The light from the vending machines spilled blue onto the alleyway. Nagatomi Nagasaki stood silently in a temple courtyard, incense burning beneath a statue of his ancestors.

His son Sammie was dead—shot point blank in Chicago. Shot by a cop. A woman, no less.

Her name? Detective Sophia Blake. Chicago PD.

Sammie wasn’t just blood. He was heir. Future of the League. Raised on steel and secrets, battle-tested in the alleys of Shibuya, and whispered about from Bangkok to Berlin. And now? Laid cold by a bullet from some American bitch’s Glock.

Nagatomi knelt and whispered something in Japanese. His voice was calm. His eyes were not.

“Aurora,” he muttered.

The name she'd earned from the Tokyo underworld. Cold. Bright. Lethal.

He stood, nodding to the men behind him. Seven bosses of the League sat in silence.

“Place the bounty,” Nagatomi said.

A pause.

“How much?”

“Ten million. For her head.”