Chapter 0 Prologue

The weight of a long and tedious day clung to the man like a persistent shadow as he finally unlocked the door to his dimly lit study. The air inside was thick with the scent of stale tobacco and the lingering aroma of cheap incense he sometimes burned to clear his head after a particularly draining case.

He shrugged off his worn-out tweed jacket, a garment that had witnessed countless crime scenes and late-night stakeouts. The fabric at the elbows was thin and slightly frayed, a testament to years of leaning over desks and crouching in dark alleys. A small tear near the left shoulder had been inexpertly mended with darker thread, creating a noticeable patch. The pocket stretched and misshapen, still held the faint outlines of forgotten evidence bags and crumpled notes. The once rich brown hue had faded in places, particularly along the collar and cuffs, softened by time and the elements. Despite its disrepair, the jacket held a certain familiarity, a comforting weight that was almost a second skin.

Beneath it, he wore a simple, slightly rumpled white shirt, the collar loosened, and dark, unremarkable trousers. "Finally finished with that mess," he thought, a sigh escaping his lips. The emotional theatrics and predictable motivations of such cases always left him feeling more depleted than intellectually stimulated. He sank into the worn leather of his armchair, the familiar creak a small comfort in the quiet solitude. 

The neon glow of Tokyo painted streaks of anti-racial color across the dusty windowpanes, a vibrant yet ultimately superficial contrast to the murky depths of human behavior he had been wading through all day.

The initial ingress of whiskey, a fiery libation, coursed a familiar path down his esophagus, a welcome conflagration against the pervasive chill of his profound enervation. Intellectual stimulation was no longer his desideratum; rather, he sought a quiet capitulation to the inexorable embrace of the encroaching nocturne. The recent case, a labyrinthine imbroglio of perfidy and peculation, had proven less an intellectual gauntlet and more a wearisome excavation of human ignobility. He raked a hand across his fatigued visage, the nascent stubble abrasive against his palm.

The pervasive quiescence of the study draped him like a ponderous pall, punctuated only by the distant ululation of a siren, swiftly subsumed by the city’s ubiquitous thrum. He reclined, his cranium resting against the worn leather, his gaze drifting to the burgeoning bibliography of forgotten tomes and adjudicated dossiers, each spine a sepulchral marker of a concluded chapter. From the adjacent side table, he procured a tarnished silver Zippo lighter, its rhythmic click-clack as he manipulated it open and shut, a minuscule anchor in the vast

Ocean of his profound lassitude. He no longer indulged in the inhalation of tobacco, yet the Zippo remained a cherished artifact, a tactile mnemonic of countless vigils, observations, and disquieting ponderings.

He ascended with a deliberate sluggishness, his articulations protesting with a soft crepitation and gravitated towards the fenestration. The opalescent effulgence of Tokyo pulsed below, a symphonic display of artificial luminosity that seemed to mock the inherent chiaroscuro within his soul. A precipitate began to descend, initially a delicate drizzle, then augmenting into resolute drumming against the vitreous pane, blurring the vibrant streaks into aqueous smudges. He observed a solitary figure hasten past a ramen purveyor, their umbrella a diminutive, oscillating islet in the aqueous thoroughfare.

The precipitation invariably bestowed a certain hushed reverence upon the metropolis, a tranquil solemnity that harmonized with his prevailing disposition. He averted his gaze from the window, the city’s superficial splendor impotent against the dense miasma of his intrinsic weariness. He evinced a decided preference for the penumbra, the unspoken verities that inhered in the interspaces of the neon’s resplendence.

Returning to the familiar embrace of his armchair, he retrieved a venerable copy of “The Big Sleep” by Raymond Chandler, its folios supple and friable with the depredations of time. He did not engage in perusal, merely clutched the volume, its accustomed heft a palpable solace. 

The whiskey within his tumbler mirrored the attenuated illumination from the solitary desk lamp, a diminutive, amber sol in the gathering crepuscule. He closed his eyelids, the spectral visages of the day’s disingenuous interlocutors flickering within his mind’s eye. His singular yearning was to immerse himself in the pervasive tranquility, in the creeping tendrils of somnolence that portended a fleeting cessation from the relentless attrition of the human condition.

Hours passed from his sleep, and the sound of the downpour woke his tired, heavy eyes. The sound of thunder roared, and a flash of blinding lightning momentarily illuminated the entire study, rendering the familiar contours of his room in stark, fleeting relief before plunging it back into deeper shadow. The air grew heavy, charged with the electric scent of a coming storm. He sat up, the creak of the leather echoing in the sudden quiet that followed the thunderclap. His mind, still muddled by sleep and liquor, slowly began to register the unyielding clamor of the rain against the windowpane, a relentless percussion that promised to persist through the long, dark hours. The intermittent flashes outside painted the room in an unsettling monochrome, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the faint light from the desk lamp, a silent, chaotic ballet.

He reached for the decanter again, his hand moving with an almost unconscious precision. This time, however, he poured himself a new glass, a deep amber liquid that swirled differently in the glass. It was

bourbon, its aroma subtly sweeter, carrying hints of honeydew and caramelized sugar, a stark yet welcome contrast to the sharper notes of the earlier whiskey. He brought the glass to his lips, the sweetness a fleeting, unexpected comfort against the backdrop of the storm and the ever-present weariness. The world outside roared, but in his study, with the warmth of the bourbon spreading through him, he found a momentary, fragile peace.

With a sigh that seemed to carry the accumulated weight of the city’s secrets, he pushed himself out of the armchair and moved toward his desk. The surface, cluttered with an ordered chaos of files, notebooks, and a perpetually cold ashtray, was a testament to his profession. He switched on a smaller, articulated desk lamp, its concentrated beam illuminating a stack of manila folders. His gaze fell upon a photograph clipped to the top folder: a woman with a meticulously coiffed dark bob and eyes that, even in the grainy print, held a haunted, almost desperate quality. Her name, Mrs. Igarashi, was scrawled beneath it. She wanted him to follow her husband, convinced of his infidelity. Another tale as old as time, he mused, a predictable motif in the grand, sordid opera of human relationships. He picked up the photo, the woman's face, a study in quiet despair, reflecting the dim light. The rain hammered against the window, a constant, mournful accompaniment to the silent dramas unfolding within the city.

He held the photograph of Mrs. Igarashi for a beat longer than necessary. "Another poor soul swallowed by the churning gears of suspicion," he murmured, his voice a low rumble in the echoing room. His eyes narrowed, tracing the lines of her face. She looked like a dame who'd seen too many promises turn to dust. He knew the type. They walked into his office carrying their hurt-like a concealed weapon, looking for someone to point it at. And he, the silent witness, was usually the one left to clean up the wreckage. He placed the photo back on the file, the sound of the rain intensifying, as if the heavens themselves were weeping for all the lonely hearts in this sprawling metropolis. "Always the same song, just different singers," he muttered to the empty room, the bourbon a faint warmth in his belly, doing little to truly thaw the chill that permeated the core of his being. 

A slow moment felt like an eternity in the man's eyes, a palpable, pacing pull that pushed him closer to a deeper sleep. He fought against it, forcing his attention back to the files scattered on his desk. He sifted through a few more documents related to Mrs. Igarashi’s case, his tired gaze scanning the details. He found a recent bank statement, an odd withdrawal, and then a name. Not a woman’s name, but a company, one he’d heard whispers about in the city’s underbelly – a shell corporation, often linked to money laundering and illicit activities. This was a deeper current. And then it hit him: a name in a financial ledger, an address connected to a known front. Her husband wasn't just straying; he was connected to the Ikeda-gumi.

'This wasn't just about a skirt and a straying husband anymore, he thought, a flicker of something akin to interest stirring in the depths of his exhaustion.' 

'This bird's husband was hiding something more than just a dalliance.'  Something that should set off alarm bells for his wife, if she knew the full picture. She’s playing with fire, and she doesn't even know it. The scent of stale tobacco in the room seemed to thicken, a premonition of the darker currents he was about to wade into. He was about to delve deeper when a sharp, insistent rapping echoed through the study. 

Like a razor blade. It wasn't the tentative tap of a nervous client or the booming demand of the law. No, this was different—a calculated, almost impatient rhythm that suggested someone who knew what they wanted and wasn't afraid to take it. The sound, stark and sudden, made the bourbon in his glass ripple, mirroring the sudden tension that coiled in his gut.

He set the tumbler down with a soft 'clink,' his gaze instinctively flicking to the dark shape of the .38 Special holstered beneath his desk, a faithful companion in a faithless world. His eyes, heavy-lidded moments before, were now sharp, scanning the shadows that clung to the corners of the room. The rain outside, which had been a relentless drumbeat, now seemed to pause, holding its breath. The city's thrumming symphony of sirens and distant chatter faded, replaced by the amplified sound of his own pulse, beating a slow, steady rhythm against the sudden, profound quiet.

'Who in the hell would come calling at this ungodly hour?'  he mused. 'Especially with a rap like that?' His hand instinctively brushed against the cold, metallic grip of his sidearm, a familiar weight that offered a sliver of comfort. The light from his desk lamp, a solitary beacon in the encroaching gloom, cast his elongated shadow against the wall, a distorted doppelganger stretching ominously toward the entryway.

He paused, his ear pressed against the solid wood, straining to discern any sound from beyond. Nothing. Just the faint, persistent drip of water from the eaves and the distant, almost imagined hum of Tokyo, a city that never truly slept, even when it rained.

Then, a voice, low and gravelly, like stones tumbling down a dry well, pierced the silence. "Open up, detective. We know you're in there."

The detective's hand, calloused from years of gripping cold steel and warm whiskey glasses, didn't reach for the lock. Instead, with a sudden, decisive movement, he snapped off the desk lamp, plunging the study into near-total darkness. Only the faint, erratic flashes of lightning from outside offered fleeting glimpses of the room's familiar clutter. He moved with the silent economy of a predator, slipping behind the heavy, leather armchair, its familiar creak now a muffled groan. His fingers found the grip of the .38, the cool metal a solid reassurance. He waited, his breath held, the silence in the room as thick as a fog.

Then, a sharp 'CRACK!' Ripped through the night, the sound of wood splintering and a lock giving way with violent protest. A gust of rain-laden wind, cold and damp, swept into the study, carrying with it the scent of wet asphalt and something else—the metallic tang of ozone, perhaps, or the faint, almost imperceptible odor of desperation.

From his hidden vantage, the detective watched. A hulking shadow filled the doorway, framed by the faint, diffused neon glow from the city outside. This wasn't just one man; another figure, leaner and quicker, slid in behind him. They moved with the confident swagger of those who expected no resistance. The shaved-headed brute, whose bulk seemed to absorb what little light there was, stepped fully into the room, his eyes sweeping the shadowy expanse. 

"Crap, he's not here." The voice was a low growl, thick with impatience. The sound echoed in the surprisingly spacious room, a room that, from the outside, looked like nothing more than a cramped, forgotten office above a ramen shop, but inside seemed to stretch deeper, wider than logic allowed.

"No, he is. He's just playing us for chumps." The second voice, sharp and cold as a blade, sliced through the air. This one, the leaner man, moved with predatory grace, his gaze more discerning, less easily fooled by 'sceadu.' He was already fanning out, his eyes adjusting, searching for the trick of the light, the subtle shift in the darkness that would give away a hideout. He wasn't some street punk; his movements spoke of discipline, honed on concrete and by the unforgiving glare of neon. His dark suit, though rumpled from the rain, still hinted at a certain dangerous elegance, a shark in tailored cloth.

"Playing for chumps? The boss ain't got time for kidding around, Kenji," the hulking brute, whose name was apparently Taro, rumbled, his voice thick with impatience and a hint of suppressed violence. He was a mountain of a man, his shaved head glistening faintly in the stray light from the street. His hands, gnarled and powerful, clenched and unclenched at his sides, itching for something to break. "He ain't here, I tell ya. Just a dark room and that old man's stink."

Kenji ignored him, his eyes like a snake's, darting, assessing, taking in every detail the fleeting lightning flash offered. "He's here, Taro. This ain't no nickel-and-dime job. You don't just ditch a joint like this in a hurry. He doused the lights and went quiet. He's playing possum." He moved, a shadow among others, circling the desk, his hands lightly brushing the edge of the cluttered surface. “See this? Fresh-poured whiskey. The glass ain't even settled yet. The mug was here a second ago.”

Taro grunted, unconvinced but deferring to Kenji's sharper senses. “So what? Does he think he can hide in the dark? We light the place up.” He took a heavy step towards the desk lamp, a menacing glint in his eye, ready to smash it back to life. 

“No! Kenji snapped, his voice barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of a whip-crack. Taro froze his hand inches from the lamp.”

“Do you think that's how we find him? Make noise, make light? He wants us to come to him. This ain't no smash-and-grab, big man. This is a hunt.” Kenji's gaze was fixed on the deeper shade by the bookshelves. “You take the back, clear it out. Don't miss a corner. I'll handle this side. And don't go busting anything unless you've got a good reason, see, or the oyabun will have your hide. 

Taro let out a frustrated, guttural sigh, a sound like grinding stones, but he turned, his massive frame disappearing further into the gloom, his heavy footsteps muffled by the old, worn carpet. He lumbered past towering stacks of brittle newspapers and forgotten periodicals, his bulk momentarily obscuring the faint ambient glow from the city outside. His impatience was a tangible thing, a simmering heat that pushed him to simply crash through obstacles, to resolve situations with the blunt force he knew best. The intricate dance Kenji favored was wasted on him; Taro preferred the direct route, the swift, brutal end. He knew this room, knew it was just a cramped office above a ramen shop, and he couldn't fathom how a man could simply vanish into its confines. Every instinct screamed for him to just start tossing furniture, to tear the place apart until the detective simply appeared. But Kenji's word was law, and the Oyabun's trust in Kenji was absolute. So, Taro pushed deeper, grumbling under his breath about smart-aleck detectives and dark rooms.

Kenji, left alone near the forced-open entryway, remained a study in coiled tension. He pulled a slim, pen-like flashlight from his inner coat pocket, the silver glinting briefly in the faint, erratic flashes of lightning. Its beam was precise and narrow, a stark contrast to Taro's brute-force approach. He understood the subtleties of concealment, the cleverness of a man who knew his own space. He swept the focused beam along the wall, tracing the spines of dusty books, the faded framed certificates, and the faint outlines of dust motes dancing in the charged heavy air. His eyes, sharp and calculating, meticulously scanned every inch, looking for anomalies—anything that didn't fit the expected pattern of a neglected study. A slight displacement of a curtain, the faint, almost imperceptible imprint on the worn leather of an armchair that suggested a recent occupant, a subtle shift in the air currents—these were the whispers he sought in the profound silence.

The oppressive quiet of the room hung heavy, broken only by the relentless drumming of the rain against the windowpane, a mournful, steady percussion that seemed to amplify the tension. Taro's distant, heavy movements, a dull thudding from the deeper recesses of the study, provided the only other sound, a constant reminder of the brute force waiting in the wings. Kenji knew the type of man who lived in a place like this – a clever duck, sharp, observant, someone who knew how to play hide-and-seek with the best of them. This wasn't going to be as easy as simply kicking down a door and shaking him down in a brightly lit room. This was a game of wits, played in the dark, and Kenji intended to win.

He moved silently, his steps barely disturbing the worn carpet, the narrow beam of his flashlight cutting through the inky gloom like a surgeon's scalpel. He checked behind the heavy, moth-eaten curtains that covered the window, then meticulously examined the large, antiquated filing cabinet, its drawers still slightly ajar from the detective's last hurried search. Every instinct told him the man was close, perhaps even watching him. The air seemed to thrum with a hidden presence, a faint, almost metallic tang that was either the storm outside or the scent of anticipation. He paused by a small, wobbly side table, his light falling on a tarnished silver Zippo lighter. He picked it up, feeling its familiar weight, the rhythmic click-clack a tiny anchor in the vast, uneasy quiet. A man who kept a Zippo this close, yet smelled of no tobacco, was a man who paid attention to details and cherished familiar objects for reasons beyond their primary use.

He placed the lighter back, his thoughts racing. The detective was a ghost, a phantom in his own domain, but not truly gone. Kenji glanced back towards the doorway, then let his gaze drift across the room, past the disordered desk and the stacks of folders. He knew the stories of these private eyes, lone wolves who operated on the fringes, sometimes bending the rules, sometimes breaking them entirely. They were tough to crack, like old, gnarled trees, but everyone had a weakness, a tell. And Kenji was determined to find it, to smoke out this clever duck from his dark nest. The longer this played out, the more it suggested the detective was either a fool or even smarter than Kenji had given him credit for – a possibility that pricked at Kenji’s pride.

The minute hand on a forgotten clock on the mantelpiece seemed to crawl, each tick amplified in the oppressive silence. The rain outside shifted, a sudden gust whipping against the window with renewed fury, making the glass shudder. A chill, unlike the damp coolness of the rain, began to creep through the study. It was a sharp, biting wind, carrying the undeniable scent of wet asphalt and something else, something colder, more desolate. Kenji paused, his head cocked, listening. It wasn't just the main window; this was a draft. A significant, unexpected draft.

His flashlight beam, almost instinctively, cut across the room, past the desk and the bookcase, towards the far wall where the darkness seemed deepest. There, a faint, almost imperceptible current of cold air touched his cheek. He followed it, his steps quickening slightly. The source was a window, partially obscured by a heavy, tattered curtain that billowed inwards with each gust. It wasn't fully closed, or perhaps not latched properly. The detective hadn't just vanished; he had left a subtle, almost invisible opening. A pathway. Kenji's lips curled into a thin, predatory smile. "Well, well, slick. Found your little escape hatch, have we?" he murmured, a cold satisfaction in his voice. This wasn't a fool; this was a challenge. And Kenji always enjoyed a good challenge.

The very air in the study thickened, not just with the storm outside, but with a palpable dread. Seishi Takagi didn't need a weather report to know trouble was brewing; he felt it in his bones, a cold ache that settled deep in his gut. His heart, usually a steady, cynical tick-tock, hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird, each beat a frantic, desperate rhythm. It wasn't the sudden chill from the shattered window that raised the hackles on his neck, but the profound, unnatural silence that swallowed the city's usual night song. The distant, heavy thud of a hulking brute's boots disappearing into the back, combined with the unnerving, predatory quiet of the leaner man at the front doorway, solidified the bitter truth. This wasn't a social call, not a nervous client spilling their woes. This was the Ikeda-gumi, and they hadn't come for tea and sympathy. Not for him, a man who, like a damn fool, had poked his nose where it had no business being, stirring up more than just dirt. These were the kind of men who carried their own darkness with them, a tangible weight that pressed down harder than the low-slung Tokyo sky, a force intent on burying him in his own cluttered domain.

The world outside his study was a canvas of grays and blacks, like a faded, grainy newsreel from a bygone era, before the city learned to scream in color. Rain lashed against the windowpanes, each dropping a tiny, insistent accusation against the choices that had led him to this dead-end street. Inside, the dim light, cut off now, made the familiar, mundane objects of his life—the overflowing ashtray, the stack of cold cases mocking him from the desk, the half-empty bourbon glass—stand out in stark, unsettling relief. He was just another shadow in a city brimming with them, a lone wolf in a concrete jungle, but tonight, the shadows had teeth, and they were baying for his blood. He knew the drill from too many years pounding pavements and then digging up truths no one wanted to hear. When the heat was on, you either talked your way out of the meat grinder or vanished like smoke. And in this kind of suffocating darkness, with these kinds of men, Seishi wasn't much for talking when the guns were out. He'd learned long ago that the only good words were the ones you didn't say.

He clutched the .38, its cold steel a familiar comfort, a stark, metallic contrast to the sudden, bone-deep chill that had permeated the room from the violently opened window. His mind, still muddled from the bourbon and the lingering exhaustion of a day spent wading through human perfidy, sharpened with an adrenaline-fueled clarity that burned away the fog like a lightning flash. He had to be quick, utterly quiet, and completely invisible. His old man, a beat cop who’d seen too many good men get caught flat-footed in dimly lit backrooms, had always preached: "Son, when the wolves come calling, you don't fight 'em in your den. You lead 'em out, or you disappear." And Seishi, in that breathless, desperate moment, intended to disappear like a whisper in the wind, leaving nothing but questions and an empty room behind him, a final, cynical flourish.

He moved with the silent economy of a practiced shadow, not towards the obvious open window – that was too easy, too predictable a trap for men like his pursuers, who thought they knew every trick in the book. A grunt, a curse, the scrape of a shoe across the floor in the next room — the sounds of their methodical hunt were like a drumbeat in his skull, urging him on. They'll check the window, Seishi thought, a cynical grin twisting his lips in the darkness. 'Every penny-ante crook and dime-store detective thinks a window's the only way out. But a smart man... a smart man always has a hidden pathway, a trail, if you will, that only he knows.'

He spotted the half-full glass of cold brew on his desk, a dark, bitter promise of a long night he hadn't expected to fight for. Without a moment's hesitation, he snatched it up and threw his head back, draining the acrid liquid in one burning gulp. 

The chill hit his gut like a fist, a shock that jolted his system-wide awake. He wiped his lips with the back of his palm, a smear of dark, almost reddish brown across his skin, a stain like a fresh wound skin, keenly aware of the imminent threat, the looming presence of men who wanted him dead, he began to move.

He moved with silence, not toward the open window, very plain. A plan, sharp and dangerous as a razor's edge, began to form in Seishi's mind. It was a long shot, a desperate gamble, but it was his only play; he needed to be quick, quicker than he'd been in years, every move precise, every breath held. He had a decoy, an illusion he'd been saving for just such a rainy night.

His eyes, now fully adjusted to the gloom, swept across his cluttered work desk. The heavy sound of impact reverberated through the study, not the sharp crack of a kicked-in door, but a sustained, deliberate thudding, like a battle ram against a fortress gate. It was the sound of overwhelming force, meant to shatter resistance, to make a statement even before they stepped inside. The very air around Seishi vibrated with each blow, a low, guttural growl from the wood and plaster itself, warning him of the inevitable breach. They weren't just breaking in; they were asserting dominance.

The cold brew still burned in his gut, a bitter fire, but it was the clarity it brought that mattered.

The hulking brute's heavy footsteps thudded from the back of the study, closer now, punctuated by the sharp, almost imperceptible scrape of the leaner man's shoe from the front. They were closing in, a pincer movement in the dark.

Instead of slipping away, Seishi shifted, his weight barely disturbing the worn rug, placing himself directly in front of his sturdy, often-abused work desk chair. This wasn't some haphazard escape; this was a deliberate act, a calculated risk. His hand, still smudged with the dark, reddish stain of the cold brew, plunged beneath the seat of the chair, feeling for the familiar, worn wood.

 His fingers, surprisingly nimble despite the trembling in his arm, found the rough, almost invisible knot in the dark wood of the floorboard beneath the chair. It was a small detail, easily missed by any but the most meticulous of searchers, perfectly disguised among the worn shingles of the flooring. He pressed firmly, a silent prayer escaping his lips that the old mechanism, as old and tired as he felt, wouldn't seize up after all these years. With a soft, almost imperceptible click, a section of the floor, barely wide enough for a man to squeeze through, shifted inward with a faint, dusty groan. A gust of stale, damp air carried the faint, earthy scent. Wafted up from the blackness below.

He wasted no time. As he lifted the heavy, square section of the floor, revealing a gaping blackness, he didn't just move it aside; he swung it on its well-oiled hinge, designed for swift, silent entry and exit. The "tile," as he sometimes thought of it, was a masterpiece of old-world craftsmanship, a wooden door disguised as part of the room's foundation. He slid down, not dropping, but guiding his body into the void.

He entered a tunnel, a narrow, claustrophobic passage that swallowed him whole. It wasn't an ancient, grand catacomb, but a utilitarian, cramped burrow, roughly hewn out of damp earth and reinforced with decaying timbers that groaned softly under the weight of the building above.

The sound of his breathing was slow but steady. You could almost hear the reverb of his heartbeat.

"Huff, huff!"

His thoughts echoed: I hope they don't find me, his mind screamed.

Above, the aggressive voices grew louder, their sharp words cutting through the air as they moved across the tiled floor. The rough-looking detective, however, remained hidden below, deep within the dirt-covered burrow.

“Nothing down this way. Are you sure this is the right building?” a frustrated voice complained.

"Don't worry, we're very patient.”

“Patient!?”

“Alright, listen up! He's in here somewhere, I can feel it. Spread out, but don't get ahead of yourselves. Check every vent and every loose panel. If he so much as breathes wrong, you grab him.”

“...He could’ve escaped by now?”

Escaped...? Before the word was fully out, '"Woosh"'! A harsh blow hit one of the men in the gut. He plummeted to the ground and barked drool.

Thwack! One of the men looked piss’d. The one falling to the ground was the herculean image of a man. And one who did jab was the skinny-looking crony. It would seem. That look could be deceiving.

“Puff, Taro”, he said the name of one he hit with a terrifying gaze. He began to perambulate closer. That stare burns hotter than a ciggy that would mark an arm.

He got closer to Taro’s ear and whispered so the detective wouldn't hear. “So, you understand?” he asked with eyes as daggers and a smile that only a mother could love.

“.... Yes. He answered. A twitch and bob of his head to validate. 

                                                                                *******

Fifteen minutes passed by, and still inside the tunnel, the detective could hear the distinct sound of frantic whispers and the scuffing of shoes above. They weren't just searching now; they were systematically tearing apart the building. A distant crash echoed, followed by a shattered pane of glass, suggesting a window had been broken. He felt a pang of fear, a cold knot tightening in his stomach. They were getting desperate, and desperate men made reckless choices. He pressed himself even deeper into the damp earth. The air grew heavier, thick with dust and the metallic tang of apprehension. Every muscle in his body ached from the cramped position, but moving was out of the question.

Then, quiet was the only thing left.

'It's quiet. Did... they leave? They had too,' only the running thoughts were left with him in the suffocating darkness. The sudden silence was almost worse than the earlier commotion, a heavy blanket of dread settling over him.  

The sound of creaking comes from a door opening from the ground. An individual is slowly dragging himself out. Still consumed by apprehension, cold air blew on his back, and the moisture in his forehead slid downward. He felt a pang of fear, a cold knot tightening in his stomach.

The office was a disaster, a scene of utter destruction that spoke volumes of the yakuza's violent search. Every piece of furniture had been upended: the heavy oak desk lay on its side, its drawers ripped out, and their contents—papers, pens, a half-eaten bento box—strewn across the floor like discarded confetti. Bookshelves once neatly lined— now barren, their contents hurled to the floor, pages ripped, spines broken.

The Persian rug, a gift from a grateful client years ago, was no longer a rich tapestry but a mud-stained, crumpled mess, scarred with angry boot prints.

On the floor, their glass shards glinting malevolently in the dim light filtering through the grime-streaked windows. A once vibrant potted plant lay annihilated in a corner, its ceramic pot smashed and the soil mingled with broken leaves, creating a sad, muddy puddle. The air, thick with plaster dust and the stale scent of fear and malevolence, stung his nostrils. 'They did a number on this place, Seiichi thought, a bitter taste filling his mouth. This isn't just about finding me; it's about making a statement. '

It was clear: they hadn't just searched; they had sent a brutal message. (A message I understand loud and clear,) He mused, his gaze sweeping over the wreckage.

“Ha, you’d finally show yourself, detective.”

Wha~ what?!  

With a smooth movement, Seiichi rotated his body rapidly as he pulled his gun and pointed it at one of the men who concealed their existence.

Is it just him? “I know I hear two voices. Where, your partner?”

The man, wiry physique with a distinguishing blemish–a crosscut in his left eyebrow, grinned a slow wolfish gloat of teeth. “Smart detective.” His voice flourished, “As I thought.”

Seiichi, the detective, scans the ruffian from head to toe. Looking at every attribute. One thing he noticed immediately: both men were at an impasse, each holding firearms.

“Just a little hooey, detective. Gets your dander up, doesn't it? Figured you'd be seeing the end of your rope with the kind of trouble your neck-deep in.” Even though the air coming from the shattered window blew in another direction, a sudden, colder gust hit the back of Seiichi's neck.

“Apparently, we have hit an impasse.”

An impasse... I would say, were in a ‘old-style shootout.’ One wrong move and one of us will die.

The scarred man's grin widened, a cruel, almost appreciative glint in his eyes. They stood there holding their guns just waiting for the first one to shoot.

'Bang!'  The sound of gunshots tore through the stillness, a deafening eruption that shattered the standoff.

The gunshot's report was a shockwave, not just of sound but of pure kinetic force. Seiichi’s brain registered the flash of the muzzle, but his body had already moved. He dove to the side, rolling across the shattered glass and splintered wood, his own gun clutched in a white-knuckled grip. A searing pain blossomed on his left shoulder, a burning tear of fabric and flesh. He landed hard, the air knocked from his lungs, but he immediately pushed himself up, his eyes scanning for the source of the shot.

it wasn't the scarred man. The ruffian was frozen, a look of shocked surprise on his face. His gun was still aimed at Seiichi, but the shot hadn't come from him. No, the sound had come from behind, from the gaping blackness of the open back entrance. The second man, the one Seiichi knew was there but couldn't see, had been the one to fire.

“Taro?” The scarred man (Kenji,) spooked the second man’s name. “Ha-ha-ha! You might just graze him a bit but well done.”

A second shot followed, a sharp crack that whizzed past Seiichi’s ear, a deadly whisper of lead. He scrambled behind the overturned oak desk, the wood groaning as he threw his weight against it. Splinters flew as a third bullet slammed into the furniture, a loud thud that was too close for comfort. 

With a sharp intake of breath, Seiichi's mind raced, a frantic kaleidoscope of half-formed plans. He had to draw Taro out. He couldn't stay pinned down, and he certainly couldn't engage a shotgun with a pistol from behind this flimsy bookshelf. He needed a diversion, something big and loud to give him an edge. As if on cue, a fresh onslaught of bullets began, a furious symphony of lead that had been tearing through the office for what felt like hours. The air was thick with the scent of cordite and plaster dust. Each shot was a screaming reminder of his precarious position, a relentless wave he had somehow, miraculously, managed to survive.

He knew his luck was running out. 'This is it,' he thought, a grim resolve settling over him. 'One last play.' He had to force a reaction, and he had to be faster than both. He peeked from behind the bookshelf; his eyes locked on the faint silhouette in the doorway. It was a clear shot at Taro. He gripped his gun, his finger on the trigger, a grim resolve settling over him. He had one chance to make them pay, for the destruction, for the fear, for the searing pain in his shoulder.

He raised his weapon, the barrel steady. Just as he was about to fire, a sudden, blinding flash erupted from his peripheral vision. He heard Kenji's voice, a guttural snarl from the other side of the room, followed by the deafening crack of a gunshot. The bullet didn't hit him directly, but it tore through the books stacked on the shelf next to his head, a furious whisper of lead that sent a cloud of paper dust and splintered wood flying. The distraction was all Taro needed. A cold certainty settled over Seiichi. He knew what was coming. The second gunshot was a dull thud, not the sharp crack of a pistol. It was a shotgun. The sound of the blast was a brutal symphony of finality, and the pain that followed was a searing, all-encompassing fire. It wasn't the clean tear of a bullet; it was a devastating, crippling blow. The buckshot ripped through his side, a dozen tiny hammers of lead shattering bone and flesh.

He crumpled, his gun falling from his numb fingers with a clatter. His vision blurred, the world dissolving into a haze of white pain and black spots. He could hear Kenji's cruel, triumphant laughter, and the soft, measured footsteps of Taro approaching. He tried to speak, but only a gurgling sound escaped his lips. He looked up, and through the dim light, he saw them. Kenji stood over him, a smoking pistol in his hand, and beside him, Taro held a shotgun, the grimacing grin of a victor on his face. The last thing he felt was the chilling realization that it wasn't an impasse; it had been an execution from the start. He was a pawn in their cruel game, a detective who had finally reached the end of the line. And then, there was only darkness.