Assassin Among Heroes Chapter 37

The first sign this idea wasn’t a one-way trip down hell: no metal detectors.

Not to say that there wasn’t any security; there were plenty of guards and the odd cop or two on patrol, ushering people onward and the odd interrogation, but none of them paid attention to me. Even without Concealment, I knew how to blend in. If any officers did spot me, they wouldn’t think too much of a teenager in a school uniform with a completely unremarkable gym bag. A perfectly reasonable sight compared to the horns, technicolor skins, and other assorted biological effects milling around the station. Totally justified!

Please, Mawla. I was not nervous.

Once I boarded the train, I sighed in relief and tried to enjoy the trip. It was…relaxing, for lack of a better word. Not my first time on a bullet train, so while the sight of the city blurring past me within minutes was pleasant, it wasn’t anything too special. Alas, I couldn’t enjoy the scenery too much, since I devoted the trip time to ironing out my plan of attack.

Mawla, of course, interrogated me and questioned my every step. 

‘I have doubts as to thy course of action, contractor.’

‘Come on, Mawla, what is there to doubt? I get that it’s a little simple on paper but -’

‘Mine concern lies with the location,’ he interjected. ‘Thou art venturing into unknown territories with scant knowledge regarding its terrain, both physical and criminal. The simplicity of thy plan serves thee well in this case, for it provides greater flexibility in thy decisions henceforth. However, with no context regarding the nature of thy targets, I fear any plans would matter little.’

I knew he was going to say that. ‘This is why I’m treating this as a scouting mission, Mawla. I’ll get a better picture of where I’m at and how to move around. I’m not going to stab anyone today unless I know I can make a clean getaway.’

‘Considering thy fortunes, I pray to Allah thy confidence holds.’

Ouch. ‘Even if I do get into a tangle, the new poison should help shorten the fight,’ I patted my bag, where a full vial of narcissus poison was safely stored.

Mawla hummed and went silent. I sighed, doubting whether or not I had convinced him. He did bring up good points though - like always - about Shizuoka. I was effectively going in blind. Even Dabi didn’t have much information on the crime scene down there, though he agreed to share whatever intel caught his ear. Another drain on the, er, account, but it was for a good cause. 

In the end, there was nothing else I could do. I was riding on the rails, literally, and I wouldn’t waste this day.

Now though? The gnawing doubt in my mind becomes very prominent.

Steeling myself, I take the final staircase out of the train station and take my first look at the city of Shizuoka.

…not that different from Tokyo, actually. Tall buildings, buses chugging along, people milling about their daily lives. I dunno what else I was expecting.

‘Thou cannot afford idleness, contractor. If there is no impediment to thy goal, then do not dally.’

Good point. I take a deep breath, grip my gym bag tight and type the address Dabi sent me into the maps app. Once the route finishes loading, I head down the street. Every now and then, I look up to ensure I don’t take a wrong turn, but some good old-fashioned GPS magic takes care of any such worries. As my legs carry me deeper and deeper into the city, I notice a couple of things that stand out in contrast to Tokyo. The buildings for one are…older, or maybe that’s not the correct term. Not ‘Kyoto district old’, but the wear on steel and concrete is more prominent on the main streets, whereas Tokyo always had polished towers gleaming over the horizon. There are a few of those too, but they’re more like solitary pines in a grove compared to the clustered skyscrapers back home. It’s less a sign of neglect and more a sign of…reuse? Or maybe the local infrastructure isn’t up to speed.

Hmm, there are always new buildings being built or demolished in Tokyo. Maybe that isn’t the case here.

Entering a tunnel underneath the main railway, I’m greeted by the sight of posters, lined up side-by-side on each wall. Nothing too eye-catching, just some local exhibits, shows, commercials of things I couldn’t care less about…ah, a hero-licensed product. Shampoo, why shampoo?

Huh. Come to think of it…

‘Usually, I’d be bombarded with hero posters and whatnot by now.’ You couldn’t look down one street back in Tokyo without a hero’s face beaming at you for some product or hollering from a TV ad. I turn around and notice that yep, that poster was the only one that mentioned a hero in any capacity. Wait, there’s a movie one, Champion Starburst…but nothing else.

‘I know for a fact there are heroes in this city, I did my research. Fewer than what I’m used to, but still! You’d think they’d announce their presence every chance they had, considering there isn’t much competition.’

‘Mayhap there is less of a need for their presence? Or they are so entrenched within the community, any further boasting is deemed moot.’

… This could mean a lot of things, like knowing who’s more likely to respond in the event of a crime.

I shrug and exit the tunnel, raising a hand over my eyes. And right then and there, I’m struck by the third, and perhaps the greatest, contrast to back home. 

It’s not the quaint buildings, the homey vibe, or the lack of needless hero merchandising.

It’s the noise. Rather, the lack of it.

Cities are bustling with noise; that’s an unavoidable fact. People, cars, trains, there’s always something making a ruckus. No one can escape it, especially with a Quirk like mine. Even when I walk through empty alleys and deserted warehouses at night, the ambiance of the city pounds away in my ears. Part of Mawla’s thorough regimen was filtering out background noise and knowing what to focus on while remaining aware of it. Kind of like the music you hear in video game soundtracks when you’re in exploration mode; ever-present and ignored, but noticeable.

Compared to Tokyo? This might as well be the countryside.

‘This is fucking surreal,’ I comment as I keep walking. The cream-colored houses barely stand at three - five, at most, stories high. Only a few are apartment buildings, the rest are all private houses. At least one car is parked alongside each of them, squeezed into culverts and tight spaces in the narrow road. ‘Where are the endless lines of traffic? The yelling?’

Again, it’s not deserted. Pedestrians still walk the street, and the odd vehicle passes by me. But everything else…wow.

The streets grow narrower as I turn and advance. Clotheslines hang above me, with shirts and garments flapping in the wind. The signs above stores aren’t neon-lit or cast on plasma screens, but written or cast in block letters. Through open windows, I make out silhouettes big and small, milling in the homes. Turning up my Quirk, I hear kids chattering to their parents about school, neighbors complaining about the latest game, and gossip dished out to the tune of whistling teapots.

“I-I swear I’m not skimming!”

Oh? 

The voice is hushed and nervous. Even in this quiet, I don’t think anyone else would’ve noticed it.

It’s coming from up ahead, right from that shop.

“Oh? Then why does your register seem…lighter than usual? I wasn’t aware of any holiday.”

Now that couldn’t sound oilier if it bathed in lotion and slid down a waterslide.

I tighten my grip on my gym bag and slowly approach the shop, one step at a time, while tuning my Quirk to the max. No need for Zabaniya yet.

“It’s just a bad week! The shipments were delayed and I didn’t have any fresh stock, so I had to use what was left in the back room!”

There’s rustling and heavy footsteps following the statement. “Hmm…that is rather bad for business, but no need to get snippy. Our employer desires that you profit from your business as much as you do.”

“Then why are you getting on my case? I’ve never missed a payment before, and you’ve got what you need!”

A rougher voice, tainted with no doubt years of smoking, snorts. “Oi, you hear that, brother? Even after you generously warned him, he’s still got spunk.”

The first voice - the shopkeeper - stammers out incoherently. I pause and move closer to the wall, weighing the words in my mind. An extortion racket? I doubt they’re asking for charity.

“I’m sure our valued friend here is simply stressed by his recent shipping troubles. No need for such aggressiveness, we’re all friends here! And you’re right; the payment isn’t lacking by any means. At least you are consistent, which many could stand to learn from you.”

More shuffling. “Bad manners to miss an appointment, and our boss is quite the stickler for punctuality.”

“I’d never dream of being late!” the shopkeeper cries, his tone crossing over to hysterics.

“Great! Can we blow this joint? There’s a game in an hour and I’m not gonna let the guys hang this one over my head!”

“One moment,” the oily one replies. A heavy thud comes a second later. “I’ll forward your troubles to our mutual friends, but this should provide ample income to cover your losses. Consider it a…generous donation from a concerned patron.”

A moment of silence follows, and I hear the shopkeeper’s breath hitch. Okay, now I’m curious. What could gangsters willingly give a civvie? Drugs maybe? Yeah, that seems likely. 

“What’s wrong? You know how the deal goes.”

“Uh, y-yeah, I didn’t forget! It’s just…well, this is a…a lot.”

“Like I said, a generous donation. Unlike what you believe, we do want our businesses to flourish. With this, your customer base won’t fizzle out anytime soon.”

Another silent beat, followed by rapid scraping and thudding. Shit, there go my chances of actually seeing this ‘generous donation.’ 

“Th-thank you very much, dear sir!”

The oily one chuckles. “You’re most certainly welcome. Say hello to the wife for us, will you?” 

Twin footsteps clash against wooden floorboards and I duck behind the car in front of me. I hear a door open and two figures stroll out into the street. Peering from the crack, I glimpse them as they go on their merry way: both are heavyset, one with cropped military-style hair and the other with a ratted mess of bleached crimson. Despite how much they stand out amidst the low-hanging clotheslines and slanted rooftops, their backs ramrod straight as though they own the town.

“That’s the…fifth one? Don’t tell me we got more!”

“Only two more,” his partner responds. “We can’t rush this. You don’t want us to end up Kanryus, right?”

“No one wants to end up a Kanryu,” the gruff one deadpans, but I detect a shiver in his voice. “I just really need to see that game. Shit, at least tell me it’s not that ramen joint.”

“Fine, I won’t.”

“...it’s the ramen joint, ain’t it?” When he receives no answer, he snarls and kicks some stray rubble. “Fuck, there goes my cred for the week.”

“How tragic. You should write a poem.”

As they start to cuss each other out and fade into the distance, I slowly draw myself up. The shopkeeper’s laboured breaths continue as he mutters with frustration and barely-restrained rage. A quick scan tells me that no one seemed to notice this little exchange, or they’re staying awfully quiet about it. 

I resume my pace and approach the shop, glancing at it from the corner of my eye as I pass by its doors. The aforementioned shopkeeper, a reedy-looking man with nostrils bigger than his eyes and an unshaven face, taps at his desk with urgency. I flash him a smile and he returns the favor, with a smile so perfect, or as perfect as you could get with his bizarre appearance, that you wouldn’t even think he was getting squeezed moments ago. 

Focus, Ritsu. This is upsetting, but nothing to get too stressed about. What’s a little extortion in the face of human experimentation and slavery? With luck, your target might be connected to this unpleasant encounter, so no need to worry yourself.

…still leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

The streets grow narrower as the app shows I’m nearing the location. The houses remain the same, showing only a slight difference in how the ravages of time affected them. The shadows grow longer under the setting sun as hushed breezes blow past my face. And…huh, come to think of it, I should’ve noticed it when I left that tunnel. 

Graffiti was everywhere in Tokyo. From accidental spurts from cans to big, colorful artworks akin to hieroglyphs and eldritch script coated in every color imaginable, and then some. If they were caught in the open, then cops or a water-powered hero - there was one dressed like a fireman, I think - would scrub it off whatever wall or building it was sprayed on. In the shadowed backstreets, criminals and villains used them to mark locations, records of their victories or turf, which proved more than useful for tracking them down.

There was nothing like that here. And by that, I refer to a complete lack of graffiti. Not a single creed, meme, or anything that could resemble a gang mark.

You’d think an extortion racket would tag what businesses are under their “protection” so other lowlives would know who not to mess with, but nope! If I hadn’t witnessed it myself, I would’ve thought it was a standard shakedown. And despite their attitudes, the thugs didn’t dress like gangsters; no baggy shirts or worn-down leather. Instead, they wore suit jackets, and I’m sure the oily one had a tie.

My brow creases as I press a knuckle to my lips. Something is troubling about this scenario, but for the life of me, I have no idea what. More importantly, was this related to this Hassaikai that I’m here for? If it was, then how?

I look down at the map, and - oh.

The address is barely a dozen or so meters in front of me. It’s certainly…lower than the rest of the houses on the street. Ochre walls and the length of three cars parked back-to-back, and the windows are barred and shuttered. The small backyard is bare of any ornamentation, but not a scrap of litter is found nestled between the gravel. The one thing that draws attention to the house is the metal plates lining the rooftops, crowned with a solar panel. 

I focus my Quirk, and sure enough, chattering drifts from between the walls—all males, adult or college-aged. I count ten, possibly more. Their speech is a jumble, but here and there, the word ‘product’ spews from someone’s lips.

Time to get to work.

I retreat into the alley behind me and quickly change into my outfit. Once I strap in the last of my gear, and the instant my mask is in place, I feel my chest relax as the faint chill that comes with Concealment washes over me. I stash my bag in a shadowed spot near me, hiding it from possible intruders. I approach the house's main entrance, tucked to the right of the corner. The thick wooden door has no handle, and a small glass window is embedded at my head level, right above a peephole. 

Now, how should I go about this - wait!

I pull out the poison vial from my belt pouch and apply a few drops to my knife. It’d be a waste not to use this. Smearing it over the length of the blade, I then return the vial to my belt. I might have to reapply the coat if things go south, but this much should do for now.

With one hand tightly gripping the coated knife. I raise my free fist…

…and knock thrice.

Simplistic, but breaking a window attracts too much noise. 

A blurry silhouette moves behind the window and huffs. I knock again, and a confused grunt emanates from behind the door. I step back right as the door opens, and a gentleman of the rougher persuasion swings the door open and looks around.

He tilts his neck up and -

A crow flies in the wind, and the man stumbles. His heavy frame trips backward as he meets the earth with a thud, and the red liquid of life pours from his aorta. 

One down.

I gently close the door and slide the bolt tight. A foldable chair lies to my right, adorned with a beer can. The corridor before me is lined with a couple of doors on each side, but I hear nothing from behind them. Instead, I hone in on the voices and singing from the far end of the house, accompanied by the faint beat of pop music. I head down the hallway with measured steps, fresh blood dripping from my blade. The music and chatter swell in volume as my boots tread the polished tiles, and I ready myself for whomever is lounging at the end of the forked path. 

Footsteps draw near. I clench the knife and brace.

I peer from behind the corner and observe a man approaching, looking like someone threw a pie in his face, and he didn’t even enjoy the aftertaste. Beer stains the surgical mask tucked under his chin, and he’s swirling a can of the drink in his hand. A knife is sheathed in his belt, the hilt protruding beneath his jacket. A guard then. How quaint.

He raises the can to his lips -

And down he goes, the drink mixing with his freshly-exposed blood. The final scream he wants to let out fails to come, and another slash silences his gargling. The poison is a redundancy, not an end. As Shiki pointed out, a good slice works 95% of the time.

Colored light glows around the next corner. Shaking the excess blood off my knife, I tread down the passageway and find two more guards standing next to a flowing curtain. Hm, tricky. I can’t advance without them noticing, and the crowd behind that curtain would definitely notice. Any spy would have trouble getting through here.

Too bad for them, I’m a Hashashin.

The knives fly at lightning speed, embedding themselves right in their foreheads. I hear the skull shatter under the sheer force of the blows. I wonder how much of that is my skill and how much is from the mask?

Either way, it’s serving its purpose with every use.

They sway on their legs for a moment before I flick my fingers, and the knives fly back to my waiting hands. I walk past their fallen bodies and carefully push past the curtains. The main room is rather spacious, taking up almost the whole end of the building. Kaleidoscopic lampshades illuminate the room, accompanied by fluorescent office lamps posted on nearby desks. Fumes and smoke drift through the space from cigarettes and vapor machines, almost dancing to the beat of the music booming from the hanging speakers. In one corner, several gangsters recline on couches while shouting at a TV. Another few sit around a table to my right and write in post-it notes before slapping them on wrapped and cord-bound packages, which are stacked around the room in neat piles. Some wear coats, others drape them on their seats, but like before, they’re sharply dressed, with collar shirts and even a suit or two. At the far end of the room, nestled between velvet cushions upon a raised dias, sits an obese man with one of the most punchable faces I’ve ever seen. Everything about him screams grade-A asshole, from his tiny moustache, to his slicked-back hair and narrow, beady eyes. His violet suit with white collars makes him look even more ridiculous, but if that’s not enough, the way he’s grabbing those stacks of cash and rifling through them with his chubby fingers…yeesh. How do you go from professional camouflage to borderline parody in barely an hour? 

“Ensure the deliveries are on schedule,” he mutters to the goon beside him. “We cannot afford any delays; a single hour the money isn’t coming means more heat on our heads.”

“We’ve ensured the routes stay open and secure,” the goon replies through his own surgical mask, bulbous eyes locked on the money. “As long as the greasing remains fresh, we shouldn’t encounter problems.”

“Excellent.” The fat one pauses his rifling and squeezes the stack of cash. “When the next payment cycle is secure, I’ll be swimming in cash.” A sick grin spreads over his face, showcasing a golden tooth.

“Do you think the boss is going to increase production?” the goon asks, not deviating once from his task.

“I’m not a gambling man, but if I were, today’s earnings would vanish,” the fat one waves the stack and fans himself with it. “We have inroads with every major market in the island, and there have been whispers down the grapevine of new expansion opportunities. Demand is hardly an issue, and we have the supply. If the boss is smart enough to understand this, then our product will be on every street corner and bar of every major city.”

He then raises his voice and thrusts a can of beer in the air. “And you know what that means, boys!?”

The room erupts in roars and cheers as they toast with whatever they have in hand, be it a can or a knife. When they raise their heads and praise their boss and the money they’ll receive, I notice that all of them wear surgical masks, either fully covering their faces, tucked under their chin, or lying on the nearest table. A type of gang symbol? 

Hm, I thought my lead from the poison lab would lead me right to a Trigger facility. This doesn't look like a lab. Is there one in the house?

“But if we want to get that dough, we need to stay in top shape! Stick to the book and no one will get wise, and don’t even think about showboating!” He shakes his head. “After all…we’re not pro heroes.”

The rest of the gangsters laugh as I stand unseen among them. “You said it, Kaneshiro-aniki!”

So the fatso has a name. 

Kaneshiro chortles and chugs down the can before wiping his stained lips with a napkin from his pocket, that smug-ass grin present all the while. The way he keeps greedily pawing those bills, I won’t be surprised if yen signs pop out of his eyes. Regardless, this business has a higher level of professionalism than I thought. None of these guys actually said ‘drugs’ or directly incriminating words. My poison lab was where they sent the drugs to get mixed, and I’m not seeing anything evident of a lab…meaning the actual production facility or refinery is elsewhere. This house might just be another checkpoint, or one of the last stops before the drugs hit the streets. If the cops raid this joint, the leadership - whoever they are - can cut their losses and reestablish themselves at another location, provided nothing too damning is discovered. Again, a professional standard I saw only with Domino. I shouldn’t be surprised; this is a yakuza gang, probably one of the last ones in the country. They wouldn’t have made it without a good sense of survival. 

Okay, this is a minor setback, no big deal. Fatso here looks like a top guy in the command chain. I just need to get him to crack.

Before I sink deeper into my thoughts, I notice Kaneshiro’s gleeful grin flatten as he scrolls through his phone. “Remind me, who is he again?”

His right-hand thug leans forward and tilts his head. “One of our distributors in Tokyo. Lower level, and receives a dozen batches per shipment. Per orders, the location of his lab is not on any record.”

“He has quite an interesting line of questions. What’s his status?”

“He received his supply on schedule and reported no troubles.”

Kaneshiro hums and puts the phone to his ear. I smirk as the ringtone plays in my ears. I’m pretty sure I didn’t contact this guy when I did my ‘fishing’, so the person I did contact must’ve forwarded it. But if it’s a quick reply he’s looking for, he’ll be disappointed. Half a minute later, his frown grows as the dial tone ceases.

“Aren’t all of our operatives, regardless of branch, required to respond to calls at all times?”

“Correct.”

The obese man’s beady eyes narrow in the light of the glowing screen. His skin tone slowly flashes a shade of purple before he inhales, and it reverts to its piggish color. 

“I believe we need to have a sit-down with our Tokyo operative about secrecy. There is a way to discover his location, correct?”

The right-hand man hums and rubs his covered chin. “When the next shipments are sent out, we can easily track them. All we need is an enforcer along for the ride.”

Oh. Oh shit.

“Excellent. I will not allow some peon to potentially damage my operation,” he snarls and massages another stack of cash, the rage on his face ebbing away. 

…fuck it, I need to shut this place down now. 

I count thirteen. Troublesome, especially since they’re in one room. One of them might get lucky and score a hit. 

Hmm, it might be manageable. I’ll have to keep them from pulling any nasty surprises like Quirks.

Solution?

Kill the light.

Glass shatters, and the chandeliers’ glow dies. The yakuza can only blink as their precious TV is little more than a sputtering box.

I go for the labelers first. 

Blitzing in, one neck opens with the bite of my blade. His friend stumbles, but the knife finds itself in his eye next. His screams alert the room, but it’s too late. Flipping back, I grab the third one’s head. Lurching, he tries to shake me off, elbowing around him and kicking the packages. Useless. Can’t grab what he can’t see, what none of them can see. I feel his spinal cord tear under the steel and push him off right as the last of the labelers pulls out a knife and slashes with reckless abandon at empty air, even cutting the table.

Wide swing and -

Down.

Another gangster shoots up, blade in hand. “Wha-what the fuck?” Fishing out his phone, he turns on the flashlight and is greeted by his dead comrades’ bodies, lying or choking in puddles of blood. A round of curses erupts from the lowlives at the sight of their comrades' bleeding corpses, and they draw their weapons.

“Guards!” yells a frantic Kaneshiro. His eyes scan the room, even as I stand right in front of him. “Block the exits! Intruder!”

Fish in a barrel, all day.

Another knife sails through the air and pierces through an eye. A name is called out, and the voice is silenced. A crewcut swings his tanto, injuring his friend Shorty. Both pay for that mistake. One kicks away a table and charges, his arms ringed with revolving spikes. I hear my knife slice through his tendons and his scream when his stomach opens up to the stale air. “Where is he, where is he!?” the rest yell. The reality of their situation is settling in one body at a time. It’s no longer about money or whatever flimsy honor code the yakuza had; it was about survival now. Blades and fists fly indiscriminately, hoping to stop the carnage. Everything is toppled, packages are torn open and white powder scatters across the stained floor. Too distracted, the vermin. I kick hard on a thug’s leg, dropping him to one knee. His neck is exposed, thick and bulging with veins. A quick slash silences his pain. His friend lifts his sword high and bellows with rage, charging in my direction. His intuition is better than most, I give him that. I sidestep and bring another knife down upon his neck, but he turns at the last moment. Instead of a mortal blow, the knife is buried deep into his shoulder. His arms grab me when no one could and he tries to slam me down. For a lanky guy, he has some muscle hidden in those arms.

“Aniki!” he yells in rage and agony. “I got him, he’s invisible! Shoot the -”

His squealing overrides his next words as my knee strikes his unmentionables. A dagger flies into my hand and I slash upwards. Cloth tears and he lets go, staggering back and clutching his freshly scarred chest. I step forward and grab his arm, driving the blade deep into it. Drawing a lungful of air, I kick him away while wrenching the knife from his body. He stumbles back and trips over his buddies, landing right next to the broken TV. The last of them looks around with frantic eyes before turning around and bolting for the exit. His fingers brush the curtains…

…and he falls through, crowned with a knife reaching into his cerebellum.

My fingers twitch and the knife flies out of his skull and right back into my hands, just as rapid footsteps thud behind me. I swerve and slam into the charging right-hand thug. He grunts and raises his knee. I pivot on my leg and grab his head. Whatever words would escape that masked mouth, I neither know nor care. The knife piercing his jawbone now ensures that much.

I tear the knife away and throw him aside, his warbling mixing with the sounds of the fallen. He paws his jaw and tries to stand, but the pain is too much. His body surrenders and he collapses with a thud.

I exhale and shake off the tissue on my dagger. When was the last time I cut loose? I turn my head and see both corpses and the injured strewn about the room. Any order and structure was gone, decorated by the dead and dying. A phone’s flashlight shines at the ceiling, displaying the running life-liquid pooling around it. 

When I went with Dabi to the lab, I had to restrain my movements to avoid damaging the equipment. But here? I didn’t need to hold back. And this was the result.

My lips twitch, and I force myself to focus again. I turn to the one person in the room still standing. His eyes, once filled with smugness and self-assurance, are now wide and frantic. He resembles a swollen grape now, every last patch of skin dyed purple, except for his ears. They’re burning red, and is that steam?

Kaneshiro lets out a wordless snarl and reaches for his hip, pulling out a -

Oh shit, a gun!

Without even thinking, I throw a knife at his hand. The blade strikes true, right into his fingers. The clutter of the falling firearm is lost amidst his piggish screeching. 

“YOU SHITSTAIN! DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU’RE FUCKING WITH!” he screams, knife still lodged in his hand. 

“I was hoping to ask you about that,” I say. Panting, his head swerves left and right, failing to spot my voice. “Why don’t we have a sit-down?”

Gripping his desk, Kaneshiro howled. With a heave, the desk sailed through the air until it collided with the couch, the sound of splintered wood almost harmonizing with his screams. If he’d bothered to aim that, I’d be worried.

The knife flies back to my hand with a wave and nearly tears off his finger. Picking up speed, I rush forward and cock back my fist. 

Not my most effective punch, but it rattles him, and that’s what I need. Stabbing him in the knee, I reach up and grab his fancy jacket. His eyes widen, half-filled with tears. Not letting him gain any advantage, I kick him in the same knee and throw him to the ground.

I stare at him for a moment, watching how the blood stains his expensive pants. His white-collared undershirt is stained with the sweat pouring down his purple neck. He squeezes his injured leg and moves to grab the knife, but I rip it out and stand behind him, ignoring the wails.

“Much better,” I say, holding the blade under his eye. “Now, unless you wish to suffer beyond your wildest nightmares, you will stay silent and answer when I ask you. Tell a lie, and I will know. When I know, you will know. So do not try my patience. Understood?”

Kaneshiro spits upwards, his face the image of rage and defiance. I press the knife deeper and trail a small cut down his cheek, freezing his expression.

“A little bird sang in my ear that you’re part of a group smuggling drugs into Tokyo. The Shie Hassaikai, correct?” He snarls at my question. Were he not bleeding on he floor, it might’ve been intimidating.

“Now, what people put in their bodies is hardly my concern. But when there’s a group dedicated to killing anyone in their way for the sake of drugs…” I lean into his face and press the knife, feeling the blade bite into his cheek. “I put my foot down.”

His breath slows, and he finally musters the willpower to talk. “You…you’re a dead man, you hear me! You don’t fuck with us!”

I can’t help but scoff. “How many times have scum like you said those words? They end up in the reaper’s embrace all the same.” The red around Kaneshiro’s ears begins to spread. “Regardless, your group is the Hassaikai, yes?”

The fatso grits his teeth, his golden tooth on full display. After a moment’s hesitation, he nods ever-so slightly. 

“Excellent. Would you be kind enough to direct me to your Trigger production facilities? The little bird song says you produce the drug in this area.”

“Why…why do you want the Trigger?” 

“Eliminating your Trigger supply is far easier than eliminating your other drugs. Producing Trigger requires a significant effort, yet it is far cheaper to produce an inferior version than to have it shipped from overseas.”

I stare into his panicked eyes and grip his head with my other hand. “So, where is it?”

Fatso’s about to speak when his mouth presses into a thin line. “You think…that I’ll rat out my bosses?”

“Unless you wish to die, then yes.”

His crazed bark of laughter sends spittle onto my mask. “I don’t give two shits about who you think you are…but I’ve been in the game long enough to know I’m screwed either way. Go ahead and kill me, because my lips are sealed.”

My knife swings and leaves a shallow cut down his cheek. Desperation creeps into his cackling, even as his breath grows labored. I don’t know how much poison is left on the knife, but it couldn’t be a high amount. Most of the goons are suffering from its effects even now. Either way, he’s right. Hard to imagine those words from a guy who was molesting a stack of cash moments ago.

Spotting his phone lying near the dias steps, I move from my position and pick it up. I poke him with my knife again and drop my Concealment, waving the phone in his face.

“Open it.”

He opens his eyes through the mad laughter, and it quickly dies out. His pupils dilate and I notice a faint trembling in his form. “Hold it, aren’t you that psycho from the news? The one who killed that Pro Hero?”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.” I shove the phone in his face. “Open the phone. If you know who I am, then you know what happens to uppity scumbags like you. Cooperate, and I will consider not gutting you like the pig that you are.”

Fatso gulps, his demeanor doing a complete one-eighty. He flickers back and forth between my mask and the phone. A sigh later, he slowly reaches for the phone…

…and snatches it from my hand. Before I can stop him, he smashes it against the floor. The screen shatters on impact, and I hear plastic break.

My grip on the blade tightens as I feel the roiling anger in my gut churning upwards. This kalb…

He smirks, his other hand pawing stray yen bills by his side. It doesn’t hide his shivering and heavy breaths. “I told you, I’m fucked no matter what. They’ll erase you for this, freak. This is our city. Nobody fucks with us.”

His cackle is slow and grating, drool pouring from his mouth. A snarl escapes my lips. No. I will not let this inhuman shitstain have the last laugh!

Flesh tears. Blood gushes. Choking ensues.

And then…silence.

I kneel, a roar one second away from erupting from my throat. I watch as his skin slowly returns to its original pinkish hue. When did this tub of lard actually grow a pair?

‘Loyalty and fear are two sides of hierarchy, contractor. People deem them diametric traits, but together they can brew a dangerous concoction.’

‘No shit,’ I reply. I stand up and gaze at the room. The sounds of death had long faded. Whomever I didn’t kill outright had succumbed to the poison by now. If by some miracle the poison didn’t take them, blood loss would spell their demise. Trailing the path of carnage, I pick out Fatso’s gun lying on the dias edge. My stare lingers on it a tad longer than I expect.

‘The firearms of the modern age are dangerous tools. ‘Twould be wise to consider adding them to your arsenal.’

‘I never said they weren’t effective, but we’ve been over this; it’s not feasible for me to carry a gun.’ I shake my head. ‘I have no way to practice with one or procure ammo reliably. Besides, it’s murder on my ears, and I’m not crippling myself by wearing earplugs.’

Guns didn’t present a moral issue to me as much as a logistical one. 

‘Thy arguments were never false, but any tool that could provide an advantage is worth preserving.’

Biting my lip, I find myself unable to completely deny Mawla’s words. ‘I’ll think about it. Now isn’t the time.’

He grunts and fades into the ether. Spotting an intact package next to a velvet cushion, I pick it up and inspect it. The package is almost bursting, the weight of its value seemingly adding to its physical weight. 

‘When I busted that deal at the docks, the drugs were worth almost 18 million yen, and that was from one suitcase.’ My eyes wander to the far ends of the cavernous room, to the scattered packages and loose bills. The white powder almost glowed in the phone’s flashlight.

‘Back then, when I killed that bank robber, he said he was with the Hassaikai. The Nine Rings bar is their contact point for dealing with Tokyo’s underworld, or was. I haven’t heard any meaningful information from them in a while. It’s not just Tokyo though; Fatso said income was flowing from all over the island, as in…all of Honshu? The size of it…how could a yakuza group survive this long while maintaining this scale of operation?’ 

I run my chin. ‘This group has some kind of hold on the city. Otherwise, why would two gangsters walk around and threaten with impunity? The confidence to build such a facility here…this is a normal residential area, not a warehouse district or a basement in a ghetto neighborhood. And where are the heroes and cops in all this mess?’

My frown grows as the questions pile up. Drugs, Trigger, robbery, all at a near-national scale. Who exactly are the Shie Hassaikai? And what boss leads them?

‘Riddles within riddles.’ I take a deep breath and try to center my thoughts. ‘One step at a time, Ritsu. Right now, the only lead I have is this house. Thanks to the kalb wrecking his phone, I’ve lost a good chunk of intel, and sooner or later, people will discover what I did here.’ 

Wiping my knife on a nearby cushion, I approach the labelers’ spot. Sidestepping the corpses, I grimace at the utter mess of blood and drugs covering the desk, marring the papers those thugs meticulously labeled. There has to be something useful here, beyond cash, which I will definitely hold on to.

‘At least I know one thing,’ I think, grabbing one of the cleaner papers. ‘The Hassaikai, they have one more problem to deal with…

…and unlike whatever games they play, they'll follow my rules.’

-x-

“Your tea, Sir.”

Sir Nighteye nodded to his sidekick as she placed it on the table. “Sugar?”

“Two cubes.”

“Heat?”

“Near boiling, ten seconds after whistling.”

“Blend?”

“Kubo, full blend. From the red bag.”

Grasping the teacup with one hand while furiously typing on his computer with the other, the pro hero took a single, drawn-out sip. Hot liquid rushed down his throat, and the caffeine rush struck his nerves with the force of a geyser. He gently put the cup down, pausing momentarily as the taste fully subsumed into his tongue. Awata tightly gripped the tray, fidgeting in place.

“Perfect.”

Kaoruko Awata’s head drooped in relief, her blue hair falling over her mask. Nighteye imagined this wasn’t what the pro hero Bubble Girl imagined when she joined his agency. Alas, he held his required morning drink to high standards, as it should. One cannot embark on the routine of heroism each day without a sufficient pick-me-up. Even All Might enjoyed a morning coffee: cappuccino, two shots of milk, and one sugar. Nighteye himself reserved it for the weekends.

To Bubble Girl’s credit, it only took her seven times to get the temperature right. Once she did, she never messed it up. Centipeder, his other sidekick, needed twenty tries, the poor uncultured soul. A brilliant hero and crimefighter, but Nighteye grew concerned at times.

“Sir, Officer Himura called about the criminal from last week’s robbery. He said the perp’s bail was paid in court and they’ve lost track of him.”

“Tell Officer Himura to wait on the corner of 4-chōme and Mabuchi. Our robber will try and hold up a woman wearing a purple blouse at knifepoint,” he swiftly replied. Shifting through the stacks of files to his left, he found the criminal’s police profile. Petty theft, larceny, and battery. Quirk: Steam Nose, useless for practical applications. “Repeated offense on bail carries enough of a penalty to keep him off the streets.”

She nodded and he returned the file to the stack. “Sir, how did he pay the bail? It wasn’t exactly petty cash.”

His eyes narrowed from behind his rimmed glasses. “A clean-shaven man with parted hair contacted him shortly after his release. He warned him that if he slipped up again, his only companion would be his cellmate.”

Awata blinked, and her blue cheeks blanched. “Sir, your Quirk scares me sometimes.”

“Thank you.” Nighteye knew his Foresight was unique even amongst other Quirks. It would be a disgrace if he didn’t use it to his full potential. He paused again and steepled his fingers. His gaze wandered across the room, decorated with the essentials of any respectable hero agency. The latest computers, books on crime, and his limited edition All Might merchandise.

“Nevertheless, the identity of this benefactor eludes me. A middleman for sure, but I can only guess at his allegiance.” He took another, longer swig of the tea, draining the cup dry. If he appears again, I’d like to be notified.”

“Can you even ask that?”

“I am directly involved in his case and the facts connect him to one of my latest extensive cases.” His eyes trailed to the 10th anniversary All-Might cardboard cutout, standing two heads above his height. “I am within full rights to ask about any related developments.”

Bubble Girl nodded and poured another serving into his teacup. “I’ll send the email right away. This extensive case, is it the one -”

“Yes, the very same one we’ve been pursuing for the past month. About this supposed yakuza group.” It wasn’t too much of a stretch to believe that organized crime existed in Shizuoka. It was an unfortunate fact of life, no matter where one lived. A yakuza group’s dealings were usually smuggling or financial matters exclusively within the domain of the police, not pro heroes. To his dismay, he was proven quite wrong. “My efforts in tracking them down have yielded fewer results than expected.”

“They know about your Quirk and they’re operating here,” Awata replied, tapping her fingers on the tray. “You have to give them credit, they’re careful ones, these Shie Hassaikai.”

Sir Nighteye lifted the stack of papers and pulled out a much thicker file. It was all on his computer, of course, but there was something to be said about holding information in one’s hands. It provided him with focus and clarity, and he always kept it up-to-date.

“Has the court granted me permission for my search?”

She shook her head, looking rather upset herself. “They said all we have is conjecture. Without solid proof, we can’t get warrants to search any of the premises in your list.”

Nighteye hummed and felt his lips twitch downward. “Disappointing, but it was a feeble hope anyway. Like you said, even with my reputation, I cannot barge my way through this.” He straightened his tie. “Not that I ever planned to. To break the law for convenience’s sake is abhorrent. Heroes must protect and follow the law in equal measure.”

Even as Bubble Girl nodded, Nighteye mused that the court’s dismissal was still an annoyance. He opened the file and leafed through the pages. 

It was a series of arrests that kicked off his interest, all in the span of a few days. A drug bust, a foiled robbery, and an attempted murder. He was present for the second one, as part of his patrol route. It was only thanks to a bystander pushing the door open that he was able to subdue them and hand them over to the police. As the criminals were hauled into the squad cars, he noted something peculiar. They were organized, moreso than any regular burglary crew. They had equipment, communications, and most importantly, a plan—traits the crimes mentioned earlier shared, along with a similar grade of gear. An indication of a supplier possessing deep pockets and long fingers.

Due to his involvement in the robbery and his longstanding reputation, Nighteye was privy to certain pieces of information, most notably from the undercover department. It was from there that two of the criminals were recognized as low-ranking members of a yakuza group. One thought long consigned to obscurity. The tattoos on their backs confirmed it: a mon consisting of an eight-petaled flower. 

If this were a yakuza group, they were testing dangerous new waters.

He’d raised concerns, but the police chief was highly skeptical. While he did acknowledge the robberies were connected, he refused to consider the yakuza angle. No need to chase fossils, in his words.

This left Nighteye to investigate his suspicions by himself. 

“Careful might be a weak description, Bubble Girl. The criminals remained insistent they were working alone, and when I used my Quirk on one of the tattooed ones, I only saw him in a prison cell. No indication as to any friends or associations with any gang other than the tattoo.” He pushed his glasses up. “And all references to the Hassaikai are either listed as non-threats or in history books, when they possessed influence and power in Shizuoka.”

“Makes you wish you could see into the past, Sir?” she asked.

“The pros are hard to ignore, but there’s no use in dwelling on what-ifs,” he replied curtly. “Regardless, I will continue my investigations until I have substantial evidence to show the court.”

Awata nodded and Nighteye closed the file. ‘Perhaps I should attach the arrest to the file. But I have nothing further to go on…how much ink do I have left?’

The ringtone of his office phone snapped him back to reality and he immediately picked it up. “Nighteye Hero Agency, this is Sir Nighteye.”

“Ah, Sir Nighteye? This is Lt. Kamishiro Hyuga, Shizuoka Police.”

Nighteye’s brows furrowed as he failed to recall the name. “How do you have this number, Lieutenant? This is a direct line to my office.”

“Chief Raemon gave it to me, he said only to use it for emergencies or if the situation’s gone off the deep end.” A deep sigh emanated from the speaker. “And if this doesn’t fit the bill, I don’t know what else.”

The pro hero raised an eyebrow. He knew frustration when he heard it, and this officer wasn’t faking it. And the chief did have his personal number…

“What’s the situation?”

“A few hours ago, we got an anonymous tip regarding bad odour from a house on Mabuchi Street. They were worried a sewer line had blown up inside and nobody noticed. We sent patrolmen to investigate, and they found the door closed but unlocked. Let me tell you, calling it ‘bad odor’ was like calling a tsunami a pond ripple. The whole place was stinking up so bad that there’s a hazmat crew ready to decontaminate every inch of this place once we’re done. But that was the decoration.’

The officer grunted, and the sound of typing was faintly heard. “Right off the bat, there’s a bloodstain right on the entranceway, dried but recent. The patrolmen reported the situation. We sent backup and cordoned off the area as a crime scene. A new squad with hazmat gear heads inside the house, going through every room until they reach the big one at the end. You know what they find?”

A massive stench, and evidence of violence? 

“Bodies. How many?”

“...fifteen.”

As if a bus rammed into him at full speed, Nighteye felt his stomach lurch and jaw drop. He didn’t even bother to correct his composure, so great was his shock. “I’m sorry,” he said incredulously. “I must have misheard; did you say fifteen corpses?”

“The chief said the same thing, and I’ll tell you what I told him: yeah, fifteen. Ten plus five. One-five. This was no faulty sewer. The floor is covered in blood and half of these guys had their heads almost cut off. It’s fucking insane, straight out of a horror movie set.”

“Their heads were almost cut off?” This was sounding more absurd by the minute.

“Yeah, even the tougher guys threw up when they saw it. Not to mention this looks like a drug den. There’s tens of thosands of yen’s worth of packages and powder in the room alone. I’ve been on the job for seven years, and I’ve seen a lot of shit from villains; none of it came close to this level.”

Nighteye stood up, almost knocking his chair over and startling Bubble Girl. “I’ll be over in a few minutes.” He pulled the phone away to slam it on the receiver when the cop yelled at him.

“Wait! No, you can’t come here right now. The situation’s kinda…touchy.”

Touchy?

“I understand that, Lieutenant. But if you want me to help, I need to see the crime scene with my own eyes.”

“I know, but we’re trying to avoid a panic. We’ve chased off snoopers, but if you come in, it’s gonna make them real curious. The last thing we want is the media finding out about the biggest mass-murder in the city’s history since the Quirk Wars. Also, when I meant ‘touchy’, I was also speaking literally. Forensics is gathering whatever isn’t nailed down before the hazmats decontaminate the house. I asked them to delay it, but they said if it waits any longer, the stench is gonna spread through the neighborhood.”

Closing his eyes and pinching his nose, Nighteye inhaled sharply. It was unfortunate, but the officer had a point. For all that he touted delivering assurance through humor to his sidekicks, in some cases, the humor needed to take a back seat.

“Very well. When will they finish?”

“Can’t tell you, but I just got clearance from the chief to send you the photos.”

He immediately sat down at his computer. “I am giving you my private email. It’s secured with the chief, so the firewalls won’t block me.” Rattling off the email, he waited with the phone tucked into his shoulder.

“Um, sir?” Bubble Girl piped up, staring at him in confusion. “What’s going -”

A raised finger stopped her. 

Seconds later, a new email appeared on the webpage. 

“Fair warning, it’s…graphic.”

“Noted.” With a small measure of trepidation, Nighteye opened the email and clicked on the photos.

It was only his years as a pro hero, having been exposed to numerous sadistic villains and the trails of carnage they left behind, and his emotional control, that prevented him from falling backward. Stomachs and necks torn open, blood and drugs coating the room in a carpet of gore. The decay further compounded upon the gore, with skin clinging onto bones and hair falling from the skull. Dried foam and bloating covered each corpse, and many had maggots burrowing their way through muscle and tissue. The officer wasn’t exaggerating in the slightest.

What the hell happened?

“...all of these men died at the same time?” he asked.

“More or less. The official autopsy report will take a while, but we pulled in every coroner and medical examiner in the city to examine them. We got the basic report a few minutes before I called you. These men, whoever they were, all died in similar manners: either their arteries were cut or a stab through the spine or skull. I’m sure if the stab itself didn’t kill them, the blood loss did. They’ve been holed up here for days.”

Nighteye nodded, forcing down the faint tremor in his fingers. “Yes…the foam, the bloating; it matches the timeframe of a few days ago.” He zoomed in on one image, that of a man with dried blood over his hair. “Any idea regarding a murder weapon? Or use of a Quirk?”

“Nothing so far, but whatever it is, there was a freight train behind it. I saw bone fragments lying on the floor next to a corpse, and the examiner said the wound was almost ten centimeters deep. You can’t drive a blade or a pick into bone like that with some serious force. There was a Quirk involved, I’d bet my pension on it, some form of super strength.”

Furiously typing notes, Nighteye mulled over the lieutenant’s words. 

‘Stab wounds deep enough to pierce through bone, bodies remaining hidden until a bystander notices the stench, enough corpses to fill a small cemetery…’

His fingers froze over the keyboard as a memory flashed before his mind’s eye. He gripped the phone as the implications raced.

“Lieutenant,” he slowly said, weighing each word. “Thank you for this information. Rest assured, you have my support. I’ll send you my complete analysis and request a meeting with the chief. But I need to make a call first, do you mind waiting?”

“Eh? Sure. Thanks a million.”

“I would disgrace myself as a hero if I ignored a crime of this magnitude,” he replied. The call ended, and Nighteye immediately dialled another number. The phone rang, and he turned to Bubble Girl, whose face had gone pale - oh, she peeked over the desk. 

“Not a word leaves this room,” he commanded. 

“Ah, oh! Of course, Sir!” she nodded, her voice shaken. “But, where are those photos from? Are they all from one murder?”

Nighteye gritted his teeth, though his growing impatience was tempered by the concern in Awata’s eyes. She was rather green for a three-year Ketsubutsu graduate, having joined his agency only a year ago. The hero agency she worked for suffered a stroke of bad luck thanks to financial decisions out of her control. She moved to Shizuoka for a fresh start, and thanks to her aptitude for investigation and…well, bubbly…nature, Nighteye took her in. Despite some flaws, she’d proven herself many times over, in the office and on the streets.

After the effort she put in for him, it would be a disservice to ignore her. But right now, he needed to concentrate.

“I promise I will give you and Centipeder a full debrief later,” he said. “For now, I need you to gather every patrol report we’ve made in the past six months and go over every violent crime mentioned there.”

She wanted to ask further, but his glare shut down her tongue. Eventually, she nodded and ran out the door. Nighteye returned to his typing, just in time for a voice to cut through the dial tone.

“Hello, this is Naomasa Tsukauchi.”

“Detective, this is Sir Nighteye. Am I interrupting you?”

“Sir Night - no, no! I’m free this time of day. What can I do for you?”

“I have a few questions regarding the case you sent me two weeks ago.”

The detective muttered something before his tone shifted from excited to professional. “The Shinigami case?” he asked. 

“The very same. From what you’ve sent me, you’ve determined that a common factor in all of his confirmed kills is knife cuts or stabs? Strong enough to pierce bone?”

“That’s what we’ve managed to narrow down. We think he’s strong enough to pierce concrete.”

“And how often are the results of his sprees discovered?”

“Whenever someone picks up the smell, usually. He doesn’t clean up much after himself, other than leaving them in alleyways or closed rooms where most people don’t think to enter.” 

Another file popped up on the screen, containing all the information the detective emailed him since they began this correspondence. 

“Sir, is something wrong?”

Nighteye hesitated. Discussing an ongoing investigation with other heroes and policemen was not illegal, but very much frowned upon and invited leaks. The exceptions were if the other person possessed information directly bearing relevance to the case.

This had to be the first time he hoped the information wasn’t relevant.

“There has been a recent murder in my sector bearing characteristics reminiscent of the ones we discussed now. Rotten corpses found decayed inside a drug den, all bearing deep wounds originating from a bladed implement, one wielding with significant force.”

“Really? Wait...you’re not saying that…” the detective’s voice dropped an octave. “In Shizuoka? How?”

“I haven’t confirmed anything yet,” Nighteye cut in. “There’s still plenty of evidence that needs gathering. For all we know, this could be a copycat or someone unrelated. I called to ask if there’s anything else pertinent about Shinigami you can tell me outside of your emails.”

“A copycat? Mph, but still…”  he sighed. “You’re right. There isn’t enough to go on from there. As for anything I left out…you read the news in Tokyo lately?”

The former All Might sidekick opened another browser tab. “I’ve perused through various articles. I assume you refer to the one regarding the increase in police presence within certain neighborhoods? Neighborhoods that were, by coincidence, visited by your resident serial killer?”

“That’s the one. We’ve been trying new tactics to catch this bastard, but we’ve got nothing. Now that I’m hearing about this from you, I wonder if we only pushed the problem to someone else.”

“You’re trying to catch him in the act, thinking he’ll grow overconfident in familiar location, and when he slips up, you’ll get the drop on him. But instead, he comes here.” Nighteye rubbed his chin. “But why here?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, Sir. And we’ve been chasing him for months.”

Humming, the pro hero leaned back, eyes narrowed at the ceiling fan above him. Its faint whirs filled the room, with only the faint sounds of the city reverbating through the window. People trying to get through their lives, people he swore to defend. He stared at the All Might cutout, staring back at him with those eys full of bravado and fearlessness.

Well, there was only one recourse, was there?

“Regardless, if he is the culprit, then rest assured, I’ll be watching him. Criminals or not, no one deserves such a brutal death. Consider myself fully involved in your case. I’ll set up meetings between you and Shizuoka PD’s Chief Raemon. Your expertise in this case could prove invaluable.”

The plastic phone creaked under his grip. There was no way he could allow a killer like Shinigami to roam free. His confirmed kill count was record-breaking. If he was allowed to operate in his city undeterred, then the potential domino effect would be catastrophic.

“Shinigami’s days are numbered, detective. For I. Am. Here.”