When you’re offered a wish, unbound by reality, what is it you truly want? And how far will you go to obtain it?
Hood down even though it’s raining. Hair arranged. Look innocent as you close in. You’ve done this plenty of times before, but it’s always a bit nervewracking to approach someone on the street— still, a paycheck is a paycheck.
With his dyed hair and the rows of pins clinking together on his jacket, there’s no doubt this is the man you’ve been sent to find; you’re rarely granted full details on the situations you handled, but this guy owes someone money and that’s all you need to know.
You fall into step behind him easily. He looks a lot shadier than you, with the way he’s constantly glancing around furtively, examining the people around him, the reflections in windows he walks past— you meet his eyes in one of those reflections and flash a smile. He visibly stiffens, and when he resumes walking, he’s picked up the pace— almost like he’s trying to get away.
Well, it won’t work. You’re good at what you do.
You slowly pick up your pace too, not faltering in your casual stroll even when he begins jogging. Eventually he breaks into a full-tilt run, shoving past people who hiss and swear at him when he nearly sends one or two tumbling over in his rush.
The click of your shoes is muffled against the wet concrete of the sidewalk. His pounding footsteps act as a beacon; all you’ve gotta do is follow the desperate thump thump thump along the pavement.
He takes a sharp left into a narrow alley. You can’t stop your grin from getting sharper— that alley’s a dead-end. You’ve got him now.
When you pause in the entrance to the alley, he’s looking around frantically, pacing back and forth as if there’s gotta be a secret exit somewhere. Oh, there isn’t.
“Excuse me,” you purr as you encroach on him, like a cat cornering a panicked mouse, “but I need to speak with you.” You don’t quit walking until you’re right up in his personal space, nearly pressed against his chest as you stare up at him with wide, knowing eyes.
“You’ve got the wrong guy.” His voice is gruff as he tries to straighten himself out and pretend he isn’t scared. He moves to brush past you, but you’re quick— in a heartbeat you’ve got the tip of your favorite knife held to the soft spot just under his ribcage. He falters instantly. When he swallows, you can see every twitch in the muscles of his throat.
“No, I don’t think I do.”
With his eyes focused on your blade, he can’t react fast enough when you bring your other hand up, slamming your palm into his jaw and sending his head snapping backwards. He collapses with a heavy thud to the ground.
As he rolls over in the grime, soaked to the bone because you’d caught him in the rain, you plant your foot on his chest to prevent him from standing— not that he’d be able to walk away anyways. Nobody walks away from you.
“So? Y’got the money you owe yet?” Your prized switchblade deftly flips across your knuckles, both the pearlescent handle and the serrated blade glistening in the neon lights that filter into the dark space. “You’ve probably figured this out by now, but he’s not gonna give you another chance.”
You lean forward, shifting most of your weight onto his chest. The man beneath you wheezes.
“I’ve g— I’ve got it on me this time—” he manages to huff out despite your pressure. His hands scramble across the concrete and find their way through puddles and into the pockets of his ragged coat. Finally, after a moment of desperate fumbling, he pulls out a crumpled wad of cash and feebly holds it in the air.
You snatch it from him and flip through it quickly, not letting your weight up as you check to make sure it’s the right amount. When you’re satisfied, you back off, and the man scrambles to his feet. Relief flashes across his face for the briefest moment— clearly he thinks he’s gotten away.
“Just a moment.”
He freezes when you hiss at him, barely audible over the falling rain and passing traffic. Without warning, you haul off and backhand him across the face, taking a bit too much enjoyment out of the resounding smack that echoes across the brick walls, the way he stumbles backwards at the force.
That’ll definitely bruise.
You shove the wad of cash in your own pocket and grin at him. “He wanted ya roughed up— gotta make sure I’m doin’ my job, y’know?”
With that, you pull up the hood on your jacket and step out into the passing crowd as if you belong.
Hitomi lives up to his name. His hair is dyed a gaudy yellow, although you can see his dark roots, and the gray at his temples he’d been trying to hide; his voice is always a bit too smooth, and hangs unnaturally in the air whenever he speaks. The arrogant bastard had, at some point in the past, gone and gotten that name tattooed on his shoulder— the character for snake always stands out to you whenever you meet, and tonight is no different as he gestures for you to hurry up and fork over the cash. He snatches it out of your hand without a thanks and eagerly thumbs through it in the same way you’d done earlier.
With how often you’re sent out to fetch sums of money for him, you can’t help but wonder why his shitty excuse for a hideout never gets any upgrades; he’d apparently bought the warehouse in yet another shady deal, and in the hopes of keeping curious people out of his morally-questionable business, never bothered cleaning anything up. His newest pride and joy is a fully-functional VCR that he tells you he bought for just a few bucks— but you know him well enough to assume that he probably snatched it from an unattended yardsale.
He hums thoughtfully as he finishes counting the notes. His eyes briefly flicker over to you, and you tense up at that, because more than once he’s accused you of taking your cut before handing the funds over, and if he tries it again tonight you’ll—
“Ya need dinner?” Hitomi makes a vague gesture in the air, and one of his underpaid lackeys yanks open the beat-up refrigerator in the corner. It surprises you enough that you uncurl your fingers from where they’d latched onto the arms of the cheap chair he’d offered you. This is Hitomi, though, and you fix a scowl on your face, hauling yourself to your feet and glaring down at him.
“I don’t want your damned pig feed,” you huff. You shove one hand in your pocket, closing your fist around your beloved knife as you hold your other hand out to your occasional boss. “I want my money and I wanna leave.”
Hitomi holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Listen, just figured I’d offer.” With a shrug, he pulls out a few of the bills he’d counted and drops them on the table for you to grab. He lets out a hum, tapping his fingers along his scruffy jaw, watching you blankly for a moment. “I might have somethin’ big for ya soon, so stay in contact, yeah?”
You relax a bit at that, tilting your head and loosening your grip on your knife. “What, someone else ain’t paid ya? Y’coulda told me that tonight, I could’ve taken ‘em both at once—”
“It’s nothin’ like that,” he mutters, leaning back and sinking further into the raggedy old couch. He digs a cigarette from one pocket and a lighter from another, and it always takes one or two tries before he’s able to light his smoke properly. “Some mystery man askin’ around for fighters ‘n shit like that. Obviously you’re gonna be the first girl on my mind.” He grins at you, and it’s just as slimy as the rest of him. You can’t stop yourself from grimacing.
When you don’t acknowledge him, instead taking the time to shove your pay in your pocket and shrug your coat back on, Hitomi pouts. You don’t even glance his way as you turn to leave. “Only call me if you can afford me. I don’t want any part’a your weird schemes.”
The walk home is a long one, but that’s only because you’re extra careful after encounters with Hitomi and his empty-headed men. The rain hasn’t stopped, so you keep your head down as you traverse the city; a random left, and then a right, and haven’t you passed this arcade a few times already? You glance behind you— very few people out in the rain, and nobody else is walking in the same direction as you are right now. You’re probably fine.
Another few turns, just to be careful. Constantly monitoring the people around you. Finally you slow to a halt in front of your apartment building.
It’s the best you’ve been able to afford for a while now— buried within the inner city, made of worn concrete with the paint peeling, not even a good view from the balcony. Your footsteps echo softly as you climb the stairs, grateful that they’re at least mostly covered from the rain. It takes a moment of fumbling to find your keys, and then you’re stumbling through the front door and into your tiny excuse for a home.
The upstairs neighbors are blaring their music again. Despite that, you can still hear the steady drip, drip, drip of your distant kitchen faucet; the building doesn’t have maintenance, but you haven’t gotten around to fixing it yourself either. City lights filter easily through your thin curtains, dousing the living room in a mocking glow.
Sore and soggy, you kick your shoes off and let your coat drop to the floor, too tired to care about how rainwater puddles underneath yourself and your things. That can always be dealt with later. Instead you drape yourself over your cheap couch— an old piece that you’d gotten from Hitomi, actually— and let the exhaustion begin seeping out of your bones. It feels like you’re practically melting into the cushions right there.
You’re not entirely sure how long you’ve been living like this. It’s been a long time since your parents died. Especially at such a young age, your only chance had been to grab your knife and run. As you roll over, nuzzling deeper into the now-damp couch, you consider the fact that maybe you still haven’t stopped running.
Hundreds of miles away, a pane of glass falls from a museum skylight and shatters loudly across the polished tile floor. A redheaded man casually drops a long rope through the new hole, tugging to make sure he’d tied it tightly to one of the rooftop’s metal ornaments; when the rope doesn’t budge, he kicks the few remaining sharp shards of glass out of the skylight frame and rappels into the building.
He lands gracefully among the sparkling shattered glass. He pauses to listen briefly; there was normally an hour between the changing of the guards, where the entire building was completely deserted, but there was always a chance someone stayed overtime. When it doesn’t sound like anyone’s approaching, he untangles his hand from the rope and lets the tension drop from his shoulders. The moonbeams filtering in from above coat the room in an eerie light— sculptures of people and monsters loom out of the drifting gleam, and although he knows they’re made of stone, it feels like their eyes follow him as he strides forward. He shudders under their petrifying gaze and moves faster.
The boss has always been thorough; he’d personally and meticulously examined the museum’s layout and drafted up an accurate set of floor plans himself before passing the blueprints down the line. They’d ended up in Sayato’s hands, which is both a thrill and a problem; on past missions, he’d been able to keep his head down as part of a group and earn his paycheck without much trouble. But since he was running his first mission alone tonight, that meant the entire syndicate had their eyes on him— Tatsuya included.
Sayato shudders again, and this time it’s not because of the statues.
He pulls his work-issued phone from his pocket to check everything over again. The security cameras all had their feeds looped before he’d broken through the ceiling, the alarms had been disarmed and, according to the map, he was headed in the right direction. It was surprising how large and sprawling the museum had become over the past few years.
A turn to the left and he’s waltzing past the Egyptians, the air heavy with dust and memories so real that he almost hears footsteps. Cut through another doorway and he’s met with lightning strikes of viking history and Nordic mythology. He finally finds the obscured room he’s looking for, only to be startled by movement in his peripheral vision— but when he whirls mechanically on his heel, his hand resting on the knife strapped to his belt, Sayato is simply greeted with his reflection in an old, tarnished mirror. He sighs quietly in relief.
Now he’s standing in a jewelry exhibit, although it’s not dedicated to a specific culture or country. Sayato skims the information plates as he browses the room— it looks like each piece of jewelry here has been considered the basis for a legend. He can’t help but smile at that.
The cases lining the walls held bracelets and necklaces. In the towering pedestal in the center of the room was a crown, embedded with gems he can’t name and glistening even in the dark. Sayato scans the room again— that can’t be right. It’s not here.
Fumbling, he pulls his phone out again to triple-check; there, advertised by name on the museum’s homepage, the exact necklace he’d been sent to find. He can’t go back empty-handed—
“Looking for something?”
Sayato spins on instinct, already lashing out with his knife at the source of the voice. The blade only glances off something metal— a raised gauntlet, he realizes, worn by a very familiar girl.
Misei grins at him, her glasses shading her eyes from his view. In her free hand, the bejeweled necklace is dangling, catching faint moonbeams and casting them around the room like a spell of mist. “I didn’t think New Moon would be interested in what this one does,” she muses. She doesn’t seem the least bit winded, her gauntlet having absorbed and dispersed Sayato’s hit. He scoffs and steps back.
“And I didn’t think the Record Keepers did the whole ‘breaking-and-entering’ thing,” he says. Although he tries to keep his tone light, his eyes are openly locked to the necklace in Misei’s hand.
Another Cheshire-cat grin sprawls its way across her face. “We’re not— I just followed you through your little rabbithole.” She begins pacing backwards slowly, goading Sayato into following her in the same way waves return to the shore. “If our records are right, your group doesn’t have anything else from this set,” she tilts her head playfully, as if trying to recall something. “It’s storm zirconia, right?”
Sayato hesitates briefly before nodding. The Record Keepers live up to their name— lying to one of them would do no good. “You’re right, we don’t have anything from storm. We just want that one. So,” he flips his knife back open, the blade beginning to pulse with energy, extending his other hand as if waiting. “Hand it over, Misei. We both know how this will end.”
Misei is grinning so brightly now that her teeth gleam in the dark, faintly reminding Sayato of an ominous crescent moon. She brings the necklace up, thrusting it into the space between the two of them, daring him to take it. “I’d like to see how it works, first. So—”
Sayato lunges forward. Misei lurches backward.
“Diamond dust.”
A flash of light. A pulse of energy strong enough to blow them both back.
When the news crews arrive in the morning, they find only blood among the shattered exhibits.
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