August 5th, 2025
Ikebukuro Police Station - 12:34 AM
It was past midnight when Ian finally allowed himself to rest.
The concrete floor of his cell was unforgiving, but exhaustion had finally won the battle over his aching body and splintered mind. Curled up under a thin sheet, the sound of the world outside his metal bars faded into an ominous silence. Then -
Clank.
The sound of the cell door unlocking echoed through the dimly lit corridor. Ian didn't move. It wasn't the first time he'd heard doors creak open in the middle of the night. Probably some drunk getting tossed into a cell next to him. He buried his face deeper into his folded arms.
Then came the heavy footfalls.
Multiple.
Thick boots marched with precision. Too coordinated for drunks. Too quiet for a routine check.
"Everhart," a deep voice barked, followed by a rough shake to Ian's shoulder. "Get your ass up."
Ian blinked, slowly sitting up. "What the fuck is this?"
Before he could process it, two officers grabbed him roughly, dragging him to his feet. His body protested, muscles sore and weak. He didn't resist, but the grip on him was so tight, it felt like he was a threat.
"Where are you taking me?" he growled, half-asleep and full of suspicion.
No answer.
Through the back halls and into the shadows, they marched him past security doors and down an empty corridor that led to the police station's underground lot. The lighting was dim, almost intentional, as if whatever was about to happen didn't need witnesses.
A black van waited.
The side door slid open.
Ian tried to resist. "What the hell is going on? You bastards better not - "
Before he could finish, he was shoved inside. He hit the van's floor hard, his elbow slamming against the metal.
"What the fuck was that?" Ian roared.
The same officers climbed in after him and slammed the door shut with a cold finality. The van began to move.
Inside, Ian was surrounded by cops. Silent. Watching him. Their faces were blank, emotionless. Professional. Too professional.
Ian's eyes met the rearview mirror - and there he saw it.
The driver.
Smoking a cigarette, one eye blue, the other brown.
Heterochromia.
The detective.
Ian's heartbeat quickened. Something wasn't right. This wasn't protocol. This wasn't due process. This was something else. His chest tightened. Anxiety started to wrap around his ribs like barbed wire.
Was this it?
Was this where they buried inconvenient foreigners?
Ian's instincts screamed to act - to escape - but he was still cuffed and outnumbered.
Ritz-Carlton Hotel - 1:12 AM
The drive was long. Silent. Every second dragged like molasses. He tried to make sense of it. The detective's presence. The silence. The van. Then the van slowed to a stop.
Ian blinked.
Ritz-Carlton, Tokyo.
"What?"
This didn't make sense.
The side door rolled open, and the detective killed his cigarette. Ian looked up at him as the detective stepped around the van's frame.
"Is this where you're gonna kill me?" Ian challenged. "In public?"
The detective scoffed. "If they didn't pay me enough, I would've killed you inside this goddamn van."
"They?"
Ian's head tilted. His pulse began to ease. Someone… paid for this?
The detective leaned in. "You're one lucky bastard. And I hope you don't waste it, boy."
Ian stared at him, too tired to muster a response. The officers uncuffed him and kicked him toward the hotel entrance.
"Hey, don't forget this." the detective tossed a piece of paper to Ian.
Ian picked up the paper. There's a room number written on it.
The detective looked at Ian with an envious and hostile expression one last time.
"I hope I don't ever see your again." The detective, sounded like a threat.
Then the van roared to life and it sped away.
Ian turned around and didn't look back.
Inside the hotel lobby, everything was pristine, quiet, the marble floor gleaming under golden lights.
The receptionist, a petite woman with perfect posture and bright red lipstick, looked up in surprise at Ian's disheveled appearance.
"Can I help you, sir?" she asked politely.
Ian handed her the slip of paper.
"I was told to go to this room," he said, tired.
The receptionist glanced at the paper.
"Oh," she said, blinking. "I didn't know Ms. Ravenglass was expecting a visitor."
Ian's head snapped up.
"What did you just say?"
The receptionist looked up. "Ms. Isabelle Ravenglass. She's staying in that room."
Ravenglass.
That name.
It carved its way into Ian's skull like a key unlocking an old door.
He hadn't heard it in years. But now it came back. The blue eyes. The Birmingham accent. The coffee shop in Osaka. The woman who called him darling. The woman who tricked a stalker. The woman with a magnetic smile and a trembling voice.
Isabelle Ravenglass.
She remembered him.
And now she'd pulled strings - dangerous ones. Enough to bribe a morally bankrupt detective and a squad of cops just to get him out of jail.
Ian took a shaky breath.
He was too exhausted to feel gratitude, too wired to ignore the storm brewing in his gut. He didn't know why she wanted him, why now, or what she wanted with a broken man like him.
But one thing was clear.
His story with Isabelle wasn't over.
Not by a long shot.