Dawn didn't reach the Underworks, but the pipes did change their song.
Takeshi was already awake, sleeves rolled, forearm laid open on the table. The prosthetic was quiet and obedient while he worked a tiny driver into its wrist. A narrow cavity clicked free - clean, deliberate space where there hadn't been any yesterday. He fitted the panel back, tested the fingers - whirr, lock, release - then stood and set a slip of paper under the knife on the counter.
On the floor, Raizen pushed at the world with one hand.
"One hundred and ninety-seven… One hundred and ninety-eight… One hundred ninety-nine… Two hundred!" his arm shook. He switched hands without complaining and kept going.
Hikari padded over, hair sleep-messed, eyes soft. She crouched, watched two more reps, then set a palm lightly on his shoulder.
"You're going to do them anyway," she said.
"Not yet" he puffed, grinning sideways. "I still need to do more…"
When they looked up, Takeshi was already gone. Again.
The note was simple: Back by nightfall. Good luck.
The Rust Room was the same as ever.
Kori met them at the corridor, silver bob sharp. "Welcome, welcome! Come in!" she said, as if she never saw them every day for quite a while. Her hand led them to a bare, bright bay.
Five steel poles circled each station. From every pole, three rods jutted - low, mid, high. No countdown. No warning. They swung when they wanted, hard and fast, then stopped dead, then hit again from a new angle.
"Test is simple," Kori said. "They swing. You parry, hit back, or get out of the way. Speed. Strength. Accuracy. Now go!"
The first snap came out of nowhere.
Raizen didn't flinch. Mid - he met it with a short, tight parry, sent it off-line, and tapped the base as it passed to slow the next swing. High whistled in, he ducked clean. Low tried to clip his shins; he hopped and landed already facing the next pole.
Hikari was quieter. The rod fired, she was gone. The follow-up swung, she was there. A high rod grazed a strand of hair and hair only. She moved a half-beat early, reading the shadow on the floor like a map.
"Speed 30" Mina called from the glass.
The room didn't care. Rods hit without rhythm - double on one pole, nothing on the other, then a nasty triple in a row. Raizen tightened everything - short steps, fast reads - and started beating the swing to its spot, parry - tag - slip, all muscle and timing. Hikari began bullying the pattern: a crisp parry redirected one rod into another's lane. She stepped through like she'd planned it.
"40" Mina said.
They got mean. The rods changed height mid-swing, stalling and re-firing like they had opinions. A mid snapped for Raizen's ribs - he shouldered it aside, the high came early and met nothing but his grin under a clean duck. Hikari leaned past a high by a breath, let a low miss by inches.
"50" Kori exhaled, finger near the stop button. She didn't press it.
Now all fifteen were alive. Raizen started calling his own rythm - parry, parry, hit, duck - rods whistling past his ears and never touching skin. A double-ambush tried to sandwich him. He stepped in between both blows and slid out the other side before they finished the thought.
"Miss rate: zero for the last sequence," Mina said, disbelieving. "Bump to 60."
The bay snapped. No pattern. No mercy.
He walked through it. A high cut early - he was already low. A low whipped late - his heel was already up and gone. He answered every surprise with a better one, knuckles singing on steel. Hikari threaded the storm - every strike met with the right answer: parry the middle, hit the base, lean the tip. Not flashy. Just perfect.
"Last ten," Kori said. "Finish clean.
They did. Zero contacts.
"New baseline saved," Mina breathed. "Five poles, sixty speed, no hits taken."
Kori tossed them towels, pride plain. "Now that," she said, "is what progress looks like. We're done here for today. I have to check on the other two. Good work!"
The two walked out grinning the way people grin when a door they didn't know existed has just opened and the air on the other side smells like possibility.
By late afternoon, the Underworks slid from busy to watchful, yet quiet. Back at the room, the kettle hissed like a friend, a tea fragrance filling the room. Takeshi still wasn't back. Raizen iced Hikari's ankle and wrapped it clean, and then sat down, staring at the clock as if it could speed up time.
Hikari looked up first. "We're doing it" she said, as if the decision had already been made and all that remained was the walking. His smile came crooked and bright.
A knock followed: two quick, one cocky. Obi leaned into the frame, curls tamed badly, winner's tokens clinking on his belt, brass knuckles on his hands, as if he couldn't take them off. His excitement never faded.
"We going?" he grinned.
Outside, the Underworks muttered in its sleep. Above, the Tangle hummed and swayed, thick cables slightly moving.
The three of them started walking down the street. They took back lanes. No one spoke. Boots found the quiet parts of the stone. Lamps were dimmer and dimmer. Raizen kept the center. Hikari skimmed the walls, counting corners without looking like she did. Obi's belt clinked. He quickly pinched it still.
An arcade of stone opened on an iron mouth bolted into the cave. No sign. No barker. The Maw didn't need either.
Inside, the ceiling dropped a handspan and the floor was made of darkened planks, with traces of spills. The smell was a weird mix of cooked meat, alcohol, wet rope, coins. Tables were bolted into the floor, without being able to move. Men leaned there like coats on a rail and never ordered.
Cards murmured. Dice clicked. A tune tried to start and changed its mind.
Noise thinned near a corner. That's where he sat: coat too new for this place, hair parted like a rule - Marcus Valerius. To his right: a bodyguard with a square coat and a tired scar pulling one corner of the mouth. His eyes moved more than his head.
Marcus checked a pocket watch, and shut it with a soft click. A small case hung by two fingers. He tapped it once. Twice. The sound carried farther than it should have.
Raizen felt Hikari's sleeve brush his hand. Obi's chin tilted the smallest nod.
There he was.
And under his hand - exactly what they'd come for.