"Kenzo," Capari said, his voice dangerously soft. "Never thought I'd see you here."
Kenzo twisted violently, breaking free from Capari's grip. The knife sliced through the air where Capari's hand had been a moment before. Amias stumbled backward, reaching for his own blade.
"Ill spit on your grave Capari," Kenzo spat, retreating toward the gate where two more figures emerged from the shadows.
Amias felt Capari's hand clamp onto his forearm, yanking him into motion before his brain even caught up. His Jordans barely touched the pavement before they were sprinting, tearing across the backyard, shoving past drunk partygoers too wasted to register what was unfolding.
They burst through the side gate, Dyno appearing from nowhere to join the chase. The party sounds faded behind them as they sprinted into the wooded area that bordered the property's back edge—a small patch of urban wilderness, dark and tangled.
Amias' lungs burned as he ran, feet pounding against soft earth, branches whipping at his face. Ahead, he could make out the silhouettes of Kenzo and his boys weaving through trees. Capari was gaining on them, moving with focused intensity.
"Cut them off!" Capari shouted to Dyno, who immediately veered right, disappearing into the darkness.
The chase narrowed to a single-file path between dense undergrowth. Amias felt a surge of adrenaline as they closed the gap. Then—impact. A body slammed into him from the side, tackling him to the ground with brutal force. The air rushed from his lungs as he hit the earth, rolling with the momentum.
Pain. Then motion.
The guy was on him, fists swinging wild.
Amias threw his arms up, barely catching the blows. He twisted, throwing his weight sideways, knocking them both into a brutal roll across the dirt. Fists. Knees. The burn of fabric scraping skin.
—
Capari didn't look back at the sound of Amias falling. He couldn't afford to. Dyno was somewhere to his right, circling to cut off escape. Ahead, Kenzo and another guy—Mooney, he thought—were slowing, realizing they were being herded.
They broke into a small clearing, moonlight casting everything in silver shadow. Capari slowed to a walk, knife drawn, circling left. From the opposite side, Dyno emerged, his own blade glinting.
"Two on two," Mooney said, his voice higher than usual with fear. "Fair fight, innit?"
Capari didn't bother responding. Words were pointless now. Kenzo darted forward suddenly, knife slashing in a wide arc toward Capari's chest. Capari twisted aside, feeling the blade kiss the air inches from his skin. He countered with a slash of his own, catching Kenzo's forearm.
Blood bloomed black in the moonlight. Kenzo hissed but didn't retreat.
Beside them, Dyno and Mooney were already engaged, a flurry of movement and grunts. Capari focused solely on Kenzo, watching the man's shoulders, reading the subtle tells before each move.
Kenzo feinted left, then lunged right. Capari was ready, catching his wrist and spinning him, but Kenzo was strong—stronger than he looked. He reversed the momentum, slamming Capari against a tree trunk. Pain exploded across his back, but he barely registered it. Kenzo was already pressing in, trying to capitalize on the moment, his knife flashing through the slivers of moonlight that broke through the canopy. It came fast, aiming straight for Capari's ribs, a kill strike—if Kenzo had the skill to pull it off.
But he didn't.
Capari twisted at the last second, the blade scraping fabric instead of skin, and in the same breath, he countered. His own knife flicked upward, a sharp, deliberate cut that traced the inside of Kenzo's forearm, slicing deep. Kenzo hissed and jerked back, but Capari didn't let up. He stepped in, kicked hard at Kenzo's knee, and felt the satisfying give as his foot connected. Kenzo stumbled, cursing, but kept his balance, twisting away just in time to avoid the follow-up slash that would've torn through his side.
"Pretty fast Kenzo," Capari muttered, almost to himself. "But not fast enough."
Kenzo spat onto the dirt, his breath ragged, but the glare he shot back had fire behind it. He flicked the knife to his other hand, shifting his stance, adapting. Capari almost respected it. Almost.
Then Kenzo lunged again, wild and desperate, slashing in a brutal flurry of strikes, the kind of panicked aggression that worked on people who didn't know how to fight. Capari wasn't one of them.
He weaved through the attacks like water slipping through cracks, letting Kenzo exhaust himself, each missed strike adding to his frustration. Kenzo overextended—just once, just enough. Capari seized it, pivoted, and drove his knee into Kenzo's gut. The impact sent him staggering backward, breath hitching, but Capari wasn't done.
He stepped in, fluid and ruthless, grabbing Kenzo by the collar and yanking him forward before launching him straight into Dyno, who had just finished forcing Mooney onto the defensive. Kenzo collided with him hard, and Dyno, ever the opportunist, didn't hesitate. With a grunt of effort, he hooked his arms under Kenzo's and heaved.
Kenzo's feet left the ground.
For a moment, he was weightless, just another body in the air, and then Dyno swung him like a hammer—straight into Mooney.
The two hit the ground in a tangled heap, groaning, but Capari wasn't about to give them time to recover. He closed the distance in two strides, eyes already locked on Kenzo, knife raised—
But Kenzo rolled, scrambling backward, boots kicking up dirt. His blade was gone, lost in the scuffle, and for the first time that night, Capari saw it.
Fear.
It flickered in Kenzo's eyes, just for a second, just enough to confirm what Capari already knew: Kenzo wasn't built for this. He had hands, sure. He could fight. But fighting wasn't the same as surviving. Kenzo had always been the type to start problems, not finish them.
Capari stepped forward. Kenzo turned and ran.
No hesitation. No second glance.
Just a full-on sprint, weaving through the trees like a rat desperate to find a hole to squeeze through.
Capari let him go.
Mooney, on the other hand—
Dyno was on him before he could follow, cutting off his escape. Mooney spun, panting, knife clenched so tight his knuckles had gone pale. He flicked his gaze between the two of them, chest rising and falling like a man staring down death and finally realizing he had no way out.
"Wait—"
Capari didn't.
Mooney moved first, but he moved sloppy, his fear making him predictable. He tried to dart past Dyno, but Dyno sidestepped, shoving him back toward Capari.
And that was all the opening Capari needed.
Kenzo had been fast, but Mooney? Mooney was slow.
Too slow to react when Capari spun, stepping into his blind spot in the space of a heartbeat. Too slow to defend when Capari drove his knife straight into his throat.
The blade punched through flesh, through cartilage and muscle, the impact reverberating up Capari's arm.
Mooney made a sound—not quite a gasp, not quite a choke, just a raw, wet noise that barely scraped past his lips before the blood did. It gushed hot and fast, spraying across Capari's cheek, thick and metallic, staining the air with the scent of copper. Mooney's hands shot up, grabbing at Capari's wrist, his body jerking in blind panic. His mouth opened and closed like he wanted to say something—plead, maybe—but nothing came out except more blood, bubbling up, spilling over his lips in thick, glistening streams.
Capari twisted the knife.
Felt the give of bone.
The shudder of a body realizing it was dying.
Mooney's grip on his wrist weakened. His legs buckled, knees hitting the dirt with a dull thud, his body swaying.
Capari yanked the blade free.
Mooney toppled and hit the ground.
And from there he didn't move again.
Capari exhaled, slow and steady, dragging his sleeve across his face, smearing blood across his skin. He barely felt it.
Dyno nudged Mooney body with his foot, watching the way his limbs shifted, slack and lifeless. Then he glanced up, eyes meeting Capari's, his mouth curling into a grin.
"Gotta admit," he said, voice laced with amusement, "that was nasty."
Capari rolled his shoulders, testing the ache still lingering from Kenzo's hit. "Shouldn't have turned his back."
Dyno let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "Shame about Kenzo, though."
Capari just sheathed his knife, turning away, already stepping over Mooney's body like it was nothing more than an inconvenience.
"We'll see him again," he muttered.
—
Amias barely had time to breathe before the weight crashed into him again, rolling them both through dirt and dead leaves, fists swinging, elbows colliding, the air thick with the smell of blood and damp earth. The guy on top of him—built like a fighter, precise like one too—moved without hesitation, slamming a forearm across Amias' jaw, snapping his head sideways. The pain shot white-hot behind his eyes.
Instinct took over. Amias twisted, planting a knee into the guy's gut, using the momentum to throw them both sideways. They tumbled, bodies colliding, dirt flying in the moonlight. Somewhere in the chaos, both their knives were lost to the undergrowth.
A split-second to breathe. A chance to regroup. But the guy didn't need it.
He was already pushing to his feet, a smirk curling at the edge of his mouth. "Apanni told me about you," he mused, voice almost casual, like they weren't locked in a fight for survival. "Said you ran while he stabbed your boy Mason twelve times in the chest. Said he screamed like a damn kid."
Amias felt his blood go cold, the words slicing deeper than any knife.
"Kind of a shame, though," the guy continued, brushing dirt off his knuckles. "You boys shouldn't have gotten into this business. You know how long we've been trying to get our hands on you?"
Amias didn't answer. He was already moving, fists up, body tensed. But something in the guy's stance—the way he stood, weight balanced just right, no wasted movement—made something uneasy settle in Amias' gut.
He was out of his league.
The guy read him like a book. Amias threw a sharp jab, fast and tight, aiming for the throat. It never landed.
The guy swayed back like it was nothing, then stepped in. A palm strike snapped forward, slamming into Amias' nose. His skull snapped back, vision bursting white with pain. His balance faltered, feet slipping in the loose dirt as he stumbled to the floor.
The guy exhaled like he was disappointed. "I'm a national Muay Thai champion, kid," he said simply. "You never had a chance."
Then he was on him, fast and merciless.
A hand clamped around Amias' throat, pressing down with force that sent his head spinning. He gagged, his hands clawing at the grip, but the guy was too strong. The world narrowed to that choking pressure, the sound of his own heartbeat a deafening drum in his ears. Amid the haze of pain, Amias' hand fumbled along the ground.
"You know," the guy murmured, watching Amias struggle with something almost like curiosity, "we found where you live. Apannii wants your mom dead, so it's unfo—"
Amias' fingers wrapped around something cold and solid. A jagged stone half-buried in dirt. With a surge of desperate strength, he raised the stone and slammed it into the assailant's head. There was a sickening crack, a spray of blood as the man's head jerked back and he crumpled, his grip slackening for just a heartbeat.
Desperation became violence.
With a last burst of strength, he swung it up. Hard. The sharp crack echoed through the trees as the rock smashed into the guy's skull.
The grip on his throat loosened. The guy reeled back, cursing, blood already trickling down his forehead. Amias gasped for air, rolling onto his side, his vision blurring. His lungs burned. His pulse pounded in his ears.
All he saw was the guy shaking his head, clearing his vision, swearing under his breath. Amias staggered to his feet, stumbling toward the bushes, fingers brushing against cold steel—a knife, half-buried in the dirt.
The guy blinked, blood leaking into his eyes. Then he saw what was in Amias' hand.
"…Shit."
Even half-blind, he was still better.
Amias lunged first, slashing fast, but the guy was already moving, kicking out in a smooth arc that forced Amias back before he could get too close. The blade barely caught his leg—a shallow cut along his calf. Nothing serious.
The knife was an advantage—should have been an advantage—but the guy was keeping him just out of range, reading every move before it happened. Spinning kicks aimed at his head, vicious jabs at his ribs. Amias tried to dodge, to counter, but the man was relentless, and soon Amias felt a burning pain in his leg where a glancing cut had opened a shallow wound that now oozed blood.
Then, a sharp spinning kick. Amias barely dodged, stumbling to the side. The movement, though, wasn't targeted at him, he realized when the knife was sent flying from his grip.
Undeterred, Amias went in, desperate, swinging wild. The guy slipped past the first punch and caught Amias' wrist on the second, twisting hard. Amias barely bit back a cry as pain lanced through his arm. A second later, a sharp kick to his chest sent him slamming backward into a tree.
His vision blurred, blood dripping into his eyes. He wiped at it, but his hands were shaking. His breath came ragged. The guy exhaled, rolling his neck, already stepping forward to finish it.
Then, amid the chaos and the clamor of their desperate struggle, a sound broke through—the unmistakable roar of shouts. Capari and Dyno burst into the clearing, moving with lethal coordination.
"Amias!" Capari shouted, voice cutting through the night like a razor. The sight of his cousin brought a fierce relief, and for a moment, the tide began to turn.
The guy paused, glancing up, and his lips pulled into something like a grin. "Oh," he mused, cracking his knuckles. "It's you."
Capari's eyes narrowed with recognition.
"Dyno," Capari said, tone sharpening. "Serious time."
No more words. Just action.
Capari and Dyno moved in together, a seamless force, practiced and dangerous. The guy dodged, slipping past the first few strikes, weaving between blades like he had all the time in the world. He wasn't just surviving—he was winning. Even 2v1. Even half-blind
Dyno lunged. The guy swept his legs out from under him, then stomped down on his chest. Dyno coughed, gasping for breath, but he didn't let go.
His hands latched onto the guy's ankle, holding him down just long enough—For Capari to strike.
The knife went in deep, slicing through the guy's forearm. He hissed in pain, jerking back. But even wounded, he wasn't done. The fight swelled into a brutal ballet of violence as the guy managed to find Amias' knife.
The fight exploded into something faster. Blood blurred movements, knives flashed under moonlight, the rhythm brutal and unrelenting. Capari blocked strikes with ease. The guy scowled.
"How the hell are you blocking a knife with a knife?" he demanded.
Capari's lips twitched, almost amused. "Fencing. Did it in college before I dropped out."
The guy was too busy with Capari, too focused. He never saw Amias come up behind him with Dyno's knife.
The same knife was already buried deep in his upper back before he even felt it. A sharp, shuddering inhale—his body lurched forward, staggering. Then Capari struck again, the second blade plunging in with ruthless precision.
Before the man could react, Dyno barreled into him, driving him into the dirt. The impact forced the knives deeper, twisting the wounds open. A ragged gasp tore from his throat, then silence.
His body twitched, fingers clawing weakly at the ground, breath hitching as dark blood spread beneath him. Capari yanked his knife free with a sickening wet sound and stepped back, his expression unreadable. The man's hands trembled, trying—failing—to push himself up.
Amias stood frozen, breath shallow.
Capari's gaze flicked to him, then, without hesitation, he tossed a knife.
Amias caught it by reflex. His fingers curled around the handle, but his eyes remained locked on the blood already smeared across the blade.
Capari's voice was calm. "Do it."
Amias' pulse roared in his ears, drowning out everything else. His grip tightened. His heartbeat slammed against his ribs.
On the ground, the man exhaled slowly. His eyes fluttered shut. Accepting.
Amias hesitated.
Capari didn't.
With a swift, unrelenting motion, he seized Amias' hands and drove them downward.
The knife sank deep.
The man convulsed once, a final shudder. Then—stillness.
The only sound was the quiet drip of blood seeping into the earth.
Amias stared at his trembling hands, breath ragged, the blade still buried to the hilt.
Capari wiped his own knife clean with the practiced ease of a man who had done this before. His voice was devoid of sympathy.
"Welcome to the real world."