22. TAINTED
A/N: Hi, guys. For some reason or another, this never posted last week, so I'm posting it together with the new chapter. Enjoy!
It's that time of the year again. Right after the Christmas décor has been stripped away from the walls and the symphony of jingle bells has silenced. Right after hopeful people visit the shrines to pray for the New Year's good fortune to sprinkle upon them. The holidays have finally gone into hibernation. And every year for the past three years she knows that all the prayers and the good fortune wishes are complete and utter bullshit. People are blind to the reality of their situations—wishing on stars or inanimate objects won't save anyone from future misfortune. She would know. She's thought like them. She's been blinded. Only after her mother died did she finally take the blindfold off.
Another day in paradise means another day of hell.
Today is no different.
Tokyo streets during the night feel just as crowded and claustrophobic as they are during the daytime. The only real difference is the chiller air and the abundance of lurkers. She pulls her coat closer to her body, buttoning any loose buttons and hiking the zipper up to her chin. Her boots clank against the sidewalk. Occasional eyes linger on her. Most of them are from unwanted admirers. So much for subtlety. Anyone is able to hear her from a mile away.
"Excuse me," a middle-aged man approaches her at the nearest bus stop. "May I ask what your name is?"
"Fuck off."
His eyes widen behind his glasses. "Excuse me?"
She leers at him and wedges a hand inside her purse. "You heard me, creep. Fuck off before I call the cops."
His mouth drops. "Well, I…fine." He clicks his tongue and stalks away into the night.
A sigh of relief eases some of the tension inside of her. She releases her grip on the bear mace in her purse. Thank goodness it took just a simple curse to ward him off. She hadn't been so lucky the last couple of incidences.
The bus ride to work is shorter than she'd hoped. It's always shorter than she hopes. Time has never been a friend.
If only she had more time with her father.
With her brother…
With her mother…
Where was time when she needed it most?
Nowhere. That's what.
Time can fall into the deepest ocean trench and drown.
The bus stops a few blocks down from where she works. She could stay on it and wait the ride out, but she doesn't want anyone to know her occupation. To the outside world, it's a shameful existence she leads. But it's one that must be traced in order to survive this shitty life.
She walks at a brisk pace. This part of the city is one of the most daunting. If she had trouble earlier, she'll certainly find more around here. With her head dipped down, she keeps moving. The sounds of faint whistling and howls surround her, but she pays them no mind and continues forward with earnest.
All of a sudden, she notices someone come out of the dark in her peripheral vision. The man grabs her arm and yanks her back.
"Hey, sweet cheeks." His blood-shot eyes bulge. "Damn, you're a vixen." He whistles for emphasis. "How's about you come over to Hisashi's place for a while?" He strokes her skin with his thumb. "I promise I'll take good care of you."
"Let go." She tries prying him off. When he won't budge, she snatches the bear mace from her purse and lifts it to his eyes. "Now!" she hisses.
He promptly releases her, but the grin on his face holds.
She backs up into what she first thinks is a wall. Two sets of arms grab her, and one coaxes the mace out of her grip.
"Come on, baby," the first man says, grinning. "Don't be shy." He reaches his hand out and hooks a finger between the first button and loop, undoing it. He works on the second one and the one after that before he doubles back in pain, clenching his groin and cursing.
Nobody had been attending to her legs so she did the next best thing. But she instantly regrets it as a fearsome slap slides across her cheek, knocking the wind out of her.
"Should have listened nicely, bitch." He begins working on the rest of her buttons but grows frustrated and pulls any remaining ones apart, several buttons go flying into the air.
This is exactly why the world isn't worth saving. People like this. She shuts her eyes, waiting for when it'll be over.
"Now, that's not very gentlemanly."
"Oi, who the hell are you?"
Her eyes reopen.
The would-be rapist and his goons are staring at a figure standing in the street, hands in their pockets, face obscured by a hoodie.
"Oh, just your average bystander."
"In that case, fuck off."
"Nah, I'm already involved." The figure advances toward them, and his head rises. Red eyes glow beneath the hood. "I couldn't help but overhear your conversation. Earlier you called yourself Hisashi. Why?"
"That's my name, dumbass. Now piss off." He nods to one of his goons who releases her and stalks toward the hooded man.
He remains unnaturally calm. His red eyes shimmer. "Really? Then who's Genzo Kishimura?"
The rapist's goon suddenly hunches forward, clutching his chest and gasping. Spittle drips from his mouth and snot from his nose. He drops to his knees and then topples over onto the ground, unmoving.
"What the fuck?" says the goons' leader, stepping back.
She feels the remaining set of hands on her loosen from shock and seizes the opportunity to swirl around and knee the other goon in the stomach and slip from his grasp. He stumbles a bit but catches himself before he can fall while she gains some space between them.
She should run. Realistically, she would. But a part of her that contains the last amount of honor she has feels the need to thank this person. And another part of her wants to figure out his identity.
"You son of a b—" the rapist is cut off when his other goon suddenly grabs him by the coat, wincing, and then slides to the ground dead. His bloodshot eyes bulge. His mouth hangs open. "W-what's going on?"
"See what happens when you lie, Genzo?" the hooded man says. "Karma comes back to bite you in the ass."
Genzo shrinks back, a sweaty mess of fear and anxiety. "P-please! I'll pay you anything! Anything! Just name it!"
A complete contrast to how he was not even five minutes ago. She almost feels sorry for him.
The hooded man nudges her with his elbow. The contact startles her. "What do you think? Decapitation? Car accident? Maybe a mixture of both?" Part of his face comes into view from the streetlight. A crooked smile runs up half his cheek. His eyes, hellish as ever, watch her.
Her heart skips. "Huh?"
"W-w-what are you mumbling about?" Genzo stutters. "I-I told you I'd g-give you anything! J-just name your price!"
"Nah, your fate's already screwed. Ten seconds left."
Genzo shoots his head from side to side. Then he scrambles away into the opposite direction and down a long alleyway, wailing.
"Seven…six… five…"
She watches Genzo reach the far end of the alleyway.
The hooded man raises one hand up and forms a gun with his fingers. "Three…two…one…BANG!"
A loud crash, and Genzo's form disappears behind a rushing truck. The eighteen-wheeler screeches to a halt, the abruptness makes the breaks flare and sparks fly. Somehow she knows that Genzo is dead.
"Car accident, it is," the hooded man says, shoving his hand back into his pocket and skipping onto the sidewalk. He nudges one of the dead goons with his foot. "Say, where do you suppose people go to when they die?"
It takes her a moment to come out of the vice-like grip of shock and reply, "I-I don't know. Heaven, I guess."
"Really?" He swirls on the heel of his foot to face her. "Even these guys get to go to heaven?"
"Maybe not everyone," she corrects.
The hooded man bends down and removes something from his pocket. He opens the switchblade and cuts along the goon's cheek in three ways, creating a triangle-shaped incision that he peels off.
She tenses. "What are you doing?"
"Preserving the kill."
She blinks.
He stands and rolls the bloody piece of flesh up before tilting his head back. Face still obscured, she can't see his full features. The piece slides into his mouth, and she hears him gulp.
Her stomach churns. He's a damn cannibal? All the food inside her threatens to pour out. She cups one hand over her mouth to prevent such and holds her ripped coat together with the other.
The hooded man slowly turns his head and then his body toward her. The red eyes beam with hunger. "Before I kill you, I'd like to know your name."
Name? Why does her name have any importance if he's going to end her anyway? She shouldn't have expected he'd let her go after witnessing him killing three people.
He steps closer. "Well?"
"S-Sayu," she says, her voice trembling. "That's my name."
He stands only inches away from her. She can feel his hot breath on her skin. She waits for her inevitable end. She hadn't imagined dying this night, but if there's no escaping it, then she decides that there's no point in running away either.
Sirens blare in the distance.
"Well, that's my cue." He starts away at a casual pace.
"Wait," she calls. "You're not going to kill me?"
He looks at her one more time with those hellish eyes. A smile crawls back onto his face, but it's different than last time. It's childish and kind. "This'll be our little secret." He presses his pointer finger to his lips and shushes.
Her spine chills as his image melts into the shadows.
His voice and half-obscured face linger in her mind as she leaves behind the scene of the dead goons. The last thing Sayu needs is to be arrested for a crime she hadn't committed. But the images of their faces lurk in her mind. Just like how she had found her mother hanging from the rafter in her parents' bedroom. She shakes away both images to the best of her ability and quickens her pace.
She arrives to work fifteen minutes late. The club is already blaring with music and heat. Her ears ring upon entering the backdoor. Miss Asami's glare, crossed arms, and tapping finger await her.
"What took you so long?" Her purple lips purse in irritation. She taps harder on her skeletal arm. Her breath and fur vest reek of cigarette smoke.
"Sorry, ma'am," she says.
"Just get dressed and get on stage."
Don't' you mean undressed? Sayu snaps back in thought. "Yes, ma'am." She rushes by her boss and into the changing room.
"There you are!" a masculine yet high-pitched voice says.
Before she has a chance to sit, someone grabs her by the shoulders and drags her into a changing room. Sayu nearly elbows Nami in the stomach. Her grip is almost as tight as the two goons' were.
"Quickly, quickly, dearie! You're supposed to be on stage already." Nami starts undressing her until Sayu stands before her naked. Although, Nami was born male, Sayu doesn't cover herself out of shame or embarrassment. They've been through this countless of times, and Nami's never identified herself as male for as long as Sayu's known her. In truth, she's the only person Sayu feels comfortable sharing candid information with.
Nami hands her a matching bra and underwear and then slaps her on the ass. "Oh, this is going to look fabulous on you!"
Sayu wiggles her way into the fabrics while her stylist turns her attention onto Sayu's hair, unfastening the bun and letting her dark tendrils fall loose over the middle part of her back. Once dressed, Nami forces her into a chair, swiftly flying a makeup brush over her face. Sayu had never seen such artistic drive in anyone until she met Nami. The rate at which she works is astounding. And the quality of her resulting canvas is even more so.
Nami finishes gluing Sayu's false lashes on and then claps her hands. Her red acrylic nails tap together. "Perfect."
She helps her into a pair of stilettos and gently pushes Sayu into an adjacent room where smoke encompasses the air, turning the place into a fog. The shapes of customers and coworkers move through the fog like shadows, and pieces of neon lights break through, spinning in random directions. The music blares, pounding in sync with her heart. The heat causes a bead of sweat to slip down her back and dampen her bra.
"Go get'em, pumpkin!" Nami cheers from the door and blows an encouraging kiss her way, fluttering her gargantuan false lashes like a pair of bird wings ready to take flight.
Sayu responds with a perfunctory smile. Once the door closes behind her, she takes a deep breath and exhales most of the nerves that have piled up inside her. Then she descends into the foggy abyss toward her stage. The stilettos are strapped tightly to her ankles. They feel like cuffs restraining her to this prison of sex, drugs, alcohol and madness.
She navigates the room at a slow but sensual pace. Any quick movement might accidentally make a fool of her. Too many slip-ups in the past on these six-inch heels have taught her to be wary of future mistakes. But, as she glides across the hardwood floor, it feels like something's pulling her on strings. Like she's a puppet ready to perform for its puppeteer. Her body works on its own while her mind fills with thoughts of her savior and the dead Genzo and his goons. It feels like a dream.
Those hellish eyes still watch her with a mixture of curiosity and murderous intent. Why didn't he kill her when he ended Genzo's party so swiftly and mysteriously? It's as if he were Death himself, having risen from the underworld to pluck his newest victims from this world and drag their souls beneath the earth. But how did he kill them? Was he working alone? Did he have someone snipe them from afar? But nobody shot the goons. They fell and died of something internal. Poisoned, perhaps? And what of Genzo? How did the hooded man know he'd be killed by a car accident? Was he really working alone? It sounds insane, but the only rational solution she can conclude with is that the entire situation was based on coincidence—from the hooded man's interference to Genzo's death.
Lost in her own mind, she doesn't realize until she feels money drift across her bare skin that she's on stage performing. Her completely nude figure is out for display like a toy in a store. But the one watching her isn't the typical sleazy family man come to sneak out at night while his wife and kids are asleep. Her audience has no ring on his left finger, nor could he be older than thirty (at least, based on his youthful appearance). In a strange way, his expression reminds her of her brother. There's innocence. As if he's been forced here. As if he doesn't want to be here but got lost on his way home. As if he's trying to escape from something or someone. And, for some stranger reason, she feels like she's seen his face before beneath the errant stubble and dark, baggy eyes.
She finishes the last few steps in her routine before collecting her clothes from the stage floor along with what money she can find before sitting down. Part of her job isn't only to dance but also to socialize. If Miss Asami finds out she didn't at least have small talk with the man, she'll be in even more trouble.
"What's your name?" he asks.
"S—Yuri. It's Yuri." Damn, almost let it slip.
"Why haven't I seen you before?"
"Perhaps you weren't looking well enough," she fires back, trying not to sound too offensive. Customers like some sass, but they won't pay well for rudeness. There's a fine line between the two. Sayu sits down next to him and notices his sleeping friend on his other side. She can't tell if he's dead or alive, but focuses on the innocent man, flirting with his body by crossing her legs and purposely rubbing her foot against his leg.
His shoulders tense in response. "So how long have you been working here?" he asks after a nervous laugh.
"About three months." She nods to the other man, concerned for his health. "Is he going to need help being escorted out?"
The sober man waves his hands in front of him. A weak smile sits across his face. "Oh, no, no. He's just taking a nap. Don't worry about him. This happens all the time."
She doesn't believe him. Based on his friend's unconscious state and business attire, the men don't get out enough.
"So where are you from?"
The question throws her off for a moment. But this time she makes sure not to slip up. Instead, she opts to turn the tables. If she's learned anything from her line of work, it's that many customers want attention that they don't have at home. Sometimes it's sexual attention (which she evades to the best of her degree), and other times it's nothing more than conversation. Most of the time though, it's a mixed bag.
Sayu thins the gap between their bodies until her breast presses into his chest. His face still has a lingering hint of familiarity. But she has yet to piece together where they've met before. Was he a past customer? A teacher at her university? She can't solve the issue. But asking him for his name may cause an unwanted stir. Defeated, she coils an arm around his neck and rests her hand on his opposite shoulder. "I'd like to know more about you. What do you do for a living?"
He licks his lips. She can tell he's nervous. "I'm…in law enforcement."
And that's when it hits her. This man worked with her father. And now he's seen her naked. Holy shit, what a horrible reunion this has turned out to be. However, his name still can't find its way into her mind, and she can't afford to dawdle either. He may recognize her beneath Nami's thick makeup. The longer she waits, the worse things become. "So you're a cop?"
His eyes briefly trail down to glance her breasts, but he swiftly looks away. "Technically yes, but I'm off-duty."
Not that an off-duty cop isn't dangerous. Sayu needs to be aware of what she says lest he identify her. But she needs to maintain her Yuri façade. "An off-duty cop in the heart of the red light district," she says, smiling. "What will people say?"
"I won't tell if you won't," he says, winking.
The words are almost as chilling as the hooded man's. This night is turning into a startling mixture of coincidences.
She giggles and shifts her weight to preserve her mask. Should she change subjects? No, it's too soon. Nobody would switch from a topic like this without looking suspicious. She shouldn't ask him what she wants to ask him. On the other hand, it may be the only method to help her find some closure. Both her father and brother's deaths remain unresolved. There's a piece of her that yearns to know who's responsible. Besides, it's not the same as staring down Death as she had earlier.
She takes a leap of faith. "Did you happen to work on the Kira case?"
"Yes, actually." He says surprisingly without much hesitation. "I was one of the few to catch him."
Sayu hadn't expected to hear the second bit. "Really?" This man knows who killed her father and brother. She needs a name. Just the name will satisfy her. Then this hole in her heart may start to repair. "Who was he?" All professionalism in her has flown out of the window.
His face scrunches up. She shrinks back, realizing that she may have given herself away. Is he going to call someone over? Is he going to say her real name? Shit. She shouldn't have been so careless.
He drops his head into his lap and leans over the sofa. The alcohol must have caught up to him.
Sayu isn't sure what else to do except place a hand on his back. "Hey. Are you feeling all right? Do you need to throw up?" She rubs up and down the curve of his spine, waiting for his response.
He raises his head, and his face has drained of color. "N-no. Sorry about that, but I think I should go. Thank you for the d—for your company." He slides away from her, stands, and slaps his hand against his friend's cheek until his eyes flutter open. When the other man can't gather himself off the sofa, his friend throws his arm around his shoulders and hoists him up. Then he turns back to Sayu with an apologetic smile. "Thanks again. Sorry it couldn't be longer."
Sayu smiles back weakly. "It's okay. I hope to see you again."
No, he can't leave like this. Not went she's so close to the answer she's been chasing for three years. Sayu tries to figure out a way to keep him just a bit longer so she has time to pry out the information she needs from his mouth. However, she's too slow to compose a plan, and he's already heading out the back exit.
When the door closes, she realizes she should ask for his number. Another rule breaking move, but what Miss Asami doesn't know won't hurt anyone. She hurries outside and holds the door open. If it closes, it locks. The January chill hits her nearly naked form like sharp needles, numbing her exposed skin. Her eyes dart everywhere for the two men, but they've melted into the streets like the hooded man had.
"Fuck," she mutters between gritted teeth.
Someone whistles.
Sayu snarls at a bunch of drunken admirers waving to her from down the street. She promptly slams the door behind her and returns to the foggy atmosphere that is the club.
She sits down in the same booth even though she should be on stage performing and adding to her bank. But there's no point in dancing if she's not in a certain mindset.
Her thigh brushes against something.
Sayu notices something wedged in between the cushions. Plucking it out, she discovers a wallet. She opens it and the first thing she sees is the man's face on his ID.
Her mouth drops at the name.
Touta Matsuda.
22 DAYS REMAINING.