Chapter 11: Reminds Me of the Hunt

The roof access door at Residence D weighs forty-three kilograms. Hana knows this because she counted the force required to push it open when she first arrived, back when cataloging potential exits felt like survival rather than habit.

Tonight, the door swings easily.

The rooftop of the Roppongi Hills Residence D tower opens to a maintenance area most residents never see. Ventilation housings squat like gray monuments between cable runs and drainage pipes. The Tokyo skyline sprawls beyond the safety barriers—Minato-ku's amber glow bleeding into the darker waters of Tokyo Bay. From here, Hana can see the red warning lights atop Tokyo Tower, blinking their slow pulse into the March night.

She came up here to think. The weigh-in this morning showed 52.1 kilograms—within acceptable range, Dr. Mori noted without enthusiasm—but the number sits wrong in her chest. Not because of the measurement. Because she felt nothing when she saw it.

Three months ago, the scale was a violation. Now it is data.

That's adaptation, something in her whispers. That's surviving.

That's compliance, another part argues.

The air smells of exhaust and distant rain. Hana leans against a ventilation unit, the metal cold through her thin jacket. Below, the Roppongi intersection hums with traffic even at this hour—taxi brake lights, the soft chime of pedestrian signals, the bass from some club seven stories down.

"You're difficult to find."

Hana's body moves before her mind catches up. She spins, back pressing against the ventilation unit, weight distributed for quick lateral movement. Exit routes: the door twenty meters behind her, the fire escape ladder to her left, the—

A woman stands between two cable housings. Hana didn't hear her approach. Didn't see her. The door never opened.

"The security systems here are adequate," the woman continues, stepping into the ambient light from the city below. "For mortals."

She looks perhaps nineteen. Athletic build, lean and muscular in a way that suggests function over form. Her hair falls in natural waves, light brown catching copper in the city's glow. Gray eyes assess Hana with the patience of someone who has conducted this kind of evaluation many times before.

She wears modern clothing—slim jeans, a loose-fitting white top—but carries herself like the outfit is a costume. Something borrowed. Something temporary.

"Who are you?" Hana's voice comes out steady. Professional. The voice she used for debriefs, for negotiations, for the hundred small confrontations that used to define her days.

"I have many names." The woman tilts her head, studying Hana the way someone might study an interesting insect. "Artemis will suffice. The Romans called me Diana. The Celts had other words. Names change. I do not."

The absurdity of the statement lands somewhere distant. Hana files it away: delusion, performance, or—

Or she appeared on a locked rooftop without triggering any alarms.

"You've been watching me." It's not a question.

"For several weeks, yes." Artemis moves closer, each step precise. "Since you arrived in Japan. Since your... situation became apparent."

"My situation."

"The transformation. The fractured consciousness. The bloodline." Artemis stops three meters away, close enough for conversation, far enough that Hana's instincts don't scream immediate threat. "You are interesting, Hana. Unusual. I wanted to understand why."

The name sounds wrong in her mouth. Too modern for someone claiming ancient divinity.

"And have you? Understood?"

Artemis's lips curve—not quite a smile. "Not yet. That is why we are going to play a game."

The air shifts.

Hana feels it before she sees it—a change in pressure, a wrongness in the way light falls across the rooftop. The Tokyo skyline wavers like heat shimmer. The ventilation units fade. The cable runs dissolve into nothing.

Trees.

She stands in a forest.

The transition takes perhaps two seconds. One moment, concrete and exhaust. The next, pine needles underfoot and darkness between ancient trunks. The air tastes different—clean in a way Tokyo never is, with undertones of moss and running water.

Hana's lungs burn. She forces them to slow. Controlled breath. Four counts in. Hold. Four counts out.

"Where—"

"A hunting ground." Artemis stands nearby, unchanged except for her clothing—the jeans and shirt replaced by a white chiton that falls to her knees, the fabric finer than anything Hana has seen. A silver bow appears in her hand, manifested from nothing. "One of mine. The rules are simple."

"I didn't agree to this."

"No." Artemis notches an arrow—where did the arrow come from?—and draws the bow with casual strength. "You didn't. But you're here nonetheless."

Move.

Hana dives left as the arrow whistles past. She hits the ground rolling, comes up behind a thick pine trunk. Bark scrapes her palms. Real bark. Real tree. Real forest, wherever this is.

"Three trials," Artemis's voice echoes between the trees. "Complete them, and you return to your rooftop. Fail, and..." A pause. "We'll see."

Assess. Adapt. Survive.

The thought surfaces unbidden, clicking into place like a weapon being racked. Hana presses her back against the trunk and inventories what she has: the clothes she was wearing (thin jacket, training pants, sneakers), no weapons, no communication, no knowledge of the terrain.

What she knows: the entity calling herself Artemis has supernatural capabilities. The forest feels real but isn't part of any geography Hana recognizes. Time may not function normally—Kae mentioned testing, implied powers beyond human understanding.

Something hisses to her left.

Hana spins.

The snake is enormous—five meters long, perhaps six, with scales that catch what little moonlight penetrates the canopy. Its head rises to Hana's chest height, tongue tasting the air. Eyes like polished obsidian fix on her with predatory focus.

"The Python," Artemis's voice comes from everywhere and nowhere. "Sacred to my brother once. Killed by him at Delphi. This one is... a recreation."

The snake strikes.

Hana throws herself backward, hits the ground hard, keeps rolling. The Python's head slams into the earth where she stood, sending up a spray of pine needles and dirt. She scrambles to her feet, puts three trees between herself and the creature.

Think. Think. Think.

The snake isn't fast—large predators rarely are. But it's patient. It coils through the trees with methodical precision, cutting off angles, herding her toward...

Toward what?

Hana scans the forest. In the distance, barely visible through the trunks, something glints silver. A bow. No—an arrow. Stuck in a tree at chest height.

Complete them, and you return.

The arrow is the goal. The Python is the obstacle. Simple test structure.

Hana breaks left, sprinting between trees. The Python reacts instantly, massive body flowing after her like water through pipes. She vaults a fallen log, ducks under a low branch, changes direction twice to throw off its pursuit pattern.

The creature adapts faster than she expected.

A coil sweeps her legs from under her. Hana hits the ground face-first, tastes blood from a split lip. She rolls as the Python's weight slams down, misses her by centimeters. Scrambles up. Keeps moving.

The silver arrow is ten meters away.

The Python blocks the direct path.

You're not going to outrun it. You're not going to overpower it. You need to think.

Hana stops.

The Python coils, preparing to strike. Its head sways, tracking her movement—or lack thereof. Those obsidian eyes hold no malice. No emotion at all. Just hunger. Just instinct.

"It's not real," Hana says aloud. "You said it's a recreation."

The Python strikes.

Hana doesn't move.

The head stops centimeters from her face. Close enough that she can smell it—old meat and something metallic, like copper left in water. The tongue flicks out, touches her cheek. Cold. Dry.

"It's a test," Hana continues, voice steady by force of will alone. "If you wanted me dead, I'd be dead. So what are you actually testing?"

Silence.

Then Artemis appears beside the Python, her expression unreadable. "Most run until exhaustion takes them. Some fight until they're crushed. You are the first to simply... stop."

"Running wasn't working. Fighting wasn't an option. That left thinking."

"And what did your thinking tell you?"

Hana meets those gray eyes. "That you're not actually trying to kill me. You're trying to learn something about me. Which means the snake is a prop, not a threat."

A long pause.

"Take the arrow," Artemis says finally. "You've passed the first trial."

The Python fades like morning mist. Hana walks to the tree on legs that want to shake, pulls the silver arrow free. It's heavier than it looks, the metal cold and impossibly smooth.

"Second trial."

The forest changes again.

Water.

Hana stands knee-deep in a marsh, surrounded by cattails and the croaking of frogs. The moon is fuller here, bright enough to cast shadows. Trees line the edge of the wetland—different trees, broad-leafed and ancient.

"The Lycian peasants," Artemis says. She stands on the water's surface, her sandals leaving no ripples. "They denied my mother drink when she was pregnant with my brother and me. They mocked her. Tormented her. So I turned them into frogs."

The croaking intensifies.

"This is a memory, then." Hana wades toward firmer ground, testing each step before committing her weight. "Your memory."

"A recreation. Like the Python."

"What's the trial?"

Artemis points across the marsh. In the distance, perhaps fifty meters away, Hana can see another silver glint—another arrow—stuck in a massive tree on the far shore.

"Reach it."

The frogs attack.

Not individually—they swarm. Hundreds of them, thousands, leaping from the water in waves. They're not trying to hurt her, Hana realizes after the first panicked moment. They're trying to push her back. To keep her from advancing.

She wades forward. Frogs hit her chest, her face, her arms. She brushes them aside, takes another step. The marsh deepens. Water rises to her waist, then her chest. The frogs keep coming.

There's a trick to this. There's always a trick.

Hana stops fighting the frogs and looks around. Really looks.

Trees at the edge. Cattails. The massive tree with the arrow. And between here and there—a fallen trunk, half-submerged, creating a natural bridge above the worst of the water.

She angles toward it, fighting through the frog swarm. Pulls herself onto the trunk. The frogs can't reach her here—their legs are made for water, not wood. She walks the trunk like a balance beam, arms out for stability, until it connects with another fallen tree, which leads to a cluster of rocks, which lets her reach the opposite shore dry from the waist up.

The second arrow pulls free easily.

"Tactical thinking," Artemis observes. She's standing on the shore now, bow resting against her hip. "You looked for the path that avoided the obstacle rather than fighting through it."

"Fighting through wasn't working."

"No. It wasn't." Artemis studies her with renewed interest. "Third trial."

The clearing is smaller than the others. Almost intimate.

A boar stands at its center.

But something is wrong with it. Hana sees it immediately—the way the animal moves, the way its eyes track her with more than animal awareness. It's huge, easily waist-high at the shoulder, tusks yellowed and sharp. Foam drips from its mouth. Its breathing comes in ragged pants.

"The Calydonian Boar," Artemis says. "Sent to ravage Calydon when their king failed to honor me. Many hunters died trying to slay it."

The boar charges.

Hana dodges, barely. The animal is faster than the Python, more aggressive than the frogs. It wheels and charges again, and this time Hana has to throw herself aside, landing hard on her shoulder. Pain flares. She ignores it.

The third arrow is embedded in a tree at the clearing's edge. The boar stands between her and it.

Complete them, and you return.

But something nags at her. The boar's movements are wrong—desperate rather than predatory. It's not hunting her. It's defending something. Or itself.

"You said the Python was a recreation," Hana says, circling slowly. The boar tracks her, head low, but doesn't charge. "What about this one?"

"Also a recreation."

"Of a boar?"

Silence.

Hana looks at the animal again. Really looks. The human awareness in its eyes. The almost-pleading quality of its stance. The way it keeps glancing at the arrow, at the exit, at her.

"Someone transformed," she says quietly. "You transformed someone into this."

"A king's son. Many centuries ago." Artemis's voice is flat. "He offended me. I punished him."

"And now he's stuck like this. Forever."

"He has a choice. As do you."

The third arrow. The way out. And between her and it, a creature that was once human, still human somewhere inside that twisted form.

Kill it, something cold suggests. It's the only way out.

No, another voice argues. There's always another way.

Hana lowers her hands.

"I'm not killing him."

"Then how do you plan to complete the trial?"

"I don't know yet." Hana takes a step toward the boar. It snorts, paws the ground. "But I'm not killing something that used to be a person."

"He would kill you if given the chance."

"Maybe." Another step. The boar's head rises, tracking her movement. "But I don't think he wants to. I think he wants someone to recognize what he is."

The boar's eyes—human eyes, she sees now, trapped in animal flesh—meet hers.

Hana stops an arm's length away. Close enough that one lunge would gut her. Close enough that she can see the resignation in those eyes. The exhaustion. The centuries of confinement.

"I see you," she says quietly. "I'm sorry for what was done to you."

The boar goes still.

Then, slowly, it steps aside.

Hana walks to the arrow and pulls it free.

The rooftop.

Hana gasps, her lungs suddenly full of Tokyo air—exhaust and rain and the distant bass of that club. The ventilation units squat around her. The city sprawls below, unchanged, indifferent.

"Hana!"

Rei's voice. Running footsteps on concrete. Then hands grabbing her shoulders, turning her, and four faces staring at her with varying degrees of panic.

"You were gone for three hours!" Rei's voice cracks with something that might be fear. "We searched everywhere—your room, the gym, the—"

Hana checks her watch.

Three minutes. Three minutes since she came up to the roof.

"That's not possible," she hears herself say. "I was... somewhere else."

"Somewhere else where?" Sora's voice is controlled, but her hands are shaking. "Hana, what happened?"

"We'll speak again."

The voice echoes from everywhere and nowhere, ancient and amused. The others freeze. Their eyes go wide.

"Did you just hear—" Yuki starts.

"Yes." Hana looks at the sky, at the stars obscured by Tokyo's light pollution, at the empty rooftop where no one stands. "I need to explain something. You're not going to believe me."

She tells them.

When she finishes, they're all staring at her. Rei's mouth hangs open. Miya has gone pale. Sora's expression is carefully blank—the mask she wears when processing information she doesn't want to accept. Yuki looks like she might cry.

"A Greek goddess," Sora says finally. "Transported you to another dimension. Made you fight a giant snake, avoid hostile frogs, and spare a transformed king."

"Yes."

"And she said she'd be back."

"Yes."

Long silence.

"This is connected to Kae, isn't it." It's not a question. Rei's voice has gone flat. "The woman who showed up after our first performance. The one who talked about bloodlines and testing."

"I think so. I don't know how yet."

More silence.

"We need to tell Ren," Sora says finally.

"No." The word comes out sharper than Hana intends. "We don't know what Ren knows. We don't know if she's involved."

"She's our manager—"

"She's the one who trapped me here in the first place."

The words hang in the air.

Yuki flinches like she's been struck.

"We need to understand what's happening before we involve anyone else," Hana continues, her voice softening. "Kae mentioned my bloodline. Artemis mentioned it too. There's a connection I don't see yet."

"And what do we do in the meantime?" Rei asks. "Just... wait for more goddesses to show up?"

Hana looks at each of them in turn. Four women who were strangers three months ago. Four women who share her impossible situation.

"We have a music show tomorrow," she says finally. "We perform. We smile. We pretend everything is normal."

"And if it's not?" Yuki's voice is small.

"Then we deal with it." Hana meets her eyes. "Together."

The city hums below them. The stars stay hidden. And somewhere out there, something ancient waits to test her again.