Okuro Building.
From the outside, it was just another unremarkable commercial high-rise.
The Cocktail bar on its top floor kept a low profile, with sparse foot traffic on most days and occasional closures to the public.
Hayato Masaki arrived right on time.
Pushing open the door, his first impression was one of stark emptiness.
The bar wasn't large.
Dim amber lights spilled from the ceiling, bathing the hinoki wood bar counter and its well-stocked liquor cabinet in a warm glow. The bartender stood behind the counter, polishing glasses to a mirror shine, while only two patrons, both dressed in black, occupied the seats in front.
The towering, bodyguard-like Vodka, and Gin, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers.
"He's here," Vodka said, his broad face twisting into a cold smirk as Hayato approached.
Gin's gaze flicked over.
Half-hidden by his hat and bangs, his face was unreadable, his emerald-green eyes devoid of any warmth.
"Good evening, Gin-san, Vodka-san," Hayato said, his voice carrying an almost ethereal calm. He smiled faintly. "What did you need me for?"
Compared to earlier in the day, Hayato now wore silver-rimmed glasses.
His smile was the same as always, but behind the lenses, his eyes—narrowed slightly with the curve of his lips—gave off a subtle air of mischief, despite their gentle appearance.
Vodka, unimpressed by what he saw as a polished schemer, let out a derisive snort.
Gin, however, cracked a slight grin.
His eyes, smaller and sharper than most, glinted with a predatory menace.
"I've got a job for you," Gin said.
"What kind?"
Gin didn't elaborate.
Vodka slid an envelope across the counter.
Hayato took it.
As he settled casually at the bar, the bartender glanced over. "What'll you have?"
"Same as theirs," Hayato replied.
"Coming up."
The bartender began mixing in silence.
Hayato opened the envelope. At the top was a photo of a man, roughly in his thirties, wearing a black turtleneck under a light blue jacket, his features sharp and handsome.
Beneath it was a name and brief details.
Hirotake Kishio.
As Hayato committed the man's face and name to memory, Gin spoke again. "Tomorrow, 11 p.m., second alley west of Beika Aquarium. Kill him."
"Eleven sharp?" Hayato asked, his tone steady. "Can you guarantee he'll be there?"
"Of course," Vodka scoffed. "The guy won't suspect a thing. He'll think it's just another routine meet-up."
"So, a traitor to the Organization?" Hayato pressed.
"Just a rat sniffing around the Organization's edges, doing dirty work in the shadows," Gin said, his grin widening, his eyes flashing with malice. "If he were a real traitor, I'd handle him myself."
Impressive dedication.
Gin's reputation as the Organization's workhorse wasn't unearned—he was either eliminating undercover agents or on his way to do so. It seemed to be his favorite pastime.
Traitors and dead weight got no mercy from him.
The bar fell quiet, save for the faint clink of the bartender's tools.
"Gypsy. Enjoy," the bartender said, sliding a clear amber cocktail in front of Hayato.
Hayato took a sip and set it down.
The Gypsy, built on a vodka base with Benedictine and a dash of bitters, carried a faint sweetness and herbal note, but the sharp burn of alcohol dominated.
The bartender, unfazed, presented a second drink.
"Orange Blossom. Enjoy."
A reddish-orange cocktail served in a classic glass.
Hayato sampled it.
This gin-based drink was far more palatable. Though mixed with Cointreau, ensuring a potent kick, its core flavor came from fresh orange juice, lime, and grenadine, blending into a bright, fruity profile.
Vodka and Gin.
Each had ordered a cocktail matching their codename.
Curiously, gin and vodka were close cousins—both distilled to high proof, but gin was flavored with juniper, orange peel, or other botanicals and diluted, while vodka was simply watered down to strength.
No wonder Gin kept Vodka, the less-than-sharp sidekick, by his side.
Savoring the Orange Blossom slowly, Hayato tucked the target's details back into the envelope, pocketed it, and stood. "If there's nothing else, I'll be going."
Neither responded.
Hayato left the bar and stepped onto the street.
At 9:30 p.m., the city was still alive with noise and movement.
Passing a rough-looking pedestrian, Hayato hailed a taxi, slid inside, and gave his address. Then, from his pocket, he pulled out a pen and a scrap of paper.
A page torn from the Death Note.
When he'd arrived in this world, he hadn't expected to land on the Organization's payroll—a low-ranking member without even a codename.
Gin's workaholic persona might seem almost comical in the manga's later arcs, but Hayato knew he was dealing with a deeply dangerous man. He'd come prepared.
Since the Death Note could script causes of death, the plan was simple.
Murao Inoue
March 18, 9:00 p.m., lingers around Okuro Building in Beika City. Remains until witnessing a young man in a black coat and silver-rimmed glasses calmly hail a taxi and leave, then stays in place for 48 minutes before departing. Lives normally until April 10, 3:46 a.m., when he dies by hanging.
Inoue's cause and time of death were irrelevant.
What mattered was that he'd see a young man in glasses board a taxi without incident.
As the taxi rolled toward Beika Second Apartment, Hayato glanced instinctively at the rearview mirror, scanning the vehicles trailing behind.
***
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