Seraphiel stood in the centre of the crowd. They all looked at him with bewildered expressions. Hiro got up, his hair reflecting the light into everybody’s eyes.

  “What was that all about?” Seraphiel inquired.

  “I dunno,” Hiro said. “He seemed spooked by the crow. Maybe they’re scared of us? But the New Shadows are pretty tame when it comes to ordinary people. Couldn’t tell you why he reacted like that.”

  “Ordinary people…?” Seraphiel thought to himself. "What are the chances he was up to some shady business?" He nudged Hiro, framing it as a joke, though the question was genuine.

  Hiro bit.

  They followed in the direction the man had scurried off in. His bloody sleeve—used to wipe his nose—gave away his whereabouts: a dingy, run-down building right in the heart of Seriol’s most deplorable district, plagued by a fetid odour. Seraphiel covered his nose and glanced at Hiro, who seemed unfazed. They walked around the building, standing atop a large box to peer inside.

  “What the fuck happened to you?” a man asked, noticing the bloody nose.

  “She caught you cheating,” another mocked.

  They sat at a table littered with bricks of white powder wrapped in tape, smoking as they lifted their heads toward the vent to push the fumes out.

  “A stupid New Shadows rat snuck up on me,” the bloodied man said. “You should’ve seen him, though—heh.”

  “I’d hope not.” One of the men stood, jabbing a finger into his chest. “You better not bring those rats around here, man, you piece of—”

  “Relax, man,” he sniffled. “I got away. They’ve got no clue who I am.”

  Hiro pulled a hairpin from his silky grey hair. It wasn’t holding his hair—just something he kept there like a miscellaneous item. He bent it into shape, crawled through the window, and slithered up the stairs unnoticed by the men.

  “What the—hey, wait,” Seraphiel whispered.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Hiro didn’t appear to hear him.

  At the top of the stairs, just as he expected, Hiro found a locked door. He hoped this was where they were storing cash—anything he could spend. He inserted the hairpin, pressed his ear to the door, and twisted in every direction until it clicked.

  He opened the door.

  The overhead light flickered and buzzed. The room was unremarkable: filing cabinets and metal chairs. He opened them—magazines, papers, cigars, dirt.

  “Haha.” He opened another and found wads of cash bound with rubber bands. He began pulling them out, slow and steady.

  Crash.

  A chair smashed over his head.

  “Urgh,” he groaned as the air was knocked out of him. His head pounded, hair streaked with blood that drifted down his cheek and curved onto his lip. He licked it.

  “You lost?” an impressively tall, bulky man jeered. The others came running to the stairs.

  “Ah, what the fu—”

  Crack.

  Seraphiel was halfway up when he was discovered. He punched one man in the eye, rolled with the blind counter, then drove forward, twisting his hips as he uppercut the man in the liver. Madarame was right—overwhelming force made this feel routine.

  Two men remained. A machete swung toward him. Seraphiel unsheathed his blade, holding it backward like a combat knife. He parried the strike, tossed the sword into his other hand mid-motion, and drove it clean through the man’s right hand and into his chest.

  “AAH!” the man screamed.

  Seraphiel shoved the blade deeper, released it, and let the man collapse.

  He breathed heavily. A slight smirk crept across his face as chills reverberated through him.

  The final man—the one with the bloody nose—looked both irritated and petrified. He chose the former, then quickly switched to the latter as a giant body tumbled down the stairs onto him, mounted by a small boy with grey and red-streaked hair.

  Hiro.

  Hiro pressed his forearm into the giant’s throat and dropped punches onto his blubbery cheek. His speed and technique compensated for his lack of raw power—but only to a point. He shifted position, grabbed the man’s arm, and went for a kimura.

  The man flailed, shouting like he was trying to shake off a sticky bug.

  “Do something!” Hiro yelled, clearly dizzy.

  Seraphiel retrieved his sword from the fallen man, leaving a hole in the cavity it had occupied. Disgusted by the blood coating it, he turned to the giant, then dropped the blade and opted for the machete instead.

  He hacked at the arm Hiro clung to, like chopping a tree.

  Blood erupted from the severed artery, painting the stairwell red. Hiro tumbled backward, still clutching the detached arm. Seraphiel dropped the machete instinctively, then picked it back up.

  Hiro sprang to his feet and socked the giant in the head repeatedly until he lay motionless. The blood, however, continued to pour.

  Hiro dashed past Seraphiel, returned moments later with his hair and hands stuffed with money, tossing some to Seraphiel before running back upstairs for more.

  “WOO!” he shouted, utterly unperturbed by the carnage.

  A miscreant was an understatement.