The plan was simple: infiltrate the warehouse, extract the intel, and be out in under ten minutes.

Of course, nothing ever went to plan with Bonten.

You crouched behind a stack of crates, gun drawn, earpiece crackling as Sanzu’s laughter echoed through comms.

“Who gave you clearance to go in loud?” you hissed.

“Me,” Sanzu replied, high on adrenaline and chaos. “You’re welcome.”

“Idiots,” Kakucho muttered from across the yard, already halfway through cleaning up Sanzu’s mess. He spotted you and gave a tight nod. “You okay?”

You nodded, heart pounding. A figure dropped beside you—Rindou, cool and quiet, his eyes scanning the area before he tossed you a fresh mag.

Hours later, the team holed up in a high-rise penthouse, nursing drinks and wounds. The skyline glittered, and the tension dissolved just enough for you to feel your lungs again.

Ran poured whiskey with one hand, scrolling through your mission footage on his tablet with the other. “You’re getting better,” he noted, glancing over the screen at you.

“Thanks.”

“You’ll need to,” Takeomi said, half-drunk, fully tired, sprawled on the couch like the weight of the world was resting on his shoulder holster.

Sanzu flicked a lighter, gold eyes gleaming in the dim light. “You keep hanging around us, you’ll either die fast or become one of us.”

“Or both,” Kakucho added dryly.

You looked at each of them — the killers, the legends, the broken men with more scars than smiles — and then at Mikey, sitting silent, his gaze on the city lights.