Kamina, with a confident swagger that defied the grime of the backstreets, made his way down a rain-slicked alleyway in District 12. Imogen walked beside him, her small hand clutched in his, her face still pale from the ordeal of her morning "sickness." They were a strange pair, a giant of a man with an oversized katana and a small, delicate-looking girl with a grim look on her face. Their destination was a coffee shop, a worn-down place under a bridge that served as their new meeting point with Shmuel and Pisanio.
"What a nice place for a meeting spot, huh?" Kamina said, gesturing with his free hand at the damp, graffiti-covered walls.
As they reached the coffee shop's door, Imogen's pace quickened. She ran to Pisanio and hugged his leg, her small body trembling with a mixture of fear and relief. Pisanio, ever the dutiful servant, immediately began a thorough inspection of her, checking her pulse, her eyes, and her skin for any sign of her earlier symptoms.
"Don't complain," Shmuel said, without looking up from his tablet. "This is the most out-of-sight place we could find."
Kamina, leaning against the counter, crossed his arms and looked at Imogen and Pisanio. "Now, I want to know more about our client before we start moving again. Whatever is happening to her… it's a big deal. It got in the way, and it's going to get in the way again if we don't understand it."
Shmuel's fingers hovered over the tablet for a moment, then he let out a sigh. "It was written in the contract that the client should provide information to the office's fixers if it affects the working performance." He looked at Imogen and Pisanio. "We're in the middle of a very dangerous game with a very high price tag. The least we can ask for is for all the information on the table."
"My lady's eyes were originally owned by her mother before she passed away," Pisanio explained, his voice a low, somber hum. "They enhance her sense of sight to the absolute limit and will give all the information the eye can see to the brain. But since my lady's brain could not take all the information, it overloaded."
Shmuel asked. "Then why give her those at all?"
Imogen, her voice a thin, weary whisper, answered, "I was born with Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease. If it wasn't for these eyes, I would be brain-dead."
Kamina didn't understand, so Shmuel explained. "It's a very rare, rapidly progressive, and always fatal brain disorder."
Shmuel reading from his tablet. "A type of prion disease where misfolded proteins destroy brain tissue, making it resemble a sponge. He listed the symptoms: rapidly worsening dementia, personality changes, muscle stiffness, twitching, and loss of coordination. The disease was incurable and always fatal, usually within a year of symptom onset."
Imogen then said, "Ever since I got my eyes, it had become a symbiotic relationship with my brain. If I ever remove it…"
"My lady will die," Pisanio added.
Kamina let out a long sigh, the sound a mixture of exasperation and concern. "Alright, let's start going."
Shmuel, however, had a better plan. "Listen, we should split up into two groups. Kamina and Imogen in one group. You're fast, Kamina, and you can parkour and do things average humans can't. You can get her there faster. Pisanio and I will help from a distance."
He showed his tablet, and began to detail his plan. He showed them a series of winding, complex routes through the City's back alleys, the paths highlighted in glowing red. Each route had multiple contingency plans, alternate meeting points, and escape routes. It was a plan so meticulously detailed it could have been used to plan a full-scale raid. It was a masterpiece of tactical planning.
"If all else fails, and those knights somehow find out where we're going again… just go with your gut." The words were an admission of defeat, a concession to the unpredictable chaos that was Kamina's existence. "I've given up on common sense when working with you."
"Sounds good to me, kid."
Pisanio, meanwhile, was about to protest the plan, but Imogen cut him off. "I agree with it. Let's do this."
Shmuel threw a phone at Kamina, who caught it with a deft, one-handed catch. "Use this in an emergency. You know how to use a phone, right?"
"Yeah, yeah," Kamina said, scoffing. "Just press a bunch of somethings and it works. I get it."
With the plan in place, Kamina and Imogen set off on the route Shmuel had laid out for them, a series of winding, complex paths through the backstreets of District 12. Imogen, after a few blocks, gave a tired sigh and looked up at Kamina.
"Hey, let me sit on your shoulder," she said, her voice a whine.
"No way," Kamina said, without even looking at her. "We're not even a tenth of the way there. You have legs, don't you? Use 'em."
Imogen huffed, a storm brewing on her small face. "Pisanio would have let me sit on his shoulder. He always does."
"Pisanio? Do I look like Pisanio to you, huh? That stiff-backed, armor-plated old man? No way. I'm Kamina. The Great Kamina. And The Great Kamina doesn't carry brats on his shoulder. Now, walk."
As they walked, the city's ceaseless noise and motion seemed to fade into a distant hum. Imogen, her hand still tucked in Kamina's, stopped abruptly in front of a storefront. Her eyes, still a faint, ghostly red, were glued to a wedding dress on display in the window. The dress, a shimmering white confection of silk and lace, was a stark, ethereal contrast to the grime and chaos of the backstreets.
Kamina, a few steps ahead, stopped and looked back. He saw her, her small face pressed against the glass, a profound sadness in her eyes. He didn't say anything, didn't ask her to hurry. He just waited. After a few seconds, he crouched down next to her.
"Hey, brat. We really need to go."
"Oh... right."
They started walking again, the silence a bit heavier than before. A few minutes later, Kamina saw it. A playground. An impossible splash of color and whimsy in the heart of the grim, gray backstreet. A swing set with peeling paint, a rusty slide, and a single, lonely merry-go-round. It was a rare sight in the City, a place where children's laughter was a forgotten memory. Kamina looked at Imogen. Her eyes, once again, were fixed on the impossible. The silent plea was a hundred times more effective than any spoken word.
"We can get a bite to eat and stay here for half an hour," he said, a small, uncharacteristic smile on his face.
Imogen's face lit up, a brilliant flash of joy that erased the sadness. "GREAT!"
Kamina went to a local burger joint, its neon sign flickering a warm, greasy promise of a good meal. He walked up to the counter, his presence an immediate, overwhelming force in the small space. The cashier, a tired-looking woman with a nametag that read 'May,' didn't even look up as she took his order.
"Three burgers," Kamina said, his voice a low rumble. "Two for me, one for the brat."
May, without missing a beat, punched the order into the terminal. "Anything else, boss?"
"Fries, a couple of sodas," Kamina said, then looked back at Imogen, who was already on the playground's swing. "And a small milkshake for the kid."
May just nodded, her hands moving with a fluid, practiced grace as she bagged up the order. "That'll be 28,000 Ahn."
Kamina paid and walked back to the playground, the scent of hot burgers and french fries a delicious aroma in the crisp afternoon air. He found Imogen on the swing, her feet dangling a few inches off the ground, a wistful look on her face.
"Here you go," Kamina said, handing her a burger.
Imogen took it with a grateful look, then hopped off the swing and ran to the merry-go-round. She put her hands on the bar and tried to spin it, but it was old and rusty, and she didn't have enough strength to get it moving. Kamina, with a burger still in his mouth, walked over and, with a powerful push, sent the merry-go-round spinning at a dizzying speed.
Kamina leaned back in the creaking chair, one leg on the table, munching on a soggy fry like it was the most serious thing in the world. "Alright, spill it," he said, pointing the fry at her like an accusing sword. "What's your grand plan after we storm X Corp's nest? Don't tell me it's just for the thrill."
Imogen sat across from him, hands cupped around a lukewarm cup of tea she barely touched. "I start chasing my dream," she said softly. "With the boy who made the wish to marry me."
Kamina arched a brow, a grin tugging at his lips. "Aren't you quite the dreamer?"
"Of course I am," she replied, almost defensively. "And just a month ago was the first time I ever stepped out of my house."
Kamina nearly choked on his fry. "First time doing what?! You're telling me you've been holed up all your life, and now your first field trip is into a deathtrap?"
She looked away, embarrassed. "The boy who made that wish… he was banished from the syndicate a long time ago. And last month was the first time in years I even heard his voice again."
Kamina tapped the table with his knuckle. "Sounds rough."
"You're not going to question me?" she asked, eyes narrowing slightly. "About risking everything—my life, this mission—just to chase a dream with no guarantee it even exists anymore?"
"Oh, so you do realize it's baseless," he said with a smirk. "That's a start."
"Yes," she admitted, her fingers tightening on the teacup. "And I still want to go. I need to, at least once… wear a wedding dress before I'm gone."
Kamina let out a bark of a laugh. "Not something a brat like you should be worrying about."
"Any brat," she shot back, her cheeks puffing in frustration, "has at least once thought of wanting to wear a wedding dress."
"Oh really?" He leaned forward, resting his chin on his fist. "That's what drives you? Fancy lace and ribbons?"
She shook her head. "Ever since I saw the picture of my mother in her wedding dress… I've always wanted to wear one, because… because…"
"She was beautiful?" Kamina offered, surprisingly gentle for once.
"No." Imogen's eyes glistened. "She was shining."
Kamina stared at her for a beat, then grinned. "Tch. So that's it, huh? You saw someone shine once and thought, 'Hell, I want a piece of that light.' Can't say I blame you."
"It's more than that," she said. "It's proof you can have a moment where the world lets you feel… alive. Even if it's just once."
Kamina tossed another fry into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed with a dramatic shrug. "Dreams, huh? People say they're fragile things. I say they're bombs. You plant 'em, and one day–boom–you either change your world or blow yourself up trying."
Imogen managed a small smile. "So you don't think I'm stupid?"
"Oh, I absolutely think you're stupid," Kamina said, jabbing a thumb at her. "But stupid's good. World's already full of smart corpses. Stupid dreamers? They're the ones who keep digging, keep climbing, even when the ground's all teeth."
She laughed quietly. "You make it sound heroic."
"It's not heroic," he said, leaning back again. "It's human."
For the first time in a while, the tension between them softened. Imogen looked down at her tea. "Do you ever dream, Kamina?"
He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't dream. I dare. There's a difference. Dreams are what you chase when you think the world's bigger than you. Daring? That's when you punch through it until it notices."
She blinked at him. "That's… crazy."
"Damn right it is." Kamina said, pointing another fry at her.
Kamina crumpled up the greasy paper bag, tossed it into a trash can with a lazy hook shot, and stood up, stretching his arms until his joints cracked like snapping cables. Imogen, still holding the half-empty milkshake with both hands, followed behind him, her small steps quick to keep up with his long stride.
"You good to move?" Kamina asked without looking at her.
Imogen nodded, though her pale cheeks betrayed her fatigue. "Yeah. I'm fine."
"Fine's a word people use when they're about to fall over," Kamina muttered. "Don't make me carry you just 'cause you said the magic word."
"I wasn't going to ask," she said, clutching the milkshake tighter. "…Unless you offered."
Kamina shot her a sharp look over his shoulder, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Keep dreaming, brat."
They slipped back into the arteries of the City, following the crimson trail Shmuel had burned into Kamina's memory. Tight alleyways where the walls sweated moisture like open wounds, shuttered market lanes that smelled of metal and rot, rooftops strung together with laundry lines and broken bridges. Kamina took the lead without hesitation, vaulting a low fence, ducking under a collapsed sign, and crossing a narrow beam over a sewer trench with the casual balance of a man born for chaos.
Imogen followed, light-footed but slowing with each block. Her ghostly red eyes flicked back and forth, processing every corner, every shadow—always scanning, always tense.
"Something on your mind?" Kamina asked, his voice low.
"…Back at the shop," she said. "Shmuel talked like this was just a job for him. For you too, I guess. But for me–"
"This ain't a therapy walk," Kamina interrupted, though not unkindly. "You want this job done, keep your head on what's ahead, not what's behind."
She looked down at her shoes, lips pressed tight, then quickened her steps to match his. "Fine."
They reached a junction where the alley opened into a wider avenue, the faint glow of neon signs bleeding onto cracked pavement. The rain had slowed to a thin drizzle now, turning the world into a blur of smeared lights and slick stone. Kamina raised a hand, signaling her to halt.
Across the street, two figures in dull iron-gray cloaks stood at the corner, their stances rigid, their helmets reflecting the pale lights. Knights. Their patrol was slow, methodical, their spears tapping the ground in steady rhythm.
Kamina leaned down, whispering, "They're sniffing. Not hunting yet, but close."
Imogen's fingers tightened around her milkshake until the plastic creaked. "What do we do?"
"What I do best." Kamina grinned, that same sharp, reckless flash of teeth that had gotten him through more bad days than plans ever had. "We go loud if we have to, but not yet. Keep low, keep behind me."
He led her down a side path, weaving between stacked crates and tarped junk. His every step was deliberate but light, his frame somehow blending into the shadows despite his size. Imogen mirrored him as best she could, heart pounding in her chest.
They slipped past the knights undetected and continued deeper into the district, the route narrowing toward the old overpass that marked their designated waypoint. The city here was quieter, almost unnaturally so. Too quiet.
Kamina stopped, eyes narrowing. "Something's off."
Imogen glanced around, her breath misting in the cold air. "…Trap?"
"Or bait." Kamina reached over his shoulder, his hand resting on the hilt of his katana. "Stay behind me, brat. This smells like a setup."
The drizzle thickened as they made their way down a narrow artery of District 12, the walls on either side dripping like the inside of a throat. Kamina led the way, boots splashing, his frame a dark monolith cutting through the rain. Imogen followed just behind, milkshake now empty but still clutched in her hands like a talisman.
The first arrow came with no warning–only the faint twang of a bowstring and a whisper of air. Kamina's instincts flared like a furnace. In a single motion, he wrenched his oversized katana free, steel flashing as he cleaved the arrow in two. A heartbeat later, three more followed–then five. The alley filled with hissing shafts, each one aimed to maim, not miss.
"Tch!" Kamina twisted and deflected ringing off the walls like chimes. Sparks kissed the wet pavement as arrows shattered.
"Did the knights find out about us?" Kamina's voice echoing down the alley.
From above came a chuckle. "No… and it's better that way."
Kamina's head snapped up. Shapes emerged from the rooflines: figures in green hooded coats, their silhouettes sharp and lean, bows glinting with oiled string. Some perched like vultures, others crouched, fingers already nocking the next arrow.
Their leader, a man with a scarf trailing in the wind and a grin like a knife's edge, spoke again. "How about this, stranger? You hand over the little lady, and we let you crawl out of here with that dirty life of yours. No charges. No holes. I get to collect a pretty bounty from the Gray King for dangling his daughter over the flames. Everyone wins."
Imogen stiffened. Kamina's shoulders twitched before he tilted his head and smirked, eyes burning under the shadow of his glasses. "Like hell I would surrender."
The leader's grin widened. "Well then… Gentleman Bastards! Show time!"
The rooftops erupted.
Arrows rained like locusts, some tipped with glimmering toxins, others rigged with cords and weights meant to bind rather than kill. At the same time, several of the green-hooded assailants leapt down, their movements feline and unnaturally coordinated. Their close-quarters weapons unfolded–strange hybrids of bow and blade, curved limbs that snapped into short scythes or hook-ended staves for disarming.
Kamina spun his blade, catching a descending attacker mid-air, the impact of steel on steel ringing like a gong. Sparks showered, rain hissed on hot edges, and Kamina's boots dug furrows in the slick stone as he planted himself between Imogen and the oncoming storm.
"Stay behind me, brat!" he roared.
Imogen ducked low, clutching her dress as a stray arrow zipped past her ear and embedded itself in the wall, its tip vibrating inches from her cheek.
"Alright, you bastards. Let's see if you've got the guts to dance with me!"