Through the curtain of rain came another sound—the sharp whir of propellers cutting through the night. Dahlia's head snapped upward. Half a dozen drones buzzed overhead, lights blinking as they tracked the uma racers below. Then, almost at once, the shrill wail of sirens tore through the city. Red and blue strobes flared across the streets, clashing with the amber glow of streetlamps until the rain itself seemed lit with fire.
Her eyes widened. Instinct drove her back into the shadow of a nearby stairwell, pressed against the wall as if the darkness could shield her. She knew her uniform marked her as safe, just another courier, but Nishimura's warning rang in her mind, heavy as a weight she couldn't shake.
Two cruisers shot past the junction in a spray of water, tires screaming as they swung into a hard right turn, one barely missing the fender of a parked car. A third roared in from the opposite street, engine howling as it chased the pack into the storm. Dahlia stepped out from the stairwell, rain plastering her hair to her cheeks, and watched them vanish into the night. Her pulse thudded against her eardrums, quick and restless.
Questions swarmed. Who was she? What was she? Nishimura's words about illegal races echoed louder now. Dahlia had seen street circuits before. Umas messing about on empty roads, chasing thrills with no stakes. But this wasn't that. This was something bigger. And those drones. They weren't casual. They were watching, broadcasting. Someone, somewhere, was meant to see this.
"Ah, damn it!" Dahlia hissed, fingers digging into her scalp. "Enough. Too much action for one night. I'm going home." She slung her delivery bag tighter against her shoulders and started down the pavement.
And yet, no matter how hard she tried to push it away, the image of the masked uma lingered. It replayed in her mind on an endless loop. The raven jacket, the impossible grace, the crimson arcs of light trailing her boots. Each time, Dahlia's heart quickened, heat rushing to her cheeks.
It had been years since she'd felt it, that spark. The fire that burned in her chest, the voice that once called her to the circuit, the feeling of a little girl stepping onto the track for the very first time.
And now, against her will, that same voice was calling again.
****
Rain drummed steadily against the pavement outside. Each drop a quiet tap against the glass doors of the convenience store. Now and then, the scrape of tires cutting through puddles broke the monotony, but otherwise the hum of the night shift reigned.
At the counter, the clerk yawned, stretching until his shoulders popped and his back cracked. He rubbed his dark brown eyes, pushed up the brim of his cap, and ran a hand through his short hair before catching his reflection in the glass. His gaze lingered on the name tag pinned crookedly to his chest. Yamamoto Daichi. A cheap bit of plastic pretending to mean something. He let out a long breath, leaning heavy against the counter, propping his chin on his hand.
Everyone loved to imagine they were the protagonist of some grand tale. Manga heroes whisked away to another world, anime leads brandishing swords to save humanity, destinies written in stars. But not him. No, Daichi wasn't anybody special. Just another faceless kid from Yokohama, fresh out of school and booted out of his parents' house when they'd finally grown tired of his freeloading. Tired of his endless gaming marathons, the towers of energy drink cans, and the garbage heap of ramen cups festering in his room until even gnats wouldn't leave.
"Lazy." "Good-for-nothing." The words stuck, but he didn't buy them. He wasn't lazy. Just not stupid enough to play along with the scam everyone else called life. Higher education? A joke. You grind through years of exams, crawl into debt, then spend the rest of your life slaving in a suit until you die at your desk. No glory, no memory, just another cog chewed up and spit out by the machine. He only had to look at his father to know it. That man's vacant eyes, the way his shoulders sagged under invisible weight. Proof of what 'success' really bought. The thought curdled in Daichi's gut more than any insult his parents ever spat at him.
Still, he didn't blame them for throwing him out. Not anymore. It had been brutal, sure, but it forced him to grow up, or at least pretend to. The road back had been ugly and humiliating, but with a little help from his estranged uncle, he had clawed together a spot in Tokyo.
He scoffed. A convenience store name tag, a dead-end shift, and the faint stink of old coffee on his uniform. Some life.
Adjusting his cap, Daichi tapped his fingers against the counter, eyes drifting to the clock as its hands crawled toward two in the morning. Four more hours before he could clock out and leave this graveyard shift behind. Weeknights were always the worst. Slow as sludge, and the only customers who wandered in were the kind that reminded him how far he hadn't gotten.
There were the wannabe gangsters. The bottom rung of the yakuza totem pole: slicked-back hair under knockoff aviators, cheap suits straining at the seams, tacky shirts with too many buttons undone. Fake gold jangling from their wrists and necks, accents laid on thick, trying too hard to be someone they weren't. And then, of course, the sad salarymen, stumbling in half-dead with exhaustion and booze, clutching energy drinks like lifelines, their eyes hollow, their shoulders caving under the invisible weight of debts and deadlines.
That was his clientele. His kingdom. His future, if he wasn't careful.
Except… there was one customer. One exception. The only thing keeping this job from grinding him into dust. That, and a little indulgence a coworker had introduced him to. One he told himself he could quit watching any time.
His gaze locked on the live feed glowing from his propped-up phone. The chatbox beneath it erupted in a blur of rapid-fire comments, racing too fast to follow. The picture jumped between angles, the frame jerking with speed and motion. Daichi's jaw clenched until his teeth ached. His fingers hammered against the counter in restless rhythm, the muscles in his forearm straining with the effort. His breathing had gone shallow without him realizing, eyes wide, pupils catching every flicker of light as if his whole body had been hijacked by the screen.
Then, the sharp beep of the sliding door, followed by the scrape of steel across tile.
Daichi jolted like he'd been shocked. His hand shot to the phone, slamming it face down so hard it rattled the counter. A pulse of panic ran through him as he straightened, plastering on the stiff, too-practiced smile of a cashier, praying whoever walked in hadn't noticed.
"Welco—"
The word died in his throat. His eyes widened.
Dahlia stepped through the door, soaked to the bone, rain streaming from her jacket, dripping from her hair to spatter across the linoleum. She looked less like a customer and more like the storm itself had dragged her inside.
"Damn, Dahlia," Daichi said, ducking under the counter to grab a towel. He tossed it across to her. "You really gotta quit running in weather like this. You'll catch pneumonia before you catch a paycheck."
She caught the towel with practiced ease, smirking as she dropped her delivery bag to the floor and peeled off her cap. Shaking her head, she let her black hair spill free before ruffling it dry. "What are you, my mom?"
Daichi snorted, though his eyes betrayed him. They flicked downward, catching on the cling of wet fabric against her chest before he jerked his gaze away, heat flooding his face. He busied himself with rearranging a pack of gum that didn't need arranging.
Dahlia finished, folding the towel neatly before laying it on the counter. She tilted her head. "Slow night?"
"Same as always," Daichi muttered, rubbing his temple with a sigh. "You've got the drunks who should've passed out hours ago, the spineless corporate drones dragging themselves in for another caffeine fix, and the local tough guy types in knockoffs with the collective IQ of a sack of sewer rocks." He leaned back in his chair, lips curling. "Used to get a few UMAI runners through here, but not anymore. Guess they've all shifted to safer routes."
He jerked his chin toward the street, the distant wail of sirens cutting faintly through the rain. "And with how many of those I've heard tonight? Yeah… can't say I blame them."
"Tell me about it." Dahlia rolled her eyes as she made her way to the chillers at the back. She tugged one open, the cold mist spilling out as she grabbed a sports drink, then shut it with a quiet thud. "Used to be me and a dozen other girls fighting for a slice of the central turf. Now? Graveyard shift's down to maybe three of us. Everyone else packed up and moved east."
As she turned back toward the counter, Daichi's eyes drifted to her boots. They'd seen far better days. The leather scuffed raw, fabric ripped and stained with dirt and muck. Each boot was strung with mismatched laces, frayed and faded. He scratched the back of his head, wincing a little at the sight.
"You really ought to get yourself a new pair," he said. "Those look ready to give out any day now."
"Believe me, I would if I could," Dahlia muttered, setting the bottle on the counter with a soft clack. "But these are the last good ones I've got left from my racing days. Another decent pair would run me at least a hundred big, and I don't exactly have that kind of pocket change." She slipped off her jacket and tied it loosely around her waist. "Not when there are bills to cover. And Scarlet's meds…" She faltered, ears twitching as her gaze darkened. "Medication isn't cheap."
Daichi's expression sobered, the trace of humor slipping from his face. "How's she holding up?"
Dahlia exhaled, her shoulders sinking. "I still catch myself thinking I'll walk into the living room and see her at the stove, making breakfast for me and dad with that silly little smile of hers." A faint, tired smile flickered across her face. "She used to drive me insane, you know. Going on and on about her days at Tracen. Her friends, her trainer, the lessons, every race down to the last detail. Back then I wished I could tape her mouth shut just to get a little peace." Her smile faltered, eyes dimming. "Now… I'd give anything to hear her go on like that again."
"Any news from her last appointment?" Daichi asked.
"There's been some talk," Dahlia said, her tone measured. "Experimental procedures they're trying on umas with injuries like hers. But… it's all unproven. And expensive. Way out of reach right now." She gave a small shake of her head, ears flicking as she looked away. "I'm barely keeping us afloat as it is."
He picked up the drink and passed it across the scanner. The register beeped. "Then let me help," he said quietly. "I could float you a loan. Pay me back whenever you can."
Dahlia let out a short laugh, though there wasn't much humor in it. "With what money?" she smirked. "No offense, but you don't exactly scream 'rolling in cash.'" She glanced at the total glowing on the register, slid out her card, and tapped it against the reader. The register dinged, spitting out a receipt.
"Oh, hilarious," Daichi deadpanned, giving her a flat look. "I'll have you know, I have investments."
"Gunpla is not an investment, Daichi." Dahlia cracked open her drink, taking a long gulp before sighing. A smirk curled across her lips. "Now that hits the spot." She leaned onto the counter, bottle neck dangling between her fingers. "By the way, you're not gonna believe what happened earlier tonight."
"Oh?" Daichi arched a brow, leaning in. "Alright, you've got me curious."
"Well, since you asked so nicely…" Dahlia's gaze locked with his. "I ran into Detective Nishimura."
Daichi's eyes went wide. "Wait, Nishimura? The old guy who handled Scarlet's case?"
"Same one." She nodded curtly. "Still don't like him, but that's not the point." She took another pull from her drink. "The point is what he told me. Wanted me off graveyard runs. Said umas have been tearing up Tokyo with street races."
Daichi froze. The color drained from his face as his jaw went slack. His eyes flicked, almost instinctively, toward his phone. He caught himself too late, swallowing hard, forcing his lips into something like a smile. His knuckles tapped the counter in a nervous rhythm.
"Can you imagine?" Dahlia laughed, shaking her head. "Umas running illegal circuits, like those underground car crews with neon rigs and exhaust pipes bigger than my leg. I thought he was kidding at first." She hesitated. "That was… until I saw them."
Daichi's laugh came thin, breaking halfway. "Y-you… saw them?"
"Yeah." Dahlia straightened, animated now, hands sketching shapes in the air. "Not far from here either. They came out of nowhere, and the one in front… Daichi, I swear I've never seen anything like it. She slid across the road like a drift car. Like the ones from that anime you love so much. I didn't even know an uma could do that."
Her words hung in the air. Daichi's smile faltered, his gaze dropping to the counter as if he were afraid she could see something written in his face. His fingers tapped harder, faster, the sound nearly drowned by the hum of the store's fluorescent lights.
"Hey." Dahlia arched a brow, studying him. "You alright? You're looking a little pale."
The sudden buzz of his phone against the counter made Daichi jolt like he'd been shocked. The device rattled across the laminate, and his hands flailed in a frantic grab before freezing midair. His eyes darted to Dahlia, throat working as he swallowed hard.
Her eyes widened at the display, then curved into a mischievous smirk.
"Oooh, what's this?" she teased, flashing her teeth. "Some dirty little secret? Either you've got yourself a girlfriend… or you finally grew a pair and signed up for some slip-and-slide down at Kabukichō."
"Wait—what?! No!" Daichi blurted. His hands waved defensively. "God, no! What's wrong with you? It's perfectly normal for a guy to get a little… irrationally jumpy, alright?!"
"Uh-huh. Sure." Dahlia's grin widened. "Then I guess you won't mind if I—"
Before he could react, she snatched the phone off the counter and hopped back a step. Daichi lunged, fingers grazing air an inch short.
"Hey, no fair!" he shouted. "That's private!"
"Smile," Dahlia quipped, holding the phone up to his face. The screen unlocked instantly with a soft chime. She swiped, the glow lighting her features. Then, her expression fell flat, the teasing draining from her eyes. "…Hold on. What's this?"
Daichi vaulted around the counter, arms outstretched, but Dahlia slipped easily aside. He stumbled, catching his toe on the edge of a mat, and went sprawling face-first into the floor with a painful thud.
Unfazed, Dahlia scrolled through the app. A chart filled the screen, lined with umas she didn't recognize. Each photo was masked, each name foreign, arranged neatly from first place to last. Her brow furrowed as she swiped again. This time to odds, payouts, and bets listed in clean rows.
Her eyebrow arched. "Are you… gambling? On umas? But… there's no betting in official URA races."
"It's not like that!" Daichi scrambled up, lunged again, only for her to sidestep him with ease. He crashed down a second time, his groan muffled against the tile.
Dahlia barely spared him a glance, tilting her head as she tapped another tab. A replay. Her thumb hovered, then pressed.
The video burst to life. Drone footage: a pack of umas tearing through city streets, weaving between cars, skidding through alleys, boots striking sparks off the asphalt. Dahlia's breath hitched. The feed cut tighter, tracking the leader. Her movements sharp, impossible, sliding across the rain-slick roads as if she were born for them.
Dahlia's eyes went wide. It was her. The uma she had seen earlier, dressed in raven motifs, mask hiding her eyes. The name burned bright beside the image: Midnight Queen.
Daichi finally managed to snatch the phone from her grip. His thumb flew across the screen, scrolling in a panic—until his eyes widened. He dragged a hand through his hair with a groan. "Aw, man… Queen again? Seriously?" He buried his face in his palm. "There goes my lunch money. Guess it's another week of cup ramen. Betting on Seven Heaven. What a joke."
When he looked up, Dahlia's expression stopped him cold. Her face had gone slack, her eyes locked on him with something between disbelief and fury.
"Daichi," she said slowly, finger lifting to point at him. "What did I just see? Who was that uma?" Her voice sharpened, rising with every word. "And how long have you known?"
She stepped in close, her eyes flashing, and seized him by the front of his shirt. "What's going on?"
"Easy, hey, easy!" Daichi lifted his hands in surrender. "Calm down. Just, breathe, alright?"
"Spill it. Every single bit, or I swear on whatever gods you believe in, I'll kick you so hard you'll be halfway to Hawaii before you figure out what hit you," Dahlia snapped, teeth bared.
Daichi flinched. "Look, it's… it's complicated, okay? This isn't just a secret. It's super-secret. The guys who got me into it were very clear, don't blab to anyone." He swallowed, eyes darting to the phone in his hand as if it might explode facts at any second.
Her grip tightened until the fabric of his shirt creaked. Dahlia's jaw worked. "You think I don't know what 'super-secret' sounds like? Talk."
Daichi forced a grin that didn't reach his eyes. He held up both hands in mock supplication. "Alright, alright. For you, I'll make an exception." He blinked rapidly, then added, a little sheepish, "But seriously, don't kick me to Hawaii. I can't swim."
Dahlia finally released him, and Daichi smoothed out his uniform with forced calm. "You know," he muttered, half-heartedly, "you could've just asked."
Her low growl snapped him back, shoulders stiffening. "Alright, alright." He drew in a deep breath. "Here's the deal. You know the URA. The Umamusume Racing Association. They run all the national circuits, prefecture races, the Twinkle Series. The clean, official stuff."
He leaned closer, eyes flicking to the door as though the night itself might be listening. "But what you don't know about… is the MRA."
Dahlia tilted her head, brow furrowed. "The what now?"
"The Midnight Run Association," Daichi said. "Think of it as the URA's evil twin. Umas have been racing in underground circuits for decades. Since the eighties, at least. No one knows the exact story, but from what I've gathered, it started with a fracture. Some wanted it to stay harmless, for fun. Others? They had… darker goals. And let's just say, the yakuza were never far away."
Dahlia's arms crossed, her unease clear in the twitch of her ears.
"Push came to shove," Daichi continued, "and the darker side lost. Officially. They were forced into the shadows. But they never died out. For years, the races stayed hidden. Word of mouth, coded flyers, ads buried in the back pages of newspapers." He paused, almost reluctant to go on. "But now? Something's changed. Word is, a new Director's taken charge. And he's dragging the MRA into the future."
He swiped across his phone, screen casting an eerie glow between them. "This. The Midnight Run app. Full rosters, stats, odds, payouts. Bets and races streamed in real time. Every runner, every team, every circuit at your fingertips."
Dahlia stared at the screen, her stomach knotting as the reality sank in. She was right, but the reveal brought her no comfort. This wasn't just reckless umas messing around on empty roads. This was bigger. Organized. Dangerous.
"How long has this been going on? And how long have you been into it?" Dahlia demanded.
"Me? A few months, tops." Daichi held up both hands like a man warding off a punch. "I swear I haven't taken out loans or anything." He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking away. "Least, not yet." He muttered the last under his breath and forced a smile.
Dahlia's glare sharpened. He flinched under it.
"I haven't gone all in, honest!" he rushed on. "A couple hundred here, a grand there. I win some, lose some. I'm still new at this. As for how long this whole thing had been running. Hell, months, years? It's only getting louder now as more and more umas have begun forming crews. Word spreading, feeds going live. That's why you're seeing so many of them on the streets."
"But why risk everything out there?" Dahlia shook her head. "There are a hundred ways for umas to make something of themselves without turning into… this. Forget the Twinkle Series; there are other circuits, other jobs. Why gamble your life on the curb?"
Daichi's expression softened, not with pity, but with a worn, cutting logic. "Well, what would you do if you don't make the cut?" he asked quietly. The question fell between them like a stone. "You said it yourself. You never made it past the qualifiers. Never set foot through Tracen's gates."
Dahlia's ears sank, the truth pressing into her chest like a fresh bruise.
"You've read the stories," Daichi went on. "Umas are born to run. So what happens to the ones who never reach the academy? Who never stand on a podium, never see their names in lights or on billboards? What happens to the ones who are just… forgotten? Another face in the crowd. Another failure nobody remembers."
He exhaled hard. "The world doesn't care about losers, Dahlia. It chews them up and spits them out. Look me… look at us." He gestured between them. "So tell me, if someone handed you one shot at money, power, fame. Your one and only shot, wouldn't you take it? Wouldn't you risk it all to make it happen?"
Dahlia parted her lips as if to argue, but no words came. Her gaze faltered, slipping away from him, the bitter truth settling heavy in her chest. Her hand tightened around the empty bottle in her grip.
Daichi scoffed, shaking his head. "Truth is, I'd give anything to run like you." He slid back behind the counter, elbows sinking into the laminate as he leaned forward. "Doesn't matter what's waiting out there. Glory or getting smeared across the front of a bus. At least I'd go out doing something that felt like it mattered. Beats standing here night after night, counting coffee stains and asking yourself why you even bother existing."
Dahlia turned to him, the corners of her mouth tightening. "Daichi… you don't mean that."
"I do. More than you know." He looked at her for a long second, something raw and earnest in his eyes. "Listen, please, please, keep this between us. I've already said too much. I don't want the cops sniffing around here, or worse, the MRA themselves. I hate this shift, but it pays the bills."
Dahlia studied him, the silence between them stretched taut. At last she gave a small, reluctant nod. Not forgiveness, not even understanding, just the weary acknowledgment of two people gnawed at by the same hunger. She reached for her cap, slipping it on and pulling it low. She then slung her delivery bag over her shoulders.
"It's late. I'd better get going," she said, tugging the strap snug. "See you around, Daichi."
He nodded as she headed for the entrance. The doors hissed open, only to chime again as someone stepped inside.
The man was tall, average build, clad in a red-and-black checkered flannel and black jeans, black sneakers half-drowned by rain. A heavy overcoat hung from his shoulders, hood drawn low. Water streamed down its surface, dripping steadily onto the tile. As Dahlia passed him, stepping into the downpour, he stilled. His head turned, dark eyes tracking her as she disappeared down the slick sidewalk. Only once she was gone did he move again.
"Welcome," Daichi greeted.
The man pulled down his hood. Shoulder-length black hair clung damply to his face. A rough stubble shadowed his jaw. Under the halogen lights, his pale skin carried a faint glow. Daichi knew at a glance. He wasn't Japanese.
"Long night, Mister Deschain?" Daichi asked with a crooked grin.
"Please," the man rasped, gesturing lightly with his hand. "I've been coming here every night for two years. Just call me Logan."
"Logan it is." Daichi turned, plucking two packs of Marlboro Reds from the shelf and sliding them onto the counter. "The usual."
"Yeah." Logan reached into his coat and pulled out a wad of crumpled notes, smoothing them against the counter before setting them down. As Daichi began straightening the bills, Logan's gaze shifted to the rain-slick window, lingering a moment before returning. "Friend of yours?"
"Guess you could say that," Daichi said, feeding the notes into the register. "She usually swings by around this time."
Logan arched a brow. "Dangerous for an uma to be out at this hour," he murmured. "Especially with everything going on lately."
"S-she's… she knows," Daichi muttered, rubbing the back of his head. "She just… has a lot on her plate, you know? Life piles it on." His eyes flicked toward a faded poster of Maruzensky on the wall, smiling bright with an energy drink in her hand. "Not everyone gets to be a Tracen champ, living the dream."
Logan's gaze lingered on him. He took the packs, slipped them into the inside of his coat with a slow, deliberate motion. "Yeah," he said at last, the word carrying more weight than agreement.
****
The slap of sneakers on wet pavement echoed in the empty street, each step splashing through shallow puddles as Logan moved down the sidewalk. A cigarette clung to his lips, its ember glowing faintly as smoke trailed beneath his hood. Water drummed steady on the fabric above, streaming down the long line of his coat. One hand slipped free of his pocket, pale fingers glinting with silver and leather bracelets slicked by rain. He lifted his wrist, eyes dropping to the cracked glass of his watch. He scoffed softly and slid his hand back into the warmth of his coat.
From the shadows of a stairwell, three figures emerged, spreading across the pavement like vultures closing in. Logan halted. His eyes narrowed, cold recognition setting in. Cheap suits gone shiny at the elbows, loud Hawaiian shirts dulled with too many washes, fake gold chains that caught the lamplight but not the weight of real metal. Their smirks were the kind that begged to be broken.
Logan plucked the cigarette from his mouth and flicked it aside. The rain hissed as it hit the pavement. He ground it out beneath his heel before lifting his gaze to meet theirs.
"Boys," he said, curt, carrying the weight of a warning.
The one in the gaudy red suit swaggered forward, hands stuffed in his pockets, his smirk dripping with cheap bravado. His chin tilted high, lips pursed in that insufferable way men like him always wore. Like a rat puffing itself up to look dangerous. It made Logan's patience itch.
"Logan. Funny seeing you out here," the man drawled. The two at his flanks, dressed in equally garish blue and purple suits, snickered on cue. "Must be a—"
"Cut the shit, Nishitani." Logan's tone cracked through the night like a whip. "I've told you and your boss more than once—the answer's no." His gaze flicked to the narrow alley beside them, calculating. Then back. "So how about we skip the preamble and finish this quick."
Nishitani's smirk sharpened. He cracked his knuckles with a pop. "That works for me."
****
Logan slammed back into a stack of boxes, the crash scattering glass bottles that rolled and clinked across the cracked pavement. Garbage bags split, their contents spilling as he slumped against the wall. Blood traced from his nose and lip, bruises already purpling his cheek. The other two lingered at the edge of the alley, grinning with their hands buried in their pockets, watching like jackals circling a wounded beast. Content to let the man have his fun while they fed on the spectacle.
Nishitani flexed his bloody knuckles, shaking them loose with a wince. "Damn, that stings," he hissed, then ran a hand through his slicked hair, grinning through his teeth. "You know, I really don't get you."
Logan's face stayed hidden in the shadow of his hood, unmoving.
"The boss is dangling a golden leash in front of you. Cash, penthouse, limo, the works," Nishitani went on, swaggering closer. "Me? I'd kill for half that. But you…" He leaned in. "You're too proud for it. Former champion trainer, wasn't it? And now? Washed-up convict, rotting in back alleys."
Still, Logan didn't stir.
Nishitani's smirk twisted, his words turning sharp. "Yeah, the boss remembers you. Youngest national trainer, leading umas to titles across the States. Not just winners, legends. And then… one bad day, and it all goes to shit." He gave a low chuckle, mean and satisfied. "Damn shame."
Logan spat blood at the pavement, rain washing it into a thin red streak. His voice was flat, cutting through the patter of rain. "You done?"
"Nah, far from it," Nishitani snapped, the lazy swagger gone from his face. "Boss is done waiting. The MRA's swallowing tracks, moving fast, and he wants in. But none of those girls pull in the kind of dough he's after unless there's someone who knows how to win at the wheel."
"That's rich." Logan straightened, rain sliding off his shoulders as he brushed the dirt from his coat. His eyes locked on Nishitani, cold and unblinking. "First off, I don't give a damn about your boss, and I care even less about whatever half-baked scheme he thinks he's running." His words dropped, hard as stone. "Second, I buried that life years ago. If you think I'm about to crawl back into your little circus, you're barking up the wrong tree."
Nishitani's grin vanished. He lunged, snagging Logan by the collar and hauling him close, breath hot and foul. "You listen to me, you little shit," he hissed, eyes razor-hard. "You're going to take the boss up on his offer. You're going to train those girls." He leaned in. "Because we wouldn't want anything… unfortunate… happening to your little girl at the Academy, now would we?"
Logan's eyes widened; the color drained from his face as a cold stillness settled over the alley. Rain ticked against concrete. The sound magnified in the sudden hush.
"Got your attention, gaijin?" Nishitani sneered, punctuation in his smirk. "Now be a good little boy and—"
Nishitani didn't finish. Logan's fingers closed around his wrist like a vice, and the grin slid off Nishitani's face as the pressure tightened. He tried to wrench free; his hand slipped, then loosened as a sharp, strangled curse escaped him. For the first time, Nishitani met a look that was not indifferent. There was a cold, burning rage behind Logan's eyes.
"Back home we have three rules about threats," Logan said. "Never touch a man's work. Never touch his wife." He leaned in. "And never, ever threaten his daughter." He let the last word hang, razor-thin.
Before Nishitani could react, Logan surged. He drove his forehead into Nishitani's face with a brutal, practiced motion. The man staggered, blood fountaining from his nose as he pitched backward and hit the pavement with a heavy thud. He didn't move.
The two hangers-on froze, mouths open, then shifted to anger. Logan pulled down his hood and cracked his neck, rain plastering his hair to his scalp, and leveled them with a hard look.
"So, you boys just gonna stand there, or are you coming to collect?" he asked.
They exchanged a glance, then charged.
****
The rasp of flint against steel cut through the rain, then a flame flickered to life. Logan lit the end of his cigarette, dragging deep before exhaling a slow plume of smoke that curled into the storm. He snapped the lighter shut with a metallic click and slid it back into his coat.
His gaze lifted briefly to the sliver of night sky framed by the alley's walls, then dropped to the three bodies sprawled at his feet. Bruised, bloodied, teeth scattered like loose change across wet concrete. Broken men in more ways than one. Logan shook his head and let out a sharp breath, not triumph, not even satisfaction, just a tired sort of regret.
He shoved his raw, bloodied hands into his pockets and turned away, sneakers splashing through shallow puddles as he disappeared deeper into the alley, the storm raging on over Tokyo.