Small dust particles floated through the dissipating rays of light as a summer afternoon began to dwindle and welcome the evening. Toshiro Hikari, known as Shiro to most, kept the broom in his hand sweeping to and fro as if in a trance—a trance that helped take his mind off of the task at hand—cleaning the Dojo. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead, past his brow, and teased his eyelashes, prompting him to wipe it away while running his hand through his silvery-white hair. He glanced around the room, his eyes lazily scanning the areas still awaiting his attention. It wasn’t that he disliked being at the Dojo, and Red Dragon compensated him generously for his age. But being surrounded by others paid to live out the dream he longed for was enough to dampen even the brightest spirits.

Shinsuke closed his eyes as he took a long draw of the cigarette, 1 the embers on the end glowing. He held the smoke before letting it drift out of his nose and rolling his neck as if trying to ease some hidden tension. Kuro stepped over to his desk and picked up a small device, holding it out in front of Shinsuke. Shinsuke placed his cigarette into his mouth, grabbed the crudely crafted device with both hands and turned it over to examine it. It was a small metal box, its surface covered with exposed wires and a single switch on the side.

With a squeal of glee, Atticus vaulted over the railing and took off into the night after Kuro. Nathaniel followed with silent purpose but just as much vigour. In the distance, Kuro was still running. His feet slammed against the pavement, his breath ragged as he darted between the maze of alleyways, ducking into shadows, hoping—praying—that he had put enough distance between himself and Driscoll’s. But little did he know that Nathaniel and Atticus Driscoll, the two feared Generals of the Desperados of the 309, were already in pursuit. And in this game—he was the prey.