The tactical gloves Akemi had tossed me were a masterpiece of violent engineering. They were weighted across the knuckles with a dense, composite material that felt like lead but hit like steel. The leather was supple, fitting my hands as if they had been molded to my skin, and the grip was textured for friction.
They weren't accessories. They were tools.
I adjusted the Velcro strap on my left wrist, the sound—a sharp rrip—echoing in the silence of the alleyway behind Jounan High.
"You look ridiculous," I muttered to my reflection in a puddle of dirty rainwater.
I didn't, though. That was the terrifying part. I was wearing the Jounan High uniform—a spare skirt and blazer I had stashed in my locker months ago for emergencies that usually involved spilled tea or nosebleeds. But now, paired with the black gloves, the dark tights I'd worn under my jeans, and the cold, predatory set of my shoulders, the uniform didn't look like schoolwear. It looked like camouflage.
