Page 8 of Retaliation

And then, discovering she was a fighter complicatedeverything.

He sighed, trying to center himself, pushing his skepticism aside. Glancing over his territory one last time, he headed toward the rooftop door. Reluctantly, he took each step back into civilization. He had to report to the boss.Shit.He was going to be in so much fucking trouble for stepping out of line tonight.

As he walked down to the ground floor and out a side door toward his parked motorcycle, his mind drifted. All he wanted was a few rounds in the Temple. After tonight, the last thing he wanted was to report back.

Lost in thought, he almost missed it. Movement at the front of the building caught his eye—a black town car with tinted windows pulled up in the empty street. The car’s headlights cast fleeting shadows across the alley where he stood. He could barely make out the slender figure stepping out of the vehicle, the streetlamp’s harsh light from across the road blinding him.

As his eyes adjusted to the light, his gaze locked onto a figure with shoulder-length dark hair, efficiently moving to the car’s trunk to pull out two bags. Curiosity compelled him to abandon his bike, opting for stealth as he edged closer for a better look. When the woman snapped the trunk shut and turned toward the building, the departing car’s lights briefly illuminated her face.

Kitiara.

Recognition hit him like a punch to the gut as the vehicle disappeared into the night, leaving behind a trail of questions swirling in his mind.

Kitiara was one of his oldest and truest friends. He watched her, her sleek raven-black hair falling sharply to her shoulders, complementing her delicate features. Her almond-shaped eyes, framed by long, dark lashes, sparkled with an intensity that reminded him of a tigress ready to strike. Her skin held the soft, porcelain glow admired in the lands of the rising sun, and her graceful movements carried the quiet strength and elegance of her ancestors.

A surge of genuine joy bubbled up within him, threatening to break into laughter. It had been over four years since he’d last laid eyes on her.

At the faintest sound of his amusement, she reacted like a shadow, her katana drawn from between her shoulders in one fluid motion. Her belongings forgotten

on the ground, she crouched, ready for battle.

The sight of her, so fiercely prepared for action at a moment’s notice, sent him into a fit of laughter, his hand barely muffling the sound. Kitiara hadn’t lost her edge—always poised on the brink of action.

“Come out and face me, you coward!” she thundered, her voice slicing through the silence as sharp as her blade.

Her voice carried a gentle undertone, like cherry blossoms caught in a soft Kyoto breeze—a tender note that clashed with her warrior’s intensity.

“Is that how you greet an old friend, Kitiara Tora?” he asked, a teasing smile tugging at his lips.

“Phillip?” The name escaped her in a hushed breath, disbelief and recognition blending in her tone.

This time, his laughter rang out, unrestrained.

“You’ve gotten old, Tora,” he teased, using the name her grandfather had given her. Stepping forward from the shadows, his figure was illuminated by the glow of the streetlight. “Have you become slow and boring as well?”

The hardness in her expression melted away, replaced by a radiant smile. She let her katana fall to the ground, its metallic clang echoing as she closed the distance between them in swift strides. Her arms wrapped tightly around his neck. He returned the hug for a moment before gently pushing her back, mimicking her earlier defensive stance with a playful grin.

“Now that you’re not armed, it’s a fair fight,” he teased.

Without hesitation, she mirrored his stance, a challenging glint in her eyes. The message was clear, and he didn’t wait. He surged forward like a cyclone, his fist slicing the air inches from her face. She danced away, a blur of grace and speed, dodging his attacks with the ease of a seasoned fighter.

They sparred, laughter mingling with the sound of their movement, until breathlessness finally forced a truce.

“You might be getting old, but definitely not slow or boring,” he conceded, panting, his voice laced with admiration.

“You still have much to learn, young grass chomper,” she teased, though the fondness in her eyes betrayed her respect.

Phillip picked up her bags and katana, slinging them over his shoulders, and led her into the abandoned factory. Their footsteps echoed through the empty space, up metal steps snaking along the wall until they reached an office in the back, overlooking the open floor. He held the rickety door for her, then walked to the desk, setting her belongings on the ground.

She followed, sitting on the edge of the table, legs crossed. He found a seat on a wooden crate opposite her and smiled.

“How did you find me here?”

“Oh, please,” she said, rolling her eyes. “This is the

first place anyone should look if they want to find you.”

Her voice had a teasing lilt, her eyes never leaving his as she picked up her katana. She placed it across her lap, her fingers lazily stroking the blade, as if petting a cat. Her gaze drifted into the distance, her mind wandering elsewhere.

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