Chapter 3 – Shadows and Echoes
Morning came quietly, in the way the city never quite slept but only shifted gears. Traffic hummed beneath the high-rises, voices blended into background noise, and the air was thick with the scent of rain that hadn't fallen yet.
In the agency's private training wing, Sato stood barefoot on the polished mat, body still as stone. His chest rose and fell with the steady rhythm of controlled breathing, blue eyes fixed forward. He didn't move for nearly a minute. Then, suddenly, he did.
The silence cracked into motion.
His fists blurred, cutting through the air with precision and force, each strike followed by the sharp exhale of breath. A straight punch flowed into a spinning kick, which snapped into a low sweep, his body coiled and uncoiled like a whip. The practice dummy in front of him shook beneath the flurry, sensors sparking to life as they recorded the impacts.
Numbers blinked across the wall monitor—force, speed, reaction time—all peaking above human averages. He moved like a predator who had honed every instinct into a weapon.
The final blow shattered the dummy's reinforced neck joint, sending its padded head rolling across the mat. Sato exhaled, lowering his stance. Sweat glistened faintly at his temple, but his breathing was steady, measured, as if this had been little more than a warm-up.
From the doorway, Aoi clapped slowly, grinning.
"You know," she said, leaning against the frame, "most people would get tired after destroying an entire dummy. But not you, huh?"
"Most people aren't trained for this," Sato replied, wiping his hands on a towel.
"Most people also eat breakfast."
She tossed him a bottle of water. He caught it without looking, cracked it open, and took a sip.
Aoi stepped onto the mat, twirling a slim pistol in one hand. She wasn't supposed to bring live weapons into training, but rules bent around her like air around fire. "My turn," she announced, setting up the moving-target program.
The room shifted—panels sliding open, mechanical arms lowering boards that zipped across rails. Targets sprang to life in erratic patterns.
Aoi grinned, silver eyes flashing. In one smooth motion, she raised the pistol.
Cracks split the air. Each shot landed sharp and clean, tearing into bullseyes even as the boards jerked and spun unpredictably. She pivoted with unnatural agility, her small frame moving faster than her carefree demeanor ever suggested. Not a single bullet went wide.
When the program ended, silence fell again. Aoi holstered her pistol with a satisfied smile.
"See? I'm not just a pretty face. I can shoot too."
"You need to focus on restraint," Sato said. "You move too much."
"It's called style," she shot back, flicking her hair dramatically.
He almost smiled. Almost.
---
Later, the world slowed.
The city still thrummed, alive with its endless rhythm, but Aoi's apartment was its own bubble. The walls were lined with posters she'd half-taped and never straightened. Clothes were piled in the corner, clean and dirty mixed together in a way only she could decipher.
She stood barefoot by the window, sunlight spilling across her as she strung laundry onto a line. The shirt she wore was loose, slipping off one shoulder. Her hair was tied messily, strands falling across her face as she hummed to herself.
Her phone buzzed against the table. She ignored it, tugging a shirt into place. The buzzing came again. And again.
She glanced at the screen. Messages piled from group chats, agency updates, even one from Sheng reminding her not to "eat all the rations at once." She laughed softly, tossing the phone back down.
For a moment, it was just her, sunlight, and the faint sound of the city beyond the glass.
---
Far away, in a place the city pretended did not exist, silence had a different weight.
The buildings were husks, skeletal remains of towers left to rot. Windows gaped open like wounds, and the ground was cracked, littered with ash and debris. The air itself seemed wrong—thick, heavy, and blackened by the fog that curled across the ruins.
A man stood there.
His black hair hung loose around his face, strands clinging to skin pale against the dark. His eyes were white—so white they almost glowed, veins of faint red creeping outward like cracks in glass. In his hand, he held a scythe taller than he was, its blade curved and jagged, catching what little light seeped through the fog.
He did not move. He only watched.
The fog shifted. Something moved within it.
The air trembled with the weight of it, a shape too large to see fully, steps echoing like thunder muffled by distance. Its form was hidden, swallowed by the black haze, but its presence pressed down on the ruins like a storm waiting to break.
The man didn't flinch. His blurred vision caught only fragments—shapes, outlines, hints of a body too vast to name. He gripped the scythe tighter, head tilting slightly as though listening to a voice no one else could hear.
The fog thickened, curling closer. The shape within it shifted again, deliberate, inevitable, moving toward him.
And still, he didn't move.
---
Back in her apartment, Aoi clipped the last piece of laundry, stepping back to admire the crooked line. Her phone buzzed again, louder this time. She grabbed it, rolling her eyes.
Another update. Another reminder. Another call into the world beyond her little bubble.
She sighed, tossing the phone onto her bed.
"Can't even enjoy laundry day," she muttered.
The sunlight warmed her face. The world felt safe, ordinary.
But far away, in the ruins, the fog closed in.