The night arrived quickly. There was no fanfare heralding its appearance, only the descent of the sun past the horizon to be replaced by the cold face of the full moon. Its beauty was cold and bright, its light shined on the snowdrifts to turn them into shimmering veils amid the darkness. It was cold as well. Colder than it had been on the night Phil woke up in the park. Cold enough to freeze a man’s blood in his veins, to turn his breath into a near-solid cloud of fog. Each breath was like knives being stabbed into one’s lungs.

  This night was a night where those without proper shelter would not wake up from their slumber.

  Inside the apartment Phil and Jean shared, the wood-burning stove crackled merrily. The two men were sleeping next to it as close as they dared, covered with piles of threadbare blankets purchased from the secondhand store down the road. Underneath those blankets were their ragged coats and every other piece of clothing they owned. No amount of insulation in the walls could fully keep out the grasping fingers of this glacial night. The wood-burning stove, as hard as it tried, could only provide warmth for a small piece of the room that was closest to it. The edges of the makeshift table gradually saw a buildup of frost on it. The wooden door to the apartment creaked faintly in protest of the cold. Along the wall frost built up on the glass picture frames Tilla had hung up. Both the Eiffel Tower and Tokyo Tower pictures became partially obscured due to that.

  Not a single scrap of frost built up on the portrait of Vampire’s Curse.

  Lumina leaned against the table, puffing away at her thermos of freshly brewed tea to cool it down enough so that it wouldn’t burn her lips. Similar to the vampire portrait, she was completely unaffected by the cold. Nor did she need to sleep, or even eat (she did, however, maintain that a constant flow of delicious tea was crucial to her continued well-being). In a way, even though Phil had found a place with four walls to move to, Lumina’s focus during the night remained similar – keep watch, as only a sleepless spirit could. Every half an hour that passed saw Lumina’s eyes flicker over to the wood-burning stove. The moment it burned down low enough that it was in danger of going out, she would give Phil a swift kick in the side to wake him up to toss more wood in.

  Frankly, considering she did not need to sleep, eat, or drink, and her supply of interesting novels had run dry, this was about as much entertainment as she could get in the dead of the night.

  At least, until the doorknob turned.

  If this had taken place before Lumina’s first battle, she might have found herself frozen to the spot, not from the cold, but from a mixture of shock and fear. However, Lumina’s first life-or-death battle had happened, by her reckoning, nearly 8,000 years ago. That number was her best guess. In all honesty, it might have been longer than that. Moreover, she had personally participated in the corporate wars in the spirit world.

  These experiences allowed Lumina to immediately jump into action the second the door opened and the three screaming men burst into the apartment. Each one of the men was fairly muscular, not quite to the level of a bodybuilder, but definitely to the level of a man who often went to the gym. They wore disposable masks that looked similar to a surgeon's mask that would cover the mouth and nose, and their right hands each clutched a long tuna knife – a rather long knife with a blade of perhaps around 12 inches in length. The cold steel blades glimmered slightly in the streams of moonlight that flitted through the windows.

  Before Phil or Jean had finished opening their eyes, the apartment was a blur of action. The three masked men rushed through the tiny living room. The one in the lead made it only a few steps before the portrait of the vampire blurred noticeably. The painted edges twisted and turned as if they were alive, causing the painting to bubble like a pot of water on a stove. A long pale neck reached out of it, the end of which contained a bloodless face with burning red eyes and pale blue hair. The face's mouth opened, revealing a pair of razor-sharp incisors, each one being several inches long. The first masked man couldn’t react in time. Before he could even half-turn to face the new threat, a grunt of surprise flew from his lips as the vampire’s fangs tore out his throat so the undead creature could greedily gulp at the scarlet lifeblood within like a starving man given a human-sized bowl of thick and chunky soup.

  Even as the vampire dragged the dying man with it as it retreated back into the portrait, Lumina readied herself. The two remaining men, obviously shaken at their comrade’s abrupt death, but determined to see their goal through, ran next to the table in their bid to enter the kitchen where Phil and Jean were rapidly waking. Lumina took her chance then. Sticking her foot forward, she quickly flicked her magic on and off, becoming able to interact with the corporeal world just long enough to trip the second man. Focused on his targets, the man fell like a sack of potatoes. Before he could even brace himself for impact, his neck hit the makeshift table with a sickening ‘snap’. His neck was bent at a sharp angle. The second man did not move after that.

  Two shouts filled the air. A profanity-laden battle cry from Phil, and a surprised shout of ‘Sacre bleu!’ from Jean.

  The third man managed to avoid Lumina’s leg, but Phil and Jean were up by then. Both men’s eyes were hazy from sleep, but their bodies moved quickly. Phil grabbed a tarnished pot off the top of the stove and smashed the iron surface on the third masked man’s head. He stumbled backward, momentarily stunned. This gave enough time for Jean to charge forward with a wild yell, catching the man in a tackle that drove them out of the kitchen. The masked man’s back slammed into the opposite wall with a ‘crunch’, but Jean, as thin as he was from malnourishment, was unable to do any lasting damage with the attack. Still, the impact was enough to jar the tuna knife from his hand, letting it clatter harmlessly to the floor.

  However, with Lumina still visible, Phil stepping forward with his now-dented pot in hand, and Jean locked in a grapple with him, the final masked man’s eyes managed to lose any sort of malice that once lingered in them. Fear now replaced that malice, the type of ragged, animal-like fear that lurked in the depths of every man’s heart.

  The masked man wrenched his head forward to catch Jean’s nose in a brutal headbutt, causing the shouting Frenchman to loosen his grip and stumble backward in pain. There was no follow-up attack. Before their very eyes, even as Phil vaulted over the kitchen counter, as Lumina advanced with her fists ready, and Jean charged forward yet again with an animalistic snarl of rage, the masked man turned and fled. He was fast – doubtlessly hopped up on the type of adrenaline the body tends to reserve for only the most vital of life-and-death scenarios. The type of adrenaline that can even cause the body to tear its own muscles to shreds if it meant one could get away from the source of danger faster.

  But still, Lumina was able to strike. She was much closer to the third man than Phil or Jean, so the distance she had to cross was not great. There were no weapons in her hands, nor was there time to grab one. Her magic sputtered. It was taking all the fumes she had left in the tank just to stay corporeal. With each half-second that passed, her form flickered in and out of reality like she was in a dark room only illuminated by a single strobe light.

  Even so, it was enough.

  In a close copy to Jean’s earlier move, she caught the third man in a bone-crushing tackle, driving her shoulder into the man's back with such ferocity and strength that it drove the breath from his body, causing him to stumble as he ran. The sound of several bones breaking split through the air.

  If Lumina’s tackle had landed a second earlier, the man would have been driven to the floor.

  Instead, he slammed against a window close to the half-open door. The masked man’s body held firm.

  The glass window did not.

  As soon as the masked man’s weight hit the window, the glass exploded outward. Perhaps the window was made from cheap materials. Perhaps Lumina’s tackle was that brutal. She did, after all, appear to have much more strength than what her slim frame would suggest to the casual observer.

  Either way, the man unwillingly followed the glass on its way out of the window and two stories through the air until he hit the concrete ground of the alleyway below.

  Lumina rushed to the broken window. With a glance she could see the masked man was injured but alive. He was well enough to move, moving with surprising speed even though his hobbling gait suggested a fractured bone, or worse, somewhere in one of his legs.

  “Phil! We need to move now!” Lumina shouted. She was still visible, but she paid it no mind. Rather, she was more concerned about the other men she could see gathered on the street – two more masked men, each of them carrying what appeared to be gallon-sized jerry cans.

  One of them was laughing, and as the third masked man frantically hobbled past him, the laughing man struck a match and threw it toward the first floor of the building they were currently in.

  Lumina threw a glance backward to check on the guys. Jean was staring at her, clutching his heart with an expression of surprise, but his reaction was not quite as she expected. It was somewhat subdued, as if he was mostly surprised that she had appeared out of nowhere, instead of the implications that her ‘appearing out of nowhere’ would suggest to the ordinary person.

  Phil rushed to the broken window just in time to see the two men on the street toss their jerry cans into the first level of the house they were in and run away.

  He shared a glance with her, even as Lumina’s form sputtered out and she returned to a state of invisibility, unable to interact with the corporeal world once more.

  “Gas cans?”

  “Merde, I think you’re right.” Jean said.

  Ignoring the dead man near the table and the blood-soaked portrait on the wall, Phil and Jean sprinted through the door, down the stairs, and down the short alley that would spit them out onto the street facing the building. The bodies of the dead men upstairs, and the tuna knives they had once wielded, lay forgotten in their haste. At first, the two-story house looked ordinary. A second look revealed that the doors were chained shut and several of the windows in front were broken. The pungent smell of gasoline burned at their noses. Seconds later the windows began to belch out thick, oily smoke, and the deathly cold air was filled with unnatural, sickly warmth.

  Phil’s head whipped back and forth as if he was searching for someone. His eyes met Jean’s, and they spoke a name at the same time.

  “Arthur Hawkins!”

  The old man wasn’t on the street with them.

  “You think?” Phil looked at the clouds of oily smoke fighting with the snowflakes in the air for space.

  "It's a coin flip." Jean agreed. Even though they were only exchanging incomplete sentences, the duo were on a similar enough wavelength that they could understand each other's unspoken words.

  So could Lumina. They worried that Arthur Hawkins, who they not only owed a personal debt to but who had also left a very favorable impression on them, was inside the first floor of the house where he lived. However, there was no way to say for sure. The elderly man did not own a car, and it was late at night so his lights being off wasn't a reliable indicator of if he was home. Moreover, there was no sound of sirens yet, but the owner of a 24/7 store down the street was already on the phone. Who knew when the fire department could make it?

  It was not until what sounded like a faint cry for help coming from inside was the matter settled. Without any further discussion Phil and Jean tore large strips from their ragged shirts. They leaned down, dragging the strips of cloth against the slowly melting snow until they were soaked through, and then tied them tightly around their mouths and noses. Next, they both rolled their bodies around in the snow. Though it was dangerously cold, the melting snow could provide at least a small barrier of protection from the flames on their skin.

  "I'll go first and guide you," Lumina said. She wouldn’t be able to get the old man out, but the smoke wouldn’t hurt her. With her scouting, the goal of getting in and out as fast as possible would be much more doable. Phil relayed the message to Jean. The Frenchman took it in stride, as if an invisible woman guiding their path was an everyday occurrence. Either that or he was determined to leave all unnecessary questions until after their benefactor was no longer in danger of facing one of the worst ways to die known to man.

  Without a moment's hesitation, Phil hopped through the closest broken window with Jean in close pursuit. Lumina leaped through next and took the lead. The smoke was bad, enough so that even through the soaking wet rags covering their faces, the men were coughing and sputtering. They stuck as close to the floor as they could to keep under the smoke, while Lumina ran through it fearlessly at her normal height. The thick smoke obscured everything above waist height, leaving only Lumina's legs to guide Phil, while Jean stuck close to Phil's back.

  The first room was empty. This one had received the worst of the gasoline and thus was covered with raging flames that snapped at the men as they threaded their way through. The second room was only slightly better. It was a kitchen, spartan in nature with few furnishings to speak of. Phil’s skin steamed. It hadn’t even been fifteen seconds since they entered the building, but the fire had evaporated the thin film of water on their bodies.

  As Lumina poked her head around the corner to the third room, their target was finally in sight. An older gentleman was collapsed on a recliner in the middle of the room, his tan suit and bowtie a rather striking oddity amidst the roaring flames. His body was so far free of burns. The smoke inhalation was another story, the likely cause of him falling unconscious. Sticking her head back into the previous room, she crouched down and beckoned for Phil.

  Phil and Jean hustled into the room as fast as they could move while still crouching. They instantly saw Arthur and Phil wasted no time flinging the older man over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. The man was light enough in his age that even Phil, as skinny and malnourished as he was from his time under the bridge, had no trouble lifting him.

  The flames kept spreading almost faster than the men could move. Lumina darted around, frantically leading them through whatever safe paths she could find, but even then tongues of flame still leaped from the inferno to lick at their skin, leaving shiny red burns and pus-filled blisters behind.

  Room through room they went, until finally they reached the same window they had used to enter the building. Only now was there a thick wall of fire between them and the window. Lumina, Phil, and Jean all whipped their heads around frantically to look for another exit, but the fire devoured all. Smoke filled each room to the point that even as low to the floor as Phil and Jean were crouched, visibility was almost zero. Even with the smoke, there wasn't much to see. Gasoline-fueled flames greedily devoured the wooden walls, gnawing at curtains, furniture, and clothing.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Phil shot a glance over his shoulder at Jean.

  “Fuck it!” Phil shouted over the roaring flames, “We’re gonna die anyway, so let’s YOLO this bitch!”

  “Aye!” Jean shouted back.

  Phil took a deep breath as if to steady himself, and then straightened and sprinted toward the wall of flames, heedless of the danger in front of him. Jean followed behind, matching his speed with Phil’s. Then they jumped, each man letting out a roar of pain from the fire as they burst through the broken window to land on the snowy street beyond. Coughing and groaning, Phil and Jean ignored their own burning clothes to frantically pat out and smother the flames on Arthur’s suit. Only when his clothing was completely extinguished did they roll around in the snow with pained looks on their faces.

  Lumina shot a look down the street. Only now were the sounds of sirens approaching. By her estimate, the fire engines were only a block or two away. With luck and speed, the building still had a chance of being spared, though doubtlessly the repairs needed would be lengthy and costly.

  -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

  “Motherfucker!” Phil spat as he watched the firefighters put out the blazing house. Rage boiled in his stomach, half from the painful burns littering his body, and half from the knowledge that this was arson, plain and simple. Moreover, he had a pretty good idea that this wasn’t random.

  There was no other reason for the three men to burst into the apartment other than to drag Phil and Jean away somewhere. The knives were probably for intimidation purposes, to prevent a fight from erupting. If the goal was to kill, bursting into the apartment was pointless. More than that, it was an unnecessary risk. All they needed to do was burn the building down while the occupants slept inside. On the other hand, if they there robbers, setting the first floor on fire was pointless. It would be difficult to search for valuables in a burning building.

  The fire lit up the surroundings as if it were day instead of night. Phil blinked once and faint scenes began to blur through the sky, flitting between stars as they raced across his vision like faint yet ugly memories. Half-faded explosions of fire in the sky. A hurried pursuit through the jungle. Explosions in the distance. The sound of dormitories crumbling into rubble.

  His body moving by itself while Phil was trapped in his own head, helpless to do anything but watch.

  Phil squeezed his eyes shut, forcing his mind back to the present. Thinking about bullshit like that was a waste of time. No. This was a message, plain and simple. They would have been forced out of the building to watch it burn to the ground before their very eyes. Who was the only person that would want to send them a message at this point in time?

  Fucking. Chet.

  This was likely his message to Phil and Jean that they needed to accept his offer or else.

  But it wasn’t 100%. As much as Phil wanted to get an early start on brutally murdering the slimy yakuza rat bastard, he had to make sure there wasn't anything else going on behind the scenes. Sure, killing Chet was guaranteed by now. But what if there was a different enemy behind the fire?

  He had to be certain. Only then could there be no other nasty surprises.

  At that moment Phil’s attention was grabbed by Arthur Hawkin’s groans. Luckily the man was mostly unharmed other than from smoke inhalation, which was fixed by the firefighters with a tank of oxygen.

  Phil did not wait for the man to ask any questions. He got on his knees in front of Arthur, with Jean following suit. He slammed his head into the snowy ground. Again and again.

  Even the pain from his burns and his bruised forehead could not overpower the shame he felt to the very core of his being. This old man, because of the kindness in his heart, had suffered because Phil had either underestimated the lows the yakuza would sink to send a message, or because Phil had neglected to spot a hidden enemy. His house was burning. The firefighters were doing a good job at putting it out. That hardly meant it would still be livable after the fire was out. Arthur would need a new house or at least some serious renovations. It was all their fault. Every scrap of blame was on the heads of Phil and Jean.

  He should have known better. If Lumina hadn’t been keeping watch… then perhaps Arthur may have even died in that fire.

  “This is entirely our fault! Every ounce of blame lies on our shoulders!” Phil and Jean shouted from the bottoms of their hearts in perfect unison. “We swear on both of our lives to our benefactor that this will be fixed! Please sir, allow us to take you to a safe place so that we begin working toward repaying our debt, no matter what it takes!”

  What went unsaid were the words ‘and no matter how many people we have to tear through to do it.’

  Arthur Hawkins did not respond. Not out of malice or regret, but out of simple shock. Phil grabbed several blankets from the nearest fire engine to wrap around the old man as a treatment for shock and then began to guide the man toward Kame Game. It was the safest place he could think of. Hopefully the yakuza were unaware of his faint ties to the game store.

  With each step they took it felt like a burning coal of rage was building up in his stomach. Why did he decide to give Chet his answer in the morning? He could have gone to the arena before then and killed the rat bastard. No matter when he went, the result would have been the same with Chet’s death.

  Though, Phil had to admit things were a bit different now. Namely, he had no intention of stopping after icing Chet. As of now, he was unsure if he could finagle every member of the yakuza family into a shadow game.

  But he sure as fuck was going to try.

  -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

  It was not until Arthur was safe in Kame Games did Jean finally asked the questions that were eating away at his mind. The streets were silent once more. The sirens of the fire engines had long since fallen quiet. Yugi's mom had promised to keep a close eye on Arthur. The fact that she did not ask a single question about their situation was surprising but gratifying all the same. However, her eyes did go wide with a mixture of alarm and concern after the light from inside the store fell upon the various burns littering the bodies of Phil and Jean.

  If any complications came up, she was to call the hospital ASAP. Strangely, Solomon was not there. Phil hardly had the time nor the energy to devote to wondering about that, other than to briefly consider if this was chance, or if Death-T was about to start up.

  No matter. If it was Death-T, Yugi could handle it.

  As the men talked, they kept their eyes glued to the ground. In the snow, as plain as day, were fresh tracks that were slightly staggered, as if whoever left them had an injured leg. Phil had some experience in tracking from his time in Boy Scouts when he was younger, but even a half-blind man could follow these tracks.

  “So… back at the apartment.” Jean began with an unsure voice. “Did I briefly go insane, or did a beautiful woman appear out of thin air to fight by our side? The same with that portrait Tilla gave us. Make no mistake, I appreciate the help, but sacre bleu it was quite the surprise.”

  “That’s Lumina.” Phil briefly explained. “She’s what’s called a ‘duel spirit’. I think the painting has a duel spirit inside it too.”

  Jean made a noise of understanding. “So, they do exist. Here I thought you were speaking to thin air, when instead you were speaking to a spirit companion. Though, this is the first time I have seen one outside of the pages of a book or the tales of an old timer. More than that, this spirit is a pretty lady. Make no mistake, my heart lies with Tilla, but every man can appreciate a beautiful woman regardless. Ah, and the thoughtfulness of beautiful Tilla! She wanted to keep us safe! Somehow, I find myself even more in love with her than before, which I would not have thought possible. It is as if my love went from 200% to 300%!”

  Lumina glanced at her hands. There were bloodstains on them when she had tackled the third man. “Weirdo.”

  Ignoring everything else Jean said, Phil quirked an eyebrow. “You thought I was crazy?”

  “I did! No harm in that, yes? I am a bit crazy too, I think. For the record, I still think you’re crazy, my friend. I suppose this is your little surprise? I have heard that the mythical ‘shadow games’ can happen when duel spirits get involved. I assume the myths ring true?”

  "Yuppers," Phil said. “I am going to do my best to start up a shadow game, kill Chet, take his soul, and feed it to the magic tadpole in my pocket. His name is D.3.S. Frog. He eats people.”

  A low croak of greeting rang out from Phil’s breast pocket to Jean.

  “Well met.” Jean gave a slight yet solemn bow toward the hidden tadpole. “So, a murder?”

  “Yup.”

  There was a moment of silence. Jean shrugged casually. “A deserved one, then.”

  "You're cool with it?"

  They stopped right as they got to the Burger World parking lot. The lights inside the building spilled out a calm yellow glow into the parking lot, but hardly anyone other than one or two late-night diners and a couple of workers were inside. From here it wouldn't be much further to the duel parlor. The tracks seemed to head in the same direction, which made sense.

  “What is a murder or two between brothers? I’ll get his arms, you get his legs, and that tadpole of yours can have a good meal.”

  Phil laughed long and loud. “Damn right brother!”

  In a way, it was quite refreshing how readily Jean accepted it all. Was it a symbol of an open mind, or was it simply because they were brothers? Or perhaps it was a little bit of both.

  -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

  As it turned out, the tracks did not lead to the duel parlor. The same direction? Sure. However, one block away from the parlor, they veered off the side to stop at a rather shady dive bar. It was the sort of bar that back on Earth, Phil wouldn't have entered without a gun and a very good reason. Music blared into the night. Flickering neon signs advertising various brands of beer covered the windows, which were as grimy as could be. Stinking trash piled out of the alley next to the bar, letting its filth and slime ooze from the black bags to coat the ground. Two men were lying on the ground right in that same filth, unmoving with brown glass bottles clutched in their hands. It was impossible to tell if those men were dead or alive.

  This bar was the type of place to have hookers with every STD imaginable (and some yet to be discovered) plying their trade out back, an active meth lab set up in some hidden cellar below, a handful of people shooting up heroin in the bathroom (which makes it awkward if one needs to take a leak), and a dude getting knifed near the pool table over something stupid.

  In essence, it was the perfect dive bar for a yakuza thug to drink away the pain after taking an unwilling and quick exit from the second floor of a building.

  The bar had a decent number of people in it all working hard to reach a state of Dionysian bliss that would leave them oblivious to their problems and the world itself. Even so, it did not take Phil long to find their mark.

  "Kidnapping arsonist shitbag at 5 o'clock." Phil muttered to Jean, jerking his head in their target's direction. Even though they’d only gotten the briefest of glimpses of the man, the way he favored his left leg, the groans of pain, and the disposable surgical mask sitting on the bar counter beside him were pretty good indicators that this was their man. Surrounding him were two other men, with similar disposable surgical masks on the bar counter next to them. It was easy to conclude those two men were the arsonists.

  Jean took a step forward, but Phil held out a cautioning hand to stop him. As of now, it was unknown if those men would recognize them. Were they only given a location to burn, and told to take whoever was on the second floor? Or were they given pictures, names, and faces?

  Yet this was still a familiar scene. Back in his college days, Phil was a regular at all the bars in the town. No matter how seedy a bar was, he had developed through that experience a pretty good eye for the types of people in a bar.

  These men, he could tell these men were the type to get stone drunk. All he needed to do was wait.

  Phil walked to the side, choosing one of the tables near the corner of the room that had a good view of not only the three no-longer-masked-men, but also of the door. Here he and Jean could keep an eye on the full situation while also making sure no other variables could enter unnoticed.

  Minutes passed into hours. Midnight fell away. Once one hour passed, the three men became rowdy. Glass after glass of sake was downed, chased by pitchers of cheap light beer. Full bottles of sake disappeared down their gullets. They began to sway, having trouble staying upright in their seats.

  And once Phil judged the men were drunk enough to be unable to recognize much of anyone, he made his move. Phil stood up, crossing the distance between his table and the bar counter in seconds. Jean was right behind him with a cold and calculating look in his eyes.

  “Moscow Mule for me.” Phil got the bartender’s attention with his order. It was a classic mixed drink, a combination of vodka, ginger beer, and lime. Back in his college days, this drink had been his favorite whenever he had the cash to drink anything other than cheap watered-down beer. Phil put several bills on the table – just enough to cover the tab, but also the last of the petty cash they had on hand. All their other finances were in the form of betting chips. “And for these new brothers of mine, how about a few more bottles of sake?”

  The three men let out a ragged cheer as the bartender slammed more bottles onto the counter. By now they had forgone glasses and simply drank from the bottles themselves. Once Phil’s mixed drink was ready, he braced himself. Consciously he kept his hand far from the drink in front of him, but close enough so that the other men would feel a sense of kinship toward a fellow drunk. The liquid in the glass, clear and bubbly as it was, felt like it was emanating a siren call to his ears. It was only through sheer force of will, and Lumina’s presence right next to him, that his own drink went untouched for the moment.

  "You three look pretty happy," Phil ventured out. The men all shared the same unfocused gazes and droopy grins that all happy drunks deep in their cups had. Even the man with the hurt leg seemed to have completely forgotten his pain. Alcohol was a hell of a drug for sure.

  “DAMN STRAIGHT!” The man with the hurt leg bellowed out cheerily. “I tell ya, we just did some damn good work, that’s for sure!”

  The rest of the men cheered along with the first, raising their bottles of sake in a toast before taking greedy gulps of the alcohol within. One of them looked right at Phil. Phil, as naturally as he could, brought his drink up to his lips, clamping them shut and tipping the drink so that the foul liquid wouldn’t go past his lips. A detail as small as that would be impossible for a man as drunk as those guys were to notice.

  “What work is that? Did you find some hot chick and get laid?” Phil casually asked, setting the drink back down.

  All three men shook their heads sloppily.

  "No we…" The man with the hurt leg lowered his voice as if he was about to tell Phil a funny secret. He leaned closely. Phil mimicked his gesture, heedless of how his burned skin protested at the movement. “Our boss told us to pull a sneaky. Some dickwad didn’t immediately say yes to something he wanted, so he gave us an address, see, and told us, Murata, old pal, go to this address, drag out everyone inside, and make them watch the building light up like a fucking matchstick! After that, tell them to make up their minds then and there. That man’s an animal, I swear! We hit some bumps along the way… but we got most of it done, yeah?”

  The man with the hurt leg subsided into a fit of giggling, which the other two men mimicked.

  Phil’s blood ran cold. By now it was obvious these men were yakuza. It hardly mattered if Chet had given the order, or if it was anyone higher in the organization. What a bunch of bastards. Attacking someone, trying to burn down their house, and then getting wasted at a bar like nothing ever happened. Was this nothing but another day at the office for them?

  In his pocket, D.3.S. stirred in response to the bloodlust Phil felt.

  Phil forced a cheery grin on his face. "Say, I also came over here to ask you a question. See, there was this chick in the corner," Phil jerked his head to motion to an empty corner, "before she left, she asked me if I knew you guys, and if I knew which one of you is better. You know, more money, higher in the organization, stronger, all that. I think she was into you lads something fierce."

  The man with the hurt leg slammed his bottle on the bar. By now there was only a quarter of the alcohol in it left.

  “I am, of course!”

  The second of the three men shouted louder. “No, that’s me!”

  The third man stood and shouted the loudest, "Orahhhh!! You fuckers dare? It's me!"

  Phil slipped away from the bar and turned toward the door with Jean in tow. Behind him, there was the sound of a glass bottle shattering against the bar counter, accompanied by the screams of the bartender and a few of the less-inebriated patrons as a small, yet bloody barfight began.

  “Still got the touch.” Phil muttered to himself. No matter the world, whether it was back on Earth or here, starting shit in a bar full of drunkards was as easy for him as turning the palm of his hand over from one side to the other. It was yet another skill honed back in college.

  Raising his voice to be heard over the din, he opened the door to the outside street and glanced at Jean. “How about we go ice Chet? No more waiting, we do it now and make the fucker suffer.”

  A howl of agony tore out from within the dive bar. It echoed across the streets, drawing the attention of two blue-coated police officers walking nearby. They trotted forward, each with a hand on their holstered revolvers. Entering the bar, the officer’s figures were covered by the door, leaving only their shouts behind.

  A tiny voice in the back of Phil’s head wondered if he truly had become too comfortable with the idea of murder. Was it a habit by now? An easy solution to keeping the people he cared about safe instead of the last resort attempt to neutralize a threat that it should be? Or was it not anything habitual at all, but just the sign of a man who was becoming numb to something he should naturally abhor?

  What would come next? For there would always be a chance to fall further. Such is the way of the world. Who would stop him if he did? Lumina was more used to death than he was. D.3.S. Frog legitimately enjoyed eating people alive. Jean did not pause for even a second upon learning of Phil’s plans to ice Chet.

  But without bothering to argue it out, Phil threw that tiny voice away into the little imaginary garbage can in the back of his mind. It was the same place where he shoved all the rest of the pointless shit. Those thoughts were not helpful at this moment, so they could and should be ignored. Chet deserved to die. Simple as that. The Mori Family deserved to be crushed to prevent further retaliation. Simple as that. Phil and Jean would do it personally to make sure it was done right. Simple as that. They would do what they needed to do.

  Simple. As. That.

  Jean cracked a smile. The gesture was filled with as much bloodthirst and anger as Phil felt. There was still not even a scrap of hesitation or fear in the voice of Phil’s brother as he responded.

  “Oui, we shall indeed.”

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