The clatter of bowls and the low hum of simmering broth filled the air, rich with the scent of grilled meat, smoked oil, and fermented spice. Warm paper lanterns hung from overhead, their light diffused behind pale, fibrous parchment. A narrow wooden counter stretched the length of the room, its lacquered surface worn smooth from years of elbows and stories. Steam curled up from the open kitchen behind a thin veil of wood-panel slats, where chefs in loose-cut robes moved with quiet, exacting rhythm-no words, only nods and sharp sizzles.
Kamina sat with his legs sprawled out beneath the low table, half-cross-legged, half-reclined like a warlord surveying a conquered banquet. In front of him: a mountain of sliced meat, glistening in thick sauce, crowned with spring herbs, runny yolks, toasted crumbs, and even a couple of shrimp curled like commas on the edge of the pot. He was digging in with the raw ferocity of a man who'd just killed a lightbulb god and lived to brag about it.
"Mmmm! THIS is what I'm talkin' about!" Kamina yelled, mouth half-full. He pointed his chopsticks like a sword toward the ceiling. "Nothing beats a belly full of meat after kicking ass!"
Across the table, Shmuel sat much neater-upright, cautious, looking over his shoulder like someone expecting a price too good to be true. In front of him was a medium-sized bowl, modest compared to Kamina's-but still heavy with stacked meat slices, soft-boiled eggs, pickled roots, and glistening rice soaked through with sauce.
He poked at it a little.
"I haven't eaten like this in… well, longer than I care to admit," he muttered, finally taking a tentative bite. "Usually it's reheated mush from a can or that barely-subsidized meal block the Association gives us for contract fillers…"
Kamina laughed hard. "Then eat up, partner! We're livin' high today!"
Shmuel took another bite, then glanced around the room-the sliding doors etched with painted cranes, the cloth banners fluttering near the entryway, the small tray of pickled vegetables served without being asked. It was like stepping into a culture preserved in an isolated corner of the Districts, untouched by the concrete sprawl just outside.
He let himself relax-just a bit.
"…We've got enough budget now to stay operational for a few weeks, at least," he said, finally. "Alexy bought the Distortion from us for a very good price. On top of that, the case itself paid decently."
Kamina grinned, tearing into a piece of beef so tender it fell apart before he bit. "Hah! Told ya workin' with me would pay off."
Shmuel gave a short huff of amusement. "Well, assuming we don't blow it all on your dinner tonight."
Kamina raised his bowl triumphantly. "THIS is an investment in morale!"
Shmuel shook his head but didn't argue. He kept eating-slower, quieter-but with a warmth behind his eyes he rarely allowed himself to show. The food was good.
Steam wafted from hot broth and sizzling platters as the sliding door creaked open with the soft chime of a hanging bell. A group of bruised, bandaged, and thoroughly exhausted individuals stepped inside. Their jackets bore the unmistakable muted crimson bands of the Izan Enforcers. Their leader walked at the front, tall, broad-shouldered, blonde slicked back into a perfect comb, but with dried blood at the corner of his mouth and a nasty welt under one eye.
Kurt Kotler.
The enforcers looked half-dead from fatigue, like they'd spent the whole day getting stomped and then stomped some more.
Shmuel saw them immediately. His pupils shrunk to pinpricks. His chopsticks froze mid-air.
"Oh no," he muttered. "No no no no—"
In one motion, he slipped his long coat off the back of the seat and swung it over his shoulders, pulling the collar up to half-cover his face like some noir character trying not to be seen by the mafia boss he owed money to. He leaned close to Kamina and whispered hoarsely.
"We need to go. Now. That's Kurt Kotler. Izan Enforcers. I'd really rather not get dragged into their problems again."
But when Shmuel looked across the table-Kamina was gone.
His head whipped around.
There he was, already at the counter, talking with the old man at the ordering stand, casually pointing at the sake selection. Shmuel nearly knocked over his bowl in panic.
And then he saw it.
Standing right next to Kamina, also eyeing the menu?
Kurt Kotler himself.
The two men were shoulder-to-shoulder. Inches apart.
But somehow-miraculously-they hadn't noticed one another. Neither turned their head. Both focused with military intensity on what food to order.
Kurt, still wincing from a swollen lip, was muttering, "Tch. I'm starving. What even is half of this stuff..."
And Kamina, cheerful as ever, said out loud, "If you're hungry, get the meat mountain. It's got enough protein to rebuild your whole damn body."
Kurt paused.
Then gave a grunt. "...Meat mountain, huh? Alright, sounds like a plan. Boys! We're eating like kings tonight!"
His battered crew gave tired cheers.
Kamina returned to his seat with a steaming sake cup in one hand and a satisfied smile on his face. He slumped down, took a sip, and let the warmth hit his chest like a soft explosion.
And then, as fate would have it, Kurt and his men were seated at the table directly next to Kamina and Shmuel.
Shmuel was shrinking into himself. Kamina, now getting tipsy, looked like a man freshly victorious in a war he didn't even remember fighting.
Kurt leaned back in his seat, nursing his bruised ribs, and began talking.
"Ugh, today sucked. That damn Kurokumo clan—bunch of smoke-huffing psychos. Wiped out three of our crews before lunch. Bastards ambushed us. I swear, if the other captains don't start sending backup to District 12 soon, we're gonna lose our foothold out here."
His boys grunted in agreement, tearing into their meat like starving dogs.
Then Kamina leaned sideways in his seat, cup raised in salute, cheeks slightly flushed. "Then maybe you boys should man up and fix your own mess."
Kurt turned slightly—still not recognizing him—and squinted.
"…Yeah. Maybe you're right, stranger." He gave a tired chuckle. "Can't be waiting around for handouts forever."
Shmuel stared at Kamina like he'd lost his mind.
And Kamina just winked, raising his sake again, oblivious to the storm he was one breath away from starting.
Kamina raised his cup high, flashing a toothy grin across the gap between the tables.
"This sake is for you, buddy!" he said, voice booming with a drunken cheer, as if he'd just toasted an old war comrade.
Kurt raised an eyebrow, clearly amused but still not making the connection.
"Hah. Cheers to that," he replied, lifting his own mug of barley tea.
Kamina downed the whole cup in one go, slammed it back onto the table with a satisfied sigh, and got right back to finishing his towering mountain of meat. Shmuel, still twitching under his coat and glancing sideways like a rabbit surrounded by wolves, gave up on subtlety and started shoveling his meal into his mouth.
Kurt and his men kept laughing, ribbing one another, throwing in the occasional complaint about street turf and syndicate politics. None of them ever turned their heads quite enough to see the faces next door. The Izan crew seemed too exhausted, too hungry, and too focused on licking their wounds to notice much of anything.
And then, like a magic trick-
Kamina and Shmuel finished their food, paid, and walked out the door.
Clean.
Untouched.
Unnoticed.
Only when the restaurant bell chimed again with their exit did one of the Izan boys at Kurt's table pause, chopsticks halfway to his mouth.
"…Hey. Didn't those two kinda look like—?"
Kurt didn't even look up from his bowl.
"Shut up and eat."
And just like that, Kamina and Shmuel vanished into the humid lights of District 12's backstreets, the air behind them still carrying the scent of grilled meat and warm rice.
The streets of District 12 were quieter now—lanterns flickering dimly above alleyways, puddles reflecting neon signs like ink spilled across the pavement. Kamina walked with the swagger of a man who just drank a bottle of pride and chased it with sake, his hand resting lazily on the hilt of his sheathed sword. Shmuel walked beside him, still digesting both the meat and the miracle of slipping past Izan unnoticed.
But peace in the Backstreets rarely lasted more than a few blocks.
From the shadows of a garbage-littered alley, five figures emerged, ratty coats, rusted blades, and cracked cybernetics barely holding them together. Their faces were a mess of scars, makeshift piercings, and desperation. Rats. Not a real Syndicate-just a bundle of outlaws playing mobster, gnashing their teeth at anything that looked remotely profitable or stupid enough to walk alone at night.
"That's them. Easy marks. One sword, one nerd."
One lunged.
Fast. Wild. Sloppy.
Kamina didn't flinch.
He stepped forward and swung his sheathed sword upward in an arc that cracked against the side of the attacker's skull with a THWACK! The rat went flying backward, landing in a heap of trash bags with a groan.
The others came like a pack of dogs, blades raised, shouting curses. Kamina ducked low under a swing, twisted around the next, and drove his elbow into one thug's stomach, winding him before sweeping his leg out from under him. The third tried to grab Kamina from behind-Kamina flipped him over his shoulder, slamming him into the ground.
Even still, it wasn't effortless. These weren't trained fixers, but they were desperate, and desperate fighters hit hard. Kamina grunted as a dull blade scraped across his side-not deep, just enough to make him grit his teeth. He retaliated by clocking the last of the three with the pommel of his sword, sending him reeling into a stack of broken crates.
Then, from the corner of his eye—movement.
The fifth rat was charging toward Shmuel.
Shmuel dodged the attack.
FWUMP.
Kamina's sword flew through the air, sheathed and all, and crashed directly into the neck of the last attacker, folding him instantly into unconsciousness with a limp thud.
Silence returned.
Kamina walked over, bent down, and picked up his sword, giving it a light spin before resting it over his shoulder again. He turned to Shmuel, panting slightly, bleeding slightly more, and flashed a grin that could split steel.
"We," Kamina said, eyes burning with wild purpose, "are going to use ALL of the budget of our office to get our own augmentations."
Shmuel blinked.
"…Excuse me?"
"Think about it," Kamina spread his arms wide like presenting a dream, "Laser eyes. Jet knees. Something that shoots missiles out of your shins-just imagine it!"
Shmuel opened his mouth to protest, to tell Kamina they needed that money to stay afloat, to pay for rent, repairs, food, supplies.
But Kamina had already decided.
And as they walked off into the electric haze of District 12, Shmuel knew, deep in his soul.
It was already too late.