Chương 9: Act 1, Chapter 9: Ghost hunting

Day in the story: 27th September (Saturday) I spent the next few days orchestrating the most elaborate smear campaign I'd ever attempted—less marketing—more psychological warfare. The idea was simple. Shiroi had been part of the yakuza. And then something snapped. His whole unit was wiped off the map like they'd never existed. No survivors. Just one ghost left in the aftermath: him. Two years of silence. Grief? Guilt? Or just the need to disappear? Whatever the reason, I had a way to target all of it at once.

I designed a brutal and direct poster. His expressionless, drained face at the center, framed by silhouettes of people unraveling into red and black threads behind him. Above it, in stark white block letters:"SHIROI: FAILURE OF AN ASSASSIN. CALL THE POLICE IF SEEN. WANTED FOR THE MURDER OF EVERY FRIEND HE EVER HAD." And below, a single line in slashed, handwritten font, — A message meant for him alone:"Unravel all of those if you can. I bet you can't. —Usagi."

Then I suited up in my Usagi disguise: hoodie, cargo pants and traditional Japanese mask of a rabbit—and hit the streets. I blanketed the city in posters. Hundreds of prints, plastered overnight. Alleyways, bridges, construction zones, bus stops. And that was just the first wave. Next came the murals. Massive, hand-painted and loud as a siren in their message. I climbed scaffolding, scaled abandoned rooftops, snuck into zones with nothing but a flashlight and a plan. I painted ten of them. Some in the city center.

Others in the docks, where we last crossed paths. The edges of Chinatown too. Even the old market square. Every wall became a reminder of a festering wound. It worked and the city started whispering. People filmed, posted and argued online.

"Who the hell is Shiroi?" Was it a movie trailer? A vigilante's revenge? Social commentary? The mystery spread like wildfire. But none of that mattered as much as his response so I visited each mural daily, waiting for a sign. On Saturday at the dockside wall, one of the first and the boldest, I found a crew already at work. The mural was gone. Not painted over, but unraveled. Chunks of wall had crumbled to dust and rubble. People working on the site had said it was weather damage. I knew better—he'd touched it.

I stood across the street in my civilian clothes, pretending to be just another pedestrian. But inside, I was burning. The trap had worked and the ghost had struck back. And that meant that Penrose was right. Shiroi was ruled by pride and I had just shattered it in front of an entire city. Now, it was time for the finale. Tonight, I'd paint my biggest mural yet. One final bait. Then I'd wait quietly in the shadows nearby, because I wasn't done yet. And I had a plan to catch him without even needing to touch him.

I was nearly done with the final one. It stretched across the backside of an old industrial building by the river, long scheduled for demolition. Decay had claimed most of it, windows shattered, metal skeleton exposed in places, the scent of rust and mildew clinging to the air. But that crumbling husk had something I needed—a fucking big wall. Its back faced the city skyline across the river, a panoramic canvas visible from bridges, waterfront paths and anyone glancing out their window in the late hours.

Perfectly placed for attention. More importantly, it was perfectly placed for him. Because it was an abandoned building in a forgotten district, he wouldn't even need to come to the mural itself. If my hunch was right, he could simply enter the building and touch the inside of that wall and the mural would begin to unravel like the others. No eyes on him and no external interference. I counted on his pride forcing him to go that way. Painting the mural wasn't easy.

The ledge I balanced on was barely wide enough for my boots. I'd secured myself with climbing gear, anchored to the top of the structure, while the river whispered far below me in its cool and endless current. But I didn't care about that. I had never been afraid of heights and I wanted his stupid face to be the last thing people saw as the sun set. I wanted it huge, painted in broad, angry strokes that screamed across the river. Let the whole city see him. Let him see what I made of him.

I was never the kind of person to let events unfold around me of their own accord. I would rather pour sweat and blood into claiming agency than sit comfortably and wait for the story to progress without my hand shaping it. I pulled myself up, climbing in bursts, one hop at a time, boot slapping against concrete, rebounding from the wall. My body moved on instinct, driven by muscle memory and resolve. At the top, I gripped the jagged edge of the ledge and swung myself over with practiced ease.

Wind tousled my hair as I stood tall against the skyline, balancing on steel and grit like a cat. I crossed the rooftop carefully along the narrow ledge. My gaze was locked on the rusted rooftop opening ahead the entire time. This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. Then I dropped down and the inside of the building opened around me. It was silent, cavernous and haunted by the ghosts of long-forgotten industry.

It was one giant, open space and at its center stood a massive, half-gutted machine, flanked by skeletal steel scaffolding. Stairs wrapped around it in tiers, metal groaning faintly with the wind threading through broken windows. The ground floor was slick with a sprawling puddle of stagnant water, dark as oil and just as reflective. Somewhere below, a basement loomed, but I hadn't gone down there. It was completely flooded. The smell of mold and cold iron hung thick in the air.

It was so bad, I could taste it in my mouth. The only light came in shafts—pale, trembling strips of lamplight slipping through cracks in the walls, or bleeding through jagged holes in the roof. Dust motes drifted through the air like ash, lending the stillness an almost sacred quality—fitting, I hoped, for the place of his eternal rest.

"I know you're here!" His voice cracked like a whip through the hollow, waterlogged shell of the building. I didn't even have to wait after all—he stood just inside the entrance, the pale light from the outside cutting a jagged silhouette around his frame.

"You couldn't have run far! I saw you painting this mockery just minutes ago!" His voice echoed through the soaked air.

"Show yourself, so I can properly unravel all of this. Isn't that what you wanted?!" I stepped into the light on the first-floor scaffolding, arms extended to either side in theatrical surrender. The Usagi mask reflected the dusty rays of the evening.

"Okay, okay, Mr. White," I said.

"You got me. I didn't expect you to show up so soon."

"A rabbit after all," he sneered.

"I'm going to catch you and mince you. You are unfortunately too much of a nuisance." His voice was different now. The precision and restraint I'd seen in our past encounters had shattered. He was restless and angry—maybe even a little scared.

"I'm afraid that won't be possible, Shiroi," I said calmly.

"I'm otherwise occupied." Each word I spoke seemed to drive him further over the edge. And that was exactly what I needed, as I hoped that this anger would turn into recklessness.

"Do what you want," he growled.

"Shoot me. Drown me. Cut me. Believe it or not, I've had all of that happen to me. And look, I'm still here. Still standing." God, his ego. He definitely was his own biggest fan. I watched as he stepped forward, his boots disturbing the puddles on the ground below. Ripples spread across the surface, a distorted mirror of his rage.

"You really don't mind if I shoot you?" I asked, fishing for information.

"What are you, bulletproof? Some kind of superhero?"

"I'm more than that, but a sleeper like you wouldn't understand."

"Try me." He froze, becoming still as a statue and the puddle around his boots calmed.

"I have power over the materials and threads," he said slowly, with the reverence of someone reciting scripture. I tilted my head.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's my domain. My Authority," he said.

"I can decompose anything to its base elements. The moment something touches me and I will it, it becomes thread or dust."

"Is that what you did to your yakuza friends?" His body jerked, just slightly, but enough. His jaw clenched and his mask of arrogance cracked.

"That was a fucking accident! Not all of them were supposed to die." He'd buried that regret or pain, but it was still there.

"Well," I said, "your apology doesn't mean shit to them now. But don't worry. I'll take revenge in their name."

"You… were yakuza too?" His voice dropped.

"Hai," I lied in Japanese. He stood in silence for a heartbeat.

"Then I'm sorry for you too," he said.

"But you know I can't let you live."

"I know," I said and began descending the metal stairs, step by slow step. We were twenty feet apart now—face to face, death's breath between us.

"Go ahead," he said, spreading his arms wide.

"Shoot me. I deserve it. But it won't stop me. I'll still come for you."

"Okay," I said simply and drew my Staccato. I pulled the trigger as many times as the magazine allowed. The gunshots cracked like lightning. Shiroi staggered with every hit and eventually dropped to one knee, grunting in pain but refusing to lose consciousness. He was growing stronger—more accustomed to the agony—and yet his head still snapped back whenever a bullet struck his forehead. I had hoped that, faced with such relentless gunfire, he would finally yield.

But I wasn't about to stand there admiring his endurance. I had a plan in case he didn't. I bolted to the side, toward the wall. My hand found the T-shaped steel rod I'd stashed earlier. In one motion, I leapt and caught the overhanging staircase, swinging myself up by my rubber-gloved hands. The rod flew from my grip and landed just as I intended, wedged between two frayed, exposed wires.

The lower end dipped into the puddle and a blinding flash lit the room as electricity surged through the water like a hunting anaconda. Shiroi's body spasmed in response, muscles locked in violent convulsions. He collapsed backward, limbs flailing before falling limp in the shallow pool.

I hung there for a few seconds with my knees tucked—suspended like a bat beneath the scaffolding—while my heart pounded like a war drum I lowered myself slowly, arms trembling from the strain, until my boots finally touched the surface of the water. They were rubber-insulated, so I would've been fine standing the whole time, but hanging there had felt safer. I felt like the danger couldn't get me if I just stayed above it. I reached out and gripped one of the wires by its still-insulated length.

With a careful tug, I pulled it free, breaking the circuit. My chest heaved, but despite that, I felt like I could finally breathe. That had to be enough. No one survives that kind of exposure. Slowly, I stepped toward him. Every movement was calculated. The water rippled around my legs as I reloaded the gun and aimed the pistol directly at his chest. Just to be sure and just to confirm the kill.

I was standing over him, ready to put a few more shots into him for good fucking measure, when he suddenly rolled away in a blur of motion. My finger squeezed the trigger too late—he was already gone, moving just fast enough that my senses couldn't properly track him. His leg swept beneath me and I went down hard into the water, the splash swallowing me whole. Before I could recover, he was on me. His knees slammed into my ribs.

One hand crashed into my gun, and I watched—helpless—as the Staccato disintegrated in my grip, metal and synthetic fibers uncoiling as the bullets turned to dust half a breath later. Panic choked me, but instinct took over. I grabbed his wrists through the fabric of his clothes and locked them in place before his palms could touch my skin. No matter what happened, I couldn't let him make contact bare-handed. We grappled in the churning water as my breath started to slip away.

He was stronger than me by orders of magnitude that had nothing to do with gender. There was something inhuman in it.

"It was a good try, rabbit," he said, calm now, but with a hint of sadness in his voice.

"Clever. But while I can't unravel the current, I have some Authority over the threads, and thus am able to redirect most of it. You really thought that would kill me?" He wasn't smiling. Terror gripped me. This was it and I was done. I couldn't outmatch him in strength. Couldn't outlast him in power. Couldn't run. Couldn't fight. And in that moment with my chest being crushed, my limbs burning and soul collapsing, I wanted out. I wished to be anywhere but here. I wished for another chance. I wished for escape.