The shop's interior was in chaos—bolts of fabric unraveled across the floor, measuring tapes snapped and discarded, and several mannequins toppled like fallen soldiers.
The meticulous order that had defined Hoshino's establishment lay shattered.
"Mr. Hoshino?" Kane called again, his voice dropping to a whisper as he noticed a thin trail of crimson liquid streaking across the polished hardwood.
Cyrus moved silently beside him, his body coiled with tension. He gestured toward the counter, behind which the blood trail disappeared.
Kane nodded, drawing his pistol.
A weak groan emanated from behind the counter.
Kane vaulted over it while Cyrus circled, both converging on Mr. Hoshino's crumpled form.
The elderly tailor clutched his arm, blood seeping between his fingers from a jagged wound.
Something bit me," he wheezed.
His arm was shredded along the forearm—rows of puncture wounds radiated with faint green light, like corrupted stitchwork.
