Chapter 3 : The Midnight Run

Rain hit Tokyo like a million restless thoughts.

The streets shimmered under neon, alive and watching.

Detective Arata Fujimoto didn’t run often, but when he did—Tokyo moved out of his way.

He vaulted over a parked taxi, coat whipping behind him, eyes locked on the shadow sprinting ahead. The suspect’s boots splashed through puddles, turning down a maze of alleys behind Kabukichō’s old cinema district.

Arata’s earpiece crackled.

> “Detective Fujimoto! You’re off-duty! You were told to—”

“Yeah, yeah, file the complaint later,” he growled, cutting the line.

The man he was chasing wasn’t just another dealer. The intel whispered this one had ties to Hydra—the new designer drug that had turned half of Shibuya’s underground into corpses with smiles.

The suspect leapt a fence. Arata followed, landing light on his feet. Years of undercover work had taught him how to move like the hunted.

Rooftop to rooftop, they raced through rain-slick steel. Signs blurred beneath them. A holographic ad for perfume flickered in the mist—“Breathe Divine.” Arata almost snorted. Even the air in this city was trying to sell him something.

The suspect stumbled. Arata lunged, tackling him against a billboard. The man kicked, scrambled—

—and then a streak of crimson tore through the fog.

A woman in a fox mask.

Graceful, silent, eyes like sharpened glass.

Before Arata could react, she spun low, kicked the briefcase from the man’s hand, and caught it midair with surgical precision.

“Hey!” Arata barked.

She only tilted her head—mocking, amused—and fired a grappling line upward.

Gone.

The suspect tried to bolt again. Arata yanked him back by the collar. “You’re not going anywhere, pal.”

But the man panicked, slipped, and tumbled off the ledge—landing in the construction net below, alive but screaming.

Arata cursed under his breath.

The rooftops were empty again.

Only the briefcase was gone.

---

Back at HQ, Arata sat drenched, hair a mess, scowling at a torn scrap of paper he’d pulled from the suspect’s jacket.

It read: “Project HYDRA – Shipment: Shibuya Pier 07.”

He leaned back, lighting a cigarette, ignoring the lecture coming from his superior.

Hydra. Again.

Same compound, same circle.

But something new this time—traces of lab-made cosmetic chemicals mixed with the narcotic base.

High-end makeup labs. Hanae’s sponsor companies.

He exhaled smoke through a sigh.

“Of course. Because my fake girlfriend definitely isn’t involved in something shady…”

---

Across the city, Hanae Kirishima—Tokyo’s golden idol by day, Crimson Fox by night—sat cross-legged in a dim apartment lit only by computer glow.

Her handler’s voice came through the headset.

> “You were seen, Fox. By him.”

“He only saw smoke,” she replied. “He’s chasing ghosts.”

“You retrieved the data?”

“Half of it. He probably has the rest.”

A pause.

“Then it begins. Be careful with the detective—he’s dangerous.”

Hanae smiled faintly. “He used to be dangerous. Now he’s a celebrity.”

She glanced at the black case beside her, flipping it open. Inside—chemical samples, shipment codes, and a familiar logo: the same cosmetics brand that printed her face on half the billboards in Tokyo.

Her smile faded.

“Looks like I’ve been selling poison.”

---

Two nights later, Arata adjusted his tie in front of a mirror, looking every bit the reluctant poster boy.

A charity gala, live-streamed to millions. He hated these things.

Hanae’s manager waved from across the hall. “Remember, smile! Hold her hand if the reporters ask!”

He grumbled, “I’d rather hold a live grenade.”

The ballroom glittered in gold and glass.

When Hanae entered, the crowd gasped—silver gown, calm smile, eyes sharp as razors behind the charm.

Their gazes met.

“Detective Fujimoto,” she said sweetly. “Try not to arrest anyone tonight.”

“No promises.”

They moved through the crowd like a practiced illusion, cameras flashing.

Neither knew the gala’s host was one of Hydra’s silent investors.

Somewhere behind the smiles and champagne, the city watched its two predators dance in the same circle, pretending not to remember the fire they once swore to start.

---

Later that night—

Arata sat alone, reviewing footage from the rooftop chase.

A red silhouette flickered across the screen.

His jaw tightened.

“Crimson Fox…”

Across town, Hanae stared at a photo of two orphans inside a cracked locket.

“You really don’t remember me, do you?” she whispered.

Thunder rolled.

Tokyo exhaled.

The game had only just begun.

---