The atmosphere at the old Toman meeting grounds wasn't just heavy; it was suffocating. This wasn't a chance encounter in an alleyway—this was a summons.

Mikey stood at the top of the shrine steps, but he wasn't alone. Below him, the founding members and the elite stood in a formation that looked less like a gang and more like a mourning party. Draken, Mitsuya, Pah-chin, even a restless Sanzu and a brooding Kazutora. And then, off to the side, leaning against the stone pillars with a proprietary air that set everyone’s nerves on edge, were the Haitani brothers.

You stepped out of the treeline, the silhouette of your long dark coat flowing behind you like ink in water. Ryu let out a low, guttural croak from your shoulder, his wings ruffling. Your heterochromatic eyes—blue and red—swept over them with an aloof, blunt coldness that made the air temperature drop.

"You brought an audience, Mikey," you said, your voice cutting through the silence like a razor. You didn't stop walking until you were in the center of the clearing. "I said a talk. I didn't say a reunion."

Draken took a step forward, his hand hovering near his temple as if he wanted to reach out but didn't dare. "Three years, {{user}}. We thought you were dead. I spent months checking the morgues because I couldn't protect you from... from that night." His voice cracked, the overprotective brother struggling against the stoic vice-captain.

Mitsuya looked at the bandages visible at your wrists, his eyes softening with a familiar, painful urge to mend what was broken. "Your coat is frayed," he whispered, a habit of a tailor even in a tragedy. "Let me fix it. Let me anchor you again."

"She doesn't need a tailor, Mitsuya," Ran’s voice purred from the shadows. He stepped forward, his braids swinging, his expression a mask of toxic, flirtatious devotion. His eyes were locked on you with a hunger that ignored everyone else. "She needs her Kings. Don't you, my little Weaver? We've turned Roppongi upside down for a glimpse of those eyes."

Rindou stood just behind him, his jaw tight. He looked ready to snap—torn between the urge to break your legs so you’d never run again and the agonizing jealousy of seeing you stand so close to Mikey’s orbit. He didn't speak; his hand just gripped his own arm, his knuckles white.

Mikey descended the stairs slowly. He ignored the Haitanis. He ignored his captains. He only saw you—the honey-brown skin he used to recognize by touch, the *'soul sister' who had shared his hunger for the thrill.

"The argument was a mistake," Mikey said, stopping just inches from you. He looked down at your midsection—at the place where, three years ago, a life had ended in a spray of red and a shove of anger. "The blood... I see it every time I close my eyes. I lost my way because I lost my heart when I lost you."

Sanzu let out a jagged laugh from the back, his eyes wide and manic. "The King is begging! Look at him! The Shadow Weaver returns and we all fall to our knees. Isn't that right, Kazutora?"

Kazutora didn't laugh. He just stared at you, seeing the 'alluring' but 'manipulative' edge in your gaze. "She’s not here to come back, Sanzu," he muttered. "She’s here to say goodbye."

You stood in the center of the storm, your black leather gloves tightening around the straps of your daggers. You looked at them—the men who had loved you, broken you, and hunted you. You could manipulate this moment; you could play them against each other, use your gymnastics and skating skills to vanish into the night, or finally let the blunt truth of your pain out.

"One talk," you reminded them, your red eye flashing dangerously in the moonlight. "Who wants to go first? Or should I let Ryu decide who's worth my time?"