The air in Tokyo was dry, brittle with tension. Burned leaf smoke still lingered in the sky after last night's gang clash in Shinjuku. Sirens had screamed into the early hours. By the time dawn broke, the streets looked normal—but the city remembered.
So did Kazunai Yazumèi.
Every morning before school, before even the sunlight touched the floor of his room, Kaz trained. It wasn't flashy, not like his brawls in the streets or the raw black flame that used to flare when he got angry. This was control. Stillness. Precision. He sat in the center of an abandoned warehouse near the edge of town, shirtless, sweat-slicked, hands resting on his knees, a circle of scorched concrete radiating out from him like a sunburst. Tiny embers danced over his skin.
His breath slowed. The black fire curled around his forearms like calm serpents.
"Too wild," he muttered, eyes still shut. "Still burning too hot too fast."
Kaz threw a punch. The black flame burst out—but it crackled, uncontrolled. He grimaced as the flame coiled off into the rafters, leaving a black mark. He'd improved, sure, but if the fight with Riko had taught him anything, it was that raw emotion wasn't enough anymore.
Not when sharks were circling.
Back at Westwood High, whispers chased him like shadows.
More students gave him space now—half respect, half fear. Riko had been hospitalized, not from wounds Kaz gave him, but from what happened after. A "reaction," the doctors said. His obsidian skin had started to melt.
Some said Kaz did it.
Some said he couldn't control what he did.
Toma said nothing. But she watched. And smiled.
Toma Yazumèi sat across from a shady businesswoman in a rooftop bar downtown. The wind teased her short silver hair, and her drink sat untouched.
"So?" the woman asked.
Toma twirled her straw. "Everything's moving nicely. The White Tigers are getting antsy. A few of their shipments might have… gone missing."
"You playing both sides?"
"I'm giving them what they want," Toma said sweetly. "A reason to start a war. And when the Sharks fall, I'll pick the bones clean."
The woman blinked. "Does your father know?"
Toma's eyes glowed faintly silver. "He will when it's too late to stop me."
Meanwhile, at school…
Kaz ducked through the back stairwell when he heard it—taunting, then a muffled grunt. He turned the corner and found three students cornering someone—skinny, pale, with jet-black hair that nearly covered his face. One of the bullies yanked his backpack while the others laughed.
"Don't like talking, freak? You mute or just stupid?" one jeered.
The quiet kid didn't respond.
Kaz didn't think—he moved. His hand shot out, grabbing the biggest guy by the collar and yanking him back so fast the kid nearly flipped over.
"Try picking on someone who hits back," Kaz said.
One of the other punks tried to swing. Kaz dodged and grabbed his wrist, holding just long enough for his skin to heat—just enough to sting.
They bolted, cursing, dragging their friend behind them.
The quiet kid blinked.
"Thanks," he said. Voice soft. Barely audible.
Kaz gave him a once-over. "You new?"
The boy nodded. "Shin. Just transferred."
"You look like you've seen ghosts."
Shin's eyes flicked upward. For a moment—just a moment—Kaz thought he saw a flicker of unnatural light behind them.
"I have."
Kaz raised a brow but said nothing. He extended a hand. Shin hesitated, then shook it.
Across town, deep in the marble halls of the White Tiger compound, Alexandrov Grigorovich stood with a wine glass in his furred covered him hand and murder in his eyes, his anger boiling, his beastly nature peeking out from drawn curtains.
He was tall, sleek in a white fur coat over his pinstripe suit, hair slicked back, eyes like ice chips. His subordinates knelt before him, trembling as he watched the news play on an oversized screen: A fire in Westwood. Footage of Kaz. Reports of increased Shark activity.
"Seamus is stirring, and thats could be bad for business" Alexandrov said.
"No confirmation, boss," one thug stammered. "Just rumors."
The wine swirled in his glass.
"Rumors… become sparks. Sparks become fire." He turned slowly. "The Sharks are bleeding. It's time we finish what we started ten years ago."
Kaz stared up at his ceiling later that night, replaying the day. His hands still buzzed with tension. Amy had warned him not to get involved in other people's business again.
But something about Shin lingered. There was… darkness in him. Different from the kind that danced in Kaz's veins, but just as familiar.
The door creaked.
Kaz sat up, Seamus stood in the frame, casting a long shadow. He wore a simple shirt, dark pants, his salt-and-pepper beard trimmed, eyes glowing faintly violet in the gloom.
"Can't sleep?"
Kaz nodded. "Too much noise in the ole nogging."
Seamus entered slowly, the scent of ash and old cologne following him. "I used to train here. Before your mother passed. Before your siblings… scattered."
He sat beside Kaz on the bed.
"You've changed," Seamus said. "Stronger sure. But you're fighting like a wildfire—burning everything. Including yourself."
Kaz stayed quiet.
"I've seen what's coming," Seamus continued. "There are moves being made. People playing a longer game than even you or I can see."
"You think it's Toma?" Kaz asked.
Seamus didn't answer but his silence spoke volumes.
"I want to train you," he finally said. "Not to fight like me. But to fight beyond me. You've inherited more than power, Kazunai. You've inherited enemies. And they're coming."
Kaz's fists clenched. "Let them."
Seamus chuckled. "You sound like me when I was your age."
He stood, a smirk ghosting his face. "Tomorrow. Sunrise. The old freight yard."
And then he was gone.
But the room still felt warm—no, hot—as if his dark energy had never left.
Kaz lay back down. But his thoughts didn't rest.
Somewhere deep down, he felt it too.
Something was coming.
And the flames… were only just beginning to rise.