August 4th, 2000

The vibe in the Fraternity's main common room was super quiet, like everyone was really focused—the kind of quiet you usually get after a big meeting or when Cross is actually thinking deep thoughts. But today, it wasn't about strategy; it was all about the show. Everyone was glued to the big screen at the front of the room, where London's streets were packed with cheering crowds and Union Jacks. The news anchor's voice, a mix of respect and excitement, announced: "Her Royal Highness, Queen Elizabeth The Queen Mother, is officially beginning her centenary celebration!"

Cross just grunted, leaning back in his armchair with a half-empty coffee mug."A 100 years," he muttered, though his gaze remained fixed on the screen, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

Suhal was chilling on a plush couch, a bandaged arm still peeking from under his designer hoodie, and he totally scoffed. "A 100 years of... what, exactly? Drinking tea and fancy hats? Back in my grandmother's village, a hundred years just meant you had the best stories and the worst knees."

Prudenzio sat on the armrest of a nearby chair, casually taking a drag from his cigarette."Ah, amico, you just don’t understand its profound beauty. To witness her enduring spirit, thriving even into a new eon, is truly remarkable, especially considering the brevity of life in our profession." He blew a perfect smoke ring towards the ceiling. "Though, I gotta say, even this isn't as entertaining as that fight you two had."

Suhal shot him a glare. "Shut the fuck up, Romeo."

Elara, standing beside Byron, who was meticulously cleaning a pistol even as he watched the screen, rolled her eyes. "You two are missing the point. It's about continuity. A living link to an entire century of history. It’s a testament to endurance."

Byron, without looking up from his pistol, chimed in. "It’s also a demonstration of influence. Power isn't always about brute force; it's also about legacy and symbolism." He snapped the clip back into place with a definitive click.

Victoire sat on the floor, Leo nestled calmly beside her, silently observing the proceedings on screen. She occasionally glanced at the adults, noting their varying reactions. (So, this is how they honor a matriarch?) Leo signed, his small hands moving with their usual precision. (It seems… like a very big family party. And very public.)

Victoire smiled faintly, ruffling his hair. "Sometimes, sweet pea, it's about showing respect. It's a different kind of strength, built not with force, but with love and tradition."

Cross let out a short, dry laugh. "Respect is right. This whole thing's a damn headache of logistics. But it's a reminder: a strong foundation can weather a hell of a lot of storms." He took a slow sip of coffee, his eyes still on the celebration. "And sometimes, the biggest battles are won not with guns, but with patience and perseverance."

Two hours later, the Baton Rouge airport tarmac shimmered under the afternoon sun. Two private jets, one sleek white and emblazoned with the red sun of Japan, the other a striking blue with the subtle emblem of South Korea, landed almost simultaneously.

From the Japanese jet, a man stepped out, his jet-black hair slicked back, a tailored charcoal suit hugging his lean frame. Dark shades obscured his eyes, giving him an air of impenetrable cool. He moved with a quiet, almost unsettling grace.

Moments later, the hatch of the South Korean jet opened, revealing a woman. Her natural, long, blade-straight hair fell past her shoulders like a dark curtain, complementing a simple yet elegant black dress. She carried herself with an understated confidence, her movements fluid and deliberate.

They walked towards the baggage claim, an unspoken current pulling them closer. Their paths converged near the carousel, the rhythmic hum of the conveyor belt the only sound between them.

The man, without removing his shades, inclined his head slightly. "Long flight, huh?" His voice was smooth, a hint of an unfamiliar accent softening the English words.

The woman offered a faint smile. "When you cross half the world, you always are. And I imagine your journey was just as extensive." Her voice was clear, perfectly modulated.

He reached for a sleek, metallic suitcase as it glided past. "Totally. Sometimes, the destination makes the journey worthwhile, though." He met her gaze, even through the dark lenses, and a shared understanding passed between them. The casual exchange of pleasantries held a deeper, unstated recognition.

He nodded towards the exit, and she fell into step beside him. It wasn’t a deliberate decision to walk together, just an unspoken acknowledgement of shared purpose in an unfamiliar city.  They moved with a synchronized, almost predatory ease, their senses reaching out, evaluating each other with a subtle, practiced assessment.

Her eyes drifted over his form. Japanese men were, on average, shorter, but he towered a few inches above the norm, his dark, tailored suit a stark contrast to the humid Baton Rouge summer. He's either totally clueless about the weather, she thought, a slight cynical smirk on her face, or he's trying to prove a point. Probably Yakuza. Always so extra.

His gaze swept over her in return, taking in her natural, unadorned hair and the simple black dress. "Kinda short for a Korean woman," he thought, a bit dismissively. "But she's got this quiet intensity, a stillness that just screams 'watch out, she's sneaky.' Poor guy who falls for her."

And then, as if on cue, the same thought resonated in both their minds, a silent, shared realization that cut through their individual prejudices: We both know we’re dangerous.

The man said, his voice a low, casual rumble that carried just loud enough, "Esne sicarius recte?" (Are you an assassin, right?)

The woman’s stride faltered, a flicker of surprise crossing her face before it smoothed into a faint, knowing smile. She let out a soft, amused giggle. "Oh sic, nice scire in eadem turma erant," (Oh yes, nice to know we’re on the same team) she replied, her gaze meeting his through his dark shades.

They stood side by side outside the airport, waiting for a cab.

"I never gave you my name," the man said, a faint smile touching his lips. "I'm Ike Eiji, I'm going to be the Martial Arts Specialist." His voice was smooth, almost melodious, a stark contrast to his imposing presence.

"Nice to meet you," the woman replied, extending a hand. "I'm Boon-Nam, the Stealth and Emotional Specialist. Pleasure to meet you." Her grip was gentle, yet there was an underlying strength that spoke of quiet power.

Ike and Boon-Nam exchanged a look as the taxi pulled up, both knowing they had to get to their respective jobs. The driver, an older guy with a grumpy look, peered at them in the rearview mirror, his face telling a story of countless experiences and unseen struggles.

"Where to, ya'll?" He mumbled, his voice a gravelly whisper, like he'd seen a lot of hard times.

Ike leaned in, his presence commanding even in the confined space of the car. "Raising Cane's River center, please. Do you know the place?"

The driver's thick eyebrows crinkled for a second, like he was trying to remember something. "Ain't sure I do, but I can getcha close enough. Y'all take business there, huh?" He eyed them with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion, his hands gripping the steering wheel with a hint of nervous energy.

Boon-Nam, ever the observer, noticed the slight tremble in the old man's hands. She speculated on the myriad of battles he may have faced, both physical and emotional, and how they had shaped his demeanor. She considered that, beneath his gruff exterior, he might be someone with fascinating tales to share, tales of resilience and survival.

Boon-Nam, who always paid attention, saw the old man's hands shake a little. She wondered about all the tough stuff he'd probably been through, both physical and emotional, and how that made him who he was. She figured that, deep down, he might be someone with amazing stories to tell, stories about bouncing back and making it through.

The taxi rumbled to life, and the driver joined the bustling traffic of Baton Rouge. As they navigated through the city, Ike and Boon-Nam settled into a comfortable silence, each lost in their thoughts and preparations for what lay ahead. The vibrant energy of the city, with its blend of old and new, seemed to seep into the car, adding an almost electric undercurrent to their voyage.

Occasionally, the driver would bark out a sharp command, his voice raspy, a relic of jungle shouting, or let loose a muttered curse about the damn traffic, his grumbles punctuated by the occasional slammed fist on the steering wheel. Despite his frustration, Ike and Boon-Nam could sense a certain rhythm to his anger, like a well-drilled patrol, as if it were a necessary part of his existence to keep everything in check, just like he had in the Pacific.

Ike, noticing the driver's repeated glances towards him and Boon-Nam through the rearview mirror, relented with a softer tone, "You've seen a lot in this city, haven't you? It must be quite the experience."

The driver snorted, a slight, knowing smile playing on his lips."Experience? Kid, I've seen more than most folks could handle. I was just a kid myself when the Japs started wreaking havoc on Pearl Harbor, ’50s. I fought in the Pacific, you know. Saw things that'll haunt me till the day I die. Killed fifty Japs with my own hands, and I never lost a night's sleep over it."

He paused, his eyes losing focus as he looked out at the passing scenery, a mix of bitterness and nostalgia playing across his features. "But that's life, ain't it? Y'all ever gotten caught in a storm you didn't see coming?"

Boon-Nam responded gently, her tone empathetic. "Many times. Often, those are the storms that define us most."

The driver grunted, clearly approving of how open they were. "You get that right," he said, his attention momentarily drawn to the rear passengers. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "And you two, you're not from around these parts, are you? I can tell. Never heard a Jap speak our language so smooth, and you"—he turned to Boon-Nam—"you got that Korean fire in your eyes, even if you think you hide it well."

Ike and Boon-Nam were both pretty surprised. Ike's eyes got sharper, and you could see a hint of surprise on his face. "You have a keen eye, sir. Not many could tell the difference."

The driver chuckled dryly, "Been around the block a few times, kid. Seen enough to know. So, what brings you two to this leaf-laden bowl of trouble, anyhow? Something tells me you're not here to sightsee."

Ike and Boon-Nam exchanged a look. They both knew their business was serious and not to be discussed casually. "We have certain duties to attend to," he replied, his voice cryptic yet firm.

The driver chuckled, his eyes gleaming with a mix of respect and curiosity. "Duties, huh? Well, I reckon everyone's got some, even if it's just living through the day. Just keep in mind," he leaned closer again, "life likes to play tricks, so watch your backs out there."

As the taxi zipped through the city, Ike and Boon-Nam couldn't help but wonder about the guy driving. He totally nailed where they were from, and his war stories really hit home, giving them a whole new appreciation for their trip. Right then, the taxi wasn't just a ride; it was like a space where different lives unexpectedly bumped into each other and shared their tales.

Ike glanced over at Boon-Nam, a bewildered smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Did you hear him talk about the war the whole time? Yet, not a hint of the expected anger."

Boon-Nam nodded, her eyes thoughtful. "Yes, it's surprising. He definitely wasn't holding any ill will against Asians, despite his dramatic recount of battles and victories."

Ike shrugged, his tone casual but contemplative. "He probably understands that war is war. Most people involved in it don't want to be there in the first place. It’s just what life throws at you. He must have known those fifty men were just doing their jobs, same as him."

Boon-Nam paused for a moment, her eyes distant as she reflected. "You're right. And he hadn't let it take a dark toll on him. He's lived a long life since then, quieter, but no less hard. Think he must have balanced it all well."

Ike chuckled, a lighthearted sound in the twilight. "Well, he sure is funny about it, even now. Like he wears those memories as a badge of survival, not hate. That's something else, isn't it?"

Boon-Nam agreed with a smile. "He's a story. A living, breathing testament to life's resilience. Let’s keep that in mind as we dive into our own battles."

With a shared nod, they turned towards the building, their minds echoing the wisdom of their old driver, ready to navigate the unknown with courage and wisdom—a testament to the resilience they had just encountered.

Inside the fraternity, Suhal was slouched on the couch in the living room, digging into some vanilla and chocolate ice cream with caramel. He was clearly annoyed, drumming his fingers on the armrest with a frown.

Prudenzio strolled in, his steps echoing on the hardwood floor. "Hey, I had some gelato in the fridge. Have you seen it?" His question hung in the air, casual and unassuming.

Suhal just grunted, not even looking away. "Nah, not really. Been busy with this ice cream. I'm telling you, it's HOT in this bitch. LA baton rouge humidity is worse than Africa's dry heat."He just waved his hand, like shooing away a fly, with the spoon still stuck to his fingers.

Prudenzio hesitated, his eyes narrowing as he processed the humidor. He nodded, but there was a tension in his jaw. "Yeah, it's più caldo compared to Italy. That's why I ordered some fresh, natural ge—" His words cut off abruptly, eyes snapping to the half-melted ice cream in Suhal's hand. In an instant, his smile evaporated, replaced by a frown so deep it looked like a physical weight settling over his face.

Suhal, still savoring his ice cream, froze. The confusion in his eyes mirrored the sudden change in Prudenzio's expression, a silent question forming on his lips. The tension in the room became palpable, the distant hum of the fridge the only sound breaking the strained silence.

"What the fu—" Suhal was cut off mid-sentence by a solid punch. Prudenzio's fist clocked him right on the jaw, sending him flying backward. He tumbled off the couch and hit the floor with a muffled thud."WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU NIGGA?!"

Suhal hit the floor, the ceiling spinning above him, and his cheek stung like crazy. He touched the corner of his mouth and saw blood. He blinked, and Prudenzio's angry face came into focus, his eyes blazing with rage.

"You ate my fucking gelato, you figlio di una puttana!" Prudenzio went pale, his chest heaving as he grabbed the half-empty ice cream container from the floor, shaking it like it was a clue.

Suhal got up, leaning on the couch for support, looking super confused and disbelieving."That’s not gelato, the fuck?" he muttered, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.

Prudenzio's face twisted into a sneer. "Gelato is italian Ice cream stupido! You have no fucking idea, you ignorant bastard. That gelato was homemade, hand-delivered from my grandmother in Sicily. It's tradition, history. And you just gobbled it down like an animal!" His voice cracked, a mix of anger and grief echoing through the room.

The room felt like a powder keg, ready to blow. Suhal and Prudenzio were squared off, practically vibrating with rage, chests heaving. Suhal was still wincing, his jaw aching from where Prudenzio had gotten him.

Byron suddenly walked in, and his presence took over. "I know you two are not gonna fight over some damn ice cream," he said, his voice laced with annoyance.

Still steaming, Prudenzio spun around to Byron, his voice booming. "IT WAS HOMEMADE, HAND-delivered from my GRANDMOTHER in Sicily!!"

Byron just waved his hand, not showing any emotion. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I knew Suhal's ass was gonna eat it, so I replaced it with a tub that has my name on it." He nodded towards a brand-new container on the table, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

Prudenzio's eyes bugged out, and he snatched the tub like it was about to disappear. He relaxed a bit, but you could still tell he was fuming.


Suhal, still winded, looked at Byron, clearly surprised and curious."Why did you do that?"

Byron leaned against the wall, arms crossed, with a bit of a smirk. "Because you may not be a dick, but you're still a dickhead. So you seem like the one who just grabs shit." He sounded pretty matter-of-fact, almost like he'd won.

Suhal just looked at him for a second, speechless. "I can't even defend that," He finally admitted it, a hint of respect showing despite his lingering frustration.

Byron nodded, his smirk easing up. "Yeah, I figured. Now, come to the meeting room when you're done. Cross is having a team meeting." So, he pushed off the wall and left, leaving Suhal and Prudenzio to clean up their mess.

After Byron left, Prudenzio looked back at Suhal with a slightly sheepish grin. "You know what, it’s not that bad. We still gotta be a team, right?"

Suhal let out a short, mirthless laugh. "Yeah, let’s just keep our fights to when we actually have a choice, alright?"

Prudenzio gave Suhal a nod, putting a hand on his shoulder as they headed for the meeting room, still shaking their heads at how wild it all was. Even with the tension hanging around, they had a quick moment to chill and appreciate their quick-thinking leader before jumping back into the action.