The basement bar of Sami Richenauer's mansion pulsed with low music and violet light. The scent of lemon gin, sweat, and electric tension hung thick in the air. Near the back wall, half-shrouded in shadow, Akira leaned against a concrete pillar, arms folded, hood up, and gold ring glinting faintly under the lights. His black crossbody bag hung heavy at his side— not with textbooks, but with promises.
Business was good.
Jared found him first. His eyes were already red, jaw tight with frustration and leftover adrenaline from arguing with Darcy earlier. He approached without small talk.
"Got anything mellow?" Jared muttered.
Akira slid a hand into his bag and produced a small case with three colour-coded joints. "Blue tip. Skywalker OG. Chill as clouds."
Jared nodded, dropped cash, and disappeared back into the hallway like a man chasing stillness.
Then came Rudolf— loud, anxious, sniffing the air like a raccoon. "Hey hey hey," he said, fingers already twitching. "You got that party stuff? The pop-rock kind? I got four bets to win tonight and I cannot afford to be dull."
Akira gave a slow smirk. "Upper or trippy?"
"Trippy. I want to see gods on the ceiling."
A vial was passed. Cash exchanged.
Next was Carla, in heels too high and eyes too sharp. "Just CBD," she snapped. "No THC. I'm networking tonight."
Akira raised an eyebrow. "Bougie but loyal." He handed over a sleek black vape.
The gluttonous fat-kid Albert also showed up; like an old dwarf he hobbled towards Akira and once he stood in front of him (intensely groaning and puffing from his journey— crossing the room from one side to the other side), he asked - half suspicious and half arrogant - for a portion of reliable quality. He also tried to bring the price down by negotiating annoyingly and insistently— Akira didn't give in to the greedy dwarf's haggling bullshit and in the end the whiny chatterbox had to pay the standard price, just like everybody else.
A line was starting to form behind the hedges, but Akira worked quickly, cleanly. No drama. Just the exchange. He owned this party's veins. All was handled with elegance. Silent. Smooth. Like the god of vibe control himself. Business is going well, hehe he thought satisfied. Like a conveyer belt; smooth and swift, at the end of the evening I'll be rich again for a month.
But the smoothness snapped the moment Kowloon entered the room.
The man slinked from the shadows with the slow arrogance of a lion in a zoo. Tight shirt stretched over a body sculpted by arrogance, not youth. He was older - easily mid-thirties - but dressed like a student, a badly disguise. Neon cap, mirrored shades at night. Fake swagger.
"You got a lot of nerve, Akira," Kowloon said, voice low but oiled with menace. "You're cutting into my market. Some of these faces? They're mine."
Akira didn't stop zipping his satchel. "This isn't your turf, Kowloon."
Kowloon stepped in, close. "You think you can just sell to anyone here? I've been supplying some people here for years—"
Akira looked up, eyes cold. "This is Sami Richenauer's party. Invitation-only. Graduating class of Ardenburg-Greenhill only. You? You're a damn relic. An old fart with a fake ID and a complex. You shouldn't even be here, you lame motherfucker."
The crowd nearby stilled. Jared, still loitering, froze mid-drag. Carla whispered something to one of her many friends.
Akira took one step forward, nose nearly touching Kowloon's. "Everyone here? They're mine. You don't belong. You're not invited. You're not a student at Ardenburg-Greenhill High. So, can you please fuck off?"
"You think you're tough?" Kowloon hissed, nose to nose. "Little school punk? You don't get to poach from my plate and call it fair. Not invited? Only students from Ardenburg-Greenhill High? As if rules matter in the underworld in which we operate. Fuck off, you snack-snatching greedzilla with your yee-yee-ass justification for shamelessly selling to my clients! As if the rules of this party stand above the rules between gangs! You must respect the previously agreed agreements!"
Akira stood still, coiled like a spring. His eyes, dark and razor-sharp, never blinked. "You don't have a plate here. These are my people. My clients. My school. You're just a washed-up parasite sniffing around for relevance. Fucking creepzilla, aren't you old enough to know better? Old farts like you shouldn't mingle in the affairs of kids half your age, you don't fit in you loom. It's creepy. And fucking weird!"
That did it.
Kowloon snapped his arm forward, aiming a heavy hook at Akira's jaw. But Akira was faster. Fluid. He ducked under the swing and countered with a short, brutal jab to Kowloon's ribs. The sound was dull, like a fist hitting wet clay. Kowloon grunted and staggered back, snarling like a kicked dog.
The room froze. People backed up fast. A bottle shattered somewhere in the corner. Jared, eyes wide, made a motion to jump in— but Rudolf held him back.
"This is Akira's fight," Rudolf whispered. "He wants this."
Kowloon roared and lunged again, this time going for Akira's throat. They collided like freight trains - grappling, shoving, teeth bared. Kowloon was older, but Akira was pure violence in motion -compact, explosive, all lean muscle and street training. He dug his knee into Kowloon's gut, then slammed his elbow across the side of the man's face.
Blood spattered the floor.
"You think I'm scared of you?" Akira growled. "You've got more than ten years on me and still got nothing but cheap chains and old beef. You think anyone respects you here?"
Kowloon, panting, bleeding from his lip, tried to bullrush him.
Akira stepped aside and caught him with a brutal leg sweep. Kowloon crashed to the floor, landing hard on his back. Wind knocked out of him, he coughed violently, limbs flailing.
Akira stood over him, chest rising with calm fury. "This ain't your scene, old man," he said, voice low but booming with finality. "Get up again, and I will end you."
Kowloon blinked against the basement lights, gasping for air. Slowly - painfully - he rolled to his side and spat blood onto the concrete.
Then he dragged himself up and limped toward the stairwell, muttering curses. No one moved to help.
As soon as he was gone, the music resumed— hesitant at first, then building fast, as if trying to cover the scar.
Akira wiped blood from his knuckles and looked around. ''Back to partying,'' he said coolly, like it had all been a minor inconvenience.
People obeyed.