Page 210 of Celestial Combat

She laughed.“Worth it.”

I reached for my chopsticks. “Fine. We settle it like warriors.”

“Chopsticks?”

“Combat-sticks,” I corrected, mock-serious. “You see, the key to using chopsticks in battle is balance – ”

She started laughing so hard she almost dropped her bowl. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Precision,” I continued, performing a very dramatic stance with the sticks pointed outward like tiny swords. “Speed.”

She grabbed her own pair, still laughing, and we mock-dueled under the fluorescent glow of a Lawson’s sign. At one point, she jabbed toward my ribs and I yelped, drawing stares from a group of teenagers who paused to record us like we were part of the night’s entertainment.

When weheaded out, Kali found a free space on the wall of couples, near the ceiling. “Write it,” she said, handing me the pen.

I looked at her, taking her in for a moment. Hair a little messy from the wind, cheeks warm from the soup, eyes bright from adventure.

I wrote our names without hesitation. But this time, instead of a crown, I outlined it all in a heart.

“Perfect,” she whispered.

We stood back and looked at it, surrounded by thousands of other names. Strangers we’d never meet. Lovers who’d moved on or stayed together.

But we were here now. Our names in permanent ink. Part of Tokyo.

TheLamborghini’s engine fell silent in the valet lane. Roppongi’s neon haze glittered off wet pavement, casting long reflections on the glass façade of the club. Kali stepped out beside me, the deep blue of her dress glowing under the streetlights – elegant, confident, and unforgettable.

Inside, the air pulsed with dark energy. Velvet ropes led us downstairs past buzzing private rooms into a hidden arena beneath the club. The throb of bass above was replaced by distant cheers, the scent of sweat and anticipation snaking through tight corridors.

We entered the fight club gallery – caged steel ring bathed in spotlight. Men circled, slinging fists and fists swinging back. Every punch sounded like a gunshot in the dimness. Yakuza sat ring-side, expressionless, watching the violence like a chessmatch. This was Roppongi’s secret: a high-end savage theater where power was earned in real-time.

One fighter caught my eye – reckless grin, lean muscle that moved like tightly coiled springs. He spun into a combination and won the round. The crowd roared. Another fighter – precise, controlled, every movement calculated – watched from the corner, hands wrapped, eyeing me as if he remembered something.

When the bell rang for a break, both fighters spotted me and made their way across the club.

“Zane!” One slapped me on the shoulder. “Look at you, suit and all.”

“Cleaned up well,” the other added, twisting his gloves. “Long time, no see.”

Kali looked between them, her brow raising in delight. “You guys know each other?”

“We all grew up in the same neighborhood.”

I looped an arm around Kali’s waist. “This is Kali. My girlfriend.”

Both gave a short, respectful bow. “A pleasure.”

We talked for a while before they had to return to the cage. Kali and I threaded through smoke and sweat to a private lounge overlooking the fighting area. We sipped highball glasses – bourbon and ice that caught the low light like captured fire – sharing jokes in muted tones so the fighters wouldn’t hear.

Between rounds, we discussed the specific fighting styles.

She laughed at my nerdy breakdown of footwork and anatomy.

I rested my free hand on hers, warm, real.

Her eyes met mine over the top of the glass.

And I realized I had everything I needed.