It had been almost ten years since the night her world collapsed. Ten winters of hunger, rage, and silence. Miyako Shiranami was no longer the little girl who had wept among the rubble: now she walked with a steady stride through the dark quarters of the city, wrapped in a black jacket far too large for her thin frame, as if she had stolen the clothes from a ghost.
The industrial district was a rusted graveyard. Rotting chimneys rose into the sky like broken teeth; the walls, daubed with graffiti, seemed to scream in garish colours all that the city wished to suppress. No one respected the law here, not even in pretence. And at the centre of that decayed scenery stood the mercenaries' building: an old transport office abandoned and recycled into a den.
Inside, the air reeked of tobacco, sweat, and gun oil. The walls were adorned with faded bikini calendars, torn posters from underground fights, and bullets embedded like trophies. The murmur was constant: quick conversations, coarse laughter, the metallic click of weapons being cleaned.
When Miyako crossed the doorway, several heads turned towards her. Some greeted her with a brief nod; others lowered their eyes, uneasy. Everyone knew who she was: the girl who appeared and vanished like a shadow, the one who pulled off impossible missions and returned with that twisted smile no one could decipher.
'Miyako!' bellowed a rough, mocking voice.
It was Ryo "The Axe", a tattooed giant nearly two metres tall, broad-chested, scar across his chin. He laughed as though life itself were an endless bar. He slammed the metal table where he was dismantling a rifle and thundered:'Come to teach us how to disappear today?'
Miyako tilted to one side, a malicious smile painted across her face.'Of course, Ryo. Want me to start by making your enormous empty head vanish?'
Laughter exploded around the room. Ryo laughed too, slapping the table in amusement.'One of these days that tongue of yours is going to cost you dearly.'
In a shadowed corner sat Katsuo "The Fox", gaunt, sharp-eyed, with a venomous smile. He always had a cigarette lit, always listened more than he spoke. Seeing her, he exhaled a grey plume.'The ghost girl never arrives without reason,' he murmured.
Miyako fixed her gaze on him for a moment, then burst into a shrill, high-pitched laugh.'Always so poetic, Katsuo! Tell me, do you rehearse those lines in front of a mirror?'
Some chuckled, others fell silent in discomfort. Miyako savoured the effect: it was like tossing a bomb and waiting to see who flinched first.
She crossed the hall with steps almost like a dance, ignoring the whispers. The metal staircase groaned under her boots as she climbed, humming an invented tune, a strange chant echoing along the dim corridor.
There, behind a steel door, was the office of Daisuke Kurogane, "The Boss". The heart of the den.
Miyako paused for an instant. The flickering fluorescent bathed her face in shifting shadows. Deep in her mind, her mother's and brother's voices whispered:'Don't be late for supper, Miyako… Ren is waiting with the cards…'
She smiled to herself, a crooked, almost childlike grin.'Don't worry, I'll be on time,' she murmured, as if truly answering them.
Shaking her head, chuckling softly, she knocked twice on the door.
From the other side came a deep voice:'Enter.'
Miyako pushed the door with an exaggerated twist, like an actress stepping onstage, and vanished into the office gloom.
The office of Daisuke was a mausoleum of smoke and papers. A solitary lamp spilled yellow light over a desk littered with cigarette ends, empty bottles, and open files sprawled like cadavers. The air was so heavy it seemed even the shadows smoked.
Behind the desk, Daisuke Kurogane looked up. With his perfectly pressed grey suit and the scar slicing across his eyebrow, he resembled a statue of steel amid the chaos.'Miyako,' he said gravely, motioning to the chair. 'Sit.'
She dropped into it as though she weighed nothing, legs crossed, fingers drumming on the armrest.'Tell me it's not another idiot I need to stuff in a black bag,' she murmured with her crooked smile.
Daisuke didn't smile. He lit a cigarette and watched her through the haze.'No. This one is special. Toru Hanada. Ex-convict. He's meddling in business that doesn't belong to him and our client… lacks a sense of humour.'
Miyako let out a dry, exaggerated laugh.'Ex-con, pyromaniac, and troublesome! Oh, sounds like the perfect date.' She snatched the envelope from the desk and tore it open. 'So? Want me to kill him grinning or weeping?'
Inside were blurred photographs of the target: a tattooed, muscular man, scars across his arms. Police reports blotched with ink described him: explosive violence, localised arson.
Miyako clicked her tongue.'Brilliant. Another fool who thinks setting things alight makes him interesting.'
Daisuke regarded her with that familiar mix of patience and distrust.'Do it quickly. Do it cleanly. No attracting attention.'
She rose, sliding the envelope into her jacket. Then leaned towards him, smiling as if sharing a secret.'Cleanly? You know I've never been fond of cleaning, Boss.'
She turned on her heel and left the office with laughter that ricocheted off the walls, light and unsettling at once.
The mission had begun, and Miyako already thrilled at the chaos ahead.
When she emerged from Daisuke's office, the noise of the hall struck her like a wave: clinking glasses, hoarse voices, laughter bursting against the metal walls. It was like stepping into a haunted tavern where everyone carried guns instead of guitars.
'The boss's favourite!' roared Ryo "The Axe", raising a tankard of beer. 'Come on, invisible girl, this round's on me!'
Miyako arched a brow and, instead of walking solemnly, hopped twice towards the table, almost dancing. She snatched the tankard he offered and, without a toast, downed a long swig. Then suddenly barked a harsh laugh that turned a few heads her way.'Ugh… tastes like rusted nails and lightning bolts!' she exclaimed, slamming the tankard down. 'I want another!'
Katsuo "The Fox" smiled with his venomous calm.'Always so… refined, Miyako.'
She glanced sideways at him and stuck out her tongue like a cheeky child, before drinking again.'So what?' she said, foam on her lips. 'Life's short, isn't it? A bullet here, a power there… and poof! Party's over.'
Ryo guffawed so loudly he nearly spilt his beer.'At last, someone who gets it!'
The chatter grew chaotic. Ryo boasted of brawls, exaggerating so much he pounded the table, making the tankards tremble. Miyako laughed at everything, though never at the right moment. Sometimes she erupted into laughter just as Katsuo spoke seriously, other times she mimicked the drunken voices in a shrill parody, until several laughed with her, infected by her strange energy.
'Miyako, are you sure you're not on drugs?' Ryo asked between chuckles.
She stared at him wide-eyed, leaned forward, and whispered like she was confiding a secret.'What if I told you my drug is the voices in my head?'
For a second, Ryo froze, unsure whether to laugh or worry. Katsuo broke the tension with an acidic remark.'The worst part is—she means it.'
Miyako giggled, her laugh swelling into cackles as she flopped back in her chair.'Of course I mean it! But don't judge me—everyone here is broken. I just admit it with style.'
Hours slipped away in beer, smoke, and overflowing laughter. When she finally rose to leave, she swayed briefly, then recovered with a theatrical spin.'I'm off, lads. Got…' she mimed firing a gun with her fingers '…work to do.'
Ryo clapped in hysterics, Katsuo only watching with his thin smile. Miyako left the hall with laughter still clinging to her skin.
In her head, her mother's and brother's voices laughed too. That blend of beer and ghosts made her feel, for a fleeting instant, dangerously alive.
The city at night was an insomniac monster. Damp streets, neon lights flickering, puddles reflecting adverts like shattered mirrors. Miyako wandered the pavements like a shadow in boots, swaying slightly from drink, humming an off-key tune only she seemed to know.'One, two, three… bang!' she sang, shooting a streetlamp with her fingers.
Passers-by averted their gaze. Nobody wanted to notice a girl smiling to herself in the dark.
Her flat was on the fifth floor of a crumbling block, damp walls, rusted rails. Inside, the gloom wrapped her like a familiar embrace. She slammed the door and let out a brief laugh.'I'm home!' she cried, tossing her jacket onto a chair.
The echo bounced off the bare walls. She heard it as if someone answered.'What? Didn't you wait for me at supper?' she said, addressing the empty table where she had set old plates, mismatched cutlery, crooked chairs, as though her parents and brother still lived there.
She collapsed into a chair, elbows on the table. Her eyes lingered on the vacant seat opposite.'Ren, I bet you beat me at cards again… cheat.' She chuckled to herself, a damp gleam in her eyes.
Her gaze shifted to the shelf, where the metal box holding her father's weapon lay. She staggered over, opened it, and drew out the double-barrelled machine gun. She stroked it tenderly, like a sacred relic.'We'll dance tonight, won't we?' she whispered, lips cracked in a smile. 'You and me against the world.'
The flat was dim, lit only by a naked bulb swinging with each draft. Clothes littered the floor, empty bottles, a few yellowed playing cards that once belonged to Ren.
Miyako laid the weapon on the table, staring at it as if it were a toy. Her fingers traced the twin barrels, one cold and metallic, the other with the special slot for darts that weakened powers.'Look how handsome you are tonight,' she whispered, tilting her head as though it might reply. 'Father would be proud… or furious.' She shrugged and laughed.
She dragged items from a battered wardrobe: a pair of black gloves, tall boots, a belt with makeshift holsters. She spread them across the bed like an altar.'Mum, does this suit me?' she asked, twirling before the cracked mirror. Her reflection smiled back in crooked fragments. 'Of course… you always say I'm the prettiest.'
While she loaded the magazines, she began to hum. The melody was childlike, a broken lullaby, interrupted by short bursts of laughter that filled the flat.'One, two, three, I hide again…' she sang, snapping a clip in place. 'Four, five, six, and I shoot in the head!'
On the table beside the weapon lay the envelope with photos of Toru Hanada. She stroked his tattooed face with a fingertip, as though caressing him.'Poor thing… he doesn't yet know he's my date tonight.'
She moved to the window and looked out at the city. Neon painted her face in flashing hues: blue, red, green. Her eyes burned with a strange fire, a blend of rage and thrill.'They say heroes are the ones who bring order.' She spat the word heroes with contempt. 'I say order is overrated.'
She slung the weapon over her shoulder, picked up a small knife, and twirled it between her fingers as though it were a toy. Then switched off the light, letting the darkness cover all.
Before leaving, she paused before the table with its empty plates. She bent as if bowing to invisible guests.'Don't wait up. I promise not to make too much noise.'
And with a crooked smile, she stepped through the door.
The city at night was an insomniac monster. Its streets breathed smoke and neon, a labyrinth of shadows pierced by distant sirens and drunken laughter lost in alleys. Miyako walked through the crowd like a ghost, invisible not by power but by indifference: no one looked at anyone in that dump of souls. The weapon hung from her shoulder, hidden by the jacket, each step pounding in her skull like a war drum. She couldn't stop smiling.'Do you know where we're going, Mum?' she whispered, watching the lights flicker like eyes. 'To dance with fire.'
The voices answered inside her. Sometimes gentle, sometimes harsh. Ren laughed, childlike, as when they played cards. Her father growled advice, always stern, always soldierly. Her mother… her mother only sang.
Miyako closed her eyes a moment, following that imagined song as she crossed a rusted bridge over the river. The night air smelt of petrol, wet metal, and sweat. On the bank, beggars huddled by makeshift fires. She watched them for a few seconds, head tilted like a curious cat. One met her gaze, his eyes lit by the flames.'Monster…' he murmured, barely audible.
Miyako smiled, showing teeth.'Shhh… not yet.'
Hanada's building loomed a few blocks ahead, a grey concrete block, smeared with graffiti, windows veiled by cheap curtains. Loud music blared from one flat, mixed with shouts of quarrel and the echo of a television at full volume.
She halted at the corner, leaning back against the wall. Drew one of Hanada's photos from the envelope. She studied it as if about to meet a secret lover.'Hello, Hanada… ready to play with me?' she whispered, kissing the photo before folding it in two.