Crescent's night was restless. He had difficulty getting up for classes, and Ahni's repeated shaking could wake a bull.

He skipped morning lessons and planned to ignore them all. Remaining curled beneath thick blankets built in a fort became a comfort. Crescent can't stop thinking about it. The horror that transpired the night before. He feels dirty, confused, and lost. He doesn't want his first sexual encounter to be one that he'll regret. Saikai had clammy hands all over him with a prideful smirk. He'd never stoop so low.

What could've, should've, would've happened? It all plays out inside of his mind.

He decides it will be best to avoid both of them for the time being. The awkwardness will be too much and he will eventually get angry enough to where he will punch Saikai. What will he even be able to say? In this world, a guy coming forth to report a sexual crime is nothing but a joke. Pulling the blanket closer, arm locked around the rough texture, Crescent draws a clump over his head as his phone begins beeping.

A message he wants to ignore, but the sequence of beeps allows him to know exactly who's contacting him. The informant.

Annoyed, an arm lashes out from beneath the comfort of the sheets, striking the cell phone that lies just beyond the bed. Crescent's willingness to interact with anyone is diminished by his inability to manage his emotions.

As Ahni attends his classes, Crescent finds solace in the isolation it provides from the outside world. Despite Ahni's repeated inquiries about what was amiss, Crescent understood that he could not disclose the truth. The secret will remain his alone, known only to those present in that room. His dorm silence bolstered his desire for seclusion. Here, he feels safe, in a sanctuary where neither Saikai nor Kisha can intrude. Behind a door of contentment, he's locked away. Yet, the irony lay in the fact that both Kisha and Saikai are part of his classes today.

He couldn't bear thoughts sit with them as the teacher spoke. No one admitted what took place due to being in the presence of authority. How will he be able to hold back?

Suctioning the device into the small hole used for breathing, Crescent pulls the phone closer to his features due to the lack of his glasses. He squints as he traces the unlock pattern on his phone. With a click, the screen revealed his background image: a dragon soaring into the clouds. The photo is tinted in gold, gray, and black, lightly edited to create a more blurred effect.

Crescent can relate, he too wants to ascend. He can't forget his original focus. These hiccups are not going to stop him. When he climbs to the top, he'll have Saikai licking the bottom of his shoe for sure. Payback will be a bitch. For now, gritted teeth he'll bear regret. To keep focus and use Asho to gain a reputation. Knowledge, power, being invincible by the eyes of hundreds.

The stirring of his being shouldn't be enough to throw him from his goal. He's been through worse. Almost lost his life on the streets. Leaving Ahni behind became a thought he fought against when he caught pneumonia and spent a week in the hospital. A poor child visited by social services once he got better. He ran away and they were unable to find him. Foreign land of promises and broken homes. He'd rather suffer on his own accord than someone else's.

Scanning golden hues over the text, his other hand grips the blanket and flings it to one side. Like a trap suddenly catching a mouse, he sprung into a seat position. The effects of being buried, messier strands of unkempt hair stick out in multiple directions. Crescent kicks his legs from the bed, shoving his feet into his slippers before he jumps to his feet.

"Rally up within 40 minutes, you are chosen for this job." Reading a sentence out loud, he spins on his heels in search of his glasses. Neatly placed on a blurred dresser, he grabs them before searching for his other appropriate attire. Before long, the only sound in the room is a light click of the door closing behind him.

---------------------------------------------

Fully dressed in uniform, the only clean outfit he has for the moment, Crescent makes his way to stand in a line of men. Falling neatly in place, he turns his gaze to see who has shown up. Not being well acquainted with other gang members sparks him without knowledge of familiar faces. There are various gang meetings for the juveniles to hang out and get along, but Crescent refuses to attend.

Not one to listen to the hardships of others, he also isn't one to tell his own. Barely with trust, Crescent has learned through his life that nothing is permenant. Whether he decides upon it or someone has the control to take it from him. That's how life works. A few years and people become too comfortable.

Standing in an office as big as his room, a large desk and chair remain before them. The desk has a lot of scratches on it. It's as if someone had taken a fork and dug into the wood. Carved out sections of the desk, pieces of shavens resting at the legs. The men at his side stand stiff, all hands tucked behind their back to represent soldiers. Either they are told to do so, or that is a norm here. Asho usually demands respect; however, rarely gives any.

Though he never controls his gang when they aren't in his presence, Crescent has seen many things without consequence, he's sure to play the part when he's around.

Crescent knows nothing, refusing to stand as one of them is prevalent. Hands tucked in his pocket, he rocks back and forth on the balls of his heels, awkwardly. Hoping Asho doesn't bother him today.

Bookshelves lined all four walls, with some rows missing the same thick black book that bore no title. Were these real books or merely decorations? He often wondered this as he walked past large buildings featuring giant windows. From top to bottom, the rooms were filled with books. Ladders leaned against the shelves, and more books were piled on carts. He frequently spotted a slender woman with large, round glasses framed in gold, diligently attending to the vast collection of books. She would dust them clean, and sometimes she would glance at him, smile, and continue with her work. Only later did he discover that it was a library and that she was the librarian.

The room maintains a neat appearance. The dark brown rug, marked by vacuum streaks, indicates recent cleaning. Although there are some brown stains, they appear to be old and have faded, contributing to the overall clean feel of the space.

The coffee table off in the corner harbors a lamp, a few teacups, and a small glass teapot. The room looks ordinary, and plain as if just a simple cover-up. With the thin window opened, cool air keeps the entire room from being stuffy. Crescent doesn't see any air conditioner vents. His eyes wander around, trying to keep his mind busy. He wishes whoever has summoned them will hurry up.

He was escorted here once meeting up with Vergyl in the lunchroom. The second in command never addressed them. He fixed his spectacles and walked forward like a ritual performance. Vergyl isn't friendly. He's more immersed with what he has going on and when he's ever asked about anything personal, he will never answer. Trying to keep the mysterious trope, but it just turns into an anti-social diagnosis.

Now staring at the back of the chair, Crescent narrows his eyes. It's clear by the slight swaying that someone occupies it. Ar they killing time on purpose? They've all been standing here for at least five minutes.

Walking up to each member, Vergyl hands out a card. The card is one they received as an ID for the gang; however, there's a completely different insignia on the side. Even the colors differ. An animal claw symbol is imprinted on the back. The front reads Pack. Why will they need another ID?

"Wear them for a few days, but don't forget who you belong to." A voice travels from behind the chair. Light, nonchalant, and very weak. Crescent keeps examining the card, his brows furrow. What job will cause them to abandon their original gang?

"I know what you're wondering. Why am I here? I'll tell you gosh dammit!" The large chair suddenly spun around with a heavy squeak. There seated comfortably and happily his boss, Asho Flennings.

Asho bangs on the desk with both hands, Crescent jumps as Asho then pushes up on his hands. He barely makes it over the top of the desk, Crescent is certain he's standing on the legs of the chair to catch some height. Fingers part, Crescent allows the ID to slide until the lanyard runs to its end. He clamps down hard, balling up the object before shoving it in his pocket.

Asho rolls his eyes looking through the line of guys. When he requested Vergyl to recruit a capable team he didn't ask for all juveniles, though that was what he gets for believing in Vergyl's expertise. They don't look ready though they are trying to suck up to be obedient followers. Some of them are too skinny for his taste.

When his gaze lands on Crescent, he smiles. Crescent weakly waves back hoping to kill the mood. Since the failed job he had no encounter with Asho.

The Goonies sent to punish him must have informed him about Kisha's interference. He isn't sure how much Asho knew about the situation or whether being here will jeopardize his involvement. Still, he remains, an empty smile on his face. It isn't convincing.

Wearing an oversized blazer, buttoned up and a bit faded in color, Asho raises his hand and points down the line. His fingers dance in the air over the figures as if he holds a wand. His lack of addressing Crescent seems more suspicious when Asho's wave ends at the second last male in the line. Crescent's the last.

"Get it together. This is a fucking important mission." Looking to the side in the air suddenly, Asho snickers to no one. His features curl aggressively. 

"I know thaaattt~" His eyes dart back to the crowd and he begins laughing, teeth clenched. 

With a frown on his face, Cresent watches the comical scene unfold. He's only seen Asho a few times, but none of the encounters were this bad. Asho will often talk to himself, but these moments are short-lived. Small ticks, hand swats and some stop it. If Crescent isn't so sure of himself, he'd believe that Asho is talking to someone. 

He resembles a patient in need of daily medicine. Vergyl stands beside him unfazed, arms crossed beneath his chest. The clear difference between the two is staggering. How can they find means to get along? So estranged. The first year did say they were friends, but how can anyone be friends with Asho?

"Never mind, look..." Grabbing a small stack of papers beside him, Asho scoops them up with a flick of his wrist tossing the sheets across the desk. They slide, hitting each other and toppling everywhere. Falling all over the floor before the goons, the pictures spill out for everyone to see.

"These big trucks. They carry something juicy. Money!"

The pictures were taken of four eighteen-wheeler trucks, all lined up in the back of a building. Barbed wire and gated, from every angle. Perfectly photographed by someone who knew what they were doing. The trucks are protected with minimum security from what Crescent can see. Only chains and locks on the main door? Easy.

"I want you to go and bust up these trucks. Do whatever you want to them, but don't take the money. These trucks must look very pretty by the time you're done. Snip the lock, and go in at night. Make sure you're wearing your goddamn new IDs!! Your originals will be kept here with me. Vergyl will take those." He raises a finger and stabs at the table multiple times. The hard thumping of bone meeting wood.

"Listen! Listen-- Don't... fuck... up! ... No, do that."He collapses into his seat, leans back, and lets out a long sigh. Asho lifts his feet onto the table and pushes off, sending his chair gliding across the floor until it hits the wall. He slumps down, resembling a child overcome with boredom.

Cresent raises his hand slowly, one finger high. First and foremost,

"Why the ID change?"

"You're questioning my authority?" Asho mumbles, only to respond with another type of aggressive tone.

"No, fuck! You know better."

Crescent sighs, his finger hesitantly drifting down before he cuts his eyes to the floor. There are so many details missing from this job. His first job was thorough.

"Who's trucks are they?" Crescent challenges again.

"You want to know? When you get there please phone me back and then tell me!" Asho refuses to answer.

"Boss, are you sending us to die...? Whoever this is they have to be a big shot. Who the hell carries that much money--"

"It's rumored to be fake." Suddenly Vergyl buds in which sends Crescent's untrustworthy gaze his way.

With a lift of a hand and press at center spectacles, Vergyl remains stiff the entire time.

"You are a great asset due to your background in skills. Nimble, quick, and... protected."

Crescent listens to the last part of Vergyl's words. Protected? What's that supposed to mean? The way Vergyl's tone speaks, it makes Crescent weary to know the answer.

Whatever, he'll get the job done no matter what.

Vergyl raises one of his hands, pointing towards the door. In a small voice, eyes never leaving his forward gaze.

"Get out." That is all he says.

---------------------------------------------------

Clenched backpack straps in both hands, Crescent draws a long sigh. It's time. The members came to his room under the cover of darkness, having him lie to Ahni before he left.

Now, dressed in all black, a baseball cap to hide their expressions, the group approaches the large gates. The location was hard to find. Tucked securely around some buildings, it was clear these trucks were not to be found. Does Principal Jones know about this? Wait... Are these his saved funds?! Crescent shudders at the thought. Doing anything to these and the school will certainly take a hit right?

Nearly ten feet tall, the gates are built as walls to keep whoever out. Climbing here is suicidal because they are barbed at the top, rusted, and sure to infect.

Crescent looks around hesitantly before he approaches one of the men who carries large chain cutters.

"Where are we?"

"You think I know?" The man snaps back.

The area is darker than any spot outside of the school. Lights aren't built back here. The eerie scene is enough to deter students.

"All I heard was money. I need some." The man shoots him a glare before he returns to breaking the chains.

Crescent backed up, glancing around once more. They had been instructed not to take any of the money; their task was simply to damage the trucks and leave. After all, fake money holds no value in this world. But if it's fake, why is it concealed? A flood of questions made Crescent hesitate about completing his job. The other men are already moving around, scouting the area, and finding their places. This location felt deserted.

It isn't Asho's money that's clear. Though, he did seem like the type to attack himself and blame others. A gloved hand pulls up to grapple the ID around his neck.

He flips it over to expose the gang sign. As he scans over the ID a funny sensation berries within his stomach.

Hearing large chains snap, one man cheers which signals Crescent that it's time. Pushing open gates, the gang rushes in, dropping their bags and pulling out whatever choice of 'art' they desire. 

Crescent stands with a bottle of spray paint in his hand. He raises the bottle slowly, spraying a sad face on the base of the back door. Besides it Crescent draws a happy face, then a silly face. He smiles to himself before he begins zoning out and without notice sprays the face of an angry wolf.

He chuckles as he glances at his awful drawing. "What a loser, Kisha," he says to himself. But then he realizes what he's doing, and his face goes red with embarrassment. Gripping the paint can tightly, he squeezes it hard, splattering a bunch of paint over the wolf to cover up his thoughts. He sighs. Even at work, he can't stop thinking about that idiot.

"Hey, the boss said to do it, so do it. Don't just stand there and draw 1st grade art." A male speaks impatiently, shoving past Crescent who's in the way.

Crescent scoffs... 1st-grade art?! These are very beautiful from where he--

An explosion hit the air as one gang member shouted 'woooo'. Tires now slashed, the large truck begins to tip, the container tipping further due to weight sending the truck to lean against another one parked only a few feet apart. Crescent jumps back, wide-eyed. No this wasn't a part of the plan.

"I want that fucking money!" Another one shouts as he bangs on the side with a crowbar.

"S-stop! We were told not to touch--" Crescent tries to calm the growing tension.

"Who fucking cares?! You think I'm gonna sit here with a bank account in front of me and not help myself?! You're a fucking idiot." The one who had been money-hungry, Crescent hears him call back.

Animals, thirsty animals thrilled by destruction. Their eyes glisten in the dim light of the moon and they breathe like goons without restrictions. These are the capable men? Crescent looks around at every individual, their expressions laced with manic desire. Rabid dogs, doing bidding without even knowing anything.

Puppets...

Another explosion, but this one is the loudest. Someone will be alerted soon enough. The noise forces Crescent to jog over to the side of the truck, a gaping hole spills money from inside. When did these men receive explosives? He watches as they rejoice, all cheering the guy holding the crowbar.

The noise level went from sneaking to an unruly mob. Asho ordered them to remain silent, but everyone now full of adrenaline. The smell of fresh money picked up in the wind. A foul smell like a paper mill.

They begin scooping up money, stuffing it inside the backpacks until they're going to burst.

"Hey, put it back--" Crescent tries to correct them.

Suddenly a spotlight turns on and an alarm blares, sending Crescent to end his sentence.

The loud noise cuts through his thoughts, and he tries to block it out by covering his ears. Crescent turns around quickly, squinting at the bright light on a nearby platform that's scanning the area before zeroing in on him. His eyes go wide as it hits him—are they caught?

The men begin to panic, one holding a Molotov cocktail lighting it, and tossing it inside the truck as a diversion. The smell of burning money, and blackened smoke begins to fill the air moments later.

"We need to go!!" One tries to shout, but his voice is blocked out.

"It's gonna blow!!" Another shout, the men now making their way from the gate. As he watches them disperse, Crescent takes in a large inhale, coming to his senses. He tosses his bottle of spray frantically, gathers up his backpack, and takes a look at the area of the spotlight once it begins to follow the men running.

He can't see who it is, but there are two dark figures. One shorter than the other. The only thing he makes out is the shiny reflection of a pair of glasses.

The spotlight suddenly lands on him, the straggler. He starts to run, it follows. Adrenaline rushing his body, he holds his hat on his head with a quick look backward, making sure no one else has been left behind.

The trucks are engulfed in flame, thick blackened smoke lift to block the view of the sky and that becomes the image posted in his mind. His jaw clenches, and Crescent turns his attention forward. This was not a good idea. He had a heavy thought in his mind that this wouldn't be without severe consequences.

"Dammit...!!" He spits. The only notable detail about the plain trucks is that all he can remember is the large red letters in fine cursive on the side of one of them.

D.A.

(((A/N

D.A.? Hmm..

How will this pan out for Crescent?

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