Chapter 3

The Sakura District casino rose out of the neon-drenched landscape like a fever dream of feudal Japan reimagined by a corporate architect on a psychedelic binge. It was a massive pagoda tower, its tiered roofs glowing with crimson light, standing in stark, defiant contrast to the glass-and-steel monoliths of the surrounding neighborhood. Jake Miller parked his red Road Runner near the entrance, leaning against the door for a moment to take in the spectacle. Traditional lanterns hung from the eaves, but they were powered by humming electric filaments that flickered with artificial warmth. At the base of the grand stairs, a pair of bouncers stood watch. They weren't wearing the standard-issue suits or tactical gear Jake was used to seeing in Olympus City. Instead, they were clad in full samurai armor, complete with lacquered plates and menacing kabuto helmets. Jake whistled, adjusting his Vigilante Suit. "Nice outfits. Does the job come with a horse, or do you just ride the bus in those?" One of the bouncers stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of a katana that looked dangerously functional. "No weapons allowed inside the Sakura District," he said, his voice flat and muffled by the faceplate. "A reasonable request," Jake said, reaching into the various hidden pockets and holsters of his suit. "Safety first. I’m a big fan of safety." He began unloading. First came the twenty-five throwing knives, which he stacked in a neat, metallic pile on the security table. Then came the two revolvers, followed by the Desert Eagle and the energy pistol. He added a frag grenade, a switchblade, and his favorite hand buzzer for good measure. The second bouncer, who had been watching silently while checking Jake out for hidden compartments, pointed at a heavy metal sphere Jake had pulled from a reinforced pouch. "And that?" "This? It’s a thermonuclear bomb," Jake said casually. The bouncer froze. The air around the entrance seemed to drop several degrees in temperature. "A... an A-bomb? You're bringing an atomic weapon into a casino?" "It’s only for dissuasion," Jake promised, offering a reassuring smile that probably looked more like a grimace through his mask. "You know how it is. Sometimes people don't take 'no' for an answer. This keeps the conversation polite." The first bouncer reached out, gingerly taking the device and placing it in a lead-lined containment bin behind the desk. "If you make one wrong move in there, if you so much as sneeze without permission, we’re keeping the bomb. And then we’re burying you under the floorboards." "Fair deal," Jake said, patting his empty pockets. "I feel lighter already. Practically aerodynamic." He stepped through the heavy wooden doors and into the main gambling hall. It was a cacophony of culture. To his left, rows of pachinko machines clattered and pinged, their vibrant displays a blur of anime characters and cascading silver balls. Jake felt a phantom twitch in his thumb; he’d spent four loops addicted to those machines in a previous timeline, and the siren song of the metal spheres was still hard to ignore. To his right, the more traditional Western tables—blackjack, craps, and roulette—were buzzing with a high-stakes crowd. Dominating the center of the room was a giant holographic screen. It was broadcasting highlights from the Grand Arena, showing an Aegis Mark III mecha tearing through a group of marauders. The crowd cheered as the mecha’s plasma cannon vaporized a target. Jake drifted toward the roulette table. He didn't have much of a plan, but the spinning wheel always felt like home. He watched the white ball dance across the numbers, his mind already beginning to catalog the sequence. "You have the look of a man who knows where the ball is going to land before the dealer does," a voice said beside him. Jake turned. A man in polished samurai armor, more intricate and ornate than the bouncers at the door, stood watching the wheel. He had a calm, commanding presence that screamed authority. "Do you have precognition?" the man asked, his eyes sharp and suspicious. "Me? No way," Jake said, waving a hand dismissively. "I’m Purple. Just a regular guy with a very fast car and a lot of bad luck. Precognition sounds like a lot of paperwork." The bouncers nearby nodded at the armored man in respect, clearing a small space around him. This was clearly Julian Blade. "Purple, is it?" Julian said, his gaze lingering on Jake’s suit. "And yet, you carry yourself with the confidence of someone who has seen the end of the movie. Tell me, if it isn't precognition, is it time manipulation? Do you pull the strings of the clock?" Jake leaned against the edge of the table, watching the dealer call for final bets. "Let me ask you something philosophical, Mr. Samurai. If a man falls in a forest and no one is there to hear it, does he still have to pay his taxes? And if I turn back the clock, did the time I lost ever really exist, or am I just carrying around ghosts in my pockets?" Julian Blade didn't blink. "You're dodging the question with nonsense. That’s a common trait among the deranged." "I prefer the term 'eccentrically gifted,'" Jake countered. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick stack of bills. "Watch and learn. Or don't. It’s a free country, mostly." Jake dropped thirty thousand bucks onto a single number. He didn't even look at the board; he just felt the rhythm of the room. The wheel spun. The ball clattered, skipped over his chosen slot, and landed three spaces away. "House wins," the dealer droned, raking away Jake's cash. Jake didn't flinch. He was busy memorizing the number. He also glanced up at the arena screen, noting the specific gladiator who had just won a match in the background. It was all data for the next loop. For now, the loss was a necessary sacrifice. Julian Blade watched the money vanish with a faint, concluding nod. "You just lost a small fortune without blinking. Either you're the worst gambler in Olympus City, or you truly aren't a seer. A man who can see the future doesn't throw away thirty thousand dollars on a whim. You should slow down, Miller. At this rate, you'll be sleeping on the streets before dawn." "Money is a social construct," Jake said, though it stung a little to see the bills go. "I’m just helping the local economy. By the way, what do I call you? Besides 'Sir' or 'Please don't stab me'?" "I am Julian Blade, of the Imperial Guard," the man said, his voice direct and devoid of ego. Jake arched an eyebrow. "Julian Blade? That’s a hell of a name. Are you Japanese? You’ve got the whole Shogun-chic thing going on." Julian looked confused for a split second. "I’m Italian." Jake burst out laughing. "Italian! An Italian samurai named Julian Blade. That is peak supervillain branding. Did you pick that out of a hat, or did you have a focus group?" "I am not a supervillain," Julian protested, though there was no heat in his voice. "The Imperial Guard follows a code. And for your information, I have a Korean girlfriend. We are planning to get married soon. This armor represents the discipline of our organization, not my heritage." Jake stopped laughing, his expression softening into genuine surprise. "A Korean girlfriend? Hey, congratulations. That’s actually really nice. I hope the wedding has an open bar and no one tries to assassinate the groom. It happens more than you’d think." Julian adjusted his gauntlet. "Why are you here, Jake? You didn't come to the Sakura District just to lose your life savings at the roulette wheel. You received an invitation. Why us? Why not the others who are looking for a man of your... unique talents?" Jake shrugged. "Truth? You won a coin toss. Seraphina Stone was looking pretty good with that Titan Potion pitch, but the coin said Imperial Guard. And I never argue with the currency." Julian studied him for a long moment, then gestured toward the back of the hall. "Come. Let's have a drink. The sushi bar is quieter." The samurai-wannabe led the way, with the bouncers instinctively forming a security perimeter around them as they moved through the crowd. At the sushi bar, Julian ordered a beer, while Jake, feeling a sudden need for clarity, ordered tea. "You should know," Julian said, his tone turning serious as they sat. "Specter has escaped. The Nexus Syndicate got to the transport before he reached the high-security block. He’s back on the streets, and he isn't the type to forget a face. He’ll be coming after you." Jake took a sip of his tea, letting the steam fog his mask. "Specter escaped? Oh, I am shocked. Truly. Sentinel Services is a bastion of integrity and competence. I’m sure it was just a clerical error and not at all related to the massive piles of cash the Syndicate throws around." "The corruption goes deep," Julian agreed. "But that is our reality. Now, tell me about this rumor I’ve heard. They say you can't die. Is it true? Are you immortal?" Jake looked at the reflection of his mask in the polished wood of the bar. "Honestly? I think I can die. I just haven't succeeded at it yet. I’ve tried a few times—mostly by accident—but I always end up back at the start of the day. It’s like a very annoying video game where the 'Save' button is stuck." Julian took a slow drink of his beer. "The Imperial Guard is not what the media portrays us to be. We are not a gang of mindless thugs. We are a family-oriented, profit-minded society. We provide order where the city government fails. We protect our own." "Right," Jake deadpanned. "Order, family, and a healthy side of illegal Gene-Mods, Serenity trafficking, and high-end weaponry. You guys are basically the Girl Scouts, but with more katanas." Julian’s face tightened with a flicker of disgust. "We have lines we do not cross. We deal in business, yes, but we do not prey on the weak without cause. If you're asking if we engage in... child-related activities, the answer is no. Anyone in our ranks who harms a minor is dealt with permanently. We have standards." Jake leaned back, satisfied with the answer for the moment. "Good to know. I’ve got enough problems without having to worry about working for a bunch of creeps." "Then what are you looking for?" Julian asked. "Money? Power? Or is there something else?" "I’m a free spirit," Jake said. "But even free spirits get lonely. I’m looking for a friend. Her name is Chloe Vance. Black hair, blue eyes, thinks Marx and Lenin had some really great ideas. She’s missing, and I think she’s somewhere in this concrete nightmare." Julian set his beer down. "Chloe Vance. I can put out feelers. Our network is extensive. If she is in Olympus City, we will find her. But information isn't free, Jake. We need muscle. The Nexus Syndicate has been getting bold. They’ve been hitting our suppliers, driving up the price of Serenity, and moving into the north neighborhoods—our turf. They’re using those Vitality Serum junkies as shock troops." "Casualties?" Jake asked. "Too many," Julian replied. "Silas Blackwood’s pub was hit last week. They’re trying to squeeze the life out of the local dealers to force a monopoly. We need someone who can go into the zones where we can't send a full squad without starting a war. We need someone who can't be stopped by a few bullets." Jake drummed his fingers on the bar, the rhythm matching the clatter of the pachinko machines in the distance. The Imperial Guard wanted a hitman; he wanted a girl who probably wouldn't approve of him working for a criminal syndicate in the first place. It was a classic conundrum. "So," Julian said, standing up. "Do we have a deal? You help us clear out the Syndicate's nests, and we find your friend." Jake looked at the empty spot where his thirty thousand dollars had been. He thought about the thermonuclear bomb in the lead-lined bin and the skinless skeleton with ice for eyes currently roaming the streets. "Finding Chloe is the priority," Jake said. "If that means I have to kick a few Syndicate shins, then I guess I’m putting on my kicking boots." ════════════════════════════════════════