The grey light of dawn filtered through the torn curtains.
Miyako opened her eyes with a low groan; every muscle burned, and the makeshift bandage around her left arm was soaked with dried blood. The ceiling returned a blurred image, flickering with the glow of the television that had been on since the previous night.
Kuro, the cat, slept curled on her legs as though the world beyond did not exist.
She watched him for a moment, and for the first time since the fight, her expression ceased to be that of a killer.
"Did you sleep well, eh?" she rasped.
The cat merely twitched his tail in response.
Miyako smiled, weary. Then she pushed herself upright, feeling pain crawl down her back like burning needles. She took a few steps to the kitchen, where the air smelled of metal and old coffee.
She switched on the coffee maker. Its bubbling sound filled the room, merging with the voice of the newscaster still echoing from the television.
"Breaking news: Rank Z hero, number nine in the national hierarchy, Kanzō Hayate, has died during a training mission. Authorities confirm that the Temple of the Blind remains cordoned off, and the hero's students will be relocated for their protection."
The steam from the coffee rose slowly, as if the air itself feared to move.
Miyako leaned against the counter, smiling with that blend of cynicism and pride that always came when she remembered the sound of the shot, the flash of energy, and Kanzō's serene expression before he fell.
"During a training mission, huh?" she muttered. "What a beautiful way to say he was murdered."
She poured the coffee into a chipped cup, sat down before the television and let the announcer's voice fill the silence.
"The Hero Council has declared a national day of mourning. A ceremony is expected in Tokyo to honour his legacy. According to internal sources, there may be signs of an external attack."
She laughed—softly at first, then with a darker tone.
"An external attack… sure. From the inside, from where they never look."
Kuro jumped onto the sofa and curled up beside her. Miyako stroked him with her right hand—the only one that still obeyed without trembling—and let her smile stretch a little wider.
"You know, Kuro?" she said, without looking away from the screen. "You don't get to kill a Rank Z every day. Especially not number nine."
The cat stared at her, indifferent.
Miyako chuckled again, this time lower. Deep down, that indifference was the only thing keeping her sane.
She took a piece of toast, bit into it, and tasted burnt bread mixed with cold coffee. Everything carried that flavour of iron and smoke—of a battle only just finished.
The news went on, showing images of the ruined temple: split columns, puddles of water tinged red, fallen swords.
For a few seconds, Miyako watched without blinking. Then she whispered:
"He wasn't afraid… not even at the end."
Her fingers tightened around the cup until the ceramic creaked.
There was something in the hero's calm that still weighed on her chest, as though Kanzō's serenity had followed her home, haunting every breath she took.
But her mind rejected it.
She closed her eyes, exhaled with annoyance, and stood.
"Well," she said, stretching, "the dead don't pay the bills."
She walked to a small table by the window, where an old folder bearing the bounty hunters' insignia lay waiting. She opened it.
Inside were sheets of names, photographs, and numbers.
Among them, Kanzō's portrait—with a thick red mark slashed across his face.
Beneath it, the bounty: enough money to live for months.
Miyako smiled—a smile not of happiness, but of hunger.
"Time to collect what's mine."
She put on her coat, adjusted the weapons belt, and caught her reflection in the window glass.
It returned a tired woman—dark circles under her eyes, her arm bandaged, lips dry.
Still, she smiled.
Outside, the city remained wrapped in a pale dawn, low clouds, and distant lights.
Miyako took one last look at the cat.
"Watch the sofa, Kuro. If I don't come back, eat whatever you like." She grinned. "But don't touch the whisky, eh?"
The cat meowed lazily, and she let out a dry laugh.
She opened the door, and a cold wind struck her face.
Behind her, the television droned on, repeating its tragedy again and again—reminding the world that important dead men always had louder voices than the living.
As she stepped out, the window glass reflected her silhouette—her smile slicing through the morning light like an open wound.
The city's air smelled of old rain and rusted metal.
Miyako walked along the pavement slowly, hands in the pockets of her coat, head bowed. The streets were empty. Too empty.
No cars, no drunken murmurs, no food stalls perfuming the corners. Only the distant hum of a helicopter cutting through the clouds.
"How strange…" she murmured, lighting a cigarette. "Not a soul."
The smoke mingled with the cold air. As she walked, the windows seemed to watch her—curtains shifting, doors half-open. The city breathed fear, as if every shadow knew something she didn't.
Miyako kept walking until she reached the old building where the bounty hunters operated.
But as she turned the corner, the ground trembled.
A dry explosion.
A body flew through the main door and hit the wall opposite, leaving a dark stain that spread slowly over the concrete.
Miyako stopped, raised an eyebrow, and smirked.
"Oh… internal fight, eh? Classic."
She took one more step, but the air changed.
The grey smoke spilling from inside was briefly lit, revealing two figures advancing through the shadows.
Two men.
One wielded a short, gleaming sword; the other carried an energy staff that buzzed with an electric hum.
Their suits were unmistakable—the golden sun insignia of the heroes blazed upon their chests.
Miyako clenched her jaw.
"Ah, shit."
She drew her submachine gun and crouched behind an abandoned car. The heroes spoke among themselves, unaware of her presence.
"The signal's coming from here."
"Then she can't be far. Check the perimeter."
Before she could aim, a metallic roar filled the air.
Sirens.
One, two, three… then ten.
The echo of helicopters, loudspeakers, shouted orders from the police.
Miyako narrowed her eyes.
"What the hell is going on?"
She was about to move when she felt a hand grab her right arm.
She spun sharply, gun ready to fire.
"Hey, easy! It's me!"
Ryo.
His face slick with sweat, breathing ragged. He held an old pistol in one hand, his expression a mix of fury and panic.
"What the hell are you doing here, idiot?!" Miyako snapped.
"Saving your bloody neck. Move!"
Without giving her time to protest, he dragged her into a side alley. The sirens grew louder behind them, helicopters painting the streets with harsh white beams.
They ran.
Dodging rubbish bags, puddles, rats. The sound of chaos followed like a distant wave.
When they finally stopped in a dead-end alley, Ryo pressed her gently against the wall. Both were gasping for air.
"Are you going to tell me what the hell's going on?" Miyako demanded, glaring.
Ryo looked at her, struggling to steady himself.
"The heroes… they're sweeping the entire city," he said, swallowing hard. "They're hunting bounty hunters. All of them."
"All of them? Why?"
Ryo hesitated before answering.
"Kanzō. The Rank Z hero… he was killed last night."
Miyako fell silent. The wind filled the space between them.
"They say it was a trap," Ryo went on. "And that the killer used military tech to cancel his power. They're searching bars, workshops, any place criminals might hide."
"Criminals like us?" Miyako asked with a crooked smile.
"Exactly like us."
A pause.
Ryo looked at her—and something in his eyes shifted.
"Miyako…" he said softly. "Don't tell me…"
She arched an eyebrow, mockingly.
"What?"
"It was you, wasn't it?" His words barely a whisper. "You killed him."
Silence hung for an instant.
Miyako held his gaze. Then smiled—slow, dangerous.
"Yes. I killed him."
Ryo stepped back, as though those three words had physical weight.
"Holy…," he breathed, running a hand down his face. "That's why you've been so quiet lately… That was your mission."
"More than a mission," she corrected. "It was fun."
Ryo stared at her, caught between anger and disbelief.
"Do you even realise what you've done? You killed a Rank Z! They'll hunt all of us down because of you!"
"Oh, don't get moral on me now." Miyako lit another cigarette. "You've spent years making money off other people's blood."
"This is different!" he shouted. "This isn't just money anymore, Miyako! It's war."
She exhaled smoke with a tired smile.
"War and I always got along just fine."
Ryo pressed a hand to his forehead.
"We need to leave. This city's done for. The heroes won't stop until they find whoever killed him."
"Then you go," she replied coldly. "I'm staying."
"Don't be stupid!" he snapped. "They'll kill you!"
Miyako looked at him—serious for the first time.
"Ryo, I'm not running. Everything I need is here."
A short silence followed.
"Before you go," she added, "I need to ask you something."
"Ask me something?" he repeated, frowning.
"Yes. Help me find Kuro."
Ryo blinked.
"Kuro? Who's that—your boyfriend? Your brother?"
Miyako burst out laughing.
"No, idiot. My cat."
Ryo froze, stunned for a second, then chuckled despite the tension.
"Seriously? With all this going on, you're worried about a cat?"
"He's the only one who wouldn't stab me in the back," she replied drily.
Ryo shook his head, still half disbelieving, but finally nodded.
"Fine. I'll help you find him. But after that—I'm out of this hell."
"Deal." Miyako crushed the cigarette under her boot. "Come on, before they start sweeping the alleys."
They slipped deeper into the darkness as the helicopter lights swept across the sky above them.
The city breathed fear, and the wail of sirens was its new heartbeat.
The building where Miyako lived smelled of damp and stale cigarettes. Each step on the stairs echoed like a contained gunshot. The lights flickered, and the distant sirens still seeped through from the streets—fainter now, as though the city itself were breathing wearily.
Ryo followed a few steps behind, eyes darting about warily.
"You sure no one followed you?" he whispered.
"If anyone had, they'd be dead already," Miyako replied without turning.
They reached her door—an old lock, rusted, with the number 307 barely visible. Miyako turned the key, pushed it open with her shoulder, and was met with a metallic stench mixed with dust and dried blood.
The interior was chaos.
Empty bottles on the table, clothes on the floor, a wall scarred with knife marks. Stacked dishes, a full ashtray, and by the sofa, a small bowl of water beside another filled with kibble.
"Thought you lived in a cave," Ryo muttered, breaking the silence.
Miyako shot him a glare.
"And I can still bury you in one."
Ryo smirked, hands raised in surrender.
"Alright, alright. Forget I said anything."
Miyako dropped her coat on the sofa's back and crouched beside the empty bowl. She whistled softly.
"Kuro… come here, little one."
For a few seconds, there was no response. Only the steady drip of a leaking tap.
Then—a meow. Soft, lazy, familiar.
From the shadowy corner behind the armchair, a small black shape emerged.
Kuro padded towards her, tail upright, and leapt into her arms.
Miyako held him close, a tenderness in her embrace that shattered any image the world might have of her.
"There you are… I knew you wouldn't leave me," she whispered, stroking his head.
Ryo watched, torn between disbelief and relief.
"I can't believe it," he said with a quiet laugh. "Japan's most feared assassin… and she cries over a cat."
Miyako lifted her gaze, her smile glacial.
"I'll kill you."
"I know." Ryo shrugged. "But admit it—you give monsters great publicity."
She ignored him, kept stroking the cat for a moment longer, then set Kuro on the sofa and sighed.
"Alright. We can go."
Ryo nodded, glancing around, careful not to step on the shards of glass scattered across the floor.
"Got a plan?"
"Survive," she said flatly.
She fastened her weapons belt, slipped a few bullets and a small knife into the inner pocket of her coat. Ryo checked his pistol and pulled up his hood.
The air grew heavier. Outside, the rain began again—soft, persistent.
"Ready," Ryo said. "Let's go before—"
Knock. Knock.
The sound cut them both off.
Two sharp raps at the door.
Ryo raised his gun instantly. Miyako mirrored him, silent.
Only Kuro's heartbeat, trembling against the sofa fabric, broke the stillness.
"You expecting someone?" Ryo asked.
"Never," she replied.
They exchanged a glance. A wordless understanding.
The second knock came—louder.
Knock. Knock.
The cat darted under the sofa, hissing.
Miyako moved slowly toward the door, weapon steady, steps measured. Ryo shifted to the side, covering her from the shadows.
Silence. Absolute. No rain, no hum of the building—nothing.
Only their breathing, and the weight of fear in the air.
Miyako reached out for the handle.
Then—another knock. Harder.
The echo rolled through the flat.
Kuro meowed under the sofa.
Ryo clenched his teeth, holding back the urge to fire.
Miyako froze mid-movement, her face impassive, eyes fixed on the door.
A shadow moved beneath the crack of light from the corridor, slow, deliberate.
The kitchen clock read 3:07.
And just before her hand touched the handle, the door sounded once more—
Knock. Knock.
The sound spread through the room like a gunshot in slow motion.
And the silence that followed was heavier than any bullet.