Viktor folded his arms across his chest. “Yeah, that did happen. Why?”
“The woman was part of the Tyger Claws, but now she’s run off—get it?”
“Nope.” Viktor stared at them coolly, showing zero deference to the gang’s numbers. “She was a client, and I’m a ripperdoc. If a customer needs something, I’m not gonna turn them away.”
“Baka! She’s a Tyger Claws woman!” the masked man roared.
That outburst seemed to be a cue. Behind him, his underlings started advancing, as if ready to teach Viktor a lesson. But Viktor wasn’t remotely intimidated. In his younger days, he’d nearly earned legend status—there was no way a few Tyger Claws punks would scare him off.
The Tyger Claws hadn’t even reached Viktor when another figure stepped in, blocking their way.
“Move it! This isn’t your—”
One of the gang member’s words died on his lips as a flash of cold steel glinted. He reflexively dropped back, landing hard on his backside. Glancing down, he saw that his biker jacket now sported a slit across the chest…along with a thin red line on his skin, just starting to bleed.
“Move one step closer,” Leo warned, “and next time I’ll aim for your necks.”
He flicked the blood from Murasame’s blade, then sheathed it. V stepped forward to stand alongside him. The masked man caught sight of the weapon in V’s hands—Line Incense, a tech submachine gun.
Unlike a Kenshin, that SMG could charge up and unleash a burst volley. Combined with that near-invisible slash Leo had just pulled off, it was obvious if real fighting broke out, the Tyger Claws might lose most of their men in seconds.
Sweat broke out on the masked man’s forehead and trickled down his neck. He hastily signaled his goons to stand down. Viktor, meanwhile, refused to leave it to the younger folks to handle. He calmly slipped off the exoskeleton covering his right arm—a specialized contraption meant for surgeries, not combat—and set it on the table. Then he pulled a pair of knuckle-like gloves from a drawer and slid them on. These weren’t smooth boxing gloves; the surface bristled with rows of tiny, serrated chain links. Once activated, those links spun at high speed, producing a sharp, grating whir.
The masked man and his lackeys blanched at the mental image of what those chain-knuckle gloves might do to their flesh if things turned violent.
Viktor merely gave a genial smile, looking almost grandfatherly.
“How would I have known she was a Tyger Claws woman? She came dressed like any other citizen, didn’t swagger around in your gaudy gear like you lot.”
Facing three opponents all geared for battle was far beyond the gang’s usual experience. Usually, their mere presence sent civilians scurrying in terror. Not these three “troublemakers.”
The Tyger Claws found themselves at a loss, unsure how to handle this. All eyes turned to the masked man, who hesitated, torn between backing down and saving their reputation.
The air crackled with tension, ready to spark into chaos at the slightest provocation. Right then, something new happened. Lucy barreled back down the stairs from outside, caught sight of the Tyger Claws, and raised a hand with an icy glare. A golden monowire flashed out. With a single snap of her wrist, she sliced the metal bars at the clinic’s entrance clean in half—leaving a neat, sheer cut.
Viktor twitched inwardly—fixing those bars was going to cost money.
The masked man grimaced at the sight of monowire, well aware that using such a weapon required skill; controlling a flexible blade was notoriously difficult. Most fighters stuck to more straightforward tools, like tactical knives, katanas, mantis blades, baseball bats, or hammers. If someone mastered monowire, though, they were extremely deadly.
Now the Tyger Claws were surrounded on both ends, and all four of these defenders looked formidable. The masked man realized things might turn grim if a real fight broke out. Although Tyger Claws had a fearsome reputation, he wasn’t stupid. You had to be alive to keep your rep. No point dying in a basement—he’d regroup, bring more muscle, and come back later. For now, time to retreat.
He forced a sneer, voice hollow with bravado. “Lucky break for you. Next time you see us Tyger Claws on the street, better watch yourselves.”
It was clearly a parting shot meant to save face. Leo, however, refused to give them even that. “Which means, right now, you’re scared and running with your tails between your legs, and that little threat is just to save face?”
The masked man’s expression twitched, and he glared at Leo. “I’ll be watching you, punk. Better not wander off alone.”
“So in other words, the Tyger Claws are all cowards who only fight when they have the numbers.” Leo’s taunting reply nearly made the guy cough up blood. For a moment, rage contorted his face. But he managed to swallow it.
“Let’s go!”
One underling, clueless about the situation, angrily shouted, “We’re leaving? That guy insulted the Tyger Claws! Aren’t we gonna teach him a lesson first? Where’s our pride—”
But before Leo could teach him a lesson, the masked man slapped him hard across the face. “Who’s in charge here, huh? You or me?”
Under his murderous stare, the underling fell silent, trembling. The rest of the group said nothing and followed him out, tail between their legs. Lucy, at Leo’s nod, stepped aside so they could file out without further trouble.
Once they were gone, Leo turned to Viktor. “Doc, who the hell were they after?”
Viktor hesitated, then sighed, deciding to explain. “I figured something like this might happen eventually, from the moment I helped them out…”
“What happened exactly?”
“A few days ago, a client came to me with her daughter. She wanted me to remove trackers from their bodies.”
“A few days ago?” Leo frowned, remembering. “Wait… That must’ve been the mother and daughter we passed on our way out last week, the day Jackie first brought me here.”
Viktor nodded. “Correct. You’re asking if I knew they were Tyger Claws? I did. Or at least, I knew the mother. She’s an old friend—someone I met a long time ago. Name’s Chihiro. She and her husband both served in the New United States Army, in the Japanese-descent Mobile Infantry division. After they left service, her husband came down with severe PTSD. You know how veterans are treated—once the corps or government doesn’t need you, they throw you away. Raise a fuss, and they’ll crush you like MacArthur did the WWI vets.
“Chihiro burned through all their savings and went deep into debt trying to get him treatment, but his condition only improved temporarily, never fully cured. Eventually, not wanting to be any more of a burden on his wife and daughter, he swallowed a bullet. But that left Chihiro with all that massive debt. Plus, she had a child to raise.”