100 Angels By Ryu Kurokage.19

They were at the perimeter — three of them, moving like men who had practiced gentleness and failed. One held a jar with a faint light at its center, the kind of jar that said the world could be curated. Another adjusted a camera-like instrument aimed at the ring, lenses that seemed to eat nearby shadows. The third was a woman with hands that had been taught to make fine things and to break them for money. All three wore the city's new trade: faces calm and precise, pockets full of questions.

Ryu dropped down, landing on the alley floor in a practiced roll that swallowed his weight. The thieves scattered like pigeons, a flurry of street language and scarfed knees. Ryu moved without wanting to: a hand at a collar, a twist; another cuff, an elbow under a jaw. The taller one cried out once, city grit in his throat. The scoffed humor was gone from the other man's face. 100 Angels By Ryu Kurokage.19