The Mercedes smelled like rain and cigarette smoke and the particular exhaustion that came after violence.
Hanae sat in the back seat watching Tokyo slide past the windows, all neon bleeding into puddles, all sharp edges softened by fatigue. Her body was starting to register what she'd put it through—six years of careful atrophy followed by six hours of sustained combat. Every muscle ached. Her knuckles throbbed where she'd broken that recruit's nose. Her ribs felt bruised where someone had gotten lucky during the tower assault.
She was running on adrenaline and spite and the cigarette Ryuuji had given her.
"Boss?" Ren's voice from the driver's seat. Quiet. Careful. "You're bleeding."
Hanae looked down. He was right. Blood was seeping through the red dress, a dark stain spreading across her left side. She touched it, fingers coming away wet.
"Huh," she said. "Didn't notice."
"Hospital?" Ren asked.
"No." The word came out sharper than she'd intended. "The tower. Father first."
