"It's been nearly forty-eight hours since those four students went missing in Kabukicho," groaned Senior Detective Hiro as he lit a cigarette, lounging in his squeaky office chair at the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department.
The morning buzz filled the room—phones ringing, keyboards clacking, footsteps thudding like nervous drums. It smelled of old coffee and pressure.
Hiro scratched his graying head, scanning the room's organized chaos.
"This is turning into a real nightmare," he muttered, turning to the window where the Tokyo skyline glared back. "Four kids walk into a red-light district and vanish in one of the most surveilled cities on Earth."
He tapped an ashtray overflowing with frustration. "The CCTV caught them going into that building… then static. Cameras go black. Clean cut. Professional."
He shuffled through photos and field reports, each more useless than the last.
"And the storefront? Doesn't even exist on paper. No records. No lease. Just an empty shell."
Across the desk sat Junior Detective Akiya Riko—composed, sharply dressed, her face unreadable. Though still new, she carried herself with discipline that made others underestimate her—and regret it.
"There's a data gap," she said, pointing to the footage timestamps. "Footage jumps. Someone erased this deliberately."
Hiro exhaled. "Yeah. Like the whole damn place was built to disappear."
He leaned back and stared at the ceiling tiles.
"The university hasn't told the parents yet. Especially not the Americans. If we don't get ahead of this, we're looking at a diplomatic landmine."
Akiya nodded, eyes narrowing. "I'll call them."
"You sure?" he asked.
"I was hired as a translator before joining CID. I'll keep it professional."
As she stood, Hiro raised a hand, voice firmer than usual. "Akiya—whatever happens, you do not accept help from the family. Not even if they insist. We handle this in-house. No vigilantes. Understood?"
She hesitated for a moment, then nodded.
He added, quieter, "You're the only one I trust not to screw this up."
In the secure communications room, Akiya sat alone beneath a sterile overhead bulb. The international dial pad glowed faintly in front of her. She reviewed her notes, heart steady, mind focused.
Missing for forty-eight hours. No signs of forced entry. Four students, one American. Leads: none. Witnesses: useless. CCTV: corrupted.
She entered the number for the Horne residence in Montana and drew a deep breath.
Brrrr.
Brrrr.
Brrrr—click.
"Hello?"
The voice was low and gravel-thick, like it had been aged in oak. The accent was distinctly American, but not casual—structured, disciplined, weathered.
"Ah, yes. Hello. Is this the Horne residence?" Her accent clung to the syllables like frost.
"Yes. This is Horne. What can I help you with?"
"This is the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department, Criminal Investigations Division. I am calling to report that a member of your household has gone missing in Tokyo."
A pause.
Not just silence—pressure. The air in the room seemed to tighten, like something old and heavy had leaned in.
Then:
"Hold, please."
The line went dead—but not the connection. Akiya blinked, suddenly cold.
Moments later, a new voice cut through the line—fluent Japanese, delivered with the clipped formality of someone raised inside a dojo.
"What has happened to my grandson?"
Akiya's spine straightened. "Sir, your grandson, Edward Horne, has been reported missing by Tokyo University. He hasn't been seen in forty-eight hours. I was assigned to—"
"Someone will arrive within twenty-four hours."
"You will meet him at Narita Airport. Six a.m. sharp."
"Sir, that really isn't nec—"
"You will not speak his name to others. You will understand why soon."
Click.
Dead line.
She stared at the receiver. Her fingertips were white against the plastic.
It wasn't just the language. It was the command. Cold. Regal. Practiced. Whoever that man was, he wasn't a civilian—not in spirit.
And that voice—the second one—it hadn't just spoken at her. It had carved into the room, into her. For a moment, she felt like a pawn in a game that started centuries before she was born.
She stood slowly and whispered, "What... just walked into our world?"
The sky was still dark, the city suspended between stars and first light. The air outside Narita Terminal 1 was crisp, laced with early spring chill. Inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, blending with the sterile hum of international calm.
Detective Hiro stood hunched in a government-issue trench coat, nursing his third vending machine coffee. He looked like a man bracing for war—or maybe already fighting one.
Two plainclothes officers loitered nearby, speaking in clipped tones and occasionally checking their waistbands.
Riko Akiya stood beside Hiro, spine straight, coat buttoned to the throat, hair pinned back in perfect order. She hadn't slept, but her posture refused to show it. Her eyes never left the corridor beyond immigration.
"I expected a grieving mother," Hiro muttered. "Maybe a crying sibling. This isn't what I imagined."
"They didn't cry," Riko said. "Didn't even flinch. Just said, 'He'll arrive.' Like it was a scheduled strike."
Hiro grunted. "Not they. He. One man. Flying across the Pacific with no name, no clearance, no coordination. That doesn't happen. Not without pull."
"You think this is ex-military?" she asked.
"No," Hiro said. "Worse. This feels like someone older than the system. Someone who doesn't need permission to move."
A pause.
"I read Edward's file," Riko murmured. "Engineering major. Quiet. Top scores. But there's no mention of family. Just a donation from something called the Horne Foundation. No background. No press. It's like the kid came from fog."
"Fog with sharp teeth," Hiro muttered, flicking ash into the tray beside the bench.
Riko hesitated, then added, "And one more thing. I checked again—there's no record of Edward even applying for a student visa. Not on any digital system."
Hiro turned to her slowly. "You mean he...?"
"I mean either someone scrubbed it, or it was never entered in the first place."
A new flight deplaned. Another overhead announcement droned in three languages.
Riko inhaled slowly.
Something was coming.
And whatever it was…
It wasn't here to ask questions.
The minutes passed. The tension thickened like humidity in a closed room. Passengers emerged—businessmen, tourists, families. Jet-lagged and disinterested in anything but customs.
One man grumbled, "I swear those seats get worse every year. My spine's a casualty."
Riko pointed. "That one? Tall, suit, purposeful?"
Hiro followed her gaze.
The man veered left, immediately arguing on the phone in rapid Japanese. Dinner plans.
Hiro sighed. "We'll know when it's him."
More silence. Five minutes. Then ten.
One of the plainclothes officers checked his watch. "Where the hell is this American?"
"We wait," Hiro said.
Then—movement. Against the flow. Contradictory.
Slap.
Slap.
Slap.
And there he was.
A broad-shouldered American strolled through the gates like he owned the airport. Bright Hawaiian shirt. Cargo pants. Flip-flops slapping against polished tile. Aviators. Duffle bag.
He looked like a beach bar bouncer—but one built like a truck. Arms like steel beams. Legs that could kick through a car door. Easily 6'2".
He stopped. Scanned the waiting area. Locked eyes with the cops.
Hiro leaned forward, cigarette hanging from his lip. "You've got to be f***ing kidding me…"
Riko blinked. Please don't let this clown be ours.
The man grinned.
"You guys must be the cops my grandfather warned me about."
Voice: low, Southern, confident. Playful drawl on top of something sharp.
Riko stepped forward, bowing. "Welcome to Tokyo, Mr…?"
He raised his sunglasses. His amber eyes gleamed like burnished gold—too calm, too clear.
"Just call me Silas. Silas Horne."
The smirk didn't leave his face.
Hiro reluctantly extended a hand. "Well. Welcome, Silas. Hope your flight wasn't too rough."
Silas shook firmly. "Seats were garbage. Think I lost five years off my back."
Riko stood back, arms crossed, skeptical.
This? This is who we've been warned about?
His brother vanishes in Tokyo's weirdest case in years, and the family sends a man in flip-flops?
She muttered, "Unbelievable…"
And then—Silas glanced at her.
Just a look.
But it hit like a hammer.
There was weight behind his eyes. Experience. Stillness. Power. Like someone who'd watched entire worlds burn—and just kept walking.
Suddenly...
She wasn't so sure he was a clown after all.