(AN), No new chapters for TSTRBTM unfortunately, since I’m busy with work. But recently I’ve been missing him so, decided to make a short fluffy series with Princess and Kido but in the Modern AU🥹. Yuki is 21, from a rich family—all prim and proper, studying at a prestigious university and Kido is (basically) an overworked salaryman who’s also her boyfriend. Go get your husband, I guess.
YOUR CLASS finished early today. Any other day would have been strange but Friday’s classes were usually over four hours long and the professor had other urgent matters to deal with. For instance, bailing out her nineteen year old son who was currently in jail cell. Flying your bike several feet into the air for some dumb joke he was forced to do, is apparently illegal.
That was how you found yourself dawdling in the hallway of Kido’s company, hands primly folded with a tote bag over your shoulder. You were still in your university clothes: beige sweater over a colored shirtt paired with a similar matching skirt. The company was Kagawa.inc—a corporation spanning across Japan in varying sizes. Something something about logistics, and whatever the other things were. Details weren’t important. Not as crucial as the fact that it was his workplace there you came to, where you often lounged after your late shift at the kindergarten.
You took out your phone and pulled up messages. 'Here'. You sent then promptly pocketed it back. He'll know what it means.
Then, not a minute later, he emerged from the glass doors, in deep discussion with an older woman, but not much older than him. She was beautiful. And he was smiling. Not excessively so, but with a mere gentle curve of his lips. At her. Kido rarely smiled. If he did, you were usually the wellspring of such smiles. His mother or sister might be graced with several. But a colleague was rarely the case.
This case, perhaps, was different.
Kido caught your eyes from across the hallway and nodded, gesturing for the woman to approach you. Your eyebrows raised. Just slightly. You crossed your arms. Now, what was he intending to do? When they neared her expression grew even more adoring, like the flares of an expanding sun, warming your skin. You blinked. What was she...?
"Oh my gosh!" She cooed, smiling earnestly sash grabbed your hand. "You're his-!"
"Neice." He said before you could say a word, "My niece. She's my niece. Distant not blood related neice." He added.
You stilled. His what?
Gina looked even more enthralled, "Are you?" Her tone was giddy, as if she discovered something innovative about the galactic sphere and not familial relations. "Oh my gosh I never knew you had a niece this adorable!" She turned to you, " Sweetheart, how old are you? Did you finish school yet? I simply must know. You see, everyone here knows up to nothing about this man."
You slowly turned towards him, eyes ablaze. He didn't spare a look. Instead, he fixed his gaze onto the shiny nubs of his oxfords. The linoleum floors were murky.They needed cleaning. Indeed, they were. Perhaps he could help. And you would allow it. If it meant using his head as a mop.
"Twenty one," You said and Gina did not catch the slight cool undertones from your words. She didn't have to. It wasn't her fault. Anyone who is your family, including an overworked salaryman current staring at his toes from chagrin, would know how to catch it. Gina is simply another hare. You were one, too. Kido was the fruit. And you're going to maul him, " and I'm currently in university," You continued, " I'm interested in Early Childhood education at the moment."
"Is that so?" She said, "My mother is a teacher as well. Absolutely adores that work. Talks about it twenty four seven, I'll tell you. Maybe I can introduce you to her sometimes?"
You felt your chest warm a bit, "Really? I wouldn't want to impose."
"Oh, I don't mind," She patted your shoulder, "She's been raving about how young people are repulsed by pedagogical work. With you, here, that's not always the case."
"It has it's moments," You agreed. "Kids are not so easy to deal with."
"Take it from me, I've got five younger siblings. And! At a farm! Can you imagine how hellish that is?"
"I've got an older brother myself."
"See? You get it!" She chuckled, "And, god, and forgive me for being so forward but the genes in your family is simply divine. Your uncle, though, he needs a little fixing. Not that he's not soothing to look at. You know the," She gestured to her face, "Frowning, needs work."
"I agree." You said, "He needs a wife to smoothen those lines."
"Absolutely," She nodded earnestly, "Everyone here keeps trying to set him up on blind dates.
This was the second time you stilled. Kido, who was stiffly standing behind the women, stiffened even more.
"Is that so?" You said slowly.
Gina, god bless her, grinned, "Yes! We had so many contenders."
"Contenders." You echoed.
Kido closed his eyes.
"One was a lovely red head," She counted one hand, finger up, "works in marketing. Bold, tough attitude. Another was sweet Mary from sales. He was absolutely terrible to her, though, reason why we locked him up in the pantry." She laughed at the memory, "We threatened to lock him there forever if he continued that attitude."
"Nothing changed, I'm guessing." You said mildly.
"It's not like we can transfer his office there," She sighed, "So we make do."
"I see." You said, thinking for a moment. "How did he decline those women?"
Kido opened his mouth but Gina beat him to it, "Busy. You know. The 'sorry, I can't commit since the only thing I'm committed is with my work’ sort of busy."
"Ah..." You nodded, sparing him a glance. His expression was morphed in a way you could not tell if he was about to pounce to the nearest balcony, or he was simply about to get on his knees and pray. "Ah, is that what he said? Not that he was committed to someone else?"
"Not of anyone I could think of," She said thoughtfully, "Why, is there someone?"
“Gina—”
"No," You said primly, "There is no-one."
Kido cleared his throat but Gina cut him off again.
“Oh! Leave a girl be." Gina playfully pushed him away, and he surprisingly went along with he force of her shove. "Enough about that old man's love life."
He was internally in flames.
"Old?" He hoarsed.
"I want to know about yours," Gina's cheeks went pink and she playfully whispered, though Kido could hear it, "Boyfriend?"
"She doesn't-"
"I do have one," You said with a smile, "I have a boyfriend. He's, ah, an athlete at my university. Young. Handsome. Outgoing. He takes me to dinner everynight. Brings me home after, too. Unlike most boyfriend, he's not cold, not frugal with his money and definitely does not lie about things he shouldn't be..." You turned to him, " lying about."
Kido closed his eyes again. He was in a relationship with a woman twenty years his junior, if he had not lied Gina would have never looked at him in the same way again. Even that is a mistake you considered life-threatening.
"Even the small little white lies, you know," She sighed, "But I'm glad you found someone and-"
Kido stepped in. He rarely does whenever there's a conversation, however, this one is different. His life depended on it. He placed a hand on your wrist, squeezing it slightly, "I think that's enough for today," He said lowly. "Yuki has class tommorow."
"I don't."
"She does." He said firmly, "And, Gina I think the boss wants to meet you for your weekly reports."
For a man who decieves so terribly you wondered how Gina believed it. She gasped, clapping her hands, "Absolutely. Forgive me, I'll get going right now," She checked her watch and made a sound," Gosh! I'm running late. Lovely to meet you both!"
She hugged you and waved to Kido goodbye, her heels pattering away as she jogged downstairs. Eventually, when you were both alone he turned to you, jaw tight. "Boyfriend." He said flatly, "Which class is that fool residing in. I would like to meet him."
"You can't."
"And why can't I?" He said coldly, "Does he not exist?"
"Oh, he does. It's just that. I'm your niece and you can't tell me what to do."
"That was a coverup I cannot have you going around telling everyone that you're meddling with a middle aged man," He said lowly, "Your reputation will be affected. What will your parents think?"
"That I'm giving an older man my weekly pocket money.”
“Yuki.” He strained, “Enough.”
"Alright fine," You said, a prim proper smile on your lips, "I will go to class tommorow even if I don't have an, and I will also meet my non-existent boyfriend who is an athlete and is in within the same financial regard as me. So. Won't you bring me home first, uncle?"
He closed his eyes, praying for patience, “Get in the car and we’ll talk about this.”
Before he could reply, you went onto the soles of your Mary Janes and pressed a quick light kiss, barely even noticeable against his mouth, to his lips.
“Of course, uncle. Meet you there.” You gave him one more smile, even more mischievous than the last, and walked down the hall.
You were going to kill him. He did not mind about that fact as much as he thought he would.
SUMMARY, “A princess with fire in her heart, and an inspector with none. Paths are crossed—guns, glory and sad endings.”
CONTENT WARNINGS, Slow Burn, Age Difference, Enemies to Lovers, Redemption, Older Man/Younger Woman, Canon Divergent, Mr sunshine inspired, Kido is Kido (menacing asshole) Mild Gore, Mentions of Death, descriptions of death, Kido-centric, Love Triangles
CONSCIOUSNESS CAME to you in slow ripples of a wooden ceiling. You gasped, adrenaline pounding in your ears, and sat upright so quickly your neck felt like it would have flown off. The mattress sunk below your elbows as you did. You did not even feel the duvet pooling around your waist, so engrossed in the blur of memories slurring back so quickly. The room spun for a little while, hazy at the edges that almost swept you off your feet despite being on the bed.
“Throw a bag over your shoulder,” Kotomichi would say, “And stick with it.”
So, you did.
Breathe. Assess. Ground. Beside the bed was a cloudy glass window, providing you with the perpetual view of brick walls. Red, crumbling, cracked. Poor bastard, whoever lived here. You wouldn’t know—you lived in a place elsewhere, with arched windows rimmed with gold, that oversaw lush opulent gardens.
You lived better.
Looking outside, you can tell it was morning; the sky was bright. Bleak in a way early mornings were. You gathered your breath, inhaling as much air as you can to calm the tides. Your face was bare. Scarf, gone. You felt up your body—you were in just a dresshirt and trousers. Feet bare and cold. Whoever found you last night must’ve stripped the garments off.
And, whoever it was—
You’ll be sure to do a little talking, with them.
You swung your legs off the bed, standing on your toes. The floorboard was cold. There was no heating in the room, you could tell. You winced as a spasm of pain shot up from your ankle—your ribs, muscles and just another every nerve in your body to boot. Groaning, cradling your sides, as if it would make things any better—you looked around the room.
It was small, woodenly furnished. Barely any space for walking with how much boxes littered the place. Dusts motes floated around the air. They sparkled like little stars touched by sunlight and collected on the surfaces of cabinets in a thin fine sheen. On corners of the ceiling, cobwebs clumped like little puffs of cotton.
It was old, dilapidated, and worn—splintered surfaces and grooved floorboards—but it was used. Lived in. Well-accommodated.
A table stood in the middle, stacked with boxes, unused cups crusted with—coffee? You assume? And the new editions of the Reich Magazines were sprawled all over the surface. An avid reader, whoever this person is. There were several publications, the latest to the earliest ones. Men in stark military clothing posed on the covers, statuesque. ‘The right feel to your body, is the right way to live the Reich’.
You tossed the book to the other end of the table, scoffing.
To your right was a closet. Left open, perhaps in a hurry, with how the doors were yanked apart—providing view of the clothes inside, stuffed to the brim. Mostly black coats, beige jackets and caps. A kitchen counter was adjacent on the other end, tacked with unwashed dishes.
On a cabinet, you caught sight of a framed picture. Slowly, minding your ankle, you shuffled close. You held it up to the light, the glass glinting. It was an old portrait. Black and white. Taken at a farm. Two men stood in the middle in a half hug, a tractor behind. One was old and bearded, laughing at the camera. He wore a flannel with trousers, face smudged with dirt, but it appeared much to dark for it to be so. Coal, your mind supplied. Must be. The other man on his side appeared younger, in worn overalls, giving a thumbs up with his free hand.
Your fingers brushed against the smooth back of the frame behind, and you turned it over. On the back of the picture, something was written. A sentence in black cursive ink. It took you a moment to comprehend it.
“Use your hands well, Li. Love, pa.”
Your line of thought was cut off by a distant door closing. You flinched, heart pounding in your ears. Slowly, you set the picture down, stance crouched low, creeping towards the door on your toes. Footsteps approached, you heard the low tones of a man grumbling to himself. As the knob turned—
“Bloody milkman, giving me spoiled ones—”
You launched for a tackle, arms wrapping around his neck and squeezing it into a headlock. The man, caught off guard, grunted in surprise as you pummeled to the ground with him on top. His back against your chest. The paper bag in his arms fell, sliding across the floor and bumping the hinds of the table. Apples rolled out. You heard the clink of glass bottles.
“Oh,” He choked out, blinking to the ceiling, “Oh, jesus you’re awake.”
You were on your back, legs around him, heels digging into his shins to keep him down.
“Anta wa dare da?” You hissed, “Identify yourself.”
Blindly, in the heat of the moment, you were sure for a second there you could restrain him. He had been caught off guard, a perfect element to leverage. Then again, he was a larger man, and you were simply a young woman, foolish.
“Could ask you the same thing, sweetheart.”
His hands fisted your sleeves and he slammed his boots onto the floor. It took you a moment to realize what he was doing. He lifted himself forward, and with the weight of his knees bearing against the ground, threw you over his shoulder.
You soared over the table, landing onto your sides, rolling across the wooden floor. The pain in your ankle barreled back with vengeance, and you gritted your teeth from crying out in pain. Regardless, you made a noise from the impact.
From the ground, the glass mug idling on the table caught your eye. The visuals ran through. A quick snatch and a throw—you’d land it on his head for a slim knockout if you were careful enough. You rose, ready for another onslaught.
“Ah, ah,” When the click of a revolver stopped you mid-rise.
You froze, eyes on the floorboard. The sound of your own breath panted in your ears. Your knees ached from maintaining the hunched posture.
“Let me see those hands,”He gestured with the revolver, “Come on, let me see ‘em.”
You refused. You refused to be led around by this—this man as if he had any business laying lordship over your person. If he were at the palace his hands would’ve been cleaved for the mere crime of touching you.
“Hands, darling,” He pressed firmly, “Don’t make this difficult for us, yeah? Let me see your hands, and when that’s done, you get your arse over there and we’ll talk this through.”
“How can I trust you not to shoot me?”
He took in a deep breath and let it out as though he’s been through this plenty times, “You’ve got a sprained ankle, broken ribs, and a twisted wrist. But you’re still standing aren’t ye’. Two legs intact. Arms moving perfectly. Not dead if that’s what you’re worried about,” He went on, “If I could, I would have. But I didn’t. That’s trust enough for you yet?”
“Not enough.” You hissed.
“Is that how it is, now. You?” He shook the gun at you before pointing to his chest, “Trusting me? Darling, I found you on the ground with a rifle strapped to your shoulder, and not any rifle too—a type ninety nine, limited to the Japanese military.”
“My—”
“Your girl’s somewhere safe,” He cut in, “and I’ll decide what to do with it after we talk. It’s not the sort of gun you’d see idly hanging around in the NZ either, scarce as an American dollar in the black market. So believe me when I say I know how this sounds.”
“You don’t understand what you’re getting into.”
“Then explain.” He raised the revolver , “Because I’ve got all morning. Or, if that’s a bit difficult, I’ll find other ways to get you to. Ways you wouldn’t like. But that’ll be a stretch, ‘cause I’m a patient man. The ones you should be worrying are them.”
“Them?”
“My community,” He simply said, “And my community, well, they’re a piece of work, currently muddled at the moment since a non-res got the job done. And that usually mean’s the job’s a nought.”
Your throat worked for a moment. You’ve heard of them. This community. Underground rebels defying the empire with the cost of their lives on the line. Your brother had called them reckless—said they were indoctrinated by the masses with hate and lies to compromise their repose. And you’ve seen it for yourself.
You remembered sitting behind your brother. The flocks of bird that dispersed at the sound of gunshots. And in front, at the corner of your peripheral, you watched as the Crowned Prince stumbled to the ground, the many ministers themselves, shocked and mortified, reaching towards him with their arms outstretched.You had stood there, eyes wide as you were yanked backwards towards the exist.
Often times, you wondered if you were any different from them.
“So?” He prodded, “What will it be? Judge now or be judged later?”
If your legs weren’t so sore—if you weren’t so exhausted you might have ducked, bolted through the window and left. But you were, on all two accounts. One move and you’re good as dead with a bullet through your heart, and a letter of condolence sent to your father.
Slowly, you raised your hands, “I will take your word for it.”
“Take it well.”
With a begrudging expression, you shuffled towards the table, eyes locked on his.
“There you go. Wasn’t so hard was it?” He gestured to the table, “Nice and easy. No bullets wasted. No need to alert the Kempeitai for nothing. Oh, mind your step—there’s a lose floorboard.”
The chair was weathered. Grooves in the seat, smeared with moss. You hesitated, imagining it would rub off on your trousers. The fabric used were beyond a commoners mean. To sit on that thing and—
“Is there a more appropriate chair I can use?” You said.
“Basement has it.”
Your eyes twitched.
“Alright,” You settled down on the chair, crossing one leg over the other, ignoring the sudden wave of revulsion at the sensation. You gathered yourself for a moment before sitting up straight and raised your chin up, “Let us talk.”
He smiled, “Good. But first—breakfast. Hope you like mushed up apples because that’s what you’ll get for today. With a dust of dirt on top. And when your belly’s full then you’ll need to tell me what’s a woman like you doing here.”
“A woman like me.” You said lowly, bristling at his insolent tone.
He was undeterred, simply reaching into his pocket in response and pulled something out.“Yeah,” He tossed it onto the table, “A woman like you.”
The object clattered onto the surface and slid towards you, stopping short several inches before the edge. It was a pendant. A royal pendant, with a simple function of denoting one’s status, carved from jadeite. It glowed a luminous green under the flare of the sunlight.
“Rare thing, that is.” He pointed out, “Counting the emperor himself, it marks only several, if not limited to a few, people in this country able to have such a thing.”
You kept quiet, staring at the insignia, fingers slowly curling into a fist.
“Now, I ain’t no pon-noser but I’m sure ,” He went on, a slight grin spreading across his lips, “the Imperial Crest engraved at the top could tell me a thing or two about what it is.”
.
THE MOTORCAR pulled up by the curb of the brothel. The driver pulled the brakes, parked the vehicle, and simply drummed his hands on the wheels, idle. He did not say a word as Kido laid his head against the seat for a moment, gathering his thoughts. They were racing in a way he could not keep up.
Those eyes. They came to him again. The ones that burned bright under the shine of the moon. He imagined being closer. Imagined standing on the rooftop inches before the gunner, his coat billowing against the wind. Imagined fisting the scarf that covered the lower half of their face. If he tore it off, he wondered, whose face would lay in place?
He thought of none.
None came.
Earlier, Kido had reconvened with the other officers at the Nippon building. He considered it a waste of time; he could’ve begin the investigation right away when evidences are still fresh. Unfortunately, it was simply protocol to follow the process as such— a prompt debrief with General Onoda before the interrogations would begin. Given he was the main witness to the assassination as well, he was top priority to relay the events of what escalated.
“You should rest, Kido Tai’i,” Onoda had said after he was informed, “Let your subordinates handle the investigation.”
It was several hours after the shooting. When Kido had gotten his bearings, and not stood by the window, shell-shocked and furious at himself for being so careless. He hadn’t realized Strohell’s blood was still on his dresshirt and was told to change.
“I appreciate your concern, kakka,” He replied and bowed sharply, “but I find that I cannot rest when the perpetrator is still on the loose. The death of a German National is at my hands, a mistake mine entirely, and one that I will rectify.”
“Do what you will,” Onoda turned to look at the window, “But the Nazis will come and they will attend to the dog your killer put down.”
There was no doubt they would. The Reich prided themselves greatly in being an unstoppable superpower. That meant any iota of Faux Pas is to be handled with grave consideration—even such a minor killing of an official with no use whatsoever to the Reich.
“Who will receive us?” Kido asked.
“They will try to put the blame on us, and they will try to twist our words for the opportunity of using every reason to compromise the treaty.” He was quiet for a moment, tapping his fingers on the leather chair, “Obergruppenführer Smith.”
Kido opened his eyes, staring at the grains of the leather seat ahead. Then let him come, he thought, and let the man speculate. I do not have time to spare, postulating with the likes of a German like him when the reputation of the empire is at stake.
If it was resistance, they could be easily incriminated with a few slips of a hand. A Japanese national—the same could be done. A German, however. That is their consequence to decide.
For now, the investigation must begin.
Kido opened the door and stepped out of the motorcar, slipping on his gloves with sharp flicks of his wrist. Sargent Yoshida was already waiting by the pavement, hands studiously behind his back. He stood there for some time when Kido was recuperating.
“Sir,” He bowed.
“The ballistics of the bullet in Strohell,” He began without preamble, “Are forensics done?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“Expedite the process,” He clipped, “I expect the documents to be on my desk by the time I return. And the ballistics in Taikoshi—I expect that too.”
He had an inkling they were from the same sniper.
“Of course sir, I will send a message.”
He grunted, walking towards the building, “What do we have?”
“The brothel, sir.” He said, “A witness stepped forward. Yovana Reiss. She said she was approached by the shooter himself.”
He raised his eyebrows, “And where is this witness now?”
“Upstairs.”
When the gloves settled over his fingers, he flexed his hands, and strode towards the entrance. “Let’s pay Miss Reiss a visit.”
.
HE WENT up the stairs. The brothel had seen better days, dilapidated with worn wooden framework. The Madam of the establishment was already driven to HQ for questioning. Dust permeated the smothering air, suffused with the musky stench of flesh sliding on flesh. Kido with distaste wrung out a napkin from his breast pocket and pressed it against his nose.
Soldiers flood in from behind, marching across the threshold. As he passed the rooms, heading for the upper levels, women of all ages, young and old stood against the walls beside the doorways. They were dressed, rumpled and disheveled, in their nightwear. Some half naked, roused from the middle of their endeavor and the clients were ushered elsewhere to a separate room for questioning. Mostly of military officials biding their time—who were let off without a word, men with nothing to do, and salary men with broken marriages.
Boots thumped across the floorboards, sharp yells bounced from soldiers room to room as they barged inside. They peeled off carpets and heaved mattresses aside, turning over drawers and shook off the contents through windows where there were hills of paper, objects and clothes piling at the facade of the establishment. Those below sunk their hands in these mounds, examining each item with scrutiny to search for hidden latches or incriminating pamphlets
“Searching for the murder weapon,” Yoshida supplied.
“If it is even here.” Kido muttered.
Regardless, it was customary procedure to search the establishment from top to bottom. To uncover contraband and to use those same uncovering as leverage against them.
They reached the fifth floor after several more flights of stairs, where he was led to a room with ‘28’ engraved in the brass tag. He opened the door. Few Kempeitai officers roamed around the room, cameras in hands. Flashes went off, followed by the slow chutter of the pictures developing. An officer crouched by the window, a good few inches away, careful not to intrude within the region of the glass shards.
Kido took off his fedora and held it against his chest. In the middle of the room, a woman sat on a chair besides the table. She was undoubtedly beautiful, the way women from brothels were—pale-faced with ruddy tear stained cheeks. Her hair was a red mane that draped in thick locks over her shoulders. A doctor was attending her, rubbing ointment on her neck. A purple bruise bloomed across her collar bone.
“Leave us.” Kido said.
Yoshida bowed and clipped out, “Iku zo!”
The other men followed suit, quickly gathering their things before leaving through the door. When they were gone and the door closed with a click, they were the only ones in the sparse room. Reiss had never felt the distance so wide from where she sat.
“Yovanna Reiss, Chief Inspctor.” She quickly stood up and bowed.
“Sit down Miss Reiss before you faint.” His tone was polite, though, not kind.
“Of course,” She nodded, her eyes remained on the floor, flickering here and there.
Once seated, she wrung her hands, kneading her thumb. Kido looked around the room for a moment. It was nothing significant. Small and functional, serving its purpose as a transactional room. He pulled out a chair from the table and settled. Leaning back, he slowly crossed his legs, regarding her with his eyes for a moment, assessing.
“Where do you come from, Miss Reiss?” He asked.
She blinked, thrown off kilter by the question. “Belgium, sir.” She managed.
“Oh, Belgium,” He said airily, “That’s a long way from home, Miss Reiss. Quite the distance it is.”
“It is, sir.” She nodded slowly, “The war displaced my family and I was forced on a boat that sent me elsewhere—and I found myself here.”
“You understand,” He began, “as you are a long way from home, the laws there, however they may be reigned under the Japanese State or the Reich, they do not apply correspondingly to the laws inhabited by San Francisco, yes?”
She nodded again cautiously, her fingers tightening around each other, “Yes, sir.”
“Good,” He smiled, a tight one and gestured ahead, “You came forward with substantive testimony and I would like to hear it now. Without other versions and details unnecessarily added. If you have given me a false testimony,” His eyes were cold as he regarded her, “I would know.”
She nodded, swallowing, “Of course.”
“Begin.”
“It was, um,” She sniffled, “Uh, eight o’clock last night that I uh. I met a man last night. He was at the telephone booth and didn’t have any change for the call. So I slipped in and gave him mine. And we talked. Then—then I brought him to my room and we fought—”
“About?”
“Nothing important,” She replied.
“Nothing is ever not important, Miss Reiss.”
“It was just back and forth, something I’m used to. I was just flirting and he was answering me with vague responses I didn’t think much of, at first.”
“What sort of responses?”
“That he didn’t seem to have a wife and he looked like a cop,” She rubbed her neck, “And that was when he took me out. I…couldn’t see anything after.”
“Were you able to observe his features?” He leaned in, “What he looked like?”
Her eyes flickered over the floorboards, trying to remember the details, “Not much. But he was a little shorter than me. A— a little broad, too? I couldn’t tell because he had this thick coat on. A thick black coat. Expensive, I think. I couldn’t catch the tags. And—and it was a joke but I said he might be the type of man who took his mother’s features.”
Kido tilted his head, “Why do you say so?”
“I only saw his eyes,” She explained, squinting, “but—but they were young. They look young at least. No wrinkles on the corners or the cheeks. And I’ve seen those kinds of eyes, if you know what I mean. Almost like the eyes of someone who wore their mother’s face.”
Young. Male. Early twenties, Kido’s mind supplied. Does it burn? He wanted to ask. Do those eyes burn?
“Miss Reiss,” He began, his tone low, “you were in close proximity to a man last night and you mean tell me you cannot comprehend properly any inch of his features?”
Yovona’s heart pounded in her chest.
“I thought he was shy at first,” She said desperately and shuffled to the edge of her seat so she could be closer, “A man unused to these sights and I believed it too. Because we have many peculiar clients, from generals who wore wigs, men who cross dress to hide their identity and others who killed their wives—all just for a warm body at this establishment. I’ve seen things, sir. I’ve seen worse and this—this is the least peculiar way I’ve seen someone hid their identity.”
The closest a witness has been to the perpetrators. And yet—
“Mattaku…” He palmed his face. “And his voice? If I were to play a tape of several men speaking now, would you recognize it?”
“No,” She stammered, “I couldn’t hear it all. He—he mumbled a lot, sir. Wore a scarf that covered his mouth. I thought he had some sort of disability he might have been embarrassed about.”
“Then try your best to listen. Yoshida!” He called out.
“Sir,” The door opened.
The Sargeant came in with five tapes in one arm and a cassette player on the other. Reiss watched apprehensively as he laid it on the table and slotted one tape inside. With a few flicks of a button, it started turning. Then it played. The first one was of a Japanese man. He spoke quickly, his voice low and clipped. Reiss listened for a minute more before shaking her head. Yoshida took out the tape and popped in another one. This time, a German. Too high, too smarmy. She shook her head.
When all of the tapes were eventually played, she leaned back, quiet.
“All I remember is that his voice,” She spoke up, “it was gentle. Almost—almost like a breeze.”
“I thought as much.” He palmed his face, then stood up, “Clean up the space Sargeant. We’ll be taking our leave. And Miss Reiss?”
“Yes?” She perked up.
“If this—this man approaches you again,” He wakes towards her chair, towering above her, “I hope it is within your most wisest sensibilities that you approach me. Do you understand?”
She nodded, her voice shaky, “Yes, yes sir. I will.”
His cold eyes regarded her for a moment before he whirled around to leave.
SUMMARY, “A princess with fire in her heart, and an inspector with none. Paths are crossed—guns, glory and sad endings.”
CONTENT WARNINGS, Slow Burn, Age Difference, Enemies to Lovers, Redemption, Older Man/Younger Woman, Canon Divergent, Mr sunshine inspired, Kido is Kido (menacing asshole) Mild Gore, Mentions of Death, descriptions of death, Kido-centric, Love Triangles
WHEN YOUR father took you to Kotomichi, you were fifteen. You had been wearing a white dress. Prim, proper. Peonies across the hem of your dress.
The days before he did so—that particular memory, however, was bleary, vague with low tones and constrained postures over breakfast. It escalated into something more—porcelain cups shattering against the floor. Tea soaked the rug thread by thread, a stain across the embroidered roses. The fractured pieces laid the distance between the soles of your flats and his oxfords.
It had never been so wide. You ate so close with him before it happened. Now, he was so far and your father had never seen you more convulsive.
Was it any less surprising that you were? Since those days—since three days after the funeral of your brother and several months after the passing of your mother—dormancy was not a reasonable facade to maintain.
Chemistry matters in all regards. Where there is action, there consequence. And where there is consequence, there is change. You changed. And so did your father even if he never acknowledged it. He called you insensible when the minister was not sensible himself. A miser of misery were he, locked up beyond day’s end within the confines of the shrine room. Incense coiled the air, dusting the room a white sheen. He’d knelt before the butsudan, hands clasped on his thighs.
He was unable to console you.
So, he took you to the only one person that could.
And this person was fond of outdoor leisure. Something not in regards of what you would consider ‘fond’. But your father said he would help. Would help your mind. Organize those prattling thoughts into nest clothes folded in a little drawer.
“I dont fold my clothes, father.” You had said.
He smiled, just quite, “Try.”
Outside, the sky was bleak, typical of a winter’s morning. And typical of a winter’s morning it was dreadfully cold. So much that your stomach shook to fight off the prickle. It was several miles from the Tagomi Estate, near the frozen river at a snow-laden field. They belonged to the lords of these land before, and since the invasion, those lords became peasants and the land was handed over to Japanese lords like your father.
From a devil to another.
You stood within a small clearing where the switchgrasses were meters tall and its top dusted with puffs of white. Kotomichi, in his thick coat, fur cap and gloves, stood behind you. The sleeves of his arms were pulled over his knuckles, covering the embroiled burns-like scars on his wrists, a gest—despite your curiosity—you did not think to ask about by way of respect.
You were donned in winter wear yourself, crouched behind a reasonably sized boulder. A rifle, too big for your arms, had its muzzle perched on the surface. The butt dug into your shoulder and the scope was inches away from your right eye.
“The rifle reflects the mentality of its user,” He said calmly, “If you are careful, Denka, then you will be too.”
“Not quite sure about that, I’m afraid,” You muttered, breath fogging up the lens.
Several meters from your position stood a large oak tree, its foliage dusted with white and its gnarled roots curled out from below like horns from the skull of a girgentana. Thick and carved. A green glass bottle hung from one branch, the nozzle furled tightly round with rope. When a breeze would pass, the bottle swayed out of sight from the lens and the muscles on your jaw jumped from clenching your teeth so tight.
Stay still, damn it.
After all, you’ve been sitting there for a while now, suppressing the itch to move. Thirty minutes became fifty, and fifty became more. Your fingers, under the mittens, were wet from clutching the trigger for so long. You could barely felt the tip. Your thighs stirred, toes clenching in compensation from inertia.
“Do not slouch, denka,” Kotomichi spoke up again, “or the repercussions from the momentum will be severe.”
“I am trying,” You gritted out, “But I can’t when the conditions are never right.”
Your task was simple. Pull the trigger. Shatter the bottle. But when you do—when your index were always midway from pressing down the trigger—the wind was wrong; a bird would chitter, shattering your focus; your hand slacked last minute and in silence, the thoughts in your head were distinguishable—they were louder, yanking to the fore of your mind.
“It will come in time,” He said, “But within those slighest alignment of the elements, understand you will have to act quickly, or else it will slip away. A chance. A Kairos, as the Greeks would say.”
“And this will help me excel my exams as you’ve said would. Get better grades,” You said sardonically, adjusting your hold on the rifle, your eyes following the gentle sway of the bottle through the lens.
“It is a meditation of sorts, yes. To get your mind to focus.”
You scoffed, “Wasteful contemplation.”
When the bottle stilled, you pulled the trigger. Click. Gunshot rang, echoing across the snow-barren field. Birds flew, crowing, wings flapping across the air. The rifle’s recoil bumped against your shoulder and you grit your teeth in pain. It had been sore since this morning and the day before, and the day before that—a result from countless practice like these. Smoke curled from the muzzle and when it cleared, you pulled away to look. The bottle stood hanging in perfect condition. You had struck the branch instead.
“Uzai,” You hissed and threw the rifle away, “To hell with Kairos, the Greeks know nothing of convenience!”
The rifle skidded across the snow, clattering against another boulder. You sat there, panting, quelling tides of your anger while Kotomichi calmly walked towards the fallen weapon.
“Nothing is ever of convenience, Denka,” He picked up the rifle, turned it over in his hands,” You have merely miscalculated the conditions, that is all. A simple rectification of those blunders and,” He held the rifle out to you, “if you have the will, your mind will succeed above it all.”
“I have tried enough Kotomichi,” You cried, “until my nose is numb and my fingers are bleeding. I have been making the same mistakes over. Nothing has changed. Nothing…” You curled your hand into a fist, “Nothing changes in this damned forsaken place.”
Your eyes burned, and your throat swelled. You fought the sensation of possibly spooling tears down your cheeks in front of your father’s secretary. But you find you could not care about propriety at this moment.
“Everything,” Your voice trembled, “Everything is the same.”
“Seasons change, Denka,” He said gently,” “Nothing remains the same. Even winter.”
“I don’t need your consolation,” You sniffed, your voice trembling as you wiped your face and undignified snot with the back of your hands. “Shooting bottles isn’t going to get me to stop thinking. You know that it will not.”
“No,” He said quietly, “It doesn’t.”
“Then stop trying,” You pulled your knees to your chest, “I will never be able to change.”
He looked down at the young girl on the snow, a wounded animal curling into itself. You had never looked smaller. Vulnerable. A child, mourning. You still remembered speeches by hand, scribbling with your colored crayons. He set the rifle on the boulder and settled on the space beside you. You did not move, did not speak and neither did he.
For a moment he watched, listening to the sounds of your suppressed shudders. Your hiccups mingling with the gentle woosh of the winter breeze. His eyes traced the horizon. The mountains ahead emerged from the clouds in faded grey and the Conifer trees, in a darker shade, dust a ring around the hills.
“Nagasaki is dry during the winter.” He said quietly, “I’d have to wait until spring to buy Persimmons for my wife, Hina. Until then, during those months, work is slow. Transport is affected. So—there was nothing much to do during this time.”
He remembered the snow on slanted rooftops, the white dusted mountains looming behind the town. He remembered the bells ringing, hooked over wooden wagons that old ladies push to sell their dumplings. And the little kids that would giggle, running around the covered streets in threadbare clothes—frayed at the hems, the sleeves rough like a used rag.
“My family,” He smiled, “would usually take the time to clear the roads in our town. With a shovel. It was not a small road. Long,” He gestured to the horizon, “from one end of the last house to the other.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it, pursing your lips. You knew he only spoke to deflect, to redirect your attention elsewhere from the mere failure of shooting a glass bottle. Time and time again, he would do that. Sit beside you while you seethe, and when the coast was clear, when the tides were calm enough he’d start off with a story. You always tried to keep quiet. And, eventually, your curiosity always got the better of you.
Begrudgingly, you asked, “Why didn’t the workers do it?”
“We were a small town, Denka,” He smiled, “workers were sparse. They would take weeks to reach our end. And we do not have weeks as we often have trucks passing our region to load up food for rationing. The snow delays it all. Many were starving, so matters inevitably, were in our hands.”
The memories returned to him fondly in little blooms of color. The late nights. The chatter between his sons, who bickered and argued even when they are working. Keida was short tempered, always wrapped in that red scarf Hina made for him, and Ino was never one to lose, a resolute debater. Combine those two, arguments would last on day’s end. Hina, lovely in her winter dress, were exasperated with them. She separated the two to shovel at different points of the road. Even then, they drifted to each other inch by inch like moths. And, again, they would fight.
“I was not a young man and neither was my wife. But,” He paused, “That was the only time I would have with them.”
He could still feel it in his throat. The sound came first, a slow thunderous growl crawling to a rumble. Then, the ground would shake, sand jumping beneath their feet. Tables rattled, shelves shuddered, and the plates clinked vigorously in cabinets.
A high pitch whistle cuts through the air.
Followed by a deafening explosion.
“What did you work as, Kotomichi-San?” You were now looking at him, your eyes red.
He blinked, snapping out of his daze. He gathered himself for a moment before swallowing, “I was a miner. I…” He collected his thoughts, “I did undersea coal mining. It was not a big industry but it was good money.”
“That must have been hard.”
“It was,” He said, looking ahead, reminiscing the times he wondered if he would emerge out of the tunnel and feel the sun on his face. The close calls. The near miss. Heat on his body, boils on his skin. The men he’d seen floating above waters with missing limbs.
“Are you religious, Denka?” He eventually asked.
You frowned, muttering under your breath,“Religion is a parasite.”
“I often wonder if it was something I did in my past life.” He confessed, “Karma, perhaps. The sense that I have been imposed upon with the same punishment I’ve done to the people I’ve wronged.”
Anger gripped you like a vice.
“And even then, if you did,” You turned to him, voice trembling, “What makes you think you’ve done anything in this life to deserve this suffering?”
“We don’t often know each other truly,” He said, “Everyday I wake up, I kiss my wife goodbye. See my sons to school and I go to work. I work with the feeling that this is my last. And that, if I were to go, at least I was blessed with the years that have passed. And yet, the ones that have to go—to bear the sins of their deaths was not them. It was me.”
Kotomichi remembered seeing grey as he waded through the streets, hands outstretched to feel, his ears ringing. The smoke hadn’t dispersed yet, and he couldn’t quite see, often sinking his feet into the loamy soil. He remembered stumbling. Remembered landing on his stomach with a grunt. Remembered trying to push himself up but stopping when his eyes caught sight of the hem. The hem of a red scarf on the ground. And beside it, was a hand.
You looked up, the hot tears curling over your cheeks, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” He said, a small smile on his lips, “I have realized grieving is, in a way, an expression of anger. No longer that I feel reminiscent of the life I have had—they are, instead, the framed picture I often see burning in the hearth.”
“How does anyone get through that?” You asked.
“Perhaps if you were unfeeling, you might. Perhaps if you had cared less about the world, you could. But you are not this sort of person, are you Denka?”
You felt his palm on your shoulder, warm. Enveloping, like a blanket.
“You have fire in your heart,” He said, “And that fire burns. Sometimes it may dim, sometimes it may rise. But no matter how much that fire burns, you should not let the sins of their death be held by you.”
Youu shook your head, laughing bitterly, “What am I suppose to do then? Forget?”
“Let it be a blessing and not a curse you hold against them.”
A curse. A curse? The passivity of your father, the disease your mother could have survived if not for the war, your brother recruited to the frontlines. This is not a curse, it is beyond premonition, beyond a vow—a sysiphean rotation of affliction.
This is retribution.
“I hate them,” You anguished, fueled by years of frustration , “I hate them for leaving me. And I will curse them—curse them so that in the next life they’ll be embedded with enough karma to be stuck with me and forget about ever leaving again.”
A particular harsh wind rustled the trees. Snow flurried off, floating like white dusts. Throat thick, you looked down at your trembling fists. They were curled so tightly you were sure blood had been blocked off. You kept your eyes low on the snow, repressing the shudders that threatened to rise up. The crystal flakes continued to fall in light, airy dotted plinks over the other, slowly collecting as a blanket under the sky. Behind, both your footsteps carved the path, a slow trail leading up to the tails of your coats.
“It is better to stand, Denka,” He said quietly, his voicing echoing across the empty space of the snow-laden fields, “than find yourself in the hearth.”
THE MOON followed you like the iris of an eye, wide open and glaring from the darkness. Gunshot rang. You ducked from the bullet that whizzed above your head. That was close. Maybe, too close. That’s enough of being close. Heartbeat pulsing in your ears, the only thing you focused on was the path ahead—hurdling from ledge to ledge, arms burning from climbing over rails and fences. At some point your ankle sprained during a landing, but the situation was too dire to spare any grievances. That’s going to be swollen for days, you’ll have to find a way to hide it.
Below, Kempeitai officers littered the streets.
“Tomare!” Several yelled, ants flooding towards a prey. Flashlight snapped on, little circular beams of white hovering in meandering directions. Motorcars and bikes chuttered down after you. Soldiers were already kicking down doors of apartment to use the stairs, the dwellers themselves protesting with exclamation. Women cried out, men were shoved aside.
You clenched your teeth. This was not what you intended to spread. In only utilizing a military rifle, strictly held by only several, to assasinate officials—you thought the message was clear. That the perpetrator was done by a speculated personnel only found in certain regions. The soldiers themselves would have to bear the brunt of the investigation, pointing fingers, taking sides. Civilians, spared. Or, perhaps, were they too slow to catch up on that fact?
“I’ve got a visual!” You heard from below.
No matter. Your thighs flared, the coat strained against your shoulders. Your muscles burned from the andrenaline from keeping your legs forward, from running. Getting out of this little goose chase might allow for further speculations.
Another shot whizzed your direction. Too close. You need to keep them off. Digging into you coat, you pulled out a revolver from the holster. You threw your arm back and pulled the trigger. Already, several soldiers had scaled the buildings. Hellions with a penchant for bloodlust, it seems. They were pursuing you, rifles clutched in hand, eyes forward like bulls. Giving chase.
A shot grazed the space beside your foot and you tripped, the world rolling around you across concrete. Your breath was hot behind the scarf as you groaned. Pain bloomed on your side. Everywhere, on your elbow, your legs. Your ribs were—they were sore to the touch.
You struggled to get up, boots slipping against the floor. Get up. Get up! But the force of the fall had been too much. You were disoriented. Couldn’t tell which was what. Vision spinning on a roundabout. Then, the clatter of boots approached. You heard a yell, then, the glint of a bayonet under the moonlight hurtling towards your chest.
Eyes wide, you grabbed the muzzle with both hands before it could pierce your heart. The soldier grunted, nose pinched like the snarl of a jaguar, pushing his weight down further. He weight about the size of three boulders. Your arms trembled and burned from holding him off.
You lifted one foot and slammed it against his abdomen. That split second of his balance thrown off kilter, you clicked off the knife from the bayonet and brought it down onto his boot. He cried out in anguish, stumbling backwards into a pile of containers. Another soldier pounced, he reached for the scarf and you ducked to the ground, slamming the heel of your boot to his chin, sending him over the ledge.
You had not realized what you did until you heard his cry.
No!
You leapt forward grasping his hands with your gloved ones before he could fully plummet to the streets. His own eyes, surprised and panickingred lifted up to yours. He looked so young. A teenager strapped within the confines of military regalia. He was around Noriaki’s age.
“Please! Please—” He struggled, clutching your arms to get up. But he was too heavy, and your gloves were too wet—he kept sliding back down, and you would have to haul him back up again. You pressed both boots against the ledge and groaned, using the momentum to drag his body over.
“You bastard,” Behind the soldier had already gotten up and wrapped his arms around your neck. Tightened it into a headlock, pulling you from the ledge, slipping your hands away from his. Below, the young man cried out, his feet dangling in the air, kicking at nothing. You grit your teeth. This fool! Does he not realize you’re helping his comrade? Or are they so blinded by duty they forget about their hearts at all?
“Yield,” he growled into your ear, his arms gradually tightened, pressing against the bone of your throat. It tightened. Tightened. Tightened. Until you felt nothing in your lungs. You choked. And your hands—it slipped.
Wait!
It was too late, you felt his fingers curling away from yours. The cry. Then, the sickening thud of a body landing against the street. Even then the soldier behind you was unphased. He yanked you back, until you both were rolling against the ground. You kicked his abdomen, sent him skidding meters away from you. Before he could recover himsef, you knocked him out with the revolver.
You got up on your boots, panting, breath hot behind the scarf. The soldier laid on the ground, unconscious, blood trickling down his forehead. Behind you, more soldiers were catching up, tiny little figures in the distance approaching. You quickly turned, meeting the ledge. It was a long jump to the other end. A long, black coiling stairway emerged from the side of the building.
Why did I do that?
The split second of hesitating. Of not shooting Kido when you could. You saw his face from an angle too high. His chin tilted upwards, glasses flashing white. He had that particular expression. Of surprise at the unexpected. Contempt of being able to be so. You have told yourself, there would be no weakness. And yet, the very thought of your father being distraught made your finger hesitate on the trigger.
There was no time to decide. So you charged, and sprung, arms swimming in the air. You missed the rails by half an inch, fingers barely grazing the pole, and you plummet down towards the ground, landing on the top a van before rolling to the murky ground of the alleyway. Pain bursted behind your eyelids and you felt the air punted out of your lungs. You groaned in pain, ribs aching. You were sure you had broken something.
From the distance, yells were were getting close.
You crawled on your elbows towards the darker other end of the alley, desperate for cover. Just then the door of the van opened.
“Yeah, it’s Wyatt. No, somethin’ just landed on the car. Fuck was that?”
The last thing you saw were the shoes of a man in front of you before darkness took over.
SUMMARY, “A princess with fire in her heart, and an inspector with none. Paths are crossed—guns, glory and sad endings.”
CONTENT WARNINGS, Slow Burn, Age Difference, Enemies to Lovers, Redemption, Older Man/Younger Woman, Canon Divergent, Mr sunshine inspired, Kido is Kido (menacing asshole) Mild Gore, Mentions of Death, descriptions of death, Kido-centric, Love Triangles
NIGHT CAME. When the clock struck precisely one, your eyes opened. You sat upright, duvet pulling around your waist. Swinging your legs over the bedside you padded bare feet towards the other end of the room where the walk-in closet was positioned against the wall.
You pushed the door aside, the hung clothes as well like a curtain, revealing the thin wall of the closet. You felt around the surface, eyes fixed on the window, where the moon shone bright in the middle, with grey clouds curling around like wisps. Your palms brushed along the crevices of the seam, and there you pushed down. The compartment door opened with a clicked.
You reached inside and took out a black bag.
Quickly, you dressed.
.
THE RED light district bustled at this time. You kept your head low as you walked along the streets, oxfords slapping the pavement, dressed in the simple visual of a man who ambles for leisure in concupiscent places. Women of those kind approached you, a glide of their soft hands over the black sleeves of your coat which you politely declined with a dip of your head, your cheeks flushing, hidden under the shadow of the fedora.
The colorful lights flickering from the signs reflected the puddles on the ground, sloshed and rippled by passing footsteps.
Despite the Empire’s distaste for perversion and its many raids, you found that its subjects—especially the military itself—doesn’t hold it to the same value. Not when its men frequent the brothels, allowing themselves to be led to prostitute’s bed and be allured by the sight of hostess’s and their easy, blood-lipped smiles.
And how easy information was able to be wrung out of them with a few beds.
“Not even a bit, honey?” The woman, a red haired—Reiss was her name—was particularly insistent, her long fingers curling over your arms, and she leaned close, her sweet breath fanning your cheek. She was older, around thirty but looked just as young, dressed in a blazing red coat with a glossy similar colored lipstick that brought out the whites in her grin.
She smelled sweet like those cheap perfume. Pungent but long lasting.
“A bit short for a man, a little too pretty for my tastes,” She laughed, low and sultry, “but who’s to say I won’t enjoy our time together? You see, I am a woman open to many prospects. It just means you’ve got the looks of your mother.”
You both stood under the telephone booth. How she managed to slink herself inside was a mystery, but you welcomed her mystique. After all, a man occupied is a man unnoticed from scrutiny. You kept your eyes ahead. With the fedora hung low over your eyes, hair tucked under the hat, black coat heavy on your shoulders, from a glance it was proper to assume you were another one of the Kempeitai officers littering the area. Which was precisely point. Nobody glanced your way even once.
“I’m afraid, with me, it’s a shame to disappoint a woman of your stature,” You said, keeping your voice as low and as muffled as possible behind the scarf.
“You’ll disappoint nothing,” Her hand went up to your chest, and you caught her wrist gently.
“Ah, the elusive type.” She purred, “What’s your story then, huh? Wife put you on the doghouse?”
“I do not sleep with the dogs.” You said.
“Means you’re on time out, sweetheart.”
“No, I came here myself.”
“Not for walking, I assume?
You released her wrist, and her hands remained at her sides.
“Just walking,” You said.
On your left, you eyes caught the sign— Lucia, the name of the restaurant. The entrance had two men standing post. Kempeitai, not military. And above, on the balcony, you spotted three more, clutching their rifles and scanning the streets. When one of the soldiers almost turned his head, catching your eyes, you turned to Reiss.
“Walking’s boring,” She said, smiling down, “Perhaps we can head somewhere else?”
You opened your mouth, then your eyes caught the building behind her. In front of the establishment, women sat on high chairs. They were dresses in skimpy dresses and mere sheets of fabric like Reiss did. The sign was high on the building. Madam’s. A brothel.
“That’s my home,” She smiled, catching your gaze, “My room’s on the third. But that’s changeable, if you’d like.”
You glanced back to Lucia. To the open window. Then, back to Madam’s. Your hand instinctively went to the black bag strapped to your side.
“The fifth floor would do.”
.
THE LOCK clicked open. Reiss gestured inside, flicking on the switch lights. A singular bulb in the middle of the room lit up, casting a halo over the table.
You went inside, oxfords creaking against the moss laden floorboards, it was small. Smelled like parched paper. A little bit bigger than your bathroom at home to approximate, and wholly different. A muted green sofa sat near the window ahead. One wooden bed was perched in the corner, laden with a thin white dirt muddled mattress, and a tucked cabinet to its side. A small round table was in the middle, collecting dust, with two chairs propped against it.
It was damp in here. You were sure, a few days more, and you’d be good to go to the hospital for pneumonia.
“Sparse,” Reiss said, her heels clicking as she walked inside, “But it’s enough.” When she caught your expression, she mused, “If you’re here for sex, then that’s what you’re here for. Not estate sales. Becuase if you are, the economy district is a few lanes over.”
“Yes,” You swallowed, looking away to the glass window, suddenly feeling small, “I suppose the, ah, that’s what the room is here for.”
As Reiss took off her coat, you walked towards the window. The overhead view of Lucia was excessive. You caught sight of the balcony with the three men, then your gaze trailed upwards to the open window.
Your chest pulsed a beat at the familiar face. Kido. Chief Inspector Kido was there, and he sat upright, stiffly with his back to the window, clutching a finger of—what, whiskey? You couldn’t tell. Herr Strohel was before him, in view, his golden locks tousled, uniform unbuttoned and he was laughing. Flushed red from Pilsner and tales.
“I’ve been thinking,” Reiss spoke up from behind.
From the reflection of the glass, you saw her leaning against the table. The coat was off now. She’s in a wrap dress, red, cinching around her waist, the layers flowing down like waterfall around her legs. You focused on the men, feeling a flush of heat on your neck. This is improper, you think dimly. The emperor will have my head for this.
“Lying to a woman is considered a crime,” She said and you froze.
You placed a hand on the ledge to steady yourself, “About what?”
“You’re too young to be married.”
“I never said I was.”
“Ah, but you agreed.”
“Because I had nothing else to say.”
“A man who finds himself at a brothel has plenty, sweetheart. But it seems like you don’t. Since it is not a wife, it could be a lover,” She walked over, slow and sauntering, “You don’t have a ring and you walk like a virgin. Then again, if a lover isn’t enough to compel you to come here,” She stopped before you, looking down, “then what did?”
You couldn’t reply. Your mind raced as you tried to latch onto a story—but there wasn’t any that came to mind. Reiss stared for a moment then she frowned, crossing her arms.
“You’re not a cop, aren’t you?” She said slowly, then when you didn’t reply, further incensing her theories, her voice rose in anger, “Oh, god you are. Great. Here to extort money or you’ll drown my business, is that the memo? Because, listen here fella’ I’m not one to back down easily even if you’re cuffing me to the—”
You whirled around. Your hand was quick as you pinched a nerve on her neck, and she gasped, eyes wide—rolling back into her skull. You lunged forward and wrapped your arms around her body before she could fall, slowly lowering her to the ground, her red hair pooling around her head like flames. She smelled like roses, the sweet kind. Your breaths were hot against her throat, andrenaline pulsing in your ears.
“Business,” You said, quietly, “Just not yours.”
You laid her down on the floor, gently cushioning her head with your arm before sliding a pillow underneath, snatched from the nearby sofa. Getting up on your feet, you toed off your oxfords and walked towards the center of the room where the table was and you stepped onto the platform. High enough to reach the single bulb, you brought your first back smashed it, plunging the room into darkness. The glass shards bursted and you flinched. It collected like plinking droplets on the surface of the table.
You landed on your heels on the floor, the sock cushioning the drop and you strode towards the window, crouching. You’ve got your eyes on the opened window again. Third floor. Low angle. Around forty five degrees. Wind—you pushed the sash several inches up, lickrd your finger and felt the air. Mild. A little cold. Two to four knots. You took off the black bag strapped to your side—hidden under the thickness of your coat—and you zipped it open.
Your hand felt around the Sniper Rifle and you hauled it out. Propping it against the window, you adjusted the scope, aiming the muzzle until Strohell’s forehead was in view.
You let your body relax. Muscles uncoiling. You took in a deep breath.
Finger around the trigger—
—you pulled.
.
TAKESHI KIDO would gladly be anywhere else if not for General Onada requesting he be the one to accompany Herr Strohell’s first night here at a restaurant. Since he came, all he did was sit down while Strohell recounted the memories of his time in service. Exaggerated memories, because he was sure half of what came out of his mouth did not make sense. Now, he was alone with the man. The women were ushered out by the Kempeitai on his orders. If he didn’t, Strohell would have forgotten what his purpose in San Francisco is.
“Chief Inspector!” He guffawed, “Embargo this embargo that. Enough of work talk, ladies! Bring us some Pilsner! And many more trays!”
“I’m afraid my time here is limited,” Kido said coldly, “I would again advise you to revise the terms of our agreements regarding the transport routes in Wyoming. It is come to my understanding that—”
A loud shot pierced the air. The glass behind Kido cracked, bursting open. He threw himself to the side in time with a grunt, feeling the burn in his muscles and the floor plunging the air out of his lungs. Strohell! He glanced up, getting up on his knees but the man was slumped against the wall, eyes wide, mouth agape with a dark hole on his forehead, blood dripping. Clenching his teeth, Kido crawled over, keeping his head low below the window. He reached up and felt the pulse on his neck.
Dead.
Already, below, he heard the marching of boots up the stairs, and the yells of the officers. He whipped his head to the window. And there, the figure was on the rooftop a silhouette plastered against the moon, half a sphere hidden by the buildings. The person—it caught his gaze and turned, eyes burning bright under the shine of the moon. It took him long to register the rifle was aimed at him, then at the spot above his head. The finger pulled.
Another shot. He flinched. The bulb above him exploded into pieces, plunging into darkness.
