Chapter 1: Kenyon

Let me be the first to tell you that your life, your world is never certain. Nothing you do can prevent the inevitable changes the universe unexpectedly imposes upon you. You could be like me: One day, your main concerns are getting a passing score on your AP Chem exam and figuring out if the girl you’re texting likes you back. The next, you’re exhausted and bloody, staring down men intent on killing you.

The universe works in mysterious ways. It cannot be comprehended or explained. By its very nature, it is unpredictable. It is filled with the most beautiful and pure things. But also the darkest, vilest, and most despicable things as well. Every day people get struck down, beaten, stabbed, betrayed, and massacred. Yet the universe goes on, never making it clear what the future has in store. Though I guess I can’t complain much. I’m luckier than most. At least, because I know more than most. Not everyone knows that our world is merely one world—a small, insignificant world compared to the vast parallel worlds that exist just beyond our reach. Not everyone knows that a heaven and a hell truly exist, though not in the way we think. And not everyone knows that people like me exist.

The day before I learned these things was the last normal day of my life. The day before my world turned upside down and I was thrust into mortal danger along with everyone I love.

Piercing bright sunlight burst into my room as the all too familiar sound of my blinds being raised roused me from my slumber. My mother slapped my back twice, telling me it was time to get up. I gave my usual response of unhappy grunts. My mother replied with something about breakfast. I was too tired to care.

I grabbed my phone as I do every morning to check the time and messages. I was pleasantly greeted with a “good morning” from my crush, Penn. Her name was actually Pennelope but she hated it so everyone called her Penn. She’s in my grade and I’ve had a crush on her forever. Penn had texted me at 5 a.m., a full hour-and-a-half before I woke up. It always amazed me how she managed to get by on so little sleep, going to bed late and waking up early enough to get a solid hour of studying in before class. Rolling out of bed, I disentangled myself from a cocoon of sheets and blankets. Luckily, I didn’t have to get dressed, as I always sleep in my day clothes: a T-shirt and basketball shorts. Today I was wearing bright blue shorts and a red baggy shirt. I slipped on some socks and walked to my bathroom. It always felt so cramped with two sinks, a bathtub, and a toilet crammed into 20 square feet. My sister bumped me into the tub as she went for her toothbrush. Our rooms share a connecting bathroom, but our respective sinks are on the opposite sides of the bathroom from our bedrooms. It never made much sense.

My hair was jutting out of my head in every direction. It looked like there was an anime character in my mirror. I don’t even bother to splash water on it. I prefer to simply put on a hoodie to flatten my hair out. After brushing my teeth, I hurried to the kitchen and grabbed my usual breakfast of an apple and a granola bar. I could see my dad was already up, sitting on the family room couch on a call. My dad is a lawyer, head of his own small law firm dealing with cutting edge cases like corporate mergers and intellectual property disputes. He would often lament that his favorite part of his job was the plane trip to and from his business trips. Still, I think he has a nice gig: a fancy office, good pay, and nice suits. The only downside, as far as I can tell, is he has to avoid doing business with any company involved with “the organization.” Because that was my mother’s world.

My mom came walking in from the garage and dropped our school bags in front of the door. You would be forgiven for believing nothing was out of the ordinary with her. But the truth is, she is anything but ordinary. Inside her expensive handbag, underneath the tissues and wallet, is a Sig Sauer, fully loaded with a custom leather handle. Next to it are four phones. The first phone is your average smartphone; the rest of them are burners.

“Hurry up! We’re going to be late,” shouted my mother. “Every morning I stand here waiting for you guys. We’re always late. You have to wake up earlier.” I slipped on shoes and put on my backpack. I swung my basketball bag over my shoulder and picked up my bassoon. The bassoon is not a small or light instrument, for those of you who don’t know. My mother opened the door and led us outside to her car. She could afford a far more expensive car and a personal driver to take us to school. But she prefers to do it herself. She’s an interesting person.

Yaiko Nakata is head of the Azai crime organization. She is the leader of one of the Yakuza’s international branches, with its base located in a country outside of Japan yet still serving its interests. Los Angeles and much of Southern California is her domain. The Azai was formed by my grandfather—my mother’s father—who has since passed away. My grandfather had no sons, only two daughters, Yaiko and Noriko. My aunt, Noriko, is the oldest, but she had neither any interest in the organization nor my mother’s leadership and strategy skills. So she doesn’t play much of a role in the organization, as far as I know. We call her Auntie Karen—her English name.

My mother’s base is a mansion up in Encino Heights in the San Fernando Valley, which is part of Los Angeles County. That’s where a lot of rich and famous people live in LA. But that’s not where I live. Right now, my dad, my sister, and I, and sometimes my mom live in a medium-sized home in Tarzana, a more modest suburb close to Encino. My mother does everything she can to ensure our family has a normal life. She made sure both my sister and I go to the same public school; she never talks to me about any of her business exploits; and she would sacrifice her entire empire if needed to ensure that my sister and I continued to stay out of the Yakuza. That unfortunately means that she has no successor in the organization. At least not a clear one, as there are many in her organization who would gladly take up the mantle.

As we climb into the car, Penn texts me again, asking how I slept. I text her back “good,” my usual response, and ask her the same question. Penn and I have been semi-dating for the past few months. We both know we like each other and stuff, but we’ve never gone on a date, and we’re not an “item.” I know this sounds childish, but aside from my family, right now she means everything to me. I’ve been texting her and calling her every day for the past six months and I have enjoyed every second of it. I can only assume that she does as well because she always texts me back.

“Can I play music?” my sister asks. My mom says yes and gives her her phone. My sister is your average 11-year-old girl. Her name is Kendall. She likes drawing, writing, and most of all, basketball. I mean, she loves it. For me, it’s just okay. I mostly enjoy hanging out with the team and occasionally winning games. But my sister loves all of it, including the practicing and conditioning. I always say she’s crazy, but I might just be jealous of her dedication.

Last but not the least, there is me. My name is Kenyon Nakata. I’m 16 years old, at least, I think. I’m not totally certain about that because I’m adopted. Thirteen years ago, my parents found me, the only survivor of a human trafficking shipment out of Malaysia. At least, that’s what they tell me. I don’t really remember anything about it, to be honest. It might seem strange that a leader of the Yakuza would adopt a random survivor of human trafficking, but my mother always tells me that she loved me from the moment she saw me. She says that when she pulled me out of the foul, rotten cage I was shipped in, she knew I was her son. My dad says the same thing too, only without the love at first sight thing. I think that it’s a maternal thing.

Okay, there is one other thing. There is no simple way of saying this, but I can control fire. Yeah. Ever since I can remember, a flick of my hand or some momentary concentration is enough to make a small fire erupt into a bonfire. I can move fire too, warp its shape, make it hotter. I can also create fire out of thin air.

As you can imagine, it was no easy feat for my parents to raise a young child with the powers of a demon. My father would never let me play outside with the neighborhood kids. Occasionally, my cousins would come over to play, but it always put my parents on edge. We kept buckets of water and fire extinguishers around the house, just in case I threw a tantrum. One time on Christmas Eve, my cousin Davis—Auntie Karen’s son—hit me over the head with a wooden sword. I got so mad I nearly burned his face off. I would have too, if my Uncle Kim hadn’t dunked a bucket of water over my head. Obviously, there was no Christmas fire in the fireplace for as long as I can remember. By the time I was 12, I began to have more control over fire. I learned to memorize the specific movements and mindsets that I could use to summon and control different types of flames. Fire is linked to my emotions. Summoning a powerful emotion is enough to make a spark. But in order to shape or enhance it, I have to concentrate. I imagine what I want to happen and where I want the fire to go. It’s somewhat easier when I use my hands.

One day, my Uncle Kim had the idea of teaching me martial arts in order to help me learn to better control my powers. I call him Uncle Kim although he’s not actually related to us. He and my mom go way back, so he’s basically treated like...