CHAPTER V

It starts with a beep—

"Any luck, team?"

—followed by a few more.

"Nothing here, man."

"Dude, same. I've been going around my area for days. There's nothing unusual here either."

"Oh! May I? If we are all planning to rest, there is this wonderful place we can all feast in!"

"No luck there either then?"

"Ah, actually, there might be."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. A disturbance in Harajuku, Robin."

"Then, you'll know what to do, Titans."

His body hurts. He hurts. This morning hurts. But this was entirely his own fault for ignoring doctor's orders. Deo groans as he sits up his bed. His right side throbs and nags at him for neglecting their treatment; so he gives himself some time to just—stay indoors and lay himself on the couch. Besides, he's got no classes today. Better make use of it.

He took out some ice cubes from the freezer and collects them into a face towel to press onto his bruised spots, which happened to be a large chunk of his outer thigh, a similar size on his tricep, and a small portion on his right hip. So you're telling him he has to do this for two weeks? Jesus Christ…

Deo moans in satisfaction upon pressing the towel against his thigh. He throws his head back on the arm of the couch while his other leg occupy the other. Unfortunately, this moment of paradise was interrupted by a buzzing heard throughout the living room. He sighs, for out of all the times to…

He peers into the hole of his door, then freezing on the spot, eyes wide in disbelief. For the third time, he ask why the fuck and how the fuck does Mr. Tomlinson know where he lives as the man in question awaits by his door. Deo backs away. He contemplates on ignoring the second sound of buzzing to his door, but by then, it was too late.

That man just knows things. It's scary.

"I know you're there, Abdul." Though composure is in his voice, Tomlinson's volume is intense. He's sure his next-door neighbours hear him. His tone is almost threatening, made sure by the following. "I don't care how good of a porn that is that got you moaning, but you better let me in, or so help me god I don't kick the door down in three… two… one…!"

"It's open! It's open! It's fucking open!" Deo turns the locks and pries the door open. His red face meets the cunning nurse's shit-eating grin, welcoming himself inside his dorm room. "The fuck is wrong with you…" Deo mumbles, closing the door.

"A lot of things." There's a noise in Deo's throat. How did the man hear him? "Mainly, your room. I thought since you're a serious kid, you'd take your room-cleaning seriously as well. I guess not. It's like being in a prison cell. No—prison cells seem tidier than this." The teen frowns at the adult, both to his remark and how he was right; he can't argue.

The entranceway is by far, the most organised part of the room. Otherwise, it's small and cluttered, with items that he stashed throughout his time boarding here as a college student. Papers stack on his desk, and as far as organisation with that, he won't talk about it. In the corner of his room leading towards the bathroom, used clothes pile up. He'll likely find some spare change if he tries to rummage through it enough. In addition, if there are clothes that don't stink much, he'll wear those again. For one, the grey shirt he's in now, paired with nothing but boxers.

"How the hell would you know what prison cells look like? Nevermind that, I was trying to get a rest until you showed up. If you got something, hurry up and spit it out, and get out." Deo returns to the side of the two-seater couch rather than sprawling again, the cold towel on the coffee table returns in his grasp, placing it on his bruised arm instead.

"Fine, fine." The older man saunters to the couch as well, eyes wandering to the unexplored parts of Deo's room. "Was actually about to return the favour from yesterday," he raised his hand by his face, holding a bag that Deo could smell would fill his hunger. "Didn't know why you ran off though."

"I did not ran away! I was heading home because I feel like I was about to collapse the more I'm out there!" Deo keeps his focus on the table, hiding from the potential reaction to his timid response. He only got that irritating chuckle in turn, and the sound of what the man brought with him on the table.

The man took an ekiben out of the plastic bag with its disposable chopsticks placed on top of the box. He holds it out. "Hm." The man grunts, and Deo feels like he's mocking him by imitating how he gave his meal to Tomlinson yesterday, but didn't say anything. He took the box with a free hand, placing it on top of the dark and wooden coffee table.

"Had a safe trip?" Deo arches a brow towards the ekiben—which are high-quality lunchboxes only sold at major train stations—before unveiling its contents. "I'm actually jealous."

"Of the trip, or the ekiben?" It seems the man has his own box as well, opened and ready to feast on.

"Both? I've been running around since the week started. It's no wonder I eventually ended up like this. Itadakimasu." Deo digs in, starting with the pickled plum on top of the rice, then to the salad. To multi-task with tending to his bruises and eating his first meal of the day, he uses one hand to eat, and the other to press to his outer thigh again.

"Yeah? Whatcha runnin' 'round for?"

"Stuff."

Oh, fuck. That was close. Deo almost slipped up and told him what no one should know. Good thing his mindless reply just now was the answer he gave. Months of working on a mission, only for this mission to get cancelled, and then be persuaded to take a break—it's almost been a week, and already, he's let his guard down from this new norm.

The dark haired sighs through the nose in mild annoyance, gulping down the rice after the tempura. "You? Ain't got dying patients to attend to, doctor?"

Too fast for his eyes, Deo gets a slap upside his head as he was swallowing his food. He chokes in the process, but recovers soon with a coughing fit. "What the fuck, asshole?!" He attempts to shove the man off the couch as vengeance, but the man was too big for that. He didn't even move an inch!

"Nurse. Not doctor. Besides, the interns' gotta do something than gawk and type in their phones."

"And you're apparently my fucking shinigami too! Shit…" He soothes his neck in his fingers before removing himself from his seat to get a bottled water from the mini fridge. He returns to drinking half of its contents then resuming to his ekiben.

"Hey, innit weird?" Tomlinson randomly asks, paused on pinching a sushi between his chopsticks.

"Yes, Sensei? Do you mean your attempted assassination towards a college student in his boxers, or your summon under no one's behest before my serene and sloven sanctuary?"

"Heh, wordplay."

Deo rolls his eyes. Now he awaits for what the man meant if he's not answering between those two.

"What I mean is, no one else is here for us to be impressionable with." Deo was briefly puzzled with what was escaping through Tomlinson's voice, until he clicked that the man was speaking in English.

Deo spat a quick laugh to the side before his hand covers his mouth. Amused golden iris lands on the man's sole firmament blue as he follows the man's switch in glottology. "Your wording in English is far worse than in Japanese, Tomlinson."

"Never said I wasn't filthy, Abdul."

"Ahh, don't say it like that! You're getting creepier!"

Elsewhere, in the district of Harajuku…

The streets' droves are an unending sight, even in the sky where the three Titans capable of flight, hold dominion over, in their surveillance for the unusual. 'Tis their strong belief over the words of the empath and noble cambion Raven, that the young team of superheroes calling themselves the Teen Titans, set focus in this specific district of Shibuya. This… lick of evil that her body responds to—disturbs her.

Most specifically, in her night out with the Tamaranian Starfire the former night. A brief whiff of immoral contagion causes her gasp to be as breathless as the evil's instant disappearance. It's made her alert since, drowning Harajuku's noise out with her Azarathian mantra to find this… whatever is making her this fearful beyond her stoic mask.

The galactic redhead, her counterpart in terms of the mechanics of their abilities, was the first to console her from her glimpse of blurry nightmare. Her support was greatly appreciated, and has kept her protective gaze on the pale-skinned Titan after. She rise and dive in the clouds, like a corvus corax to a good weather and sea, though shrewd-like in manner. She gets giddy and distracted by their green and zoo-shape-shifting friend, Beast Boy.

He only wanted to alleviate how snappy or high-strung most of his friends have gotten over the past few days of little to no leads, and he grows appreciation for Starfire's interactions with him. He's impulsive, impatient, a prankster, and an occasional ire to his team, but is overall a forgivable and loyal companion. Especially to the half-robot, Cyborg.

The most tech-savvy and blueprint of the team. The oldest, yet the most appropriate description of a "teenager". He is sporty and smart, often seen as an equal to their team leader; and currently, a focused young man in the street, guised as a civilian. He prioritise the alleyways for suspicious activities, and guards his partner gliding on the roofs with his gymnastics maneuvers. And, an ally to Batman.

Robin. The leader of the mighty Teen Titans.

What business do they have in the Harajuku streets? After Brushogun's—no, not him—Daizo Uehara's demise, they should have left the country. Yet they remain here. Why? Could it be the hotel incident? From what this one knows, someone had killed the CEO of that company. A very known company.

Does this mean that they've found a lead?

Hyousuke Kanki tucks a lock of his brown hair behind his pierced ear. He pushed his decorative glasses on the bridge of his nose as he looks away from the wannabe-sneaky group of heroes, and reentered the Belladonna Café. They're lucky Harajuku is too focused on itself to notice their lame attempts of sneaking in the day. Even saying that in his head sounds stupid in and of itself.

Kids…

Time was but a forgotten concept until that irate nurse finally left Deo's room. With it, was the man's clever distraction from his bruises, which he won't admit worked! Never! But it feels like he's forgotten something else. Something important, as he sighs, mentally taxed from unwillingly having over a guest.

It's like a light bulb flickering open. Not instant, but fast nonetheless. The envelope! He paces over his desk, swift and wary as he can with his bruises. He slides under the table and take a seat. In his hands, he feels the texture of the item before flipping open the lid and pulling the folded papers out. The small zip bags are also inside, but he doesn't touch it, more curious of what's been discovered. He unfolds it, sparsely placing all but one page on the table.

One page reveals whose blood belonged to on that rooftop the night the assassin got away. It details the blood type and its potential to have been mixed with alcohol or other chemical intake. There was alcohol, but no other chemicals. However, it most of all did not belong to the assassin—it belonged to the deceased company owner that laid on the bloody couch that night. Deo's brows knit.

He moves to a different page. The picture of a footprint that got scanned and matched no prints. It's likely a gear that's custom made. Pfft. Like it wasn't obvious from that assassin's costume. Regardless of how much he makes fun of himself for stating the obvious, it didn't make him feel any better to know that two out three of his samples were a dead-end.

Almost lost for hope, he moves to the last report—the details of the bullet casing. There are no fingerprints—Deo huffs an I thought so—but there is a list of handguns capable of firing .45 ACP, or Automatic Colt Pistol bullets. Furthermore, in its second page Deo examined, there's a more specific list of what handguns are available in the country. With the power of the internet, he image searched each and every single one listed in his phone. He found nothing similar to what the assassin carried with him. At least, this lead is kinda kicking…

Either the gun is smuggled, or the assassin picked it off one of his victims. He doubts there's smuggling involved. Since it's time-consuming and pointless to smuggle a weapon that any other weapon could also do, to get the job done. Unless he's missing something? Unless he's perceived this whole thing entirely wrong from the beginning?

Stop. He shouldn't make baseless assumptions. It shouldn't be that convoluted. Even the assassin told him that his employer was just an unhappy customer.

Huh? Just a customer?

Deo place the paper detailing ballistics analysis down, piling all of the papers neatly and setting it on the side of the table. He checks his phone again, typing the name of the company in its search engine. He scrolls through to the hyperlink that leads to the company's website. He feels as if something in his head is clicking, but he's not sure what.

When the assassin mean customer, did he mean his client, or what type of client they were? Deo laughs softly. Maybe he did overlook at something.

He exits the browser and dials a number.