Love Letter From Hell

Across town, Crow was bagging a suspiciously large collection of energy drinks when his phone buzzed in his back pocket.

He handed the receipt to the customer with a tired smile, then ducked behind the counter, out of sight.

[DYLAN]: Yo, dude. Don’t forget the gig tonight. 8 PM sharp. Dress code: hot but humble.
[DYLAN]: Also, I call dibs on the new mic stand. It doesn’t wobble.

Crow snorted quietly, tapping out a reply:

[CROW]: Still alive. Still sexy. Will be there. But the mic stand is mine. I already named him “Steady Gonzales.”

He hit send and pocketed the phone, leaning on the counter. The store felt eerily quiet again—just the soft hum of the aircon and the lingering scent of brewed coffee.

His eyes stared at the glass panels where the sun’s heat radiated from the outside. It’s been hours since Hinata left, and she keeps creeping back into his thoughts now and then.

No signs of her.

“Wonder where you ended up,” he murmured. “Probably staring down a vending machine.”

His thoughts spun, imagining her just looking around. Lost in the world, unaware of the way people moved around her. Maybe she was lounging on some park bench or starting a new rumor just by being there.

The swinging door’s chime jingled. Crow’s head snapped.

A guy wandered in—beer, bathroom. He grabbed a mop.

“You gotta chill, man,” he whispered to himself.

He glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes until his shift ended.

Plenty of time for miracles.

— • —

Night fell. But not peacefully.

The quiet, sunlit calm was shattered into noise and panic. Sirens wailed in the distance, glass shattering and shouts echoing down the streets. Smoke curled into the air. Suddenly, things had gone mad.

Hinata kept her head down, hands in pockets, cap pulled low. She moved through the chaos, calm and composed.

“I’ve walked too far,” she thought. “Need to move fast.”

She slipped under a broken fence and emerged on another street. There was a throng. People ran and yelled. A police drone hovered above, flashing red lights, recording every second.

She turned into another corner—and she froze.

A woman was pinned against a wall by a man who had her by the neck, lifting her like a ragdoll. She gagged as she kicked her feet helplessly; her feet barely brushed the ground.

Hinata didn’t have to look twice. It’s the woman from earlier.

The woman’s eyes locked onto Hinata’s, wide and glassy. She tried to speak, but the words didn’t come. Her trembling hand reached out toward Hinata.

Her eyes widened as she stared at the woman, her thoughts entangling in confusion and denial.

The man holding her turned his head. When he saw Hinata, he dropped the woman instantly. She crumpled to the ground, gasping and bleeding at the mouth.

But Hinata wasn’t looking at the woman anymore.

Her eyes were fixed on the man’s hand.

A brand. Scorched into his skin like a twisted badge.

She recognized that mark.

Marcius Lambert. An underground fighter. Huge. Built like a freight train. Known for playing dirty.

Hinata's stance squared up. She curled her knuckles white, teeth gritting.

Lambert cracked his neck with a casual stretch, like he’d been waiting for this moment all day.

“Well, well,” he said, his voice low and raspy. “If not the Empress of Hell herself.”

Hinata didn’t flinch. “You’re a long way from your cage, Lambert.”

“Not for long,” he replied, taking a step forward. “CKC wants your head. Says I bring you in, I get top ten perks. Booze. Smoke. VIP treatment.”

Lambert barely finished his sentence. Hinata slammed her heel into Lambert’s ribs with a back kick. She felt the firm thud—but he didn’t budge.

Before she could reset, Lambert shot a fist. She dodged, but the impact snapped the air like a shotgun. She clicked her tongue.

In the background, boots stomped from all directions.

Men in tactical vests and weapons. Not street gang muscle—hired hands.

She pivoted, eyes scanning, calculating. Lambert grinned, slowly marching towards her.

“You didn’t think I’d come alone, did you?” he said, his tone mocking. “I do learn, you know.”

Hinata steadied her breath, her eyes sharp.

“One vs. many. What’s new?”

— • —

The last chord rang out across the bar amidst the loud cheers and whistles of an impressed crowd.

Crow stepped offstage, a towel draped around his neck, his shirt sticking slightly from the heat of the set.

Dylan met him at the side of the stage, handing him an ice-cold beer with a grin.

“There he is. The man, who actually showed up on time for once.”

"You butchered the bridge on the second song," Crow smirked as he took the beer

“Bold of you to assume I know where the bridge is,” Dylan protested.

They clinked cans together as the sound system mellowed into soft jazz.

Dylan took a sip, staring at Crow. “Okay, but real talk—what's up with you lately?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Uh... Not really sure. Kinda busy?”

“Come on, man,” Dylan replied. “Spacing out mid-soundcheck, being absent, and I swear you’ve ignored three girls who tried to flirt with you tonight. Which, by the way, rude—they could’ve aimed those efforts at me.”

Crow chuckled. “Maybe they saw through your ‘artistic bridge flub.’”

“No deflection, Mr. Mysterious. What’s up? Secret romance? You're finally dating someone not named Kanno Hinata?”

Crow gave him a look. “Well, no, maybe? But yeah, no."

“So it is someone.”

Crow took a slow sip through the foam of his beer. “Let’s just say... It’s complicated.”

Dylan leaned in, mock-serious. “How complicated? If you kidnapped a cosplayer, blink twice and I’ll call the police.”

Crow choked on his drink and laughed. “Dude—hell no.”

“Alright, alright,” Dylan said, hands raised. “I’ll let you be vague and brooding. For now.”

They fell into a comfortable silence. Then Dylan looked up.

“Check that out,” he said, nodding at the TV screen above the bar. The muted news channel ran a live feed with a red banner scrolling across the bottom.

“RIOT BREAKS OUT IN EAST SUBURBS—SEVERAL BLOCKS UNDER LOCKDOWN”

Crow looked up, his brow furrowing.

The screen showed handheld footage of smoke, chaos, people shouting and running. Police drones buzzed. Sirens in the distance. One of the camera operators ducked, causing the view to blur before it steadied again.

“Man,” Dylan muttered. “That’s near the east loop, right?”

“A few stops out. Near the industrial parks.”

“Looks like a warzone,” Dylan shook his head. “City’s been tense lately, but this is nuts.”

Crow stared at the screen.

The screen shifted, showing another angle—more smoke, people scrambling in the background.

And then—something tumbled across the street. The camera focused on it.

A cap—green, worn, with a faint tear along the brim. The stitched smiley face stared blankly back.

“No…"

His voice cracked.

"Hinata…”