"A two-hour window," I murmured.
Steam lifted from the tea in thin, wavering strands, breaking apart before it reached my face. The surface trembled once as I set the cup down, porcelain meeting saucer with a small, controlled click.
"To retrieve a Concord employee."
The bitterness stayed at the back of my tongue longer than it should have. I swallowed it anyway.
"Mori-gumi really kicked a hornet's nest with this one."
No one responded. Chairs shifted somewhere behind me. A spoon tapped once against a cup, then went quiet again. The room absorbed the words without needing to return them.
I stood.
Coins slid across the table—measured, exact. They stopped just short of the edge. I didn't check them again.
The door opened with a light push.
Outside, the day had already settled into itself. Sunlight struck hard against the street, bouncing off stone and glass in sharp flashes that forced a slight narrowing of the eyes. Heat didn't linger—it pressed, immediate, then moved on.
My cane struck the ground.
Once.
Twice.
The rhythm set itself without thought. A carriage passed close enough for the wheel's grit to scrape against the edge of the road, the sound low and dragging. I lifted my hand just enough.
"Red district."
The driver nodded. No hesitation.
I stepped in.
The seat shifted slightly under my weight, leather creaking once before settling. The carriage lurched forward, wheels finding their rhythm against the uneven stone. Each turn adjusted the angle of light cutting through the opening, sliding across my coat, my hands, then away again.
The deeper we went, the quieter it became.
Not silent.
Just… watched.
Voices lowered. Conversations shortened. Windows half-open, curtains drawn just enough to suggest presence without revealing it. Movement behind them—shadows crossing, pausing, disappearing.
I rested my hand over the head of my cane.
"It's been over eighteen hours."
The thought came clean.
"Too long for coincidence. Too short for a mistake."
The carriage slowed.
Stopped.
I stepped down before it fully settled, boots touching ground just as the horse adjusted its stance with a short exhale. The scent reached me first—broth, oil, something simmered too long.
The noodle shop sat half-open.
Voices spilled out, low and uneven, rising and falling without urgency.
Normal.
Too normal.
I stepped inside.
The floor creaked once beneath my weight. A shift in the room followed—not visible, but present. Two men sat off to the side, posture loose, eyes not. Watching without turning.
"Danna, ohayou gozaimasu."
She didn't look up immediately.
Papers spread across the counter, edges aligned too neatly for carelessness. Her fingers moved over them in small, precise motions, as if each page held something that required attention without urgency.
Then—
Her ears twitched.
White. Catlike.
Her gaze lifted.
Narrowed.
"Morisan is not around," she said.
Her voice stayed flat. It didn't push, didn't pull.
"If that's who you're looking for, Haruto."
Her eyes dipped—just once.
To my side.
Where the gun rested beneath the coat.
Then back up.
"You could be the one I came to see, Dannasamma."
I stepped forward.
Slow.
The space between us adjusted, not closing fully, not widening. Just… measured.
Behind me, one of the men shifted. Fabric brushed against wood. A breath held, then released.
"Is that so."
She stepped back just enough to keep the distance intact.
"Maybe," I said.
My gaze drifted past her, toward the stairs. The wood there bore faint marks—wear, repeated movement, something heavier than usual traffic.
"I could buy you a drink."
A pause.
"Celebrate the housewarming gift you just received."
Her expression didn't change.
Her eyes sharpened.
Behind me—
Movement.
Fast.
I turned.
Palm forward.
Impact.
The contact landed solid. Chest against hand. The resistance held for half a second.
Then—
"Cinder Touch."
Heat didn't flare.
It collapsed.
His ribs gave under the pressure, structure failing inward before anything visible caught up. His breath cut off mid-attempt, mouth opening without sound as the force folded through him.
He dropped.
The second man moved.
"Cultivator—!"
The word broke.
The first shot cut through it.
The recoil pressed into my hand, sharp and familiar. The second followed before his body fully reacted. The third ensured the silence held.
Gun smoke rose.
Thin.
Lazy.
"Danna."
I didn't turn.
"I don't know what these muscle brains are doing."
The smell of iron crept in, slow and steady.
"But believe it or not…"
I stepped forward.
Over the body.
"I was the nicer option."
No answer.
Of course.
The stairs creaked under my weight. Each step carried the scent upward, thicker now. Halfway—
A shift.
Air displaced.
I ducked.
Wood split where my head had been, fragments snapping outward with a crack that echoed down the narrow space. The bat lodged into the wall for a fraction of a second before being pulled free.
He stood above me.
Large.
Dense.
Wrong.
The next swing came wide.
Heavy.
I let the motion pass, dropping back, shoulder hitting the floor before rolling. The impact traveled up through bone, dull but grounding. The bat struck where I had been, splintering wood again.
He advanced.
Another swing.
Then another.
Each slower.
Not weaker.
Heavier.
Predictable.
Smoke slid between us.
Thin at first.
Then thicker.
His breath caught.
A cough broke through it.
Grip faltered.
That was enough.
"What does someone at Qi circulation think they have against me?"
The blade entered clean.
Resistance.
Then give.
I stepped closer, controlling the angle, the depth. His breath stuttered once more before failing completely.
"Breathe."
The edge dragged across.
Finished.
His body fell.
Heavy enough to shake the frame of the stairs, dust loosening from the corners and drifting down in fine particles.
I didn't look at him.
My eyes stayed upward.
Stillness.
Then—
Absence.
"She moved."
I stepped forward.
Blood caught at the sole of my boot, holding for a moment before releasing with a faint pull. The door above sat slightly open, the gap dark, still.
The smell reached me.
Alcohol.
Stale.
Thick.
I stopped short of the threshold.
Raised the gun.
Fired.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The sound inside was dull.
A body meeting floor.
Only then did I push the door open.
The room held its breath.
Curtains drawn tight, thin lines of light cutting across the floor in narrow strips. Dust hovered where it had been disturbed, settling slowly.
She was there.
On the floor.
Victoria.
Rope bound tight enough to leave marks. Wrists pulled close, ankles drawn in, the fibers biting into skin that had already been bruised. Her face bore the aftermath—red where it had been struck, dry tracks where tears had settled and stayed.
"There the wildfire is."
I stepped in.
Slow.
The boards creaked lightly beneath me, each sound contained within the room's closed space.
Behind me, the body lay still. Blood spread outward in a slow, deliberate shape, following the grain of the wood.
"They say what a man can do but—"
I paused.
Looked at her.
"What was your name again?"
Her eyes moved.
Barely.
Focus slipping in and out, unable to hold.
I crouched.
Knife in hand.
"They say what a man can do but—"
The blade came down.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
Five fingers.
Clean.
Quick.
She didn't scream.
Didn't have the strength.
I stood.
Wiped the blade against her sleeve. The fabric darkened, then stilled.
"You people," I said making my way to Victoria.
The rope gave under the knife, fibers snapping apart in small, tight bursts. Her wrists came free first, then her ankles. The tension released, her body shifting slightly with it.
"Are either illiterate, stupid…"
The last cut fell away.
"…or ill-informed."
The rope dropped.
Her limbs didn't respond.
I pulled a sheet from the bed. The fabric dragged once before freeing, settling loosely as I wrapped it around her. Tight enough to hold. Loose enough to carry.
Her weight settled unevenly against me.
Manageable.
I stepped out.
Down the stairs.
The bodies remained.
Unmoved.
I paused.
Kneeling once.
The blade pressed into the hand of the second man. The cut came easier this time, resistance already broken by stillness.
One.
Two.
Three.
Collected.
A message.
"Danna."
My voice carried lightly.
"I'll see you later."
The room didn't respond.
"Give my regards to the girls."
No answer.
I stepped outside.
The carriage still waited.
Good.
"Police station."
The driver nodded.
The ride back carried less sound. The city had shifted again—busier, louder, unaware. Wheels struck stone in steady rhythm, each turn adjusting the balance beneath me.
I peeled the glove from one hand.
Checked.
Clean.
Good.
"That's a nasty slap."
My gaze dropped briefly to the girl in my arms. Her breathing remained shallow, uneven, but present.
The carriage slowed.
Stopped.
The door opened.
A man stood there.
Uniform precise. Posture held just tight enough to signal control without strain.
His eyes moved.
From me.
To her.
Then back.
Calculating.
"We'll take it from here."
A woman stepped forward. Her hands adjusted the sheet without hesitation, movements practiced, efficient. Victoria shifted slightly as she was taken, the weight leaving my arms in a controlled transfer.
"Just doing my duty as a citizen."
My feet touched the ground.
"Wouldn't want a giant uprooting the tree because some firewood seller got careless."
I smiled.
He didn't.
The door closed.
The carriage pulled away.
No farewell.
The street filled the space it left behind immediately—voices rising, footsteps crossing, movement continuing without pause.
"Now to write my report."
The sun pressed harder now.
Too bright.
"What a pain."
I turned.
Walked.
By the time I returned, the brothel had already corrected itself.
Doors open.
Floor clean.
Air altered just enough to remove the edge of what had been there before.
Inside, nothing remained where it shouldn't.
Only the faint scent of iron lingered in the grain of the wood, refusing to leave completely.
She sat at her desk.
Of course she did.
"You know Haruto would not be pleased."
Her voice came without looking up.
"No."
I stepped inside.
"But he should understand."
Her pen paused.
Just once.
"Who were those cleaners?"
I shrugged.
"People I found on the road."
She exhaled.
Didn't believe me.
Didn't push.
Neither did I.
Upstairs, the room had already begun resetting. The broken panel replaced. The space returning to something that could be used again.
Like nothing had happened.
I stepped into the hallway.
One of them waited.
Featureless.
Forgettable.
I handed over the fingers.
No words.
They took them.
Turned.
Left.
Gone.
The girl was gone too.
Of course she was.
"Enka."
I stepped back downstairs.
Placed money on the counter.
"For the drink."
She glanced at it.
Then at me.
Then back to her papers.
I didn't wait.
The door opened.
The street took me back.
Noise.
Movement.
Life continuing.
And somewhere beneath it all—
The fire had already moved on.