The city's dark belly swallowed Renji whole. He moved through narrow alleys like smoke. His boots found the quiet spaces between broken glass and metal scraps.
The bag on his back felt heavier now. Each step made the things inside clink together. His breath came in short puffs behind the black mask.
The chase was over, but his heart still raced. His shoulder and thigh burned where the bullets had kissed it. His leg throbbed with each step. The pain was sharp and true, It reminded him he was alive.
Trash cans lined the walls like metal soldiers. Neon signs buzzed overhead, their colors blending into the darkness in pink, blue, and green hues.
He soon arrived at his destination. A five storied building with crumbling bricks in random parts. The walls were stained with years of rain and neglect. Paint peeled off in long strips. The smell of mold and old food hung in the air.
The stairs creaked under his weight. He counted them as he climbed. One. Two. Three. Fifty-seven steps to the fifth floor. He had walked these stairs a thousand times. In the dark. In the light. Bleeding and whole.
Room 5C.
The door was plain brown wood. Three locks kept the world out. Renji's key turned with a soft click.
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The locks turned one by one. Click. Click. Click.
The apartment was small and quiet. One bedroom, one bathroom, and a kitchen that was more like a closet.
The bag hit the floor with a gentle thud. Renji moved to the kitchen. His hands shook as he opened the drawers. Inside, he found what he needed. A pair of old medical pliers, a clean rag, and a bottle of cheap whiskey.
The couch was old and soft. Its springs had given up years ago. Renji sat down and pulled off his mask, revealing a youthful face in his early twenties.
The air felt cool on his sweaty face. He twisted the cap off the whiskey and poured some on the wounds. The smell burned his nose.
He bit down on the rag and picked up the pliers. The shoulder wound came first. The sniper's bullet was big and mean. It had burrowed deep into the muscle.
Renji dug for it with steady hands. Pain shot through his arm like lightning. His vision went white for a moment. But he kept digging.
Finally the bullet dropped into an empty cup with a tiny sound. Like a coin in a fountain. One down.
The leg was worse. The bullet had gone clean through, but it had left a mess behind. Blood ran down his thigh in thin streams. He poured more whiskey on the wound. It felt like fire eating his skin. But fire cleaned things and made them pure.
When he was done, he sat back and breathed. The pain was still there, but it was manageable now. Like background music in a store. Always there, but easy to ignore.
He looked at the bag that sat on the floor. Renji dragged it over and opened it. The zipper made a soft sound. Inside, the night's work waited for him.
Multiple stacks of cash came out first. Thick bundles held together with rubber bands. The bills were crisp and new. He counted them twice. Enough for over six months of rent, medications, and daily necessities. Maybe a year if they were careful.
Next came the watches. Three of them, all different. One was gold and heavy. Another was silver with a face like moonlight. The third was black with numbers that glowed in the dark. Rich men's toys.
The jewelry followed. A necklace made of gold links. Each one was perfect and smooth. Earrings that caught the light and threw it back in blue fire. A ring with a stone the color of grass after rain.
Then the strange antiques. A pipe carved from white stone. A wooden box with metal corners. A golden Buddha figurine. A scroll that crackled when he touched it. An old pendant on a chain.
The pendant was rusted and worn. A symbol was carved into its face—two black and white fishes chasing each other in a circle.
But one item made his hands gentle. A small packet wrapped in silver foil. Inside were pills, white and round. His grandma's medicine.
He held the packet like it might break. This was why he did it. Why he ran through the night with bullets singing past his ears. Why he dug metal out of his own flesh with pliers and whiskey.
His grandma was the only family he had left. His father had died in prison five years ago. His mother had run away when he was small. She chased rich men for fancy things and sold her flesh. She never looked back at her two years old son.
But his grandma stayed. She raised him in this tiny apartment. She taught him to read and write and dream.
Now she was dying. The sickness was winning. The medicine was expensive. Too expensive for people like them. So Renji took money from people who had too much. People who wouldn't miss it.
He started to get up, but something made him stop. For a brief moment it felt like the pendant was glowing. Like a candle behind curtains. The fish symbol also seemed to move in the dim light, swimming in circles.
Renji rubbed his eyes. He was tired and hurt. Maybe seeing things. He had always loved anime and magical concepts. His room was full of mangas and toys from various animes, his favorite being Death Note.
But he knew magic wasn't real. It couldn't pay for medicine, and It couldn't keep his sick grandma alive. That was why he let go of such stuff and grew up to face reality.
"I'm just tired," he said to the empty room. He put the pendant in his pocket and stood up.
But a sudden sound made him freeze. It was soft, like cloth brushing against cloth. It came from the hallway. From his grandma's room.
Renji picked up his gun from the counter. His fingers moved without thinking. Safety off. Silencer tight. He had learned to move without sound. He knew which part would creak on the floorboard.
"Grandma?" he whispered.
The hallway was dark. Moonlight came through a broken window. It painted silver lines on the walls. Another sound could be heard, closer now.
His grandma's door was open just a crack. Her breathing came from inside. Weak and slow.
Renji slowly pushed the door open with the gun barrel. His heart was loud in his ears.
The room was small and simple. A bed, a dresser, and a chair by the window—which was now open, curtains swaying slightly. His grandma lay under thin blankets. Her face was pale and sunken. Her breathing was shallow.