Reggie woke before dawn in the small shed he’d built from scavenged lumber and stolen cash. The roof leaked in one corner—he’d patched it with tarp and duct tape, but water still dripped into a rusted bucket during heavy rain. The futon smelled like smoke and damp wood. He didn’t mind. It was his. No one could take it away without going through him first.

  He sat up. Rolled his shoulders. Felt the faint hum of lightning under his skin—quieter now, more controlled. The Tier 3 boost from the breakdown in the orphanage files had settled into something steady. Not explosive. Not wild. Just waiting.

  He pulled on the black bomber, red kanji stark against the fabric. Compression shirt. Cargo joggers with hakama pleats. Red cord wraps on wrists and ankles. Fingerless gloves. The hannya mask sat on the crate he used as a table—red and black, horns curling, mouth frozen in rage. Too big for his face. Still slipped when he sweated. He didn’t care. He put it on anyway. Adjusted it. Looked at himself in the cracked mirror propped against the wall.

  A kid wearing a dead man’s memory.

  Good enough.

  The steel bat leaned against the doorframe. He grabbed it. Felt the weight settle into his palm. Lightning coiled faintly around the barrel—blue-white veins pulsing once, then going quiet.

  Ledger open on the crate. Thirty names. Thirty addresses. He’d already taken fourteen. Cash, drugs, burner phones, a few guns he’d sold off for more lumber and tools. The dojo was starting to look like a building again—small, ugly, functional. He liked it that way. No excess. No weakness.

  He crossed off the last name he’d hit two nights ago. A trafficker who’d begged when Reggie put the bat to his knee. Reggie hadn’t killed him. Just broke enough to make the message clear.

  Fourteen down. Sixteen left.

  He picked the next one.

  Low-level collector. Address in East Nashville. Small-time dealer who collected for the yakuza on the side. Reggie had watched him for three days. Routine like clockwork: left the house at 10 p.m., picked up envelopes from three drop spots, back home by 2 a.m. with a bag of cash and a couple grams for himself.

  Reggie didn’t wait for night.

  He rode the black motorbike out—quiet engine, lights off until he hit the main road. Mask on. Hood up. Bat strapped across his back.

  The collector’s house was a squat brick thing on a street full of squat brick things. Reggie parked two blocks away. Walked the rest. Hood up. Hands in pockets. Invisible.

  The collector was home. Lights on in the living room. Reggie saw him through the window—fat, shirtless, counting cash on the coffee table. Alone.

  Reggie didn’t knock.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  He kicked the door in.

  The collector looked up—eyes wide. Money scattered.

  Reggie was already moving.

  Deadline Swing.

  Steel bat compressed charge in mid-arc. Reggie pivoted. Lightning snapped along the barrel. The bat connected with the collector’s forearm. Bone cracked like dry wood. The man screamed. Reggie didn’t stop. Second swing—low, to the knee. Another crack. The collector dropped.

  Reggie stepped in. Mask inches from the man’s face.

  “Where’s the rest?” Voice low. Calm.

  The collector whimpered. Pointed to a safe in the corner.

  Reggie dragged him over. Made him open it. Cash. Drugs. A burner phone. Reggie took it all. Left the man crying on the floor.

  He didn’t kill him.

  He never did.

  Back on the bike. Rain starting again. He rode to the next address.

  And the next.

  And the next.

  Fourteen more fell over the next two weeks.

  A dealer in a trap house—Reggie waited until the customers left, then went in through the back. Bat to the jaw. Lightning to the chest. Safe emptied. Man left zip-tied to a radiator.

  A trafficker running girls out of a motel—Reggie cut the power, waited in the dark, took the man down in the hallway. Interrogated him for names higher up. Took the cash drop. Left the girls a burner phone with a number they could call if they needed out.

  A mid-tier enforcer who liked to collect with brass knuckles—Reggie ambushed him in an alley. Bat shattered the brass. Lightning burned the man’s hand. Reggie got the ledger’s next layer: names above the enforcer. Took the cash roll. Left the man screaming.

  He didn’t enjoy it.

  He didn’t hate it either.

  It was just work.

  Every dollar went back to the dojo. Lumber. Concrete. Roofing. Plumbing. He built slow. Methodical. The shed became a small living space—bed, stove, table. Still unfinished. Still rough. But it was his.

  He trained between hits.

  Steel bat swings until his shoulders burned. Lightning drills until the air smelled like ozone. Deadline Swing—compress, wait, release. Each rep a memory of Kenji. Each arc a promise.

  The mask stayed on during every hit. Too big. Slipped when he sweated. He adjusted it. Kept going.

  Fourteen down.

  Sixteen left.

  He was getting faster.

  Smarter.

  Calmer.

  The ice user was the first one that almost ended him.

  Reggie had tracked him for three days. Mid-level enforcer. Yakuza-affiliated. Lived in a loft downtown. Expensive. Flashy. Rode a black motorbike Reggie had stared at for too long. Reggie needed that bike. Needed the mobility. Needed to feel like he could leave whenever he wanted.

  He waited in an alley near the loft.

  The ice user came out—tall, lean, cocky. Leather jacket. Silver chain. Saw Reggie. Smiled like he knew what was coming.

  “You’re the kid with the bat,” he said. Voice smooth. “Heard you’ve been busy.”

  Reggie didn’t answer. Just stepped forward. Mask on. Bat in hand.

  The ice user laughed. Raised his hands. Frost crackled along his fingers.

  “Let’s see what you got.”

  The fight was fast.

  Ice user had experience. Reggie had power.

  Frost shards flew—Reggie dodged, lightning sparking to deflect. Ice user froze the ground—Reggie slipped, almost went down. Ice user closed in, cold aura slowing Reggie’s movements. Reggie swung. Bat connected with ice barrier—shattered it, but the ice user countered with a palm strike to Reggie’s chest. Cold burned like fire. Reggie staggered.

  Ice user pressed. Frost claws raked Reggie’s arm—blood welled, froze instantly. Reggie roared. Lightning surged. Deadline Swing—compressed charge, pivot, arc. Bat connected with the ice user’s ribs. Lightning exploded inward. The man screamed. Dropped.

  Reggie stood over him. Breathing hard.

  Ice user laughed—weak, bloody.

  “You’re strong,” he wheezed. “But you’re green. The Major’s been hunting you. He’s coming.”

  Reggie froze.

  “The Major?”

  Ice user coughed blood. Smiled.

  “You’ll see.”

  Reggie stared at him for a second longer. Then took the keys from the man’s pocket.

  Black motorbike.

  He rode away.

  Mask on. Bat strapped to his back.

  The city blurred past.

  He didn’t look back.