Location: Fenwick District — Industrial Storage Yard — Night
The yard was a graveyard of forgotten things.
Shipping containers stacked three high, their paint peeling, their doors dented. Pallets of bricks and lumber sat under tarps that had been torn by wind and rain. A single floodlight hung from a pole at the center, its beam yellow and weak, casting long shadows that jumped and swayed with every flicker.
Two groups faced each other across the concrete.
On one side, the Muchachos.
Ba stood at the front, his arms crossed, his face a mask of calm. Behind him, Mateo, Lucia, Alma, and Valeria formed a loose semicircle. Three others—younger, their faces hidden behind hoods—hovered at the edges, their hands in their pockets, their eyes scanning the shadows.
Elijah stood near the back.
Diego's face. Diego's posture. Diego's soft, forgettable presence.
Ramon stood beside him.
His hands were empty. His eyes were clear. His breathing was steady.
On the other side, the rival gang.
Their name was Joder. Mexican slang for screwing others over. Short. Sharp. The kind of name that was meant to sound dangerous and ended up sounding like a joke.
Their leader stood at the front.
His name was Rico.
He was shorter than Ba, thinner, his face weathered, his eyes dark. A gold chain hung around his neck. His jacket was leather, zipped halfway, revealing a chest covered in tattoos. His hands were in his pockets. His posture was loose, almost lazy.
Behind him, a dozen men. Some with bats. Some with pipes. Some with their hands empty but their eyes full of promise.
---
Rico's voice was a drawl.
"Ba. Alma. Lucia."
He nodded at each of them in turn.
"So good to see you. So good to see that you're all... well."
His lips curled.
"The Muchachos. Always treating each other like brothers and sisters. Always loyal. Always faithful."
He spread his arms.
"It warms my heart. Really, it does."
One of his men stepped forward.
His name was Chuy. Stocky, with a shaved head and a scar through his left eyebrow. He raised his hands—palms up, fingers wiggling—and began to sway.
"Brothers and sisters," he said.
His voice was high, mocking.
"Cuddling together like little pandas. All warm and fuzzy. All... oh, so loving."
He puckered his lips.
Kissed the air.
"Muah."
The Joder gang laughed.
"Muah."
"Muah."
"Muah."
Ba's jaw tightened.
"Careful," he said. "We don't want to go down that route, Rico."
Rico's eyebrow rose.
"Oh? The big man is sensitive now? What's wrong, Ba? You don't like being called a panda?"
Chuy snorted.
"Maybe he likes playing dress-up. You know, with the misses."
He pointed at Alma and Lucia.
"Maybe he borrows their clothes. Their little... what do you call them... their little frilly things."
Alma's hand moved toward her belt.
Her fingers brushed the grip of her pistol.
---
Elijah watched.
His perception expanded.
Not with effort. Not with focus. Just... was.
Kokoro drifted through the yard like smoke. It rose from the Joder gang—their arrogance, their impatience, their desire for blood. It rose from the Muchachos—their anger, their fear, their desperate need to prove themselves.
And through Shinsei, he saw more.
Thermal signatures, he thought. Auras of emotion. The way they burn and flicker and fade.
Alma and Lucia burned hot. Restless. Wanting to act.
Ba burned steady. Craving action, but willing to wait.
Ramon burned bright. Wanting to prove himself. To show that he was not the scared boy who had been slapped in a courtyard.
Mateo burned cold. A low, steady pulse of killing intent. Directed at him.
At me, Elijah thought. The dishwasher. The stranger. The one who danced with Lucia.
He's been wanting to find trouble with me for weeks.
If I were ordinary scum, I would probably be dead by now.
He almost smiled.
His eyes moved to the Joder gang.
To the men in the back. The ones who hadn't spoken. The ones who stood with their heads down, their shoulders hunched, their eyes avoiding the confrontation.
One of them, Elijah thought. One of them burns differently.
It was a man in a gray hoodie, his face hidden, his hands stuffed in his pockets. His aura was not hot like the others. It was cold. Dense. The kind of cold that came from hiding something.
Grudge, Elijah thought. Resentment. The kind that doesn't fade with time.
That's him.
That's the mole.
---
Elijah stepped forward.
"Jefes."
His voice was soft. High. Sweet.
The yard went quiet.
Eyes turned toward him. Ba's. Alma's. Lucia's. Mateo's. Rico's. Chuy's. The men in the back.
Alma's hand moved from her belt to her hip.
"Diego," she said. "Shut up and pull back."
Elijah ignored her.
"I have something to say."
Mateo's internal thoughts churned.
Idiot, he thought. Complete idiot. He's going to get himself killed. And I'm going to enjoy watching.
Lucia's internal thoughts were different.
What is he doing? Why is he—
She stopped.
The feeling, she thought. The pull. It's gone.
I don't feel it anymore.
Why don't I feel it anymore?
Rico's eyes narrowed.
"Who's the pendejo?"
"The dishwasher," Chuy said.
"The dishwasher wants to speak?"
"Looks like it."
Rico's hand waved.
"Go ahead, dishwasher. Speak. Before I change my mind."
---
Elijah's expression didn't change.
His voice remained soft. High. Sweet.
"You look uncomfortable, Rico."
Rico's eyebrow rose.
"Excuse me?"
"The way you're standing. The way you're shifting your weight. You look like a man who needs a diaper."
He tilted his head.
"Are you a man-child, Rico? Do you need someone to change you?"
Chuy's mouth opened.
No sound came out.
The Joder gang exchanged glances.
One of them—a young man with a nose ring—covered his mouth. His shoulders shook.
Another—a woman with braids—looked away.
He's not, she thought. He's not really saying this.
He is, another thought.
He's insane.
Rico's face went from confused to crimson.
"You foul—"
"Maybe you have sugar daddies," Elijah continued. "The kind who tell you what to do. The kind whose instructions you follow."
He stepped closer.
"I can prove it."
The yard was silent.
Alma's hand was still on her hip. But she wasn't reaching for her pistol.
She was staring at Elijah.
He's not afraid, she thought. He should be afraid. But he's not.
What is he?
---
Rico's voice was a growl.
"You better stop while you're ahead, pendejo. If you keep spitting nonsense, I can guarantee you won't make it out alive."
His men shifted.
Hands moved toward weapons.
"We have a mole," Elijah said.
The yard went still.
"A traitor. Someone in your crew. Someone who's been feeding Andreas information for weeks."
"That's a lie."
"Is it?"
Elijah's hand moved.
Not fast. Not slow. Just... inevitable.
His fingers closed around the phone in the hooded man's pocket.
The man's eyes widened.
His hand shot out—too late. Elijah was already stepping back, the phone in his palm, his thumb already pressing the screen.
"Give that back!"
The man lunged.
Elijah's body twisted.
His hand caught the man's wrist. His other hand pressed against the man's elbow. He pushed.
The man's arm bent.
His body turned.
His back hit the concrete.
Elijah's knee pressed against his spine. His hand still held the phone.
"This," Elijah said, "is your Judas."
He held up the screen.
Messages. Coordinates. Times.
All of them sent to an unknown number.
All of them detailing the Muchachos' routes, their shipments, their schedules.
Rico's face went pale.
"Chico?"
The man on the ground—Chico—didn't answer.
His eyes were wide. His mouth was open. His body was trembling.
"Chico, what is he talking about?"
"I—I don't—"
"Don't lie to me."
Chico's throat moved.
His eyes darted to the exit. To the shadows. To anywhere but Rico's face.
---
Rico's hand moved toward his waist.
Ba's hand moved faster.
The shot was loud—a crack that echoed off the containers, the pallets, the concrete. Rico's body jerked. His hand fell. His knees buckled. He collapsed.
"NOW!"
The yard erupted.
Gunfire. Screaming. The sound of bodies hitting the ground.
The Joder gang scrambled for cover—behind pallets, behind containers, behind anything that would stop a bullet.
The Muchachos did the same.
Ba dove behind a stack of lumber. Alma crouched behind a shipping container. Lucia pressed herself against a wall.
Mateo ran toward the exit.
Elijah was already moving.
His body flowed between the chaos—not running, not dodging, just... elsewhere. Bullets passed where he had been. Men fell where he had stood.
He found cover behind a concrete barrier.
Ramon was beside him.
His face was calm. His eyes were clear. His pistol was in his hand.
"What now?" he asked.
"Now," Elijah said, "we survive."
He peeked over the barrier.
The yard was a war zone.
And somewhere in the chaos, the Judas was already dead.
---