The time is going to cost me precious seconds.
Lucky me—I spot the departure board over the heads of a rushing crowd. One line jumps out:
Platform 4 – Departure in 2 minutes. And headed in just the direction I need.
Perfect.
Until Twitchy steps right into my path, dragging out the oversized cannon he brought to this little party. Bold. Mostly stupid. But bold.
He doesn’t get a shot off because I slam the heel of my hand into the muzzle, smashing it back into his face. His nose breaks with a wet crunch. Before he can scream, I twist, grab his chin, and snap his neck. His body drops—and so does the ridiculous gun, clattering across the polished tile like a fallen anchor.
I’m already moving and within seconds, I slide into the ticket kiosk, jam the coin into the slot, and pound the button for Platform 4. The machine whirs, slow as molasses, counting down the longest five heartbeats of my life.
I scan the station entrance.
The old man arrives—sweating, winded, furious.
But no Alejandro.
Doesn’t matter.
He’s somewhere. I know he is.
The ticket drops and I snatch it, sprinting for the stairs.
Now I just look like any other commuter running late—except my pulse is a live wire and someone will absolutely die if they touch me right now.
I take the stairs two at a time.
Three when the gap’s small enough.
People complain as I shoulder past; I don’t look back for pleasantries.
The turnstile slows me again.
I mutter every curse I know while fighting with the ticket and the reader.
At last, the gate opens—right as a calm female voice announces in Japanese:
“Stand clear. The doors are closing.”
I am definitely not standing clear.
I push off the floor, hit a dead sprint, and launch myself forward. The train doors begin to slide shut?—
I slip inside a heartbeat before they seal.
Breath ragged.
Hands shaking.
Heart pounding.
The train glides forward, smoother than butter, barely a vibration beneath my boots. I stay near the front of the car for a beat, watching the right side for movement. Nothing suspicious catches my eye.
I start walking left, slow enough to blend, fast enough to keep my lead. My eyes never stop moving—every face, every hand, every shift in posture.
Doors slide open when I approach, then seal quietly behind me.
