[Location: Kabukichō, Tokyo Entertainment District – 01:14]
That night, the crowd shimmered under the neon lights, as if the city breathed with an energetic rhythm. Digital billboards flickered, showcasing models in enticing poses that drew eyes from every corner. The bass of the music thumped, blending with the laughter and whispers of people enjoying the night. The scent of luxurious perfume mingled with the smoky aroma of grilled yakitori wafting from a small stall on the sidewalk.
Makima leaned closer to Fitran, the distance between them closing as if magic was bringing together two very different souls.
"Look around you," she whispered, her voice soft yet firm, hinting at a warning. "In this place, some people are trying to sell something… while others are trying to steal something."
Fitran glanced at her, his eyes glimmering with curiosity. "So, which one are we?" he asked, his tone steady, though slightly trembling.
Makima smiled faintly, her fingers threading between Fitran's arm. "Tonight?" She paused briefly, taking a deep breath. "We're the storytellers."
Fitran's expression bore a hint of doubt, yet he didn't pull his hand away. "What story, Makima? About this place?"
"More than just a place," she replied, her brow raising with anticipation. "It's about the people inside it. You need to be ready for anything you might encounter."
Fitran nodded, contemplating her words for a moment before shifting his gaze into the crowd. "I think I'm starting to get the point."
[SYSTEM PROMPT]
Attention-Para Residual Field: Active – Masking Effect +42%
Condition: Maintain Public Affection Level > 60%
They stepped through the glass doors of the jazz club, the soft melodies soothing their ears. The club's interior was dim, its walls adorned with gold-framed mirrors reflecting their silhouettes. A few patrons glanced their way—a fleeting look, assessing, before turning back, sensing a different aura surrounding the two figures.
Makima leaned in closer, her lips brushing Fitran's ear, her voice soft like the whisper of the night breeze but full of resolve. "The target is on the second floor. Don't stare directly. We'll draw him down."
"Agreed," Fitran replied, his eyes scanning the room with caution. They settled into a corner booth, a server approaching them with two glimmering glasses filled with amber liquid; the sweet, inviting aroma engulfed their senses.
Fitran swirled his glass, taking a moment to pause and think. "So, our plan—"
Makima interjected, a smile on her face that conveyed certainty. "Make him pay attention to us. Then, let him believe we're too engrossed in one another." She raised her glass, looking at Fitran with sharp confidence.
"Done. Let's do that," Fitran replied, feeling tension creep into his breath, as if the world around them spun with the power to change their fate.
The music shifted—from a soft ballad to a funk rhythm vibrating through the room. The lights flickered, reflecting purple hues in Makima's gaze. She looked at Fitran and whispered, "Something's not right here."
Fitran caught the reflection—a faint signal bouncing off his red pupils, a flash that appeared only for an instant. Visual code. "We need to stay focused," he whispered, his voice low but filled with resolve. "Don't let anyone sense our doubt."
From the second floor, a man stood in a gray suit with a straight posture, his hands buried in his pockets. His gaze was directed at them, lingering long enough to make them feel alert. "He's watching us," Makima pressed, her tone firm and heavy with conviction. "Shijo—I suspect he has ill intentions."
Makima shifted her body slightly, leaning against Fitran, trying to mask her lip movements as she whispered, "He's already tempted the bait. Thirty seconds left. Are you ready?"
Fitran touched the weapon concealed at his waist—his hidden gun in a sleek holster. "And if he doesn't come down? We need an alternative plan," he replied, his tone reflecting a hint of doubt. He stole a glance at her, staying alert.
Makima rewarded Fitran with a sweet smile, her gaze remaining fixed on the man. "He will make a mistake. People like that are always selfish—they can't remain still without acting."
A loud crash came from the direction of the bar. "Damn, that must be a careless waiter," Fitran muttered, his eyes quickly scanning the movements around him. A waiter had dropped a tray—or at least that's what most of the people there saw. "But I'm not sure this is fine." He narrowed his eyes, sensing something was off: glimmers of light bouncing from a small device under the bar table, accompanied by thin wisps of suspicious smoke.
"Distraction," Makima called out, her tone calm yet assertive, as if she had foreseen what was about to happen next.
The man on the second floor moved swiftly, descending the stairs on the left side. "We have to go," Makima said, rising and pulling Fitran along with her. "People are easily distracted." They joined the flow of people moving toward the side exit, holding hands tightly amidst the thrumming crowd.
In the back alley, the neon light dimmed, replaced by harsh white lights that cast long shadows on the walls. "Feels suffocating, doesn't it?" Fitran whispered, sensing the tension hanging in the air. Makima merely nodded, her gaze darting into the darkness.
The man glanced back—seemingly sensing their presence, he continued on without pausing. "They can't run from us," Fitran declared confidently, feeling their existence behind him.
Makima stopped three steps away from the man, the smile on her face vanished. "You know whose contract you're using," she emphasized, her voice as firm as steel being struck.
The man tensed, his eyes darting to the right—towards the service door. "If I say it, then he will—"
"Don't," Fitran interrupted, cutting off his train of thought. He already knew what would follow next.
With a swift motion—the man pulled a small knife from within his coat. "So foolish," Fitran exclaimed, quickly grabbing his wrist and twisting it until the sound of a joint breaking filled the air. "Playing with fire like this will only lead you to a burn." He showed no mercy.
The knife clattered to the floor, striking it with a cold, sharp metallic ring. "This isn't a game," Makima said, her voice quiet yet filled with resolve. "Reveal who sent you… and maybe you can still go home with both your hands tonight."
The man let out a heavy sigh, his eyes glancing toward Makima, doubt clearly etched on his face. "He will… kill me," he said, his voice trembling, reflecting a deep sense of helplessness.
Makima smiled, her smile cold and frightening. "Then... we're in an equal situation," she said, looking at him with a gaze that would be unforgettable—a gaze that made anyone feel trapped in lurking darkness.