The city never truly slept. Tokyo's neon veins pulsed beneath a thick, restless sky, a symphony of distant sirens, murmured deals, and restless footsteps weaving through shadowed alleys. Somewhere in the maze of concrete and cold light, Aika Hoshino moved like a ghost—quiet, unseen, and just out of reach.
She was careful not to ask questions. Not about her past. Not about the strange emptiness that followed her like a second skin. Some nights, when the city's hum faded low enough, she could almost hear the spaces between memories—echoes of things better left forgotten.
Her apartment was small, barely more than a box stacked with crates and cheap furniture. She lived off long shifts at the convenience store, the relentless grind her only anchor. Cheap coffee stained her lips, and the flicker of a broken streetlamp outside was the only light in the room. Aika's mismatched eyes—one sapphire blue, one molten gold—scanned the cracked ceiling as she tried to push the exhaustion from her bones.
Elsewhere, in the upper echelons of Tokyo's underworld, a different pulse beat. In a penthouse cloaked in shadows and silence, Daizen Kurosawa sat motionless, eyes like shards of ice piercing the darkness. TheBlueGhost, they called him a myth wrapped in black tattoos and whispered fear.
Tonight, his world shifted.
A sealed letter, marked with the unmistakable red wax and a dark smear of blood, landed quietly on his polished desk. The signature was a name that should have been dead. But more than that, it was a warning. A message.
And it was meant for her.
Because some names are not just spoken they are written in blood.