Chapter 1 – The Last beginning (reworked)
The bus groaned as it wound along the coastal road of the countryside, its wheels splashing through shallow puddles that mirrored the gray sky. Rain drifted against the windows forming uneven streaks that blurred the horizon until the sea and clouds were of the same muted color.
exhale
Raiden let out a sigh of relief, as if he had been burdened for so long that he could no longer remember when it had begun.
He sat halfway down the aisle, his hood shadowing his eyes. One hand rested loosely on the strap of his duffel bag, the other tucked into the warmth of his coat. Outside, the coast rolled past jagged black cliffs, the occasional pale stretch of sand, fishing boats anchored so far out they looked like flecks of coal on the water.
The only passengers in the bus were an old woman with a basket of herbs who sat two seats ahead, humming quietly to herself, perhaps singing a song that reminded her of something long past. A man in a fisherman's cap leaned against the window, asleep, his breath fogging the glass letting out slow, heavy snores each one louder than the last. Somewhere near the front, the driver's small radio crackled faint music, interrupted now and then by bursts of static. Once, Raiden thought he caught the clipped tone of a newsreader mentioning troop skirmishes… but it faded too quickly to be certain.
He mumbled to himself, "Shitty War", the words barely louder than the rattling sounds of the bus.
Soon the road leveled out and the town came into view - a cluster of low buildings clinging to the curve of the shore. A sloping pier reached out into the water, its posts slick and dark from years of tide. Over it all hung the faintest thread of woodsmoke, twisting into the damp air.
The bus hissed to a stop beside a weathered shelter. The paint had peeled away to reveal the pale wood beneath, and a single bulb swung in the wind. As soon as Raiden stepped out off the bus, the chill air instantly cut through his coat. He adjusted his bag on his shoulder and took in the street ahead.
It was a narrow main road, lined with a mix of wood and concrete shops. Hand-painted signs swung gently. Colorful tarps sagged under the weight of rainwater, droplets falling at steady intervals to splash against the cobblestones. The harbor was visible at the far end, where nets hung from poles like ghostly curtains.
Raiden walked.
The first few buildings were shuttered, their doors locked for the evening. From one open doorway came the warm scent of rice cooking, mingled with the sharper tang of vinegar and fish. A cat darted across his path, slipping under a cart piled with crates.
"First time here, cityboy?"
The voice came from his right.
A small fish stall stood beneath a patched awning, its table piled high with silver-scaled mackerel, gleaming under the lantern light. Behind it was a man with broad shoulders, his skin was weathered and darkened, the kind that came from a lifetime beneath the sun, and an easy smile. He wore a heavy apron and stood with the comfortable posture of someone used to long hours of work.
Raiden slowed but didn't quite stop. "Passing through."
"Name's Hwan," the man said, wiping his hands on a cloth. "We don't get many guests around here. Storm's coming in tomorrow. You'll want a good meal in you before it hits." He gestured to the building just behind him: a small shop, the windows fogged from the heat inside. Through the glass, Raiden saw a counter lined with steaming bowls, and heard the low clink of chopsticks against ceramic.
Raiden shook his head. "Maybe later."
Hwan didn't press. "If you change your mind, you know where to find me." His voice carried warmth, but his gaze lingered on Raiden a second too long before turning back to his fish.
Raiden continued down the street. Behind him, the sound of Hwan's knife resumed; a steady rhythm, muffled by the rain.
The harbour grew louder as he approached. The harbor was alive in quiet ways. Waves lapped against the pier with a steady rhythm, ropes creaked as if whispering to one another, and the faint scent of salt and tar clung to the cold wind. Lanterns swayed gently at the ends of the docks, their light stretching and shivering across the dark water.
Raiden slowed as he reached the edge of the pier. The sea spread out before him, black and endless, its horizon swallowed by night. He stood there for a long moment, letting the wind push against his coat, his eyes distant.
From deep in his pocket, his fingers found a small, dented pendant. The metal was cold, its surface worn smooth by years of touch, but faint markings still lingered; scratches that were not quite letters, not quite numbers. He turned it over in his palm, his thumb tracing the indents as if trying to remember something… or forget it.
A shadow crossed his expression. Then, as if the thought had never existed, he slipped the pendant back into his pocket.
Far out at sea, a bell rang; slow, deliberate, and strangely out of place.
By the time he returned to the main road, the street lamps had flickered on, casting pools of pale yellow light across the wet cobblestones. A few townsfolk hurried home, their umbrellas low against the wind. Shop shutters clattered as they were pulled down for the night.
Raiden kept to the edges of the road, moving in the shadows. He passed an alley where a radio played faintly from a window; the announcer's voice clear for only a moment: "…heightened naval patrols… disputed waters…" Then static swallowed the rest.
A light rhythm of footsteps echoed behind him. He slowed at the next turn, and the steps slowed too. He knew someone was on this tail, yet he kept walking as if nothing was wrong. When he stopped to check a rusted street sign, the sound cut off entirely.
Raiden's hand tightened around his pocket knife.
Then she appeared from behind a narrow alley: a girl, about his age, in an oversized khaki jacket patched at the elbows. A single braid swung over her shoulder, damp from the mist.
"You're not from here," she said without preamble.
He didn't answer.
She eyed him like she was taking stock. "Big city boots. They'll fall apart in a week out here."
Raiden adjusted his grip on the duffel. "You follow everyone who steps off a bus?"
She smirked faintly. "Only the ones who seem fishy and you reek worse than my uncle's fishing net."
She leaned as she spoke, so much so that Raiden could feel her breath, possibly an odd habit of every inhabitant of this strange town.
Raiden thought, " Great. First that Hwan guy and now her."
"It's getting dark, you'd best not stay out late", she said
She blinked at him, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. "An inn?"
She stood akimbo and exhaled. "I shouda have knowned."
"Inn's two streets down. My aunt runs it. Cash only.". After a brief pause she said,"people here remember faces and stay away from the friendly ones."
Without waiting for a reply, she disappeared into the fog the way she'd come.
Raiden was puzzled between trusting the girl's word or turning away altogether. At last, he turned towards the inn.
Raiden thoughts raced through his mind.
"Staying at an inn would be better than sleeping in the cold street outside"
"But why does it feel like everyone is trying to lead me somewhere"
"I didn't ask the girl name. But that doesn't matter. If I was a spy then why would I disclose my real name."
---
At the inn,
The inn was a squat building of dark timber, wedged between a tea shop and a shuttered bookstore. Inside, the air was warm and faintly scented with roasted barley.
A woman behind the counter gave Raiden one long, unreadable look before sliding a brass key across the polished wood.
Room three.
He climbed the narrow stairs, the boards creaking under his weight. The room was small: one bed, a desk, a square window overlooking the harbor. Lanterns swayed in the mist, their light diffused into hazy gold halos. Somewhere, waves slapped against hulls.
Raiden closed the curtain.
He mumbled, "Took longer than I expected… but I'm far enough."
---
Tokyo. Same night.
Rain streaked the glass walls of a high-rise office, distorting the sprawl of neon below into fractured rivers of light. The room smelled faintly of smoke and polished leather. Somewhere far beneath, sirens wailed; then faded into the hum of the city.
Takeda sat at the head of a low lacquered table, his long coat still beaded with rain. The dim light caught the hard edge of his jaw, sharp as a drawn blade. Three others sat across from him, their faces half-lost in shadow.
Takaeda poured the steaming tea slowly, his eyes never leaving theirs. "You're not trying to kill me… all of you, are you?"
One of the officers scoffed. "Why would we kill an officer who serves our own state?"
Takaeda's gaze hardened. "Shut your a**," he said flatly, setting his cup down. "Just get to business."
"Twenty-two days," the man on the left said, voice deliberate, low. "Not a whisper until now."
One of the officers asked, "where is he?"
"He's here," Takaeda said finally. "Not in Tokyo. Somewhere quiet… somewhere the wind can cover his footsteps."
The second man's brow creased. "The order from above was"
"I know the order." Takeda's voice cut clean through the sentence, as soft as it was final. "Alive… if possible."
He let the words hang in the air for a breath, then tilted his head slightly, as if weighing something unseen. "But possible… is a rare thing these days."
The third person; whom Takaeda only now realized was a girl; leaned forward. "Uhh Maybe," she said calmly but nervously, "I have some information on the whereabouts of this Raiden boy."
Takaeda, though he had never once met her gaze, recognized her instantly.
"Jisoo Namgoong", the elusive prodigy whispered about in intelligence circles. She was the architect of the Sarapov assassination, a strike so precise it had toppled the former Soviet commander (Soviet is now called IRT - Identified Russian Territory). No one knew how she had done it; some said she had infiltrated his inner circle, others that she had turned his own guard against him. What Takaeda did know was that wherever Jisoo appeared, something or someone was about to vanish.
She slid a sealed brown envelope across the table. Takaeda broke the wax with one smooth motion. Inside a grainy photograph: Raiden, hood drawn, face half-obscured.
"This was taken when?" Takeda asked.
"Three hours ago. Coastal prefecture."
Takaeda studied the photograph for a long moment.
The image was grainy, but the eyes were unmistakable.
He set the photo down and leaned back slightly. "It's better to throw out the trash before it grows insects in it," he said softly, as if commenting on the weather.
The words settled in the room like a slow poison.
It was a task meant for only one person.
Takaeda's gaze flicked toward the far end of the room as if he had been waiting for someone.The officers fell silent.
Footsteps approached — slow, deliberate. Not heavy, not hurried. Each step seemed measured, as if the man taking them owned every second in the room.
A figure emerged from the dim corridor, face half-hidden beneath a low brim. The faint clink of metal accompanied him — perhaps from the pair of short blades resting at his side.
The air felt heavier in the room. The room forgot its own noise. Even the sound of the rain outside seemed to fade.
The three officers, men who had stared down firing squads and commanded battlefields, sat a little straighter. One's hand tightened around his teacup until the porcelain creaked.
Raiden had heard of killers who moved without sound.
He had not heard of one whose very presence could still a room.
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