In the dark night, the flicker of blue and red cast an eerie glow on the crew's white hazmat suits as they carried the weight of another lost soul in a black body bag. They moved with a solemn purpose to the damp grass beside the creek, where rows of similar bags lay in silent testament to the night's events.
Arima's voice cut through the stillness, "How's Haise?"
"Contained," Hirako replied, his gaze lingering on the officers swarming the manhole. "We'll assess him once he's conscious—" His words trailed off. Another body emerged from the depths, demanding attention from those above.
"Special Class Arima." A cold greeting sliced the air. "What an honor."
The pieces fell into place for Arima; Hirako's insistence on his presence was never about the operation. "I was told he was ready for the field." Still, nothing fazed Arima.
The woman's eyes flicked to Hirako, a silent acknowledgment of the spy. "So I thought," she mused, a smirk playing on her lips. "But not Centipede." Her gaze was brief, yet in that moment, Arima recognized the hunger in her eyes—a thirst only blood could quench. It was a wonder Akira hadn't exterminated Centipede, but chose CRc gas instead. Even if the opposite happened, it was hard to tell who would prevail.
There she was, eyes still on him, proving to him that she found him hiding the truth, as if doing so would force him to give her a confession. "The report will be on your desk by tomorrow morning," she stopped to glance at her watch, "Correction. This morning." Her professionalism only served to deepen their estrangement, her dignity forbidding her, even after he stripped her of the opportunity to avenge her dead partner.
"Take the rest of the day off," he offered, pausing by her side. "You've earned it." Confrontation was inevitable, but not today. Their reckoning would come in due time.
And he would be the one to choose the battleground.
The sound of crunching and cracking numbed his senses until he heard something being torn out. He wouldn't have shuddered if he had been sitting by the dining table, which he dreamed about having a hot meal at. A torn arm was thrown at him. With his mouth covered, he cowered and prayed that he wouldn't be noticed.
His heart pumped faster, demanding more oxygen, which he had deliberately deprived himself of. Footsteps, slow and light, reverberated in his ears. Even the busy traffic above him could not dampen them. Thanks to the free sound system from living under the bridge.
The street light pierced through the thin tarpaulin. He looked away when the thin shadow towered over him. He didn't want to see the shadow that stretched longer, but he couldn't turn off the footsteps that dictated his heartbeats. He didn't dare to move, even though he wished he could be anywhere but where he was now.
The footsteps stopped. He doubted that he was in the clear. A minute of tranquility was not enough to convince him. He had to be sure. There was a safe way to check. On his tarpaulin were patches of duct tape that had begun to fail. The hole that froze him at night was finally useful for once.
It was just a peep. Little did he know, there was another eye waiting for him.
The scream would have drawn some attention—if it hadn't come from under the bridge.
The sheet on the tent was abruptly peeled away. The disgusted faces instinctively protected their nostrils from the foul stench. Only one had braced through because he was Inspector Miyagi, for whom the smell was something he could never overcome.
"It's homicide," someone declared. It wasn't Miyagi who had spoken. All eyes turned to the unknown man behind the crowd.
"Inoue!" Inspector Inoue came forward and took a peek. "Has Cyber Crime no case, that you have to stick your nose everywhere?"
His peer watched on, arms crossed. "No blood…" Inoue muttered as the tent closed on him.
"I might not have been clear enough…" The senior inspector stepped between Inoue and the tent. "This case doesn't belong to Cyber Crime."
"I told you that I don't know anything!"
That loud protest distracted the inspectors. They moved further upstream, where more makeshift shelters were.
"Please cooperate, sir," a police officer said, grabbing a man by the elbow. Judging by the smell and worn parka on the middle-aged man…
"Leave me alone!" The man jerked like a wild horse refusing to be tamed. More officers came to aid their colleague. The telescopic sticks came into action.
"Let that man go!" Inoue cried out just in time to stop the stick that was raised high in the air. He had to intervene.
"Inoue!" Miyagi shouted but realized he had to run after the detective who had overstepped. The stick fell. A hand had seized the wrist of the officer.
"Let's talk, shall we?" Yoshida smirked.
"Tokyo Security Committee, Kento Hayashi," Hayashi flashed his ID. "And my partner, Yoshida."
"TSC?" Miyagi asked, with a raised brow. While he knew the procedure, he himself had barely arrived at the crime scene. "Since when did we—"
"Alright, everyone! Thank you for securing the scene," Yoshida ushered the officers away, along with Miyagi. "We shall take over from here."
Inoue walked up to Hayashi and stopped by his shoulder. "Does your chief know about this?"
Hayashi glanced at Inoue, trying hard not to break a sweat.
Inoue took his time to light a cigarette. "Though it's not my problem…" He blew out the smoke. "You don't have much time."
"What do you mean?"
Inoue didn't reply immediately. Instead, he took one last drag, a long one, finishing it as if he was in a hurry. Hayashi frowned, watching Inoue march out without another word.
"Hey, old man!" Hayashi snapped his head to Yoshida, who was after the homeless man.
"Yoshida!" Hayashi cried out, but his partner had gotten too far. He silently cursed before engaging in the pursuit.
This was the worst time for his partner to be in high spirits. They jumped over fences, nearly ran into some elderly who were strolling in the park. A bike crossed their path then steered left and right, narrowly missing both Yoshida and the homeless man. It was Hayashi who ended his luck.
Hayashi stopped to apologize to the fallen cyclist before resuming the pursuit. He stopped again in a marketplace, surrounded by people. There was no sign of Yoshida or the homeless man.
"Human lives matter! Human lives matter!" A long procession of people marched down the road, white shirts tainted in red, banners held high, chanting the slogan as if it were a recording played on a loop.
Hayashi looked up. Across the displays on the high-rise buildings, the news ticker invaded his sight:
Avalon System Passed Safety Check.
Governor: It's Time!
Squatting and hiding behind the hedge, the homeless man watched longingly at the tarpaulin, his home, now separated from him by police tape. It looked like he needed to find somewhere else to sleep. A chill ran down his spine. He made a sharp turn to his back. A pair of eyes—red as rubies—were watching him. "Ah!" The homeless man fell to his bottom.
"Who's there?" The ruckus had alerted the nearby officer. No response. The officer approached the hedge and peered behind it. He faltered. Something jumped onto his foot. Meow. A cat scuttled away, disappearing into the opposite street. Not expecting to be spooked by a cat, the officer shrugged his shoulders and returned to his post, ignoring his colleagues' teasing.
Unbeknownst to them, the homeless man was still hiding behind the bush. One arm held the girl tightly to his chest. The other muffled her mouth. He didn't dare to move. A sharp pain triggered his reflexes, causing him to retract his hand. His jaws clenched tightly. Even with his eyes blurred with tears, he didn't let out a sound.
"Why are you hiding?" The homeless man wasn't paying attention to her. He checked his hand immediately. They were quivering but intact. He breathed out in relief. There were two streaks of blood on one of his hands. He gladly accepted this. It was much better than having it bitten off.
He turned to the girl, who was opening her mouth again. He snatched her hand and ran off, pulling her along with him. They had to leave before the police returned. The girl might have said something else. He wasn't sure and didn't care. They escaped to a back alley. He finally let go of her.
The girl, however, chose to stay. She was surrounded by piles of boxes and soiled appliances. She watched the man step into a puddle of dirty water to reach into the piles, undisturbed by the swarms of flies
"Haha!" He pulled out an unopened can of sardine as if he had hit a jackpot. The pain. The girl. Nothing was as important as that can of sardine. The man carefully opened the can with a Swiss knife from his pocket. The girl chose to watch on without bothering him. Just as she thought he would dig in and fill his stomach, the man went away again.
The girl took a couple of steps but stopped. The homeless man didn't go far, just a few steps to the opposite wall. "What are—" Shhh… The man looked around and checked the gaps between the dumpsters. He stooped to lay the can on the floor. It was hard to see what he was up to with all the clutter around. The girl got closer and squatted next to the man, who seemed not bothered by her presence. The girl looked intently at him, whose flat lips had curled up. Amazed, the girl straightened her back.
Mew. Three kittens loomed out from under the dumpster. As soon as they saw the man and the girl, the kittens withdrew their heads. "It's alright," the man cooed. The kittens watched the man. One of them seemed to have picked up the scent of the sardine and dipped its head into the can. The other two followed. Soon, they had long forgotten that they were being watched.
A loud clunk onto the ground. A warped tin rocked to a stop. The girl turned around. The man was gone. She found a shadow towering over her. She then frowned sadly. "Shou—" Without a word, Shou grabbed her hand and pulled her along. The girl yanked her arm away and ran off. She didn't go far before he cut in. "Midori." He called her name, as if to stop her mind from even thinking about trying to run off again.
"Shou, you're an idiot!" She punched her fists repeatedly against his abdomen. Watching how her punches didn't hurt him even a bit, she slowed to a stop. "Midori!" He managed to catch her before she fell to her head. Someone walked past them. Shou instinctively looked away, then stole a glance at the man, who seemed to be minding his own business. Still, Shou didn't want to leave it to chance.
Trouble never ceased for him. First, it was an unsolved mystery. Then, a ghoul case reminiscent of the Meat Grinder occurred in the same district where Mado was assaulted. And now…
Hayashi ruffled his hair in frustration. He needed a clue—any clue. He contemplated greeting the lead investigator for this new case, perhaps over a cup of coffee. Who knew? Maybe he'd get an invitation to join the investigation. He wagered that even Nakajima couldn't turn down a request from a peacekeeper.
"Hayashi! Where have you been?!" The voice snapped him back to reality.
Damn!
With gritted teeth, Hayashi turned toward the voice. "Yoshida!" He thought, one day he might just lose it and punch that grinning face.
"You need to loosen up," Yoshida chided.
"Easy for you to say. Aren't you empty-handed?" Hayashi retorted.
"Look. We went back to the crime scene. We searched every crook and cranny. Don't you think we should stop for now?"
Hayashi kept shaking his head.
"Maybe the blogger will surface or Mado might wake up to tell the truth."
"We are peacekeepers, Yoshida! How do you know when the blogger will show up or if Mado will wake up? And, how do you know if there won't be another victim, huh? The Metro just found another dump site!" Hayashi looked away. Hands propped on his waist. It's almost winter and yet he felt like it was summer. He didn't blame Yoshida for pulling back. He was just frustrated how little they could do in protecting the public. If there was God, he needed one now.
"Amazing grace… How sweet the sound…" The voice was nearly drowned out by the deafening street noise.
"Hey, Hayashi! Where're you going?" Yoshida called after him.
But the melody had reached Hayashi. Yoshida's face swiped into his view. His partner was talking to him, but his voice was muffled. Not just Yoshida's, but all the surrounding noise seemed to fade away. Hayashi was compelled to follow that melody. He crossed the streets, weaving through the crowd.
As the sound grew louder, Hayashi found himself in the plaza. There, a sweet soloist with an acoustic guitar sang passionately to the indifferent passersby.
Behind the singer, a line of people formed in an orderly fashion. Most were thinly dressed against the chill, their appearances disheveled. They held plastic food trays, their eyes fixed longingly on the steaming meals served from the food trucks.
Hayashi felt a mix of pity and curiosity as he observed the homeless individuals. Yet, he didn't lose sight of his mission. He approached one of the lines. "Have you seen this man? About my height, black beanie, beard, wearing a blue parka, and a red scarf?"
The men turned away, dismissing him with a wave of their hands.
Undeterred, Hayashi persisted, questioning the next person, and the next.
Across the street, Yoshida watched as Hayashi interrogated one person after another. He couldn't fathom why his partner was so invested in a case that wasn't theirs. It was only a matter of time before Nakajima discovered their extracurricular investigation. Yoshida knew he had to pull Hayashi back before it was too late.
"We are peacekeepers…"
Yoshida's breath formed clouds in the frigid air as he pulled his hoodie over his head, hands buried deep in his pockets. He hunched his shoulders, trying to preserve every bit of warmth as he joined the queue.
"Oh boy, it's freezing!" Yoshida exclaimed, rubbing his hands vigorously against his thighs. He turned to the man in front of him, a grizzled figure with layers of worn clothing. "Hey, what's this line for?"
The man glanced back, his face weathered but his eyes sharp. "You're new?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.
"Yeah," Yoshida replied with a nonchalant shrug. "Got kicked out yesterday."
"Lucky you, it's Friday. You can eat all you can," the man said, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"What, just Friday? How about the rest of the six days? Am I supposed to starve?" Yoshida's tone was half-joking, half-serious.
"Follow them to other wards. Else, just register yourself to a shelter. That's the only way to get a hot shower," the man advised, nodding toward a group of people moving in the distance.
"Sweet. Why didn't you get yourself in?" Yoshida inquired, genuinely curious.
The man snorted. "And get a curfew? No thank you. I'm my own man."
"Right… you have a point," Yoshida conceded, then hesitated for a moment. "Hey, do you by any chance know a man wearing a black beanie and a blue parka?"
The men around them frowned, exchanging wary looks. Yoshida pressed on, "You see. He stepped on me when I was sleeping. I called him. He just kept running. He owed me an apology."
"You have to be more specific," one of the men grumbled.
"I think I saw him with a beard. There was a red scarf around his neck," Yoshida described, hoping it would jog their memories.
"Must be Kitty," one of the men mentioned, and the others nodded in agreement.
"Kitty? I'm talking about an old man," Yoshida clarified, puzzled.
"Yes. That's him! The volunteer called him Asaya," another man chimed in, his voice carrying a mix of respect and caution.
Yoshida's eyes narrowed slightly. "Asaya, huh? Do you know where I can find him?" he asked, a sense of urgency creeping into his voice.
The men exchanged glances, and one of them said, "You don't. No one does. He doesn't like to talk to anyone. Ever. We just know that he's been feeding stray cats."
"There was one time some volunteers tried to send him some food, but he threw things at them," another added.
"Very paranoid," a third concluded with a nod.
Yoshida's gaze lingered on the men for a moment longer before he turned away, finding Hayashi's eyes meet his.
Hayashi sighed at that gloating smirk. For once, his partner saved the day. Yet, their work has just begun.
"Is there anything I can help you with?"
Hayashi turned around and recognized the green jacket. The lady had a smile of a bright sun.
In the room's hushed stillness, the flickering screen was the sole beacon, unveiling a building caught in nature's relentless embrace, its windows shrouded by ivy. Within stood a woman, eerily motionless. The floor around her was a canvas of splattered body parts and tissues. Her suit, once an emblem of order, now sported the chaotic patterns of dark, indelible stains.
Her foot shifted slightly, eliciting a faint squeak that sounded almost plaintive. The camera crept closer, her head turning as though reacting to an echo. Her eyes, void of life, confronted the lens. Then the screen went black.
The finger that had been pressing the delete button lifted. The file disappeared, the digital evidence erased, taking the secret with it into oblivion. The truth of what happened would remain hidden, known only to the observer and the woman with the vacant stare.