The others didn't gasp.
They didn't panic.
They didn't even speak.
They stood caught in the middle of a collective thought they couldn't complete.
But Kamo was already inside the guard. Already driving a hook into Koshira's liver— already following with a knee to the stomach that lifted him from the ground.
Then he caught him by the jaw. Gently. Almost tender. And brought him down—headfirst—into the concrete.
Silence.
Everyone had seen it. And everyone knew:
Kamo could've gone further.
He just didn't need to. He stood over Koshira's body, blood dried on his brow, hand at his side.
"Ready?" he said to Nagitsu.
Nagitsu stepped forward at last.
His boots echoed sharper now.
The kind of sharpness that came from knowing no one would interrupt him.
He didn't speak right away. He looked at the kynenns who hadn't moved. The ones who hadn't spoken. The ones whose choices had been made for them by the silence they'd clung to. Then he reached for the canvas pouch at his hip. Pulled out folded masks—deep gray, soft-edged, all the same.
"Put these on," he said.
His voice was tired. Certain.
Like a man laying bricks on a path he's walked too many times. A few hesitated. Kamo didn't speak. He didn't need to. One by one, they took the masks. Covered their faces. The fabric was rough, but clean. Breathable. Not meant to suffocate. Just enough to strip identity. Anonymous in their obedience.
Nagitsu crossed the room again, knelt, and unfastened another pouch. He tossed a coil of rope onto the floor. It landed heavy.
"Hands in front," he said.
"One loop between each."
He paused.
"If anyone fakes it—don't."
He didn't elaborate.
They began.
Quietly. Mechanically.
Wrists crossed. Rope passed.
Muscle memory kicked in faster than courage ever could.
No one resisted.
Kamo watched.
"You'll get your answers," he said. "Later."
Then he turned—completely—and walked toward the exit.
Nagitsu followed.
Then the rest.
Bound together by rope, but held in place by something quieter.
The ride back was quiet.
The truck hummed low beneath them.
Every jolt in the road made the ropes shift—rough against wrists, friction blooming in small aches.
No one spoke.
No one removed their mask.
Kamo sat at the front, boot up on the seat beside him.
Eyes half-lidded.
Just waiting.
Like time would come faster if he didn't look directly at it.
Nagitsu sat beside the driver.
Hands still. Mouth closed.
He didn't look back.
They arrived just after sunrise.
Fūre was already waiting.
He stood at the far end of the room.
Tall. Composed. Hands behind his back.
Like he'd been carved out of stillness and left there to age.
The walls behind him were pinned with maps.
Notes written in loops too small to read.
Too exact to question.
He turned as the group entered.
Kamo stepped forward.
His brow still streaked with dried blood. He didn't wipe it.
Fūre's eyes moved from Kamo, to Nagitsu, to the masked line behind them.
Measured.
Not interested—just confirming.
The corner of his mouth twitched.
It wasn't a smile. But it was the outline of one.
"How many?" he asked.
"Nineteen," Kamo said.
Fūre nodded once.
Then stepped forward.
He placed a hand on Kamo's shoulder.
Kamo took it as praise.
Though it wasn't. Not really. It was just confirmation that the weight of responsibility passed back into its original shape.
Kamo's face shifted.
A small smirk.
Almost giddy at the touch.
Like the simplicity of acknowledgment made the blood worth it.
Fūre turned to the recruits.
"Take the masks off."
They obeyed.
And for a moment— the room was full of faces again.
Young. Sharp.
Exhausted. Changed.
Fūre's smile widened.
But his eyes stayed hard.
"Welcome," he said.
"To your new home."
They watched him.
Nineteen faces. Some blank. Some tight with dread.
Yet still, each glance carried the same silent questions, all sharpened at the edges.
They moved beneath the mountain in silence. Boots brushing damp stone. The tunnels around them were slicked with moisture, veins of pale mineral catching firelight like scars beneath skin.
The air was paper-thin, brittle as ash. It carried the scent of earth and rust —laced with a trace of something sour.
Fūre walked ahead. Unhurried. Detached.
He struck a match. Lit a cigar.
Smoke curled from his lips like his own breath.
Kamo walked near the front, eyes sunk deep into shadow.
Nagitsu drifted behind, hands pocketed, humming something tuneless. Nothing loud. Just a current beneath the shuffle of feet.
One of the recruits turned. Caught the flash of silver at his ear. The suggestion of a grin that didn't reach his eyes.
Fūre didn't glance back.
He didn't need to.
Fūre strode ahead, smoke trailing from his cigar in wisps of grey. He walked as if alone, eyes straight ahead, never once checking to see if he was followed. But when he paused briefly before an ironbound door, everyone halted simultaneously, an unconscious echo of his silent authority.
No word passed between them. Just obedience
They stood uneven. Slouched. Rigid. Nineteen forms shaped by instinct and uncertainty.
The air seemed to press closer here, thick as breath in a closed fist.
Eyes flicked—walls, ceiling, the door. Each one twitching like a needle on the verge of thread.
No one spoke. Yet Kamo noted the defiance burning quietly in some eyes, while others held only wary resignation. Their gazes flitted to him occasionally—watching the way he stood, unmoving, beside Fūre.
They entered the deeper chamber, a wide cavern carved from black stone.
Fūre opened the door without ceremony and stepped into the room beyond. Inside, metal tables sat starkly beneath muted lights, the walls unadorned save for faded maps and scribbled notes.
The recruits filed in uncertainly, blinking at their new surroundings, quiet murmurs falling away quickly beneath the room's oppressive silence.
The door slid shut behind them with the heavy scrape of metal against stone.
Fūre's voice filled the chamber like smoke—soft but thick, choking yet captivating.
"Welcome home," he said. Repeating his opening remark, as if expecting a different response
A shiver traveled visibly through the recruits.
One boy swallowed hard, fingers trembling. Congruent to a girl beside him tightened her jaw, lips set in thin defiance.
Fūre stepped closer, his gaze brushing across them slowly, lingering briefly, meaningfully, on the girl's hardened face.
"Understand, you've traded one leash for another. Your only freedom here is proving you're worth something more than the blood we spilled for you."
Nagitsu's whistle died softly in the background. Kamo met his gaze briefly—cold expectation danced in Nagitsu's eyes, a silent judgement shared between predators.
His gaze slid to Kamo as he smirked faintly. "Lucky them, huh?"
Kamo didn't reply.
His eyes returned to the recruits, scanning their faces, their hands, the way they shifted their weight nervously from foot to foot.
Fūre exhaled smoke, studying Kamo carefully.
He turned to the crowd.
"If you're the type that needs to find your own way—go ahead. No one's stopping you. But once you step outside, don't expect to find anything waiting for you. And don't expect to be let back in."
He paused, eyes scanning the room—flat, unreadable.
"That's the last time I'll say it."