(Content Warning: This chapter contains scenes of psychological distress, violence, and mature themes, including sexual objectification, which may be disturbing to some readers.)
The immediate aftermath in the cold, cavernous warehouse was a surreal tableau. The bodies of the masked cultists lay where they had fallen, stark punctuation marks in a sentence of extreme violence. Heavily armed FBI agents secured the perimeter with a cold, impersonal efficiency, their movements a stark contrast to the very human chaos of the preceding minutes. In the centre of it all, two strange, quiet figures held the room's attention: L, the ghost of an investigator, and Near, the child who commanded an army.
"You said her name was Akane," Hercule Poirot stated, his voice the first to cut through the professional din. He had regained his composure and was now observing Near with an intensity usually reserved for a prime suspect. "And these others? They were her subordinates? A cult, you believe?"
Near, who was delicately examining one of the fallen cultist's masks with a gloved hand, nodded without looking up. "That is correct, Monsieur Poirot. Akane Tanaka. She was the leader of a small but dangerously zealous splinter group known as the Children of B. They believe the killer known as B.B. is a divine messenger, a Bodhisattva of wrath sent to purify the world through chaos." His voice was a high, clear monotone, a child's voice delivering a report of utter horror.
"They are responsible for at least three murders that we know of," Near continued, finally turning his piercing grey eyes on the assembled detectives. "Ritualistic killings, designed to emulate their master's 'artistry.' Why Akane chose to actively impersonate B.B. herself, however, is a variable we have not yet solved. It may have been a directive from the real B.B., or it may have been her own delusion of grandeur."
The sheer, layered complexity of the situation seemed to finally overwhelm the great Sherlock Holmes. He threw his hands up in the air, a gesture of pure, exasperated surrender, and let out a short, sharp laugh that held no humour at all.
"Maddening!" he exclaimed, his voice tight with a nervous energy. "It is utterly maddening! We are not merely hunting a killer. We are hunting a god of death, who is being hunted by a ghost of an investigator, who is being impersonated by the leader of a murder cult, which is now being dismantled by an American child! I have faced the Napoleon of crime himself, and I tell you, Watson, this chessboard is so convoluted, so bafflingly complex, that Professor Moriarty himself would be utterly bewildered!"
It was Miss Marple, her expression one of profound sadness, who brought the conversation back to a human level. She looked at Near, not with the awe or suspicion of the others, but with a simple, grandmotherly concern.
"If you don't mind an old woman asking, dear," she said gently, "how is it that a boy so very young has come to be a world-class investigator, commanding such… authority?"
Near's expression did not change. He processed the question with the same detached calm he had processed the crime scene. "I was raised at Wammy's House," he said, the name clearly meaning nothing to them. "It is a privately funded institution in England, designed to cultivate intellect. A human perfection laboratory, as its founder called it. I do not know who my mother or father is. I was selected at a young age based on my cognitive abilities and have spent my entire life being trained for this purpose. Some of the other agents on my team have a nickname for me." He paused, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "They call me the 'Lab Rat Detective'."
A heavy, uncomfortable silence descended. To hear such a story, told with such a lack of emotion, was more profoundly disturbing than any of the day's violence. Hastings and Watson exchanged a look of deep unease. Poirot seemed to shrink into himself, saddened by this glimpse into a childhood so devoid of warmth.
"We were alerted to Akane's activities two weeks ago," Near continued, changing the subject back to the facts of the case. "We have had her under surveillance ever since. Her decision to abduct one of you was an unexpected escalation. It is a matter of pure luck that my team was close enough to intervene in time. A few minutes later, Captain," he said, his gaze falling on Hastings, "and your outcome would have been… unfortunate."
Across the city, in a smoky, neon-lit alley in the heart of Shinjuku, Akane Tanaka was having a very different kind of day. She stood in a cramped, stuffy changing room behind the stage of a gentleman's club, the air thick with the cloying scent of cheap perfume and desperation. She carefully adjusted the fluffy white tail on the back of the satin bunny suit she wore. The corset was painfully tight, pushing her breasts up and out in a way that was designed to be alluring but only made it difficult to breathe.
She hated this. She hated the costume, hated the feel of the fishnet stockings against her skin, hated the leering, pathetic eyes of the men she would have to serve. But it was the perfect cover. No one looked for a divine messenger, a harbinger of a new world order, in a place like this. Here, she was just another piece of meat, and that made her invisible.
She picked up a tray of beers and pushed her way out into the main club, a forced, practiced smile plastered on her face. She navigated the tables, enduring the casual gropes and drunken propositions with a cold, internal detachment. She delivered a round of drinks to a table in a dark corner, where a single man sat, his face completely obscured by a dark hoodie. As she turned to leave, his hand shot out and gripped her arm, his fingers like steel.
"You're new," he rasped, his voice a low growl. "I like new." He slid a thick wad of yen onto her tray. "The private room. For some… fun time."
A wave of nausea and disgust washed over her, but she kept her smile in place. This was the job. This was the price of invisibility. "Of course, sir," she said, her voice a syrupy purr.
She led him to a small, private booth at the back of the club, the red velvet curtains doing little to block out the thumping music. She turned to him, ready to endure whatever humiliation was to come.
The hooded man looked at her, and she could feel his gaze crawling over her, even though she could not see his eyes. "You are a very good girl, Akane," he said, his voice no longer a drunken rasp, but a familiar, chilling purr.
Her blood ran cold. He lowered his hood.
It was him. The real him. The man with the dark hair and the blood-red eyes. The man she worshipped. It was B.B.
A wave of ecstatic relief washed over her, and she was about to fall to her knees. But his next words froze her in place.
"Impersonating me is very rude, you know," he said, a playful, almost childish pout on his lips. "And to fail so spectacularly, to get caught by a little boy in pyjamas… it's a terrible stain on my artistic reputation." He shook his head, a look of genuine sadness in his crimson eyes. "It's such a pity you will have to die." His smile was wide, and utterly devoid of warmth. "After all, only ONE artist can live."
Before Akane could scream, before she could even process the betrayal, he moved. In one fluid, impossibly fast motion, a straight razor appeared in his hand. He cupped her chin with one hand, and with the other, he drew the blade across her throat. There was a wet, tearing sound, and then a gush of impossible heat.
He held her for a moment as the life drained from her, his expression one of detached curiosity. He gently laid her down on the velvet seat, wiped the blood from his face and hands with a silk handkerchief from his pocket, and straightened his hoodie.
He pushed back the curtain and stepped out of the private room, melting back into the oblivious, leering crowd of the gentleman's club, just another shadow leaving the stage of his latest, perfect performance.