“Fuck yes.”
“Loser pays for drinks.”
“Sure.”
We killed the engine a block out and rolled to a stop in the shadows. The Gora Specters’ garage squatted at the edge of the industrial strip—a shithole with half-rusted shutters and a green neon glow flickering behind the gaps. From inside, the thump of bad music and drunken laughter bled through the walls. The beautiful sounds of a herd that doesn’t know it’s being hunted.
A slow smile stretches my face.
Perfect.
* * *
There’s blood drying on my knuckles and a long scratch along my cheek where some idiot tried to stab me with a broken bottle. I should be tired, but I’mwired, lungs burning with the aftershocks, pulse still hammering. Ryo’s crouched beside one of them, wiping a knife on a torn battle vest.
They were fucking pathetic.
Most of them looked like high schoolers, if that, and we didn’t even need to kill those. A kid pissed himself the second Ryo shoved open the door and kicked in a chair for fun. A few tried to act tough. One swung a bat like he’d seen too many movies. Another actually yelled “fuck you!” right before I drove my elbow into his nose and shattered it so loud it echoed.
But some of the older ones put up a fight. One had a chain. Ryo took that one—tore through him like he’d been waiting for it all week. Left his ribs bent the wrong way and blood bubbling out of his mouth as he wheezed on the floor.
I took the one with tattoos on his neck and too many teeth in his mouth. Knocked out five of them. Dislocated his shoulder. Smashed his hand until it crunched.
“You’re not even a real gang,” I spat into his face when he started crying.
They had no plan and no chain of command. Fucking noise and bravado don’t work in the real world, and I made sure they learned that. Their loyalty broke the second pain hit, too. One of them tried to run and I grabbed him by the back of his vest, dragged him down the concrete, and kicked his stomach in until he stopped moving.
Ryo got bitten by one of the punks and laughed as he knocked three teeth out in response.
We didn’t kill them all because that’d be a waste. The kids, especially. Scared and stupid, sure, but I’ve seen worse growinto something useful. I told a few of them, while they crawled toward the back exit with busted arms and cracked ribs, “Come find me if you want to live longer than a week. Maybe I’ll make something out of you.”
One of them nodded. Cried the whole time, but nodded.
I step over a puddle of blood that’s mostly not mine. My hands are shaking from the high of it, and I need to hit something else. Or fuck.
Or Naoya.
Or fucking Naoya. That would be great.
“Lost count. But I’m pretty sure I won,” Ryo says, slowly walking towards me.
“Bullshit.”
“Let’s call it a tie.”
“Let’s not.”
We step out into the alley behind the garage. It’s quiet now, the kind of silence that comes only after screaming. I crush down into a squat, cigarette between my fingers. I can still taste blood in my mouth that’s not mine, and I let it sit on my tongue, enjoying the aftertaste of a fight well earned.
Ryo slumps down next to me, leaning back against the damp concrete wall, all smug and loose-limbed. His cigarette lights with a click of his cheap-ass lighter, the flame dancing in the wind.
I take a drag of mine, let the smoke settle deep. The buzz from the fight is still crawling under my skin, but I don’t want to talk about that even though my brain’s wired. My cock’s hard and the thought of fucking Naoya is a pretty good one.
“You ever fuck around with a guy?” I ask, smoke trailing out with the words.
Ryo turns his head, his eyes sliding over me very obviously.
“You offering?”
