[Outskirts of the 15th Ward — Abandoned Rail Yard | Night]
The rusted bones of old freight cars crouched in the dark. Wind combed through weeds, the iron frames groaning like animals long dead.
Hayato lay flat along the roof of a derelict container, mask tilted down, breath slow enough to vanish in the cold. The crack along his jaw seam caught a glint of moonlight, a reminder of who he was in this circle.
Three others crouched nearby:
Daichi, Jack One ("Iron-mask") — broad-shouldered, his koukaku plating folded flat against his arm, eyes always narrowing to the cleanest angles.
Renji, Jack Four ("Hyena") — lean, Rinkaku tendrils twitching idly like snakes tasting the air, a grin audible even when hidden by the scar-split mask.
Aya, Jack Three ("Doll") — still, precise, koukaku hand-blade half-formed and hovering at her wrist, her black-and-white mask painted with fine lashes.
Together they watched the lights below.
The rival clan had taken the yard as if it were a fortress. Floodlamps swung across the concrete. Half a dozen figures in mismatched masks moved like they owned the ground. A caged rogue ghoul whimpered in the corner, shackled by chain that gleamed wet in the light.
"They're not killing them," Renji muttered, teeth flashing behind the mask. "Keeping rogues in cages? That's not hunger. That's leverage."
Aya's voice was quiet, clipped. "Bargaining chips. Or stock for experiments."
Iron-mask didn't move. His koukaku clicked faintly as it locked tighter across his wrist. "Show of force. They wanted us to see this."
Hayato's eyes narrowed. The rogues weren't food to the rival clan — they were tools. Bait for Doves, or for the Seno. Maybe both. His chest burned at the thought.
Renji's tendrils flexed, eager. "We could end them here. Quick. Burn the nest before it spreads."
Aya cut him a sharp glance. "And announce ourselves? That's exactly what they want. A spectacle. A feud to bleed us both while the CCG watches."
Iron-mask's hand lifted, silencing them. He turned to Twelve. "What do you see?"
Hayato froze for half a second. The test was obvious — Daichi always measured the boy differently than the others. Not just what he could fight, but what he could read.
He looked down again, forcing his breath even. The rogues' chains were thick, but not unbreakable. The rival clan hadn't killed them because dead men couldn't scream in the CCG's reports. They wanted witnesses. Proof. They wanted to make the Seno bleed in public.
"…They don't care about the rogues," Hayato said finally. "This is theater. They're baiting us."
Renji chuckled. "Look at the little Dragon. He can smell the script."
Aya didn't laugh. Her gaze stayed on Hayato, cool, unreadable.
Daichi gave the faintest nod. "Then we wait. Watch the next act."
Below, a rival clan member dragged a rogue forward by the chain and raised his arm. The floodlights swung to follow. The first cut wasn't for death. It was for audience.
[Rail Yard — Observation, Night]
The rival clan wasn't subtle.
They wore no lacquered masks, no uniform sigils. Their faces were daubed with streaks of paint — thick black swipes over eyes, jaws smeared crimson, teeth inked jagged across cheeks. Some had chains looped around their shoulders like trophies. Others stitched old Dove armor plates into their coats, patches and scratches worn as pride.
They called themselves The Fangs.
Where the Seno whispered, the Fangs shouted. Where the Jacks moved like knives hidden under robes, the Fangs moved like packs of dogs, every strike meant to be seen.
Down in the yard, one Fang dragged a rogue into the floodlight. The chain bit into the captive's throat until blood ran. Another Fang raised a rusted iron pole wrapped in barbed wire. He brought it down across the rogue's back in a wet crack. The sound carried through the whole yard.
The crowd howled. Masks? No. Faces painted in snarls, teeth bared. They wanted the night to hear them.
Renji's grin sharpened under his mask. "Animals." His rinkaku twitched like it wanted to dance down there. "But animals can be fun."
Aya didn't flinch. "Not animals. Exhibitionists. Every cut is bait. They want the CCG to file a report with a number higher than ours."
Hayato's fists tightened in the dirt. He could see it now: every rogue they captured wasn't about food or strength. It was accounting. Headcounts. Public blood to push the Fangs' legend louder than the Seno's whispers.
Daichi's voice stayed even. "They're not subtle. They're not careful. But they are organized."
Below, the Fang leader stepped forward. His paint was thicker, white streaks running from scalp to chin like a skull. His kagune flared wide — a grotesque Rinkaku, five tendrils tipped in barbs. He raised both arms, and the pack fell silent.
His voice carried, raw and deep.
"This city belongs to those who take it! No more shadows, no more whispers. Every Dove, every rival, every coward clan will see us bleed them in the light! We are the Fangs, and we fear nothing!"
The howls came back louder, rattling the rail cars.
Hayato's chest burned. Every word was meant to echo through the ward. Every howl was meant to crawl into the CCG's ears. They want war in the open.
Aya's gaze flicked toward Daichi. "We've seen enough."
But Renji leaned closer to Hayato, voice low, taunting. "What's it feel like, Twelve, watching them drag meat around like dogs? Feel like your hunger yet?"
Hayato didn't answer. His shards trembled under his ribs, restless.
Daichi silenced them both with a sharp look. "We report. The head decides. If the Fangs want theater, they'll get an audience soon enough."
The four slipped back from the roofline, steps silent where the Fangs screamed their gospel into the night.
[Seno Estate — Council Chamber, Later]
The torches hissed. The elders leaned forward as Daichi finished the report.
"They call themselves Fangs," he said. "No masks. Paint. Loud, disorganized to the eye but disciplined in ranks. They keep rogues caged. They want visibility. They want us drawn out."
Murmurs rippled. One elder's mask tilted. "Savages."
Another hissed. "Not savages. Strategists. They court the Doves with noise. They will force the Bureau to see them, to fight them. In the chaos, they seize ground."
The clan head's voice cut through, calm but edged. "Then the Fangs challenge us not with blades, but with presence. They would be seen. They would drag us into their theater."
His mask turned toward the Jacks. "What answer do we give?"
The chamber fell into silence heavy enough to bend the torches.
[CCG Headquarters — Operations Floor, Same Night]
Maps of the Fifteenth Ward spread across tables. Red pins clustered at rail yards and old markets. Reports scattered, most stamped POSSIBLE SIGHTING — UNCONFIRMED.
Shimizu tapped the fresh incident file. "We've got a new pattern. Not just Black Dragon. Not just rogues. A group. Witnesses call them painted faces. Chains. They don't hide."
Hoshino leaned on the table, jaw set. "Clan."
"Maybe," Shimizu said. "But different than the Seno. No masks, no shadows. These want to be seen. They drag rogues into lights and bleed them in public. Fangs, some say."
Around the table, junior investigators exchanged wary looks. One spoke. "So what are we dealing with? Two clans?"
"Two storms," Hoshino said flatly. He jabbed a finger at the ward map. "The Seno we've known for years—masks, whispers, sharp as razors in the dark. This new pack? They want theater. And in the middle…" He circled a pin marked BLACK DRAGON. "…the hybrid. Sighted moving with masked figures, then with painted ones. Either he's caught between, or he's learning to play both."
Shimizu added quietly, "Either way, the Fifteenth is about to burn."