A/N: Okay, so I feel like some form of an apology is in order. I am honestly (and very sincerely) extremely excited by all of the wonderful reviews chapter one got (THANK YOU TO EVERYONE! If I had the time to reply to you all, I would) - seems like I'm not alone in my perverted little fantasies. Yet it's taken me...what, more than a few months to get out the next chapter? T_T I'm doing the best I can, given my (constant) struggles with writer's block and an obscene amount of calculus work that is slowly eating out whatever soul I may have once had.

Not to worry, I am alive. And I am not giving up on this story. It just may take a little longer to conclude than I originally thought, given that my entire idea for its direction when I first started writing it has shifted, well, somewhat radically. Also, my constant obsession for keeping the characters actually IN character has made my decisions for the plot direction especially difficult. It's a pain in the ass, but I'm not about to sacrifice the integrity of the characters I was inspired to write about just so they can get it on like crazy little rabbits (that will come later :D). So, yeah, I seem to be making this into an actual story (gasp). No pwp. If that isn't what you were expecting (and to be honest, I wasn't either), I apologize, but hang in there and I promise it'll be worth your while. )

Oh, and special thanks to SeptumPellucidum (oh yes, I did just bring out the caps lock), because without her constant badgering and/or encouragement, this may have never made it to cyberspace. She's been immensely helpful, and, being the only person I know in reality that I would actually share this ridiculousness with, has really done a lot to help me sort all this out. If anyone's keeping this story alive, it's her.

So, without further ado, I give you chapter two.

CHAPTER TWO

"It seems that you've made your choice."

Akira fought to retain consciousness, the blade lodged in his shoulder a burning reminder of his forced submission. He gritted his teeth involuntarily as he felt the blade shift a fraction, guided purposefully by the deft hand wielding it. The crimson flames watching him sparked out of the blackness.

"I don't know." Akira clenched his eyes shut, spitting out the words as if they had scorched his tongue. "I don't know who sent me here. I don't know why either."

The man appraised him somewhat quizzically, halting the subtle movements of the katana as he ran his eyes over the pallid face of the boy struggling beneath him.

"And why would I believe that?"

Akira found his eyes fling open at the condescension in the man's tone, a prideful nature spurring on his indignant reaction. He resisted a strong urge to grab at the blade and rip it from his flesh, the practicality within him warning of the possible consequences: a well-guided swipe could take his entire arm off in his current position. All he could do was grimace and glare, doing his best to ignore the nausea brought on by blood loss.

"Because I'm telling the truth." He hissed, feeling every slight shift in the blade's position. The metal was ice against his bare skin, the searing pain similar to that brought on by extreme cold.

"If you're begging for your life, then I think you'll need to be much more persuasive with your responses."

Akira bit back another cry of pain as the katana withdrew from his shoulder and repositioned above his chest, below which his heart was pumping furiously with adrenaline.

"Now try again."

The irregularity of his breathing betrayed the growing fear Akira was beginning to feel creep into his awareness. Every part of his being was screaming at him to beg, grovel, do anything to avoid what was sure to end in inevitable death as he continually refused to disgrace himself further than he already had. Biting back the last piece of information he had – the purpose of his mission and the peculiarity of the one-armed woman who had sent him on it – seemed like an incredible insult to his sagacity: what reason was there to protect the interests of an unknown organization holding his very life hostage? None. But Akira's inability to comply with the demands of his assailant had little to do with that. If he'd had everything in the world to confess it was likely that he'd still defiantly grind his teeth in favor of sharing one shred of information with someone demanding he reduce himself to a groveling dog.

Therefore, it was against every fiber of his being that Akira remained silent under the calculating stare of his enemy, the importance of his dignity astoundingly winning over the value of his life.

Glowing embers watched the internal conflict rage within the boy's eyes, gloved fingers still steadfast in their grip of the sword's handle. It was all too obvious to the dark-haired man that whatever his victim knew of his true purpose here in Toshima was miniscule at best and would most likely serve as nothing but confirmation of the underlying forces behind the actions of this decrepit city. Those same forces, acknowledged with a subtle tightening of his grip, he was already well acquainted with. Those were matters not to be resolved by the pointless confessions of a rogue pawn, regardless of whether the silver-headed boy realized it himself or not.

The true joy of the hunt was found in that final moment when all hope would vacate his prey's countenance and those reliable instincts of self-preservation would kick in, throwing a defeated opponent to his knees in terror, begging, crying, worshipping the power the deftly handled katana held over their life, all in hopes of eluding an already sealed fate at the price of dying a mongrel's death.

It was a pathetic existence, humanity. Always ending so predictably.

Almost always so predictably.

A ragged cough interrupted the silence, one that forced the distracted embers to refocus onto their target expectantly. Fresh blood dribbled down from the corner of the boy's mouth, now set in an indignant grimace. The internal conflict appeared over, yet there was no further action taken by the injured party: no cry for redemption, no further explanation, just a newly steeled glint to the already challenging glare the boy had yet to let falter. Exposed skin still trembled with pain, wounds still seeped red ooze, but the breathing that had increased in fear only moments before had now leveled significantly, a strange sort of calm settling over the condemned victim.

But that hatred. Vivid, unmistakable defiance to the expected course of the game. No low-level scum had ever refused to bow to his blade before; the remaining life in Toshima lived to die in shame. There was something different about this one. He intended to die with his pride in tact.

Silence.

Akira braced himself for the final blow, almost relieved for the burning wounds to cease tormenting him. He kept telling himself over and over in his head that he had done all he could, that now was not the time to be noticing the somewhat distracted demeanor that had come over the swordsman, that even if he were to evade that final, killing blow, that there was no way in hell he'd be able to outrun anyone in his state.

He was useless. He was fading. He was fighting to retain his last moments of awareness as more and more of his blood was ending up a stain on the clammy tile floor. His eyelids were closing of their own accord and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. He'd lost.

At least the god-awful smirk had disappeared.

"Did you hear, man? They say Shiki made a real mess of some guys near Otsuka last night. Found the bodies all mutilated and shit this morning."

The other loafer scoffed, kicking a piece of abandoned rubble as he adjusted his grip on the metal pipe, rhythmically tapping it into his other hand. "The guys over there are weaklings anyhow. They don't got the 50% yet."

"Yeah, but hell, they say it was like a fuckin' massacre. Blood and limbs everywhere. Somebody must've done somethin' to piss him off."

Crack. A particularly weathered piece of concrete hit the brick wall, shattering into fragments.

"Who the fuck cares? The way I feel now, I could take on the whole Igura! Those guys ain't got nothin' on the power of 50%. Not even Shiki. Hell, I'd fight him right now if he showed up."

Keisuke watched the conversation cautiously from just inside the shelter of the hotel lobby, a nervous hand clutched around a bottle of water. The two had been bickering in the alley opposite the neutral zone for some time now, visible only through the half-open doorway. Feeling already immensely uncomfortable with his surroundings, he had found it easier to focus on something rather than shift awkwardly while awaiting Akira's return. The occasional glance by a passing entrant made the hairs on the back of his neck rise, and he'd involuntarily hunch his shoulders to signify less of a threat.

God forbid someone took him as any level of threat, he thought with apprehension, staring fixedly at the floor as a group of men, splattered with the blood of less fortunate contestants, walked by.

"…at least twenty guys…"

As Keisuke tuned back into the conversation, an oppressive feeling of anxiety settled over him. All this talk of massacres was not helping to ease his worry over Akira's safety; ever since they had split up the day before, he had been feeling guilty for abandoning his injured friend. Sure, it had been Akira's idea for them to part, sending Keisuke ahead with the intentions of regrouping at the safe house. Keisuke knew that he was nothing more than a tag-along to his more courageous and experienced companion, and he knew that his presence was likely more of a burden than wanted company, so when the order had been given for him to leave, he had reluctantly agreed to do so.

He now wished that he hadn't.

Ever since he had arrived, he had been on the look-out for the familiar silver head of hair, familiar dark green parka, familiar anything. Nothing was familiar at all about the boisterous line addicts surrounding the hotel premises, the likes of which were getting increasingly more brazen in this so-called "neutral" territory. From the looks of things, it wasn't destined to be so for long.

"Akira." he spoke absently, glancing up at the darkening sky through the doorway. Where are you?

By the time his eyes had adjusted to the darkness of the room, Akira had already affirmed that he was, indeed, alone. Why he was still alive, on the other hand, remained a complete enigma.

He motioned to cradle his throbbing head with a palm damp with sweat before gasping aloud at the immediate surge of pain in his shoulder.

"Dammit." Akira cursed, remembering all too well the wounds he had sustained up until this point. His side was on fire as well, the lack of a tourniquet over the raw gash having lead to a freshly dried layer of blood crusting over his skin. He exhaled sharply as he examined the damage, finding that despite the recent agitation, it had been healing quite nicely under the bandages. The absence of them, visible under the tatters of his torn shirt, had exposed the lesion for him to observe. He tried not to dwell on the pulsating pain near his shoulder blade and continued to assess his condition.

No broken bones, no fresh wounds. Aside from the near gaping slash in his shoulder and the lightly bleeding laceration in his side, the rest of his injuries were minor at best. And he was still, surprisingly, breathing.

Akira glanced up to scan the room warily, his instincts of survival returning alongside his perception of the situation at hand. He was not dead. He was not being currently threatened with death. And the haunting crimson irises were nowhere to be seen. The room itself looked just the same as it had before: small and cramped, walls plastered in tile, and a partially boarded window across the hall allowing just enough light to trickle in to indicate that the sun had risen. How long ago, Akira could only guess.

Upon his initial awakening, Akira had found himself discarded in the middle of the floor and had slowly, albeit painfully, managed to drag himself to the nearest wall, propping his back up against the rigid structure. In the time it had taken for his brain to register the situation, he had been coming to terms with the fact that, though he had outright challenged it, death had yet to claim his life, leaving him instead to continue to fight for survival in a broken body and an anxious mind.

He had honestly thought it was all over. The end had seemed inevitable, given the countenance of his mysterious and persistent assailant. There had been nothing short of murderous intent within that sadistic stare, and the juxtaposition between it and Akira's current status as alive and breathing was downright disturbing. He would not for one minute believe that he was out of what felt like omnipresent danger. Even now, virtually defenseless and wounded, hidden from the world outside the small shower room, Akira had his guard up. The threat of immediate death was gone; his will to live would continue to push him on. The only difference, beside near-crippling injuries, was the addition to his mindset that there existed at least one enemy within this rampant city whose power he had trembled before in fear.

This wasn't a game; it was more like a bloodbath. The thought that soon, very soon, he'd be forced to confront the true brutality of it all and either kill or be killed, all for the sake of winning back his own freedom, was slightly jarring.

But Akira tried to push that to the back of his mind as he slowly rose to his feet, supporting his weight with a lone palm planted on the wall. It was difficult, but not impossible to make his way along said wall and stumble into the shower. It was even more so to one-handedly remove his jacket and what remained of his shirt, tossing them just outside the range of spray before he twisted the nozzle, instigating an icy rain both uncomfortable and necessary. He cringed as water pelted down but concentrated on washing off as much blood as possible, well aware of the repercussions of walking around looking injured in the dog-eat-dog world of the Igura.

After the last of the copper-tinted water swirling down the drain had disappeared, Akira managed to bind his wounds lightly with the discarded fabric of his shirt, effectively covering most of the bloody splotches with his jacket. A quick glance at the filtered sunlight confirmed that he still had some daylight left to travel, and for the first time, his thoughts drifted towards Keisuke with concern. He had no idea how long he'd truly been out or whether or not his friend had managed to find the neutral zone unharmed – a thought that settled heavily over his already stressed thoughts – but his motivation for setting out increased exponentially at the thought. There was no time to be wasted resting up or recovering; he had to move now.

If not, the remembrance of the unearthly crimson eyes reminded Akira of his strongest instinct to flee.

A/N: So maybe ending it on that note was a bit cruel. But hey, if it's any reassurance, I've already started chapter three (some of which was originally part of this chapter, but for the sake of cohesion, I decided to delay its release until I had written more). This was mostly a necessary build-up chapter.

Oh, and I promise NOT to make Keisuke a major character. This is definitely ShikixAkira-centric, and I don't do "love triangles". So his use for me is mainly as a bridge (lol) for when I need gaps in between whatever. Perhaps he'll serve another purpose down the road if the story really calls for it, but there will be NO AkiraxKeisuke development whatsoever. Because I know neither of us want him interfering. Well, at least I don't. ^^

And as always (god, I am long-winded today), I would really love to hear anything you have to say about this. Translation: I'm a review whore. So help feed my addiction! :D