KENJI
The GPS signal is a beacon in my mind, a single point of focus in a world painted red. I am a shadow in head-to-toe black—tactical pants, a tight-fitting long-sleeved shirt, and a mask that covers the lower half of my face like a shinobi.
The katana strapped to my back is a promise. The pistol in my hand is the delivery.
I don't need an army. I have Tokito. He's a ghost to my right, silencing threats with quiet, efficient precision while I carve the bloody, obvious path. We move as one, a perfect, lethal dance.
Men fall before they can even shout a warning, their bones breaking under my fists, their blood spraying from the slice of my knife. It's not a fight; it's a culling. They are obstacles between me and what's mine.
I follow the signal through a maze of grimy corridors. The dot is so close it's burning a hole in my vision. I kick open a final door and halt.
There she is.
