After All

Vengeance

At ten in the morning, Rafael and Ryoma arrived at Arjan's farm.

The long dirt road leading into the property curved lazily through open land, its pale dust rising in thin clouds behind the car's tires. Tall grass flanked both sides, bending and whispering under the steady heat of the sun. There were no signs, no gates—only a narrow cattle grid and a hand-painted marker nailed to a post that simply read: PRIVATE.

Ryoma leaned forward in the passenger seat, resting his forearms on his knees as he peered through the windshield. "This place is bigger than I imagined," he muttered.

Rafael didn't answer right away. His eyes tracked the land with a familiarity that bordered on reverence. Acres of cultivated soil stretched outward in disciplined rows, dark earth neatly turned, still damp from the morning irrigation. Lettuce shimmered in layered greens. Tomatoes hung heavy and red, pulling their vines downward with quiet insistence. Corn stalks rose tall and straight, leaves rustling softly like distant applause.

"It hasn't changed much," Rafael finally said. "That's intentional."

Ryoma snorted. "Most people modernize."

"Most people don't survive by staying invisible."

The car rolled farther in, and then the other half of the property revealed itself.

Beyond a simple wire fence—functional, not decorative—stood a vast field of marijuana plants. They were thick, healthy, and meticulously maintained. Serrated leaves stretched confidently toward the sky, catching the sunlight like sharpened blades. The smell hit immediately: sharp, earthy, unmistakable. Cannabis layered over fertilizer, soil, and dry summer air.

Ryoma grimaced slightly, then laughed under his breath. "So the rumors were true."

Rafael shut off the engine but didn't get out yet. He sat there for a moment, one hand resting on the steering wheel, thumb tapping slowly against the worn leather.

"This field paid for your first passport," he said calmly. "And the second one. And the doctors who fixed your shoulder."

Ryoma blinked, then looked away. "I didn't ask."

"No," Rafael agreed. "You benefited."

They stepped out of the car. Heat pressed down immediately, the sun already high and unforgiving. Ryoma stretched his shoulders, rolling his neck as he took in the surroundings. A shed stood near the edge of the vegetable fields, its doors half open. Inside, he glimpsed metal racks—too orderly to be farming equipment.

Weapons.

"This doesn't feel like a farm," Ryoma said. "It feels like a border."

Rafael closed the car door carefully. "That's because it is."

A voice carried over the rows before Ryoma could respond.

"Borders keep order," it said. "And order keeps you alive."

Arjan stepped into view between the plants, brushing soil from his hands. He moved slowly but deliberately, each step measured. Though well into his seventies, his posture was straight, his shoulders broad beneath a faded work shirt. His silver hair was cropped short, and his eyes—sharp, watchful—took everything in without hurry.

Rafael's mouth twitched. "Uncle."

Arjan studied him for a moment longer than necessary, then nodded once. "You look thinner."

"Age does that," Rafael replied.

Arjan snorted. "Stress does that. Age just makes it harder to hide."