DISTRICT III - DREAM CITY - SONS OF WARS CORP - NIGHT.
Polluted rain streaked down the bulletproof glass of the high-rise penthouse. From the top floor, Commander Imagawa Hayato watched his city drown under neon haze and acid drizzle. Another night like all others—choked, grey, silent. His face, carved with a scar that ran from left ear to right jawline, remained unreadable.
He stood still, hands clasped behind his back, the skyline painting him in shadows and flickers of distant advertisements. The old war dog. The founder of SONS OF WARS—Dream City's top private retributor company. He was pushing 75, yet barely looked 60. No synthetic parts. No chrome upgrades. Just flesh, bone, and history etched into every wrinkle.
Behind him, the elevator hummed upward. Inside, tension thickened.
Samantha Cox, his protégé and the general overseer of SONS OF WARS, stood rigid in a crimson wine suit that fit her power like armor. Athletic. Poised. Eyes like sharpened steel. Red hair tied back with military precision. No nonsense, no time for games.
Beside her stood Commander Fuschida Atsumori, owner of DAUGHTERS OF ANARCHY (DOA)—the city's second most formidable retributor company. Older, sly-eyed, calm like a snake before a strike. A legend in his own right, but one who wore his charm like a mask. Relaxed. Deceptively polite. He had a reputation for words that soothed and stung all at once.
He grinned, glancing at Cox.
"You really do carry that storm cloud everywhere, Samantha. Hayato raised a real firebrand."
Cox didn't look at him.
"Let's be clear, Commander," she said, voice ice-cut sharp. "I don't like you. Never have. People like you are why things don't get done right. If it were up to me, you'd still be running in circles with your self-righteous rebels. I don't know why he asked you here, but when you're up there... behave. Or you'll have me to answer to."
Atsumori chuckled.
"Alright, alright, boss lady. Message received—loud and frosty."
DING.
The elevator doors slid open.
Hayato's office. Clean. Minimalist. Cold. A massive wall-to-ceiling window stretched behind his desk, casting the room in twilight blue.
Hayato turned slightly. "Samantha, give us the room."
She hesitated. "But sir—"
"I said it's okay. I can handle Atsumori. He'll behave."
A long pause. Then she nodded, casting one last sharp glance at Atsumori before exiting.
Atsumori stepped in, hands in pockets, eyes wandering around the sterile office.
"She's... efficient. A hammer wrapped in velvet."
Hayato cracked a rare smile.
"She gets the job done. That's more than I can say for most of us."
The two old soldiers stood facing each other. The rain continued its quiet assault on the city outside, like ghosts trying to claw their way in.
Atsumori sank into the leather chair across from Hayato. A glass, already poured, waited for him. He picked it up, the scent unmistakable—old whiskey. The kind not made anymore.
"You still have taste, old man," Atsumori said, lifting the glass. "Let me guess—Bineth?"
Hayato didn't respond. Atsumori didn't need confirmation.
"Figures." He sipped, savoring it. "You always did like your gifts expensive and quiet."
They sat in silence for a beat. The rain hissed against the glass. Dream City's neon reflections danced across the wet skyline like ghosts.
Atsumori tilted his head, reading Hayato. The man had always been brooding, always staring too long at things no one else saw—but tonight, it was heavier.
"You alright, Hayato? Need me to call a medic? A priest, maybe?" he teased, lips curling.
Then came the sharp reply. A flat bang on the table.
"I'm leaving," Hayato said. "It's done. Everything's arranged."
Atsumori froze, glass paused halfway. "Bullshit."
Hayato turned to face him. For the first time, Atsumori saw it—the weight in his eyes, the tired conviction.
"I'll be damned..." Atsumori muttered.
Hayato paced slowly, the scar on his face catching the low light like a crack in old armor.
No chatter from the networks. No leaks. No whispers. And now this?
"Why are you telling me this?" Atsumori asked cautiously.
"It's not a trick," Hayato replied. "I've got a place in Redd Valley. Remote. Quiet. No tech. Just wind, dirt, and time. It'll do."
Atsumori leaned back, watching him.
This wasn't the warhound he'd traded barbs and bullets with for decades. This was the man from before. The one who bled next to him on fields long buried beneath megacities.
"So it's like that," Atsumori said quietly. "You're done, old man."
"Everything ends. My time here is up."
Atsumori sighed, finishing his drink. "Cox will do fine. You raised one hell of a machine. I'm jealous, really."
Hayato finally sat. His posture still straight, still military. Still commanding.
"How many times has it been now?" he asked.
Atsumori didn't need to ask what he meant.
"Four. We can't all be Bineth's chosen dog."
Hayato nodded slowly. "I want you to make a bid again. This time... with me out of the way—"
"Stop right there," Atsumori interrupted. "What is this? You trying to make amends? Got some guilt riding your conscience?" He scoffed. "Hell, you've got more than guilt buried in there."
Hayato didn't flinch. "Cox has her orders. She'll support your bid. Quietly, but effectively. You'll have it."
Atsumori's brows furrowed. "You're serious..."
Hayato turned to the window again. Acid rain left smoky streaks on the glass. The city glowed like a dying furnace.
"The rain's gotten worse lately," he said, almost to himself.
Atsumori sighed. He wouldn't get anything more from him. So he played along.
"So Mars, huh, let me guess, Going to own a farm, Plant apples and preach peace?"
"Watermelon," Hayato said.
Atsumori laughed. "Of course. You'd pick something stubborn to grow." He stood, glass empty. "Good luck, Hayato. I hope... I hope it was worth it. All of it."
He turned to leave—but paused at the door.
"Oh. Just so you know. There was an incident at MoonServe Base. Old files got out. Bineth's scrubbing it, but Purple Flower was one of the leaks. They're calling it nothing. I call that bullshit. Maybe you do too."
He glanced back, eyes narrowing.
"Just because you're done with this... doesn't mean it's done with you. Sleep tight, old man."
He left.
Hayato stood at the window, watching. The rain had stopped. Steam curled off the glass where the acid hissed and cooled. A brief silence.
Down at the command floor, Atsumori passed through.
Cox's voice echoed—sharp, commanding, relentless. Staff moved like clockwork under her direction. A perfect storm of discipline and resolve.
Atsumori smiled faintly.
"Old man... He is going to miss you."
And then he walked away.