Friend or Foe
Kairi's vision blurred.
Her ribs ached, her muscles screamed, and her body was screaming for her to stop. But as she staggered up from the cracked concrete, something else burned inside her—something deeper than just the pain.
Regret.
Her breath was ragged, her fingers twitching as she forced herself to stay conscious.
Her mind drifted.
A flash of her past—blood on her hands. The weight of a blade sinking into flesh. The look of horror in their eyes before she took their lives.
She saw Satsuki Fujimoto's corpse.
She saw the Iron Serpents' bodies rotting in the alleys.
She saw the nameless men and women she had left in ruin.
Had it all been worth it?
She clenched her teeth. Yes. It had to be.
But why did she feel like she was falling?
Her vision wavered.
Mikado and Yasuo stepped forward, their faces smug, their confidence absolute.
Lukas remained still, cold eyes watching her every breath.
Her fingers twitched.
Is this it?
A part of her almost laughed.
After all the wars, the bloodshed, the nights spent bathing in violence—was this really where she was going to die?
She tried to move.
Her body wouldn't respond.
And then—
The lights flickered.
A breeze that shouldn't have existed swept through the hideout.
And then they were there.
Two figures.
Draped in black, faceless masks concealing their identities. One male, one female.
They moved like shadows. No sound. No presence. Only intent.
Mikado turned sharply, but before he could react—
CRACK!
The male figure's elbow collided with his temple, sending him stumbling.
Yasuo's eyes widened. "What the—"
The female moved fast—too fast.
THUD!
A heel struck Yasuo's sternum, sending him skidding back.
Lukas narrowed his eyes, stepping forward, but even he hesitated.
Kairi barely managed to lift her head.
Who the hell were they?
The male glanced down at her, his mask featureless but his presence heavy. He didn't speak, but the message was clear.
"Stay down."
Kairi swallowed.
She didn't take orders from anyone.
But something in the air told her—this wasn't her fight anymore.
Mikado groaned, pushing himself up. "Who the hell are you?"
The female tilted her head.
Her voice was smooth, almost playful—but there was something chilling beneath it.
"Who we are doesn't matter."
She stepped forward.
"All that matters..."
Her hand reached for something beneath her coat.
"...is that you've made too much noise."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
Lukas' jaw tightened. He took a slow step back.
Mikado's usual cockiness faltered. "Wait, wait, let's talk about this—"
The male's mask turned toward him.
"No."
And then the room exploded into violence.
The masked man stood firm, his presence like a phantom between Kairi and the three remaining leaders of the Pacifist Destroyers. His posture was relaxed, but everything about him screamed lethal.
Kairi's breath was ragged, her vision still unfocused, but she forced herself to watch. To understand. Who the hell was this guy?
The masked woman crouched beside her, her tone smooth yet commanding.
"We're leaving."
Kairi narrowed her eyes. "The hell we are." She barely had the strength to stand, but her pride wouldn't let her run.
The man didn't turn to face them, but his voice cut through the tension like a knife.
"Take her."
The woman sighed. "You always get to have all the fun, huh?"
Lukas, Yasuo, and Mikado tensed, their muscles coiled like predators sizing up their prey.
"You really think you can take all three of us alone?" Mikado sneered, wiping blood from his lips. "Cocky bastard."
The masked man finally moved.
One step forward.
His weight shifted, his muscles tensed just enough to hint at the storm about to be unleashed.
And then—he vanished.
CRACK!
A knee to Mikado's gut.
Before Mikado could even process the pain, a brutal backhand smashed into his jaw, sending him flying into a stack of crates.
Yasuo lunged in next, swinging with brute force.
The masked man leaned back just slightly, dodging by mere millimeters, before catching Yasuo's wrist—SNAP!
Yasuo screamed as his arm bent in a way it wasn't supposed to.
Before he could recover, an elbow caved in his nose, sending blood spraying.
Lukas didn't hesitate. His movements were sharper, more refined—this wasn't just brawling, this was technique.
He slid low, aiming to sweep the masked man's legs. But in an instant, the masked man twisted his body mid-air, flipping over Lukas like a phantom.
He landed effortlessly, then sent a brutal heel kick to the back of Lukas' skull.
Lukas staggered forward but remained standing. Unlike the others, he didn't crumble instantly.
His cold blue eyes locked onto the masked man. "Not bad."
The masked man's voice remained as eerily calm as ever. "You're stalling."
Lukas smirked through his pain. "And you just let them escape."
The masked man's head tilted ever so slightly—then he glanced toward the exit.
Gone.
The masked woman had already slipped into the shadows with Kairi.
Lukas' grin widened, his teeth stained with blood. "So, what now?"
The masked man cracked his knuckles.
"Now?" His voice was ice-cold.
"Now, you all die."
And then the real fight began.
The room was chaos. The scent of blood thickened the air, mixing with the sharp tang of adrenaline. Footsteps echoed across the concrete floor, sharp and calculated. The masked man stood in the center, his body poised like a predator, his grip tightening around the knife in his hand.
Lukas, Mikado, and Yasuo circled him, their movements wary now—this wasn't just some brawler they were facing.
Lukas exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders. His scars gleamed under the dim lights, battle-worn proof that he had survived worse. Or so he thought.
Then the masked man moved.
He didn't charge—he glided.
A sudden blur of motion. The knife gleamed as it cut through the darkness. A ghost of death.
Mikado and Yasuo panicked. They didn't think. They reacted.
And they shoved Lukas forward.
Lukas barely had time to register the betrayal before the blade plunged into his chest—deep, precise, right through the heart.
His breath hitched. His body seized. His blue eyes went wide, pupils blown in disbelief as he looked down at the knife hilt protruding from his chest.
For the first time in years, Lukas felt weak.
The masked man's grip never wavered. He stared into Lukas' eyes, watching as the German's body betrayed him. His heartbeat slowed. His breath turned ragged.
Thud.
Lukas collapsed to his knees, blood pooling beneath him. His trembling fingers grasped at the blade, but there was no undoing what had already been done.
Mikado and Yasuo?
They stepped back.
Cowards.
Lukas gritted his teeth, struggling to speak, but his voice came out weak—barely more than a whisper.
"You—"
The masked man twisted the knife.
Lukas jerked violently, a guttural choke escaping his lips as blood spilled from his mouth. The pain was unbearable. His nerves lit up like fire, but his strength was draining fast.
Mikado and Yasuo said nothing.
They didn't reach for him. They didn't scream his name. They didn't even pretend to care.
Lukas let out a low, bitter laugh, blood trickling from his lips. "Bastards…"
His body slumped forward, his final breath leaving him in a sharp exhale.
Silence.
Mikado's fists clenched. Yasuo swallowed hard.
The masked man slowly pulled the knife free, wiping the blood off on Lukas' lifeless shirt before flicking the weapon downward. A statement.
"You used him," he muttered, his voice devoid of emotion. "Just like you'll use the next person. The next pawn. The next sacrifice."
Mikado forced a smirk, but it was hollow. "It's just survival, man."
Yasuo took a shaky step back. "T-this ain't worth it, Mikado. We should—"
The masked man threw the knife.
Fast. Precise. Deadly.
It embedded itself in Yasuo's thigh.
He screamed, collapsing onto the ground, gripping his leg as blood poured from the wound.
Mikado?
He didn't even flinch.
Instead, he grinned. A sharp, eerie, completely unhinged grin.
"Ohhh," Mikado exhaled, finally feeling the rush. "Now this is getting fun."
The masked man exhaled, rolling his shoulders, preparing himself.
Yasuo? He wasn't getting up. Lukas? He was dead weight.
Now it was just him and Mikado.
And Mikado?
He was thrilled.
The room was thick with tension, the scent of blood mixing with the damp, stale air. Yasuo lay on the floor, gripping his leg, his breathing ragged as blood seeped between his fingers. His expression twisted in agony, sweat rolling down his forehead.
Mikado?
He was smiling.
A slow, eerie smile, one that curled with amusement and something far more sinister.
"Man," Mikado sighed, tilting his head as he stared down at Yasuo. "You're really just… pathetic, huh?"
Yasuo's bloodshot eyes darted up. "Wh-what?"
Mikado crouched down, resting his elbows on his knees. He tapped his chin mockingly, like he was thinking really hardabout something.
"You got stabbed once," Mikado continued, his voice low and condescending. "And you're already crying about it? Already useless?"
Yasuo's breathing quickened. "I-I can still fight! J-just gimme a sec—"
Mikado sighed again.
"See… nah, you really can't."
Then—without hesitation, without warning, without a second of doubt—
Mikado plunged his fingers straight into Yasuo's open wound.
"AAAAAARGHHHHHH!!"
Yasuo screamed. His entire body convulsed, the pain unbearable, blinding. His hands scrambled to push Mikado away, but Mikado just pressed deeper, his fingers twisting, making sure Yasuo felt everything.
"You were good for a while, Yasuo," Mikado mused, his tone almost… nostalgic. "Real good. But now?"
He leaned in, whispering into Yasuo's ear.
"You're just deadweight."
Before Yasuo could beg, before he could plead, before he could even comprehend what was happening—
SLASH.
A knife. Across his throat.
Fast. Clean. Final.
Yasuo's entire body tensed. His breath hitched. His hands flew to his neck, his fingers trembling as they tried desperately to stop the blood from pouring out.
His mouth opened—silent gasps.
No words. No sound. Just dying.
Then, his eyes rolled back. His body collapsed.
Dead.
The Pacifist Destroyers were now down to one.
Mikado exhaled slowly, shaking the blood off his hand, his grin widening as he stood up.
The masked man?
He just watched.
Silent. Calculating.
He had seen people kill before. He had killed people before. But this?
Mikado didn't just kill Yasuo. He enjoyed it.
The masked man now understood.
Once Mikado died… the Pacifist Destroyers would be no more.
And Mikado?
He knew the masked man realized that.
He slowly turned, locking eyes with him, his bloodstained fingers twitching with excitement.
"So… whatcha think?" Mikado grinned. "That was a good one, huh?"
The masked man said nothing.
Mikado tilted his head. "Aw, c'mon. Say something, man. This is your big moment. You just watched the second-to-last Destroyer die. Now it's just me."
He raised his arms slightly.
"And if you kill me… it's over."
His voice lowered, the amusement still present but edged with something darker.
"Thing is…"
He cracked his knuckles.
"I don't plan on dyin' today."
The masked man's grip tightened on his weapon.
Neither did he.
And with that—
They lunged.
The air crackled with tension. The dimly lit hideout, soaked in blood and the scent of metal, had now become a stage for the final battle.
Mikado stood there, cracking his neck, rolling his shoulders, his bloodstained fingers twitching with anticipation. His grin stretched wide, almost too wide, eyes gleaming with pure, unfiltered madness.
The masked man?
Still. Silent. Watching.
He exhaled through his nose, his grip tightening on the knife in his hand. His other fist clenched at his side, his stance measured, like a predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Mikado tilted his head, wiping some blood off his cheek with his sleeve.
"Well?" he asked in flawless Spanish, his tone almost mocking. "Are we doing this or what?"
No answer.
Mikado's smile didn't falter. If anything, it grew sharper.
"Fine by me."
Then—
He moved.
Explosive. Unpredictable.
Mikado launched forward with a downward elbow strike, aiming straight for the masked man's collarbone. But the masked man shifted his stance, stepping back just enough for it to graze past him—a fraction of an inch.
A test.
Mikado's attacks weren't wild, despite the manic energy he radiated. No—they were precise. He was fast, a mixture of Kyokushin karate and brutal street brawling, a fighter who had honed his style not just in dojos but in kill-or-be-killed situations.
The masked man dodged another strike, his body moving like liquid—flowing.
His footwork was impeccable.
His style?
It wasn't just one.
A seamless blend of Krav Maga, Jiu-Jitsu, and Systema.
Practical. Efficient. Designed to kill.
Mikado noticed.
His eyes glinted with something almost like respect.
"Tch. Not bad, cabrón."
The masked man didn't respond.
Instead—he struck.
His knife whipped forward in a tight arc, aimed straight for Mikado's ribcage. Mikado barely had time to twist out of the way, the blade slicing clean through his jacket but missing flesh.
Mikado's leg shot out. A low kick.
Fast. Brutal.
It crashed into the masked man's shin, making him stagger back, just enough for Mikado to capitalize—
A savage right hook.
The masked man's head snapped to the side, a sharp burst of pain ripping through his jaw. But he recovered, twisting his body in the same motion—using the momentum.
His elbow—a blur.
CRACK.
Mikado's head snapped back this time. Blood flew from his mouth.
He stumbled, but—he laughed.
He wiped the blood from his lips, his eyes burning with excitement.
"Damn…" he grinned, his voice slightly hoarse. "You're actually fun."
The masked man didn't humor him.
He closed the distance instantly.
His movements became faster, sharper, more relentless.
Mikado barely had time to block the flurry of attacks—knife slashes that grazed skin, punches that sent shockwavesthrough his arms as he parried them, perfectly timed counters that forced him on the defensive.
But Mikado was built for war.
He adjusted, reading his opponent. And then—
He trapped the masked man's wrist.
A sudden shift in movement. A flick of his fingers—control.
Aikido.
He twisted, forcing the masked man's arm into a lock, yanking it behind his back with brutal force.
The masked man's body tensed.
But instead of resisting—
He went with it.
His body moved with the momentum, flipping forward, reversing the position—a counter-grapple.
Mikado's eyes widened—
A knee.
Slamming straight into his gut.
Hard.
Mikado choked on a breath.
Pain exploded through his stomach, his lungs struggling to suck in air. But he reacted fast.
His head whipped forward.
A headbutt.
The masked man reeled back, the impact splitting open part of his mask. Blood seeped through.
Both men now stood at a distance—breathing heavily.
The silence between them was electric.
Mikado wiped the blood from his forehead, grinning. "C'mon, man." He spat some blood onto the floor. "One of us ain't making it out of here. So let's make this fun, yeah?"
The masked man?
He adjusted his stance.
His grip on the knife tightened.
His body lowered.
And then—
They clashed again.
Mikado lunged.
His muscles coiled like a spring, his bloodied fists cutting through the air as he charged full speed at the masked man. His breath was ragged, his movements fueled by nothing but adrenaline and a sick hunger for violence.
The masked man?
He sighed.
Bored.
Mid-charge, he shifted his weight, loosening his stance.
And then—he reached for his belt.
A subtle movement. Too fast for Mikado to react.
The next sound that echoed through the hideout was not a punch.
Not a kick.
Not the crack of bones or the impact of flesh colliding.
But a gunshot.
BANG.
Point-blank.
The bullet tore through Mikado's skull.
His forward momentum halted instantly.
His body—mid-sprint—shuddered violently as the force ripped through him, a spatter of blood and brain matter exploding from the back of his head like a grotesque firework.
His manic grin—still frozen on his face.
His feet—still mid-step.
For a moment, it looked like he was still moving forward.
Then—
He collapsed.
Face-first.
Like a marionette whose strings had been cut.
The air hung heavy.
The scent of gunpowder mixed with the metallic stench of blood.
The masked man exhaled, rolling his shoulders.
He gave Mikado's corpse a small glance, before blowing the smoke off the barrel of his pistol.
Then—he shrugged.
"You talk too much."
Holstering his gun, he stepped over the body like it was nothing more than discarded trash.
The Pacifist Destroyers?
Gone.
Their leader? Dead.
Their legacy?
Erased.
And the masked man?
He cracked his neck. "What a waste of time."