Ishida's voice lingers in my head long after the call cuts out.
That's the thing about him—he never says more than he has to. He doesn't ask if I'm free, doesn't confirm if I'll do it. Just the name, the place, the time. Like he's already checked me off in some invisible ledger.
I don't need more.
I open the black case on my table. The smell of oil and steel hits me right away—clean, metallic, sharp. Inside: the rifle broken down into its pieces, each one wrapped like evidence. Barrel, scope, suppressor, bolt.
No affection. No romanticizing it.
This isn't my "partner" or "old friend." That kind of thinking gets people sloppy. This is just a tool. Replaceable. But it's a tool I trust more than people.
Assembly is mechanical. Muscle memory. The bolt slides in clean, the scope clicks into place. The suppressor threads on smoothly. I check alignment, weight, balance. No wasted motion. No mistakes.
People think killing is hard. It isn't. It's numbers. It's preparation. Do the math right, and the equation solves itself.
I lock the pieces back into the case. My mind is already moving ahead: routes, timing, cover. Always forward.
---
The apartment I rent is one of a hundred in this tower block. Walls thin enough to hear arguments, TV static, bedsprings squeaking through the night. Nobody pays attention to each other here. Nobody wants to.
That's what makes it perfect.
I put on the coat. Plain black, waterproof. Gloves in the pocket. No jewelry, no watches. Nothing that stands out. In a city full of noise and neon, being invisible isn't about vanishing. It's about being too ordinary to notice.
The elevator stinks like piss and old grease. A man inside looks at his shoes until he reaches his floor. He doesn't look at me. I don't look at him. That's the unspoken agreement here.
The doors open to the street.
---
The city hits me like a wave. Even at midnight, it's alive. Neon signs stutter and buzz, painting the wet pavement in pinks and blues. Traffic hisses by, headlights cutting lines through drizzle. Somewhere down the block, someone yells, a bottle shatters, a siren groans.
I step into it like I've done a thousand times. Ghost among ghosts.
People brush past—umbrellas colliding, voices clashing, perfume mixing with the smell of cigarettes and oil. Nobody notices the black case in my hand. Why would they? I'm just another shadow with somewhere to be.
This anonymity is the only real freedom left. You're visible to everyone but important to no one.
---
I don't bother with the subway tonight. Too many cameras. Too many random faces to remember mine. Taxis are cleaner. Disposable.
I flag one down. The driver looks tired, eyes half-closed behind smeared glasses. He unlocks the door with a grunt.
"Where to?" he asks.
"Shinjuku East Tower district," I say. Not the exact address. Never the exact. Just close enough.
He nods and pulls away from the curb.
The cab smells like stale coffee and air freshener that gave up days ago. A radio murmurs faintly, some talk show about baseball.
"You from around here?" the driver asks after a while, maybe just to stay awake.
"Work," I answer. My voice is flat, final.
He doesn't press. Good.
I watch the city smear past the window. Rows of pachinko parlors glowing like false dawns. Drunk salarymen laughing too loud, their ties loose, faces red. A girl in a school uniform sitting alone at a bus stop, staring at her phone like it's the only thing keeping her alive.
Life everywhere. Messy, desperate, noisy life.
I grip the handle of the case tighter. Life is cheap. That's the truth nobody wants to say out loud.
The driver brakes hard as a delivery bike cuts us off. He curses, slams the horn. I don't flinch. My eyes stay on the window.
By the time we pull up a block from Seido's district, the meter flashes a number I don't bother looking at. I hand over cash, tell him to keep the change.
"Thanks," he mutters, already pulling away.
And just like that, I vanish into the night again.
---
The corporate district is another world. Cleaner, sharper. The towers rise like glass teeth, grids of glowing windows stretching into the sky. Security guards smoke under awnings, taxis idle in neat lines. The sidewalks shine, freshly hosed down.
At street level, everyone moves with the same purpose: forward. No wandering. No detours.
I match the rhythm. Purposeful steps. Not too fast. Not too slow.
My destination waits ahead: an unfinished building across from Seido's tower. Construction frozen weeks ago, scaffolding rusting, tarps flapping like tired flags.
Perfect.
A side gate hangs loose. A chain dangles from it but the padlock is gone. Someone took it, probably scrap thieves. Makes my work easier.
Inside, the air changes—dust, wet cement, rusted metal. The sounds of the street fade, replaced by the hollow echo of my boots on concrete.
The stairwell is dark, walls streaked with graffiti, cigarette burns in the corners. I climb steadily, heartbeat calm, every sense focused.
On the sixth floor, I pause. Voices.
Two teenagers, maybe junkies, sitting on the stairs. They've carved out a little corner with beer cans and a cheap radio. One of them looks up, eyes glazed.
"What the fuck—" he starts.
I don't answer. I just keep climbing.
They don't follow. They don't want trouble.
Smart kids.
I reach the twelfth floor. The air is colder here, sharper. Wind rushes through the skeletal frame of the building, carrying the hum of neon from outside.
And there it is: the view.
From this perch, Seido's glass tower looms across the street. Dozens of cubicles, glowing monitors, empty chairs. And in one lit office, a lone figure hunched over a desk. Murakami.
I kneel, set the case down, and begin to assemble the rifle.
Piece by piece. Smooth. Silent. Familiar.
Through the scope, the world narrows to a perfect circle.
There he is. Murakami. Middle-aged, balding, tie loose. His face is pale, his glasses sliding down his nose. He's on the phone, pacing. His mouth moves fast, too fast. I can't hear him, but I know the type. Begging. Promises. Lies.
I steady my breathing. The equation is ready. One squeeze, and it balances.
Then—
The reflection shifts.
Not his. Something behind him.
A shape. Human. Standing over his shoulder.
But it isn't there. It can't be.
---