Notes: Thanks to Kara Angitia and Sagiri and Bekquai, and That Guy Who Died and the Blackened Rose, and Literary Eagle my faithful reviewer. Your reviews mean a great deal to me. Thank you very much, Meritite, for notifying me of errors in the last chapter. I have corrected them. How embarrassing, but I guess that's what I get for rushing.

The words, spoken in that hauntingly familiar voice so near his ear he could feel warm breath on his neck, echoed inside Hisoka's mind, simultaneously seductive and repulsive — reaching out like they had fingers with which to grab hold of him, caress him. For a tentative moment that voice threatened to take him over again; but, determined, he shook off its hold and leaped forward, whipped the pistol from his waistband with a small growl as he turned, and pointed it at where he had been, only half convinced the man he had heard would be there in the flesh and not an illusion of the eclipse. He did not need to see him in order to confirm that it was Muraki, but that did wipe any doubt from his mind that he might not have been real.

A look of calm bewilderment on his face, Muraki slowly raised his hands. "Now, boy, no need to do anything rash," he said gently, like one speaking to a stray animal.

Hisoka ignored the tone.

"Who said anything about being rash?" he said impudently. "I'm just taking every precaution."

The other was silent. He was dangerous, that was certain, but Hisoka had matured plenty as well in the last nine years — the last six — in what he was capable of. They stood that way, regarding each other in the heavy air beneath the cherry trees — anticipating. At last Muraki chuckled, and Hisoka tightened his grip. "What are you doing here?" he said before Muraki could say anything that might make him forget himself.

Muraki sighed, his shoulders briefly shifting under his long coat. "You tell me. Why did I come here, on this night of all nights? By what coincidence did I run into you here? Fate is generous and cruel." When he lifted his eyes, flashing silver behind glasses, the old smirk was planted firmly on his lips.

"I thought you were dead," Hisoka said. "You should be dead."

"Yes, I should have been. Tell me: have the marks I've cursed you with gone away?" Muraki seemed to take his silence as an affirmative for he said, "I unwittingly did myself a favor there. It remains a hypothesis of mine, and I have no evidence for it other than the mere fact that I'm standing here: but it seems that as long as you've been here, boy, in this Bardo, I've been able to escape death."

"You mean, my existence is what keeps you alive?" Hisoka said with disbelief. A thought came to him, tickling a sadistic vein, and he renewed his aim. "All right," he said, "let's prove it."

Muraki stood waiting with his hands in his pockets, apparently unmoved, but some sense of panic flashed briefly and barely noticeable across his eyes that satisfied Hisoka somewhat.

"No." He lowered the pistol a bit. "I can't kill you. Not until you tell me why — why you did it."

The other blinked. "Why I did what?"

"Don't play games with me. You and I both know what you did."

"What?" Muraki said with a shake of his head, a breathy chuckle. "You mean to those women in Kyoto, because I thought that was obvious. Or are you talking about yourself? Did I do something else when I arrived here of which I am unaware?"

"Stop it!" said Hisoka. "Just . . . cut the bullshit and tell me why you killed him! What did you want with Watari-san?"

"And Watari-san is . . . who?"

"The doctor in our division, of course, the one with long hair and glasses. The man you murdered!"

"Oh. I think I remember him now. . . . But I don't know what you're talking about. I didn't murder anyone — which is a first for us, isn't it?"

The amusement that he did not even bother to hide disgusted Hisoka, and his finger itched to pull the trigger. If only it could have been just about his own personal revenge, just once. "This isn't a laughing matter," he said, gritting his teeth. "I know you did it. I figured it out. You're just trying to make me feel foolish and naïve, like you always have, feigning ignorance; but I know better. You're the only one who could have — who would have done such a callous thing. You chose a fellow man of science as a lure, too devious to go directly to the source. You made it look natural — but the whole thing reeks of the time you faked your own death. You left the note . . ." Its brief message flashed across his mind. "But something's wrong. You said to meet you at the bridge. Unless I got to you before you could get there. . . ."

"You see? That's it," Muraki said. "I can't be your perpetrator because, this being my first time here, I don't know of any bridge. Now, why would I write you a note telling you to meet me someplace I don't know?"

Hisoka searched his mind. It had to all fit, somehow. He must be working with someone, he thought. That friend in Kyoto? —No, it couldn't be an inside job, someone from Meifu. Then again, wouldn't it be just like Muraki to throw him off guard with a little white lie, change a few details in his story?

Muraki sighed. "You really don't believe me."

"Why should I, after all you've done?"

"I suppose that's fair."

"At least tell me what you've done with Zero-zero-three," Hisoka said. "I know you took her, you bastard, and you better not have hurt her! She's just a little owl, for God's sake — and don't say 'What owl?'!"

His silence said it for him.

Hisoka swore under his breath. "What are you trying to prove?" he said, frustration edging into his voice that he resented. Why couldn't he be as calm as Muraki in such a situation, as strong, as he'd been trying so hard the last four years to be? "If your goal was to get to us, you've done it. All right? But it's gone far enough. Muraki! I'll listen to your demands, whatever, just leave my coworkers and their friends alone!"

"I honestly don't know what you're talking about," Muraki said again. "One of your colleagues is dead; I gather that much. But other than that, I'm afraid you've lost me with this talk of . . . owls. You accuse me of playing games, but if anyone is playing games it's you, boy."

Hisoka started. He hadn't wanted to, and it wasn't as though something in the other's demeanor had changed, but now somehow he found himself believing Muraki — if only just a little bit. But it pained him to think he had been wrong, because if that were the case . . .

"Then . . . who killed Watari-san?"

"I don't know." For once the smile that appeared on Muraki's lips seemed genuinely tender, not twisted at all but introspective and maybe — although he might have been imagining it — sorry. "Maybe your friend on the bridge; maybe no one. Frankly, all I know is that I'm here, in this . . . Purgatory, and that being here, like it was destined, has afforded me an opportunity I didn't know I desired: to meet a certain person again after four years, face to face."

Hisoka gritted his teeth. "Well, he's not here."

"Excuse me?"

"Tsuzuki. He's not here. He's on assignment. Isn't he who you wanted to see?"

"No." Again, a breathy chuckle that Hisoka resented as belittling. "No," Muraki said wistfully, "he still haunts me, but no. And it isn't you either, boy. Sorry to disappoint."

"Then who?"

"My equal."

Stunned by the obscurity of his words and secretive smile, Hisoka lowered his pistol. Equal? Who was he talking about, his equal? A breeze gathered, picking up scattered blossoms as it blew past them between the trees. It blew his bangs into his eyes, distracting him for a moment so he did not see the tenuous shadows of the cherries jump in such a way, however slight, that they shouldn't have.

Suddenly Muraki's eyes went wide. "He's here!" he said.

And Hisoka regained a clear line of sight only to see his nemesis raise his arms about himself and become enveloped in a translucent flash of light. A clash too nebulous to make out, like the cloudy darkness permeating the sparkle of the Milky Way, whooshing as it was rebuffed, caused him to stumble back, bringing his own arms up before his face in self-defense. The abruptness of it and the flurry of petals that followed like a tiny blizzard disoriented him temporarily, and he latched onto the authoritative voice the called out strong and clear: "Watch yourself, Kurosaki-kun!"

"T—Tatsumi-san?"

He looked to his right and saw the secretary standing there amid the settling blossoms, a seriousness etched into his features that one only ever witnessed when the lives of his coworkers, or the office's budget, were on the line. A tendril of shadow like an inky mist curled and undulated around his extended right arm like a thing alive, just as it had that night Mariko's friend was killed. Though Tatsumi rarely used his gift and was loath to speak of it, everyone knew what it was — what he was, kagetsukai, a manipulator of shadows — and the rumors, hardly rumors, of how powerful his talents truly were. That did not make it a less awesome sight for Hisoka to behold. The rarity of such a talent. The utter coolness of the bookish secretary when he was about to kick someone else's ass.

"Kurosaki-kun," Tatsumi barked, watching him out of the corner of his eye, "are you hurt?"

Filled with admiration for Tatsumi's dramatic entrance — and concern — Hisoka could only swallow and shake his head.

"Good. Now, go. Quickly. Get far away from here! I'll take care of everything."

"But, Tatsumi-san—"

"Do as he says," Muraki said then. The passion in his voice was dangerous, deranged in its calm excitement. "This doesn't concern you, boy. It's between me and the good secretary."

Beneath the sheath of shadow, Tatsumi's fist tightened. There was malicious intent in his blue eyes that truly frightened Hisoka, and made him glad he was not its target. He understood now what Muraki had meant by his equal, but if that was what Muraki truly believed he was deluding himself.

The tension in the air was growing to maddening heights. He could feel it like pins pricking his skin. Anger and curiosity, hate and excitement: these powerful emotions invaded his mind even as he raised his defenses. Their skill levels were both so great some amount of destruction was inevitably to follow. He understood: he would just be in the way if he stayed, some leverage for Muraki if he should choose to utilize him — and he could not let Tatsumi's actions be in vain. Thank you, Tatsumi-san, Hisoka thought hard, hoping his appreciation might reach the secretary, and he disappeared into the grove.

Shadows raced to the place he had abandoned, closing off the way he went. Muraki glared at his opponent, but Tatsumi mistook his meaning.

"I will not allow you to torment my friends any longer," he said. "Nor can I ever forgive you for what you've done to them already. Muraki-san, you are a villain."

Muraki laughed. "You flatter me, Mr. Secretary."

"I should have disposed of you when I had the chance, but circumstances prevented me. I do hope you realize that by coming here, to my plane, you have afforded me a wonderful opportunity, and this time I will not waste it. There is nothing to stand in my way now." Tatsumi pushed up his glasses with his free hand, and the soft rattle of the lenses in their frames was a sound as anticipatory as the cocking of a gun. "Prepare yourself, Muraki-san," he said. "If you wish to survive, you will have to defeat me."

The wide grin was slow to form on the doctor's face, as he mentally ran an inventory of what surprises were up his sleeves, some which made griffins look like small potatoes. . . .

"I assure you," he said, "I look forward to it."

Then the shadows surged toward him once again, edges sharp as a guillotine's blade.

—

The sounds of their conflict faded behind him, and Hisoka slowed his pace to a walk before stopping all together. He looked back the way he had come, and prayed Tatsumi would be all right. He hated to abandon him with that monster, Muraki, when it was his problem to begin with, but he could not refuse an order. Nor Muraki's wishes. But a low fog had begun to roll in to separate him from them, obscuring the already hazy outlines of the cherry branches, and thankfully the blood-red moon as well. Only the gentle fall of petals interrupted the air, and the black and gnarled trunks of the trees seemed more like sentient beings than ever. All that had been written about them over the centuries, their otherworldly nature that made them appear like ghosts in the moonlight, spitefully watching anyone who happened into their own timeless plane, seemed now starkly true.

As Hisoka turned in the direction of the bridge once again, something rumbled in the distance among them. Tatsumi? he wondered, and his rational mind tried to convince him that was all it was: the aftershock of some shadow attack. But it rumbled deep in the earth; he could feel the ground vibrating in a rhythm that was too steady for that to be the cause, or to be natural. The cherries themselves seemed to moan about it, whispering to one another with their branches. Something was moving out there. Something very big.

It's nothing, Hisoka told himself; remember the note and keep moving. A thousand explanations could come to mind, born of superstition like the same ones that told children there were monsters in the closet. If it wasn't Tatsumi and Muraki, surely it was pipes underground. They had received a notice of work to be done in the sewers last week, hadn't they?

He turned once again, setting off in the direction of the bridge; but he could not shake the feeling that he was being watched.

In the crotch of a tree, unseen by him or anything else that prowled the night, a small figure crouched and watched — and then disappeared in the haze.

The bridge Hisoka had in mind was in fact the only one in the immediate vicinity of their offices he knew of. It had a red lacquer finish and was constructed in an arch, and stood over a little stream in the Chinese garden where carp were kept. It was mostly used for photographs and small parties as it was a quiet and idyllic spot away from the office bustle. It seemed like an oasis to Hisoka on this night. The haze didn't permeate this place, and the tall maples that enshrouded the garden were not nearly as ominous as the cherries. The clear and delicate green of early spring, tiny budding whirly-gigs attached to the underside of branches, was peaceful and grounding combined with the trickle of the stream and blocked out the moonlight well. A few well-placed rocks and pagodas gave the garden a stable air that he found he much needed as he made his way along the crooked path to the bridge.

As it came into view, he stopped. There was indeed someone standing there. The person's back was turned, but he could see he or she was about the same size as Hisoka, maybe a few centimeters taller. But the outfit was what caught his eye. It was a white lab coat, and it hung awkwardly on the stranger as though it were too big. He knew that it must have belonged to Watari; though there were dozens of others in Meifu who would have need of a lab coat, none of them would also be wearing a pair of Watari's shoes.

A sudden spark of fury led Hisoka onward, his fists clenched, toward the person he was convinced must be the murderer.

At the sound of his footsteps, the stranger turned. And Hisoka was startled by the very unexpected vision that confronted him.

The person wearing Watari's lab coat and shoes — and, it was now clear, nothing else — was actually a striking young woman who looked to be no older than the man whose clothes she wore. Also like him her frame was narrow, almost birdlike, though it was clear even under the shapeless lab coat that she had a feminine figure. She held herself with confidence and demure sophistication, but there was a frank, outgoing quality to her posture as well, mirrored somewhat in the devil-may-care wildness of her unkempt hair. On second thought, its unruliness was not due to neglect but a natural way to it that left her tawny mane in a perpetually ruffled state. Symmetrical cowlicks made the short hair on the sides turn up and out like little ears or horns, which for some reason Hisoka immediately found endearing in contrast to the somewhat aloof intelligence in her features. Her small mouth opened in a coy gasp when she saw him; her large, pale golden eyes grew larger still with recognition.

"Hisoka! Am I glad to see you!" she exclaimed, and before he knew it she had closed the distance between them and thrown her arms around his shoulders.

He froze.

Her voice was like wind blowing over the lip of a jar, rich and airy and agreeable, with just a hint of a rough Western lisp. Her familiar grip was anything but delicate, and the sensation of her breasts pressing against him through the material of the lab coat was certainly pleasing though entirely inappropriate behavior for a stranger. The feeling was new to him; that is, when Saya and Yuma glomped him he never gave much thought to anything besides getting away. When she stepped back, his eyes traveled unwittingly to the cleavage that was visible in the V of the lab coat's collar. "This means you got my note," she said.

"Note?" Hisoka asked breathlessly.

She nodded.

He raised his eyes as the truth sunk in. "You left the note? You mean, you were there when Watari-san died?"

"Yes, in a way, but not really," she said, blinking, and completely ignored the pressing question that he had quite obviously implied with the other. "To be honest, I had expected Tatsumi-san to find it, because it would have been less complicated if he had, but it's okay: I like you too. You have nice hands." She cocked her head, grinning.

Her familiarity was unnerving.

"Do . . . do I know you?" Hisoka asked with just a bit of panic.

"Of course; don't be silly," she said, then thought it over, pouting. "Oh, that's right. You probably don't recognize me. You've never seen me like this before, have you? It has been a while . . ."

"Like what?" he said. "Who are you?"

She chuckled, and shook her head as though taking his confusion as a clever joke.

"I'm Zero-zero-three."

—
Until next time . . .