CHAPTER 1:MISSION UPDATE
Kyoto hid its sins well.
By day, the city was a living museum—temples standing with quiet dignity, tourists moving through streets steeped in centuries of ritual, cherry trees framing postcards of serenity. But by night, Kyoto became something else entirely. Shadows thickened along wooden corridors, lantern light fractured against rain-slick stone, and history itself seemed to lean closer, listening.
In the Gion district, secrets were currency.
Ace Stylhavia moved through the narrow alleys without sound, his presence barely disturbing the air around him. He wore dark clothing designed for utility rather than identity—fabric that absorbed light, shoes engineered for silence. He was not rushing. He never did. Speed was meaningless without control, and control was Ace's defining trait.
He had been tracking his target for forty-eight hours.
The man was a rogue operative—once trained, once trusted, now reckless enough to believe he could sell information without consequence. Names. Routes. Dead drops. Things that were never meant to surface. The underworld had no tolerance for exposure, and Ace was the mechanism by which balance was restored.
Tonight, the chase ended.
The scent of incense drifted from a nearby shrine, mixing with the faint bitterness of green tea carried on the cool night air. Somewhere beyond the maze of alleys, laughter spilled from a late-night establishment, unaware of the violence threading its way through the district.
Ace paused beneath the eaves of an old machiya, listening.
Footsteps—uneven, hurried, panicked.
The target was close.
Ace stepped forward, melting into the alley's darkness. His eyes tracked movement ahead, noting every detail: the way the man favored his left side, the shallow breaths, the subtle glance backward that betrayed fear. He was trained, but fear made him sloppy.
The chase funneled toward the outskirts of Gion, where the old city thinned and neglect began to show. The abandoned tea house stood like a forgotten memory—wood warped by time, its sign cracked and faded, its windows dark.
The rogue slipped inside.
Ace followed.
The interior smelled of dust and stale incense, a lingering echo of rituals long abandoned. Tatami mats creaked faintly underfoot, betraying the building's age. Shoji screens stood crooked, their paper torn, moonlight slicing through the gaps like blades.
Ace stopped just inside the entrance.
He waited.
"Ace Stylhavia," a trembling voice whispered from deeper within the room. "I didn't think you'd find me."
Ace said nothing.
Silence pressed in, thick and suffocating.
The rogue burst from behind a screen, sprinting toward the back exit. He didn't make it far.
Ace moved with explosive precision. One step. One strike. His foot slammed into the man's chest, the impact lifting him off the ground and hurling him backward. The sound echoed through the empty structure as the man crashed into the floor, gasping for breath.
Pain twisted the rogue's face, but survival instinct overrode it. He scrambled up, pulling a knife from his sleeve, the blade shaking slightly in his grip.
Ace drew his own knife in response.
The steel caught the dim light, sharp and unadorned.
The fight was fast and brutal.
The rogue lunged first, desperation driving his movements. Ace sidestepped effortlessly, redirecting the attack with minimal motion. Steel clashed, sparks flashing briefly in the gloom. The rogue was skilled—his form was correct, his strikes trained—but he was reacting.
Ace was dictating.
A sharp elbow to the ribs stole the man's breath. A low kick shattered his balance. The rogue slashed wildly, forcing Ace back a step, but it gained him nothing. Ace slipped inside the next attack, driving his knee into the man's abdomen before slamming him into a wooden pillar.
The structure cracked.
The rogue staggered, blood streaking from a cut on his brow. He charged again, screaming now, fear boiling over into rage.
Ace caught his wrist mid-swing and twisted.
Bone snapped.
The knife clattered to the floor.
Ace drove the man into the wall, his blade resting lightly against the rogue's throat. The pressure was precise—enough to promise death without delivering it.
"Who sent you?" Ace asked, his voice calm, almost conversational.
The rogue spat at his feet.
Ace increased the pressure slightly.
The man's defiance crumbled. The name came out in a hoarse whisper.
Recognition flashed across Ace's eyes—cold, sharp, dangerous.
There were no more questions.
Ace snapped the man's neck with a single, efficient motion.
The body collapsed, lifeless.
Ace stood still for a moment, ensuring there was no movement, no breath. He wiped his blade clean on the man's clothing and sheathed it. But the job was not finished.
Minutes later, the river carried another secret.
Ace hauled the body through a service path and down to the water's edge, where the current moved fast and dark beneath the moonlight. He weighed the corpse with stones taken from the embankment, then pushed it into the river without ceremony.
The body disappeared beneath the surface, claimed by the flow.
Ace watched until there was no trace left.
Then he stepped away and pulled out his phone.
"HQ," he said quietly when the line connected. "Target neutralized. Evidence disposed of."
Director V's voice came through the line, cold and composed. "Acknowledged. New orders stand. Return to Iceland immediately."
"Understood."
"There's another matter," she added. "Your next mission. Details when you arrive—but you'll want this one."
Ace said nothing, but his grip tightened slightly.
The line went dead.
Kansai International Airport
Kyoto was already stirring by the time Ace arrived at Kansai International Airport.
Morning light filtered through the terminal's glass walls, illuminating streams of travelers moving with purpose or exhaustion. Announcements echoed softly overhead, blending languages and destinations into a constant hum.
Ace moved through security with practiced ease, every document flawless, every movement unremarkable. He carried only what he needed. Anything else would be waiting for him in Iceland.
At the gate, Icelandair Flight 123 was boarding.
Ace took his seat near the window as the aircraft prepared for departure. The engines came to life with a low rumble, vibrations passing through the fuselage. Outside, the runway stretched ahead, wet with morning dew.
As the plane accelerated and lifted into the sky, Kyoto fell away beneath layers of cloud.
Hours passed.
The cabin lights dimmed. Time zones blurred. Ace reviewed fragments of information in his mind—not files, not documents, but memories. His brother's face. Questions unanswered. A trail that had gone cold years ago.
Mockingbird.
The name Director V had hinted at over the phone lingered in his thoughts, sharp and persistent.
Eventually, the aircraft descended.
Keflavík International Airport — Iceland
The cold was immediate and bracing.
Ace stepped off the plane into air that smelled clean and sharp, snow lingering along the edges of the runway. The sky was pale, vast, and unforgiving.
His Porsche Cayman waited in long-term parking, its dark frame standing out against the muted surroundings. Ace slid into the driver's seat, the familiar interior grounding him.
He drove toward Reykjavík as the city emerged slowly from the landscape—modern lines framed by stark natural beauty. The capital felt quiet, restrained, but alive beneath the surface.
At HQ, Ace reported in person.
Director V listened as he delivered his full mission report—every movement, every decision, every outcome. She did not interrupt.
When he finished, she folded her hands.
"Your next assignment," she said, activating a display. "Observation only. A suspected operative using the alias Mockingbird. Embedded within Reykjavik International School. We don't know his objective yet."
Ace's expression did not change, but something hardened behind his eyes.
"This may connect to your brother," Director V added. "No guarantees."
Ace nodded once.
"I'll take it."
The Next Morning — Reykjavik International School
Morning sunlight bathed the school's grounds in pale gold.
Reykjavik International School stood pristine and modern, glass and steel reflecting the sky. Luxury vehicles lined the driveway as students arrived in clusters, laughter carrying easily through the air.
A black Porsche Cayman rolled into view.
It slowed, then pulled into the driveway.
Ace Stylhavia stepped out.
He wore casual clothes—clean, understated, deliberate. Sunglasses shielded his eyes, concealing his gaze as he surveyed the campus. His posture was relaxed, confident, controlled.
Conversations faltered.
Heads turned.
Girls noticed first—drawn by the quiet authority he carried, the effortless confidence, the contrast between his calm demeanor and the sharp lines of the car he'd arrived in. Whispers followed him as he moved forward.
Ace adjusted his sunglasses once, then walked toward the entrance.
The mission had begun.