A/N: Hello! As noted in a previous work posted here, it has been a while since I've written fanfiction so please bear with me as I get into the hang of using sensei's characters again. Here is a story that I originally started back in 2005 (well before Facebook, Twitter, and the like - my, how quickly things have changed...) and decided to pick up again. Please keep in mind that when I originally plotted this out, it was back before the Hong Kong arc was published (I believe only the first volume had been released), but I've retrofitted it so I'm hoping it feels more recent.

As with an earlier posting of mine, I'd originally posted this prologue on LJ and on a private archive under a different pseudonym. I'd like to keep that pseudonym dormant, so if you were in the fandom back then and recall this, I'd greatly appreciate if it might still be kept that way.

Thanks, and happy reading! :)

Cheers,
G.

(***)

Trompe L'Oeil
Prologue

(***)

Shanghai, China
June 2, 20XX

The air conditioning felt heavenly.

Takaba Akihito closed his eyes and savored the chilly breeze that danced over the hairs of his arm. He breathed in deeply, and let the cool, recycled air circulate in his lungs.

Reprieve. Blessed reprieve.

That was all he wanted, but at the moment, this was all he would get. No posh condo, no carefree friends, no prized camera, not even ... him.

Takaba opened his eyes and breathed out. His own mirrored reflection and that of his tepid coffee glared back at him from across the western-styled counter. How he had ended up in the cafe, he could hardly remember. The frantic beating of footsteps, the agonizing burn in his throat, the desperate glances over his shoulder, and the next thing he knew, he had found himself here. He had walked into the Americanized shop as calmly as he could, and had forced his rapid breathing and pounding heart to slow down by sheer willpower alone. Then, as casually as one would please, he had walked over to the counter, sat down on a stool, and ordered a cup of coffee he could ill afford.

What a waste that had been. He'd taken one sip of the bitter drink and hadn't touched it since.

Takaba slouched in his seat, hoping his hunched shoulders would hide what the dim lighting could not.

He was frightened.

Hell, he was scared shitless.

But he couldn't let anyone see that.

Thankfully, there were only a few patrons in the shop this time of day. Being situated so close to downtown, Takaba had a feeling that most of the business would come when work ended later that afternoon. And although the midday sun cast its hot rays through the front windows, it was all the café relied on for light at the moment, leaving Takaba sitting in the shadowed corner farthest from the front. All things considered, this was perhaps the best place to lay low until the appointed hour.

"Is this seat taken?"

Takaba nearly jumped off his perch when he heard the question. His mind registered that the words had been in Japanese, and instantly, his senses went on alert. However, his body had a different reaction, and refused to move.

"N-no," he answered shakily, watching in the mirror as the stranger sat down.

The new arrival appeared to be in his mid-thirties, clean-cut with neatly trimmed hair and gently angled eyes that passed him off as Chinese. With his dark suit and tie, he seemed to be just a typical office worker from the nearby business towers taking a leisurely afternoon break. The jittery man wondered if that was the case at all.

Takaba focused his eyes down to the counter and then took a sip of his lukewarm coffee. He concentrated on the bitterness the liquid left in his mouth, and tried to ignore the steadily increasing heartbeat that drummed away in his ears. He could feel his skin get clammy at the nearness of the stranger, and he nervously rubbed his palms on his jeans to wipe away some of the moisture.

So much for the wonders of air conditioning.

"I was reading the paper today about a man who walked into a crowded restaurant."

The young photographer looked back up to mirror at the man's statement, a mixture of surprise and fear on his face when he realized that he had been spoken to. At some point, the café's one waitress had brought a cup of coffee and placed it in front of the stranger. The man paused to dump a little sugar into the drink before meeting his neighbor's reflected eyes.

"In fact, I don't think it's very far from here."

There was the gentle clinking of silver on glass as the sugar was stirred into the steaming beverage.

"And it was one of those real, authentic Chinese restaurants where they serve all the little steamed dishes on trolleys." The stranger paused and put his spoon down. Cautiously, he brought the hot coffee to his lips and took a sip. He grimaced slightly at either the taste or the temperature, and carefully put the glass back down.

Takaba watched the mundane action in the mirror, muscles tensed. "So?" he prompted weakly.

"Well, this man walks in during the height of morning dim sum," the stranger continued, "and it's probably the busiest hour of the day, but he manages to find a table. He sits down and orders a pot of tea. Chinese tea, that is."

The mysterious man stopped and turned his head toward Takaba for a moment. "You know, the Chinese don't believe in tainting their tea with things like sugar and milk? It takes away from truly tasting the tea."

Takaba nodded, not because he was in accordance with the spoken words, but because he was merely keeping up the pretense of a normal conversation.

The stranger repositioned himself, and stared forward once more. "This man, he pours himself a cup of tea, takes out his newspaper, and starts to read, right in the middle of one of the loudest and busiest establishments in Shanghai."

The man halted again to take a sip of his drink, this time without the accompanying grimace. And again, he returned to staring straight into the mirror, meeting Takaba's eyes before continuing.

"After about half an hour of reading and drinking, he stands up, maneuvers through the restaurant, shoots a guy in the back of the head as he goes by a table, and walks right out the front door. No one even realizes that a man has been killed until the dead guy falls face first into his food."

Takaba wanted to look away, wanted to drag his eyes from the deadly calm of the other man's gaze and walk out of the shop. But his body refused to respond, and all he could do was try to swallow away the dryness in his mouth.

"And you know what the oddest thing is? Not one person, not a single soul out of a restaurant full of a hundred plus people could describe what the assassin looked like." A humorless smile formed on the man's lips and he let out an empty chuckle. "No one knows. No one cares."

Takaba's fists unconsciously clenched on the countertop, and he finally managed to pull his eyes away. Images flittered through his head ... of desperate screams, of helpless actions, and of fatal decisions. The man was right. In today's world of materialism and self, no one would truly care.

"So you tell me, Takaba-san, what are the chances that in a city of thirteen million, at least one person would recognize me if I killed you?"

By now, Takaba knew he had to get out. But how?

His own fear had paralyzed him, and he probably wouldn't get very far before he was caught ... especially if the other man was a professional.

/ "Wherever you run, wherever you are, I will find you, Takaba. You belong to me. Remember that." /

Asami's haunting words echoed through his head, and for a brief, blinding moment, he was assaulted with a longing so great that he almost cried out. What he wouldn't give to have that overbearing man chasing him instead. But that wasn't the case now, and he would have to live with it.

He quickly blinked away the prickling he felt in his eyes and gulped down the lump that had formed in his throat.

"What do you want?" the frightened photographer forced out, voice tight and slightly high-pitched. He glanced over to the other man.

The stranger's expression remained impassive and calm. "You know what I want ... what I'm here for ... "

"I ... "

Just then, the diligent waitress walked between the two of them, coffee pot in hand, and silently topped off the Japanese man's nearly full cup. Takaba looked up at the bored expression of the young girl's face and placed a stilling hand on her outstretched arm. She turned to him inquiringly, eyebrows up, expecting another order.

But Takaba didn't give one. Instead, he gave her arm a firm push, and stayed still long enough to watch the hot coffee from the pot spill all over the would-be assassin.

And then, he was off.

Legs pumping and arms swinging, he darted through the front entrance and out into the busy city streets. The humid afternoon heat hit him with the force of a semi-truck, and he suffered a moment of disorientation before he regained his bearings and continued running.

He knew he was on the east side of the Huangpu River, weaving in and out of downtown pedestrian traffic. Across the river, he could see the tall spire of the Oriental Pearl TV Tower, but it wasn't time yet; he couldn't go to the meeting spot now and lead them to ...

Takaba mentally shook his head.

No, if he was going to be caught, it was better that it be only one of them, not both.

And so, he continued to run, every fiber of his being straining and constricting with extreme effort. But he kept going, knowing that if he stopped, it would be the end of him.

Yet through the overwhelming chitter-chatter of the populous city, he heard himself asking how things had come to this, and who he could turn to now to get him out of the fucked-up web he'd somehow got caught in.

The prickling returned to his eyes, and that lump re-lodged itself in his throat again. Who could he turn to indeed?

Not him ... not Asami.

Takaba felt his vision blur, making the already streaking surroundings even more unrecognizable.

Not Asami, he reminded himself. He couldn't turn to Asami because Asami wasn't there anymore. Because Asami was dead now ... and he had been the one responsible.

End Prologue