She carried herself with grace, each movement of her delicate form refined. There was a proudness to her features, complementing the fierceness of her eyes, that held an air of importance. It was very likely she came from an affluent family, he noted, her demeanor seeming to exude superiority. How much of this was artifice or inherited, he could not say, and as he expected, there was precious little he could find about her online.
It was a convincing cover, nearly perfect in fact, and a less observant person might've fallen for her ruse. She rarely strayed from her routine, going to work and returning home, with little else in between. There were no photographs in her apartment, nothing of a personal nature, aside from a meticulously organized pair bookcases. The rare volumes might've been significant, if her work was not as a conservationist, but they presumably existed only as an added layer of camouflage.
Everything was too pristine, not a stray hair or particle of accumulated dust. She was obviously compulsively thorough in her efforts, conveniently wiping away any fingerprints as she worked. As with the apartment, her computer was empty, and decrypting the password had been far too simple. There were no personal emails or photos, nor any social media accounts. For a beautiful woman in her mid-twenties, it was all highly suspicious.
There were no cameras or bugs, however, which was somewhat unexpected. He would need to work quickly, the element of surprise being his greatest advantage, and he could not waste it by acting rashly. Besides, even if the evidence was overwhelming, he'd yet to find any tangible proof, and wasn't willing to risk moving forward without it. On the off chance that he'd somehow been mistaken, which he very much doubted, then Miss Ririchiyo Shirakiin was definitely still hiding something. While normal people had lives, friends, families, she seemed to have no one.
Her behavior appeared incredibly strange, if careful attention was paid. At odd hours, when the city was least busy, she rode the subway to a neighborhood halfway across town. Once there, she would purchase the same gourmet coffee beans from the same specialty store. Each day, after she returned from work, she checked her mailbox. In and of itself, this was not remarkable, but she would stare into its empty recesses expectantly, waiting for something that never seemed to arrive. In the time he watched her, she hadn't received even a single letter.
She filled her time with work, finding her duties sufficient to occupy her waking hours, at least for the most part. It was so quiet at home, since her myna bird died, a presence she didn't realize how much she would miss. Sometimes she would lie in bed, remembering the shadow of the cage as it swayed; as she listened to its occupant's mimicry. The silence in his absence was suffocating.
Had that bird, for all intents and purposes, not been the closest thing she had to a friend? Maybe, she thought, she should adopt a companion animal, but they too would eventually leave her; so she was better off staying alone. Her coffee and books remained her only steadfast companions, never fickle or changing, always providing exactly what she expected of them and asking nothing in return.
The book in front of her was less interesting than its binding, her eyes drawn to its intricate engraving as she scrutinized the workmanship. She returned to it often, being one of her first acquisitions, and it was a source of inspiration still. Her own approach was methodical, markings precise down to the micrometer, but this was different. She was unable to express it in words, the sight of it speaking to something inside her, evoking a sense of peace as she ran her hand over its cover, feeling the indentations beneath her fingers.
This had become something of a ritual, a way to ground herself when she was feeling overwrought. It was Saturday, which meant two full days without work to distract her, and she'd woken up prematurely by the nightmare again. The ceramic mug clattered against the table, her hand trembling as she picked it up, desperate for relief and comfort.
She sipped her coffee slowly, breathing deeply of its earthy aroma and savoring the hint of bitterness on her tongue. Each time she made it just the same, the beans measured by weight, the water poured in at just the right temperature. Ririchiyo had experimented for years to perfect her method, and she was proud to enjoy the fruits of her labor. It was one of few things in this world that meant something to her.
This intense curiosity was new for Soushi, his interest having evolved beyond what mere caution dictated. The reasoning behind it, or when exactly this change took place, he could not say, but the very idea of it was bewildering. People did not generally appeal to him, having never felt like a person himself, every fiber of his existence merely an affectation. Yet she acted on him like gravity, and he felt himself pulled inexorably towards her, an urge that reason could not deny.
Today was particularly thrilling, because she was traveling somewhere new. He followed at a calculated distance, his appearance engineered to be inconspicuous. Though it was a routine part of his job, trailing her was different, filling his stomach with an odd feeling he could only liken to a kind of fluttering. As with all the other sensations she inspired in him, it was something he'd never imagined experiencing for himself.
Her steps were slightly quickened, he noticed, almost leaping up from her seat on the train. Where she typically moved at a determined but unhurried pace, something today caused her to rush, tripping carelessly on the stairs. Though she caught herself before falling, he'd barely been able to hold himself back, the instinct to aid her a curious one, and another first for him.
He stayed back when she turned down an alley, unwilling to risk detection, and watched as a pair of men approached her. Were they her contacts, he wondered; had the day he'd been waiting for finally arrived? His body moved forward of its own volition, refusing to stay still when one of them pulled out a knife. Regardless of anything else, he could not allow her to be harmed.
With a rising palm strike, she struck his hand, the knife thrown from his grip as her foot collided with his groin. As he doubled over in pain, she grabbed his head, driving her knee up, into his face, and shoving him to the ground. His friend hesitated, obviously surprised; so she waited for him to make his move. With unsteady hands, he reached for his belt, pulling a gun from the waist of his pants.
"Are you going to shoot me?" she taunted, feeling her mouth curving into a smile. "Well, go ahead then, or are you too much of a coward?"
She stepped forward until the end of the barrel was inches from her face, his hands beginning to tremble as she stared him down for all she was worth. Though her heart beat loudly in her ears, somehow her breathing remained steady, and she felt oddly calm. Ririchiyo knew her behavior was uncharacteristically reckless, but she couldn't seem to help herself, almost daring him to pull the trigger.
"Crazy… bitch," the man snarled, a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow.
The mocking chuckle fell from her lips unbidden, ducking her head as she thrust her hands upward, the gun going off when her foot connected with his stomach. She grabbed his hands and the barrel, twisting until he was forced to let go, his wrists about to snap, and she wrested the weapon from his grasp.
"Crazy," she repeated, "maybe I am, but at least I'm not incompetent like you."
He raised his hands in surrender as she trained the gun on him, shifting her attention back and forth between him and his partner, waiting for one of them to act. Of course they didn't, behaving exactly as the cowards she knew them to be.
"Get out of my sight," she commanded, sick of having to look at their disgusting faces.
She closed her eyes, shaking out her limbs, and breathed in and out deeply. What had she been thinking? Practically daring a man with a gun in her face to shoot her! The lack of sleep was frying her nerves, true, but she didn't have a death wish, did she? No one would miss you, she thought bitterly, swallowing down the bile rising up in her throat and focusing again on her breathing. So close now, to beautiful distraction; she just needed to hold out a little longer...
He smiled to himself from where he hid, having watched the scene play out from the shadows. It had taken every ounce of Soushi's self-control to stop him from killing the men himself, essentially acting as her protector, and though he still wanted to, his decision was the correct one. The altercation, having obviously not been part of her plan, allowed him to glimpse a hidden side of her that he might not otherwise have seen.
Though few in number, when put together, the pieces he was slowly collecting painted a very interesting picture. Despite the intensity of her eyes, her almost painfully small stature and petite frame were unassuming, no doubt making her impressive combat skills even deadlier. Was she like him, someone's tool, living to efficiently carry out her duties, or was she something else, the similarities merely drawn by a deluded mind daring to entertain false hope?
He watched her round the corner, using a delicate, lace handkerchief to wipe away her fingerprints, before expertly disassembling the firearm and discarding its pieces in a sewer grate. She placed the soiled cloth inside a plastic bag, returning them both to her purse, and then, running her hands along the length of her dress to smooth out any wrinkles, she lifted her chin and continued on her way. Her composure was somehow more immaculate than before the foiled robbery, her eyes almost imperceptibly sharper, with the barest hint of tightness in her jaw.
Though, he supposed, it was possible for shock to manifest itself in such a way, he found the prospect dubious. As a long-time student of human behavior, Soushi's observational experiences led him to generally trust the law of parsimony: that the simplest explanation is most often the correct one. He surmised, therefore, that Miss Shirakiin had not only received extensive martial arts training, but that she had also put that training to previous use.
His head swum with possibilities, curiosity somehow thoroughly piqued and continuing to rise; preoccupation compelling him to follow her past the threshold to her destination. An antique bookseller's cramped shop left him with precious few places to hide, and no discernible way to quickly exit, should the need arise. It was a precarious situation he'd placed himself in, he observed, eyes scrutinizing his surroundings, but the risk felt unimportant when weighed against the unrelenting impulse to be near her.
Stepping through the doors was like passing through a portal, into a world where everything made sense. Running her gloved fingers along the spines of volumes that were created before she was born, and would exist long after she died, was somehow grounding. Releasing a breath she didn't realize she was holding, her body relaxed, tension bleeding away as she perused the shelves, waiting for something to strike her fancy.
It was seldom the highly-prized works that caught her interest, a first edition of some classic, whose genius had long been pored over by scholars. No, it was the truly special pieces that called to her, passed over by most collectors as having little value; whose namesake was unremarkable, the author having been long forgotten by time. Their lonely pages spoke a language few could understand, eager to confide their secrets in someone who could see their worth, promising to reverse ages of neglect with tender loving care.
"I'll take these," she told the purveyor, placing her selections on the glass counter.
"Are you sure these are the ones you want, Miss?" He raised an eyebrow in confusion, looking at her expectantly, as though she should change her mind.
"Yes, I am quite certain," she assured him, counting out the exact amount needed for her purchase.
"There is a no refund policy, Miss."
"Yes, I know," she insisted, voice becoming unnecessarily stern. "Please wrap them carefully."
"Where should I have them delivered?" he inquired, counting the crisp bills and placing them into the antique register.
"I will take them directly," she announced, daring him to argue.
Her parcel was heavy, laboriously so, but she'd not have left without a single acquisition, each title of equal importance. She closed her eyes, smiling secretly to herself, steps feeling light despite her burden. Today turned out well, she thought, far removed from her morning and the unfortunate encounter not two hours earlier. She made a plan to return again, the next time her spirits were in need of lifting, though she would look for an alternate route.