Border bar.

  Old wood. Thick smoke. Cheap alcohol.

  Kuro is turned around in his chair, leaning on the backrest backward, as if he were at a party and not in a place where people disappear.

  He smiles.

  — I swear, it was the biggest fish I’ve ever seen in my life. This big —he spreads his arms, exaggerating—.

  The girl beside him sighs.

  — No.

  She stands up and leaves.

  Kuro remains with his hand extended in the air.

  — I get rejected more than a new tax… incredible.

  He turns toward the bar.

  The bartender does smile at him.

  — At least you didn’t run away.

  — I’m a professional —she says while drying a glass—. I put up with weirdos.

  — Perfect, I’m your specialty.

  They laugh.

  Kuro takes a drink.

  Lowers his voice slightly.

  — Hey… one thing.

  The bartender raises an eyebrow.

  — Have you heard about some arsonists near the border?

  She goes still.

  — Who?

  Kuro smiles wider.

  — The… “Angels of Death.”

  Her smile disappears.

  Silence.

  — You shouldn’t say that here.

  Kuro chuckles softly.

  — Ah, so they do exist. I thought it was an edgy rock band name.

  CLACK.

  A shotgun barrel emerges from beneath the bar.

  Aimed at his chest.

  Kuro looks at the weapon.

  Then at her.

  — Well… now that’s fast service.

  She shouts toward the stairs:

  — HONEY!

  Heavy footsteps.

  A huge man comes down. Burned face. Four more behind him.

  — What’s going on?

  — A Krov asking about our favorite customers.

  The husband spits on the floor.

  — Bad night to be you.

  The others surround Kuro.

  He slowly raises his hands.

  Still smiling.

  — Hey, hey… I’m not looking for trouble.

  The husband cocks the shotgun.

  — Trouble found you.

  Kuro’s smile remains.

  But his eyes are gone.

  His voice drops half a tone.

  — Last time I’ll say it.

  — I just want information.

  No one answers.

  One man lunges to grab him.

  Kuro doesn’t step back.

  THUD.

  A direct kick to the face. Teeth, blood, broken wood. The man flies backward as if hit by a car.

  The woman raises the shotgun—

  A short twist. Hip, shoulder, wrist.

  SHHNK.

  One of his black daggers draws a perfect arc.

  The shotgun splits in two as if it were cardboard.

  The pieces fall to the floor.

  Silence.

  Kuro holds the dagger in reverse grip, relaxed.

  — Now we talk… —he tilts his head slightly— or we fight.

  The four men growl and attack at once.

  Kuro sighs.

  — Bad choice.

  The first throws a punch.

  Kuro dodges and steps inside.

  Knee to the jaw.

  CRACK.

  Before he falls, Kuro has already moved.

  The second tries to grab him from behind.

  Kuro spins midair and uses the man himself as support.

  Dagger to the thigh tendon.

  He collapses, unable to stand.

  The third pulls a knife.

  Kuro blocks with the flat of his blade, slides, sharp strike to the trachea with the hilt.

  Air out. Lights out.

  The fourth hesitates.

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  Mistake.

  Kuro throws his other dagger.

  Not to the chest.

  To the sleeve.

  The blade pins him to the wall by his clothes.

  Before he processes what happened—

  Direct punch to the liver.

  He blacks out standing.

  Total silence.

  Tables overturned.

  Groans.

  No one dead.

  All broken.

  Kuro retrieves his dagger from the guy pinned to the wall.

  Wipes it on one of their shirts.

  Smiles again.

  Looks at the bartender.

  — Last offer.

  He sits on the bar, lightly swinging his legs.

  — Where are the “Angels of Death”?

  The bar door opens with a soft kick.

  Kuro walks out adjusting his coat, as if he just finished an awkward conversation… not a fight.

  He runs a hand through his hair, looks at the night sky.

  — She was nice… —he smiles— but very aggressive. I like it.

  Behind him, inside the bar, someone groans.

  Kuro stretches his neck as if nothing happened.

  Narrator

  There aren’t many lights here.

  The streets are broken.

  The houses patched with metal, wood, and whatever people managed to steal to keep breathing one more day.

  We are at the border.

  Akaryuu territory.

  The most dangerous zone within Krov domains.

  No single law rules here.

  Those who burn faster rule.

  Gangs, traffickers, mercenaries, fanatics…

  and the so-called “Angels of Death,” arsonists who turn villages into ash for fun.

  People here don’t sleep.

  They wait.

  For their house not to be the next torch.

  But Kuro walks whistling.

  Hands in his pockets.

  As if he were on a stroll.

  The night smells of old smoke and damp wood.

  Kuro walks down the main street of the border town, hands in pockets, kicking a stone like he’s on a field trip.

  — Excuse me, ma’am, have you seen some lunatics around here? No? A club with an edgy name? “Angels of Death”? Nothing? What disappointing information service…

  The old woman closes the door.

  Kuro sighs.

  — Rural hospitality isn’t what it used to be.

  Hours later.

  Dark. Silence. Boredom.

  Kuro yawns so hard it seems like his soul might fall out.

  And then—

  CRACKLE

  An orange glow lights up the street.

  A group of boys, teenagers, laughing, with improvised torches.

  A house begins to burn.

  — FOR THE ANGELS OF DEATH!

  Kuro stands still.

  Watches the fire reflected in his eyes.

  He doesn’t smile.

  Not yet.

  He thinks of Uta.

  His voice.

  The promise.

  “No more deaths.”

  He sighs.

  — Boss… I tried.

  His hand lowers to the hilt of one of his daggers.

  — But these people aren’t recruitable. Not even you perform miracles that big…

  Suddenly—

  THUD

  A body drops from the roof of the adjacent house, landing among the arsonists.

  Dust.

  Silence.

  — WHAT ARE YOU DOING, YOU IDIOTS?

  The boys turn pale.

  — S-sorry! We thought that—!

  The newcomer raises his hand.

  The fire from the house begins to twist… as if the air were inhaling it.

  The flames stretch, detach from the wood, swirl, and are absorbed into his palm.

  The house remains smoking… but alive.

  Kuro raises his eyebrows.

  Smiles slowly.

  — Oooooh… now that’s a sexy trick.

  He takes a step forward—

  And stops.

  A cold blade touches his neck.

  He didn’t feel footsteps.

  He didn’t hear breathing.

  A voice behind him, low, firm:

  — What is someone like you doing here?

  Kuro tilts his head barely a millimeter, just enough not to cut himself.

  He smiles sideways.

  — Depends…

  Do I answer as a tourist, as a romantic…

  or as the problem of your night?

  The blade withdraws.

  Kuro turns slowly, as if he were on a date and not half a millimeter from dying.

  He smiles.

  — I came looking for the Angels of Death.

  Uta Dragunov wants to recruit them.

  Silence.

  The hooded figure watches him.

  Yūrei Rikuon (20)

  Dark purple hair, straight, strands over his face.

  Pale skin, marked dark circles, fine features.

  Spectral gray eyes with mist, analytical, unsettling gaze.

  Dark clothes, hooded sweatshirt, subtle chains.

  With his magic, his silhouette seems out of sync with reality.

  1.87 m, slim, agile. Ghostly presence.

  — Yūrei Rikuon.

  Sub-leader of the Angels of Death.

  And that one over there…

  He points.

  The boy who absorbed the fire has the arsonists on the ground.

  He steps on them.

  Humiliates them.

  — USELESS!

  WE ONLY BURN KROV AND THE DAMNED WHO CROSS THE BORDER!

  Kuro watches in silence.

  He’s no longer smiling.

  Akuma Jigoku (18)

  Dark hair, shaved sides, messy top.

  Dark brown eyes → bright red when using his power.

  Confident smile, gaze full of contained rage.

  Small goatee.

  Thick gold chains, black jacket with red details, white suspenders.

  Fire tattoos on his arms.

  1.80 m, lean and defined. Electric energy, tense atmosphere around him.

  Akuma lifts one of the boys by the collar.

  — If you can’t distinguish a Krov… you’re nothing but useless trash.

  Kuro tilts his head.

  Sighs.

  — Alright… then there are two options.

  He looks at Yūrei.

  — Either you’re idiots…

  or you’re exactly the kind of functional monsters we’re looking for.

  His eyes drop to Akuma’s hands.

  — Absorbing fire… yeah… Uta’s going to freak out when he sees you.

  He smiles again.

  — But before we talk about recruitment…

  I have a question.

  He looks at the smoking house. Then at the boys on the ground.

  His voice is no longer playful.

  — Are you punishment…

  or are you just rage?

  Yūrei never raises his voice. He never does.

  — We brought order… —he says, gaze lowered, hands in pockets—.

  Where yours only wanted to vent rage because of the old boss’s orders.

  Kuro looks at him like someone finding a rare piece.

  Smiles.

  Akuma then truly notices his presence.

  He turns.

  His eyes tense.

  — …A Krov. Damn you.

  He steps forward.

  The air charges.

  But a hand rests on his shoulder.

  Yūrei.

  — Stop.

  Do you know who he is?

  — No.

  — He’s Kuro.

  Right hand of Uta Dragunov.

  The Last Wolf of Winter.

  Silence.

  Kuro gives a small exaggerated bow.

  — A pleasure. I sign autographs.

  Akuma stares at him.

  Measures his posture.

  His breathing.

  His calm.

  — What are you doing here?

  Kuro points at the smoking house.

  — Looking for the Angels of Death.

  And it seems I found you before you burned something that would’ve actually pissed me off.

  Akuma frowns.

  Kuro smiles wider.

  — But talking about recruitment, mafias, and revolutions right off the bat… that’s ugly.

  First… drinks, right?

  Akuma clenches his fists.

  Looks at Yūrei.

  Yūrei analyzes Kuro for a few long seconds… uncomfortable… too direct for him.

  Then he nods.

  Akuma snorts.

  — Follow me.

  He turns around.

  Yūrei passes beside Kuro and murmurs, almost apologizing to the air:

  — If you had been a normal Krov… you’d already be dead.

  Kuro walks with his hands in his pockets, whistling.

  — Relax. I’ve never been normal.

  The night swallows them as they advance toward the distant lights of the border district.

  Location: The Rusted Crane.

  Chains hanging.

  Warm lights strung up with stolen cables.

  Old music playing from a blown speaker.

  A crooked, hand-painted sign:

  “Home of the Angels of Death”

  Inside there are loud laughs, scars, bandages, tattoos, smell of cheap alcohol and dry gunpowder.

  They don’t look like criminals.

  They look like youths the world pushed off the map.

  Akuma and Kuro drink.

  Laugh.

  Clink glasses.

  Tease each other like they’ve known each other for years.

  But Yūrei doesn’t smile.

  — What did you come for, Kuro?

  Silence.

  Kuro spins the glass in his hand.

  — A war is coming.

  Either you fight with us…

  or you die when it arrives.

  A roar of laughter breaks through the bar.

  — AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

  PUNCH.

  Dry. Brutal.

  Kuro is sent flying, crashes through a table, splinters, bottles hitting the floor.

  The Angels stand up.

  Akuma is already on his feet.

  — I will never work for any mafia!

  Bones crack.

  Kuro rises.

  Spits a bit of blood.

  Resets his jaw with his hand.

  — …Bad decision.

  You should’ve let me talk first.

  CRACK. Neck.

  A sigh.

  And he disappears.

  Appears in front of Akuma.

  Dagger resting against his neck.

  No force.

  No tension.

  Absolute precision.

  Kuro’s smile is gone.

  His eyes are empty.

  — Are you going to let me talk now… or what?

  The entire bar freezes.

  No one saw the movement.

  Yūrei did.

  His pupils tremble.

  Akuma doesn’t look away.

  He smiles.