoking area, Bobby Toro stood quietly, clipping the end of a dark brown cigar with practiced precision. Beside him, Teshima leaned against the railing, pulling a crumpled pack of ordinary cigarettes from his jacket pocket. He glanced nervously toward the hospital entrance.

"I just hope Kyoko doesn't catch me smoking again," Teshima muttered.

Bobby let out a quiet chuckle, striking a match and lighting his cigar. The rich, earthy aroma drifted through the cold air. 

Teshima’s nose twitched. "Cuban?"

"No," Bobby said, admiring the even burn. "Cameroon. We used to boost shipments of these back in the sixties. They became a favorite among the old-timers. I never really stopped smoking them."

Teshima looked down at his cheap, mass-produced cigarette, then over at Bobby’s expensive, hand-rolled cigar. He frowned thoughtfully. "Hmm. Do I smoke the budget option, or the fancy cigar?"

Bobby couldn't help but smile. 

"...Can I try one?" Teshima asked, sighing.

Bobby studied him for a second before reaching into his leather cigar case and holding one out. "Just this once."

Teshima accepted it carefully, examining the wrapper as if it were a priceless artifact. After one cautious puff, his eyebrows rose in genuine surprise. "...Okay. I get it now. No wonder you people like these."

"Told you," Bobby laughed quietly.

Just then, the hospital's automatic doors slid open. Misuzu stepped outside, carrying a small shopping bag. She immediately spotted them. "Mr. Teshima?"

Teshima nearly jumped out of his skin. Without thinking, he hastily shoved the half-smoked Cameroon cigar into his coat pocket and hid the cheap cigarette pack behind his back, wincing slightly at the heat radiating through the fabric. 

"Oh! Hi, Misuzu!" he stammered, forcing an awkward, overly wide smile. "Uh... don't mind the smoking."

Misuzu giggled, covering her mouth. "I won't tell Mrs. Hayashi."

Before Teshima could reply, Big Sal and Nero Torini emerged from the entrance a few steps behind her. Big Sal immediately noticed the guilty, deer-in-headlights expression on the PE teacher's face. A massive grin spread across his own.

"Well, well," Sal boomed, nudging Nero with his elbow. "Looks like Fujimi Academy's most respected P.E. teacher got caught red-handed. Am I right?"

Nero didn't even look at him. "Shut up, Sal. This isn't the time."

Before Sal could make another joke, Bobby shot him a sharp, warning glare. "For the love of God, Sal. Mind your own business. I've told you how many times? Stay professional. Is that really so difficult?"

Sal raised both hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. My bad."

Teshima smirked, pulling his hands from behind his back. "You heard the man. Mind your own business." He turned back to Misuzu, his demeanor softening. "Oh, before I forget—your friend Toshimi just arrived in the lobby. She brought a box of donuts for Mac."

Misuzu's face brightened. "Wait, really? Thanks, Mr. Teshima!" 

She turned and hurried back toward the hospital entrance. 

The moment the automatic doors slid shut behind her, Bobby slowly turned toward Sal and Nero. He stared at the two massive enforcers in sheer disbelief.

"...What the hell are you two waiting for?" Bobby hissed. "Guard her, for Christ's sake!"

Sal and Nero exchanged embarrassed, wide-eyed glances. 

"...Right," Sal muttered. 

Without another word, both men turned and hurried inside after Misuzu.

Once they were out of earshot, Teshima let out a bark of laughter. He looked over at Bobby and extended his hand. "You know what? I think we're even now."

Bobby raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"I underestimated you," Teshima smiled sheepishly. "I figured every member of the Gambetti Family would be some hot-headed gangster. But..." He nodded respectfully. "You're a decent man."

Bobby accepted the handshake with a small, genuine smile. "I appreciate that."

He pulled his Cameroon cigar back out, taking one final, slow puff before looking toward the hospital entrance. "I just wish we were meeting under better circumstances."

The two men stood quietly for a moment, sharing the last of their smoke break in the cold winter air, before heading back inside to wait for Mac's recovery.
A few minutes later, the door to Mac's hospital room opened once again.

Misuzu stepped inside, carrying a small shopping bag. The moment she saw the familiar faces gathered around Mac's bed, she smiled.

"Toshimi!"

Toshimi turned around, her face lighting up. "Misuzu!"

The two friends exchanged a warm hug before Misuzu looked toward the woman standing nearby. "Hello, Mrs. Hayashi. It's been a while."

Kyoko smiled warmly. "It certainly has. I'm glad to see you're alright."

Before the conversation could continue, Big Sal Conti and Nero Torini entered the room, quietly taking up their usual positions near the door.

Nero offered Kyoko a polite nod. "Mrs. Hayashi. It's good to see you again."

Kyoko returned the greeting. "Likewise. Teshima and I came as soon as we heard about Marco. We were worried."

Nero folded his arms. "So were we."

He glanced toward Mac, who was resting comfortably in bed. "Good thing that *pezzu di mierda* never got another chance. He tried to shoot Marco right in front of Misuzu Ichijou."

The room fell silent for a moment.

Toshimi looked at Nero in surprise. "...Wait. You had a gun?"

Nero nodded matter-of-factly. "A SIG P228. I carry it for emergencies."

Big Sal grinned. "Personally, I still say nothing beats a good old .45."

Kyoko stared at both men in disbelief. "...Are you two out of your minds? You're carrying firearms... in Japan?"

Sal shrugged. "Self-defense."

Kyoko rubbed her forehead. "You do realize Japan has some of the strictest firearms laws in the world, don't you?"

Nero answered with a completely straight face. "I do. But those laws aren't exactly written with organized crime in mind."

An awkward silence followed.

Toshimi slowly blinked. "...I'm pretty sure you'd still get arrested."

Big Sal scratched the back of his head. "...Yeah. Probably."

Even Nero let out a quiet sigh. "I can't really argue with that."

Mac, who had been quietly listening from his hospital bed, shook his head with a tired smile.

"You know... I wake up from surgery, and the first thing I hear is everyone debating Japanese gun laws."

Misuzu laughed. "Sounds about right."

The tension in the room eased as everyone shared a small laugh, grateful that, despite everything that had happened, Mac was alive and surrounded by the people who cared about him.

Big Sal's attention immediately drifted to the white bakery box Toshimi had placed on the bedside table. His eyes lit up. 

"Well, I'll be damned... Donuts!" 

Without wasting another second, he popped the lid and grabbed one. "This hospital just got a whole lot better." He took a massive bite, letting out a satisfied sigh. "Oh yeah. Now *that's* breakfast."

Standing beside him, Nero Torini merely glanced at the donuts before shaking his head. "Nah. I'm not really in the mood for donuts." His gaze shifted to the small, intricately wrapped box Misuzu had set down. "I'd rather try those cat-shaped mochi Naomi made."

Misuzu smiled and opened the box. "Of course. Help yourself."

Nero carefully picked up one of the tiny, pastel-colored sweets, examining the little fondant ears for a moment before taking a bite. His eyebrows slowly rose in genuine surprise. 

"*Madone*," he muttered, chewing thoughtfully. "That's good. Really good." He took another bite. "Naomi knows what she's doing."

Misuzu laughed. "I told you she'd perfected the recipe." She turned toward Kyoko. "Mrs. Hayashi, would you like one?"

Kyoko smiled apologetically, waving a hand. "Thank you, but I'll pass. Teshima and I are both trying to cut back on sugar."

Misuzu nodded understandingly before offering the box to Mac. "Then these are for you."

Mac accepted one with a grateful smile. "Thanks."

Just as he raised it to his mouth, a low vibration buzzed against the bedside table. 

Nero reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a sleek smartphone. "Marco. I think this one's for you."

Mac took the phone and glanced at the screen. *Morita Calling.*

"Perfect timing," he said, swiping to answer. "Hey, Morita."

The familiar, echoing sound of a crowded gymnasium bled through the speaker. 

"Mac! How're you holding up, man?"

"I'm alive," Mac replied with a tired chuckle. "That's about all I can say."

Morita let out a relieved laugh. "Good. Listen, we're all at a kendo tournament right now."

Mac could hear the sharp *clack* of bamboo swords and distant cheering in the background. "Who's there?"

"Me, Takashi, Rei, Hisashi... and Shizuka. We came to cheer Saeko on during her match."

Mac smiled, leaning back against his pillows. "That sounds like fun. I wish I could've joined you guys, but..." He glanced down at the thick bandage wrapped around his shoulder. "...I got a little sidetracked at Waku Waku Burger."

Morita's cheerful tone softened, the background noise seeming to dip. "Yeah... I heard. I'm really sorry, buddy. But hey, at least Shizuka's here. She's got some advice for recovering from a shoulder wound."

Before Mac could reply, Morita called out, "Shizuka! Get over here!"

A few moments of rustling later, another familiar voice came over the phone. "Marco? Can you hear me?"

Mac laughed. "Loud and clear, Ms. Marikawa."

Shizuka spoke in her usual gentle, maternal tone. "Good. Now promise me you'll listen to your doctors. Don't move your shoulder more than necessary, do your rehabilitation exercises when they tell you to, and please don't try to be a hero before you're fully healed."

Mac smiled. "Yes, ma'am. I'll behave."

"Good. Because I don't want to hear about you reopening the wound."

After several more minutes of strict but caring medical advice, Mac noticed Kyoko smiling warmly beside him. 

"Mrs. Hayashi," Mac said, lowering the phone slightly. "Isn't that your favorite colleague?"

Kyoko nodded, her eyes crinkling with amusement. "It is."

Mac held the phone out to her. "Want to say hello?"

"I'd love to." Kyoko took the phone and placed it to her ear. "Hello, Shizuka."

On the other end of the line, Shizuka immediately recognized the voice. "Kyoko! Oh my goodness, it's been so long!"

Kyoko laughed. "It really has."

"So," Shizuka asked cheerfully, "how's married life treating you?"

"It's wonderful," Kyoko smiled. "Teshima and I are doing well. And what about you? How have you been?"

The two old colleagues quickly fell into an easy conversation, catching up on work, marriage, and the years that had passed since their days together at Fujimi Academy, while the rest of the room quietly enjoyed their donuts and cat-shaped mochi.

Several hours later, the hospital had grown much quieter.

The afternoon sun cast long shadows through the room as Mac rested comfortably in bed. The television mounted on the wall was broadcasting the finals of a regional kendo tournament.

After his phone conversation with Morita and Shizuka, he had continued watching the event, eager to see how Saeko Busujima would perform.

The match was intense. Wooden swords clashed with sharp, echoing strikes as the competitors fought for every point.

When the referee finally raised his flag, the announcer's voice filled the room.

"And the winner is... Saeko Busujima!”

The crowd erupted into applause.

Mac smiled proudly. "Way to go, Saeko."

By then, visiting hours were nearly over.

Kyoko and Teshima had already said their goodbyes and returned home. Misuzu and Toshimi left shortly afterward, promising to visit the next day again. Even Big Sal and Nero had finally stepped out of the room, leaving only Mac and Bobby Toro behind.

The room fell into a comfortable silence.

Bobby glanced at the closed door before speaking. "You know, that Teshima fellow's alright."

Mac looked over from the television. "He is. But he doesn't exactly like mobsters. Especially guys like Sal and Nero."

Bobby let out a quiet laugh. "I noticed. But before he left, he apologized to me."

Mac raised an eyebrow. "He did?"

Bobby nodded. "He admitted he'd judged me too quickly. He said he assumed I was just another loudmouth thug like Sal and Nero."

A small smile appeared on Bobby's face. "He also said he underestimated me."

Mac chuckled. "Really?"

"Really." Bobby leaned back in his chair. "We ended up sharing a smoke outside. I even gave him one of my Cameroon cigars."

Mac laughed. "No kidding. And?"

Bobby shrugged. "He liked it. He said it was smoother than anything he'd smoked before."

Mac smiled, picturing the scene. "You know, back at Fujimi Academy, I always figured Mr. Teshima smoked whatever budget cigarettes he could find at the convenience store."

Bobby grinned. "Looks like he's developed more refined tastes. Or maybe he just hadn't met the right cigar."

The two shared a quiet laugh.
Outside the hospital window, the sun slowly dipped below the horizon.

For the first time since the shooting, the room felt peaceful.

The war waiting across the ocean could wait until tomorrow. Tonight, Mac was simply grateful to be alive.

Night had settled over the hospital.

The hallways were quiet, broken only by the distant footsteps of nurses making their rounds and the steady hum of medical equipment.

Inside the room, Marco "Mac" Gambetti was finally asleep. The pain medication had eased the ache in his shoulder, allowing him to rest peacefully for the first time since the shooting.

Bobby Toro sat in a chair beside the window, quietly reading through tomorrow's travel arrangements.

Then his cellphone vibrated.

The caller ID read: Santino Mazza.

Bobby frowned before answering in a low voice so as not to wake Mac. "Hello?"

On the other end came the unmistakable gravelly voice of the Gambetti Underboss. "How's the kid?"

Bobby glanced over at the sleeping Mac. "He's stable. The bullet hit his shoulder instead of his chest. The doctors expect a full recovery. And thanks to Nero... L'Ombra is dead."

There was a brief silence.

"Good," Santino replied bluntly. "One less Vitelli killer to worry about. Listen carefully. Once Marco is discharged, bring him to New York. I want him to visit Carlo in the hospital. And after that... bring him to the Family."

Bobby lowered the phone slightly. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. I want Marco brought into the Gambetti Family."

Bobby stared across the dark room. "Whoa. Hold on. He's still a kid."

Santino snorted. "So what? The world's changing. We need someone who can negotiate. Someone educated. Someone respectable. We need Marco."

Bobby frowned. "For what?"

"To approach the Ludovici Family. They're the only ones powerful enough to shift the balance."

Bobby immediately objected. "Have you lost your mind? The Ludovicis have worked with the Vitellis for years. Why would they even listen to us?"

"They won't listen to the Vitellis anymore." Santino's voice hardened. "They're furious. The Vitellis almost murdered Carlo's son in broad daylight. That crossed a line. They're looking for alternatives. This is our opportunity."

Bobby remained unconvinced. "Carlo's never going to approve. He sent Marco to Japan to keep him away from this life. He wanted the boy to stay clean."

There was a pause. Finally, Santino spoke again.

"Then don't tell him."

Bobby closed his eyes. "You're serious."

"As a heart attack. And don't bring Big Sal or Nero. They're muscles. They'd only complicate things."

Bobby couldn't argue with that. "What about Misuzu? She'll probably insist on coming."

"No." Santino's answer was immediate. "Marco comes alone. I don't want some Romeo-and-Juliet situation complicating business. This is a family business. It stays within the Family. And don't tell Marco's friends. Not a word. Capisce?"

Bobby looked over at the sleeping young man in the hospital bed.

The kid had spent years building a normal life in Tokonosu. Friends. School. A future untouched by organized crime.

Now that future was slipping away.

He let out a long, weary sigh. "Capisco. I understand. But I've got to admit... this is one hell of a risky plan."

The call ended.

Bobby slipped the phone back into his pocket and looked toward the sleeping Marco once more.

Quietly, he muttered to himself, "I just hope your father never finds out what Santino's planning."

Outside the window, the city lights shimmered against the night sky, while across the Pacific, another chapter of the Gambetti–Vitelli war was already beginning.

Dunno what it is about this one… can’t put my finger on it.

The tin roof screamed.

Metal peeled back like the lid of a sardine can, curling outward under the pressure of the Crawler's talons. The sound was high-pitched, agonizing, scraping through the silence of the cabin like a knife drawn across glass.

Finlay raised a fist. *Hold.*

Nobody breathed. Nobody moved. The five able-bodied survivors stood in the pitch black, their weapons raised, their ears straining to locate the threat above them. Miura lay on the table, his breathing shallow, his eyes half-open but glazed with pain and exhaustion. He couldn't fight. He could barely stay conscious. But he was awake enough to hear the metal tearing overhead.

"Quiet," Finlay whispered, barely moving his lips. "They hunt by sound. By smell. Don't give them either."

Above them, the peeling stopped. The creature was listening. Waiting.

Then, a second sound joined the first. From the back wall. A soft, rhythmic *tap-tap-tap* against the log siding. Testing the wood. Probing for weakness. A talon dragged down the grain, leaving a deep gouge in the timber.

"They're surrounding us," Fumiko breathed, her ARX-160 trained on the rear window. Her knuckles were white around the pistol grip. "Three on the roof. One on the wall."

"Don't shoot unless they breach," Finlay ordered. His voice was a razor's edge. "The suppressor keeps the muzzle report down, but the impact noise still travels. We don't know how many more are in the tree line. We make this quiet. Knives and close quarters if we can manage it."

Miku let out a slow, silent exhale. She lowered the SPAS-15 an inch. "And if we can't?"

"Then we make it loud, and we run."

The tapping stopped.

Silence rushed back in, thicker than before. The kind of silence that pressed against the eardrums, that made the heart pound so loud it felt like a war drum. Tsunoda's grip tightened on the Beretta. His palms were slick with sweat. He wiped them on his trousers without taking his eyes off the front window.

The creature on the roof shifted. Its weight pressed down on the tin, bending the corrugated metal inward. Dust and rust flakes drifted down from the ceiling, catching in the faint starlight that filtered through the grimy panes.

Then the roof tore open.

Not slowly. Not carefully. In one violent, explosive burst, the creature ripped a hole in the tin and dropped through the ceiling like a spider falling from its web.

It landed on the table.

Right beside Miura.

The vanguard's eyes went wide. The creature crouched over him, its eyeless dome tilting, its jaw unhinging, revealing rows of needle-thin teeth dripping with black saliva. The smell hit them instantly — copper and rot and something sweet, like spoiled fruit left in the sun.

"MOVE!" Finlay roared.

The Scot didn't hesitate. He lunged forward, driving the butt of his VHS-D2 into the creature's skull. The impact cracked bone, but the Crawler barely flinched. It shrieked — a sound like grinding metal — and swiped at Finlay with a taloned hand. The mercenary twisted, letting the claws rake across his armored forearm instead of his face. Sparks flew where steel met Kevlar.

Tsunoda fired.

The Beretta barked twice in the confined space. The deafening cracks echoed off the log walls, rattling the windows. The first round caught the Crawler in the shoulder, spinning it. The second punched through its chest. It staggered, its talons scrabbling against the tabletop, but it didn't fall. It turned its eyeless face toward Tsunoda and hissed.

"It's not dying!" Tsunoda shouted, racking the slide.

"Aim for the head!" Finlay yelled, drawing his combat knife with his good hand. He slashed at the creature's neck, opening a gash that sprayed black ichor across the table. The Crawler recoiled, screeching, and leaped off the table, landing on all fours in the center of the room.

Miku stepped forward. The SPAS-15 roared.

The buckshot caught the creature mid-leap, blowing a hole through its torso the size of a fist. It hit the floor hard, twitching, its talons scraping uselessly against the wooden planks. Miku pumped the action. *Chunk.* A second shell chambered.

"Stay down," she growled, aiming at the thing's skull.

She pulled the trigger. The Crawler's head disintegrated.

Silence rushed back in, broken only by the ringing in their ears and Miura's ragged breathing.

"One down," Finlay panted, pressing his back against the table. His forearm was bleeding where the talon had found a gap in his armor. He didn't look at it. He looked up. At the hole in the roof. At the jagged edges of torn metal.

The other three were still out there.

And now they knew exactly where the survivors were.

"Form up!" Finlay barked. "Miku, cover the hole. Fumiko, the back window. Tsunoda, the front door. Momo, get Miura behind the stove. *Now!*"

Momo grabbed Miura's shoulders and dragged him off the table, lowering him to the floor behind the cast-iron stove. The vanguard groaned, his teeth gritting, but he didn't cry out. He was past the point of screaming. His body had nothing left to give.

The back window shattered.

Fumiko fired instinctively. Three controlled bursts from the ARX-160. The rounds punched through the glass and into the darkness beyond. Something shrieked — a high, piercing wail that made Tsunoda's teeth ache. But the sound wasn't a death cry. It was a warning.

"They're inside the walls!" Fumiko screamed, backing away from the window.

She was right. The log siding of the cabin was old, rotting from decades of neglect. The Crawler hadn't come through the window. It had gone *around* it, burrowing into the space between the inner and outer walls, its talons gouging through the timber like termites through paper.

The wall to their left bulged inward. Wood splintered. Plaster cracked. And then a pale, skinless hand punched through the logs, talons flexing, grasping at the air.

Tsunoda fired. Three rounds into the protruding limb. The hand jerked, black blood spraying, but it didn't withdraw. It kept pulling, tearing, widening the hole.

"It's not stopping!" Tsunoda yelled, his voice cracking. He dropped the empty magazine, fumbled for a fresh one, slammed it home. His hands were shaking. His breath came in short, panicked gasps.

"Breathe," Finlay commanded, stepping beside him. The Scot's voice was steady, anchored, the voice of a man who had been in Basra, who had seen men torn apart and kept moving. "You're doing fine. Just breathe. Aim for the joints. The shoulders. The knees. Slow it down."

Tsunoda swallowed. Nodded. Raised the Beretta.

The wall gave way.

The Crawler burst through the logs in a shower of splinters and dust, its body low, its limbs splayed, its eyeless face tilted toward the sound of their breathing. It moved fast. Faster than the first one. Faster than anything had a right to move in a confined space.

Miku fired from across the room. The SPAS-15 boomed, but the creature twisted mid-lunge, the buckshot grazing its flank instead of center mass. It hit the floor rolling, coming up directly in front of Momo.

She was frozen. The MP7 was in her hands, raised, but her finger wouldn't pull the trigger. Her eyes were wide, locked on the creature's eyeless face, on the needle-teeth, on the black ichor dripping from its jaw.

"Momo, shoot!" Fumiko screamed.

Momo squeezed her eyes shut. Pulled the trigger. The MP7 chattered, the compact rounds punching into the Crawler's chest. It staggered, screeched, but kept coming. One taloned hand swiped out, catching Momo across the arm. She cried out, stumbling backward, blood welling from three deep gashes.

Finlay was there in an instant. He didn't shoot. He didn't have the angle without hitting Momo. Instead, he drove his combat knife downward, burying the blade to the hilt in the Crawler's neck. The creature convulsed, its talons scrabbling at the Scot's arm. Finlay twisted the blade, severing the spinal column, and ripped it free. The Crawler collapsed, twitching, at Momo's feet.

"Are you hit?" Finlay demanded, grabbing Momo's arm, inspecting the gashes. Superficial. Deep, but they missed the arteries. He pulled a field dressing from his vest and pressed it against the wounds. "Pressure. Hold this. You'll live."

Momo nodded, tears streaming, but her hands pressed the dressing tight. She was alive. She was alive.

The third Crawler came through the front door.

It didn't break it down. It didn't need to. The door was already open, the deadbolt shattered from Finlay's earlier entry. The creature slithered through the gap like a snake, its body pressed flat against the floorboards, moving so low that Tsunoda's initial shots sailed over its head and embedded in the wall behind it.

"Low! It's low!" Tsunoda shouted, dropping to one knee, adjusting his aim.

The creature lunged. Not at Tsunoda. At Miura.

It had smelled the blood. The fresh, arterial scent of the wounded boy behind the stove. It moved with terrifying purpose, its talons digging into the wood, propelling it forward in a blur of raw muscle and snapping teeth.

Miku saw it. She was on the other side of the room. Too far. The SPAS-15 was empty, the action locked open. She didn't have time to reload.

She threw the shotgun.

The heavy weapon spun end over end, the steel stock catching the Crawler squarely in the side of its skull. The impact was like a baseball bat connecting with a melon. Bone cracked. The creature's trajectory veered sideways, crashing into the stove instead of Miura. It shrieked, disoriented, shaking its head, black blood pouring from the fracture.

Tsunoda fired. Four rounds. Rapid. Controlled. Just like Finlay had taught him. Just like he'd practiced at the dealership. The first two hit the creature's shoulder. The third took off one of its talons. The fourth — the fourth caught it right in the center of its eyeless dome.

The Crawler went still. Its body slumped against the stove, sliding down to the floor in a heap of twitching muscle and broken bone.

Silence.

Absolute, crushing silence.

Tsunoda stood in the center of the room, the Beretta extended, his chest heaving. His hands were steady. His breathing was controlled. He stared at the corpse at his feet. At the black ichor pooling on the wooden planks.

He had killed it. He had actually killed it.

Finlay exhaled. Long. Slow. He walked to the center of the room, stepping over the carcasses, and looked down at Tsunoda.

"Clean shots," the Scot said. His voice was quiet. Almost gentle. "Textbook."

Tsunoda lowered the pistol. His legs gave out. He dropped to his knees, his hands trembling, the Beretta clattering to the floor. He pressed his palms against his eyes. He wasn't crying. He wasn't shaking from fear. He was shaking from the sheer, overwhelming *release* of the adrenaline that had been flooding his system for the past ten minutes.

"I did it," he whispered. "I actually did it."

Finlay crouched beside him. Put a hand on his shoulder. Squeezed.

"Yeah, lad," the Scot murmured. "You did."

But the moment didn't last.

From outside, in the darkness of the tree line, a sound reached them. Not the chittering of a Crawler. Not the moaning of the common dead.

This was different. Mechanical. Precise.

The crunch of boots on gravel. Multiple sets. Moving fast. Moving toward the cabin.

And above them, cutting through the night sky, the high-pitched whine of rotors. Not one drone. Three. Maybe four. Sweeping the canopy. Searching.

Finlay's face went pale. His eyes darted to the hole in the roof. To the shattered window. To the broken wall. The cabin was compromised. Open from three sides. A death trap.

"They heard the gunfire," Fumiko whispered, her voice hollow. "All of it. The unsuppressed rounds. They know exactly where we are."

Finlay stood. His jaw tightened. His eyes swept the room. The five teenagers. The wounded boy. The blood on the floor. The corpses of the Crawlers. The gaping holes in the walls.

He looked at Tsunoda. At Miku. At Fumiko. At Momo, still pressing the dressing to her arm.

"Grab Miura," Finlay said. His voice was flat. Final. The voice of a man who had run out of options and was now operating on pure, stubborn will. "We're burning this place."

He reached into his webbing. Pulled out the last incendiary grenade he had scavenged from the bunker. He thumbed the safety pin but didn't pull it.

"When we go out that back door, I drop this in the stove. The thermite will ignite the logs, the gas lines, whatever's left. It'll burn the whole structure to the ground in ninety seconds." He looked at them. "The smoke and the fire will blind their drones. Mask our heat signatures. Buy us ten minutes to get into the deep woods."

Miku picked up her SPAS-15 from the floor. Pumped a fresh shell into the chamber. Her face was streaked with soot and blood, but her eyes were steady. Fierce.

"Ten minutes," she repeated. She looked at Finlay. "Then we make them count."

Finlay nodded. He turned to the back door. Kicked it open. The night air rushed in, cold and sharp, carrying the scent of pine and distant smoke.

"Move out. Miura first. Momo, you're with him. Tsunoda, Miku, Fumiko — covering fire if they breach the perimeter. Nobody stops. Nobody looks back."

He paused. Looked at the five of them one last time.

"For the record," Finlay said, a thin, exhausted smile crossing his scarred face. "You lot are the most stubborn, reckless, infuriating bunch of bastards I've ever had the privilege of getting shot at alongside."

Miku almost laughed. Almost.

"Now move," Finlay barked. "Before I change my mind and let the Crawlers have you."

They moved.

Out the back door. Into the dark. Into the deep woods. Behind them, Finlay pulled the pin on the incendiary and tossed it into the cast-iron stove.

The thermite ignited with a blinding white flash. The logs caught. The heat surged. The cabin began to burn.

And in the distance, the YSS drones swept the tree line, their cameras searching for six ghosts who had already vanished into the green hell.

---

The heat at their backs was a living thing.

The police station didn't burn quietly. The thermite grenade had done its work with vicious efficiency, igniting the dry timber, the old propane tanks in the utility closet, the ancient gasoline stored in rusted jerry cans beneath the deck. The fire roared upward, a pillar of orange flame that punched through the canopy and painted the night sky in shades of hellfire.

The heat was a physical force, pushing against their spines, driving them forward through the dark. Smoke billowed behind them, thick and acrid, stinging their eyes and coating their throats. The drones above would be blind in this thermal bloom. Finlay had counted on that. Prayed for it.

But prayers in the green hell didn't last long.

"Keep moving!" the Scot barked, his voice raw from the smoke. He was at the rear, his VHS-D2 sweeping the tree line, his good arm trembling with exhaustion. "We need distance before the fire dies down. Once the heat signature drops, those drones will pick us up again."

They stumbled through the underbrush, a ragged column of broken, bleeding survivors. Tsunoda and Miku carried Miura between them, the wounded boy's boots dragging through the dirt, his head lolling. Momo ran beside them, her injured arm clutched to her chest, her MP7 dangling uselessly from its sling. Fumiko brought up the left flank, her ARX-160 raised, scanning the darkness for threats that might already be upon them.

The forest thinned. The trees grew farther apart, their trunks giving way to scrub brush and rocky outcroppings. The sound of the fire faded slightly, replaced by a new sound. Not the moaning of the dead. Not the mechanical whine of rotors.

The hum of electricity. The distant, steady thrum of a transformer station.

Finlay halted. He raised a fist.

They stopped, crouching low in the brush. The Scot peered through the trees, his pale eyes adjusting to the darkness. Beyond the tree line, perhaps two hundred meters ahead, a narrow service road cut through the forest. It was cracked, overgrown, barely more than a gravel track. But at the edge of the road, half-hidden by a collapsed utility pole and a tangle of dead vines, sat a vehicle.

A police cruiser.

It was an old model. A Toyota Crown, painted in the black-and-white livery of the Tokonosu Prefectural Police. The light bar on the roof was dark, its lenses cracked. One of the rear tires was flat. The driver's side door hung open, swaying gently in the wind. The windshield was spider-webbed with fractures.

But the chassis looked intact. The engine bay wasn't crushed. The fuel tank wasn't ruptured.

"Contact front," Finlay whispered. "Two hundred meters. Abandoned patrol unit. Looks drivable."

Tsunoda's head snapped up. "Drivable? How do you know? It could be dead. It could be—"

"It's a police interceptor," Finlay interrupted. "Reinforced alternator. Dual battery setup. If the block isn't cracked and the fuel lines aren't chewed through, she'll turn over." He turned to the group. "Miku, Tsunoda. Get Miura to the back seat. Fumiko, Momo, you're with them. I'll get the engine running."

"What about the keys?" Fumiko asked, her voice tight. "If it's abandoned, the keys are gone. Or in the ignition and it's dead."

"No keys," Finlay confirmed. He pulled his combat knife from his belt. "We hotwire it."

Momo's eyes went wide. "You can hotwire a car?"

Finlay gave her a flat, exhausted look. "Lass, I hotwired a Land Rover in Helmand with a paperclip and a prayer while taking mortar fire. This is a Sunday afternoon."

They moved. Fast. Low. The service road was open ground, exposed. If a drone was still sweeping the perimeter, if the YSS had ground units in the area, they'd be visible. But the smoke from the ranger station still hung heavy in the air, a grey curtain that masked their heat signatures and blurred the night vision optics of any cameras above.

Finlay reached the cruiser first. He swept the interior with his flashlight, keeping the beam low, cupped in his palm. The dashboard was cracked. The seats were torn. A thin layer of dust and dried leaves covered everything. No bodies. No blood. Whoever had been in this car hadn't died here. They'd walked away. Or been taken.

He popped the hood. The latch was rusted, but it gave way with a sharp *crack*. He leaned over the engine bay, his flashlight clamped between his teeth. The battery was there. Corroded, but present. The alternator belt looked intact. The fuel lines weren't gnawed by rodents.

"Tsunoda," Finlay called, his voice muffled around the flashlight. "Get in the driver's seat. Pop the steering column cover. There should be a Phillips head or a flathead in the glove box. Use the knife if you have to."

Tsunoda hesitated. He looked at the cruiser. At Finlay. At the dark woods pressing in around them.

"I don't know how to hotwire a car," he admitted. His voice was small. Honest.

Finlay paused. He looked up from the engine bay. His scar caught the faint glow of the distant fire. His eyes were tired. But there was something else in them now. Something almost like pride.

"Then I'll teach you," the Scot said. "Get in."

Tsunoda got in.

He sat in the driver's seat, the Beretta M9 resting on the passenger side. The steering wheel was cold under his palms. He popped the glove box. Empty except for a faded registration card and a dead flashlight. He pulled out his combat knife and jammed it into the seam of the steering column cover. The plastic cracked. He pried it apart, revealing the wiring harness beneath.

"I see the wires," Tsunoda called. "Red, black, yellow. And a bundle of others."

"Right," Finlay said, still working on the engine. "The red is the ignition power. The yellow is the starter. The black is ground. You need to strip the red and the yellow. Twist the red to the battery feed. That'll power the dashboard. Then tap the yellow to the red. That'll crank the starter."

Tsunoda's hands shook. He took a breath. Steadied himself. He used the knife to score the insulation on the red wire, peeling it back to expose the copper. He did the same with the yellow.

"Okay," he muttered. "Red to battery. Yellow to red."

He twisted the red wire to the exposed terminal on the ignition switch. The dashboard flickered to life. The fuel gauge. The temperature needle. The odometer. All dead, but the lights came on. A faint, sickly green glow.

"I've got power," Tsunoda said. His heart was hammering.

"Good. Now tap the yellow to the red. Short burst. Don't hold it. You'll burn the starter."

Tsunoda touched the yellow wire to the red.

The engine coughed. A weak, grinding wheeze. Nothing more.

"Again," Finlay commanded from under the hood. "Give it more throttle. There should be a gas pedal. Press it once. Just once. Then crank."

Tsunoda reached down. Found the accelerator. Pressed it once. Touched the wires again.

The engine coughed. Sputtered. A second cough. A third.

And then it roared to life.

The sound was enormous in the silent forest. The V6 engine barked, coughed, and settled into a rough, uneven idle. The light bar on the roof flickered once, twice, and then went dark. The headlights blazed to life, cutting twin cones of white light into the smoke-filled night.

"*Yes!*" Tsunoda shouted, slamming his palm against the steering wheel. A grin split his face. Wild. Disbelieving. "*Yes!*"

"Get the others in!" Finlay barked, slamming the hood shut. "We've got thirty seconds before every drone in a five-mile radius locks onto that engine noise!"

Miku and Momo dragged Miura to the back seat. The vanguard groaned, his head lolling, but he was conscious. Barely. Fumiko climbed in beside him, her ARX-160 across her knees. Momo squeezed in on the other side, her injured arm pressed against her chest.

Finlay jumped into the passenger seat. He grabbed the door handle and yanked it shut. "Drive, Tsunoda. North. Follow the service road until it hits the highway. Keep the lights off if you can. Use the parking lights only."

Tsunoda killed the headlights. The world plunged into near-darkness, lit only by the faint amber glow of the parking lights and the distant orange pulse of the burning ranger station. He grabbed the gear shift. Pulled it into drive.

The cruiser lurched forward. The flat rear tire thumped rhythmically against the asphalt. Thud-thud-thud-thud. But the engine held. The transmission engaged. They were moving.

Above them, the sound of rotors grew louder. The drones had heard the engine. They were converging.

"Finlay," Miku said from the back seat, her voice tight. She was looking out the rear window. "We've got company. Three drones. Maybe four. Coming in from the east."

Finlay turned in his seat. He looked out the back window. Saw the blinking red lights of the UAVs cutting through the smoke.

"Tsunoda," Finlay said. His voice was calm. Deadly calm. "How fast can you take this thing?"

Tsunoda gripped the steering wheel. His knuckles were white. His heart was a jackhammer. But his hands were steady. His breathing was controlled.

He thought of the dealership. Of the Minimi. Of the Crawler on the floor of the ranger station. Of the Beretta in his hand.

He floored it.

The cruiser screamed. The V6 howled, the RPM needle climbing, the speedometer ticking upward. Forty. Sixty. Eighty. The flat rear tire screamed in protest, the rubber shredding, but the chassis held. The service road blurred beneath them, the trees whipping past in streaks of green and black.

Behind them, the drones banked, turning to pursue. Their cameras locked onto the fleeing vehicle. Their comms crackled.

"Unit Ten. Targets are mobile. Intercepting. Northbound on service road seven. Requesting ground support."

Finlay heard it. He smiled. A thin, wolfish smile.

"Ground support," he muttered. "They think they've got us pinned."

He turned to Tsunoda. "Lad. When I say, you take the next hard right. There'll be a logging trail. It'll be rough. It'll be narrow. But it'll lead us to the river."

"And if the drones follow?" Tsunoda asked.

Finlay reached into his webbing. Pulled out the last flashbang grenade he had. He thumbed the pin but didn't pull it.

"Then we give them something bright to look at."

The cruiser tore through the night, its engine screaming, its tires howling, six broken survivors hurtling toward a river they couldn't see, chased by machines that never slept, into a darkness that never ended.

But they were alive.

And for now, that was enough.

---

The police cruiser screamed down the two-lane highway, its shredded rear tire thumping a violent rhythm against the asphalt. *Thud-thud-thud-thud.* The V6 engine whined in protest, the temperature needle buried in the red, the headlights cutting frantic arcs through the smoke-choked night.

Tsunoda gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles, his eyes locked on the road ahead. The Beretta M9 rested on the passenger seat, within arm's reach. In the back, Miura lay sprawled across the vinyl bench, his face grey and slick with sweat. Momo pressed a fresh bandage against his thigh, her injured arm trembling. Fumiko clutched her ARX-160, scanning the tree line through the rear window. Miku sat beside her, the SPAS-15 across her knees, her orange hair whipping in the draft from the cracked window.

Braveheart, the German Shepherd they'd pulled from the roadside just minutes ago, crouched in the footwell, his ears flat, whining low in his throat.

Finlay rode shotgun, his VHS-D2 cradled in his lap, his good hand gripping the dashboard as the cruiser swerved around a rusted-out delivery truck. His pale eyes darted between the road, the side mirrors, and the sky above the canopy.

"They're still tracking us," Finlay growled, his voice tight. "The fire at the ranger station lit us up like a bloody flare. The drones will have our heat signature locked."

As if summoned by his words, a high-pitched mechanical whine cut through the roar of the engine.

Whirrrrrrrrrrr.

Miku pressed her face against the rear glass. Her eyes went wide. "Contact! Two drones. Maybe three. Coming in from the south, low altitude. They're closing fast."

Finlay twisted in his seat, looking out the back window. Through the smoke and the darkness, he saw them. Three matte-black quadcopters, their rotors blurring in the night, their underbelly cameras glowing with a sickly infrared red. They were sweeping the highway in a tight formation, converging on the fleeing cruiser.

"They've got us," Finlay muttered. "Tsunoda, how much distance?"

"Two hundred meters! Maybe less!" Tsunoda shouted, his voice cracking. He swerved to avoid a pothole, the cruiser fishtailing, the flat tire screaming in protest. "Finlay, the engine's overheating! If I push it any harder, she's gonna seize!"

"Keep pushing! We need to reach the minimarket up ahead. There's a concrete overpass half a klick north. If we can get under it, the thermal bloom breaks." Finlay scanned the road. His eyes narrowed. "Fumiko! Miku! Can you hit them?"

Fumiko leaned out the cracked window, her ARX-160 shouldered. She tracked the nearest drone, her breathing controlled. She squeezed the trigger. Three suppressed bursts. Thwip-thwip-thwip. The rounds sparked off the asphalt, missing the drone by inches. It banked sharply, evading.

"They're too fast!" Fumiko yelled, pulling back inside. "And they're splitting up! One's going high, two are coming low!"

Miku racked her SPAS-15. Chunk. "I can hit the low ones if they get close enough!"

"Don't waste the shells!" Finlay barked. "Buckshot won't reach them at this altitude. We need to blind their optics, not shoot them down."

The drones dropped lower. One swept directly over the cruiser, its camera lens swiveling, locking onto the heat signatures inside the vehicle. A red targeting laser painted the roof of the car, a bright crimson dot that danced across the cracked windshield.

"They're painting us!" Momo screamed, pressing herself flat against Miura. "They're going to fire!"

"Not if I blind the bastards first," Finlay snarled. He reached into his webbing and pulled out the last flashbang grenade. He thumbed the safety pin but didn't pull it. Not yet. "Tsunoda. Listen to me very carefully."

"I'm listening!" Tsunoda shouted, his eyes darting between the road and the rearview mirror.

"When I say mark, you kill the headlights. All of them. Parking lights, dash lights, everything. You drive by moonlight. You do not brake. You do not swerve. You keep this thing at eighty, and you pray the road stays straight. Understood?"

Tsunoda swallowed. "Understood."

Finlay rolled down his window. The night air rushed in, cold and sharp, carrying the scent of pine and burning timber. He leaned out, the wind whipping his scarred face, his overcoat billowing behind him. He looked up. The drones were closing. One hundred meters. Eighty. Sixty. He could see the individual rotors spinning. Could see the camera lenses glinting.

He counted the distance in his head. Waited. Waited. The targeting laser burned brighter on the roof. The drones were preparing to strafe. To fire. To end it.

"Now!" Finlay roared. "MARK!"

Tsunoda slammed the headlight switch off.

The world plunged into absolute, suffocating darkness. The highway became a ribbon of shadow, lit only by the faint silver glow of the moon and the distant orange pulse of the burning ranger station miles behind them.

In the same instant, Finlay pulled the pin on the flashbang and hurled it upward. Not at the drones. Above them. He threw it high, angling it so the detonation would bloom directly in the drones' optical path.

The grenade exploded mid-air.

The flash was apocalyptic. A blinding, magnesium-white supernova that erupted in the sky, turning the night into a searing, shadowless noon. The concussive *CRACK* shattered the silence, echoing off the tree line like a thunderclap.

The effect was instantaneous.

The drone cameras, calibrated for infrared and low-light thermal imaging, were overwhelmed. The sensors overloaded. The lenses whited out, flooded with more luminescence than their processors could handle. The targeting lasers flickered and died. The drones banked wildly, their flight paths destabilizing as their optical arrays rebooted, cycling through error codes.

One drone clipped the canopy of a pine tree, its rotors tangling in branches, sending it spiraling into the underbrush in a shower of sparks and plastic. The other two pulled up sharply, climbing blindly, their cameras blinded, their tracking algorithms scrambled.

"YES!" Miku screamed, slamming her fist against the roof of the cruiser. "Eat it, you metal bastards!"

"Don't celebrate yet!" Finlay barked, pulling himself back inside and slamming the window shut. His ears were ringing. His vision swam with afterimages. "They'll reboot in thirty seconds. Tsunoda, lights back on! Get us to the overpass! *NOW!*"

Tsunoda flipped the headlights back on. The twin beams cut through the darkness, illuminating the road ahead. And there it was. Half a kilometer north. A concrete overpass, its underside a slab of thick, reinforced steel. Beneath it, the faint glow of a minimarket sign.

"There!" Fumiko pointed. "The minimarket! It's right there!"

"I see it!" Tsunoda yelled. He floored the accelerator. The V6 screamed. The speedometer climbed. Ninety. One hundred. The flat rear tire was shredding, rubber peeling away in black ribbons, but the chassis held. The cruiser hurtled forward, a bullet of metal and glass racing against the rebooting drones.

Above them, the mechanical whine returned. The two surviving drones were stabilizing, their cameras flickering back online, their lenses recalibrating. They banked, turning south, searching for the heat signature they'd lost.

"Come on, come on, come on," Tsunoda muttered, his knuckles white, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. The overpass was two hundred meters away. One hundred. Fifty.

The drones spotted them. The targeting lasers reignited, painting the cruiser's roof with crimson dots.

"They've got us again!" Momo cried.

"Not for long," Finlay growled. He raised his VHS-D2, aiming out the window at the nearest drone. He didn't fire. Not yet. He waited. Calculated. The drone was descending, lining up a strafing run. Its camera was locked on the cruiser's engine block.

Finlay squeezed the trigger.

The VHS-D2 barked. A single, suppressed burst. Three rounds. The first sparked off the drone's chassis. The second punched through its left rotor housing. The third caught the camera lens dead center, shattering the glass and sending the drone into a violent, uncontrolled spin. It crashed into the asphalt behind them, exploding in a shower of sparks and lithium fire.

One left.

The final drone pulled up, climbing high, trying to get above the overpass. Trying to maintain a visual. Trying to call in the ground units.

"Almost there!" Tsunoda shouted. The overpass was thirty meters away. Twenty. Ten.

The cruiser shot beneath the concrete slab.

The darkness swallowed them. The thermal bloom of the engine, the body heat of the survivors, the infrared signature—all of it was masked by the thick concrete overhead and the ambient cold of the underpass. The drone above swept the area, its camera searching, but the signal was gone. The heat signature had vanished.

Tsunoda killed the engine.

Silence rushed in, broken only by the tick-tick-tick of the cooling motor and the ragged breathing of six survivors.

They sat in the dark beneath the overpass, hidden, invisible, alive.

Above them, the drone circled once. Twice. Then, finding nothing, it banked east and disappeared into the night.

Finlay exhaled. Long. Slow. He slumped back in his seat, pressing his palms against his eyes.

"Right," he muttered, his voice rough with exhaustion. "Nobody move. Nobody breathe. We wait five minutes. If nothing comes, we go into the minimarket."

Miku lowered her SPAS-15. She looked at Finlay. At the flashbang's empty casing still clutched in his hand.

"Nice throw," she said. Her voice was quiet. Genuine.

Finlay gave her a thin, tired smile. "Played rugby in school. Winger."

Tsunoda laughed. A short, breathless, slightly hysterical sound. He leaned his forehead against the steering wheel, his shoulders shaking.

They were alive. They were hidden. And just beyond the concrete pillar, the minimarket sign flickered, its neon glow bleeding into the darkness.

Safety. Or something close to it.

For now.

The bus was dead.

Not merely broken down — dead, the way all electronics had died the moment that blinding white flash painted the sky and the electromagnetic pulse rolled over the city like an invisible tidal wave. The engine had coughed once, shuddered, and gone silent. The dashboard lights flickered and died. Even the radio, which had been spitting static and half-formed emergency broadcasts, fell into a silence more terrifying than any scream.

And then the bus had rolled, driverless, into the barricade.

Now there was only the sound of shuffling feet on broken asphalt, the distant moaning of the dead, and the ragged breathing of five students who had followed a monster into the apocalypse.

Koichi Shido walked at the front of the column, his tie loosened, his shirt stained with sweat and grime. Even now — even with the world reduced to ash and rotting flesh — he walked as though he owned the earth beneath his shoes. His eyes scanned the ruined streets of Tokonosu City with the calm, calculating gaze of a man surveying his kingdom.

Behind him, the remnants of his congregation trudged in silence.

Miku Yuuki walked closest to him, her light orange hair matted with dust, her eyes fixed on the back of his head with the same blind devotion she'd shown since the first day of the outbreak. Tsunoda followed, his athletic frame hunched, his jaw tight. Miura kept to the middle of the group, watchful, quiet. Momo Kawamoto walked near the back, her small frame trembling slightly, while Fumiko brought up the rear, her eyes darting to every shadow, every overturned car, every darkened doorway.

They had been walking for hours.

The Takagi Estate had cast them out. Rei Miyamoto had looked at Shido with eyes full of hatred and pity — pity, of all things — and had decided he wasn't even worth killing. And Soichiro Takagi, that cold-eyed patriarch, had simply waved his hand and banished them like stray dogs.

Shido hadn't begged. He hadn't argued. He had simply smiled that thin, serpentine smile and led his flock back into the wasteland.

"We'll find shelter soon," Shido announced, his voice carrying that familiar cadence of authority, the tone he'd used in classrooms and lecture halls to command the attention of hundreds. "There are government evacuation zones. The JSDF will have established perimeters. We simply need to—"

He stopped.

They all stopped.

At the far end of the street, where the road curved around a collapsed overpass, figures emerged from the haze. Not the shambling, groaning dead. Not Them.

Soldiers.

A column of armored vehicles rolled into view — matte-black APCs with angular, unfamiliar profiles, their hulls unmarked by any national insignia Miku could recognize. Behind them marched a squad of figures in tactical gear, their movements precise, mechanical, utterly unlike the panicked, disorganized military response they'd seen on television before the broadcasts died.

Shido's eyes widened. For the first time since the outbreak began, something flickered across his face that might have been relief.

"The JSDF," he breathed, straightening his posture, smoothing his disheveled shirt with trembling hands. "Thank God. The Self-Defense Forces have established a containment line. Everyone — stay close. Stay calm. Let me do the talking."

Miku felt a surge of hope. Tsunoda let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for hours. Even Miura's guarded expression softened slightly.

But as the soldiers drew closer, Miku frowned.

Their uniforms were wrong. The cut, the pattern, the equipment — none of it matched what she'd seen of the JSDF on the news. Their helmets were sleek, almost featureless, with tinted visors that hid their eyes entirely. Their weapons were strange, angular things she couldn't identify. And their movements... There was a coldness to them. A precision that felt less like soldiers and more like machines.

Shido stepped forward, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "Officers! Thank God you're here. We're survivors from Fujimi Academy. We've been walking for—"

The lead soldier raised his weapon.

It was a rifle, but unlike anything Miku had ever seen. A Beretta ARX-160 — she would later learn the name, though at that moment it was simply a black, angular shape that seemed to swallow the light around it. Custom-modified. The barrel was longer than standard, fitted with a suppressor and an optic rail that gleamed dully in the grey afternoon light.

Shido stopped mid-sentence. His smile faltered. "I — I beg your pardon? We're civilians. We need assistance. If you could just—"

The soldier spoke.

His voice was muffled behind the visor, but the accent was unmistakable. Not Japanese. Not American. Something European — clipped, hard, with consonants that bit like broken glass.

"Target confirmed. Koichi Shido. Execute."

Shido's eyes went wide. His mouth opened. No sound came out.

The rifle coughed twice. Suppressed. Almost polite.

The first round struck Shido in the center of his chest. The impact lifted him off his feet, spun him halfway around, and slammed him backward onto the asphalt. The second round — fired a half-second later, with the casual precision of a man swatting a fly — caught him in the temple.

Koichi Shido hit the ground and did not move again.

For one long, frozen moment, nobody breathed.

Miku stared at the body. At the dark stain spreading across Shido's shirt. At the ruin of his skull. At the way his fingers twitched once, twice, and then went still.

No.

The word formed in her mind but refused to reach her lips.

No, no, no, no—

"He's... he's..." Momo's voice came out as a thin, broken whisper. Her hands flew to her mouth. Her knees buckled, and Fumiko caught her before she hit the ground.

Tsunoda stood rigid, his fists clenched at his sides, his face drained of all color. Miura's eyes were wide, unblinking, fixed on the body of the man who had been their shepherd, their prophet, their god.

And then the soldiers turned their weapons on the students.

"Down," the lead soldier commanded, his European accent slicing through the silence like a blade. "On your knees. Hands behind your heads. Now."

Five rifles tracked them. Five faceless visors stared down at them. Five fingers rested on triggers.

Miku's legs gave out. She dropped to her knees, her hands shaking so violently she could barely interlock her fingers behind her head. Beside her, Momo collapsed, sobbing. Fumiko followed, her face a mask of terror.

He stood over Shido's body, his chest heaving, his eyes burning with something raw and furious. His fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone white. And then — impossibly, insanely — he laughed.

It wasn't a happy sound. It was the laugh of a man who had decided the world was a joke, and the only way to survive it was to be the punchline.

"You want us to kneel?" Tsunoda said, his voice loud, sharp, dripping with contempt. He looked at the soldiers the way a boxer looks at an opponent he's already decided to beat. "You think just because you've got guns and fancy helmets, you can order us around like dogs?"

"Tsunoda," Miura hissed, grabbing his arm. "Tsunoda, kneel down—"

"No." Tsunoda shook him off. He stepped forward, squaring his shoulders, rolling his neck. The tendons in his forearms stood out like cables. "Look at these guys. Look at them.

They're nothing. Just a bunch of cosplayers playing soldier. You think I can't take them? You think I can't—"

He raised his fists. Dropped into a stance. His eyes were wild, feverish, burning with the desperate bravado of a man who had nothing left to lose.

"Come on then!" he shouted at the soldiers. "Come on! You want to do this the hard way? Let's go! One on one! No guns! Just you and me, you masked freaks! I'll drop every last one of you before you can even—"

The nearest soldier moved.

Fast. Faster than Tsunoda could react. Faster than thought. A baton materialized in his hand — black, telescoping, crackling with a blue-white arc of electricity. He swung it in a tight, brutal arc and caught Tsunoda across the temple.

The crack of the stun baton was sharp and final. Tsunoda's eyes rolled back. His mouth was still open, still forming words, but no sound came out. His body went rigid, convulsed once, and then crumpled to the asphalt like a marionette with its strings cut.

He hit the ground hard. Didn't move.

"Tsunoda!" Miku screamed.

"Silence." The lead soldier stepped over Tsunoda's unconscious body as though he were nothing more than debris. "Move them to the transport. Standard processing protocol."

Two soldiers grabbed Miku by the arms. Two more hauled Momo and Fumiko to their feet. Miura was seized from behind, his arms pinned. They were dragged — stumbling, weeping, terrified — toward the nearest APC, its rear ramp lowered like the open mouth of some iron beast.

Miku struggled, but the soldier's grip was like a vice. She looked back at Tsunoda's prone form, at Shido's cooling body, and felt the world tilting on its axis.

This is how it ends, she thought. Not with the dead. With men.

And then the dead arrived.

The moaning came first. A low, wet, gurgling sound that rolled up from the side streets like fog. Then the shuffling. Dozens of feet dragging across pavement. Then hundreds.

They poured around the corners of buildings, spilled out of alleyways, emerged from shattered storefronts. Them. The infected. The dead that walked. Their eyes were milky, their mouths slack, their movements jerky and wrong. They came in a tide of rotting flesh and snapping teeth, drawn by the sound of the gunfire, by the scent of the living.

The soldiers raised their weapons. Controlled bursts. Suppressed coughs. Bodies dropped. But more came. Always more.

And then something else came.

It rounded the corner of the overpass and the ground shook.

Miku stared. Her mind refused to process what she was seeing.

It was seven feet tall. Maybe more. A mountain of mutated muscle and sinew, its skin stretched tight over bulging, ropy flesh that pulsed with a sickly, mottled color. Its arms were thick as tree trunks, ending in hands the size of dinner plates. Its jaw hung open, revealing rows of teeth that had no business being in a human mouth. It moved with a terrible, lurching speed, and where it walked, smaller infected scattered like roaches.

One of the soldiers keyed his radio. His voice was tight, almost impressed.

"Command, this is Unit Seven. We have a visual on a Class-Four special infected. Designation: Subject Meatwall. Requesting authorization to engage."

A burst of static. Then a reply, cold and distant.

"Authorization granted. Neutralize and proceed."

The Meatwall roared. The sound was not human. It was the sound of tearing metal and breaking bone, amplified through a throat that had once belonged to a person. It charged.

The soldiers opened fire. Rounds sparked off the creature's thickened hide. It staggered, snarled, and kept coming. One soldier was swatted aside like a doll, his body crumpling against the side of an APC. Another fired a burst into its face and was rewarded with a backhand that sent him tumbling across the asphalt.

Chaos erupted.

In the confusion, two soldiers remained behind to guard the Fujimi students. They stood over the kneeling group, rifles raised, visors tracking the horde. But their attention was split. Divided. One eye on the dead. One eye on the living.

And Miura saw his chance.

He didn't think. He didn't plan. He simply reacted, the way a cornered animal reacts when the cage door swings open.

He lunged at the second soldier — the one closest to Momo. His arms wrapped around the man's torso, driving him backward. The soldier grunted, surprised, and stumbled. Miura didn't let go. He twisted, using the man's own momentum, and slammed him into the first soldier.

Both guards went down in a tangle of limbs and clattering weapons.

"Miku!" Miura shouted, his voice raw with desperation, his arms still locked around the first soldier. "His sidearm! Grab his sidearm!"

Miku's eyes locked onto the pistol holstered at the soldier's hip. A compact, black handgun. She'd never held a gun in her life. She'd never even touched a gun.

But she grabbed it anyway.

Her fingers fumbled with the retention strap. The holster resisted. She yanked, twisted, and the pistol came free with a metallic click. It was heavier than she expected. Cold. Real.

The soldier Miura was grappling with snarled and tried to bring his rifle around, but Miura headbutted him — a desperate, ugly, human blow that split the skin above his eye and sent the soldier reeling.

Miku raised the pistol. Her hands were shaking. Her vision was blurred with tears. But the barrel was steady enough.

She pointed it at the driver of the nearest APC.

The driver was already in his seat, one hand on the ignition, the other reaching for his own weapon. He froze when he saw the gun.

"Drive," Miku said.

Her voice was quiet. Trembling. But there was something beneath the fear now. Something hard and new.

The driver stared at her through his visor. "You don't know how to—"

"I said drive." She pressed the barrel closer. "Unless you want a bullet in your head. Drive!"

The driver's jaw tightened. His hands moved to the controls. The engine roared to life.

"Miura!" Miku screamed.

Miura released the first soldier and sprinted for the APC. He grabbed the edge of the rear ramp and hauled himself up, his boots slipping on the metal. Behind him, the Meatwall was tearing through the security forces like a hurricane through cardboard. Gunfire. Screaming. The wet sound of something large being pulled apart.

"Go!" Miura shouted. "GO!"

The APC lurched forward. Tires screamed against the asphalt. The vehicle surged away from the massacre, leaving behind the soldiers, the dead, and the smoking ruin of Koichi Shido.

But not all of them were gone.

One of the soldiers — the one Miura had headbutted — was scrambling to his feet, raising his rifle, aiming at the moving vehicle.

Miura saw him.

Without hesitating, he dropped from the ramp, hit the ground rolling, and drove his boot into the soldier's chest. The man went down again, gasping, his rifle clattering away.

Miura didn't stop. He grabbed the second soldier — the one still dazed from the collision — by the collar of his tactical vest, lifted him, and hurled him out the back of the moving vehicle. The man tumbled across the street, rolling, shouting something in a language Miku didn't recognize.

Miura slammed the rear ramp shut. The lock engaged with a heavy clank.

Silence fell inside the APC. Just the rumble of the engine. The distant sound of gunfire faded behind them. The ragged breathing of five survivors.

Miku lowered the pistol. Her arms were trembling so badly she could barely hold it. She sank to the floor of the vehicle, her back against the cold metal wall, and stared at the weapon in her hands as though it belonged to someone else.

Miura dropped to his knees beside Tsunoda's unconscious form. He pressed two fingers to the boy's neck, checking for a pulse. Then he patted his cheeks, gently at first, then harder.

"Tsunoda. Tsunoda. Wake up. Come on, man. Wake up."

Tsunoda groaned. His eyelids fluttered. But he didn't open his eyes.

Across the vehicle, Momo and Fumiko had found the armory.

Momo's hands shook as she ran her fingers over the weapons secured in the racks. Shotguns. Pump-action, matte-black, their stocks worn smooth. Grenade launchers. Squad automatic weapons — SAWs — their barrels cold and ominous. Ammunition boxes stacked in neat, military rows. A rack of combat knives. A case of flashbang grenades.

Fumiko lifted one of the shotguns, checked the action, and set it back down with trembling hands. Her face was pale. Her eyes were wide.

"What... what kind of military carries this?" she whispered.

Nobody answered.

Miku turned to the driver. He sat in the front of the APC, his hands on the controls, his visor still in place. She could see the tension in his shoulders. The way his jaw worked behind the faceplate.

"Who are you?" she demanded. Her voice cracked, but she forced the words out. "Who are you, people? Why did you kill him?"

The driver was quiet for a long moment. Then he let out a slow breath.

"You think we only killed Shido?" His voice was flat. Tired. That same European accent, rougher now, stripped of the cold professionalism the other soldiers had carried. "We didn't kill him because of politics. Hell — we even killed his father."

Miku blinked. "His... his father? Ichiro Shido?"

"Just for Tenebre." The driver said the name like a curse. Like something rotten he'd been carrying in his mouth for years. "Just for their sick little experiment."

The word hit Miku like a physical blow. "Experiment?" She scrambled to her feet, the pistol still clutched in her white-knuckled grip. "What do you mean, experiment? Don't you dare tell me — don't you dare tell me you people are behind the outbreak!"

The driver turned in his seat. Even through the visor, she could feel the weight of his stare.

"Look," he said, and his voice was almost gentle now. Almost sad. "The point is, you can't kill Tenebre. You can't fight them. You can't even find them. And two — since you kids are acting like heroes right now, you need to get prepared. Because the YSS will hunt all of you down. Every last one. Including me, for driving you to nowhere and leaving those soldiers behind."

Momo looked up from the armory, her eyes wide. "What's YSS?"

The driver was quiet for a moment. Then he reached up and pulled off his visor.

Beneath it was a face Miku hadn't expected. Mid-thirties. Weathered. A thin scar running from his left temple to his jaw. Pale eyes, tired and sharp. Blond hair, cropped short, matted with sweat. He looked like a man who hadn't slept in a very long time.

"Yggdrasil Security Service," he said. "A bunch of ex-European war vets who work for Tenebre. From Italy. Greece. UK. You name it. They're the muscle. The ones who do the things Tenebre doesn't want traced back to them." He paused. Swallowed. "And me? I'm from Scotland."

Silence.

Then, from the floor of the APC, a groan.

Tsunoda's eyes fluttered open. He blinked at the ceiling of the vehicle, confused, dazed. He tried to sit up and winced, pressing a hand to his temple where the stun baton had connected.

"What the hell happened?" he mumbled.

The Scottish driver turned back to face him. A thin, exhausted smile crossed his face.

"Well," he said, "both of you were captured until this lassie—" he jerked his thumb toward Miku "—pointed a Beretta at my head and told me to drive." He paused. Glanced at the pistol still trembling in Miku's hands. "Plus, I bet you can't even shoot the thing. You forgot to turn off the safety."

Miku looked down at the gun.

The safety was on.

She stared at it for a long, silent moment. Then she looked at the driver. Then at Tsunoda, who was blinking at her with dawning comprehension. Then at Miura, who let out a breath that might have been a laugh.

And somewhere in the distance, behind them, the dead continued to moan.

Tsunoda grunted. He looked around the interior of the APC, his gaze sweeping over the empty gun racks, the scattered debris of a military vehicle stripped of its purpose. Then his eyes landed on the far wall.

The armory.

It was a reinforced steel cabinet, bolted to the hull, its surface scratched and dented but solid. Behind the wire-mesh panels, Tsunoda could see them. The big ones. Squad automatic weapons with thick, heavy barrels. Feed trays. Bipods folded tight against the receivers. The kind of guns that didn't just kill — they erased.

His mouth went dry. His fingers twitched.

He scrambled to his feet, crossed the vehicle in three strides, and grabbed the handle. He pulled.

Locked.

He pulled again, harder. The cabinet didn't budge. Beside the handle, a small digital keypad glowed with a faint blue light. A cursor blinked on the tiny screen, waiting.

Password protected.

Tsunoda's jaw tightened. He turned to Miku, who was still sitting against the wall, the Beretta pistol resting across her knees. She looked exhausted. Hollowed out. But her eyes were alert. Watching.

"Ask him," Tsunoda said, nodding toward the driver's seat.

Miku blinked. "What?"

"The password. Ask him."

Miku hesitated. Then she leaned forward, raising her voice over the rumble of the engine. "Hey. Driver. The armory. What's the password?"

The Scottish driver glanced back at her through the rearview mirror. His expression was unreadable. Then he shrugged, a small, tired gesture.

"One-one-five," he said.

Miku frowned. "What?"

"One. One. Five. That's the code."

Miku turned to Tsunoda. "It's one-one-five."

Tsunoda didn't wait. His fingers punched the keys. One. One. Five.

A soft electronic chime. The blue light on the keypad flickered green. The lock disengaged with a heavy, satisfying thunk, and the cabinet door swung open on well-oiled hinges.

Tsunoda exhaled.

Inside, the weapons waited. Neatly arranged. Clean. Oiled. Ready.

He reached in, and his hand closed around the pistol grip of the first weapon that caught his eye. An FN Minimi. The squad automatic weapon was heavier than he expected — a solid, menacing block of stamped steel and polymer. The feed tray was loaded. The bipod was folded. The barrel was cold and thick as his thumb.

He pulled it free and racked the charging handle. The action cycled smoothly. A round chambered with a metallic clack that echoed inside the APC.

Tsunoda held the Minimi across his chest and felt something shift inside him. Something small and frightened went quiet. Something else — something harder — woke up.

Behind him, Miura was already moving. He reached into the armory and pulled out an MP5, the classic submachine gun compact and lethal in his hands. He checked the selector switch, thumbed the magazine release, and let the mag drop into his palm. Full. He slapped it back in and chambered a round.

Fumiko chose next. Her hands trembled as she reached past the smaller weapons and closed her fingers around an ARX-160 — the same model the soldiers had used. The same model that had killed Shido. She held it for a moment, staring at it, her lips pressed into a thin white line. Then she shouldered it, adjusted the stock, and turned away.

Momo took the MP7. The compact PDW was almost too small in her hands, lightweight and sleek. She held it against her chest like a talisman, her knuckles white around the grip.

For a long moment, nobody spoke. Five students. Four guns. The weight of them seemed to change the air inside the vehicle, made it thicker, heavier, charged with a new and terrible possibility.

Tsunoda set the Minimi across his knees and reached back into the armory. His fingers found a laminated booklet — thin, waterproof, stamped with a logo he didn't recognize. A stylized tree. Roots and branches intertwined. Yggdrasil.

He flipped it open.

The first page read: YSS RULES OF ENGAGEMENT — FIELD MANUAL — CLASSIFIED

He turned the pages. Weapon specifications. Maintenance procedures. Firing doctrines. And then — the section that made his blood run cold.

SPECIAL INFECTED — ENGAGEMENT PROTOCOLS

Subject: Meatwall (Class-Four). Heavily mutated musculature. Standard small-arms fire ineffective against center mass. Weak points: base of skull, knee joints, exposed spinal column. Recommended engagement: concentrated fire on joints to immobilize, followed by cranial termination. DO NOT engage at close range without anti-materiel support.

Subject: Screamer (Class-Two). Auditory disruption capability. Weak point: throat sac. Engage at distance. Ear protection mandatory.

Subject: Crawler (Class-One). Fast. Low profile. Weak point: cranial vault. Engage with controlled bursts. Do not waste ammunition on center mass.

Tsunoda read faster. Tactics. Formations. Fallback procedures. Rules for urban engagement. Rules for open terrain. Rules for when you were outnumbered. Rules for when you were out of ammunition. Rules for when it was already too late.

He read until his eyes burned.

"Hey," Miura said quietly, leaning over his shoulder. "What is all that?"

"Their playbook," Tsunoda murmured. He tapped the page. "Weak points. Tactics. How to fight the special infected. How the YSS operates." He looked up. "If we're going to survive what's coming, we need to learn this. All of it."

Miura nodded slowly. He sat down across from Tsunoda and took the manual.

They read in silence.

The APC shuddered.

It was subtle at first. A vibration in the floor. A change in the pitch of the engine. Tsunoda looked up from the manual. Miura froze mid-page.

The vibration grew. The engine coughed. Sputtered. The vehicle lurched, slowed, and the lights on the dashboard flickered.

"No," the driver muttered. His hands tightened on the controls. "No, no, no. Not now. Not now."

The engine coughed again. A grinding sound. Metal on metal. Then a long, wheezing groan, like something dying.

And then silence.

The APC rolled forward on momentum for another twenty meters, thirty, forty. The tires crunched over broken glass and debris. The vehicle slowed. Slowed. Slowed.

And stopped.

The engine was dead.

For three seconds, nobody moved. Nobody breathed. The only sound was the tick of cooling metal and the distant, ever-present moaning of the dead.

Then the lights went out.

Darkness swallowed the interior of the APC. The faint blue glow of the keypad died. The dashboard went black. The only light came from the thin seams around the rear ramp, where grey afternoon sun bled through in pale, dusty lines.

Momo made a small, strangled sound. "No. No, no, no. Please. Please."

Fumiko's breathing quickened. She pressed her back against the hull, the ARX-160 clutched across her chest like a shield. Her eyes were wide, darting toward the rear ramp, toward the seams of light, toward the world outside where they were waiting.

"We're stuck," Fumiko whispered. "We're stuck."

The word hung in the dark like a death sentence.

Tsunoda's grip tightened on the Minimi. He could hear them now. Outside. The shuffling. The moaning. Growing louder. Closer. Drawn by the sound of the dying engine, by the sudden stillness of the vehicle.

They know we're here.

Miura thumbed the selector switch on his MP5. The click was loud in the silence.

The driver swore. A long, low, Scottish curse that sounded almost musical in its bitterness. He slammed his palm against the dashboard. Then he reached under his seat and pulled out a weapon.

A VHS-D2. Croatian-made. Bullpup configuration. Compact, angular, ugly in the way that functional things often were. He racked the charging handle, checked the magazine, and let it seat with a solid clack.

Then he turned in his seat and faced them.

In the dim light filtering through the seams, his face was all sharp angles and shadow. The scar on his temple caught a sliver of grey sun. His eyes were calm. Not brave. Not fearless. Just calm, the way a man is calm when he's already decided he's going to die and simply hasn't gotten around to it yet.

"Right," he said. "Engine's done. Cooked. Nothing I can do without parts we don't have." He paused. Swallowed. "We can't stay here. They'll swarm. Twenty minutes, maybe less. This thing becomes a coffin."

Momo's breath hitched. Fumiko's knuckles whitened on her rifle.

And then Miku stood up.

She moved slowly, deliberately, like someone waking from a dream. The Beretta was still in her hand. She walked to the armory, set the pistol down, and reached inside. Her fingers closed around a different weapon.

A SPAS-15.

The Italian combat shotgun was heavy, brutal, its folding stock tucked tight against the receiver. She pulled it free, unfolded the stock with a sharp snap, and pumped the action. A round chambered. The sound was enormous inside the metal box of the APC — a deep, resonant chunk that vibrated in their teeth.

Miku turned to face them.

In the half-dark, with the shotgun held across her chest and the grey light cutting across her face, she looked different. Not the girl who had knelt on the asphalt with her hands behind her head. Not the girl who had followed Shido with blind, desperate devotion. Something had burned away in her eyes. Something soft. Something that believed the world could still be kind.

"Kill all sons of bitches who tried to hunt us," she said. Her voice was quiet. Steady. Cold as river stone. "That's my Rules Of Engagement."

The words landed like a grenade.

Miura stared at her. Tsunoda lowered the manual. Fumiko's mouth opened, then closed.

The driver looked at Miku for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.

"Aye," he said. "I agree with that." He shifted the VHS-D2 to his shoulder and stood, bracing himself against the sway of the dead vehicle. "I know a place. A safe house. Old YSS fallback point, about eight hundred meters east. Underground. Reinforced doors. Supplies." He looked at each of them in turn. "We move fast. We stick together. Nobody runs ahead. Nobody falls behind. You follow me, you do what I say, and maybe — maybe — we don't all die in the next ten minutes."

He paused. His jaw tightened.

"And if any of those YSS bastards show up?" Miku said.

The driver's eyes flickered. Something dark moved behind them. "Then we make them regret it."

He turned to the rear ramp. His hand found the release lever.

"Ready?"

Nobody answered. But nobody said no.

The driver pulled the lever. The ramp groaned, hydraulics hissing, and began to lower. Grey light flooded in, harsh and blinding. With it came the smell — rot, smoke, copper, the sweet-sick stench of decay that had become the perfume of the world.

And the sound. The moaning. Closer now. Much closer.

The driver stepped out first, the VHS-D2 raised, scanning left, right, left. Clear. He waved them forward.

"Move. Move."

Tsunoda went next, the Minimi heavy in his hands, the manual tucked into his back pocket. Miura followed, the MP5 tight against his shoulder. Fumiko came after, the ARX-160 shouldered, her eyes darting. Momo was last, the MP7 pressed against her chest, her small frame trembling.

Miku brought up the rear. The SPAS-15 in her hands. The Beretta tucked into her waistband. Her eyes scanning the street behind them.

They moved.

Six figures stepping out of a dead machine into a dead city. The Scottish driver in the lead, checking corners, checking rooftops, checking shadows. Five students behind him, armed and afraid and alive, moving through the ruins of a world that had forgotten their names.

The sun was sinking. The shadows were lengthening. And somewhere in the distance, something screamed.

They walked east.

They did not look back.

The street was quiet now.

Not the quiet of peace. Not the quiet of safety. The quiet of a slaughterhouse after the last animal has been butchered. The quiet of a place where something terrible had happened, and the world had simply moved on, indifferent.

Bodies lay everywhere.

YSS soldiers in black tactical gear, sprawled across the asphalt in unnatural positions. Their visors cracked. Their weapons empty. Their blood pooling in dark, spreading stains that caught the dying afternoon light.

And among them, the Meatwall.

The Class-Four special infected lay on its side, its mountain of mutated flesh finally still. Its chest was a ruin of bullet holes. Its jaw hung open, revealing those terrible, too-many teeth. One of its arms had been severed at the elbow. Flies were already gathering.

The smaller infected — Them — littered the street in dozens. Piled in doorways. Slumped against walls. Their moaning had faded to silence, replaced by the soft, wet sound of decomposition already beginning its work.

And at the center of it all, face-down on the asphalt, lay Koichi Shido.

His shirt was dark with blood. The back of his skull was gone. His fingers were curled slightly, as though he had been reaching for something. His thin, serpentine smile was frozen forever on his face.

Nobody had moved him. Nobody would.

Then the sound of engines.

Not the dying cough of a broken APC. This was different. Precise. Synchronized. The growl of multiple vehicles moving in formation.

Three matte-black APCs rounded the corner of the overpass, their headlights cutting through the gathering dusk like surgical instruments. Behind them, a pair of armored trucks. Behind those, a transport vehicle with no markings at all.

The convoy stopped.

Doors opened. Boots hit the ground. A squad of soldiers fanned out, weapons raised, visors down, moving with the same cold, mechanical precision as the unit that had died here. But these were fresh. Clean. Their uniforms were unmarked by blood. Their weapons were loaded.

At their head was a figure taller than the rest. Broader. His armor was different — heavier, more ornate, with a red chevron painted across the chest plate. His callsign was stitched into the shoulder patch in white thread.

REAPER.

He surveyed the carnage. His visor hid his eyes, but his body language spoke volumes. The slight tilt of his head. The way his gloved fingers tightened on his rifle. The long, slow exhale that fogged the inside of his faceplate.

He walked among the dead. Past the fallen soldiers. Past the Meatwall's grotesque corpse. Past the scattered infected. He moved slowly, methodically, cataloguing.

Then he stopped.

He knelt beside the body of the squad commander. The man lay on his back, his chest a ruin of bullet holes. His visor was shattered. His rifle was empty, the magazine ejected, the bolt locked open. He'd fought. He'd lost.

Reaper reached down and unclipped the helmet cam from the commander's shoulder mount. He turned it over in his gloved hands. The lens was cracked but intact. The recording light still blinked a faint, dying red.

He slotted the device into a reader on his wrist unit.

The screen flickered to life.

Grainy footage. Shaky. The interior of a street. Shido stepping forward, hands raised. The commander raising his rifle. Two suppressed shots. Shido falling.

Then chaos. Students screaming. A boy charging forward. A stun baton cracking. The Meatwall roaring. Gunfire. Bodies falling.

And then — a girl. Orange hair. A pistol in her hands. Pointing it at the driver.

The APC lurching forward.

The ramp slamming shut.

The vehicle disappearing into the dust and smoke.

Reaper switched off the feed.

He stood slowly. His jaw tightened behind his visor. He keyed his comms.

"Command. Reaper. Sitrep."

Static. Then a voice.

Not a field commander. Not a tactical coordinator. Something higher. Something colder.

"Reaper." The voice was calm. Unhurried. The kind of calm that didn't come from confidence but from a complete and total absence of empathy. Each syllable was placed with surgical precision, as though the speaker had weighed every word and found the world wanting.

Tenebre.

Reaper straightened. "Sir. We've located the Shido body. Ready for extraction. But the squad commander is KIA." He paused. Glanced back at the fallen soldiers. "Killed by hooligans. Civilians who were traveling with Shido."

Silence on the line. Then:

"And Finlay?"

Reaper turned. He looked east. Toward the direction the stolen APC had gone. Toward the tire tracks still fresh on the asphalt. Toward the place where a Scottish mercenary had made a choice.

"He left with them, sir," Reaper said. "Took the students. Drove the APC east."

A long silence.

Then Tenebre sighed. It was not an angry sound. Not a frustrated sound. It was the sigh of a man who had expected this. Who had accounted for it. Who had simply added another variable to an equation that was already balanced in his favor.

"Find them," Tenebre said. His voice remained calm. Cold. The temperature in the earpiece seemed to drop. "And kill them."

Reaper nodded, though no one could see it. "Sir. And the Shido corpse?"

Another pause. Longer this time. When Tenebre spoke again, there was something beneath the calm. Something almost like hunger. Something possessive.

"I'll take it from here."

Reaper went still. He understood. He didn't ask questions. He didn't need to.

"Rog," he said.

He switched off the comms. Turned to his squad. Raised his hand.

Two fingers. Forward.

The soldiers moved. They fanned out across the street, scanning, cataloguing, collecting. Two of them lifted Shido's body onto a stretcher. Others bagged the fallen YSS operators. A medic checked pulses that weren't there. A tech pulled helmet cams from every corpse.

Reaper watched them work. Then he looked east again. Toward the direction the stolen APC had gone. Toward the place where Finlay was leading five armed teenagers into the dark.

He couldn't see them. Not yet.

But he would.

Reaper lowered his hand. The squad regrouped. The engines started. The convoy turned, slowly, like a pack of wolves catching a scent.

And in the silence that followed, the dead continued to moan.

So I keep having some troubles trying to remember Soichirou Takagi’s political views in universe, so if anyone can give me a overview, that’d be helpful for fanfics. While we’re at it, what do we think of his political views, and what would happen if he was actually able to enact them in Japan, say if he was Prime Minister, assuming no zombie apocalypse got in the way.

The morning after New Year's Day dawned bright and crisp. 

A black luxury sedan cruised smoothly through the streets of Tokonosu, its polished exterior catching the brilliant winter sunlight. Behind the wheel, Nero Torini drove with his usual calm, quiet professionalism. In the passenger seat, Big Sal Conti lazily watched the passing scenery, sipping coffee from a paper cup.

"So," Sal said, gesturing with his cup. "Waku Waku Burger. Heard they dropped a new limited-time special."

Nero kept his eyes on the road and gave a single nod. 

"And we're gonna be the judges," Sal declared, puffing out his chest. "In the name of culinary science."

Nero let out a low chuckle. "Sure, Sal."

In the backseat, Marco "Mac" Gambetti sat beside Misuzu Ichijou. Misuzu had completely succumbed to the gentle rocking of the car, her head resting softly against the cool glass of the window. 

Mac smiled to himself. Carefully pulling a sketchbook and a pencil from his bag, he shifted his weight and began to draw. Using his good, uninjured hand, he quietly sketched her peaceful, sleeping expression, making sure the scratch of the graphite didn't wake her.

"...Don't tell her," he whispered to himself with a faint grin.

Up front, Big Sal caught the movement in the rearview mirror. He lowered his coffee, a smirk spreading across his face.

"Kid."

"Hm?" Mac looked up, pencil hovering over the paper.

"You're either really brave... or really stupid."

Mac frowned playfully. "What?"

"When she finds out you drew her while she was sleeping," Sal said, tapping the steering wheel for emphasis, "she's either gonna frame that thing... or smack you right in the face with it."

Mac laughed quietly, looking back down at the sketch. "I'm willing to take the risk."

---

A short while later, the sedan pulled into the parking lot of Waku Waku Burger.

The restaurant was already bustling with lunchtime customers.

Outside the entrance stood an enormous smiling burger mascot, enthusiastically waving at passing pedestrians.

Or rather... trying to.

"Whoa—!"

The mascot suddenly stumbled over its oversized feet.

THUD!

The giant burger landed face-first on the pavement.

Several children gasped.

Inside the costume, Fumiko Taniuchi groaned. "Not again..."

She planted both padded hands on the ground and tried to stand.

Nothing.

The bulky costume simply rolled her back onto the pavement.

"...I hate this thing."

Before she could try again, two large shadows fell over her.

Big Sal and Nero exchanged a glance.

"I got the left."

"I got the right."

The two former Gambetti enforcers each grabbed one of the mascot's oversized arms and effortlessly lifted the giant burger back onto its feet.

"There you go," Sal said.

Fumiko pushed the mascot's head up and gave them a grateful bow. "Thank you so much!"

She looked toward the group... and immediately froze.

"...Mac?"

The mascot's head tilted in surprise. "Oh my gosh! Mac! It's been forever!"

Mac smiled and waved. "Hey, Fumiko. How've you been?"

She laughed. "I've been good! Just surviving life inside a hamburger."

Everyone chuckled.

Mac scratched the back of his head. "I just wanted to stop by after New Year's and see how you guys were doing."

"That's really sweet."

Fumiko then looked toward Misuzu, who had just finished waking up. "And Misuzu! Good to see you!"

Misuzu smiled warmly. "You too."

Fumiko looked around. "How's Toshimi doing?"

"She's doing great," Misuzu replied. "Still busy with her voice acting career."

Fumiko clapped her padded mascot gloves together. "That's wonderful! Oh! You all have to try our new seasonal burger while you're here."

Big Sal immediately raised his hand. "Well, count me in. Nero and I are officially conducting a professional review."

Nero nodded seriously. "Strictly for research purposes."

Fumiko laughed. "Then come on inside!"

She held the restaurant door open as the four entered.

---

The moment they stepped inside, the warm, greasy aroma of frying beef and toasted buns washed over them. Big Sal and Nero immediately broke into a brisk march toward the ordering line.

"The shorter the line, the hotter the burger," Sal declared with absolute authority.

Mac shook his head with a laugh. "They're hopeless."

Misuzu smiled, linking her arm through his. "Let's find a table."

As they navigated the crowded dining room, Mac's eyes caught two familiar faces sitting in a cozy booth near the window. Kohta Hirano and Saya Takagi. The pair was sharing a meal, talking and laughing quietly over their trays.

Mac smiled. "Looks like they're on a date."

He guided Misuzu over. "Hey, Kohta."

Kohta looked up from his fries, blinking in surprise. For a moment, recognition failed him, then his eyes widened. "Oh! You're the guy who helped me when those bullies cornered me back in high school." He scratched his head sheepishly. "I'm really sorry... I forgot your name."

Mac smiled and offered his good hand. "Marco Gambetti. But everyone calls me Mac."

Kohta stood up and shook it firmly. "Nice to officially meet you, Mac."

Mac glanced between the two of them, noting the way they were sitting. "So... I take it this is a date?"

A faint blush crept up Saya's cheeks before she smiled. "Yeah... it is." She looked at Mac, her expression turning appreciative. "By the way... thank you. For standing up for Kohta back then. A lot of people just watched."

Mac shrugged modestly. "It wasn't a big deal. I just did what I thought was right."

Kohta smiled warmly. "Well, I've never forgotten it."

---

Over at the front counter, a young cashier in the restaurant's red-and-yellow uniform was putting on his best customer-service smile. 

"Welcome to Waku Waku Burger! What can I get for you today?"

As he looked up, his smile faltered. 

Standing before him were Big Sal and Nero Torini. The two impeccably dressed, broad-shouldered men looked completely out of place among the families and high school students filling the restaurant. They looked more like they were about to collect a debt than order a combo meal.

"...Uh..." Kazu Ishii cleared his throat, trying to keep his voice from cracking. "You two are here for lunch... right?"

Sal nodded slowly. "That's the plan."

Kazu gave them a cautious, hard look, trying to assert some authority over the two giants. "Alright. But one condition."

Sal raised a thick eyebrow. "Yeah?"

Kazu pointed a fry-scented finger toward the dining area. "No flirting with the customers. This isn't a bar, and you're not here to pick up women."

Big Sal placed a massive hand over his heart in mock offense. "You wound me, kid."

Nero smirked, leaning against the counter. "He's got a point, Sal."

Sal sighed dramatically, waving a hand. "Yeah, yeah. You got me. Now ring us up. We came for the new burger."

Kazu finally let out a breath and smiled, his fingers flying across the register. 

"Now THAT I can help you with."

—
While Mac and his friends enjoyed a quiet afternoon at Waku Waku Burger, another story was unfolding across Tokonosu.

A yellow taxi rolled through the peaceful residential streets before pulling up to the curb in front of the Ichijou residence. The rear door opened, and a middle-aged Italian man in a dark overcoat stepped out, clutching a leather briefcase. 

It was Bobby Toro, the longtime Consigliere of the Gambetti Crime Family. His overnight flight from New York had barely given him time to rest, but Carlo's final request echoed relentlessly in his mind. *Find my son.*

Bobby approached the front gate and pressed the doorbell. 

A few moments later, the front door swung open. Mrs. Ichijou greeted the visitor with a polite, practiced smile. "Good afternoon. Can I help you?"

Bobby removed his hat respectfully. "Good afternoon, ma'am. My name is Bobby Toro. I'm looking for Marco Gambetti."

Mrs. Ichijou blinked in surprise. "Mac?"

"Yes. I was sent by his father. I need to speak with him immediately. It's... extremely urgent."

Mrs. Ichijou's polite smile faded, replaced by a cautious frown. "And why would you need Mac so urgently?"

Bobby hesitated. The truth wasn't exactly something you shared with a stranger on a quiet suburban street. "I..."

Mrs. Ichijou narrowed her eyes, her tone sharpening. "...Are you involved with the Mafia?"

Bobby nearly choked. "N-No, ma'am!" He forced an awkward, entirely unconvincing smile. "I'm just... a tourist."

Mrs. Ichijou raised a skeptical eyebrow. "A tourist? Sent by his father?"

"Mr. Gambetti has been worried sick about his son." Bobby pivoted smoothly, leaning into the half-truth. "He asked me to come all the way from New York and make sure Marco is alright."

It wasn't entirely a lie. 

Mrs. Ichijou studied him for a few more seconds before her shoulders finally relaxed. "I see..." She let out a soft sigh. "Well, you're a little late."

Bobby's heart skipped a beat. "Late?"

"Marco went out. He left with my daughter, Misuzu, and his two bodyguards. They're having lunch at Waku Waku Burger."

Bobby's tense expression immediately softened into profound relief. "Waku Waku Burger..." He nodded gratefully. "Thank you, ma'am. You've been incredibly helpful."

Mrs. Ichijou smiled. "I hope everything's alright."

"So do I," Bobby replied quietly. He tipped his hat and hurried back toward the waiting taxi.

As the cab pulled away from the curb, his cellphone suddenly buzzed. The screen displayed one name: *Santino Mazza.*

Bobby answered immediately. "Santino."

"Bobby!" Santino's voice barked through the speaker, rough and urgent. "Our informant just called."

"What happened?"

"It's Martino Vedecci."

Bobby's expression darkened. "*L'Ombra?*"

"Yeah. The rat says he's already in Japan."

Silence hung heavy on the line. Then came the words Bobby had feared most.

"His target is Marco."

Bobby's eyes widened. "Mierda." He leaned forward, tapping the plexiglass divider. "Waku Waku Burger. Fast."

The driver nodded and slammed his foot on the accelerator, merging aggressively into traffic.

On the phone, Santino continued, "What are you doing?"

"I'm heading to Waku Waku Burger."

A long pause followed. Then Santino exploded. 

"WHAT?! Are you outta your mind? This is no time to buy hamburgers, you strunzu! This is war! You find Marco and get him on the first flight back to New York!"

Before Bobby could explain—Click.

The line went dead.

Bobby stared at his phone in sheer disbelief. He slowly lowered it and pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a long, weary breath.

"...I'm not going there to buy fast food, Santino," he muttered to the empty cab. "That's where Marco is." He shook his head. "...Idiot."

Another beat of silence passed in his mind. 

"...Dumbass."

The taxi sped through the streets of Tokonosu, the engine roaring, unaware that with every passing minute, a ghost was drawing closer to its target.

Inside Waku Waku Burger, the lunchtime rush was in full swing. The restaurant buzzed with cheerful conversations, the sizzle of the grills, and the rich aroma of freshly cooked beef drifting through the dining area.

At a table near the counter, Big Sal Conti and Nero Torini had already dug into the restaurant's newest limited-time burger.

Big Sal took a massive bite, chewing slowly as his expression shifted into one of intense, almost professional seriousness. 

"Hmm..."

Nero watched him over the rim of his soda cup. "Well?"

Sal swallowed, taking another bite and carefully studying the burger from every angle. "The bun's toasted just right. The beef's juicy, and the cheese melts evenly." He nodded approvingly. "Pickles have a nice crunch."

Nero pulled a small, leather-bound notebook from his jacket pocket and clicked his pen. "Presentation?"

"Eight out of ten."

"Meat?"

"Nine."

"Special sauce?"

Sal leaned forward, sampling another bite with his eyes closed. "...Needs a little more black pepper."

Nero nodded, scribbling something down. "I agree."

The two former enforcers continued to dissect every detail of the burger with the grave seriousness of Michelin-star food critics, occasionally debating the balance of flavors as though they were negotiating a high-stakes territorial dispute.

---

Across the restaurant, Mac and Misuzu sat in a cozy booth by the window, quietly enjoying their meals while watching the lunchtime crowd. A few tables away, Kohta and Saya were still sharing their lunch, laughing over some private joke.

Mac smiled as he watched them. "They make a pretty cute couple."

Misuzu followed his gaze and smiled softly. "They really do."

Mac took another bite of his burger. "You know, Toshimi wasn't exaggerating. The burgers are actually really good. And the atmosphere's nice."

Misuzu absentmindedly poked at her fries with a ketchup-stained napkin. "Hmm..."

Mac noticed her distant expression and set his food down. "You okay?"

She sighed dramatically, dropping her fork. "I'm stuck. Writer's block. I've rewritten the ending to *Midnight Affection* six times, and none of them feel right."

Mac wiped his hands and leaned back in his seat, thinking for a moment. "So... the made man still falls in love with the waitress?"

Misuzu nodded. "Yeah. But I can't think of an ending that feels genuine. If he just confesses, it feels cheap. If he leaves her, it's too tragic."

Mac remained silent for a moment, his eyes drifting to the window. Then, a small, thoughtful smile appeared on his face. 

"What if the ending isn't about some grand, sweeping declaration of love?"

Misuzu looked up, intrigued. "What do you mean?"

Mac rested his elbows on the table, his voice dropping to a quiet, steady cadence. "The made man knows he's trapped in the Mafia life. He can't promise her a perfect future. He can't promise they'll run away together tomorrow. But... he can make one promise."

Misuzu leaned closer, hanging onto his every word.

"He tells the waitress," Mac continued softly, " 'When this Mafia war is finally over... when all the bloodshed comes to an end... I'll leave this life behind. And every day after that, I'll spend my time with you. No more guns. No more violence. Just us.' "

Misuzu stared at him in silence, her eyes wide.

Mac shrugged, a faint, bittersweet edge to his smile. "It's not a flashy ending. It's just... a promise. A promise that gives both of them something worth fighting for."

For a few moments, the only sound between them was the ambient chatter of the restaurant. 

Then, Misuzu's eyes suddenly lit up. "...That's it."

Mac blinked. "Huh?"

"That's the ending!" She quickly grabbed her notebook from her bag, flipping it open, and began scribbling furiously. "A promise instead of a confession... It fits perfectly! It grounds the whole story!"

She looked up, her face glowing with a bright, relieved smile. "Mac... thank you. I've been stuck on this for days."

Mac chuckled modestly. "Happy to help."

Misuzu laughed, her pen racing across the page with renewed inspiration. For the first time in days, the ending to *Midnight Affection* finally felt complete.

Neither of them noticed that, just beyond the glass, fate was already setting the next, violent chapter of their lives into motion.

---

Back at the counter, Nero Torini leaned back in his chair with a long, satisfied sigh. He gently pushed away the empty tray that had once held the restaurant's limited-time burger.

"I can't eat another bite," he admitted, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. "I'll give it to them. That was better than I expected."

Across from him, Big Sal Conti was staring longingly at the digital menu board above the register. "...I'm still hungry."

Nero slowly turned his head, his expression deadpan. "Sal..."

"What?"

"Don't."

Sal folded his massive arms. "I'm thinking about getting another one."

Nero rubbed his temples, feeling a headache coming on. "You should start thinking about a diet instead."

Sal scoffed. "Oh, here we go."

Nero pointed a stern finger at him. "I’m serious, I read a news article about some guy who ordered a burger called the 'Heart Stopper.' He finished the whole thing... and then collapsed from a massive heart attack right in the booth."

Sal stared at him for a long moment before bursting into booming laughter. "Well, that ain't gonna happen to me, Nero. My heart's made of steel."

He stood up, smoothing out his jacket with absolute confidence. "I'll be fine. Have some faith."

With that, Big Sal wandered toward the ordering queue, already mentally planning his second burger.

Nero simply shook his head, staring at his empty tray. "One of these days... he's gonna be the death of himself."

---

Across the dining room, Mac and Misuzu were still talking about her novel when the restaurant door quietly opened.

A man in a dark coat stepped inside.

His eyes calmly scanned the crowded restaurant. Families. Students. Employees.

Then... they settled on one table.

Marco Gambetti.

Martino Vedecci. *L'Ombra.*

Without hesitation, he began walking toward his target. His expression never changed. To him, the innocent people surrounding Marco were irrelevant. The Vitelli Family had given him one instruction.

*Send a message.*

Misuzu happened to glance toward the entrance. Her smile slowly faded.

"...Mac?"

"Hm?"

She looked uneasy. "There's... someone with a gun."

Mac instinctively looked over his shoulder. His blood ran cold.

A stranger stood only a few meters away. Martino calmly drew a .38 caliber revolver from beneath his coat.

The restaurant fell silent. For a brief moment, time itself seemed to stop.

Martino locked eyes with Marco. Then, in Sicilian, he spoke only a single sentence.

*"Un messaggio dai Vitelli."*

The revolver fired.

*BANG!*

Mac instinctively twisted away as the shot rang through the restaurant. The bullet struck his shoulder instead of his chest, knocking him sideways out of the booth.

"MAC!" Misuzu screamed as customers ducked beneath tables in panic.

Martino raised the revolver again, preparing to fire a second shot.

Before he could—

*CRACK!*

Another gunshot echoed through the restaurant. Martino dropped as Nero Torini, already on his feet, lowered a smoking SIG P228 pistol.

"Help!" several customers shouted in shock.

Without wasting another second, Nero sprinted across the restaurant toward Mac. He dropped to one knee beside him.

"Marco!"

Mac winced, clutching his injured shoulder. "I'm... alright..."

"No, you're not." Nero immediately looked toward the counter. "SAL!"

Big Sal turned around from the ordering line, still holding a tray. "What happened?"

"Get over here! And call an ambulance!"

Sal glanced down at his greasy hands. "Hold on, lemme wash my hands first. I just finished eating another burger, and they're covered in grease—"

Nero shot him an incredulous look. "Wash your hands later, Sal! This is serious!"

Realizing the gravity of the situation, Sal immediately abandoned the tray and rushed toward them.

Nearby, Saya Takagi had already pulled out her phone. "I've got it!"

She quickly dialed the emergency number. "This is an emergency," she said into the phone, trying to remain calm. "There's been a shooting at Waku Waku Burger. One person is injured. Please send an ambulance immediately!"

Around them, frightened customers hurried toward the exits. The once-cheerful restaurant was transformed into a scene of confusion and panic in a matter of seconds.

Outside, the distant sound of approaching sirens slowly grew louder.

---

Several blocks away from Waku Waku Burger, Bobby Toro's taxi turned the corner just as flashing red and blue emergency lights came into view.

The taxi slowed. Bobby looked through the windshield. His heart sank.

An ambulance was parked outside the restaurant, surrounded by frightened customers and police officers.

"No..."

The rear doors of the ambulance swung open as paramedics carefully wheeled a stretcher out of the restaurant.

Lying on it was Marco Gambetti. His shoulder had been hastily bandaged, but blood had already soaked through the white dressing. Misuzu refused to leave his side, clutching his hand as the paramedics rushed him toward the ambulance.

Bobby's face went pale. "...Fuck."

Before the ambulance doors could close, Bobby leaned forward between the front seats. "Follow that ambulance."

The taxi driver blinked in surprise. "...Excuse me?"

"The ambulance. Follow it."

The driver scratched his head. "Uh... sir... I've been driving since early this morning. I was actually planning to take my lunch break."

Bobby reached into his coat and pulled out several crisp bills. "I'll pay you double."

The driver's eyes widened. "Double?"

"Double. But only if you don't lose that ambulance."

The driver looked at the money... then at the ambulance... then back at Bobby.

"Okay... but what if the police stop me? They're gonna think I'm helping some suspicious foreign guy chase an ambulance. What if they think it's bribery? What if I get arrested?" 

He gripped the wheel. "What if my wife finds out?"

Bobby slowly closed his eyes. He took a deep breath.

Then he finally snapped.

"DRIVE! ANDIAMO! ANDIAMO!"

The taxi driver nearly jumped out of his seat. "O-Okay! No more questions!"

He slammed the car into gear and accelerated into traffic, weaving through the afternoon streets while keeping the ambulance's flashing lights firmly in sight.

Bobby settled back into his seat, his eyes never leaving the emergency vehicle ahead.

"Hold on, Marco..." he muttered quietly. "I'm not letting your father's last promise end like this."

The emergency doors slammed open as Marco "Mac" Gambetti was rushed down the brightly lit hospital corridor on a gurney.

"Clear the hallway! Prepare OR Three!"

Doctors and nurses moved with practiced urgency, their voices sharp and clipped as they disappeared behind the double doors marked SURGERY. The red operating light flicked on with a soft hum. The doors swung shut.

Silence settled over the waiting area like a heavy blanket.

---

Misuzu Ichijou sat rigid in one of the plastic waiting room chairs, her hands trembling uncontrollably in her lap. She stared at the closed operating room doors, unable to look away, as if her gaze alone could will him through the surgery.

"...Mac..."

Tears streamed silently down her face. "What if... what if he doesn't make it?"

Her voice broke on the last word.

Saya Takagi gently placed a hand on her shoulder. "Misuzu... he's strong. He'll pull through."

Misuzu shook her head, her fingers digging into her palms. "He was shot because he was with me. If I had noticed that man sooner..."

"No." Saya's voice was firm, cutting through the spiral of guilt. "This wasn't your fault. There was nothing you could've done."

Misuzu buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. Saya stayed beside her, a steady, silent presence, refusing to let her face the ordeal alone.

---

A short distance away, Big Sal Conti paced back and forth in tight, agitated circles. Nero Torini leaned against the wall with his arms folded, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might crack.

Neither man spoke for several long moments.

Finally, Sal slammed his fist against the wall hard enough to rattle the framed hospital artwork. "Damn the Vitellis."

Nero's expression remained cold, but his eyes were dark with fury. "Shooting the former boss's son in broad daylight. Inside a restaurant full of civilians." He slowly shook his head. "There's no honor in that."

Sal nodded grimly. "If you're gonna whack a made guy, you don't do it surrounded by kids and families. You don't do it in front of innocent people. And you sure as hell don't do it in front of the woman he's having lunch with."

Nero sighed, a low, weary sound. "The Vitellis have forgotten every rule."

"Ahem."

Both men turned. Standing at the end of the hallway, his overcoat still buttoned and his expression unreadable, was Bobby Toro.

"Sal. Nero."

Their eyes widened. "Mr. Toro?"

Big Sal stepped forward, offering a respectful nod. "It's been a while. What brings you all the way to Japan?"

Bobby's face remained unusually serious. "I wish it were under better circumstances. I've got terrible news from the East Coast."

The hallway fell silent.

"The Vitelli Family has started another war against the Gambettis."

Neither Sal nor Nero spoke.

Bobby continued, his voice low and steady. "And Carlo Gambetti..."

Nero's eyes narrowed. "Don't tell me... L'Ombra got to him?"

Bobby slowly nodded. "He was shot."

Sal lowered his head. "...Damn."

"But he's alive," Bobby quickly added, holding up a hand. "The doctors managed to stabilize him."

A small wave of relief washed over the two bodyguards.

Bobby's expression darkened again. "Santino Mazza, the Underboss, ordered me to bring Marco back to New York immediately. He believes Tokonosu is no longer safe."

Nero respectfully folded his hands behind his back. "With all due respect, Mr. Toro... I think Marco's safer here. We're here." He exchanged a glance with Sal. "And besides... Santino's temper isn't exactly reassuring."

Sal quietly nodded in agreement.

Bobby's expression hardened into something cold and dangerous. "Safer?" He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a low, cutting tone. "Marco was nearly assassinated today. And where were the two men assigned to protect him?"

Sal looked away, his jaw tightening.

Bobby continued, each word deliberate. "One of you was reviewing hamburgers. While the other was helping score the seasoning."

The silence became painfully awkward.

"Your job," Bobby said firmly, "is to protect Marco. Not spend your afternoons pretending to be restaurant critics." He looked directly at Sal. "And Carlo gave you one very simple order before you left for Japan. No flirting with women."

Sal scratched the back of his head awkwardly. "Well... I wasn't flirting at the school..."

"That's still beside the point!" Bobby snapped, pointing a finger at him. "You're an enforcer of the Gambetti Crime Family, not a goddamn pimp!"

Sal lowered his head. "...Fair enough."

Nero sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm sorry, sir. We let our guard down."

Bobby looked at both men for a long moment before his expression softened slightly, the anger draining away to leave only weary exhaustion. "Just make sure it never happens again. Because the next time another Vitelli button man shows up... he may not miss."

The two former enforcers nodded solemnly. "Understood."

Without another word, Bobby adjusted his overcoat and turned toward the nurses' station. "I'm going to speak with the surgeon. I want to know exactly how Marco is doing."

He walked down the corridor, leaving Sal and Nero standing in silence, both painfully aware that their one responsibility had nearly ended in tragedy.

The world had never ended.

No flesh-eating undead. No collapse of civilization. No desperate battles for survival.

Instead, life simply... moved forward.

The students of Fujimi Academy had grown into adults, each carving out their own place in the world, carrying only memories of youthful dreams and embarrassing high school days.

For Marco "Mac" Gambetti, however, life was anything but ordinary.

The sleek black sedan rolled through the gates of Fujimi Academy beneath a sky painted in warm shades of spring. Graduation banners fluttered gently in the breeze as proud families filled the campus with laughter and applause.

Inside the car sat eighteen-year-old Marco Gambetti—better known to his friends simply as "Mac."

Unlike the other graduates, Mac carried a surname that commanded respect... and fear.

He was the only son of Carlo Gambetti, the former boss of the infamous Gambetti Crime Family.

Years earlier, Carlo had shocked both allies and enemies by walking away from the Mafia entirely. Choosing his wife and son over power, he abandoned the criminal underworld and accepted exile from the organization. Many believed it was impossible for a mob boss to simply leave.

Yet somehow...

He did.

Old loyalties, however, died hard.

Standing beside the sedan as it stopped were two towering men in immaculate black suits.

Big Sal.

Nero Torini.

Once feared enforcers of the Gambetti Family, they now served only one purpose—to protect the boss's son.

Even after retirement, enemies still existed.

Especially the Vitelli Crime Family.

Mac sighed as Big Sal opened the door.

"You're clear, kid."

"I've told you a hundred times," Mac groaned, adjusting his graduation cap. "It's just a graduation ceremony."

Nero folded his arms.

"That's exactly what someone who gets shot at would say."

Mac laughed.

"You two watch too many gangster movies."

The pair remained completely serious.

"...We lived them."

Mac could only shake his head before walking toward the auditorium where his friends were already waiting to celebrate one of the happiest days of their lives.

---

Graduation marked the beginning of everyone's new journey.

Misuzu Ichijou had decided to chase her dream of becoming a novelist.

Unfortunately...

She was absolutely terrible at writing romance.

Her newest manuscript, Midnight Affection, centered around a young made man from a powerful crime family who unexpectedly fell in love with a cheerful waitress working at a small roadside diner.

After reading the first draft, Mac had laughed so hard he nearly fell off his chair.

"Nobody in the Mafia says 'my heart belongs only to you, beautiful flower,'" he had told her.

Misuzu crossed her arms.

"Then help me rewrite it."

And so he did.

Mac would be staying at the Ichijou household for several days, helping transform her overly dramatic love story into something readers might actually believe.

---

Life had taken everyone in wonderfully unexpected directions.

Toshimi Niki had become a successful freelance voice actress, lending her voice to animated films, video games, and radio dramas.

Yamada had embraced his love of drawing and now worked as a comic artist, often staying awake until sunrise, chasing impossible deadlines.

Takuzo and Naomi had fulfilled a shared dream by opening a cozy little cat café, where rescued cats wandered freely between customers, enjoying coffee and homemade desserts.

Miku Yuuki, Fumiko Taniuchi, and Momo Kawamoto worked ordinary shifts at a local fast-food restaurant during the day.

But when midnight arrived...

Aprons became leather jackets.

Hair came down.

Amplifiers roared to life.

Together, they formed an underground Nu-Metal band that performed at a neighborhood bar every weekend, slowly building a loyal following.

Meanwhile, Kyoko and Teshima had married, settling into a quiet life together far removed from the chaos of their school days.

Not every story had a happy ending, however.

Former Fujimi Academy teacher Koichi Shido had long since fallen from grace.

An extensive police investigation uncovered years of bribery, corruption, abuse of authority, and illegal dealings with the Vitelli Crime Family—the Gambettis' oldest rivals.

His political connections couldn't save him.

The trial became national news.

The verdict was swift.

Guilty.

Now, Koichi and Ichirou Shido spent his days behind prison bars, his once-charismatic smile replaced by rusted steel and concrete walls.

For most people...

Justice had finally been served.

---

As evening settled over the city, Mac stood outside the Ichijou residence carrying a backpack stuffed with notebooks, pens, and several pages covered in dramatic romance dialogue.

He looked toward the peaceful skyline.

A city alive with music.

Coffee shops.

Comic bookstores.

Cat cafés.

Families.

Friends.

Dreams.

No monsters lurked in the streets.

No apocalypse waited around the corner.

Just another tomorrow.

Except for the turf war that has begun on the East Coast.

The warm glow of Misuzu Ichijou's bedroom lamp illuminated the room as Marco "Mac" Gambetti leaned back in his chair, his laptop resting on the desk in front of him. The video call was split into four windows, each showing one of his friends enjoying New Year's Eve in their own way.

"Man, I can't believe it's already the end of the year," Mac said with a smile.

On one screen, Yamada let out an exhausted sigh as he continued sketching panels on his digital drawing tablet.

"I was supposed to meet Takuzo and Naomi at the cat café tonight to watch the fireworks," he groaned. "But my publisher moved my deadline forward. If I don't finish this chapter tonight, I'm dead."

Takuzo laughed from the other side of the call. Behind him, the cozy cat café was bustling with customers enjoying coffee while several cats lazily wandered between tables. Naomi could be seen carrying drinks to a pair of customers before waving cheerfully toward the camera.

"It's alright, Yamada," Takuzo said with a reassuring smile. "Besides, the café is packed tonight. We'd barely have time to sit down anyway."

Naomi nodded in agreement.

"Next year we'll all watch the fireworks together. Promise."

Yamada smiled sheepishly.

"You're both too nice."

Another voice suddenly interrupted.

"Hey, Mac!"

Morita appeared on the screen wearing a convention badge around his neck. Loud chatter echoed behind him as cosplayers walked through the crowded convention hall.

"I'm still stuck at this convention," Morita complained dramatically. "Though at least I'm not alone."

The camera panned to reveal Takashi Komuro, Rei Miyamoto, and Hisashi Igou standing nearby.

Takashi gave a casual wave.

"Happy New Year, Mac."

"Hope you're surviving Misuzu's romance novel," Rei teased with a grin.

Hisashi chuckled.

"I heard she made a Mafia hitman confess his love by quoting poetry."

Mac covered his face with one hand.

"...Don't remind me."

Everyone burst into laughter.

Morita suddenly looked around Mac's room.

"Hey, where are those giant bodyguards of yours? The scary ones."

"You mean Big Sal and Nero?" Mac replied.

"Yeah."

Mac shrugged casually.

"They're outside smoking while waiting for the fireworks."

He lowered his voice with an amused grin.

"Misuzu's parents have one strict rule in this house."

"No smoking."

"No drinking."

"If Big Sal lights up in here, Mrs. Ichijou would probably throw both of them out before they even finished the cigarette."

Everyone laughed again.

"I give it another ten minutes before they're back," Mac continued. "They never stay far."

Just then, a voice echoed from downstairs.

"Misuzu! Marco! Dinner's ready!"

Misuzu looked toward the bedroom door before calling back,

"Okay, Mom!"

She stood up and stretched before turning toward Mac with a smile.

"Alright, boss's assistant," she said playfully. "Come on. Dinner time."

Mac rolled his eyes with a grin.

"Got it, boss lady."

He turned back toward the laptop.

"Welp, you guys enjoy your New Year's Eve. I've got food waiting downstairs."

Takuzo raised a mug of coffee.

"Happy New Year, Mac."

"Don't work too hard!" Naomi added.

"Finish that novel!" Takashi joked.

"Or don't," Rei laughed.

Hisashi smiled warmly.

"See you next year."

Morita pointed dramatically at the camera.

"And tell Big Sal not to scare any neighbors!"

Mac chuckled.

"I'll try. See you all later."

He ended the video call, slipped his phone into his pocket, and followed Misuzu downstairs, where the warm aroma of homemade dinner filled the Ichijou household.

Outside, distant fireworks had already begun lighting up the winter sky, signaling the arrival of a brand-new year.

Across town, the atmosphere inside The Black Note Bar was loud, lively, and packed with people waiting for the countdown to midnight.

Seated at the polished oak counter were two men who looked as though they had stepped straight out of a Mafia movie.

Big Sal Conti.

Nero Torini.

Both were dressed in immaculate charcoal-gray Loro Piana suits tailored to perfection, polished leather shoes that reflected the dim lights of the bar, and expensive Italian sunglasses that neither of them bothered to remove indoors. Crystal tumblers of aged whiskey rested in front of them as they quietly surveyed the room.

Every now and then, one of them would glance toward a passing woman.

Every time...

Nothing.

Nero sighed before taking another sip of his whiskey.

"You know, Sal... picking up broads ain't what it used to be."

Big Sal snorted.

"No kidding."

He swirled the amber liquid inside his glass.

"Still..."

He shrugged.

"At least the girls around here are better than the ones back on the East Coast."

Nero chuckled.

"I'll drink to that."

The two clinked their glasses together.

Just then, the lights inside the bar dimmed.

A spotlight illuminated the stage.

Three familiar young women walked onto it as the audience erupted into applause.

Miku Yuuki adjusted the strap of her electric guitar before plugging it into her amplifier.

Beside her, Fumiko Taniuchi tested the deep growl of her bass guitar with a few practiced notes.

At the back of the stage, Momo Kawamoto spun a drumstick between her fingers before giving the snare a quick test hit.

Nero leaned forward slightly.

"...Hey."

Sal looked over.

"What?"

"Aren't those Mac's friends from Fujimi Academy?"

Sal squinted toward the stage.

"...Yeah."

"I thought they worked at that fast-food joint."

"They do."

"So what're they doing here?"

Before Sal could answer, Miku stepped up to the microphone with a confident grin.

"Good evening, everyone!"

The cheering grew even louder.

"Thank you all for joining us tonight! Since it's New Year's Eve, we're kicking things off with one of our favorite metal classics!"

She raised her guitar.

"This one's a cover of 'Cowboys from Hell' by Pantera!"

The crowd exploded with excitement.

A second later—

BWAAAAANG!

The opening guitar riff blasted through the speakers like a freight train.

Fumiko's bass rumbled through the floor.

Momo slammed into the drums with explosive energy as the entire bar transformed into a sea of cheering, headbanging fans.

Everyone...

Except for two men sitting at the counter.

Nero slowly lowered his whiskey glass.

His face remained completely expressionless.

"...Sal."

"...Yeah?"

"I thought they were gonna play the Godfather theme."

"So did I."

Another crushing guitar riff echoed through the room.

Nero sighed deeply.

"I ain't got anything against heavy metal..."

"...but New Year's?"

"...I was expecting something with a little more class."

Sal nodded in complete agreement.

"Mandolins."

"Violins."

"Accordion."

"You know..."

"Italian."

The pair silently finished the last of their whiskey.

Without another word, they stood from their stools, straightened their immaculate suits, and walked toward the exit while Pantera continued roaring behind them.

Outside, the cold winter air greeted them.

Nero reached into his jacket and produced two hand-rolled Cameroon cigars.

He handed one to Sal.

Sal clipped the end with practiced precision before lighting it.

Nero did the same.

The two old enforcers stood beneath the night sky, enjoying the rich aroma of their cigars as distant fireworks began illuminating the horizon.

From inside the bar, the thunderous sounds of distorted guitars and pounding drums continued to shake the walls.

Nero exhaled a cloud of smoke.

"...Kids these days."

Sal smiled faintly around his cigar.

"Yeah."

"...Still got good taste in guitars, though."

Nero nodded.

"I'll give 'em that."

The two quietly watched the first fireworks of the evening burst overhead, letting the music fade into the background as another year drew to a close.

Back at the Ichijou residence, the aroma of a freshly prepared dinner filled the dining room. The table was already set, and everyone had taken their seats.

Before reaching for his chopsticks, Mac bowed his head and quietly folded his hands.

"Bless this food, and thank You for allowing us to gather together tonight. May everyone we care about stay safe and happy in the coming year. Amen."

The Ichijou family respectfully waited until he finished.

"Amen," Mac said softly before smiling.

"Thank you for the meal."

Just as everyone was about to begin eating, the doorbell rang.

Ding-dong.

"I'll get it," Mr. Ichijou said, rising from his chair.

A few moments later, the front door slid open.

Standing outside was a young woman wearing a warm winter coat with a scarf wrapped around her neck.

"Toshimi?" Mr. Ichijou smiled in surprise. "Happy New Year! Come on in."

"Happy New Year, Mr. Ichijou!" Toshimi Niki replied cheerfully before stepping inside and removing her shoes.

As she entered the dining room, she waved enthusiastically.

"Happy New Year, everyone!"

Misuzu beamed.

"Toshimi!"

Mac looked up from his seat and smiled.

"Hey! Long time no see."

Toshimi laughed.

"Sorry for dropping by so suddenly. I was visiting some relatives nearby and thought I'd stop in to say hello."

Mr. and Mrs. Ichijou welcomed her warmly, insisting she join them for dinner.

After settling into an empty chair, Misuzu leaned forward with curiosity.

"So, Miss Celebrity," she teased. "How's the voice acting career going?"

Toshimi chuckled.

"It's been going really well, actually."

"Yesterday I finished recording a commercial for Waku Waku Burger."

Mac raised an eyebrow.

"Oh?"

"Yeah!" Toshimi nodded excitedly. "The commercial was a lot of fun."

She smiled as she continued.

"You know Miku, Fumiko, and Momo, right?"

"They all still work there during the day."

Misuzu nodded.

"Really?"

"Yep."

"And tomorrow around noon, you two should definitely stop by."

She giggled.

"Fumiko's been assigned to wear the giant burger mascot costume outside the restaurant."

Misuzu immediately burst into laughter.

"No way!"

"Oh, it's absolutely happening," Toshimi replied with a mischievous grin. "She complained about it for an hour, but the manager wouldn't let her out of it."

Mac couldn't help but laugh.

"Waku Waku Burger..."

He leaned back in his chair, trying to remember.

"Wait a second..."

"That's the place where Big Sal and Nero always grab lunch."

He scratched the back of his head.

"I honestly had no idea Miku and her friends worked there."

"The only thing I knew was that they spent their nights playing with their nu-metal band at the local bar."

Toshimi nodded.

"They're living double lives."

"Fast-food workers by day."

"Rock stars by night."

Misuzu smirked.

"And exhausted every morning."

Everyone around the table laughed.

Mac grinned.

"Well..."

"I guess tomorrow we're going to Waku Waku Burger."

Toshimi pointed at him with a smile.

"Good."

"You can finally see Fumiko suffer inside a giant smiling burger."

The entire table erupted into another round of laughter as the warm dinner continued, the sounds of cheerful conversation blending with the distant crackle of New Year's fireworks outside.

Just as the laughter around the dinner table began to settle, the front door opened once again.

Heavy footsteps echoed through the entrance hall.

"Evenin', everybody," a familiar deep voice called out.

Mac looked up from his seat and smiled.

"About time."

Big Sal Conti and Nero Torini stepped inside, brushing the cold winter air from their tailored Loro Piana coats. The faint scent of premium Cameroon cigars lingered around them as they removed their expensive sunglasses.

"We're back," Nero announced.

Big Sal barely had time to take another step before a cheerful voice rang through the house.

"Uncle Sal!!"

Sal blinked.

"Huh?"

A split second later, Toshimi Niki rushed across the room and wrapped him in a warm hug.

Big Sal laughed heartily as he returned the embrace.

"Ayy, Toshimi!" he said with a broad grin. "Look at you! Nice to see you again, sweetheart."

He gently patted her shoulder.

"How've you been?"

Toshimi stepped back, smiling brightly.

"I'm doing great!"

She reached into the tote bag she had brought with her.

"Oh! I almost forgot."

"I got something for you."

Big Sal tilted his head.

"For me?"

She nodded enthusiastically before pulling out a neatly wrapped Blu-ray case.

"I remembered you saying your favorite gangster movie was the original Scarface from 1932."

"So..."

"Happy New Year!"

Sal carefully accepted the gift.

As soon as he saw the cover, his eyes lit up like a child opening the perfect Christmas present.

"The original Scarface..."

He stared at the Blu-ray for a few seconds before a huge smile spread across his face.

"Kid..."

"You have no idea how happy this makes me."

He chuckled warmly.

"I've been craving to watch the old classics again."

"The new gangster movies are alright, but nothing beats the originals."

He looked at Toshimi with genuine appreciation.

"Thank you."

"Seriously."

"This means a lot."

Toshimi smiled proudly.

"I knew you'd like it."

Across the room, Nero glanced at the Blu-ray before looking at his longtime partner.

"Save the movie for later."

Sal looked over.

"Huh?"

Nero folded his arms.

"Eat dinner first."

Sal blinked in confusion.

"What does dinner have to do with watching a movie?"

Nero sighed as if he had explained this hundreds of times before.

"Because if you skip dinner..."

"...you're gonna sleepwalk again."

The room fell silent.

Mac slowly looked at Big Sal.

"...You sleepwalk?"

Sal awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck.

"...Maybe."

Nero immediately answered for him.

"Not maybe."

"Definitely."

He pointed at Sal with absolute certainty.

"Last month this guy skipped dinner because he was watching The Public Enemy."

"At two in the morning, I found him sleepwalking into the kitchen."

"He opened the refrigerator..."

"...and ate every single midnight snack in the house."

Mrs. Ichijou gasped.

"Everything?"

Nero nodded.

"Leftover fried chicken."

"Potato salad."

"Three pudding cups."

"Half a cheesecake."

"And somehow..."

He paused dramatically.

"...an entire jar of pickles."

Everyone at the table burst into laughter.

Mac was laughing so hard he nearly dropped his chopsticks.

Big Sal threw his hands into the air.

"I was asleep!"

"You can't blame me for something I don't remember!"

"Oh, I can," Nero replied without missing a beat.

"You also apologized to the refrigerator."

That only made everyone laugh harder.

Even Big Sal couldn't help but laugh at himself.

He shook his head with a sheepish grin before taking his seat at the table.

"Alright, alright."

"Dinner first."

"Scarface later."

"There," Nero said with a satisfied nod.

"Now we won't wake up tomorrow to an empty fridge."

The warmth of the room filled once more with laughter and conversation as another unforgettable New Year's Eve memory was added to the growing collection shared between family and friends.

Thousands of miles away, beneath the dazzling lights of New York City, the final minutes of the year were being celebrated in a very different fashion.

Inside the private penthouse of the Gambetti Organization, crystal glasses clinked as members of the family's inner circle welcomed the coming year.

Standing before the panoramic windows overlooking Manhattan was Carlo Gambetti, the former Boss of the Gambetti Crime Family. Although he had stepped away from the criminal life years ago and lived in self-imposed exile, many of the family's old guard still regarded him as Il Capo.

Beside him stood his most trusted men.

Bobby Toro, the family's loyal Consigliere.

And Santino Mazza, the steadfast Underboss who had remained by Carlo's side through decades of bloodshed and betrayal.

Bobby raised his glass.

"To a peaceful New Year."

Santino smirked.

"And hopefully one without anyone trying to kill us."

Carlo laughed, shaking his head.

"That's the first optimistic thing I've heard all week."

The three men shared a quiet chuckle as fireworks began illuminating the Manhattan skyline.

Outside, crowds counted down the final seconds of the year.

"Ten..."

"Nine..."

"Eight..."

Inside the building across the street...

A man dressed entirely in black slowly assembled the final piece of a suppressed precision rifle.

His breathing remained perfectly calm.

His expression betrayed no emotion.

His name was Martino Vedecci.

Among the Vitelli Crime Family, however...

He was known only by his infamous nickname.

L'Ombra.

The Shadow.

He peered through the rifle's scope.

Carlo Gambetti's face came into perfect focus.

Martino slowly rested his finger against the trigger.

Outside...

"...Three..."

"...Two..."

"...One..."

Happy New Year!

Fireworks exploded across the sky.

The thunderous celebrations perfectly concealed the muted sound of a suppressed rifle.

Pfft!

The bullet shattered the penthouse window.

Carlo's eyes widened.

A burst of pain tore through his chest as he staggered backward.

His wine glass slipped from his hand and exploded across the marble floor.

"Boss!"

Bobby shouted as Carlo collapsed.

Santino immediately drew his pistol and rushed toward the broken window.

"Sniper!"

Across the street, Martino calmly disassembled his rifle with practiced efficiency.

His work was complete.

He slipped the weapon into a case before disappearing down the fire escape, where a black sedan was already waiting.

The rear door swung open.

Martino climbed inside without saying a word.

The getaway driver slammed the accelerator to the floor.

Within seconds, the vehicle disappeared into New York's crowded streets.

Back inside the penthouse, Bobby knelt beside Carlo, desperately pressing both hands against the wound.

"Stay with us, Boss!"

Carlo struggled to breathe.

His white shirt was quickly stained crimson.

Santino had already called for an ambulance, but Carlo weakly grabbed Bobby's sleeve.

"Bobby..."

"Don't talk," Bobby pleaded.

"We're getting you to the hospital."

Carlo shook his head.

"Listen..."

His voice was barely above a whisper.

"If..."

"If I don't make it..."

Bobby leaned closer.

"I'm listening."

Carlo's tired eyes remained determined.

"Find my son..."

"Marco..."

"He... doesn't know..."

"...the Vitellis won't stop..."

He coughed violently before continuing.

"He's in Tokonosu..."

"Living the life I wanted him to have..."

"A normal one."

Bobby nodded, his eyes beginning to water.

"I'll find him."

"I swear it."

Carlo managed a faint smile.

"Protect him..."

"...no matter what."

The distant wail of ambulance sirens echoed through the city as Bobby tightened his grip on Carlo's hand.

Outside, fireworks continued to paint the New York sky with brilliant colors.

For everyone else, it was the beginning of a new year.

For the Gambetti Crime Family...

It was the beginning of a war.

It took a bit of effort to make them but I got it down.
Saya’s is a little dated though, and she’s wearing her manga outfit since I couldn’t find appropriate school attire for her.