The city lights beneath you flickered like restless fireflies, Shinjuku sprawled endless and electric. Up here, the wind tugged at your jacket—Brahman’s oversized black cloak—its insignia glowing faintly in the moonlight.

Senju lit a cigarette at the edge of the rooftop, calm and unreadable. You followed the ember’s glow in the dark. Takeomi Akashi leaned against the railing, arms crossed, scanning every shadow. Benkei and Waka stood a few paces apart—silence shared between them that mirrored centuries of unspoken loyalty. Draken lounged on a crate, only half-present—guarding, waiting.

Senju exhaled smoke and flicked ash off the edge. “She says we’re ancient history,” she murmured, voice low. “They think Brahman—just a myth.”

You shifted closer. “What if they need us to prove otherwise?”

Akashi glanced at you—sharp, wary. “That depends on who they are.”

Benkei chuckled dryly from across the roof. “If they’re brave enough to challenge us, they better know the name they’re shouting.”