Chapter 12: Figuring Out Next Steps

The alley was still. Not quiet—just stunned. The sulfur and garbage clung to the air, thickened by stale rain and the residue of magic.

Kotomi trembled. Not from the cold. From the aftershock. Her body was trying to remember how to be safe.

Kyle turned toward the alley’s exit. Then paused. Kotomi was trying to follow, but her limp was pronounced. Her movements brittle. Like she was made of glass and guilt.

“We should move before they come back with more reinforcements,” Kyle said.

He crouched slightly, back turned by preparing to give her a piggyback ride.

“Climb up.”

Kotomi stared at his clothes—clean, dry, untouched. Then down at herself. Grime. Blood. Street filth.

She recoiled, arms crossing in a fierce, protective gesture. She tried to manifest an invisible barrier of filth to protect his clean perimeter.

“No,” she whispered. “I… I can walk. Please don't. Um... I’m too dirty.”

Kyle straightened. Her voice hit harder than any blow. She wasn’t just tired. She was around Kotaro and Kokoro's but had also gone through a lot.

“We don’t have time for this,” Kyle said, his tone firm but not unkind. “You’re injured. I need to get you somewhere safe.”

Before she could protest, he moved. Quick. Decisive.

He swept his arms under her knees and behind her back. Lifted her into a bridal carry.

Kotomi gasped. Her body stiffened. She tried to shrink, to minimize contact. But his warmth was everywhere—radiating through his shirt, pressing against her cold, damp fear.

Her shame intensified. She was dragging his clean, quiet world into her mess.

“I don’t understand why you want to touch someone so dirty,” she murmured, voice muffled against his shoulder.

“I’ve handled worse,” Kyle replied, the words flat and hard, like stones he carried in his chest, resisting the urge to show a flicker of genuine kindness. His tone was non-negotiable.

He adjusted his grip. Made sure she was secure.

“Hold tight. No more talking until we’re inside.”

He moved fast. They emerged onto the main road. Their presence blurred into the background noise of Tokyo—horns, footsteps, neon.

The store’s automatic doors hissed open. Light spilled out—uniform, sterile, too clean. It was the tomb of his mundane life, now irrevocably stained by blood and magic.

“Kaito-san, where have you—”

Mrs. Tamika stood behind the counter. Arms crossed. Expression sharp with managerial fury.

Then her gaze dropped. From Kyle’s face to the bundle in his arms.

Her anger dissolved. Her eyes widened. She saw the dirt. The torn clothes. The blood.

“Oh, my word. What is this?” She rushed around the counter. Her voice dropped to a gasp. “Is that blood? Kaito, what happened?”

Kyle didn’t break stride.

“Just a bad fall, Madam. We need the back room.”

Mrs. Tamika didn’t ask another question. She saw the child. She saw the truth.

Her expression hardened. Not with anger. With resolve.

“Go. Straight to the back room. I’ll handle this.”

Mrs. Tamika moved with startling precision. In one motion, she grabbed the key, locked the front doors, and flipped the sign to Closed. The click of the deadbolt echoed louder than it should have.

She was sealing off the danger. Sacrificing her business for something she didn’t yet understand, but she understood enough.

Kyle carried Kotomi through the narrow hallway, past the shelves of snacks and bottled tea, into the back room. The air changed—less lemon, more dust and detergent. The hum of the fridge was louder here. Too loud.

Then he turned to face Mrs. Tamika, who had followed them in, locking the back door behind her.

“The important thing is she gets dry. She needs to change. Now.”

The grime. The blood. The way she clutched her knees like they were the only thing holding her together.

“Fine,” she said, voice softer. She pulled a sealed bag from a shelf. “Extra small. It’ll be too big, but it’s clean. Use the changing room. Sink’s there.”

She handed Kotomi the uniform—white shirt, navy pants. The fabric looked too bright in her hands.

“I'll be right here,” Kyle said softly.

While Kotomi stepped behind the curtain, Mrs. Tamika cornered Kyle again. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“Kaito-san, explain. Where were you? You smell like—”

She glanced at a shelf. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“Madam, I'm sorry,” Kyle said, voice low but steady.

“I saw some of the security cameras. Did those men hurt you? Were they after the register?"

It was difficult for Kyle to involve bystanders but now that she saw the security footage, he had to be careful about how much he could tell her.

“This girl was attacked. They were looking for her," he rubbed the scar beneath his collar. “Unfortunately I don't think the police can help.”

Mrs. Tamika’s panic sharpened. Her eyes flashed with the fear of anyone who knew the system—the kind of men who hurt you weren't afraid of the police.

“What kind of trouble did you bring into my shop?”

Mrs. Tamika paused. Looked at the backroom where the girl was at. Really looked.

“Take this.”

She pressed a crumpled hundred-dollar bill into his hand.

“If the police come, I'll tell them nothing. Get her out of the city tonight. I don’t know what this is, but I know a child in danger when I see one.”

Kyle pocketed the money. The gesture warmed something cold in his chest.

“Thank you, Madam.”

The curtain rustled.

Kotomi stepped out.

The shirt swallowed her frame. The pants pooled around her ankles. She looked like a child playing dress-up in someone else’s safety.

Her hair was still damp. But the grime was gone.

Mrs. Tamika’s voice softened.

“Oh, you poor thing.”

She winced at the lingering scent—metallic, electric, wrong. Then grabbed a bottle of lemon body spray and a floral perfume from the shelf.

“Here. Spray this everywhere. You need to take a bath immediately.”

The floral scent was a thin, desperate lie sprayed over the urine and blood residue of living on the streets.

“Now sit. I'll grab something delicious for you ”

Kotomi obeyed. She sat beside Kyle on the towels.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I ruined your store. And your uniform. I didn’t mean to bring trouble.”

Kyle watched the mist settle in her hair. He shrugged.

“It’s just a uniform.”

He glanced toward the door.

“And Mrs. Tamika’s safe. That’s what matters.”

Kotomi looked up at him. Still afraid.

“Why did she call you Kaito?”

Kyle ran a hand over his face. The name felt heavier now, a lie pressed into the flesh like a corporate stamp, resisting the true identity that had just saved them both.

“It’s a long story.”

He gave a tired smile. A smile that didn't reach his eyes, because he was still the hero who had killed people, wearing the face of the shop clerk who hadn't.

“Oh.”

She nodded.

“Now,” Kyle said, voice gentler, accepting the failure of his sanctuary. “Tell me about the Men in White. We need to figure out which direction to run—and why we are going straight into the heart of the conspiracy.”

Kotomi’s voice was thin, but steady. She spoke like someone walking barefoot across broken glass—careful, deliberate, trying not to bleed too much.

The clip in her hair pulsed erratically. Jade light flickered like a warning. The bulb above them stuttered—casting shadows that danced across the towels and the sealed snack crates.

Her sobs were quiet. But the room felt like it was holding its breath.

Kyle reached out. Covered her trembling hand with his own. The Chi lingering in his palm met the residual magic pulsing from her clip. A cold sense of recognition, a bond forged in shared violation.

“Shhh. It’s over for now.”

He waited until the light stabilized. Until the air stopped vibrating with grief.

“Do you have anyone?” he asked. “Anyone who knows about your mother? About Kotori?”

Kotomi shook her head. Tears streaked her clean cheeks.

“No one. Papa is all I have left.”

She looked up. Eyes pleading. “I just want to go back to the house. I need to see if Papa… if they took him from there.”

Kyle nodded. He recognized the need. Closure wasn’t a luxury. It was survival.

“Okay. We’ll finish bandaging you up. Then we leave.”

They didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t explain. Didn’t ask permission.

They slipped out the back door—Past the mop bucket, the stacked crates, the flickering exit light. The lemon-scented sanctuary faded behind them, a temporary illusion that had already begun to reek of failure and ozone.

He adjusted the blanket Mrs. Tamika had provided. He knew the decision to go back was reckless. But he also knew the difference between running from danger and running toward necessity.

The city swallowed them whole. They were leaving the safety of the mundane world behind, marching straight into the heart of the conspiracy.

Author Notes: Thank you for reading my work up to this point. The next week will be busy and I will be unable to release new chapters for a while. While you are waiting, I will use the time to make additional updates to the story and be adding the "V4" to indicate the latest version update.