The air stood utterly still. Even the dust dared not move.
Before Katsuo's half-ruined house, a masked figure watched in silence—like a shadow that had learned to breathe. The moonlight glinted off the metal of his hook, that instrument still bearing traces of the last heart it had pierced.
A few paces away, Miyako shut the door with a tired sigh.
"Tsk… he's not here," she murmured, scanning the ruins. "No note, no body. Not even his damn smell of wood."
She took a couple of steps into the street. Her boots rang over the debris. She had spent the entire afternoon hunting him, fruitlessly, and frustration was already boiling her blood.
"Perfect," she growled, adjusting her belt. "Another day wasted because of some idiot who vanishes."
She turned to leave… and froze.
A few metres off, in the shadows, the masked man watched her. Motionless. The mask barely caught a glint of light, but it was enough—the chill crept up her spine.
The silence was so thick she could hear the tick of the clock in her mind.
"Oh…" she said, raising an eyebrow. "You look different, Katsuo. New look—or did your ego swallow you whole?"
The man gave no reply.
Nothing. No movement, no audible breath.
Miyako's smile faded slowly.
"Well… that was weird."
She stepped forward, curiosity mixing with caution, hand near her weapon.
"Do you know where Katsuo is?" she asked, mockery lacing her voice. "Don't tell me you vanish too when things get ugly."
Still, silence reigned.
Only the creak of wood beneath her feet.
The gap between them closed. She could feel a suffocating presence, a dense emptiness radiating from him. He was more than a man. Something unnatural.
"You won't speak, huh?" she said at last, folding her arms. "Fine. I'm not great at chatting either."
The wind shifted.
A scrap of paper fluttered between them, disappearing into darkness.
In that moment, something inside Miyako screamed to run. But her body held firm, her instinct taut, waiting for the first strike.
Under the mask, his eyes glowed.
And in pure silence, the hunter took his first step toward her.
The air thickened, as though darkness itself held its breath.
Miyako's frown deepened, eyes fixed on the stranger. There was something in his posture—rigidity, that motionless calm—that revolted her instincts. He didn't move at all. Not one millimetre, not even in his breathing.
"And who the hell are you?" she spat, irritation slipping into her voice.
He didn't answer.
The silence stretched, maddening. She stepped forward again, her boot echoing across the dusty ground.
"Did ravens eat your tongue or something?" she added with a crooked grin.
Still nothing.
Then—without warning—the man's right arm moved with inhuman speed. Miyako barely saw a flash of metal before a kunai hooked to a chain whipped across the air and embedded itself in the wall behind her with a dry thunk.
She turned slowly, metal humming, and faced him again.
"Not even a hello?" she yelled, teeth bared.
Sliding backward, she drew her submachine gun in one fluid motion. The weapon roared—short, precise bursts aimed at the attacker's chest and neck.
The bullets struck… and recoiled, like they'd hit steel.
The metallic distortion echoed across the empty street.
"What…?" she murmured, eyes wide. "You've got ballistic plating! That's cheating!"
He kept advancing, impassive, as though the bullets were raindrops.
Miyako recoiled, searching for a better angle.
She vaulted onto a broken railing and fired another burst.
Still nothing. No reaction at all.
He raised his arm again, hook gleaming beneath the moon. She rolled aside just in time—the chain cut through the air and shattered a window behind her. Glass rained like shards of ice.
"Enough of your games!" she roared, gasping. Her breathing was ragged, her heart pounding pure adrenaline.
The man stopped a few metres ahead, dust swirling between them.
Miyako raised her weapon again, a smile creeping back.
"Alright… if you won't talk, we'll do it my way."
She squeezed the trigger.
The street filled with gunfire; smoke and sparks filed the air, the silhouette of the man pressing forward, relentless.
She lowered her weapon briefly, sweat dripping from her brow.
Her lips curved into a bitter grin.
"Perfect," she whispered. "A tough guy. Just what I wanted to end the day."
Tension mounted. The clash of metal, his footsteps, the wind through the wrecked block formed a symphony of contained violence.
As she reloaded, he raised his arm a third time.
Both knew—the next move would decide who'd still breathe.
Gun smoke lingered. Dust and fragment-shards floated.
Miyako breathed hard, her submachine gun still hot. The masked man stood frozen—just watching, like a solid shadow in chaos.
"What the hell are you?" she shouted, her voice cracking with rage and fear. "Where's Katsuo?!"
Nothing.
He took a step. The metallic scrape of his hook sliding over rubble resonated between shattered walls.
Miyako gripped her gun, stumbled backward, torn between fury and dread.
"Answer me!" she demanded. "Where is Katsuo?"
The man halted a few paces away.
Then, for the first time, he spoke.
His voice was gravelly, metallic, warped by the mask's modulator.
"I killed him."
Silence.
Even the wind dared not stir.
Miyako blinked—as if she hadn't heard right.
"What did you say?" she murmured.
The masked man repeated nothing. He simply stared at her, unmoving.
A brittle, nervous laugh escaped her lips—then another.
Until she sank into broken laughter, doubled over, pressing the weapon to her chest.
"No… no, no… that's a lie. It has to be. Katsuo isn't…"
Her voice cracked. Laughter and tears merged into a hollow sound.
"You lie…" she said quietly. Then louder: "You lie!"
She squeezed the trigger.
Gunfire ripped through the night. She shot recklessly—yelling, laughing, crying all at once.
The man's body convulsed under the blasts… but he didn't fall.
When the magazine emptied, the echoes died among the ruins.
Miyako, panting, watched him with desperate eyes.
He still stood. Walking through smoke, unscathed.
"No… this can't be…" she whispered.
He advanced without a word. Then, with fluid motion, his arm struck her face.
Miyako felt the world spin. Her body flew backward, slamming into a wall.
A dry crack mingled with her muffled cry.
She spat blood, trying to rise, vision blurring.
The man loomed nearer. His voice—serene, cold—cut right through her as a blade.
"You will die just like him."
Miyako's breath rasped a growl.
"No…" she stammered, staggering. "I won't let you."
With a roar she lunged.
The collision was violent: hook against steel, the thud of blows, stifled cries.
Miyako dodged one, two strikes, then in a last-ditch pivot swung her fist into his face.
A snap.
Part of the mask shattered.
Silence swallowed the street.
Miyako stood frozen, her gaze fixed on the exposed portion of his face: skin, scar, eye.
Her breath caught.
"No…" she whispered. She staggered backward, trembling. "Goro…"
The masked man raised his hand slowly, covering the fractured half of his face.
The eye that remained visible glowed pure hatred.
"Why?" Miyako screamed, voice breaking. "Why did you kill him?!"
Silence.
Goro lowered his hand, but didn't meet her eyes.
"I will not answer you."
The wind stirred, hauling dust and shards across the space between them.
They stood face to face, breath ragged, in the hush.
Pain, fury, betrayal hung heavy between them like a vile miasma.
Miyako ground her teeth, wiping blood from her lips.
Her eyes flickered with madness and vengeance.
Goro straightened fully.
In that moment, both moved.
The second strike began.
The silence cracked.
Goro's hook glinted beneath moonlit shadows.
"You will end like Katsuo," he said calmly.
Miyako stared, bloodshot, breathing hard, body smeared with dust and injuries.
"Oh, yeah?" she sneered. "Then prepare to join him."
She vanished.
Her silhouette flickered out in an instant.
Goro turned slowly.
He sensed her presence. Heard it. But couldn't see it.
The wind stirred behind him. A shot rang out.
A bullet grazed his shoulder, sparking against his armor.
Another shot from another direction. Then another, closer.
Goro flung his hook with force toward the noise. Steel whistled through air, severing a post.
Miyako reappeared briefly a few metres away, crouched, laughing.
"Running out of drinks, Goro?" she taunted, then vanished again.
Goro growled, spinning his hook like a steel snake.
"You cannot hide forever."
Gunshots filled the air.
Sparks and dust whirled. The clash of bullets against Goro's armor sounded like metallic rain.
Yet he advanced, relentless. Each step creaked doom across the rubble.
Suddenly, Miyako dropped from a rooftop, rolling onto him and unleashing a burst at his helmet.
Goro blocked with his arm, then swung his hook.
The blow was brutal.
Miyako flew airborne, crashing into an abandoned car that crumpled under her weight.
She coughed blood, spat, then laughed.
"Strong for a bartender," she quipped.
Goro said nothing. He charged, hook spinning.
Miyako rolled aside just in time; the hook pierced the car's shell, embedding itself.
She seized the moment. She flicked on camouflage, vanishing from sight.
Goro wrestled at the hook, but sensed movement behind him.
A click.
Too late.
Miyako emerged behind him, expression blank, submachine gun pressed to his back.
"This is… for Katsuo."
She squeezed the trigger.
The burst tore through his torso; his suit sparked. Goro staggered, but she didn't relent. She circled him, firing, letting loose all the rage she'd bottled.
The man crumpled to his knees.
Mask cracked, hanging in tatters.
Miyako inhaled sharply, raised the fallen hook, and with no hesitation drove it into his chest.
The metal piercing flesh and armor sounded final.
Goro tried to speak, but no words came—only a strangled sigh.
The mask shattered entirely, revealing the ruined face beneath and a vacant, broken stare.
Miyako steadied herself, staring a moment at the body.
"You should never have touched him."
The corpse slumped heavy.
Night reclaimed the silence.
Dust-red particles drifted under her feet.
She stood, the hook still in hand, breathing ragged, her face streaked with sweat, blood, and grime.
For once in a long time… she smiled.
The metallic clink of the hook hitting the ground echoed in the ruins.
Miyako lingered where she was, eyes fixed on Goro's lifeless form.
A moment passed without a sound—she just stared.
Wind tugged at loose hair, carrying the scent of iron and gunpowder.
Then, a crooked grin slowly crept across her face.
First faint, barely there… then it bloomed into a dry, broken laugh.
She laughed through tears. Not in joy, not in relief. Pure exhaustion tangled with insanity.
"What a pity…" she whispered, tilting her head to the corpse. "And I thought you were good with drinks."
She crouched, picked up a distorted bullet from the ground, twirled it in her fingers, then tossed it aside with disdain.
The metal clinked against the pavement, swallowed by the night.
She pulled out her phone, hands trembling.
Dialed a number without thinking.
She waited.
One, two, three rings.
"Miyako?" Ryo's voice, weary, crackled through.
She smiled—though he could not see it.
"Ryo…" she said in a ragged voice. "We're out of bartenders."
Silence.
No answer. Only the static hum of the line.
Miyako sighed long, almost fondly.
"Don't worry. I'll pick up the tab next time."
She hung up before he could speak.
The click of the phone echoed louder than it should.
She stood a few moments more, gazing at the bloodied hook.
She nudged it with her boot, rolling it a few metres until it rested beside Goro's hand.
The steel's glint under the moon seemed to mock her.
Miyako sank to a crumbling wall, breathing heavily.
She looked skyward, gray clouds swirling, and whispered:
"Everyone dies close to me…"
Her voice trailed off in the wind.
She rose slowly, stretched her neck, and walked away down the empty street, footsteps echoing through the ruins.
In a distant window, Kuro the cat watched from the sill, unmoving.
He meowed once.
Then silence swallowed everything.