Chapter Text
Monday. Mustufatu's streets unfold beneath a pale morning sky—narrow alleys, rusted fire escapes, vending machines humming on corners the online maps don't bother to mark. Prayar moves through them with purpose, hood pulled up, footsteps quiet against concrete.
"Any Yakuzas around here I should know about?" He taps his earpiece.
Delvador's voice crackles through—still recovering, but sharper than yesterday. "Three. Small-time. Nothing approaching Sakura's scale." A pause. Keyboard clicks. "The Fujita crew runs the arcades near the station. Approximately twenty men. More theatrical than substantial."
Another pause.
"The Matsumoto family controls the hostess bars on the east side. Small territory. Quiet. They keep to themselves." More typing. "And the Kobayashi brothers. Two of them. They operate a protection racket out of a pachinko parlor. Amateurs, by any measure."
Delvador's voice drops.
"None present a threat. But none will appreciate you... surveying their streets."
Static. Then Carmen's voice cuts in—close to the mic, audibly irritated. "Tell him to stop wandering alone. He's not invisible just because he's wearing a hat." A muffled sound—someone being shoved. "And tell Del to rest. He's supposed to be healing, not playing dispatcher."
Delvador sighs. "I'm ignoring her. Boss, what's your current heading? I'll pull property records. Determine ownership."
Prayar stops walking. A beat of silence. "Wait. Are you two on the same bed?" He smirks, then wipes the expression flat.
"Doesn't matter. How is business, currently?" He opens his phone, scanning Del's latest text.
A long pause—static crackling. Then Carmen's voice, dangerously calm. "We are not on the same bed. Delvador is on the cot. I am on a chair. Across the room." A beat. "Because someone refuses to stay horizontal and keeps attempting to work."
Delvador's voice—muffled, as if holding the phone away from his face. "I'm fine, Carmen. It was a graze."
"You lost consciousness!"
"I was resting my eyes."
More muffled sounds—shuffling, a soft thump, a curse in Italian. Delvador returns to the line, slightly breathless. "Business is... stable. The docks remain quiet. Watanabe's men are cooperating. Ito's gambling den opened last night—modest returns, but promising." A pause. "No sign of Vittorio. No word from Sakura. Law enforcement has ceased actively searching the old base."
Another pause—keyboard clicking.
"Carmen's preparing coffee now. She's... glaring at me. I should probably terminate the call before she throws the mug."
Carmen's voice, distant. "I heard that."
Delvador clears his throat. "Anything else, Boss?"
"None. Just—"
KKKAAABBBOOOM.
The shockwave rattles windows three blocks distant. Smoke blooms against the skyline—black and thick. Prayar stares at the destruction down the street. "I'll call you back."
He pockets his phone and runs forward, cross knuckle dusters already sliding onto his fingers. The iron is cold against his skin.
'Who is attacking? A random villain? A rival making a statement?'
He plunges into the flames and fury.
The street is chaos—screaming civilians, shattered storefronts, a car flipped onto its side with its alarm shrieking. Smoke pours from a collapsed building, flames licking at a convenience store awning. Somewhere in the distance, sirens begin to wail.
A figure emerges from the smoke—tall, broad, a mask covering everything but his eyes. His hands crackle with something dark, something that makes the air feel heavy and charged.
He spots Prayar. Tilts his head.
"You're not a hero." His voice is distorted, mechanical. "You smell like... blood. Old blood."
He raises a hand—energy gathering, dark and pulsing.
"Step aside. I'm not here for you."
Behind him, a child screams—trapped under debris, leg pinned beneath a fallen beam, face streaked with tears and ash. The figure doesn't look back. Doesn't acknowledge. His eyes stay fixed on Prayar.
"Move. Or don't. Your choice."
"Huh. Just a damn villain." Prayar glances at the child, then back at the masked man. "Why? Are you going to kill that child? Because I wouldn't recommend it. Bad for your image."
The villain's mask twitches—amusement or irritation, difficult to distinguish. His crackling hands lower slightly. "Image?" A distorted laugh. "I'm burning this district to the ground. I don't care about image."
He glances at the child—brief, dismissive. "The brat's not my target. Just... collateral." His eyes snap back to Prayar. "You, though. You're interesting. Foreign. Armed. Unafraid." He takes a step closer—debris crunching under his boots. "What's your angle? Hero aspirant? Vigilante? Or something else entirely?"
The child whimpers—trying to pull free, failing. Blood soaks through her pant leg, dark against the concrete. The sirens grow louder. Closer.
The villain's hands spark. "Answer quickly. I have limited time before the professionals arrive."
"Eh, more like... new management." Prayar cracks a low, mocking grin. "Who are you then, big fella? As for why I'm here—I'm simply going to retrieve this child. You can continue destroying whoever you wish, and I'll let you be on your way."
He moves toward the rubble with steady confidence—unhurried, unafraid. He clears the debris and lifts the child by the scruff of her shirt, cradling her against his shoulder.
The villain watches—hands still crackling, head tilted like a curious predator. He doesn't move to stop him. Doesn't speak. The child—perhaps eight, perhaps ten—clings to Prayar's arm, sobbing, face buried against his shoulder. Her leg hangs at an awkward angle.
The villain's mask shifts—something like a smile beneath the distortion. "New management." He rolls the words, tasting them. "Cute."
He glances at the approaching sirens—closer now, nearly on top of them. "Tell your management that the underworld is about to become... crowded." His hands lower, the crackling fading. "Names are for friends. We're not friends. But we're not enemies either. Not yet."
He steps back—into the smoke, into the flames. The darkness swallows him whole, leaving only ash and the smell of ozone.
The child coughs, trembling. "Mommy..." Her voice is small, broken. "I want my mommy..."
Sirens wail—police, ambulances, the rumble of hero agency vehicles.
Prayar stands in the middle of it, holding a bleeding child, watching smoke where a villain used to be. The cross on his knuckles glints in the firelight.
"Well. Child. Perhaps your mommy is fine. Perhaps she is not. But you are fine." He sets her down gently and pets her hair—an awkward, unfamiliar gesture. "Run along. The police will help her."
He turns and walks away, the sirens drawing close. He doesn't look back. The cross knuckles slide back into his coat.
"Del. Carmen. I'm fine. Stop spamming my phone." His tone is annoyed, but steady. "Villain attack. Not directed at me. Some random individual destroying a building. I didn't engage. I simply extracted a child from the chaos."
A pause.
"Though I may have left her motherless. I didn't save the child's mother. I hope the authorities can."
Carmen's voice explodes through the earpiece—loud, sharp, barely contained. "You saved a child? In the middle of a villain attack? With no backup? No—" A sound of frustration, something slamming. "Prayar, I swear to God—"
Delvador's voice cuts in—calmer, but strained. "The news is already covering it. Mustufatu. Gas main explosion, they're reporting. But we know better." A pause. "You're certain you're uninjured?"
Carmen again—softer now, the anger bleeding into something else. "Don't do that again. Please." A pause. "I can't lose another... I can't lose you."
Static. The sound of breathing.
Prayar walks through the back alleys—away from the sirens, away from the smoke, away from the child he left behind. The streets are empty here, just graffiti and dumpsters and the distant echo of chaos.
Delvador speaks again. "The mother. No word yet. But the heroes are on scene. If she's alive, they'll locate her." A pause. "You did what you could, Boss. More than most would."
Carmen snorts—quiet, almost affectionate. "Since when are you a good Samaritan? I thought you left that behind with the cross."
"I didn't. I saved the child." Prayar's voice carries certainty. "I couldn't care less about the building, or the child's mother, or the surrounding civilians. That's it. I'm not good. I'm simply not making my image worse than it already is. They must maintain some respect for me if I save a child."
He frames it as logic. Clean. Practical.
Carmen is quiet for a long moment—the kind of quiet that means she's thinking, calculating, peeling back layers. "That's the most honest thing you've ever said, Boss." Her voice is softer now. "And the saddest."
Delvador clears his throat—uncomfortable, redirecting. "Image matters. You're correct." A pause. "The news is already spinning it as a heroic intervention. No names. Simply 'a brave civilian.'" Another pause. "That kind of press... it assists. It keeps the authorities from scrutinizing too closely."
Carmen snorts. "Wonderful. We're operating a criminal empire and accumulating favorable public relations." A beat. "What follows, a charity gala?"
Static crackles.
Prayar's footsteps echo against concrete—alone, moving through the maze of alleys, the chaos fading behind him.
Delvador's voice returns—measured. "The villain. Did you recognize him? Any details that might assist in determining who's making... first impressions?"
Carmen's voice, distant. "And why now. Why Mustufatu. Why you."
"Why are you both acting as if villain attacks don't occur? We inhabit a world filled with Heroes and Villains. We are bound to encounter one, and it wasn't even orchestrated." Prayar puts his hands into his pockets, genuinely wanting to let his guard drop. "The individual only vaguely recognized me. When I inquired about him, he was simply destroying a building. I'm not going to be targeted. We just relocated to Mustufatu. Our tracks are adequately covered, as far as I'm concerned." The Sloth mark at the back of his head glows tiredly.
Delvador exhales—slow, measured. "You're right. Villain attacks occur. Random. Chaotic. Unplanned." His voice tightens. "But you're not random, Boss. Neither is this."
Carmen's voice cuts in—sharper now. "Del's being paranoid. It's his function." A beat. "But he's not incorrect. You appearing at the same time as some masked individual detonating buildings? In our new territory?" She lets the implication hang.
Delvador continues—calm, logical. "Could be coincidence. Could be a message. Could be nothing." Keyboard clicking. "I'll investigate. Determine if any other villains have been active near Mustufatu. Pattern recognition." Another pause. "Return to base, Boss. Carmen prepared coffee. It's... potable."
Carmen's voice, distant. "I heard that."
"You were intended to."
The earpiece hums—static, silence, the weight of two people who care more than they'll admit.
Prayar walks through the alleys, the chaos fading behind him, the Sloth mark dimming. The base is close now. Coffee. Questions. People who watch his back.
Home.