Reggie woke to silence.

  No rain. No wind. Just the faint drip of last night’s water from the roof seam into the bucket. The shed was dark except for the thin gray light leaking through the window he’d boarded up with scrap plywood. He lay still for a moment, listening. No sirens. No footsteps. No distant howl.

  He sat up slowly. The bruises from the sewer fight were fading faster than they should — purple turning yellow, cuts scabbing over in hours instead of days. The lightning under his skin felt stronger. Tier 3. Steady. Like it was waiting for permission.

  He dressed the same way every morning now. Black bomber. Compression shirt. Cargo joggers. Red wraps. Fingerless gloves. Necklace under the shirt. Hannya mask on the crate. Steel bat leaning against the wall.

  He didn’t put the mask on yet.

  He stepped outside.

  The property was quiet. The rebuilt dojo frame stood half-finished behind the shed — small, ugly, functional. He liked it that way.

  He walked toward the street. Hood up. Hands in pockets. Bat slung over his shoulder like it was normal.

  He made it ten steps.

  Then the tear-gas grenade rolled in front of him.

  It clinked on the concrete. Hissed. White smoke exploded upward.

  Reggie’s eyes burned instantly. Throat closed. Lungs seized.

  He staggered back, coughing, vision blurring.

  Then the gunfire started.

  Bullets zipped past his head — close. Too close. One grazed the sleeve of his bomber. Another punched a hole in the shed wall behind him. The shooter was in the air — wings spread wide, gliding low over the property, AK-47 braced against his shoulder. Major K.

  Reggie dove behind the half-built dojo frame. Wood splintered above his head. Bullets chewed through lumber.

  He tried to breathe. Couldn’t.

  He crawled. Found a gap in the frame. Rolled through. Came up on the other side.

  Major K landed twenty meters away. Wings folding. Dropped the empty magazine. Slapped a new one in. Started walking forward.

  Reggie ran.

  He sprinted toward the street. Bullets chased him — hitting pavement, sparking off metal, punching holes in parked cars. One grazed his calf — hot line of pain. He didn’t stop.

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  He ducked into an alley. Pressed against a dumpster. Tried to sneak past.

  Major K’s footsteps didn’t slow. He could smell him. Hear him. See him.

  More bullets. Close. One clipped the dumpster. Reggie flinched.

  Panic clawed up his throat.

  He ran again.

  Through alleys. Over fences. Across rooftops. Major K followed. Relentless. Quadrupedal sprints. Gliding bursts. Wings half-spread for balance.

  Reggie’s lungs burned. Legs screamed. The city blurred.

  He thought he’d lost him twice.

  Both times bullets zipped past his head seconds later.

  Major K ran out of ammo.

  He threw the rifle like a spear. It missed Reggie by inches. Embedded in a brick wall.

  Then he charged.

  Reggie turned a corner into a dead-end alley. No way out.

  He stopped.

  Turned.

  Major K was there. Yellow eyes glowing. Wings folded. Talons clicking on concrete.

  Reggie raised the bat.

  Major K kicked.

  The blow caught Reggie in the chest. Bat absorbed most of it, but Reggie slid back, boots skidding. Fell hard on his ass.

  He looked up.

  Flash grenade already in the air. Three inches from his face.

  White light. Deafening bang.

  Blind.

  Major K was on him.

  Talons raked his shoulder. Tail whipped across his ribs. Fists — human-shaped but scaled — hammered his stomach. Reggie swung blind. Bat clipped K’s arm. Lightning sparked. K roared. Grabbed Reggie by the throat. Lifted him.

  Then hurled him.

  Reggie crashed through a sewer grate. Fell ten feet. Landed in ankle-deep water. Pain exploded up his spine.

  Major K dropped in after him.

  The tunnel was dark. Wet. Echoing.

  Reggie pushed himself up. Vision returning in spots. Major K loomed over him.

  Reggie swung.

  K caught the bat. Twisted. Reggie held on.

  K’s other hand came down — talons to Reggie’s ribs. Blood welled.

  Reggie roared. Lightning surged. Bat glowed. Electricity arced into K’s arm. K snarled. Let go. Stepped back.

  Reggie scrambled up. Back against the wall.

  K lunged again.

  Reggie ducked. K’s tail whipped past his head.

  Reggie swung low. Bat connected with K’s knee. Lightning snapped. K staggered.

  Reggie didn’t wait.

  He ran deeper into the tunnel.

  K followed.

  Reggie’s mind raced. He’d underestimated the beast. Thought it was just rage. Thought it was stupid.

  It wasn’t.

  K was smart. Tactical. Patient. The lucid flashes were there — old soldier instincts. Flanking. Using cover. Waiting for openings.

  Reggie turned a corner. Dead end.

  K was there.

  Reggie swung.

  K parried with a wing buffet. Reggie stumbled.

  K’s talons raked Reggie’s chest. Shirt tore. Skin tore. Blood.

  Reggie dropped to one knee.

  K loomed.

  Reggie looked at the water pooling around his feet.

  Then he slammed the bat down.

  Lightning exploded outward.

  The tunnel lit up white-blue. Electricity surged through the water. Major K’s body locked. Muscles seized. Yellow eyes rolled back. He collapsed. Twitching.

  Reggie didn’t wait to see if he was dead.

  He ran.

  Sprinted through tunnels. Up ladders. Out a manhole three blocks away.

  He collapsed in an alley. Bleeding. Vision blurring. Chest on fire.

  He rubbed his hands through sewage. Rolled in it. Masked his scent.

  Then he staggered home.

  The shed was still there. Roof intact. Door closed.

  He fell inside. Locked it.

  Passed out on the futon.

  Woke the next morning.

  Alive.

  Barely.

  He knew it wouldn’t be long until that thing found him again.

  So he started planning.

  He rode to the store on the motorbike. Bought nine bottles of cologne and perfume — cheap, strong, different scents. Bought bags of ground pepper.

  He came home.

  Laid them out on the crate.

  He knew how K hunted.

  He knew how to blind him.