Three yakuza thugs from the Omi Alliance’s scrappy remnants had the boy cornered against a vending machine. "You saw our face, kid," the leader snarled, a dragon tattoo peeking from his collar—a cheap, faded imitation. "That's a problem."

The Daidoji agent landed silently beside him. "That was a breach of protocol. They'll hear of this."

Joryu knelt. For a moment, the mask slipped entirely. The boy saw not the emotionless agent, but a tired, haunted man who had given up everything to protect children just like him. A man who hadn't held a child's hand in years.

Not the vending machine glass. Not the pavement. It was the seal Joryu had hammered over his own heart.