Chapter Text
The neon lights of Tokyo's underbelly cast fractured shadows across the rain-slicked pavement as Akira Mercer hunched over his laptop in the cramped apartment he shared with his boyfriends. His fingers flew across the keyboard with practiced precision, green eyes reflecting the cascade of code streaming across multiple monitors. The undercut of his green hair had grown out slightly, falling into his eyes as he worked, but he didn't bother pushing it back. He was too focused, too deep in the digital labyrinth he'd constructed to care about something as trivial as his appearance.
The apartment was silent except for the rhythmic tapping of keys and the distant hum of the city outside. Kieran was out on a job, had been for the past six hours, and Dante had gone with him as backup. It wasn't unusual. Akira had long ago accepted that his boyfriends lived dangerous lives, that every time they walked out the door might be the last time he saw them. He'd grown up on the streets, learned early that attachment was a luxury he couldn't afford, but somehow these two idiots had wormed their way past every defense he'd built.
He didn't like getting involved in their world. Hacking was one thing, a clean crime committed from the safety of his screens, but the wet work they did, the blood and violence, that was something else entirely. Akira had seen enough violence growing up, had the scars to prove it, and he'd promised himself he'd never go back to that life. But promises, he'd learned, were as fragile as the people who made them.
His phone buzzed, vibrating against the desk with an insistence that made his stomach drop. Dante's name flashed across the screen. Akira snatched it up, pressing it to his ear before the second ring.
"What's wrong?" No pleasantries, no greeting. Dante wouldn't call during a job unless something had gone catastrophically wrong.
"It's Kieran." Dante's voice was tight, controlled in that way that meant he was barely holding it together. "The hit was a setup. There are too many of them, and he's pinned down. I can't get to him."
Akira was already moving, fingers flying across the keyboard as he pulled up traffic cameras, security feeds, anything that could give him eyes on the situation. "Where?"
"Warehouse district, sector seven. The old Yamazaki building." A pause, then quieter, almost vulnerable, "He needs you, cutie. I need you."
The nickname, meant to make him flustered, to lighten the mood, fell flat. Akira's jaw clenched as he found the feeds, his eyes scanning the tactical situation with the cold efficiency of someone who'd survived by being smarter and faster than everyone else. Twelve hostiles, maybe more inside. Kieran was trapped on the third floor, and Dante was pinned down in the stairwell. It was bad.
"I'm coming." He was already grabbing his jacket, shoving his laptop into his bag. "Keep your phone on. I'll guide you through."
"Akira—"
"I said I'm coming." His voice was sharp, harsh in the way it got when he was scared and trying not to show it. "Don't you dare die before I get there, either of you."
He hung up before Dante could respond, before the white-haired assassin could hear the tremor in his voice. Akira had spent seventeen years building walls, constructing a persona of sarcasm and indifference, but those walls crumbled when it came to Kieran and Dante. They were his, and he protected what was his.