The rain began just after sunset.
It came quietly at first — a mist that painted the city in silver, then deepened into steady drops that tapped against Aki's van as she drove. The wipers moved back and forth in slow rhythm, clearing the world into brief moments of clarity before blurring it again.
The address she'd been sent led to the west side of Los Angeles, near the docks — an old seafood storage facility that had been abandoned for years. She parked beside the chain-link fence, stepped out, and opened her umbrella. Her boots made soft sounds on the wet ground as she approached the entrance.
A single man waited under the broken awning, smoking a cigarette. His jacket was soaked through, but he didn't seem to care. The faint orange glow of the cigarette flickered when he spoke.
"You're the cleaner?"
Aki nodded. "You have the key?"
He held it up. "Yeah. Boss says to make it quick. Nobody's supposed to know this place exists."
"They won't," she said.
The man studied her for a moment — her calm tone, her lack of reaction. Most people avoided looking her in the eye when she arrived. There was something too controlled about her, too still, as if she'd seen everything there was to see and decided none of it mattered.
He finally handed over the key. "Call when you're done. We'll send the money."
Aki slipped it into her coat pocket and pushed open the rusted door.
---
The inside smelled of salt, metal, and something faintly sweet beneath — blood trying to hide under the scent of decay. She clicked on her flashlight, sweeping the beam across the room. Broken crates, half-melted ice, stains that hadn't yet dried.
Her eyes moved over the scene with quiet precision. She could tell the story just by looking: two men, one chase, one bullet. The drag marks led to a corner where the concrete was darker. She didn't need to imagine what had happened there — she'd seen hundreds of versions of it.
Aki set down her silver case and knelt. Her gloves whispered as she unpacked her tools. The first thing was to remove the visible stains. The second, to erase the invisible. Every trace of life — every cell, every fiber, every smell — would vanish.
She worked without hurry, but without pause. Her hands moved in practiced motions: scrub, rinse, spray, dry. Outside, the rain grew heavier, masking any sound from within the warehouse.
It was two hours later when she found it.
While she was lifting a soaked tarp near the corner, something small rolled free and clinked against the floor — a pendant, shaped like a silver feather. It was clean, almost new, except for a small smear of blood at the edge.
Aki looked at it for a few seconds, her face unreadable. Then she wiped it, wrapped it in tissue, and set it aside on the table.
She didn't wonder whose it was. She didn't care.
Her only thought was practical: metal pieces like that could be traced, so it needed to disappear with the rest. When she finished cleaning, she placed it in a small portable incinerator she carried for such items. Within minutes, the feather was nothing but fine ash.
The floor gleamed again. The smell of iron and death was gone, replaced by the faint lemon scent she always used. It was her signature — the smell of nothing.
---
When she stepped outside, the rain had stopped. The clouds had scattered, leaving the night air heavy and wet. She pulled out her phone and dialed the number from the text message.
"It's done," she said.
The voice on the other end was calm, male, unfamiliar. "Fast as always. Payment will be there in an hour. Same account."
"Fine."
"Did you find anything?"
"No."
A short pause. "Good. Thank you, Miss Sato."
The line went dead.
Aki slipped the phone back into her pocket, started the van, and drove away. Her windshield reflected the city lights — red, yellow, white — like streaks of color on glass. For a moment, she thought of the feather again, glowing silver before it burned. Then she let the thought fade.
By the time she reached home, it was past midnight. The city had gone quiet, except for distant traffic and the occasional bark of a stray dog. She unlocked her apartment, set down her tools, and placed her coat neatly on the hook.
Her phone buzzed with a new message.
Unknown Number: "You left it spotless. Impressive."
She frowned slightly. That wasn't supposed to happen — clients never contacted her directly. She typed back:
"Who is this?"
No answer came.
She stared at the screen for a long moment, then set it aside. It didn't matter. Whoever they were, they'd paid. That was enough.
Aki poured herself a cup of barley tea, sat by the window, and watched the reflection of city lights in the rain-slick street below. Her eyes drifted to the small wooden box still sitting on the shelf. Inside it were the unopened letters from Japan.
She thought about them — not the contents, just their existence. She had long stopped wondering what her brother wrote. It was easier that way.
Aki believed in clean breaks — clean floors, clean slates, clean hearts. But some things never stayed clean for long.
The phone buzzed again.
This time, the message read:
"You shouldn't have burned it."
Aki looked at the screen, her expression unchanged. Then she turned it off, stood up, and began washing her cup.
If someone wanted to play games, they'd learn quickly: she wasn't interested.
She didn't scare easily, and she didn't chase answers.
She cleaned messes — she didn't make them.