Her name was Aiko Tanaka.
Sixteen years old. Top of her class. Ordinary life—until tonight.
Now, nothing felt real.
The streets of Tokyo were supposed to be crowded, alive—
But now they felt hollow. Empty. As if something had scared the city into silence.
Aiko walked quickly, glancing over her shoulder every few seconds. Her school blazer was torn, and blood—not hers—spotted her sleeve. Her knees still trembled. But she had no time to stop.
She needed to find him.
The man in the black suit.
He moved like a killer. Fought like a ghost. And vanished without a trace.
"Who are you…?" she whispered to herself.
She turned a corner and entered a narrow alley, eyes scanning the darkness. Trash cans. Pipes. Silence.
And then—
She saw something.
A broken bottle on the ground. Same brand. Same shape. A fresh one.
A trail.
She followed it.
Aiko found herself outside an old bar, tucked between two tall buildings. No sign, no name—just a red paper lantern swaying gently in the breeze.
Inside: jazz music. Dim lights. Cigarette smoke.
She stepped in, heart pounding.
He was there.
Sitting at the bar, back straight, tie loosened, a fresh bottle of sake in front of him. Not drunk. Just quiet.
Like nothing had happened.
He didn't turn as she approached.
"You followed me," he said.
She nodded. "I had to."
A pause. Then:
"You shouldn't have."
"I need to know who you are."
He finally looked at her. His eyes were sharp, unreadable. "No. You need to go home."
"I can't," she said. "They're still out there. And I think they're after me."
He stared at her for a long moment.
Then, quietly:
"They weren't after you."
Aiko froze. "What?"
He turned away. Took a sip of his drink.
"You were just in the way."
Aiko stood frozen.
His words echoed: "You were just in the way."
But that didn't feel right. The way he'd stepped in… the way he'd fought to protect her—it wasn't random. It was instinct.
She sat on the stool beside him, defiant.
"I'm not leaving," she said.
He didn't look at her. His fingers traced the rim of his glass, lost in thought. The jazz music played low, like the soundtrack of a dream that was turning into a nightmare.
"I used to be someone," he said quietly.
Aiko blinked. "Used to?"
"I wore a badge once. Then a uniform. Then nothing."
He smirked without joy. "People called me many things—agent, officer, killer."
His eyes drifted to the window, where the neon glowed like blood through fog.
"Now… I drink."
Aiko whispered, "But you still save people."
"No," he said. "I protect one thing."
She leaned in. "What is it?"
Before he could answer—
BANG!
The bar's front window exploded inward, glass shattering like ice. A metal object rolled across the floor—
A smoke canister.
HIS voice dropped into command.
"Get down!"
He grabbed Aiko and shielded her just as the room filled with smoke. Shadows burst through the door—faster this time. Better trained. Black combat gear. Silenced weapons.
They weren't thugs.
They were hunters.
He kicked over a table, flipped a chair into the first attacker's face, and drew a hidden weapon—a black tactical tanto blade strapped under his jacket.
In a blur, he moved through the smoke like a phantom. One attacker lunged—he sidestepped, slammed him into a wall, and slashed behind him in the same breath.
Another tried to shoot—
He grabbed Aiko and rolled behind the bar.
"Who are they?!" she gasped.
He didn't answer.
He was already gone again—diving back into the smoke.
Three more came in. Automatic gunfire tore through shelves of liquor. Bottles exploded into fire and flame.
Aiko ducked—terrified.
But when the smoke cleared—
They were all down.
Bodies everywhere. Silent. Still.
And he stood there, breathing slow, eyes locked on the last attacker—who was still alive, barely.
He knelt beside him.
"Who sent you?" he asked coldly.
The attacker coughed blood. Smiled weakly.
"You're already dead, Ryoji…"
His eyes went wide.
No one had used that name in years.
The man collapsed.
Aiko stared.
"Ryoji…? Is that your name?"
He stood up, eyes burning with something darker than rage.
"We need to go. Now."
To be continued in Chapter 3...