There is nothing quite like walking into an abandoned warehouse to meet the leader of the Japanese Mafia after your sister was kidnapped because of the girl you kind of, sort of, maybe, might even like.

                  I wonder where Veah is, even as my breath becomes shaky.

                  "Hello?" I call out. My voice echoes.

                   I feel like the stupid character in a horror movie.

                   Oh, God, I think, scanning the weathered walls. The dust-thickened floor. I'm that idiot. I'm the idiot that dies first. 

                    And then I hear it―music.

                    Music. 

                    But it's not violin. It's not Whitney Houston. It's not even Taylor Swift. It's the worst music to ever exist. Jazz. 

                    I shiver at the melancholic thrum of the saxophone.

                    It becomes louder as I climb each step of the stairway, and I pray the floor doesn't collapse beneath me. That I don't fall right through the termite-eaten structure.

                     There are worse ways to die. 

                      Except . . . no. Not really. I'd rather die in the passenger seat of a car, admonishing Veah about the speed limit, and see a glimpse―a glimpse of fire before the world goes up in smoke. 

                     I want to see the world burn first.

                      When I shiver this time, it's not because of the music. I hadn't realized there was something like that in me―something so raw and needy and chaotic.

                       I . . . I kind of like it.

                      It reminds me of Veah, and I wonder if she is responsible for bringing it out in me.

                      Without meaning to, my fingers drift to the gun hidden in my waistband. And I know that if I need to use it, I will.

                       Once I reach the top of the stairs, I notice a closed-off section of flooring. There is a round poker table, and the scent of smoke becomes so pungent, so heavy that I almost gasp. Cigars. Around the table, three men are seated and there is a fourth, empty chair.

                       Is that for me?

                       Where is Cassie? Where are the others?

                        "You've finally arrived," says the one with the silky voice. Imai.

                        I recognize his handsome face, his searing eyes. He is wearing a satin business suit, and the proud lines of his shoulders are visible through the violet fabric.

                        "Kaya Rivers," he says. "So we meet again."

                        "Where's my sister?"

                        "Patience," he says, and the gleam in his eye flickers. I am suddenly reminded of the way he shot a man without hesitation, just for talking back to him.

                        I swallow. Take a step back.

                        "I want my sister," I say calmly. "I'm here. You have me―so where is she?"

                        Imai nods once at the man next to him. Abruptly, he stands and I notice a door concealed by the fog of cigars. 

                         All it takes is a minute. A minute―to open the door, grab a girl by the thick cords that bind her, and drag her back to the round table. She is crying against the gang clenched between her teeth, her pink hair stained with grime.

                        Just seeing her is enough for a sob to slip out of me.

                        "Cassie," I say, and I hug her tightly. Falling to my knees on the splintering ground. "Cassie, Cassie, are you okay?"

                        I was supposed to protect her. I―

                        Imai gives a signal to the man, and the man uses a knife to cut through the cloth over her mouth. Cassie sputters, "Lacy and Kiara were showing me the rooftop, and then I―from behind, there was―it was chloroform, I recognized it from my med classes―when I woke up, we were here."

                        "Who's here with you?" I whisper.

                        "Lacy," she breathes. "And Kiara. And some blonde girl."

                        "That's enough," Imai says softly, and the man hauls Cassie to her feet. A scream tears from my throat―they can't take her―not again―

                         "Kaya!"

                         The man flings her into the wall like she is nothing. Weighs nothing. Her head strikes back against the wood, and something in my chest collapses.

                         But all Imai says is, "Sit."

                         I sit.

                         "You signed a contract."

                         I also burned a contract. 

                         "Contracts signed under duress or coercion aren't legally binding," I say automatically. 

                          Imai's eyes narrow. "Bring the girl to the table," he orders the man.

                          "No," I say. "Wait, no―wait―"

                          "Cut off her finger," he says, still looking at me. "The pinkie."

                          Cassie's head lolls against her chest. Roughly, the man yanks her hand onto the table. Flattening it. 

                           "No."  The word wrenches from somewhere deep inside of me. Scraping against my throat. I scream, "No!"

                           Imai holds out one hand, signifying a pause.

                           He leans towards me, cold eyes glittering. "I need you to take down a firewall for me. One of the most secure in the world. It's called Drakon, and it is supposed to be unsolvable. I want it gone, and I want it gone now. How long will it take?"

                           My eyes stray to Cassie. The blood crusting her upper lip.

                          "I don't know," I whisper. "I―what grade―of―of security?"

                          He leans back, crossing his arms like he is satisfied. "I don't care. You will have seventy-two hours to do it when you first start, otherwise it will completely erase itself. If you don't succeed . . ."

                          "I . . . I don't even know if I can do it."

                          He smiles then, and it scares me the most. "Surely you must know why you're here by now. You know what you've done."

                          What? What have I done?

                          "If you can't solve it, nobody can," he says, with a flash of blinding white teeth. His handsome face twists, for just a second.

                          "You have to let Cassie go," I manage. "And the others. You have to―you've got to set them free, or I―I won't."

                         Imai laughs, and the sound is somehow silvery.

                         Glass and soft silk.

                         "You must have such a low opinion of my intelligence," he says. "I'll let the others go, but Cassie . . . I think I'll keep her."

                         "No!" The word comes free. His eyes harden. "No," I add. "No, please. I'll do whatever you want, but you―you have to let my sister go."

                         "Tadashi?"

                          The man with the impenetrable stare looks at Imai, and there is pure devotion there. "Yes, Imai-dono?"

                          "Release the others."

                          "Cassie," I plead. "Please, let my sister go. I'll do―I'll do anything, if you just let her go."

                          "No," he says thoughtfully. "You won't."

                          Someone laughs. A man with a cigar, the third of them. He looks bleary with exhaustion, and smoke billows out from his mouth. His thick fingers slide between the cards, shuffling them.

                         "Tobio-kun," Imai commands.

                         The man glances up. The wisp of a smile still on his mouth as he rolls the cigar between his teeth.

                         "Call the pilot."

                         Tobio stands up, searing out the cigar into the ash tray. The smoke is so thick I could choke on it, but I manage to meet Imai's eyes.

                        "You don't have to do this," I say. 

                        "Where is Heaven Tanaka?"

                        "She left," I say bitterly. "She dropped me and my sister off and took off. I have no idea where she is."

                         It's partially true―I don't know where she is right now.

                         My plan is falling apart.

                         Why did I think this would work? 

                         I thought that if I managed to get here, if I offered myself in exchange for the hostages, he would let them all go. Once we were alone, I could use a nitrocellulose explosive to disarm him. I would have an opening: Shoot to injure. 

                         Okay, fine. My plan took all of five minutes to come up with.

                         But he is supposed to let Cassie go. I can't risk hurting Cassie in the blast, even if it will only have a small radius.

                         You're a math major, Kaya. Figure it out. 

                         If I can get Imai further from this table, if I could get him to the stairs, then Cassie might be far enough way that the blast won't hurt her.

                         The stairs might collapse beneath us, but―

                         "One condition," I say. "I―I dropped something. On the way up here. I dropped my earring on the stairs."

                          Imai only laughs at the pitiful attempt. And I realize that Tadashi has now just returned, which means Lacy, Kiara and Emilie must be returned to the Underground by now. Safe.

                         Will the Wolves still help me, even if their own people aren't in danger?

                         I don't know how much I can trust the Mafia, so the answer is no. This is up to me, and whatever I do now . . . it'll either kill us or save us.

                        But then Imai says, "Tadashi, shōjo no yubi o kiriotosu." 

                        "What?" I gasp. "What does that mean? Wait! What does that mean?"

                        Cassie has slumped back against the chair, and my words become unintelligible as Tadashi says, "Yes, Imai-dono." 

                        He grips her wrist, turning it so her palm is flat on the table and her fingers are spread out. She mumbles something, and I realize with horror that she is waking up.

                        "Kay? Kay, is that you . . ."

                        "Wait!" I shriek. "Wait, you said―I said―I'm going to do it! I'll do it! I said I'll do it! Stop―stop!"

                         Smoke swirls in the air between us. Imai's eyes are black ice. 

                         He smiles gently. "I know you will."

                         There is a knife in Tadashi's hand, hovering over Cassie's pinkie finger. Her eyelashes twitch, and she mumbles, "Five more minutes . . ." 

                          Silver glints. Cassie startles awake. "Kaya? What―?"

                          There is no time to warn her before the knife severs flesh.

                          "This is private property."

                          "Please, sir," I say, shivering from the cold. "I don't have anywhere to go."

                           I am eighteen. I am homeless. Yesterday, I told my mother I was a lesbian, and my stepfather gave her a choice: me . . . or him. 

                           Now, I'm outside the Rockefeller park, and until only minutes ago, I was curled up on the splintering bench.

                           It's only for the summer, I tell myself.

                           Until I go to school. Until I get my scholarship.

                           Cassie's med school deposit emptied out my savings, but I don't regret it. Even if it means I'm sleeping in a park with nothing but a backpack.

                            The officer's eyes seem to soften, just a little.

                            "There's a shelter not too far from here," he says. "I can drive you there."

                             But it's nighttime, and I've heard stories about cops. I shake my head feverishly, but I say, "Thank you, sir, thank you so much. I'll just walk."

                             "No, really. I insist."

                             There is no one in the park to watch, and the officer's eyes tell me he won't take no for an answer. I don't have the energy to fight him―I only follow him into his car, slipping into the backseat.

                             Fear tenses every muscle. The ride takes minutes, but each second, I count. Afraid he will try something. Afraid he will stop the car and climb into the back . . .

                            But fast, so fast, we are at the women's shelter. He says, "This is our destination."

                            It must be at least four in the morning.

                            "Thank you, sir," I say. He didn't . . . he didn't try anything.

                             A sudden commotion draws both our attention―I see the sound of shouting, and I peer through the window towards the alley next to the shelter. A tall, heavy man is throwing a woman against the bricks.

                             "One second," says the officer, and he jogs out of the car.

                             I slump against the window. Praying for―for what? 

                             The officer leaves the man in handcuffs, tied to a post, and he tells me that his partner is going to arrest him.

                             "Why didn't you?"  I ask.

                             "The shelter might not be the best place for a girl like you," he says simply. "And I'm not putting him in the same car as a young girl."

                              "Oh," I manage. "Thank you."

                              My mind is racing. What does that mean? Is he going to . . . is he trying to . . .

                              But he only reclines his seat, and warmth blasts through the air conditioner. Thawing my chilled hands.

                              "Sleep," he says. "Tomorrow, I'll take you to the station. I'll find you some support . . ."

                             I'm already drifting off. In the morning, I read his name tag: Officer Wilhelm. And then I climb out of the car, and I don't see him ever again.

                             I think I'll remember Cassie's scream for the rest of my life.

                             So fast I don't have time to blink, I see a lithe figure behind Tadashi, and I see the gunshot before I hear it. Tadashi's head lashes forward onto the table. He's dead, and Cassie is still screaming. Or maybe I'm screaming. 

                             Imai stands up, and I realize that behind his silk façade, there is something lethal. Something familiar. He reminds me of―

                             Veah is suddenly there, and she moves so quickly that within moments, two of the three men are dead. Leaving only Imai, who watches Kaya with something like indifference.

                           Fear. There's a slight twitch to his eye. 

                           He's afraid of her. Is that why―is this the reason he's here? After me? The Yakuza boss is afraid of a girl no more than two inches taller than me?

                           But with my own eyes, I saw her take out ten armed men. With one hand. 

                          Yes, he should be afraid of her.

                          In this moment, even I'm a little afraid of her.

                          Except Imai pulls out a gun, and he doesn't aim it at Veah, he aims it at me. "Let go of the girl," he says coldly, and I realize Veah has taken Cassie.

                         "The plan," Veah says. "Now!"

                         I pull out the nitrocellulose explosive. It has a radius of five feet, and now that Imai has a gun to my head, he is close enough for it to affect him and not Veah and Cassie. I modeled it after Paul Vielle's 1984 experiment involving ether, alcohol and partially dissolved nitrocellulose. A smokeless powder contained within, and a coating of graphite. With Tommy's help, it took me about an hour to make.

                        I shatter it onto the ground. I have less than three seconds to get as far away as possible, and the best way to cover that ground―

                        The stairs begin to collapse beneath me as I surge down them.

                        "Kaya!" Veah shouts, and there's something raw in her voice. Imai is falling with me, I feel his breath behind me―

                        It is over in less than a second. I am at the bottom of the stairs, submerged in rubble, trying to rise on trembling legs.

                       On the second floor, Veah calls out to me.

                      "Go!" I shout. "Take Cassie and go!"

                      There's no time to argue. She must hear it in my voice. Within five minutes, the toxicity of the dust in here should trigger a second, smaller explosion and that should be enough for the debris to rain down.

                       Imai is brushing himself off. There is blood streaking down his knuckles, deepening the colour of his violet silk suit.

                       He lunges for me. Veah is already gone.

                       I still have a gun. 

                       With shaking fingers, I pull it out. How do I use this thing? 

                       A shot fires. Too late, I realize it was me. Oh, shit. 

                       Imai's eyes widen, and I think he must realize I have no idea how to use it. He trains his own gun on me, and we are locked like this―a standstill.

                      "What do you know about Heaven Tanaka?"

                      I don't answer. I can't; the gun is shaking too hard. My heart is pounding.

                      He could shoot me, and I probably wouldn't even know how to shoot him back. But he hasn't.

                       "Did you know she was once the kumicho―the Suzucai leader?"

                       "Yes," I spit out. "I―"

                       "Do you know what that means, to be the leader of the Yakuza?"

                       I don't answer, because I can't. How much do I really know about the Mafia? About what it's like, being a boss?

                       I know close to nothing. 

                       "Power in the Suzucai clan is chosen by a fight," Imai whispers. Now, I notice blood on his temple. His neck. He is more injured than he is letting on.

                       My knees are about to cave; I am about to fall. Maybe I am more injured than I am letting on, too.

                        "A fight?" 

                        Shit. I'm dizzy. Imai is blurring right in front of me.

                        I think about the Pythagorean Theorem. I think about the Psychodynamic Perspective. I think about how fucked up Sigmund Freud was. Anything to keep myself from passing out.

                        "A fight till the death," says Imai. "She fought my brother in the arena, and she won. She was seventeen."

                        "Shut up!" I snap. "You're a monster."

                        "I'm glad you recognize that," Imai says coolly. 

                         The second blast should be happening in a minute.

                         One minute.

                         That's all I need.

                         "But you should know," Imai continues, "that as the kumicho, Heaven Tanaka is more of a monster than I could ever be. Do you know what she did to Japan, in the three years she was in power?"

                        "You're trying to manipulate me."

                        Fifty seconds.

                        "She invented something called the Wyvern. Ask her what that is. Go ahead."

                        He's still smiling.

                        Thirty seconds. 

                        The Drakon. Isn't that what he wanted me to hack? 

                        Drakon and Wyvern are both ancient types of dragon. Could it be―is it possible―are they somehow related?

                        Why did you run away, Veah? 

                        What kind of monster are you hiding from?

                        But maybe I should be asking a different question. Maybe I should be asking myself, What kind of monster do you have to become to lead the Yakuza? 

                        How well do I really know the pretty girl I woke up handcuffed to?

                        "Go on," Imai encourages. "Ask her. Ask her what Project Basilisk is, and see for your―"

                        I swear―I swear I didn't mean to.

                        The gun fires, and I surge backwards with the force of it.

                        I must have shot him, his chest pulses back―and then an explosion rockets through the warehouse.

                        Holy shit. 

                        The nitrocellulose must have been more potent than I expected. All it takes me is a quick map of calculations, and once I realize the roof is crumbling, I know I only have four minutes. At the most. 

                        Imai is on one knee, a hand to his chest, and blood leaks between his fingers.

                        I throw my gun to the ground―I won't be needing it anymore―and I turn on my heel. Stumbling as fast as I possibly can, even as the world smudges into shades of dust and wood and blood. Blood?  My hands are pale and smeared in―

                        I think I might be bleeding.

                        I think I might be dying.

                        Get over yourself, Kaya, I think. You're not dying. All you need is some ice, and you'll be fine. 

                        How far have I made it? I am gripping the edge of a doorframe, thinking of the moment two years ago when a policeman stopped me in the park.

                        Officer Wilhelm.

                        I don't know why I think of that now. Maybe it's because he was the first hope I had in a long time, that there were good people out there. That, despite everything people said about us, about cops, about men, we didn't have to fall for it. We didn't have to become the expectations people put on us. He was hope, and I needed it.

                        Maybe that's why I think of him now.

                        I knew him only for a night, but the thought of it coaxes something to life in my chest: an ember. A spark. Hope.

                        I run. I run like hell. 

                        Maybe I'm getting good at this thing―running for my life.

                        But maybe the hope isn't enough, because my head is spinning and my hands are still shaking and my stomach is clenching, I'm going to throw up―I'm going to lose it―I'm going to fall apart right here. Right now. And there will be no one to pick up the pieces. 

                         Will it hurt?  I wonder.

                         Is dying painful?

                         I really, really don't want it to be painful. Is that cowardly? Maybe it is. Maybe it's silly of me to be scared of the agony that comes with an explosion. 

                        It hits me, then, that I'm terrified of dying.

                       And why shouldn't I be? I'm nineteen. I've thought about it, in the way most people have. Heaven. Nirvana. Reincarnation. Nothingness. What's waiting? What's out there? But I haven't thought about it. I haven't thought about it, because I still have more time. 

                       It's okay. It's okay, it's okay, it's okay, it's―

                       Cassie is safe. Isn't that what matters? Is it selfish that I wish I was safe, too? 

                       Dear God, I try. Dear God, I . . .

                       I'm scared.

                       I can barely think. I can barely put two words together.

                       "Hey." Her voice startles me. Maybe I'm already dead. "Hey, what are you doing?"

                       Gilded in sunlight, her dark hair silhouetted in pale sky, she seems more like a vision, a dream, than a person. She looks like an avenging angel above me, tall and powerful and ethereal. If I'm dead, maybe this isn't so bad. 

                       She kneels down on one leg, and she tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture is so intimate, so soft that I think, Sorry about doubting you, God.

                       "Am I in Heaven?" I whisper.

                       "Well, considering I'm Heaven, I'd say no. But if you want to be inside of me, that can definitely be arranged." 

>>>

So I took the epic opportunity to make this joke. Thank you, ladies and gentleladies. 

Is that . . . could that be foreshadowing I smell?

From the moon and back,
Sarai