"Lord have mercy, Taki," Itsuki muttered, letting out a long, weary sigh. "What's the holdup this time? You're runnin' behind again, man."
He spent the next few minutes pacing the concrete, checking his smartwatch every thirty seconds as if he could hurry time along. Finally, he pulled out his phone, his thumbs flying across the screen to shoot another message.
Yo, man. I've been standin' here waitin' on ya. Where the heck are you at?
He watched the screen with a frown, seeing the "Delivered" icon pop up, but the lack of an immediate reply was starting to get under his skin.
Just as Itsuki was about to lock his screen, his phone buzzed with a call from Nene. She had clearly been waiting at the meeting spot for a while now.
"Hey, has Takumi showed up yet?" Nene asked, her voice light and patient. "You guys are taking forever. I'm starting to wonder if I'm being stood up!"
Itsuki did one more slow lap of the platform, scanning the crowd as the train doors hissed shut. "Nah," he grumbled. "Nowhere to be seen. It's startin' to get on my nerves, for real."
"Well, have you tried calling him?" Nene suggested kindly. "Maybe he just got distracted and it slipped his mind?"
The suggestion immediately rubbed him the wrong way. "Ain't no way he forgot, damn it," Itsuki snapped, his frustration boiling over. "He ain't even respondin' to my texts, and that ain't like him at all. He's gotta be on his way or somethin'... he better be, anyway."
Nene's patience finally hit its limit, and she let out a long, audible groan. "Just hurry up, both of you," she said, her voice dropping into that blunt, no-nonsense tone that meant she was officially done being the nice one. "I am really not in the mood to be sitting here all night."
Before Itsuki could even get a word out to defend himself, the line went dead.
He stared at his screen for a second, then let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Yeah, I know... I know," he whispered to the empty air, squeezing his eyes shut. He gripped his phone a little tighter, the silence of the station suddenly feeling a lot heavier. "C'mon, Taki. Don't go leavin' us hangin' like this, man."
Damon took a moment to roll his shoulders, stretching his thick arms and letting out a series of sharp, satisfying cracks from his neck.
"If that's the best the Institute's gotta offer," he drawled, "then I reckon I've been worryin' over nothin'."
As he tossed out the taunt, his eyes caught the glint of black shades lying abandoned in the dirt. Suddenly, a hand reached down, snatching them up. Masato stepped out from the settling dust and debris, sliding the glasses back onto the bridge of his nose with a steady hand.
"Haha," Masato let out a low, dry chuckle, his white teeth flashing in a jagged grin against his bruised face. "You got a hell of a punch on ya, pal. I'll give ya that. Not bad, not bad at all." He tilted his chin up, casually brushing the grime and plaster from his jacket before letting out a sharp, joyful whistle that echoed through the ruins.
"But..." Masato's voice dropped an octave, turning gritty and cold as the playful facade finally crumbled. "I've got a reputation to uphold, bro."
He slowly leaned his torso forward, his arms spreading wide like the wings of a predatory bird. "Which means... I've gotta beat the livin' shit outta ya."
The air around him didn't just shift; it pressurized. Masato exploded forward with such violent acceleration that the ground behind him didn't just crack—it cratered. Damon's eyes widened as he realized the man had been holding back. In a blur of motion, Masato was already in his space, his steel knuckles whistling through the air.
The punch connected dead-center on Damon's face with a sickening, metallic *thud*. The shockwave of the impact turned Damon's features into a distorted mess, his head snapping back so hard his body followed, launching him through the air like a ragdoll.
Masato didn't let up. He slammed a boot into the asphalt, the friction sparking as he chased the airborne Damon down. He caught up to the flying body in mid-air, his hand snaking out to palm Damon's entire face like a basketball. With a guttural growl, Masato steered him downward, rotating his weight to drive Damon's spine directly into the earth.
Masato didn't stop at the impact. His boots tore gouges into the terrain as he kept running, dragging Damon's face through the concrete like a plow. The sound of grinding stone was deafening. After fifty feet of high-speed friction, Masato planted his lead foot and spun, using the centrifugal force to swing Damon's massive frame around in a lethal circle before letting go.
The release triggered a localized tremor. A whirlwind of dust and debris kicked up in Masato's wake as Damon's body was hurled upward, soaring into the sky like he'd been shot from a cannon.
Damon wasn't about to let a little flight time be the end of him. Suspended at the apex of his arc, he contorted his torso backward in a fit of feral rage before his entire form shimmered and dissolved. He transformed into a torrent of molten silver liquid, cascading toward the earth like a heavy, metallic waterfall.
Masato saw the shift and dug his heels into the grit. He wasn't about to let the guy regroup. He threw his arms wide and let out a roar that shook the very air.
"You better bring a whole lot more than some fancy puddles if you wanna put me down, bro! Let's see how you handle the heat!"
He slammed both fists into the street with the force of a falling star, tearing the asphalt to ribbons. A volatile, jagged rupture erupted from the impact, racing toward the silver liquid like a subterranean volcano. But Damon was fast—his body knit back together in a heartbeat, his feet hitting the ground already in mid-swing.
He gripped his machete and lashed out, meeting the oncoming seismic wave head-on. The blade whistled through the air, unleashing a pressurized vacuum that sliced clean through Masato's attack, splitting the erupting earth in two. The sheer force of the parry triggered a secondary quake, but Damon didn't pause to admire the carnage—he kicked off the rubble, turning himself into a silver blur.
"Keep 'em comin', pal!" Masato hollered, closing the distance with a predatory sprint. Both warriors collided in the center of the wreckage, the air screaming as they dove headfirst into the meat of the fight.
The shockwave from their collision shattered every window left in the block. This wasn't some flashy, staged movie fight—it was a brutal, ugly brawl for survival.
Damon started it with a massive overhead swing. His machete cut through the air with enough power to split a tank in half. Instead of backing away, Masato stepped right into the danger zone, inches from the blade. He ducked his head just enough to feel the cold steel graze his cheek, drawing a thin line of blood. Seizing the opening, Masato hammered three lightning-fast jabs into Damon's ribs and throat. His steel knuckles hit with a heavy *thud* against muscle, followed by the sharp *clink* of the hidden armor underneath.
Suddenly, Damon's body shimmered and turned into a silver liquid. Masato's third punch passed right through his chest as if he weren't there. Then, Damon instantly turned solid again, trapping Masato's arm inside his own torso.
"Gotcha, you little rat!" Damon growled, his face twisted in a mix of pain and victory. He wound up a massive, heavy hook, his bicep bulging as he prepared to crush Masato's head.
Masato didn't panic. He planted his feet and slammed his forehead into the bridge of Damon's nose. The "crunch" was sickening, and both men saw stars from the impact. The blinding pain caused Damon to lose his focus, his body flickering long enough for Masato's arm to pop free. Masato didn't give him a second to breathe; he drove a knee hard into Damon's stomach, knocking the wind out of him, and followed up with a spinning back-fist that caught Damon right in the temple.
Damon stumbled, his head spinning, but he fought like a wounded animal. He dropped to the ground and swung his heavy leg in a wide circle, sweeping Masato's feet out from under him. As Masato hit the dirt, Damon lunged, stabbing his machete downward like a spear. Masato scrambled, rolling out of the way just as the blade buried itself deep into the asphalt.
Using the stuck machete like a pole to jump off of, Masato kicked both feet out, landing a powerful dropkick squarely in Damon's chest. The force sent Damon skidding back through the dust and rubble. He rolled, hit the ground hard, and sprang back to his feet—his teeth bared and stained with silver blood, ready for more.
The two men backed off, creating a tense pocket of space between them. Masato was visibly flagging; his chest rose and fell in ragged heaves, and sweat slicked his skin, making his clothes cling to his frame. He wiped a hand across his forehead, his fingers trembling just a fraction from the adrenaline dump.
"I'm gettin' real worn out over here, bro," Masato admitted, his voice rough. "Fightin' you is like tryin' to scrap with a damn robot. You just don't have a limit, do ya?"
Damon, by contrast, looked like he was just getting his second wind. He watched Masato's struggle with a dark, twisted sort of glee. "Remember all that talk about puttin' me in the dirt?" he asked, his grin widening. "Looks like your heart's givin' out before my clock even starts tickin'. That's the difference between us, hoss."
Damon looked down at his own silver-stained hands, his expression flickering from triumph to a deep-seated loathing. "I ain't an ordinary human. To be honest, I wouldn't even call myself a man anymore. This body... I hate it. I hate it almost as much as I hate the bitch who experimented on me." He gripped the handle of his machete until his knuckles turned white. "That's why I'm still standin'. I'm gonna find her, and I'm gonna cleave her into so many pieces they'll need a bucket to find 'em all."
To be continued...