The rain over Shinjuku had turned from a drizzle into a torrent, hammering the
glass skyscrapers like handfuls of gravel. Inside the unmarked police sedan,
the silence was heavier than the storm.
Kenji Sano gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. The dashboard clock
read 23:42.
"He's gone, Kenji," Manjiro said from the passenger seat, his voice tight with frustration. "We lost him."
"We didn't lose him," Kenji snapped, swerving around a taxi that had drifted
into their lane. "He ran. There's a difference."
Ryosuke Takeda, the disgraced Councilman whose entire career had evaporated
into a digital cloud of scandal only hours ago, had vanished. He hadn't gone
home to his wife. He hadn't returned to the safe house. He had slipped his security detail at the hospital where he was being treated for shock and disappeared into the neon labyrinth of Tokyo.
"Why run?" Manjiro asked, tapping furiously on his laptop, trying to triangulate a signal.
"We are the only ones who can keep him
alive."
"He doesn't trust us," Kenji said, eyes scanning the wet streets. "His reputation is dead. He thinks the police let it happen. Now he's just a frightened animal looking for a hole to hide in."
"Got him," Manjiro shouted, causing Kenji to flinch. "Credit card hit! A corporate card registered to one of his shell companies. It just authorized a payment."
"Where?"
"The Park Hyatt" Manjiro stared at the screen. "The Shinjuku Tower. He booked the Diplomatic Suite."
Kenji slammed his foot on the accelerator. The engine roared, the tires spinning on the slick asphalt before catching traction.
"The Park Hyatt..." Kenji muttered. "Fifty-two stories up. He thinks he can hide in the clouds."
"He's looking for luxury comfort before the end." Manjiro gasped.
"Or maybe he thinks the killer can't get past five-star security."
"The killer got into a secured construction site and a sewer tunnel."
Kenji said grimly. "A receptionist desk won't stop him."
The Park Hyatt Tokyo was a fortress of glass and steel, towering over the Shinjuku district like a monolith. The lobby was located on the 41st floor, a sanctuary of bamboo, glass, and hushed whispers, far removed from the grime of the streets below.
Kenji and Manjiro burst out of the elevators, bringing the smell of rain and wet wool into the pristine air-conditioned space. The lobby was quiet, save for the soft jazz drifting from the New York Bar.
They marched straight to the reception desk. A young woman with an immaculate
bun and a smile that didn't reach her eyes looked up.
"Good evening, gentlemen. How may I —"
"Police!" Kenji slammed his badge onto the marble counter. The metallic clack echoed in the silent room. "Ryosuke Takeda. Which
room?"
The receptionist didn't flinch. Her smile remained frozen, polite and dismissive.
"I'm afraid we cannot disclose guest information, Detective. We value the
privacy of our...."
"Privacy?" Kenji leaned over the counter, his face inches from hers.
He was wet, tired, and vibrating with adrenaline. "A serial killer is hunting the man who checked in ten minutes ago. If you don't give me that room number, the only privacy he's going to have is inside a body
bag."
The receptionist hesitated, her eyes flicking to the security guard standing by the wall. The guard took a step forward.
Manjiro turned, his massive frame blocking the guard's path. He didn't speak. He just stared. The guard stopped.
"Room number." Kenji growled, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Now. Or I arrest you for obstruction of justice and drag you out of here in handcuffs in front of your VIP guests."
The receptionist's composure cracked. She typed quickly, her fingers trembling slightly.
"Room 5012," she whispered. "The Diplomatic Suite. Floor 50."
"Key..?" Kenji held out his hand.
She handed him a master key card.
"Stay here." Kenji ordered. "Don't call him. Don't warn him."
Kenji and Manjiro ran for the guest elevators. As the doors closed, watching the floor numbers tick upward, Kenji pulled his weapon.
"He checked in twenty minutes ago." Manjiro said, checking the timestamp. "That's a tight window."
"The Shogun is fast," Kenji watched the numbers. 48... 49... 50.
The elevator dinged. The doors slid open.
The hallway was lined with thick, plush carpet that absorbed their footsteps.
It was silent. But as they moved down the corridor, a smell hit them.
It wasn't the smell of blood. It was the smell of humidity. Thick, wet air, like walking into a greenhouse.
"Steam." Kenji whispered. "Under the door."
They stopped at Room 5012. White wisps of vapor were curling out from the gap beneath the heavy wooden door, dampening the carpet.
"Takeda!" Kenji shouted, pounding on the door. "Police! Open up!"
No answer.
Kenji swiped the key card. The light turned green. He kicked the door open and swept into the room, gun raised.
"Clear left!" Manjiro shouted, moving right.
The suite was massive, a sprawling luxury apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering Tokyo skyline. But the view was obscured. The room was filled with a dense, white fog. The air was suffocatingly hot, smelling of sulfur and lavender bath salts... and something
else.
Something like cooked pork.
"The bathroom," Kenji choked out, pointing to the double doors at the far end of the suite. The steam was billowing out from there, rolling across the floor.
They advanced, weapons trained on the swirling mist. The heat was intense, instantly soaking their clothes with sweat.
Kenji reached the bathroom doors. They were warm to the touch. He pushed them
open.
The heat inside was staggering. It blasted them in the face, burning their eyes.
The bathroom was a masterpiece of black granite and mirrors. In the center, raised on a platform near the window, was a massive, deep-soaking Jacuzzi tub.
The water was churning violently.
Kenji held back his weapon and covered his mouth with his sleeve. He moved closer through the steam.
The water in the tub was rolling, bubbling with a ferocity that a standard water heater couldn't produce. Cables - thick, orange industrial power cables ran from the wall outlets into the water, hooked up to what looked like immersion heaters used for construction sites.
And in the center of the boiling maelstrom, something bobbed.
It was Ryosuke Takeda.
He was floating face down. His skin, once pampered and manicured, was a bright,
angry crimson. It had blistered and peeled away in sheets, revealing the raw
white tissue underneath. The fat had rendered, creating a slick, oily sheen on
the surface of the bubbling water.
"Jesus," Manjiro gagged, turning away and retching dryly.
Kenji forced himself to look. He grabbed a towel from the rack, wrapped it around his hand, and reached for the power cables. He yanked them from the wall. Sparks showered down, and the angry hum of the heaters died.
The water continued to boil from residual heat, but the violent churning slowed.
Takeda's body drifted against the edge of the tub. His face rolled upward.
His eyes were cooked white. His tongue was swollen, protruding from his mouth in a silent scream of agony. He hadn't died quickly.
"He boiled him," Kenji whispered, the horror of it settling in his gut like lead. "He rigged the tub. He knew Takeda would come here. He knew he would try to wash away the shame."
"How?" Manjiro wiped his mouth, pale and shaking. "Takeda checked in twenty minutes ago."
"He was waiting," Kenji looked around the bathroom. "He was here before Takeda. Hiding. Maybe in the closet. Maybe on the
balcony."
Kenji walked to the vanity mirror. The steam had fogged it up completely, but someone had wiped a clear patch in the center.
And in that clear patch, taped to the glass, was a wooden tag.
Kenji didn't need to read it to know what it said, but he stepped closer anyway.
盗 (Nusumi) — Theft.
"Theftn" Manjiro said from the doorway, refusing to look at the soup in the tub. "He finally executed the sentence."
"Takeda stole the public trust," Kenji said, his voice hollow.
"He took the bribes. He signed the papers. And the Shogun boiled him like
a thief."
Kenji looked at the industrial heaters lying on the floor. They were high-grade, expensive. The killer had planned this down to the
voltage.
"This wasn't a crime of passion." Kenji said, turning away from the body. "He brought equipment. He bypassed the hotel security. He waited in the dark."
He looked at the sprawling city lights outside the window. From this height, Tokyo looked peaceful. A sea of light. But somewhere out there, a monster was watching, ticking a name off a list.
"Three down," Kenji said. "Suzuki. Kurosawa.
Takeda."
"Who's next?" Manjiro asked.
Kenji walked out of the bathroom, away from the cloying, sweet smell of death. He stood in the center of the suite, breathing in the slightly cooler air.
"Suzuki was the Money. Kurosawa was the Land. Takeda was the Law." Kenji said. "He's dismantling the entire structure of the Chiba
deal."
He looked at Manjiro.
"Call the Chief. Tell him the Task Force isn't optional anymore. We need every officer in Tokyo on this."
"And the press?" Manjiro asked. "They're going to lose their minds. A Councilman boiled in the Park Hyatt?"
"Let them," Kenji said, walking toward the door. "The panic might be the only thing that saves the next victim."
As they left the room, leaving the steam-filled tomb behind, Kenji pulled out his phone. He looked at the trending hashtag again.
#TheShogun
It had hit number one globally.
"You think you're a hero?" Kenji whispered to the screen.
"You're just a butcher with a history book."
He pocketed the phone.
"Let's go, Manjiro. We have a war to fight."
Chapter 7 Ends - War