The Sharks' old warehouse hideout, once brimming with swagger, was now a wounded shell. The walls bore bullet holes like scars, and a lingering scent of smoke clung to the rafters. Inside, Kaz sat at the head of a worn-out table, his dark eyes sweeping the faces of the few remaining Sharks. They stared back, blank or bitter, loyalty shaken. To them, he was still a kid who'd shown up with black flames and a famous name, not someone they'd die for.
Their morale was fractured. Their Shared love overwhelmed. That was the moral Seamus had instilled—love for the family, for the crew, for the code. But love didn't erase the smell of blood in the streets. Love didn't stop Alexandrov Grigorovich from tearing through their territories like wildfire.
The Bloodfang Trio were already making moves, and word on the street said Alexandrov was hunting Sharks. Kaz could feel it in his bones: the war had already begun.
"Some of y'all still don't trust me," Kaz admitted aloud, breaking the silence.
Jamie leaned on the wall behind him, arms folded. Vali stood in the corner, face mostly in shadow.
"You haven't earned it yet," muttered one of the older Shark lieutenant named Joseph. "We lost a lot... and all we got now is you."
Kaz nodded, accepting the weight of it. "Then give me the chance to earn it. Because if we don't stand together, Grigorovich will kill us all."
Far from the warehouse, in a candle-lit apartment tucked into the edge of the city, Toma Yazumèi sat on a faded velvet couch across from a tall, silver-haired woman in a red blazer and smoking gloves. Her aura was regal, dangerous.
"You have been up to no good, I have eyes and ears all over you know" the woman said. "But you remind me alot of myself when I was age, guess your father was right"
Toma didn't speak. Her crimson eyes stayed locked on the woman's face.
"Join me. I'm your mother, child. You were taken from me years ago, but blood remembers. I run the Red Fangs across the river. We handle things... differently. And now that your uncle sleeps, the game has changed."
Toma raised an eyebrow. "Why now, you've avoided interacting with me for so many years?"
"Because your bloodline is a weapon. And I want to know what side you're going to use it for."
Back in the warehouse, Kaz gathered his siblings, Jamie, Vali, and Toma, who had just returned with a grim look.
Kimiko was present too, called in by Kaz with urgency. She wore her military uniform sharp as ever, her expression unreadable.
Kaz laid out the plan. "Alexandrov isn't stopping. If we want to survive, we need allies. Resources. Weapons. Manpower. I'm proposing a negotiation with the military."
Sean stood at the side, leaning on a cane. The eldest Yazumèi uncle, still sharp behind the eyes.
"You want to sell us out to the people who hunted us for years?"
"No," Kaz replied. "I want to make sure the Sharks have a future. Even if it means changing how we operate."
Silence followed. Then Sean chuckled, low and rough.
"You're not your father," he said. "But maybe that's a good thing. You've got foresight. And you might just live long enough to make a difference."
Vali nodded from the shadows. Jamie smiled faintly.
Kimiko crossed her arms. "This won't be a free alliance. We'll expect results. Discipline. Obedience when it matters."
Kaz stared her down. "You'll get results."
Kimiko finally nodded. "Then let me see what strings I can pull."
That night, Kaz sat alone on the rooftop, watching the stars shimmer behind smog. Amy joined him quietly, two sodas in hand.
"You keep changing," she said softly. "In ways that scare me."
"Why?"
"Because you're growing into a leader. And that means you're going to make hard choices. Ones that might break you."
Kaz looked at her with tired eyes. "Then help me not lose myself."
Amy placed her head against his shoulder. "I'll try."
Across the city, Alexandrov Grigorovich stood on the balcony of his high-rise office, a glass of crimson wine in hand. Beside him stood Zorya, Mikhail, and Svetlana—his loyal monsters.
"Find the rest of the Sharks," he ordered, voice smooth but filled with venom. "Smoke them out. I want their screams to echo."
Mikhail grinned. "With pleasure."
And so the pieces moved.
The ugliness of war wasn't the blood or the bodies. It was the betrayal. The compromises. The slow erosion of innocence.
And the war had only just begun.
Earlier the next morning
The sun hadn't even touched the edge of the Tokyo skyline when a heavy knock rattled Kazunai's apartment door. He groaned, still half-tangled in sheets, the burn in his muscles still fresh from yesterday's drills.
"Wake up, kid."
The voice was gruff, unmistakable—Uncle Sean.
Kaz cracked one eye open. "It's barely six…"
"Exactly. You wanna lead Sharks? Then act like it. Meet me on the roof in ten. Don't make me drag your ass out there."
Ten minutes later, Kaz was face to face with his uncle, the man whose presence alone could still silence a room full of seasoned killers. Sean stood there in a worn leather jacket over a combat tee, his grey hair tied back, his eyes sharp.
"We ain't gonna talk about feelings. We're gonna talk with fists."
He cracked his knuckles. "Show me what you got, Kaz. No holding back."
Kaz nodded slowly, stretching. His aura pulsed—a slow, black flame licking at his skin. "Alright. Don't cry when I win."
Sean lunged first. Fast. Brutal. Years of experience compressed into every step and strike. Kaz barely parried the elbow aimed at his face, twisting sideways to counter with a flaming roundhouse—but Sean caught his leg, slammed him to the concrete, and swept his arm out for a throat shot.
Kaz flipped back, black fire coating his limbs.
"You're all power. But no precision."
Sean's foot came forward like a hammer, Kaz ducked—barely—and answered with a double palm strike that sent Sean sliding back.
"I'm not the same kid who flinched last year."
Kaz's voice was steady. His stance more grounded now.
Sean smirked, eyes lighting with pride and menace.
"Then prove it."
They clashed again.
Kaz blurred forward with a flame-propelled punch—Sean dipped under, locked Kaz's arm and flipped him over his shoulder—but Kaz twisted mid-air, landing on one hand and launching a flame arc from below. Sean barely blocked it with a steel-reinforced forearm brace.
They traded blows fast— Kaz began predicting him—anticipating knees, rolling with elbows—and finally, with a burst of black flame, drove his uncle back five feet.
Sean raised a hand to stop.
"Not bad."
He grinned like a wolf. "You're getting sharp. But this? This is just warm-up. Tomorrow, we use real weapons."
Kaz panted, heart pounding, bruised but grinning. "Can't wait."