Old scars burn bright

Chapter 1: When hired goons fly.

As he writes the last line for his first entry, Pryte closes his eyes to listen to his surroundings through his beanie. Different conversations going on in this classy yet affordable bar. A few gamblers, half a dozen alcoholics starting to feel fuzzy and some small book club. Nothing out of the ordinary, no threats, for now.

He closed his journal before tucking it into an inside pocket of his sleeveless jacket. He slid his pen into the front pocket of his ripped jeans before taking out a few lien and tipping the bartender, then gets up and heads towards the exit.

It's such a shame, he thought to himself. Quiet, peaceful, drinks aren't bad, the bartender's a great guy, yet that place doesn't get enough recognition for what it's worth.

As the faunus pushes open the doors of the "Golden Bonzaï" and exits the bar, he gives a quick but thorough glance around to the seemingly empty dark street before making his way to his gray, camo-patern pick-up truck, checking his scroll, the time marks 22:24. Approaching his vehicle, he shoves the scroll back into his pocket, hops into the driver's seat and drives along the silent streets.

He doesn't make it very far before some bug splats against the windshield, the wipers only spreading it, making things far worse. Pryte pulls over to the side of the road with a sigh, getting out to properly wipe the dead insect off his car.

-Useless, dumb, flying bug. Can't help but to ruin my baby, huh? Good thing people don't fly, he grumbled aloud as he wiped out what was left. That would get ugly.

And as if those spoken words had insulted some higher power, a window from the nearby club shatters as a female figure in a mob like attire seems to fly across the street and right onto the hood of his pick-up,  making a serious dent in it. As some heavy movements, drawn weapons and panicked screams come from the club that seems to be evacuating. Pryte could only watch the unconscious figure, laying prone on his precious car.

-You have got to be kidding me... he growls. You have got to be fucking kidding me... he repeats to himself as he grabs the goon-looking woman by the collar to cross the street to the building she came from.

Just as he enters the building, a body comes flying towards him. His fighting reflexes kick in and he swings the unconscious body he held to deflect the oncoming one, sending it into the wall nearby. He gives the flung body a quick glance and recognizes him. Most knew this man as "Junior", an ex-criminal who worked for the one and only Roman Tortwick, and would've supposedly renounced his life of crime after being badly beaten in a club a few years ago.

Guess he couldn't stay out of trouble, he scoffed.

He let the woman fall to the floor and reaches back for the his pistols and gives them a slight twirl as he looks around for the two sides of what Pryte had assumed to be some random turf war. But as he glanced over the room, he saw dozens of people in black tuxedos, red sunglasses, occasional black fedoras and a single blonde, though-looking woman. Only then did he realize this wasn't a turf war, this was a street gang against a huntress.

I don't need to get involved, he thought as he turned around, beginning to walk away. It's none of my business, curiosity killed the cat, why would it be my problem? he reasoned himself. But dispite his reasoning, he stopped right before the exit. He sighed as he found himself foolishly predictable, only to shrug it off.

Meh, what the heck...

~End of Chapter 1~