Their bodies slammed into each other. Their blades met again and again, the sound of steel on steel filling the space.
They moved through the miniature city, and I held my breath every time a sword swept close to a building.
Y’all better not mess up the Dragon’s war room.
But they never hit anything.
The precision was extraordinary.
Even in their fury, even in their battle, they navigated Tokyo's towers without disturbing a single structure.
The woman rushed toward them.
"Stop!" Her voice rang out. All the flirtation was gone. All the playfulness. Now there was only fear in her eyes. "Please, stop!"
She tried to get between them. Reached for the first man's arm.
He shoved her away without looking, and his focus was locked on his rival.
She stumbled.
And tried again.
The second man's sword swept toward the first man's chest, and nearly caught her across the throat.
I didn’t mean to, but I murmured, “Be careful.”
They fought more.
She got in the way and jerked backward, her hand flying to her neck.
The blade had missed by inches.
Maybe less.
Both men froze for a heartbeat.
Then they were fighting again, moving away from her, their battle carrying them through Roppongi, through Ginza, their swords flashing in the candlelight.
The woman followed, crying now.
Tears cut tracks through her white makeup as she begged them to stop.
But they couldn't hear her.
Or wouldn't.
They were lost in their fury, in their need to destroy each other.
The first man's blade found its mark. His sword sliced across the second man's shoulder, and to my utter shock, red exploded from the wound.
I gasped. “What?”
But it wasn't blood.
It was red cord. It poured from a hidden place in his costume, spilling down his arm, pooling on the floor of miniature Tokyo. The crimson threads spread across the streets of Shinjuku like rivers of blood.
Oh. This is so dope!
