CAN'T HIDE IT

' IF I BURN, I RULE '

Still, something wasn't right.

Ghost started noticing patterns—cars with the same dent parked at opposite ends of town, new "locals" who didn't quite belong.

Hayamei noticed it too.

The whispers.

The shadows.

The feeling she was being watched.

Then Na'Nami came home with a toy she didn't have before. A stuffed black unicorn with a cracked button eye.

Hayamei froze.

She recognized the stitching. That wasn't new.

That was old.

A toy from the compound she escaped. From her father's estate.

She took it apart in the garage.

Found a listening chip inside.

Ghost broke it in two.

"This ain't no random op," he growled.

"No," Hayamei whispered. "This is legacy coming back to kill us."

⸻

That night, she didn't sleep.

She sharpened knives at the kitchen table until her fingers bled.

Ghost walked in quietly, took the blade from her hand, and sat beside her.

"You think we're ready?" he asked.

"No," she said. "But we're better than we've ever been."

He nodded.

She leaned her head on his shoulder.

"I'm not just surviving anymore," she whispered. "I'm rising."
The next morning, Hayamei woke up before the sun.

Na'Nami was curled up between her and Ghost, one tiny foot kicked out of the blanket, hair wild like a halo. Ghost stirred when Hayamei slid out the bed, reaching for her shoulder in half-sleep.

"You good?" he mumbled.

"I gotta make some calls."

He nodded once, already drifting again.

She stood barefoot in the kitchen, sipping cold coffee, the sunrise bleeding through dusty blinds. The unicorn lay dismembered on the table, its button eye staring up at her like it was taunting her.

She flicked it into the trash, then reached for her burner phone.

⸻

She didn't call anyone she cared about.

She called people she owed. People she used to be.

First was Monroe—ex-con, former surveillance tech, now running a mechanic shop and installing illegal trackers on trucks.

"Hayamei?" he said when he answered. "Ain't heard from you in two years."

"You're about to hear a lot," she replied. "How quick can you get to Louisiana?"

"Depends. You paying me in cash or corpses?"

She smirked. "Both."

⸻

By noon, she had a name.

The listening chip inside the unicorn was custom-built, stamped with a signature Monroe recognized—MK7 ShadowPrint. Black market tech, used by elite handlers, assassins, and private warlords.

There were only five known buyers in the past ten years.

Two were dead. One was in federal prison.

The other two?