I turn once, scanning the room—every corner, every shadow, every surface that might hold something I need—but there’s nothing, and I can’t afford to spend another second here.
I ease the door open and slip into the hallway.
Two doors down, an older man sits slouched in a chair like he’s guarding the wallpaper. Hat pulled low. Chin on his chest. Completely zonked the hell out. The bottle of wine in his hand is more air than liquid; the neck of it rests precariously on his thigh.
Not a threat. Just drunk and inconveniently present.
I scan the hall anyway, tracing the corners, the vents, the ceiling fixtures—every obvious nest an assassin would stake out if the roles were reversed. I’ve done it myself. Twice I’ve watched someone go rogue, watched the Guild hunt their own like wolves tearing at a stray. One of those times hit too close to home; the memory tries to claw upward, but I push it down before it takes shape.
The contract on me is open.
Guild members, independents, exiles.
Anyone with a pulse and a gun and withthisbounty, plus to notoriety of taking down the Guild’s top killer, ghosts from all corners of the globe will be turning up.
In three long strides, I’m at the stairwell. I shove the door open and slip inside, boots hitting concrete as I take the steps two at a time, the echo of my own descent chasing me. Elevators are a death trap. Stairwells at least give me corners, angles, options.
My breathing stays measured. Controlled. No panic—panic gets people killed faster than bullets.
The fake ID I used to check in should buy me time. I have several aliases; some I’ve never even deployed and won’t be in the Guild cache. They’ll know I’m in Japan because of last night’s hit, but that only narrows it to a few cities.
The morning rush is already rolling through the streets—commuters pouring into stations, bakeries opening, shops unlocking their doors.
Crowds are good cover.
Crowds are also collateral waiting to happen.
I don’t like the tradeoff, but I don’t have a choice.
I hit the ground floor, slip into the lobby without slowing, and blend into the morning foot traffic. The building’s glass doors slide open, and a wave of city noise slams into me—train horns, bicycle bells, chatter, the soft hum oflife moving normally while mine is seconds from detonation.
But it’s fine. I’ll move fast and keep my head down.
All I need is the bullet train. Once I’m on it, I can disappear for an hour or two.
But before I even think about Kenji’s place, there’s another stop I have to make. A necessary one. I’m under no illusion he can save me—interfering with a Guild bounty would be suicide for him too. He follows the old rules. Neutrality. Observation. Intervene in nothing unless the Guild commands it.
But his estate is neutral ground.
And he has resources—gear, weapons, tools—that I can restock with.
I can disappear properly once I’m off this island and find out who the fuck called a hit out on me. Because someone is certainly going to die over this.
It’s just not going to be me.
The train station is only a few blocks away—straight shot through morning foot traffic, down a vendor-lined street, across a plaza where businessmen cluster around convenience-store coffee. Easy enough under normal circumstances.
Not today.
I’m half a block from the station entrance when I see a familiar face.
Old guard.
One of the long-timers who’s been killing professionally since before I learned to tie my shoes. He’s leaning against a newspaper stand pretending to read a paper.
My pulse doesn’t jump.
My stride doesn’t change.
