"Don't move! Let her go!" The leader was none other than Rogers. His face was livid, his eyes filled with shock and fury. He could not understand at all how Kanjuro had bypassed the layers of security and taken the target away like a ghost.
Facing the pincer attack and the dark muzzles of the guns, Kanjuro laughed. That smile appeared exceptionally clear and exceptionally... dangerous in the dim light.
He took a half-step forward, unobtrusively shielding Kuraki Mai slightly behind him. It wasn't a total concealment, but a declarative protective stance.
Then, in the instant before anyone could react, he moved.
His movement was faster than the limits of the human body, like a black panther merging into the night! The moment the hem of his trench coat flew up, a sleek handgun with a cold metallic luster appeared in his left hand as if by magic. Without a pause to aim, without any redundant posture, he raised his hand and fired!
"Puff, puff, puff, puff—"
The gunshots, suppressed by a high-efficiency silencer, were low and lethal, echoing in the narrow passage. Short flashes of muzzle fire flickered like the blink of the Grim Reaper.
The two CIA field agents rushing at the front fell to the ground, blood blossoming on their foreheads or chests without even a groan. Kanjuro's figure was in motion; his steps seemed casual, yet he perfectly utilized the corners of the passage walls and stacked sundries as cover. Every pause and every dodge was accompanied by a precision shot that was chilling to behold.
His left hand was as steady as a rock, and his shooting rhythm was frighteningly calm. Whether the opponent rushed from the front or tried to flank from the side, the bullets always arrived first. His marksmanship was not just accurate; it carried a sense of predictive art, as if he had already seen through every intention and trajectory of his opponents.
Kuraki Mai was half-held by one of Kanjuro's arms, moving passively with him. Her eyes were wide as she watched this scene that looked like movie special effects. Blood, violence, and death were close at hand, and the fear almost made her faint. But at the same time, another intense emotion that could not be ignored was frantically crashing against her heart.
Pressed tightly against Kanjuro's back and arm, she could clearly feel the smooth, explosive muscle lines in his movements, and sense his absolute calm and control. Danger was like a violent storm, yet he seemed to be taking a leisurely stroll. Bullets whistled, but he neutralized them with composure. Those CIA agents, who in her eyes were incredibly powerful and professional, were like clumsy children before him, falling one by one.
This was not a savage slaughter, but a... performance. A supreme display of violent aesthetics led by Kanjuro.
His profile flickered in and out of view in the flashes of gunfire, his features sharp and his expression indifferent, save for his eyes, which flashed with a light as sharp as a blade at the moment of firing. Sweat, gunpowder, and the scent of blood mixed together, forming an aggressive aura that wrapped tightly around her.
Was she afraid? Of course she was afraid.
But in this extreme fear, a never-before-felt, twisted attraction quietly sprouted and spread wildly like poisonous vines. It was the instinctive awe of the weak for the absolutely strong, the forbidden glimpse of the chaotic abyss from the ordered world, the morbid dependence of the protected (even if this protection was full of coercion) on the protector... Countless complex emotions intertwined, impacting all the perceptions she had built up over twenty-odd years.
"Go this way." Kanjuro's low voice startled her out of her chaotic thoughts. He had dealt with the pursuers in the passage and pulled her into a narrower alley. Behind them, more footsteps and shouts approached, and the sound of sirens seemed to drift from the distance.
The escape continued, but Kuraki Mai's state of mind had already changed. She was no longer entirely passive in her fear; her gaze involuntarily followed Kanjuro's figure. She watched how he utilized the terrain, how he precisely destroyed the pursuers' communication or lighting equipment, how he found a way out when it seemed like a dead end, and how he wrote the rhythm of death with that handgun in his left hand.
Every time he cleanly neutralized a threat, every time he led her through a perilous escape, Kuraki Mai's heart skipped a beat—not out of simple fear, but mixed with a thrilling... flutter.
Rogers' exasperated roar came from behind, filled with helplessness and rage: "Stop him! At any cost!"
Hearing this, Kanjuro even glanced back toward the pursuers, a cold sneer curling his lips. He raised his left hand and pointed the muzzle at a streetlamp diagonally above.
"Bang!" The streetlamp went out as it was hit, fragments scattering, and the area instantly plunged into darkness, causing a brief moment of chaos.
Taking advantage of this moment of darkness, Kanjuro grabbed Kuraki Mai's waist and exerted force with his feet, leaping lightly over a low wall like a night bird and landing in another quiet street. A pitch-black, sleek sports car, like a long-waiting ghost, glided silently to a stop in front of them.
Kanjuro pulled open the passenger door and gently pushed the still-dazed Kuraki Mai inside, then sat in the driver's seat himself. The engine gave a low, powerful roar, and the sports car instantly accelerated, merging into the still-flowing river of cars in the Tokyo night, quickly leaving the chaos and pursuit far behind.
The interior of the car was very quiet, with only the hum of the engine and the sound of the two people's still-unsettled breathing. Wrapped in the oversized trench coat, Kuraki Mai curled up in the seat, her head turned to watch the brilliant streams of light receding rapidly outside the window. The city was still prosperous, but her world had been completely overturned tonight.
She stole a glance at Kanjuro in the driver's seat. He had already put away the gun, one hand on the steering wheel and the other resting casually by the window. His profile appeared deep and calm in the flowing light and shadows outside, as if the thrilling breakout just now had been merely a relaxed walk.
Cold, powerful, elegant, mysterious, and extremely dangerous... yet possessing an irresistible, dark charm.
Her heart beat violently in her chest, not because of the relief of surviving a disaster, but because of a newly sprouted attraction that even she herself felt fear and shame towards.
Kanjuro seemed to sense her gaze and turned his head slightly to look at her. In the dim car, his purple eyes seemed to contain both stars and the abyss.
"Are you afraid?" he asked, his voice devoid of emotion.
Kuraki Mai opened her mouth, wanting to say yes, but the words turned into a slight tremor and a nearly unconscious, confused dependence. She shook her head gently, then nodded, and finally just lowered her head, burying half her face in the collar of the trench coat that still carried his scent.
Kanjuro withdrew his gaze and looked at the endless road ahead, the corner of his mouth seemingly twitching upward ever so slightly.
The prey has entered the net.
And the bird in the net is quietly feeling a flutter for the figure of the hunter it sees.
This process of conquest is far more interesting than simple plunder, isn't it?
The sports car disappeared into the depths of the Tokyo night, driving toward the unknown territory belonging to Kanjuro. Kuraki Mai's songs were destined to compose a brand new, dark movement. And in this grand escape tonight, the cold figure of the youth in the trench coat, gun in his left hand, fighting through the encirclement, had been etched into the depths of her soul like the deepest brand, never to be erased. The sports car eventually left the bustling heart of Tokyo, passed through a long and hidden underground tunnel, and entered the depths of a seemingly abandoned industrial area. Finally, behind a series of heavy metal doors requiring special verification, it stopped on an empty platform that was heart-stoppingly vast.
This was one of the many core strongholds of the Black Organization, a dark heart hidden beneath the city's veins.
When Kuraki Mai was led out of the car by Kanjuro, her legs were still somewhat weak. It wasn't because of the long journey, but because of what she had seen and felt along the way, and the chaotic emotions growing wildly within her that left her at a loss. Kanjuro did not rush her; he simply stood by her side, as if giving her time to adapt to this atmosphere that was so different from the surface world.
The air was slightly cool, carrying the scent of metal, machine oil, and a faint smell of disinfectant. The lighting was a cold white, uniformly and ruthlessly illuminating the massive space, the high dome, the intricate passage entrances, and some figures dressed in black working silently in the distance. Everything was orderly, yet permeated with a cold, inhuman sense of efficiency. There was no sunlight here, no clamor, only a silence and pressure that reached the marrow of one's bones.
Kuraki Mai wrapped the black trench coat tightly around her; Kanjuro's scent on it was now her only faint link to the familiar world, yet it also reminded her of where she was. She followed Kanjuro, her steps unsteady as they crossed the wide platform and walked toward a metal door without any markings.
Behind the door was a room with a cold yet exceptionally luxurious style, like a hybrid of a high-end lounge and a reception room. Outside the huge one-way glass curtain wall was a view of parts of the deeper organization base, like a window for observing an anthill. The room was covered with a thick, dark carpet, and the furniture had clean, expensive lines.
Kanjuro motioned for her to sit on a wide sofa, while he walked to a small bar on the other side of the room, took out two glass cups, and unhurriedly poured an amber liquid into them.
"Drink a little to calm your nerves." He pushed one of the glasses onto the coffee table in front of Kuraki Mai, while he held the other, leaning against the edge of the bar, his gaze calmly scrutinizing her.
Kuraki Mai did not touch the glass of liquor. She clasped her hands tightly together, her knuckles white, and looked up, trying to make her voice sound less shaky: "Mr... Mr. Ye, why did you bring me here? What exactly do you want to do?"
"I want to give you a new stage, Miss Kuraki," Kanjuro took a sip of the liquor, his tone as flat as if he were discussing the weather. "A broader stage, and one where you can better realize your 'value'."
"Value?" Kuraki Mai's blue eyes were filled with incomprehension and wariness.
"Your voice, your influence, the image of light and hope you represent as the symbol 'Kuraki Mai'," Kanjuro said slowly, each word clear and powerful. "These are all excellent 'tools'. Using them on those boring pop songs and propaganda that whitewashes peace is too much of a waste."
He set down his wine glass and walked toward her, his steps silent. "The organization needs a 'Diva.' Not just an ordinary singer, but an existence capable of using her voice to transmit specific information, condense specific emotions, and even... perform a certain degree of consciousness guidance. Your timbre, your public image, and the public opinion and speculation that might be triggered after you were 'protected' by the CIA and subsequently 'kidnapped' are all excellent materials."
Kuraki Mai's breathing quickened. She understood, but she couldn't accept it. "You... you want me to sing for your organization? To sing those... songs that spread your dark ideology? No! That's impossible!" She shook her head violently, her long hair brushing against her pale cheeks in a mess. "My music is meant to bring people courage and happiness, not to be used for..."
"Used for what?" Mr. Kanjuro interrupted her, leaning in slightly. His purple eyes drew close, carrying a sharp insight that seemed to see through everything. "Do you think that the 'positive energy' you sang before was truly pure in the context of higher-level games? Was being used by the CIA to attack me the 'light' you were pursuing?"
Kuraki Mai was at a loss for words, her face turning even paler. That concert was indeed a stain and a nightmare for her.
"At least... at least I didn't actively aid a villain!" She stubbornly lifted her chin, her eyes glistening with the tears of humiliation. "Mr. Ye, you... you're actually not the pure demon they say you are. When you took me out... you protected me. I can feel it, you... perhaps you have your own difficulties too? Why must you walk such a path? You're... you're so powerful, why can't you turn back? Repentance is the only way out!"
These words carried her naive expectations and her last bit of persistence toward the "light," mixed with a complex view of the powerful dark existence before her—one she didn't fully understand herself. She even felt that she might be able to "persuade" him?
Kanjuro looked at her quietly for several seconds. The only sound left in the room was Kuraki Mai's slightly hurried breathing.
Then, he let out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh.
That sigh made Kuraki Mai's heart tighten, followed by a faint glimmer of hope—had he been moved?
However, in the next second...
Slap—!
A crisp and sharp slap landed squarely on Kuraki Mai's cheek!
The force was controlled perfectly; it didn't injure her, but it was enough to make half of her face sting and go numb instantly. Her ears rang, and she was completely dazed, slumping onto the sofa. Her meticulously styled long hair was completely disheveled, covering her eyes, which instantly welled with tears, and her rapidly swelling cheek.
"Repentance is the only way out?" Kanjuro's voice turned cold, no longer possessing its previous calm, but instead revealing an icy indifference and a hint of mockery. "Kuraki Mai, you are too naive. What do you think this is? A hot-blooded lecture from a shonen manga?"
He reached out, pinched her chin, and forced her to lift her head and look into his cold eyes. "Where is the'shore'? The'shore' you see is nothing more than a beach built upon the dark dikes constructed by countless people like me, liable to be swallowed by the tide at any moment. The shadow cast by the light you praise is far longer than you can imagine."
His fingertips applied a bit of pressure, and Kuraki Mai felt a surge of pain as tears rolled down uncontrollably.
"I took you out and protected you only because you are 'useful' to me, nothing more. Do not use your shallow morality and ridiculous sympathy to speculate about me." Kanjuro let go, stood up, and looked down at the slumped, disheveled singer on the sofa as if evaluating an object.
"Sing for me, for the organization. This is your only value and your only reason to live." His tone brooked no argument. "Otherwise, you won't even have the qualification to be a 'collection.' The CIA will not let go of a 'contaminated' pawn, and the public will soon forget a 'fallen' idol. You will have nothing, and you will even... disappear without a sound."
Kuraki Mai covered her stinging cheek, her vision blurred by tears. The pain in her cheek was far less than the agony of having her beliefs utterly crushed. Her attempt to persuade him to repent had earned her a slap; the "light" and "beauty" she insisted upon were as fragile as a joke before this man. Fear, despair, humiliation, and a strange shiver resulting from being treated roughly—which she even despised herself for—intertwined, nearly tearing her apart.
"No..." she sobbed, her voice broken yet still carrying a final trace of stubbornness. "I... I will never... sing for you... never..."
Her refusal was no longer because she believed in the light, but more like a desperate, instinctive resistance to maintain her final dignity.
Kanjuro looked at her, a very faint, inscrutable emotion flashing in his eyes. It wasn't anger, but more like... a certain decision.
He approached again, and this time, he didn't speak.
In Kuraki Mai's pupils, which dilated with terror, he leaned down, his shadow completely enveloping her. There was no gentle prelude, no emotional buildup, only a pure, sovereign-like encroachment.
"Mmph—!" Kuraki Mai's cry was muffled, her struggling hands easily restrained. The expensive sofa bore the sudden weight and impact.
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