tragics Builds Fury
The next day, Emma was sitting quietly, her posture straight, eyes half-lidded as if she was lost between thought and silence.
Mostang approached, cigarette hanging lazily between his fingers. He stopped beside her, exhaling smoke into the air before speaking.
"There's someone you should know about," he said, voice carrying a mix of amusement and seriousness. "Kid's young—fifteen, maybe thirteen. But…" He gave a sharp grin. "He's been tearing through gangs like a ghost. Fast, ruthless, doesn't hesitate."
Emma's gaze flicked toward him, sharp and calculating. "And why bring him to me?"
"Because I talked to him, Well, tried too. His too aggressive" Mostang shrugged, sliding his hands into his pockets. "But he's not just another punk with a knife. He's got brains. He hates gangs, same as you. He's looking for direction. And I thought…" He gave her a sly smirk. "You're good at giving people direction."
Emma leaned back slightly, silent for a long moment. She could already picture it—a young fighter, untamed, raw, but burning with potential. Someone like that could be molded, sharpened into a weapon.
Her eyes narrowed. "What's his name?"
Mostang dropped the cigarette, crushing it under his heel. "Kane."
-------
Emma told Mostang quietly, her tone like steel:
"Stay back. Hide. If things turn wrong, wait for my signal."
Mostang smirked but obeyed, slipping into the shadows of the alley, watching.
Emma walked alone into the derelict courtyard where Kane had been spotted. The boy was wiry but strong, his eyes burning with fury far older than his years. The moment he saw her, he tightened his grip on a rusted blade, teeth gritted.
"You… you look like them," Kane spat, his voice cracking between youth and rage. "Another gangster trying to take me out, huh? I've been waiting for this!"
Before Emma could even speak, Kane charged. His steps were wild but fast, blade swinging with raw desperation.
Emma didn't move at first, her eyes tracking his every angle. At the last second, she tilted her head, his blade slicing past her cheek. With one hand, she caught his wrist mid-swing, her grip like iron.
"You're sloppy," she said coldly, pushing him back with ease. "Too much anger. No control."
Kane snarled, lunging again. "Shut up! I'll make all of you pay! You ruined everything—I'll make gangs suffer, I'll make YOU suffer!"
Emma sidestepped, striking his arm so the blade clattered onto the concrete. In one smooth motion, she swept his legs out, pinning him down with a knee on his chest. Her expression was calm, detached.
"If I were your enemy, you'd already be dead."
Kane froze, panting hard, staring up into her cold eyes. For a moment, his rage faltered, replaced with confusion.
Emma leaned closer, voice low:
"I'm not a gangster. I'm the one who kills them."
Kane's chest heaved under Emma's knee, breath hot and ragged. His eyes were wild—half fury, half betrayal. He spat blood and curses into her face, waiting for the fatal strike he was certain would come.
Emma didn't move to finish him. She stayed—calm, cold, an immovable weight on his chest—until his shouting turned into ragged gasps and his body stopped trying. The silence felt louder than his screams had been.
"Listen," she said at last, voice flat and quiet enough that he had to strain to hear. "You want to hurt the gangs? Good. I do too."
Kane blinked, anger flickering into confusion. "Then—then why didn't you—why didn't you kill me like the others?" he snarled.
Emma's eyes bored into his, unblinking. "Because you're useful. Because you're stupid enough to act, and that makes you dangerous when guided. Because I don't waste time on bodies that don't matter."
He tried to push a word past his teeth and only coughed. Emma's hand tightened for a heartbeat, just enough to show she could end it if she wanted. Then she relaxed and let him slide free, rolling onto his side, clutching at the bruises she'd left.
"If you want in," she continued, standing and dusting her hands off as if she'd just brushed dirt from a coat, "then train like you mean it. Learn control. Stop being a screaming wound on two legs and become something useful. Come find me at the old pier on third night after the moon. Don't bring anyone. Don't make a sound. Prove you're not another loose mouth."
Kane stared at her, torn between rage and a spark that looked dangerously like hope. "And if I don't come?" he rasped.
Emma tilted her head, the smallest of smiles—no warmth, only promise. "Then keep dying on the streets. You'll be forgotten." She turned, steps calm and deliberate.
Mostang, who'd stayed hidden as ordered, watched from the shadowed alley. He didn't step out. He didn't intervene. He'd been ready to jump in at a sign; Emma had given him none. He let her walk away, the hush of her departure heavier than any gunshot.
Kane dragged himself up, every movement an angry commitment. He watched her silhouette recede and felt the anger in his chest twist into something else: an obsession, or an opportunity. He spit into the dust and began to patch himself up the only way he knew — by thinking about a way to get stronger, faster, harder.
Emma walked on without looking back. She had not declared herself. She had not shown a medal or a name. She had offered a path — and a test. That was all she wanted for now.
The pier groaned under the weight of waves smashing against its rotting wood. The sea air was sharp, salted, cutting. Emma sat on the edge, her black skirt brushing against the boards, watching the dark water. She didn't turn when footsteps came — heavy, unsteady, full of anger.
Kane.
He stopped a few meters away, chest heaving. "I came."
Emma's voice was calm, almost casual. "Why do you want to kill gangsters?"
For a moment, silence. Then his fists clenched, trembling. "Because they took her." His voice cracked, then hardened. "My sister. My elder sister. She was all I had after the others died. We were seven kids. Seven." He spat into the water. "They killed our parents. Old, defenseless. Then they… they played with my sister's body. Every day. Every damn day, so she could get money. So she wouldn't starve."
His jaw shook, tears cutting through his rage. "They used her until she broke. Until she died. And I wasn't strong enough to stop it."
Emma finally turned, her face unreadable. "And your other siblings?"
"All dead," Kane said, voice hollow. "All six. It's just me now. Just me. That's why I fight. That's why I'll never stop."
Emma studied him — not with pity, but calculation. His story wasn't weakness; it was fire, and fire could burn everything or be shaped into a weapon.
"You want revenge," she said flatly.
"I want justice," Kane snapped.
Emma leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Justice doesn't exist. There's only action. Control. Do you want revenge enough to follow orders? To stop being reckless? To let someone smarter than you lead?"
Kane met her gaze. For a moment, he almost snarled again — but the weight of her eyes held him in place. His hands slowly dropped to his sides. "…If it gets me what I want. If it gets me their heads on the ground."
Emma stood, brushing off her skirt. "Then you'll follow me."
From the shadows, Mostang finally stepped forward, flicking his cigarette into the dark sea. "Guess we're building a family of broken kids now, huh?" His smirk didn't reach his eyes.
Emma glanced at him, then back to Kane. "Not a family. A weapon."
The waves crashed louder, as if agreeing.
---
The streets were dim, washed in the yellow glow of weak streetlights. Kane walked beside Emma, his fists jammed into his pockets, shoulders still trembling with the remnants of his rage. Mostang trailed behind, hands in his coat, smoking, watching both of them in silence.
Then — a sound. A boy, maybe six or seven, crouched on the curb, tears streaking down his dirty cheeks. His small hands clawed at the cracks in the pavement as if the coins that fell could be pulled back out of the earth.
"My… my money's gone…," he whimpered. His voice broke. "Mama's gonna be mad…"
Kane stopped, looking confused. "Tch. Another weak one…"
Emma didn't say anything. She just stared at the kid for a moment, silent, her expression unreadable. Slowly, she reached into her pocket.
Inside was a single bill — ten dollars. Enough for her to finally eat something proper after days of nothing but scraps. She held it between her fingers, hesitating for just a second.
Then she crouched in front of the boy, sliding the money into his hand. "Here. Don't lose it again."
The kid's eyes widened, as if she'd handed him gold. "Th-thank you!" He clutched it to his chest, smiling through his tears, and ran off toward the alleys.
Emma stood, dusting off her skirt, face as empty as ever.
Kane stared at her. "…That was your money, wasn't it? You don't even have food."
Emma kept walking. "I don't need it."
Mostang blew out a long trail of smoke, smirking faintly. "Heh. The Phantom of Hell… giving lunch money to crying kids. Never thought I'd see the day."
Emma ignored him. But as they walked, Kane's eyes lingered on her — less suspicious now, almost… uncertain.
Chapter end