The station swallowed us whole at 5:47 AM.
Cold fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like angry hornets as we pushed through crowds of salarymen with identical black suits and hollow eyes. The air reeked of diesel and desperation, a far cry from the woodsmoke and horse sweat of imperial courier stations. My boots stuck slightly to the tile floor with each step, some unseen modern filth trying to claim me.
Maruyama moved ahead of us like a battle-weary general, his overnight bag slung over one shoulder. "Stay close," he muttered over his shoulder, the words nearly swallowed by the echoing din. "And for the love of all that's holy, don't touch anything that looks like it might beep."
Hongbing's knuckles turned white around the straps of his backpack. I watched his gaze track the shifting crowd with military precision, analysing threats in a world where every flickering fluorescent light and buzzing vending machine might as well have been enemy artillery.
The station announcement system roared to life. "THE 6:05 LIMITED EXPRESS FOR TOKYO WILL NOW BOARD ON PLATFORM..."
His entire body locked up. His head snapped toward the ceiling speakers, eyes wide as a spooked horse's. I saw his throat work as he swallowed hard, the apple bobbing violently above his collar.
"...Track three. Please have your tickets ready."
The arriving train's brakes shrieked like a dying animal. Hongbing recoiled so violently that he nearly bowled over a businessman reading a newspaper. The doors slid open with a pneumatic hiss that had him backing up until his shoulders hit a support pillar.
"It's not alive," I said under my breath, gripping his elbow. The muscle beneath my fingers felt like coiled steel.
"Then why does it breathe?" he shot back, eyeing the doors like they might snap shut on his limbs. His chest rose and fell too quickly, the way it had during that awful retreat from Liaodong when we'd been forced to leave our wounded behind.
We boarded like men stepping onto unstable ice. The interior was all harsh plastics and synthetic fabrics, the seats arranged with unnatural precision. Hongbing hesitated before sitting, testing the cushion with one hand as if expecting it to bite. When the doors sealed with a final-sounding clunk, I saw his throat work as he swallowed hard.
It's just a carriage," I lied through my teeth. "Like the emperor's palanquin, but... longer."
Hongbing's glare could have melted steel. "The emperor's palanquin didn't have a thousand glowing eyes," he muttered, eyeing the overhead LED displays.
We found our seats. Hongbing folded himself into the chair like it might bite him, his knees jammed against the seatback in front of us. When the automated voice announced our departure, I saw his knuckles go white around the armrests.
Afterwards, the world outside became a watercolour blur.
"By the Nine Heavenly Gates," I breathed, pressing my forehead to the cool glass. Buildings that should have taken hours to pass vanished in heartbeats. Whole villages disappeared between blinks. I pressed my forehead to the cool glass, mesmerised by this impossible speed, faster than any messenger hawk, any battle steed I'd ever ridden. For one giddy moment, I understood why Maruyama called this "progress."
Next to me, my partner made a small, wounded noise.
Hongbing had transformed into a statue of living tension. His fingers dug into the armrests hard enough to leave grooves in the cheap plastic. Every rattle of the tracks travelled up his rigid spine. Each automated announcement in that cheerful female voice made his shoulders creep toward his ears.
"Next stop, Shin-Osaka," the speaker trilled.
Hongbing's knee jerked, nearly upending the tray table where Maruyama had placed his paper coffee cup. "What sorcery..."
"Just a recording," Maruyama sighed, catching his drink before it spilled. He looked about as comfortable as a eunuch in a brothel. "Try to relax."
The advice might as well have been delivered to one of the upholstered seats for all the good it did. Hongbing's breathing had taken on a worrying rhythm, too quick on the inhale, hitched on the exhale. I recognised the pattern from night watches after particularly bloody battles, when even veteran soldiers started at shadows.
Then the toilet flushed.
The sound was abrupt and metallic, a whooshing roar from the rear of the carriage that might as well have been a cannon shot. Hongbing's entire body spasmed. His knee connected with the tray table hard enough to send Maruyama's coffee sloshing over the rim.
"In the name of the Yellow Emperor....!"
"Control yourself! It's just the lavatory," Maruyama hissed, mopping at the spill with a handful of napkins. His patience hung by a thread I could practically see fraying. "People need to... You know. Dispose of things."
Hongbing didn't appear to hear him. His pupils had dilated until only a thin ring of brown remained around black. Sweat beaded along his hairline. The fingers gripping the armrests trembled faintly - Liu Hongbing, who could hold a throwing dagger perfectly still for hours, reduced to tremors by a toilet.
I reached over to squeeze his wrist. His skin burned fever-hot beneath my fingers. "Breathe," I murmured in our native dialect. "It's just noise."
He blinked at me like a man surfacing from deep water. For half a second, I thought he might come back to himself. Then the train's horn sounded.
The blast was deafening at this proximity, a shrieking, mechanical wail that vibrated in my molars. Hongbing's reaction wasn't human.
He screamed.
Not a shout of surprise, not a curse. This was the raw, gut-wrenching shriek of a man being flayed alive. The kind of sound that still haunted my dreams from the massacre at Chengde. Every head in the car whipped toward us. A toddler three rows back burst into tears.
Maruyama looked ready to commit seppuku with a plastic spork. "First trip!" he announced to the gawking passengers, forcing a laugh that sounded more like a death rattle. "My nephew's never been on a train before! Nerves, haha!"
I grabbed Hongbing's shoulders. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
Hongbing wasn't listening. He'd curled in on himself like a dying spider, fingers twisted so tightly in his hair I feared he might tear chunks out. His breathing came in ragged, wet gasps. When the toilet flushed again, he sobbed into my shoulder like a child. Tears streamed down his face as he gasped, "Kill me. Please. Just end it."
My blood ran cold.
This wasn't battle nerves. This was something deeper, something primal. The great Liu Hongbing, who'd once stitched his own gut wound with fishing line and a stolen needle, was reduced to a shuddering wreck by modern plumbing.
An elderly woman across the aisle clutched her purse tightly. A teenager snickered behind his hand. My vision went red at the edges.
"Show some respect," I snarled in my broken Japanese, not caring if they understood. "He's a decorated war..."
Maruyama kicked my shin hard enough to bruise. "We're getting off at the next stop," he muttered through clenched teeth.
Shin-Yokohama Station couldn't come fast enough. When the doors opened, we half-carried Hongbing onto the platform, his legs moving with the uncoordinated jerkiness of a newborn foal. The crisp morning air did little to ease whatever demons haunted him. He swayed on his feet, eyes unfocused, sweat darkening the collar of his stupid cat shirt.
A grandmother with kind eyes pressed a chilled water bottle into my hands. A salaryman offered gum with an awkward bow. An old man in a tweed cap, the sort who might have been a scholar or a retired general, took one look at Hongbing and pulled Maruyama aside.
"Noise sensitivity," I overheard him say in hushed tones. "Shell shock, perhaps? I remember my grandfather being like this when he came back from service"
Maruyama nodded along with the grim acceptance of a man out of options. Their conversation continued in rapid Japanese, but I caught the words "ear protection" and "sweets" before the old man hurried off toward the shops.
Ten eternal minutes later, we boarded a different train - slower, with fewer passengers. The old man reappeared as we settled in, bearing a small cardboard box like it contained imperial treasures. Inside rested a pair of enormous, fluffy earmuffs.
"Try these," he said, gently fitting them over Hongbing's ears. The transformation was instantaneous. Hongbing's shoulders slumped like cut puppet strings. The death grip on the armrests eased. His breathing slowed to something approaching normal.
The old man then produced a melon bun still warm from the oven. Hongbing regarded it with the suspicion of a man who'd been offered poisoned delicacies at court banquets. One cautious sniff. A tentative nibble. Then he was devouring the thing like a starving beggar, crumbs scattering across his lap.
Maruyama sagged in relief. "Thank you," he told the old man in that formal tone he reserved for serious debts.
Hongbing, mouth full of pastry, didn't speak. But when his fingers brushed mine in silent gratitude, they no longer trembled.
By the time we reached Tokyo proper, he'd fallen asleep against the window, the earmuffs askew like a child's misplaced hat. Morning light gilded his features, smoothing away the years and the scars and the weight of whatever private hell he'd just endured. In this moment, he looked his true age, not the battle-hardened assassin he was known to be.
Maruyama nudged him awake as the train slowed. "We're here."
Hongbing blinked owlishly, one cheek creased from the seat fabric. Then, with devastating sincerity: "More melon bread?"
I laughed so hard I nearly choked. Maruyama groaned like a man pushed beyond mortal limits. And just like that, the spell was broken.
We stepped onto the platform together, two misplaced military men and their reluctant guardian, ready to face whatever fresh madness Tokyo had in store. Behind us, the train doors hissed shut on the worst journey of our lives. Ahead lay dorms, and lectures, and the terrifying prospect of blending in.
But first, I decided, watching Hongbing scan the station for bakeries, we were absolutely getting more melon bread.