The Shibata estate was a sea of light and laughter. Crystal chandeliers—a sign of the family's modern wealth—cast a warm glow over the high-ranking businessmen, politicians, and their families. To the guests, eight-year-old Haruhiro was a charming centerpiece, a polite boy in a formal kimono who bowed with perfect discipline.
But behind those calm, blue eyes, the Handler was awake.
Haruhiro drifted through the crowd like a ghost. He wasn't listening to the petty gossip or the business deals. He was tracking heart rates, dilated pupils, and "heavy" gaits. That was when he saw them: two men dressed as high-end merchants, yet their clothes hung awkwardly on their frames, as if they weren't used to human skin.
He didn't panic. Panic was for the dead. He simply drifted toward the refreshment table.
******
The first man, a pale individual with trembling hands, reached for a cup of tea. He didn't notice the small boy "accidentally" stumble beside him. In that fraction of a second, a tiny glass vial hidden in Haruhiro's sleeve tilted. A single drop of concentrated Wisteria Neurotoxin fell into the steam.
The man sneered, dismissing the boy, and drained the cup in one gulp.
Haruhiro didn't wait to watch. He knew the dosage. He turned his attention to the second man, who was slipping away toward the back of the estate—the service corridor where the main electrical breakers were housed.
******
In the main hall, the first man suddenly gasped. He clutched his throat, his eyes bulging as the wisteria poison—far more lethal to these "predators" than Haruhiro realized—tore through his nervous system. He didn't even have time to scream before he collapsed. The guests crowded around, shouting for a doctor, thinking it was a heart attack.
Meanwhile, in the cold, dim silence of the basement, the second man reached for the heavy iron lever of the circuit breaker. He chuckled, his teeth lengthening into jagged fangs.
The man spun around. There, standing at the end of the narrow hallway, was the Shibata heir. The boy looked tiny in the shadows, but he wasn't trembling. He was holding a small, weighted silk cord—the closest thing he could find to his old fiber wire.
Haruhiro tilted his head, his expression as cold as a winter grave.
The man roared, lunging with supernatural speed. But Haruhiro didn't move like a child. He dropped low, his center of gravity perfect. As the attacker flew over him, Haruhiro lashed out with a surgical needle coated in a thick, purple sludge, aiming directly for the base of the skull.
******
In the grand hall, the music died a jagged death.
The man who had consumed the tea didn't just die; he convulsed, his skin bubbling as if boiling from the inside out. A horrific, guttural screech ripped from his throat—a sound no human vocal cord could produce. Before the family doctor could even reach him, the man's flesh began to flake away like burnt paper. Within seconds, there was no body, no blood—only a pile of grey, foul-smelling ash smoldering on the expensive rug.
The guests stood paralyzed. Lord Shibata stared at the empty clothes left behind, his face pale.
******
Deep in the bowels of the estate, Haruhiro watched a mirrored horror.
The man he had struck with the needle didn't fall. Instead, he twisted in mid-air, his skin rippling as his muscles swelled into grotesque, hulking shapes. His eyes turned a bloodshot crimson, and his teeth grew into serrated ivory daggers.
The creature roared, reaching out with claws that could snap bone.
But the Wisteria was already in his system.
The demon froze. A web of black veins surged from the injection site at the base of his skull. He looked at his own hands as they began to crumble into dust. He tried to speak, to curse the boy, but his jaw disintegrated before the words could form. In a heartbeat, the monster was gone, leaving only a small heap of ash at Haruhiro's feet.
The basement returned to silence. The circuit breaker remained untouched.
Haruhiro stood perfectly still, his heart rate barely elevated. He looked down at the empty needle in his hand, then at the pile of ash. As Agent 47, he had seen every way a human body could expire—gunshots, stabbings, and rare poisons. But humans did not turn to dust. Humans did not have glowing red eyes.
The word felt ridiculous to his logical mind, yet the evidence was irrefutable. This wasn't just a world of business and samurai tradition; it was a world of monsters.
A small, genuine smile touched Haruhiro's lips. In his past life, he had been a weapon for shadow governments and cold-blooded handlers. He had killed for money and survival. It had been a hollow existence.
But now? He looked toward the stairs, thinking of his mother and father shivering in the hall above.
He didn't feel fear. He felt purpose. His past life hadn't been a curse; it was a training program for this exact moment. He had the wealth, he had the talent, and now, he had a target.
The Hitman hadn't just returned. He had finally found a cause worth killing for.