The soft ding of the brass bell, the low hum of jazz spilling from the speakers, and the hiss of steaming milk blended into the easy rhythm of the café. Mornings at Rococo had never been livelier. The streets outside were alive with chatter and anticipation. She Sprinters Stakes in Chiba had the whole town buzzing. Behind the counter, Saburo drew a perfect leaf into the froth of a latte, his wrinkled lips curving into a satisfied smile. Turning, he placed it gently on the counter and hit the bell. A young man stepped up, offering a polite nod before whisking it away.
Business had been booming ever since a few write-ups and viral posts turned the humble café into a hotspot. Saburo never cared much for social media. He still preferred his paper and pen, but his grandchildren insisted it was the future for places like his. And maybe they were right. When star racers from Tracen dropped by for a quiet slice of cake and a cup of tea, the fans flooded in behind them. Photos, autographs, hashtags, lines wrapped around the block some days. Saburo was grateful, even proud, though a part of him couldn't help but sigh at how fame seemed to steer the world now.
The door chimed again, its familiar note breaking his thoughts. Logan stepped in and pulled down his hood. Saburo noticed but said nothing, keeping his eyes on the cup he was drying. Logan crossed the floor, dragging a stool out with a metallic scrape before sitting down. Like muscle memory, Saburo turned and set a steaming cup of black coffee before him.
Logan stared into the dark surface, fingers steepled, his reflection rippling in the stillness. Before Saburo could turn away, he spoke. Quiet, awkward. "Look… I'm sorry. About what I said. I shouldn't have yelled."
Saburo wiped his hands on a rag, his face unreadable. "Not accepted."
Logan's brow furrowed, ready to respond, but the old man raised a hand. "Because I'm the one who should be sorry."
The words caught Logan off guard. Saburo shrugged, tossing the rag aside. "You were right. I had no business demanding anything from you, not after you made your boundaries clear." His gaze drifted to a framed photograph sitting among others behind the counter. In it, a young man stood beside a black-haired uma with golden streaks and a laughing child in her arms.
"It's just…" Saburo's tone softened. "Every time I look at you, I see that same kid who once stood tall. The one who took on the world and proved everyone wrong, again and again."
Saburo's gaze shifted back to Logan, his expression a blend of memory and melancholy. "For the longest time, the racing world was just one big old boys' club," he began. "A bunch of crusty old bastards stuck in their ways, still riding the fumes of their glory days and convincing themselves they were the same hotshots everyone used to worship."
He shook his head, planting his hands on his hips. "Then you came along like a bat outta hell. Some scrappy kid from the gutters who didn't just want to run with the big boys, but to beat 'em at their own game. And you did." His voice softened, almost reverent. "By God, you really did."
Logan said nothing. His gaze stayed fixed on his hands, fingers steepled before him, the faint tremor of thought flickering behind his eyes.
Saburo drew a long breath, his shoulders rising and falling. "It hurts, you know," he said quietly. "Seeing that fire in your eyes just… gone. You used to walk into a room and everyone could feel it. Hell, you didn't even have to say a word."
He let out a short, pained chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. "Reminds me when Bee told me she was getting married, I damn near dropped my favorite mug. My goddaughter's a hell of a racer, but that temper of hers could've made even the toughest yakuza cry." A faint smile tugged at his lips. "I remember wondering who the poor fool was. I was even considering telling him to make for the hills."
His eyes met Logan's, warm despite the years behind them. "And when you walked through my door… it all made sense."
A quiet smile ghosted across Logan's face, small but genuine, like an ember rekindled beneath the ash.
Saburo drew a long, steadying breath. "Before Melody was born. Before Bee…" He paused, his tone faltering just for a heartbeat before he gathered himself again. "Me and her used to talk a lot on the phone. And you know what she always came back to? You."
His eyes softened, distant with memory. "She'd go on and on about you. How amazing you were, how your girls kept bagging win after win all over the world. She was so damn proud of you." He touched a hand to his chest. "Hell, I was proud of you."
The faint smile on Logan's face slipped away, leaving only silence.
"What happened was tragic," Saburo went on. "No one's denying that. We can't change the past. But after you got out. After you came here… something happened. You stopped being you. You let people shove a finger in your face and tell you you're no good. That you deserved every bit of hell you get." His gaze darkened. "And you started believing them."
He lifted a finger. "Let me tell you something you already know. The world's cold. Cruel. Dark. It'll beat you down to your knees and keep you there if you let it." He folded his arms, eyes boring into Logan's. "You ain't new at this. You've taken the hits, and every damn time you got back up and hit back twice as hard. But it ain't life putting its boot on your neck now, Logan." His words dropped, almost a growl. "It's you."
Logan's face tightened, the muscles in his jaw firm, but his eyes held a quiet, reluctant warmth.
"You're like a son to me," Saburo said, the edges softening with emotion. "And just like Bee, I'm always goanna love you. No matter what, no matter how far you fall." He paused, letting the words settle between them. "You were the best thing that ever happened to her. And for that, I'll be grateful till the day I die."
He drew in a slow breath, shoulders sinking as though the weight of years pressed down. "This'll be the last time I bring this up," he said quietly. "You can keep tellin' yourself the life you have now is some kind of penance if that helps you sleep at night. But until you learn to forgive yourself. Until you start believing in the man you used to be, you'll never get back what you've lost."
His words dropped, low and heavy with sincerity. "And I'm sorry if that stings, but it's the truth. Because this?" He gestured toward Logan with a wave of his hand. "It ain't what Bee would've wanted for you."
Silence settled between them. Long, taut, and uneasy. The faint hum of jazz and the chatter of the patrons were the only sounds that dared to fill it. Then, the moment shattered.
The roar of an engine tore through the quiet, deep and guttural, powerful enough to rattle the tall café windows. Logan's head snapped toward the sound, his eyes widening in recognition. He knew that growl anywhere, pure American muscle. A Shelby GT-500 rolled up to the curb outside, maroon paint gleaming beneath the morning sun, twin white racing stripes running clean from hood to tail. It idled with a low, throaty purr that carried through the glass.
Saburo arched an eyebrow, the car, and the man stepping out of it, both strangers to him. The newcomer straightened as he shut the door, the hem of his brown trench coat brushing his knees. Beneath it, a navy suit, crisp white shirt, and matching tie gave him an air of cold precision. He adjusted his cuffs once, then looked toward the café.
The café door swung open with a soft chime as the young man stepped inside, the scent of cologne and engine oil trailing in with him. His hazel eyes swept over the space. First curious, then lighting up with genuine awe, like a kid walking into a candy shop. Logan tilted his head, studying him quietly. One look was all it took to know the guy wasn't local. Saburo seemed to pick up on it too.
The newcomer made his way straight to the counter, all easy confidence. "Hey, mornin'," he greeted, his Japanese fluent enough but still laced with an unmistakable foreign edge. He lifted his phone, double-checked the name on the screen, then looked back up with a grin. "You must be Hattori-san, yeah? Pleasure ta finally meet ya." He extended a hand across the counter.
Saburo eyed it for a beat before accepting the shake. "And you are?"
"Detective Harlow," he said with a sharp grin. "But everybody just calls me Red."
Logan's brows lifted slightly at the name. Familiar, unmistakably so.
"Gotta say, I saw your place in Uma Weekly and figured I had to swing by," Red went on, looking around with unguarded enthusiasm. "Don't mean ta brag, but I'm kinda a sucker for anything with umas."
"Likewise," Saburo replied, releasing his hand with a small chuckle. "So then, Detective, what can I get you?"
Red's eyes flicked up toward the chalkboard menu, squinting at the handwritten scrawl before flashing a grin. "Eh, how 'bout you surprise me? Somethin' sweet. Got a long day ahead, an' I could use somethin' to take the edge off."
"Comin' right up," Saburo said, wiping his hands on his apron before turning to the espresso machine, the low hum of steaming milk filling the space.
Red rubbed his palms together, grinning like a man about to get his first coffee of the day. His gaze drifted to the man sitting next to him, and his brow arched. "Hey," he said casually, "ya don't look like you're from 'round here."
Logan turned his head just enough to look at him, his expression flat. "What gave that away?"
Red let out a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Heh, yeah, that came out wrong," he admitted. "Ain't every day I bump into another white guy in the middle of Tokyo. So, where ya from, if ya don't mind me askin'?"
"The States," Logan replied evenly. "Louisville. And judging by that accent, I'd say you're from New York… Brooklyn?"
Red blinked, then broke into a grin. "Well, I'll be damned, another American!" He gave Logan a light nudge with his elbow. "An' yeah, you nailed it. Brooklyn, born an' raised. Pizza, street dogs, Lady freakin' Liberty, an' the goddamn Yankees." He exhaled with a grin, shaking his head. "Christ, just talkin' about it's makin' me homesick already."
Logan grunted, his fingers curling around the handle of his mug. He lifted it, took a slow sip, and let the bitterness sit on his tongue before lowering it again. "You're a long way from home," he said quietly. "On assignment?"
"Sorta," Red replied, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Used ta work the streets in L.A. 'bout a decade back. Part'a the C.H.A.S.E. division. Me an' my partner were there from day one."
Logan's gaze flicked toward him, his eyes narrowing as the name clicked into place.
Red paused, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. "Heard o' C.H.A.S.E.?" he asked. "If ya haven't, lemme know now. 'Cause I'm goanna have ta fry your brain with the whole rundown before we get to the good stuff."
"I might have," Logan admitted. "And I know what you lot do. Especially when it comes to the MRA."
"Oh, hell yeah." Red caught it and smirked. "Anyway, we got real good at what we did. So good, the brass figured, why keep all the fun stateside? Next thing I know, they're sendin' us all over the damn planet helpin' other countries build their own C.H.A.S.E. divisions."
He leaned an elbow against the counter, counting off on his fingers. "London, Munich, Dubai, Mumbai, Singapore, Kuala Lumpur, Manila, Seoul, Shanghai. You name it. Dozens'a cities in three years. Ain't exactly what I'd call a desk job."
Saburo glanced back from the espresso machine, half-listening.
Red shrugged, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. "But somethin' tells me Japan's gonna be a long haul. MRA mess's been blowin' up fast, an' from what I seen so far? We're only just scratchin' the surface." His grin stretched wide, mischief flickering in his eyes. "Bet ya heard'a my partner, goes by Wild Lightning."
Saburo nearly lost his grip on the steel jug he was holding, catching it just in time. Logan, meanwhile, tilted his head slightly.
"Yeah, that's the one," Red went on proudly. "Thirteen freakin' Crowns, Triple Grand Prix winner. There ain't a single crew in the MRA that don't know her name, an' you can bet every hotshot in the URA stops dead in their tracks when she walks by. Girl's a champ, in every damn sense of the word."
"Huh," Logan said flatly.
"Me an' her? We were thick as freakin' thieves," Red said with a grin, jerking a thumb toward his chest. "Lost count'a how many crews we took down together. We made the MRA bleed all across the States, lemme tell ya. Word got 'round so bad, they started callin' us Red Lightning." He chuckled, shaking his head. "An' yeah, let's just say them mooks weren't exactly throwin' confetti every time we crashed their little shindigs."
Logan huffed a faint laugh. "Cute," he muttered, his accent slipping heavier. "Sounds a whole lot like a rock band."
Red smirked. "Yeah, well, maybe we played loud enough to earn it." He then leaned in closer, lowering his tone conspiratorially, grin still plastered across his face. "But lemme tell ya, what I wouldn't give ta meet the guy who trained her. Logan Deschain, the Hand of God himself." He jabbed a thumb at his chest. "I'm tellin' ya, I'm one'a his biggest freakin' fans!"
Saburo let out a sharp snort, turning quickly back to his work, shoulders shaking as he tried, and failed, to hold back a laugh. Logan shot him a sharp glare, but Red, completely oblivious, kept right on talking.
"Man's a straight-up legend," Red said, grinning wide as he leaned on the counter. "Ain't a soul in the States that don't know his name. Every single uma he trained went on ta make history. All fifteen of 'em. World called 'em the Godly Fifteen. Lightning's one'a 'em, too." He let out a wistful sigh, shaking his head. "God, what I wouldn't give ta have even a speck'a the guy's talent. Beats chasin' dirtbags through alleyways, that's for damn sure."
"Deschain," Logan said slowly, his gaze narrowing. "Don't bother you that the man's a convicted killer?"
The air seemed to thicken. Saburo's hand hesitated over the milk pitcher for just a second before he resumed pouring.
Red's grin faded, his face tightening. "Not goanna lie," he said quietly. "Tore me up at first. When the story broke, I was like everybody else. Didn't wanna believe it. Couldn't." He took a deep breath, eyes hardening as the words came. "Then I joined C.H.A.S.E., started seein' things up close. The kinda shit that went down in Strider under Rorke? The stuff his punk ass kid Johnny was runnin' on the side?" He scoffed, knuckles whitening as his hands curled into fists. "Made my blood boil and my damned stomach turn."
He exhaled sharply. "Look, by the book, yeah, Deschain's a felon. I'm a cop, I know what that means. But off the record?" His gaze flicked to Logan, steady and unshaken. "The guy's a damn hero in my book." He leaned in closer. "An' between you an' me? Ole' Johnny boy got off real easy. He wouldn't've lasted a damn day in general population. Not after the shit he pulled, and I'd bet my badge on that."
Logan gave a small shrug, lifting his mug and taking a slow sip. "Yeah," he muttered, the word trailing off with the faint steam rising from his coffee.
Saburo set a paper cup on the counter with a practiced flourish. "Here you go, the Saburo Special," he said with a grin. "Extra shot of everything. On the house."
Red's face lit up. "Hey, now we're talkin'." He popped the lid, took a deep whiff, and let out a satisfied sigh. "Goddamn, that's a real cup'a Joe right there. Think I just found my new hangout." He gave an approving nod before tapping his watch against the scanner. The register chimed in response.
"Well, duty calls," Red said, turning toward Logan with a playful salute. "Be seein' ya, pal, and try not ta get yourself in trouble, yeah?" He gave Logan a friendly pat on the shoulder, then headed for the door.
The bell above the frame jingled as he pushed it open and stepped back into the street.
Both Logan and Saburo watched him go in silence, the café settling back into its quiet rhythm as the door clicked shut.
****
The car gave a sharp beep as the locks clicked open. Red grabbed the handle, pulling the door open, then paused mid-step, one brow quirking. "Aw, hell, didn't even get the guy's name," he muttered, smirking to himself. "Eh, whatever. Next time."
He slid into the driver's seat and pulled the door shut with a solid thunk. The engine came to life with a deep, throaty roar that turned a few heads on the sidewalk. Grinning, Red tapped the steering wheel twice, easing the car into gear. The tires scraped lightly against the asphalt before the Shelby rolled out onto the sunlit street, its low growl fading as it disappeared down the block.
****
Saburo let out a short laugh, an amused grin tugging at his lips. "Are all you Yanks that painfully thick?"
"Unfortunately," Logan muttered with a heavy exhale. "And it's worse back home." His gaze steadied, a faint edge slipping into his tone. "That being said… Red Harlow. I've heard that name before. Back when I was still doin' time."
"You don't say?" Saburo leaned back, folding his arms across his chest.
Logan nodded slowly. "Yeah. Word got around, even inside. Kid's got a reputation. Comes from a family of cops. Fresh outta the academy and already crackin' cases the vets couldn't touch."
He paused, rubbing a thumb along his mug. "After he joined C.H.A.S.E., him and Lightning turned into the MRA's worst nightmare. Guys on the inside would spit and curse just hearin' their names. Hell, I even heard the mob had a hit lined up on 'em once after they wrecked a million-dollar run."
Saburo gave a low whistle. "Sounds like the kid's got chops."
"Word on the street is, he can throw a punch just as well as he can shoot," Logan said, smirking faintly. "But what really puts him above the rest? He's a devil behind the wheel. Outdrives most street racers without even tryin'. Hell, I'm shocked he ain't out there runnin' pro circuits already."
"Well, damn." Saburo chuckled, shaking his head. "Kid sounds a hell of a lot like you. Young, talented, maybe a little dumb, but he's got heart." His gaze drifted toward the door where Red had left moments before. "And now I can see why Lightning picked him."
"He's a little green for your talents, but looks like you've got your eye on some of his," Saburo said. "Guess it's true what they say. Everyone ends up where they're meant to be. Boy lives for the beat, you live for the track." He leaned forward, palms braced on the counter. "That being said… you think he and your girl are goanna be a problem for Dahlia?"
Logan met his gaze with a flat stare. "From what Lightning told me, they're just gettin' started. It's goanna be a while before she even gets that squad up to speed. Literally." He downed the rest of his coffee in one go, the mug landing back on the counter with a soft clink. "Hopefully by then, Dahlia'll have the sense to get her ass outta the MRA for good."
Saburo frowned, arms folding. "That ain't goanna happen if she keeps throwin' herself at it blind. You know that as well as I do."
The scrape of wood echoed as Logan pushed his stool back and rose to his feet. He straightened his jacket, eyes distant. "Yeah." He turned toward the door, prompting Saburo's brow to lift.
"Where you headed?" Saburo asked, confused. "You usually call it a night after this."
Logan paused at the threshold. "Later," he said, tugging on his hood. "Goanna see an old friend about some… tires."
Saburo blinked. "Tires? You don't even have a car. Why the hell would you—" His words trailed off as realization hit, his lips curling into a grin.
Logan glanced back, the faintest smirk ghosting across his face before he opened the door. The bell jingled softly as he stepped out into the morning light. Saburo watched him go, shaking his head before his gaze drifted to the photograph on the wall. The one with Bee's bright smile frozen in time.
"Hardass on the outside, soft as mochi on the inside," Saburo murmured, his grin fading into something gentler. "Guess you rubbed off on him more than I thought, Bee."
****
A week had crawled by since Dahlia's humiliating tumble at the MRA and her wipeout. The bruises had started to fade, but the sting hadn't. Every dawn since, she'd been out pounding the pavement, training until her lungs burned and her legs threatened to give way. Her boots struck hard against the cracked sidewalk, each step echoing through the narrow streets as sweat soaked through her shirt, plastering it to her back. The gray clouds overhead dulled the morning glare, but the air carried that telltale metallic tang she'd come to recognize. The storm was coming. Her ears twitched instinctively. The city was bracing for another long, wet week.
Tokyo's weather had turned foul lately. Rains, winds, even the occasional lightning strike splitting the skyline, but Dahlia didn't slow down. Most umas called it quits the moment the clouds rolled in, but not her. A storm meant fewer runners, and fewer runners meant more jobs. She'd take any delivery they threw her way, no matter how far or how late, no matter how many times Daichi told her she was pushing too hard.
She knew the risks. Slippery streets, reckless drivers, catching a fever, but risks didn't pay the bills. Scarlet's therapy sessions would soon eat into what little they had left, and Dahlia didn't mind shouldering it. If she had to run herself into the ground to keep the lights on, then that's what she'd do.
She tore across a crosswalk just as the light flashed red, forcing a sedan to screech to a halt. The driver's shout followed her, drowned out by the rhythm of her breathing and the slap of cleats against stone. She didn't look back. She never did. Shame trailed her like a shadow anyway. The whispers, the laughter, the not-so-subtle glances whenever someone recognized her from the videos posted on that damned app. It was always the same. Surprise first, then amusement. A snicker. A smirk. A little shake of the head that told her she was a walking punchline.
Not that it was anything new. Even before the fall from grace, back when she still ran the track, she'd been the odd one out. The girl who never cracked the top five no matter how hard she trained. The one they kept around to fill a gate, to make the real stars look brighter. She could still hear their laughter from the stands. Sharp, familiar, and cruel. But none of it cut as deep as her father's silence.
He never yelled, never scolded. Just stared. That look. The cold, unspoken disappointment, was worse than any insult the others could've thrown. Every sixth-place finish wasn't just her failure. It was his. And she could feel his resentment seeping into every practice, every dinner, every night spent pretending things were fine.
Dahlia rounded a corner, narrowly missing two salarymen as they stumbled aside, startled by the blur of black streaking past. Her breath came ragged, her muscles screaming, but she didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Maybe that was when the love curdled. When the man who raised her stopped seeing his daughter and started seeing a mistake. When "Black Dahlia" became a name spoken not with pride, but pity.
A name that, just like the tragedy it represented, had come to mean one thing—death. Death of hope. Death of dreams. Hers. Her father's. Scarlet's. All tangled together in the wreckage she kept running from, chasing ghosts she could never outrun.
****
Thunder split the sky, rolling across Tokyo in a deep, unrelenting growl. Rain hammered the city in sheets, drenching every street, every sign, every soul still wandering past midnight. The final trains had long since departed, stations sealed and silent, leaving only the pulse of neon to keep the night alive. The wet asphalt shimmered in streaks of color. Reflections bleeding together under the glow of convenience stores, ramen stands, and hostess clubs promising comfort for a price.
Dahlia walked beneath it all, hands buried in her jacket pockets, rain soaking through her clothes until her long black hair clung to her back like silk thread. Her boots splashed through shallow puddles, her steps slow. She barely felt the cold anymore. It was just another weight she carried.
She lifted her gaze to the glowing signboards that lined the street. Smiling umas staring down at her from behind fogged glass. Young, beautiful, painted in light and perfume, their faces plastered across clubs that promised warmth and pleasure to those who could afford it. Dahlia's jaw tightened. Girls like her had no business here, and yet she couldn't look away.
Her thoughts turned inward, bitter and heavy. Tracen, the crown jewel of Japan, the academy every uma dreamed of. The place where legends were born: Symboli Rudolf, Special Week, Oguri Cap, Narita Brian, gods among racers whose names would echo for generations. They'd carved their legacy into history.
But what of the rest? The ones who fell short. The ones who gave everything and still weren't enough.
Her reflection flickered across the rain-streaked glass of a storefront. Pale, hollow, almost spectral under the pulse of neon. Umas like her. Forgotten names. Discarded promises.
When she was a child, she used to sit at the edge of the training field with Scarlet, their mother, watching her father work. Back then, she'd thought him larger than life. A man of purpose, of vision. She never saw him for what he truly was. A petty, brittle man who measured worth in wins and broke those who couldn't meet his standard. Dahlia remembered the way he'd pull one of his racers aside, voice calm, even kind, before delivering the line that became his signature before cutting them loose.
"It's nothing personal."
The words still made her stomach twist. Nothing personal, even as the girls wept, even as their dreams collapsed in front of him. He'd send them off with polite apologies and cold eyes, already thinking of their replacements. Dahlia's fists tightened in her pockets. Had she not been his daughter, he'd have thrown her out too. No hesitation, no guilt.
Then came Scarlet's accident, and the worthless, belly to the ground cockroach did exactly what he'd always done best. He cut them loose. The truth was, it wasn't tragedy that broke him. It only exposed what had always been there. A coward in a trainer's coat, a man who could stomach failure from everyone but himself. And the day he packed their bags, drained their savings, and walked out of their home was the day Dahlia swore, cold and certain, that if their paths ever crossed again, she'd kill him. No apologies, no hesitation, and no mercy.
She turned another corner, the city lights washing her in fractured color. All those girls she'd seen, all that drive and hunger. Burned out, erased, because they weren't the best. That was Tracen's unspoken truth. It didn't matter how hard you trained, how much you bled, how much you sacrificed. The academy only cared about winners. Fall behind for even a moment, and you were gone. Bed stripped, locker emptied, your name crossed off to make room for the next bright hope.
It was one thing to fail. To never touch the dream you chased since childhood. It was another to watch that same dream thrown away, trampled, until all that was left was a body to sell or a name to forget.
She scoffed, shaking her head, the neon fading behind her. "No," she whispered to herself, the fire flickering again behind her eyes. "Not me. Not in this life."
The rain kept falling. The thunder roared on. But beneath the storm, Dahlia kept walking. The defiance in her stride louder than the sky itself.
****
Dahlia hesitated at the mouth of the abandoned carpark, rain still beading on the concrete, then froze when something familiar caught her eye. The same torn Special Week plush perched on a sodden box. Dahlia stepped closer, shoulders bobbing as if to shake off the cold, and crouched. Her fingers fumbled at the plush, then pushed aside the cardboard flaps, and stopped cold.
Nestled inside was a pair of racing boots. Gray, heavy, black laces threaded neat. Scuffed and dinged, yes, but far better than the ragged pair on her feet or the ones she'd ruined trying to match Lady. She traced the worn leather, a small, stunned smile tugging at her lips. For a moment the world narrowed to the boots in her hands, the best she'd owned since her very first pair. Gratitude curdled into something sharper when she remembered who'd given them to her. After all, to that bastard, nothing came without conditions.
She turned the boot over and saw what mattered. The cleats weren't just metal, they were specially forged and threaded with rubber, almost like miniature tires. Tough, oddly engineered, showing wear but with plenty of tread left. Dahlia inhaled slow. Logan had come through. He'd kept his promise. She glanced over her shoulder for him, but the lot was empty. Clutching the boots, she rose, steady and suddenly lighter. Now the next step was hers.
****
In the narrow alley, half-swallowed by darkness, Logan watched from beneath the hood's shadow. The ember of his cigarette burned a dull orange against the night, smoke curling upward before the rain thinned it into nothing. He exhaled slowly, the weight of habit and thought melding into the steady rhythm of the drizzle. Then, with hands sliding into his pockets, he turned and walked, his boots echoing faintly against the wet pavement as the neon wash from nearby bars painted fleeting colors across his coat.
Neither he nor Dahlia noticed the second shadow lingering deeper in the dark. A fedora tilted low, a sharp grin carved across a pale face. The man's emerald eyes gleamed with serpentine amusement as he stepped back into the gloom.
"Just one more step off the ledge, Logan-kun," Hazama murmured. "Just one more. Like Lucifer before the fall… show me what happens when the Hand of God chooses to rule in Hell rather than serve in Heaven."
He let out a low, delighted laugh, spreading his arms as if to embrace the storm, his back arching as he tilted his face to the sky. "Ah… what a glorious time to be alive."