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‘’Hey, kid. Are you alright?’’
Benkei’s low voice rumbled beneath the excited chatter of the fighters, all of them buzzing with anticipation for the fight that would take place in the coming hours. Lizzie hunched over a rusty metal chair, its legs uneven, with one of the legs bent at a slight angle. Her focus was on her hands as she wounded the last strip of adhesive tape around her knuckles, the familiar pull of it tight and secure. She’d lift her gaze, those pale teal eyes catching the dim light and meet Bekei’s dark, watchful stare.
‘’Yeah, just making sure they’re good.’’ She gave a small nod toward her wrapped hands, her voice calm and steady.
Benkei studied her for a moment, then gave a short nod back before reaching down and ruffled her hair affectionately.
‘’Just make sure you don’t die out there.’’ He said, the words landing somewhere between a joke and a warning.
Lizzie offered him a faint smile, then a curt nod. Pushing herself up from the chair, the old metal groaned beneath her, a muffled, tired creak. She moved away from the crowd, finding a corner that was quiet, or at least quieter than the rest.
The air was heavy with adrenaline, men talking loud and fast, fists clenching and unclenching on instinct, but Lizzie tuned it out. She started to stretch, feeling the pull in her shoulders, her back, her legs. Muscles sore and tight from the night before. Her body protested quietly, but she pushed through it, preparing for the task ahead.
The rain hammered against the concrete above, its echo filling the Ragnarok’s hideout. The basement sat beneath an abandoned warehouse, walls rough and stained with decades of moisture. Exposed wiring ran along the ceiling in messy bundles, and bare bulbs flickered overhead, some buzzing, some dead.
The air smelled like damp concrete, old cigarettes, and men sweat. A few support pillars broke up the room at odd intervals, their paint long since peeled away. Along one wall, a faded Ragnarok symbol had been spray-painted years ago, now barely visible in the poor light.
Furniture was scarce and beaten. A long table sat in the middle, covered in papers, empty containers, cans and scattered weapons. Folding chairs surrounded it, most with torn seats. Against the far wall, a sagging couch sat abandoned. Near the back, a mini-fridge hummed next to a hot plate, both covered in grime.
The only sounds were the rain above, the drip of water into a rusted can in the corner, and the low murmur of fighters waiting their turn.
Lizzie stayed in her corner, stretching in the dim light. A good place to wait for a fight. Or to hide from everything else.
The air was humid and stifling, thick with unspoken tension. Lizzie’s pulse hammered a steady rhythm against her ribs as she took in their surroundings. In a few moments, they would be facing the Black Dragons, one of the strongest gangs in Tokyo.
From the sparse information Lizzie had managed to gather, their captain was a young man named Shinichiro Sano, a young and charismatic guy and according to the whispers, a man who couldn’t throw a punch to save his own life. The stories painted a picture of a leader so helpless he often had to be carried from the battlefield by his own men, direct to the hospital. It was a contradiction that intrigued her. How could someone who sounded so utterly pathetic command the respect necessary to lead one of the strongest crews in the city?
Whatever her private doubts about their leader or their chances, one thing was certain: Benkei’s warning had been absolute. Do not drop your guard. Do not take them for granted. She had nodded along with the others then, and she would honor that now. Underestimating an enemy was a luxury she couldn't afford.
A heavy hand landed on her shoulder, firm and grounding. She turned to find Benkei, his hard expression, his eyes holding a silent, solemn acknowledgment of what was to come. He gave a single, sharp nod towards the center of the sprawling lot. There, a mass of about eighty figures had already gathered, a dark stain against the fading light.
This was it. The moment the anticipation turned into action. Lizzie took a deep breath, letting Benkei's unspoken command steel her nerves, and turned to face the Dragons.
Benkei planted himself at the center of the gathering, his hulking frame silhouetted against the sickly glow of a single fluorescent light overhead. The harsh illumination carved deep shadows in his face, sharpening his features. Around him, the guys pressed in close, a restless sea of excited faces.
Lizzie stood at the edge of the crowd, arms crossed, letting the familiar rhythm of the pre-fight wash over her. She’d heard it all before, it was a routine at this point. She listened to the same motivational speech as if the opportunity to throw a punch wasn’t enough motivation.
‘’Listen up!’’ Benkei’’s voice cut through the murmurs like a blade, sharp and commanding. A wave of shouts answered him, eager and raw. ‘’Tonight’s the night we’re finally getting a crack Black Dragons.’’ More shouts, more energy crackling through the packed space.
‘’I know what you’ve heard.’’ Benkei’s lip curled into a small smirk. ‘’Their captain might be known as a fucking weak bitch, but let me make something crystal clear.’’ His voice dropped, but somehow carried further. ‘’They are still one of the most feared gangs in this city for a reason.’’ A hush fell, anticipatory and electric, the kind of silence that promised violence.
Benkei’s eyes scanned the crowd. ‘’They have real monsters in their ranks. Takeomi and Wakasa.’’ He let the names hang in the air like a curse. You see either of those two on the field, you stay away from them.’’ He paused, letting it sink in. Then the hard edge of his mouth twitched into something almost like a grin. ‘’That being said..’’ His voice rose to a roar. ‘’Let’s have some goodman fun!’’
The chamber exploded and the thunder of feets and bodies surged toward the exit, a tide of violence finally set free. Lizzie moved with the current, toward whatever waited outside. But as she passed Benkei, she caught it, a subtle tension in his posture that didn’t match the bravado. An edginess around his eyes that the others wouldn’t notice. His gaze found hers across the chaos, held for just a moment.
She met it with her own neutral mask, giving nothing away, taking everything in. Then she was through the door, the humid night air swallowing her whole, the sounds of eighty excited fighters fading behind her.
The air in the subterranean parking lot hung heavy with the scent of damp concrete and old exhaust, vibrating only with the rhythmic, sickly hum of overhead fluorescent tubes. The place served as a garage to a small market during the working hours, but it was the perfect spot to be turned into a battlefield as soon as it was closed. Massive concrete pillars stood like silent sentries in the gloom, their dark blue bands marked with cold, white coordinates offered little comfort in the vast, empty expanse.
A high-gloss floor stretched out into the darkness, catching the jaundiced light in long, shimmering streaks that looked like ripples on a black lake. Deep, velvet shadows pooled behind every column, creating a labyrinth of blind spots where the flickering light failed to reach.
The only break in the monochrome world was a solitary red fire extinguisher mounted on a distant pillar, looking like a small, urgent warning against the silence. Every distant drip of water echoed through the rafters, making the space feel less like a parking lot and more like a waiting trap.
The Black Dragons were already a menacing tableau when Ragnarok finally arrived. They had claimed their territory on one side of the sprawling parking lot, a silent and disciplined formation of black leather and coiled tension. Each member stood in their designated place, a silent sign to their known organization. As Ragnarok’s own members filed in to take their positions, the air grew thick with anticipation.
Lizzie took her place beside the towering figure of Benkei in the front line. Her golden hair, the colour of spun sunlight, was pulled back into a severe, high ponytail. Her gang uniform hung a little loose on her slender frame, but the confidence with which she held herself filled the empty space, making her presence known. Her baby teal eyes scanned the opposing gang with focus before finally landing on a mop of tangled black hair. It belonged to Shinichiro Sano.
He stood at the very heart of the Black Dragon’s front line, a presence of calm in a sea of tension. The small red dragon, meticulously sewn into the left breast of his black leather jacket, seemed to pulse with a life of its own. He looked almost friendly, Lizzie mused, a dangerous observation.
His dark eyes, kind and gentle, shone softly under the parking lot’s dim, flickering lights, a stark contrast to the hard glint she saw in the eyes of his men. A charming, almost boyish smile played on his lips, a disarming expression that felt wildly out of place in the pre-battle stillness.
Standing straight at his side was a man Lizzie assumed to be in his mid-twenties. He possessed a tall, slender frame, his natural black hair falling straight around a face carved with sharp, serious angles. His posture was perfect, his expression unreadable. This, she thought, had to be Takeomi, the second vice-commander, a man whose presence was all quiet authority and controlled power. However, another figure caught Lizzie’s attention, pulling it away from the deceptive warmth of Shinichiro. Wakasa Imaushi.
He stood at Shinichiro's right side, a striking presence among the hardened expressions. His hair was a cloud of fluffy white, falling in soft, messy layers across his forehead and framing a face. His eyes, suggesting either profound boredom or supreme disinterest, were a muted, sage green. They were framed with long, feminine lashes that cast tiny shadows on his fair complexion. A constellation of light freckles dusted the bridge of his straight nose, adorned with both a small silver nostril hoop and a delicate septum ring adorned his nose, catching the dim light.
His mouth, set in a perfectly neutral line, was full and pale pink. A final, subtle detail glinted from the lower left side of his plush lower lip: a small silver stud, another piercing that hinted at a rebellious nature. Lizzie knew he was the first vice-commander, and the rumours about him were about a personality that was described as deep indifference, and a fighting style that was described as clean, efficient, and utterly devastating.
As if a physical thread connected her stare to his senses, his bored, heavy-lidded eyes slowly drifted from the middle distance and landed directly on her teal ones. His expression gave absolutely nothing away. There was no curiosity, no aggression, no flicker of recognition. It was like being watched by a sleepy cat, a creature of immense potential energy, perfectly content to observe until it was suddenly, decisively not.
The weight of his blank gaze was more unnerving than any intimidating glare could ever be. Lizzie held his stare, refusing to be the first to break, her heart thumping a nervous rhythm against her ribs. The silent standoff was shattered by a deep, husky voice that boomed across the parking lot, cutting through the tension like a hot knife and officially announcing the start of the impending fight. The spell was broken.
As the collision of bodies started, Wakasa made sure to stay close to Shinichiro, watching his back and interfering just to deflect some of the stupid Ragnarok members who tried to harm their captain. Meanwhile his gaze flicked back to the alluring figure that was lending heavy punches on his comrades with an effortless precision.
Shinichiro told him about her last night while they shared a joint at his bike shop. Elisabeth, who was known as Lizzie, a french stray Benkei took from the streets covered in bruises as a family member. Shin has told him to not back down or subestimate her just because she was a girl. Wakasa knew better than to let a gender define what she might be capable of.
As Wakasa took another rival to the ground he realised he lost Sano into the sea of chaos. “Fuck, why can't he just not try to kill himself” Wakasa thought to himself while cursing under his breath. As he moved through the battlefield that the parking lot had become trying to find his captain, his path collided with Lizzie's.
Before he could register, she threw herself into him, taking them both to the ground. She was faster than he thought, probably due to the fact that she was lighter. The sight was almost impossible but she was on top of him, a childish smile playing on her reddish full lips.
Later, he would tell himself it was the surprise of it, that he'd let his guard down for half a heartbeat. But the truth was simpler and irritating: she was faster than he'd anticipated. Lighter on her feet.
The sight would have been almost impossible to anyone watching. Lizzie on top, knees pinning his hips, one hand fisted in his shirt and the other pulled back and ready, a childish smile playing on lips that were fuller than he'd noticed before, reddened from the cold or something else entirely.
"Such a pretty face," she murmured, and her voice had gone soft, melodic, the words carrying a French lilt that curled around the edges. "I'd have to ruin that." Her fist came down, but it never landed.
Wakasa moved not with speed, but with economy. A shift of weight, a twist of hips, and suddenly the world flipped. His weight was now pressing her down, his hands trapping hers against the ground with enough force that would probably leave bruises. He loomed over her, waiting for what came next. He was expecting fear, surprise or maybe both, the way most people looked when the tables turned so completely.
What he got was neither, Lizzie was laughing. A genuine laugh, full-throated and warm, the kind of sound that belonged at parties or with friends, not pinned beneath a man during a fight. She laughed like he'd just told her the funniest joke she'd ever heard, her chest shaking with it, her eyes crinkling at the corners. He stared down at her, momentarily unsure how to proceed. This wasn't in the script.
The laughter stopped as abruptly as it started. Her face shifted, the smile dying into something serious, intent. When she spoke again, the French lilt was gone, replaced by something flat and direct.
"Come on." She held his gaze, unblinking. "Punch me. Don't go easy on me just because I'm a girl."
If Wakasa felt anything, his face refused to betray it. The mask was impeccable, carved from stone and fixed in place. Even pinned beneath her, even with her fist raised and that wild light in her eyes, he gave nothing. But he hesitated.
She saw it. That tiny fraction of a second where his grip didn't tighten, where his body didn't commit to the counter-move. That infinitesimal pause that said I'm not sure I want to hurt you.
Before he could correct his mistake, her hand shot up and buried itself in the nape of his hair. She yanked, hard, dragging his head down until her lips nearly brushed the shell of his ear. The position was intimate, absurdly so, her breath warm against his skin, his weight half-crushing her.
"I told you," she whispered, the words soft as silk and sharp as broken glass, "not to go easy on me." Then she moved.
Her legs coiled, her hips twisted, and she used his own confused momentum against him. The world tilted again for the third time that night, and suddenly she was on top once more, the element of surprise singing through her veins like alcohol.This time she didn't waste a second this time before her fist connected with his jaw.
The impact sang up her arm, sharp and satisfying. His head snapped to the side, and for one perfect heartbeat, she saw something flicker behind those deep eyes, maybe acknowledgment? It didn’t matter, because she didn't stick around to see what came next.
Before he could recover, before his hands could find her again, Lizzie was up and moving. Her chest heaved, her knuckles throbbed. She scanned around, searching for the next target.
The parking lot had become a place of violence. The sound of punches landing on flesh, the collision between bodies and the grunts took over the place. Waka sa regained to his feet, with a throbbing feeling on his jaw that it was oddly satisfying. He tasted blood and realised she gave him a split lip. He wiped it with the back of his hand before redirecting his focus to the previous task, find shinichiro. However, the situation changed.
Sirens split into the night. The wheeling cut through the garage like a blade, high-pitched and getting closer. It seemed to be multiple units, by the sound of it. Someone probably heard the commotion and called the cops.
Before Benkei or Shinichiro could give the alert, bodies were already moving, running in every direction. The chaos that had organised the violence moments before, turned into a true disaster. The black dragons, organised even in retreat into the shadows of surrounding streets. Ragnarok members followed close suit, the territorial battle instantly forgotten in the prospect of the same enemy, handcuffs.
Wakasa's eyes snapped where Sano had finally repaired. He was signalling to his men, directing them to the closest exit. Takeomi at his side, already running. Shin’s gaze found him across the distance, and he jerked his head towards the closest exit. Wakasa gave a curt nod and began to move, but his feet hesitated.
His gaze swept the lot one more time, searching for a flash of golden hair in the vast space. He tried to convince himself it was tactical awareness, knowing where the enemy scattered. Lizzie was backing away from the center of the lot, her chest heaving with extortion and adrenaline, before Benkei’s massive hand closed around her arm and started to pull her away into the shadows. She let herself be dragged, but her teal eyes turned around and found Wakasa’s before she disappeared into the darkness.
The sound of the sirens were deafening now. Lights flooded the lot before Wakasa turned around and ran. He managed to catch up with Shinichiro and Takeomi in the alley behind the market, their footsteps echoing against the asphalt. They didn’t stop until they had put ten blocks between themselves and the scene, slowing into a walk in the relative safety of a deserted side street.
Shinichiro was breathing heavily, but he was grinning like they’ve been having the time of their lives. ‘’That was close.’’ He looked at Wakasa before his grin slowly disappeared. ‘’Your lip is bleeding.’’ Wakasa touched his split lip once again, looked at the blood on his fingers but his expression remained perfectly blank. ‘’Got careless,’’ he said, his voice soft and even. Takeomi snorted. ‘’You? Careless?” Wakasa didn’t look at him.
‘’Come on, Waka. Who landed it?’’ he tried to press. Wakasa didn’t answer and just kept walking, his hands in his pockets, his pale hair falling across his forehead. But in his mind, he couldn’t shake away the image of those teal eyes sparkling with triumph.
The Ragnarok’s hideout swallowed them whole, a chaotic surge of bodies spilling through the door amid shouts and laughter. The fight was done, the Dragons scattered, but the night was far from over.
Lizzie slipped through the noise like a ghost, ignoring the post-battle chaos with practiced ease. Behind her, she could hear Benkei’s voice rising above the din, something about whoever called the cops, something about how they’d have to deal with the Black Dragons once again because of it. None of it was her problem.
The blood on her skin had begun to dry, pulling tight against her movements,a second skin that itched. She could smell the copper tang of it clinging to her clothes. She needed to get clean, to scrape off the evidence of the night and breathe for five goddamn minutes. She needed to find the bathroom.
She almost made it. Her hand found the door, pushed it open, and then-
A massive palm slammed against the frame, stopping it from closing. Benkei materialized out of nowhere, his bulk filling the doorway like a wall of muscle and barely contained fury. He stood between her and the door and Lizzie felt her jaw tighten.
‘’What the hell was that about , Lizzie?’’ His voice was low, urgent, threaded through with something that might have been anger but sat too heavy on his chest to be anything but fear. ‘’I thought I made it clear for you to stay away from them.’’ She didn’t flinch, didn’t look away.
‘’And yet,’’ he pressed, jabbing a finger toward her, ‘’there you were, pinned under Wakasa like you had a death wish.’’
Lizzie let out a slow breath through her nose before she answered. When she spoke, her voice came out soft. ‘’You forgot the part where I had him pinned too.’’ She met his gaze directly, tilting her head just slightly, the picture of wounded innocence. ‘’And it wasn’t my fault he crossed my way.’’
Benkei’s jaw worked, she could see the muscle in his temple jumping with the effort of restraint.
‘’I know you’re a good fighter, Lizzie.’’ The words came out strained, pushed through clenched teeth. ‘’But you need to fucking start to listening when Itell you to be careful.’’
Lizzie held his gaze for a long moment, one eyebrow slowly arching upward, a silent question: Are you done?
She didn't wait for his answer. Her hand moved to the door again, pushing gently but firmly against his palm. This time, he let her. The door swung closed, and the last thing she saw was Benkei's frustrated face disappearing behind the wood.
His curse filtered thorough, barely audible, followed by the heavy thud of his boots as he turned and stalked back toward the main room to wrangle the rest of his members.
Inside the bathroom, the air hung cool and damp against her skin. Lizzie’s fingers gripped hard the edge of the sink, knuckles whitening beneath the dried blood that caked them. Behind her reflection, teal square tiles stretched across the wall. The events of the night replayed behind her eyes whether she wanted it or not.
Wakasa’s weight pinning her down, the split-second hesitation in his movements, before she’d twisted and flipped their positions. He hesitated.
She laughed, the sound coming hollow. The great Imaushi, one of the most feared fighters in Tokyo, had hesitated because she was a girl. The thought was almost funny. Almost. Lizzie was pissed that her gender once again was a tableau. She took a better look at herself in the mirror.
The fluorescent light bar above buzzed faintly, its harsh glow bleaching the color from her skin and illuminating a scattered collection of graffiti tags across the upper wall. Some bled into the mirror itself. Her face stared back at her.
Blood smeared across her cheek, more of it drying already, her hands were a disaster. None of it was hers. She exhaled slowly and finally looked away from her own reflection. A glass shelf above the faucet held the usual collection of half empty bottles, a toothbrush, things that belonged to people who used this space regularly. A soap dish mounted to the left held a sad generic white soap.
Lizzie unwrapped the early bandages from her hands, letting them fall into the sink. Then she turned the faucet on full blast and shoved her hands under the stream. The water ran pink immediately, then redder, then finally clear as she scrubbed, working the blood from her knuckles, from between her fingers. The motion became mechanical, punishing as if she could scrub away more than just evidence.
When her hands were clean enough, she bent and stuck her whole face under the faucet. She let the cold water shock her system, ran down her neck, soaked the collar of her shirt. She stayed there, eyes squeezed shut, letting it wash away the rest. When she finally straightened, gasping slightly, water dripped from her chin and nose and she had to wipe her eyes to see again.
She dropped to her knees and pulled open the cabinet beneath the sink, the aid kit was where it always was. She retrieved it, found the sanitizer and began methodically applying it to the spots that had started to sting now that the adrenaline had faded. Small cuts, nothing serious or that would scar.
Her hands trembled slightly as she worked, she told herself it was the cold water.
The night air hit her like a slap the moment she stepped outside, cold and sharp and exactly what she needed. Lizzie pulled her jacket tighter, clutching the worn fabric close as she slipped past the last clusters of Ragnarok members lingering near the entrance. She felt Benkei's eyes on her back, that heavy, disapproving weight she'd come to recognize over the years, but she didn't slow down. Didn't turn around.
It wasn’t that she didn’t care about him. That was the thing, wasn’t it? She did care. Too much, maybe. Which was exactly why she couldn’t stand there and let him wrap her in caution and watch her with those eyes that said you’re going to get yourself killed.
She couldn’t stand the feeling of being held back, so she walked. Her feet knew the way before she could think much of it, the same path she’d walked hundreds of times before, through streets that grew progressively darker and emptier as she left the heart of the city behind…