Day in the story: 27th September (Saturday)
I spent the next few days orchestrating the most elaborate smear campaign I'd ever attempted—less marketing, more psychological warfare. At some point, I guess I'd become a graffiti dissident, slinging paint instead of bullets, truth instead of silence.
The idea was simple. Shiroi had been part of the yakuza—tight-knit, precise, deadly. And then something snapped. His whole unit was wiped off the map like they'd never existed. No survivors. Just one ghost left in the aftermath: him. Two years of silence. Grief? Guilt? Or just the need to disappear? Whatever the reason, I had a way to target all of it at once.
I designed a poster, brutal and direct. His face at the center—expressionless, drained—framed by silhouettes of people unraveling into red and black threads behind him, like their lives were torn by unseen scissors. Above it, in stark white block letters:
"SHIROI – FAILURE OF AN ASSASSIN.
CALL THE POLICE IF SEEN.
WANTED FOR THE MURDER OF EVERY FRIEND HE EVER HAD."
And below, a single line in slashed, handwritten font—
A message meant for him alone:
"Unravel all of those if you can. I bet you can't. – Usagi."
Then I suited up in my Usagi disguise—hoodie, cargo pants and traditional Japanese mask of a Rabbit—and hit the streets.
I didn't just poster the city. I blanketed it. Hundreds of prints, plastered overnight. Alleyways, bridges, construction zones, bus stops. And that was just the first wave.
Next came the murals. Massive, hand-painted, loud as a siren. I climbed scaffolding, scaled abandoned rooftops, snuck into zones with nothing but a flashlight and a plan. I painted ten of them. Ten blows.
City center. The docks, where we last crossed paths. The edges of Chinatown. Even the old market square. Every wall became a wound—my message bleeding into concrete.
It worked.
The city started whispering. People filmed, posted, argued. "Who the hell is Shiroi?" Was it a movie trailer? A vigilante's revenge? Social commentary? The mystery spread like wildfire.
But none of that mattered as much as his response.
I visited each mural daily, waiting for a sign. And I got it.
At the dockside wall—one of the first, one of the boldest—I found a crew already at work. The mural was gone. Not painted over—unraveled. Chunks of wall had crumbled, as if peeled by invisible hands. They said it was weather damage. I knew better.
He'd come. He'd touched it.
I stood across the street in my civilian clothes, pretending to be just another pedestrian. But inside, I was burning.
The trap had worked. The ghost had blinked.
Penrose was right—Shiroi was ruled by pride. And I had just shattered it in front of an entire city.
Now, it was time for the finale.
September 27th.
Tonight, I'd paint my biggest mural yet. One final beacon. One last bait. Then I'd wait, low and quiet in the shadows nearby. Because I wasn't done yet.
And I had a plan to catch him—without even needing to touch him.
--
I was nearly done with the final one.
It stretched across the backside of an old industrial building by the river, long scheduled for demolition. Decay had claimed most of it—windows shattered, metal skeleton exposed in places, the scent of rust and mildew clinging to the air like memory. But that crumbling husk had something I needed.
A wall. A big wall.
Its back faced the city skyline across the river—a panoramic canvas visible from bridges, waterfront paths, and anyone glancing out their window in the late hours. Perfectly placed for attention. More importantly, it was perfectly placed for him.
An abandoned building in a forgotten district—he wouldn't even need to come to the mural itself. If my hunch was right, he could simply enter the building and touch the inside of that wall, and the mural would begin to unravel like the others. No eyes on him. No interference. Just pride and impulse doing the work.
That's exactly what I counted on.
Painting it wasn't easy. The ledge I balanced on was barely wide enough for my boots. I'd secured myself with climbing gear, anchored to the top of the structure like some rogue window washer on a vendetta. The river whispered far below me, cool and endless.
But I didn't care.
I wanted his ugly face to be the last thing people saw as the sun set—eyes hollow, mouth twisted into that cold detachment he wore like armor. I wanted it huge, painted in broad, angry strokes that screamed across the river. Let the whole city see him. Let him see what I made of him.
And if it was all too much for him to ignore—good.
I was tired of being hunted. Tired of waiting in shadows for someone else to act. Just this once, I wanted to make it easy for him.
So I did.
I left the door unlocked.
I pulled myself up, climbing in bursts—one hop at a time, boot slapping against concrete, rebounding from the wall. My body moved on instinct, driven by muscle memory and resolve. The building was high, but I'd never feared heights. Heights were honest. It was people that were unpredictable.
At the top, I gripped the jagged edge of the ledge and swung myself over with practiced ease. Wind tousled my hair as I stood tall against the skyline, balancing on steel and grit like a shadow above the city. I crossed the rooftop, careful along the narrow ledge, my gaze locked on the rusted rooftop opening ahead.
Then I dropped down.
The inside of the building opened around me like a dead cathedral—silent, cavernous, and haunted by the ghosts of industry. It was one giant, open space. At its center stood a massive, half-gutted machine, flanked by skeletal steel scaffolding. Stairs wrapped around it in tiers like a forgotten shrine, metal groaning faintly with the wind threading through broken windows.
The ground floor was slick with a sprawling puddle of stagnant water, dark as oil and just as reflective. Somewhere below, a basement loomed, but I hadn't gone down there—it was completely flooded. The smell of mold and cold iron hung thick in the air.
The only light came in shafts—pale, trembling strips of lamplight slipping through cracks in the walls, or bleeding through jagged holes in the roof. Dust motes danced like ash in the air, turning the stillness into something near sacred.
It was damp. It was dark.
It was perfect.
Now all that was left… was to wait.
"I know you're here!"
His voice cracked like a whip through the hollow, waterlogged shell of the building. Damn. I didn't even have to wait. Not at all, it seemed.
Shiroi.
He stood just inside the entrance, the pale light from the outside cutting a jagged silhouette around his frame.
"You couldn't have run far! I saw you painting this shit just minutes ago!" His voice echoed through the soaked air. "Show yourself, so I can properly unravel all of this. Isn't that what you wanted?!"
I stepped into the light on the first-floor scaffolding, arms extended to either side in theatrical surrender. The Usagi mask reflected the dusty rays of evening, unreadable as ever.
"Ok, ok, Mr. White," I said. "You got me. I didn't expect you to show so soon."
"A rabbit after all," he sneered. "Fitting. Because I'm going to catch you and mince you."
His voice was different now—raw, unfiltered anger boiling beneath it. The precision and restraint I'd seen in our past encounters had shattered. This wasn't the ghost. This was a man unhinged.
"I'm afraid that won't be possible, Shiroi," I said calmly. "I'm otherwise occupied."
Each word I spoke seemed to drive him further over the edge. And that was exactly what I needed. Anger made people reckless.
"Do what you want," he growled. "Shoot me. Drown me. Cut me. Believe it or not, I've had all of that happen to me lately. And look—I'm still here. Still standing. Still ready to unravel you."
God, his ego. He definitely was his own biggest fan.
I watched as he stepped forward, boots disturbing the puddles on the ground below. Ripples spread across the surface, a distorted mirror of his rage.
"You really don't mind if I shoot you?" I asked, fishing for information. "What are you—bulletproof? Some kind of superhero?"
"I'm more than that, but a stupid fucker like you wouldn't understand."
"Try me."
He froze. Still as a statue. The puddle around his boots calmed.
"I have power over the Fabric and Threads," he said slowly, with the reverence of someone reciting scripture.
I tilted my head. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It's my domain. My authority," he said. "I can decompose anything to its base elements. The moment it touches me—bullet, blade, bomb—it becomes thread or dust."
Chilling. And very real, judging by the conviction in his voice.
Time for a pressure point.
"That what you did to your yakuza friends?"
His body jerked—just slightly, but enough. His jaw clenched. His mask of arrogance cracked.
"That was a fucking accident! I didn't mean to!"
There it was. Regret. Pain. He'd buried it, but it was still there.
"Well," I said, "your apology doesn't mean shit to them now. But don't worry. I'll take revenge in their name."
"You… were yakuza too?" His voice dropped, uncertain.
"Hai," I said in crisp Japanese.
He stood in silence for a beat.
"Then I'm sorry for you too," he said. "But you know I can't let you live."
"I know," I said, and began descending the metal stairs, step by slow step. We were twenty feet apart now, face to face—death's breath between us.
"Go ahead," he said, arms wide like Christ on the cross. "Shoot me. I deserve it. But it won't stop me. I'll still come for you."
"Okay," I said simply, and drew my Staccato.
I pulled the trigger.
The gunshot cracked like lightning. Shiroi staggered and dropped to one knee, grunting—but not unconscious. He was getting stronger. More used to pain. But I wasn't sticking around to admire his endurance.
I bolted to the side, toward the wall. My hand found the T-shaped steel rod I'd stashed earlier. In one motion, I leapt and caught the overhanging staircase, swinging myself up by my rubber-gloved hands.
The rod flew from my grip and landed just as I intended—wedged between two frayed, exposed wires. The lower end dipped into the puddle.
Snap.
A blinding flash lit the room as electricity surged through the water like a struck serpent. The whole space buzzed with lethal energy. The puddle hissed and popped.
Shiroi's body spasmed, muscles locked in violent convulsions. He collapsed backward, limbs flailing before falling limp in the shallow pool.
I hung there, knees tucked, suspended like a bat beneath the scaffolding. My gloves and rubber-soled boots insulated me, but my heart pounded like a war drum.
He was down.
I lowered myself slowly, arms trembling from the strain, until my boots finally touched the surface of the water. Rubber-insulated, I would've been fine standing the whole time—but hanging there had felt safer. Detached. Like the danger couldn't reach me if I just stayed above it.
I reached out and gripped one of the wires by its still-insulated length. With a careful tug, I pulled it free, breaking the circuit.
Silence.
A deep, buzzing silence.
My chest heaved. I could finally breathe. That had to be enough. No one survives that kind of exposure. He couldn't unravel electricity, could he?
Slowly, I stepped toward him. Every movement was calculated. Measured. The water rippled around my legs like it could betray me. I kept my pistol aimed directly at his chest. Just to be sure. Just to confirm the kill.
I was standing over him when it happened.
He rolled.
Sudden. Fast. Like a spring uncoiling with lethal precision. My finger jerked the trigger too late—he was already in motion. His leg swept under me and I went down hard into the water with a splash that swallowed the world.
Then he was on me.
Knees slamming into my ribs. One hand crashed into my gun—and I watched, helpless, as the Staccato disintegrated in my grip. It crumbled like ash in the wind.
I choked on panic.
But instinct took over. I grabbed his wrists, locked them tight before his palms could meet skin. No matter what happened, I couldn't let him touch me bare.
We grappled. Water splashed. Breath fled.
He was strong. Much stronger than me. And worse—he was winning.
"It was a good try, rabbit," he said, calm now, almost amused. "Clever. But I can reduce electricity to just electrons. You really thought that would kill me?"
His voice coiled around my mind like a snake tightening. He was smiling. Smiling like a god looking down at a failed sacrifice.
Terror gripped me. It wasn't just fear—it was certainty. That I'd lost. That this was it. I was done. I couldn't outmatch him in strength. Couldn't outlast him in power. Couldn't run. Couldn't fight.
I was drowning in him.
And in that moment—chest crushed, limbs burning, soul collapsing—I wanted out.
I wished to be anywhere but here.
I wished for another chance.
I wished for escape.