The air reeked of blood.
The walls were splattered in it, a grotesque mosaic of violence. Shattered medical equipment and overturned gurneys littered the floor, glass crunching beneath their feet. Dim hospital lights flickered overhead, casting long, jagged shadows.
Ren stood, his chest rising and falling heavily.
He could feel his heart struggling.
The poison was everywhere now—coiling around his organs, sinking into his muscles like venomous roots. His nerves were burning. His lungs tightened, like hands were squeezing them shut. His body was locked in a slow, suffocating death.
But he kept breathing.
He had to.
"You're still standing?"
Itoshi's voice was mocking, footsteps slow and deliberate as he closed the distance.
"Man, I really thought you'd be dead by now."
Ren stayed silent. No wasted words. No wasted energy.
Itoshi clicked his tongue.
"Tch. You never developed an assassination technique, did you?" He smirked. "That's just pathetic."
Ren flexed his fingers.
The pain didn't matter.
His body didn't matter.
Itoshi was still right in front of him.
And that was all he needed.
They moved at the same time.
Itoshi's palm struck first—aimed for Ren's jaw.
Ren barely slipped past it—only for a sharp elbow to crash against his ribs.
His body buckled from the impact, but he turned with it, using the momentum to drive a brutal knee toward Itoshi's side.
Itoshi blocked with ease, countering with a vicious heel kick to Ren's face.
Ren ducked.
A fraction of a second later—a fist came for his throat.
Ren twisted his body, narrowly dodging. The speed was inhuman. The moment his foot touched the ground, Itoshi was already there.
A crushing punch to the stomach.
A sharp knee to the chin.
Ren felt his skull rattle.
But he didn't stop.
They were moving so fast now that the world blurred around them—a brutal, relentless exchange of fists, elbows, and knees.
Every movement was precise. Every strike had the intent to kill.
Itoshi grabbed Ren's wrist—a throw.
Ren spun midair, twisting his body to land feet-first on a toppled gurney.
He launched forward, using the height advantage—his fist tore through the air, aimed straight for Itoshi's skull.
Itoshi parried, twisting Ren's arm—but Ren used the momentum, flipping his body and driving a heel downward.
Itoshi barely dodged.
His foot shattered the floor.
Itoshi grinned.
"Not bad."
Itoshi grabbed the IV stand beside him, swinging it like a staff.
Ren caught a broken scalpel tray, using it as a shield to deflect the blows.
CRACK.
The IV stand slammed against the metal tray, sending vibrations up Ren's arms. Itoshi spun, twisting the weapon like a blade, using the hooked end to snag Ren's wrist.
Ren yanked back—too late.
Itoshi pulled with insane force, dragging Ren forward—a knee shot up, slamming into Ren's ribs.
Ren staggered back, grabbing a rusted scalpel off the floor.
Itoshi smirked, twirling the IV stand. "Come on, Ren. You're dying. Give up."
Ren didn't.
Instead—he hurled the scalpel.
Itoshi dodged—but that's what he wanted, Ren was already there.
A spinning kick sent Itoshi crashing into a shelf. The impact sent scalpels, syringes, and rusted instruments raining down.
Ren picked up a syringe, flicking the needle forward.
Itoshi barely deflected it in time.
The moment he did—Ren grabbed a nearby chair and hurled it with full force.
Itoshi tanked it, flipping over the metal frame—and charged forward.
Their weapons clashed.
Syringes, scalpels, broken trays—every object in the room became a tool for murder.
And then—
Itoshi grinned.
"Fine. I'll end this now."
Itoshi exhaled.
Then—he vanished.
No footsteps. No sound.
Ren's instincts screamed.
Suddenly—pain.
A blade slashed across his arm.
Then his back.
Then his side.
Ren lashed out blindly—but there was nothing.
"You can't see me, can you?" Itoshi's voice whispered from somewhere—nowhere.
Ren clenched his teeth.
"This is an assassination technique, Ren."
The voice shifted again—his mind felt scrambled.
"It's called the Phantom Step. My body moves faster than your senses can register. It's not teleportation—just pure, perfected footwork."
Another cut carved across Ren's shoulder.
Blood dripped.
"You'll never hit me."
Itoshi's laugh was mocking.
"Especially since you never developed one yourself."
Ren's heartbeat slowed.
His body was shutting down.
But his mind was still working.
"You're wrong," Ren exhaled.
And yet—
Itoshi swung again—
Ren caught his wrist.
"I just don't need one to kill you."
CRACK.
Ren's fist buried into Itoshi's ribs.
Itoshi gasped. The air left his lungs.
Before he could react—Ren struck again.
A knee to the gut. A hammer fist to the throat.
Itoshi collapsed, coughing up blood.
Ren stepped over his body.
His expression was cold.
"You talked too much. A phantom should always remain silent if it doesn't want to be caught"
Then he grabbed a scalpel of the floor
"What are you doing?" Itoshi pleaded as he struggled in the floor.
"Don't worry, I promise to give you that nice burial I promised"
"No don-"
It was too late ren sliced his knock clean open and blood sprayed from it.
Ten hadn't expected to take this much damage on this mission, it was the first time he had such a struggle in a fight. The poison worked well and it was still working. Shit, he had to find the antidote quick or he was fucked.
"I have to make it to the main lab, there is probably a cure for this shit there"
Then—
A presence.
Something else was in the room.
Ren turned.
A figure stood at the edge of his failing vision.
Or was he standing?
Was he even real?
His form flickered like an illusion—tall, hooded, masked.
"What color was his hair?"
Was he even facing Ren?
A voice, deep and deliberate, spoke.
"It seems your worthy of your position in the umbra division ren Takeshi"
Ren's blood turned cold and he felt his spine crawl. How long had this guy been there, was he watching throughout? And if so how come he just felt his presence?
"Who are you?" Ren asked
"That's not of importance right now.
"What do you want?"
"I just came to see what you are truly capable of and you didn't disappoint"
"Whats your motive?"
"You ask too many questions. Don't worry we will meet again soon"
"Wai-"
The lights flickered.
Then—
Darkness.
The figure was gone.
OSAKA
Takeda reached for his gun.
Akihiro moved first.
A sharp, predatory grin split across Akihiro's face as his body blurred into motion. His left hand shot forward, slamming the gun down against Takeda's thigh before it even cleared the holster. At the same time, his right elbow snapped toward Takeda's jaw like a whipcrack—fast, sharp, and merciless.
Takeda twisted his head just in time. The blow barely grazed his cheek, but the force of the impact still sent his sunglasses flying off his face. His pupils contracted—the trained reflex of a veteran killer.
He reacted instantly.
His left knee drove up toward Akihiro's ribs, using the close quarters of the cockpit to his advantage.
Akihiro laughed. A breathy, excited chuckle as he twisted his body just enough to avoid taking the full brunt of the strike.
"That was close!" he sang, grabbing the cyclic control stick with one hand and yanking it back.
The helicopter lurched violently.
Takeda's balance shifted—just enough for Akihiro to capitalize. He threw himself backward out of the pilot's seat, his heel catching Takeda in the sternum mid-fall, sending the older assassin crashing against the passenger door.
Takeda's teeth clenched. He barely had time to recover before Akihiro was on him again—lunging from the cockpit with unhinged excitement, fists flying like a storm of steel.
Takeda blocked—forearms absorbing the brunt of the first two strikes—but the third punch slipped through, a brutal hook smashing into his ribs.
A crack.
Takeda's body coiled from the impact. His fingers dug into the seat beside him, muscles tensing—and then he struck back.
A counterpunch. Straight, controlled, aimed at Akihiro's nose.
Akihiro ducked.
The punch sailed past his ear, burying itself into the cockpit door. The force dented the metal.
Takeda didn't hesitate. His other hand shot forward, grabbing Akihiro's wrist, locking it into a vice grip.
For the first time in the fight, Akihiro's grin faltered slightly.
"Oh?"
Takeda's muscles tensed.
And then—he threw Akihiro out of the helicopter.
The world spun.
For an instant, Akihiro's body was suspended in the air—wind whipping at his clothes, rain stinging his skin, the city lights stretching far below.
Then, the rooftop rushed up to meet him.
He twisted midair, landing hard on his shoulder but rolling with the momentum, absorbing the impact. The second he stopped, he shot up to his feet, wiping rain from his face.
His grin was still there. Bigger. Sharper.
The helicopter's side door swung open.
Takeda stepped out onto the rooftop, adjusting his cufflinks, as if he hadn't just thrown a man off a moving aircraft. His expression was calm, impassive—but his eyes were cold, sharp, dissecting Akihiro with every step forward.
"You're a damn nuisance," Takeda muttered, voice barely audible over the roar of the helicopter's rotors.
Akihiro rolled his shoulders, stretching his arms with a lazy, exaggerated yawn. "And you're fun." His voice was light, playful, but his eyes were glinting with something dark. "Let's play some more, old man."
Takeda exhaled sharply. And then—he attacked.
Takeda closed the distance in a blur, his foot skimming just above the rooftop surface as he drove a brutal knee toward Akihiro's sternum.
Akihiro swayed back just in time, but Takeda was already following up. **A spinning elbow, tight and controlled, arcing straight for Akihiro's temple.**
Akihiro laughed.
He leaned away at the last second—the strike missed by a hair. But Takeda's heel shot up immediately after, shifting into a back kick aimed at Akihiro's gut.
This time, it landed.
The impact sent Akihiro skidding backward across the wet surface, boots screeching against steel. He coughed once, a sharp sting blooming in his ribs—but the thrill of it made his blood sing.
"Damn," Akihiro grinned, wiping his mouth. "That actually hurt."
Takeda didn't respond. He was already in motion.
This time, Akihiro met him halfway.
Their bodies became a blur—strikes exchanged at breakneck speed, weaving, twisting, clashing in a display of sheer physical mastery. Fists met forearms, elbows skimmed jaws, knees crashed against ribs, each movement flowing seamlessly into the next.
Takeda was precise, controlled—the embodiment of calculated efficiency.
Akihiro was the opposite—fluid, wild, unpredictable, a madman who treated combat like an art form.
Then—weapons entered the fray.
Takeda's hand flashed to his waist. A combat knife gleamed in the rain, its sharp edge glinting under the city lights.
Akihiro's fingers curled around the first weapon he could grab—a metal pipe lying discarded near the rooftop railing.
The moment their weapons met, sparks flew.
Takeda's knife lashed out, precise and deadly. Akihiro twisted, parrying with the pipe, sending vibrations up his arm. He spun with the momentum, swinging low—aiming for Takeda's knee.
Takeda jumped—but not high enough.
The pipe clipped his shin, disrupting his balance.
Akihiro capitalized. He flipped the pipe in his grip, gripping it like a club, and swung for Takeda's ribs.
Takeda caught the strike mid-air. His knife flashed toward Akihiro's throat.
Akihiro dropped the pipe and caught Takeda's wrist.
They froze—a split-second deadlock, rain dripping from their clothes, breath sharp and ragged.
Then, slowly, Akihiro grinned.
"Getting tired?" he teased.
Takeda's grip tightened.
"No."
Akihiro's eyes gleamed.
"Good."
And then—they moved again.
Faster. More brutal.
The fight blurred into a frenzy of steel, fists, and rain—two apex predators locked in a deadly, beautiful dance under the roaring storm.
The helicopter above began to lift off.
Their time was running out.
And neither of them planned to die.
Yet.