***Haiji

  I suddenly tore my eyes wide open, jerking up to a hasty sitting position. I looked around, my heavy eyes falling on the broken analogue clock resting on the floor in a corner. It was 5:17 am—Fuck, I'll be bloody late!

  I quickly got up. Even with my body still sore and screaming from the fuckin' beating, I had to go to work. I looked at my brother, who was still sleeping, but his breaths were heavier now and he was sweating like crazy. I guess his peaceful sleep didn’t last that long; his body was finally telling him how bad things really were.

  I reckon his broken arms are causing him the most discomfort. I don’t know what Fuyuko gave us, but it couldn’t possibly combat the damage of two snapped limbs and a body that had been used as a punching bag. I had suspected this yesterday, but I’d given myself some baseless hope that Kenzo would be healed of all his wounds by that herbal concoction.

  I couldn’t do anything about it now. My father was gone and I had to make payments to those assholes. The only thing for me to do was go scrap around for some coins. Hopefully, I could make enough in two or three days to have some change to spare for Kenzo’s condition.

  I put on my armless hoodie, my brown-furred vest, and my boots. I was grabbing my bag, preparing to leave immediately, when I heard my brother’s voice.

  “Bro, take care of yourself out there… Don’t do anything fuckin' stupid like dying.” His voice was very weak and dry, but there was a flicker of strength in there somewhere.

  The struggle to mask the pain was clear, and I couldn't help but smile in my mind at that last part. Don’t do anything fuckin' stupid like dying. Of course. None of them wanted the only thing standing between them and Kuroda’s hands—or the claws of starvation—to die. No one is loved or cared for just for who they are, but for what they can do, be it now or in the future.

  I held that thought, then simply looked at him. “Take care of yourself and try to eat something.”

  I walked out the door. Navigating through the same alley routes as late night, I reached the UnderGrounD. The chill that followed yesterday's rain still basked Sumiyoshi in its presence under the sunless morning sky. It was almost nice, but as soon as the gym came into view, that feeling ghosted.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  There I saw Razor and his boys having a little throw-down with a group of six people—mostly women and clearly just Humans. From my view, Razor and his crew were on top of things, tossing those punks to the other side of the street one after the other. Those guys were thrashed so much they were covered in more blood than mud.

  Razor dragged the last one by her hair. If you weren't attentive to detail, you’d think she was dead, but her lazily opened eyes and the sluggish rise and fall of her chest gave it away. Razor and his guys were panting, showing a few cuts and bruises, but they weren't even close to as roughed up as the punks they’d tossed into the piles of rotten wooden junk and garbage across the narrow street.

  I walked up close and called out Razor’s name, just so they’d know it was little old me and not another problem. He stared at me weirdly, tilting the right side of his face slightly upward before giving me a barely noticeable nod.

  As I reached for the door handle, Razor’s voice came from behind me. “You’re late, Rat-boy. And you still look like crap… What happened? The coins you made last night wasn’t enough?”

  I slowly turned my head, my eyes locking onto his.

  “No… No, it wasn’t,” I replied blankly, then stepped into the gym.

  I knew this was just Razor’s way of making small talk, but stupid questions like that are why I hate it. There’s no one here who will ever have enough cash to skip work for a day.

  It was almost 6:00 am and the gym already stunk of sweat and a mist of body odors. It’s not like they ever clean this dump, but with twenty-five or more people sparring, lifting concrete weights, and pulling humongous iron, the air was thick. I walked over to one of the rings where two guys were sparring and called out to a man with a green-tilted Mohawk, his back covered in a green and black tattoo of a giant snake.

  “Todo… Todo?!” I raised my voice.

  He told the other guy to pause before turning to me. “Ahh… Ratty. You bounced in late. Your session is long gone,” he said, brushing his hair back as he breathed heavily.

  “Come on, Todo, don’t do me like this. Just a couple of minutes. I’m sure the other guy won’t mind.”

  “Bro, I won’t do shit,” Todo said, stretching his arms out to his sides—the universal sign for 'it's out of my hands.' “You can’t just walk in here and take someone else's time.”

  I sighed and walked to a vacant punching bag in the corner, dropping my backpack against the wall. Whenever I'm around, I normally train around 4:20 am, that's my time - set for me by Hoshi, to avoid a lot of dick measurin' throwdown with other punks that want a proper sparring section too... but I couldn’t blame my body for wanting rest after yesterday.

  Release a sign to vent my frustration, I punched and kicked the bag, sharpening my strikes while mixing in pull-ups and squats.

  After twenty minutes, I stopped and walked up to the counter. Saburo was there, cleaning a cup—or maybe a car part—while he smoked.

  “Hey, Saburo… You seem to be having a good morning,” I greeted him, trying to show some gratitude for yesterday.

  He closed his eyes for a second. It looked like he was sighing, but I couldn't hear him through the protective glass.

  “Haiji…” he replied. I got the feeling I was disturbing him.

  “Is Hoshi here? I wanted to thank both of you for yesterday.”

  He looked behind him before looking back at me indifferently. “I don’t want your thanks. I did nothing yesterday. If you want to thank someone, thank Hoshi.”

  Message received. I was definitely disturbing him.

  “…Well, tell him thank you for me when you see him, alright?”

  I left the gym and headed toward the train station.