Dawn had slipped past without her even noticing. The smoke from the fire in Hanada's building was now nothing more than a distant rumour, swallowed by the city. A day later, Miyako pushed open the metal door of the usual place: the mercenaries' refuge. The rusted screech of the gate greeted her like an old friend.
Inside, the air was so thick with tobacco smoke and stale alcohol it seemed chewable. The bar reeked of old grease, sweat soaked into the wood, and gunpowder at rest. The murmur of deep voices filled the room, mixed with the clink of glasses against tables. It was like stepping into the belly of a sleeping beast.
Behind the bar, Goro was wiping glasses with a rag as filthy as the glassware itself. His prominent belly rose and fell with the rhythm of his tired breathing, and his beady eyes narrowed when he saw her enter.
'Well, well… look who's back from ghost-hunting,' he grunted, not stopping his task.
Miyako tossed him a crooked smile.
'Hello, Goro. Still alive? I thought you'd have drowned in whisky by now.'
The barman snorted and shook his head.
'With that tongue of yours, girl, you'll end up dead faster than by bullets.'
She winked at him, weaving her way through the tables to the corner where the thunderous laughter of Ryo "The Axe" boomed. The giant greeted her by raising a jug brimming with beer.
'Miyako!' he roared. 'I thought last night's fire had turned you to ashes.'
She shrugged, dropping into a chair opposite him.
'If I burned every time someone threw fire at me, I'd have no eyebrows left.'
Ryo let out a belly laugh that made the glasses on the table tremble. At his side, Katsuo "The Fox" watched her with that feline gaze of his—half amused, half calculating—while he drew slowly on his cigarette.
'The ashes walk again…' he murmured, letting the smoke sketch spirals in the air. 'And always smiling more than they ought to.'
Miyako met his stare with a twisted smile, drumming her fingers on the table.
'Perhaps I like funerals.'
Ryo bellowed with laughter again, slamming the table with his great paw. Katsuo raised an eyebrow, his half-smile hovering between mockery and respect.
'I'm going upstairs,' Miyako announced, springing to her feet. 'Don't drink everything before I'm back.'
'Bring fresh work, ghost!' Ryo shouted after her.
Miyako raised a hand in farewell without turning. She climbed the metal staircase, each step echoing like a familiar refrain. The corridor was half in shadow, lit only by a flickering fluorescent tube. In front of the steel-reinforced door, she knocked twice.
The deep voice of Daisuke Kurogane rumbled from within:
'Come in.'
Miyako opened the door and slipped inside the office, thick with smoke and papers. The boss sat behind his desk, a cigarette between his fingers and a half-empty whisky bottle by the lamp. He looked up as she entered.
'Miyako,' he said calmly. 'After more blood so soon?'
She dropped into the chair opposite, elbows on her knees, leaning forward with an expectant smile.
'You know I don't like being bored. Got something for me?'
Daisuke studied her for a moment, letting the silence fill with smoke. Then he shook his head.
'No. Not today. The client hasn't moved a piece. You've the day off.'
Miyako let out a loud, exaggerated sigh and rolled her eyes like a child denied a toy.
'Day off? That sounds like boredom.'
'Take it as rest. You're not a demon, you're human.' The boss stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. 'Even monsters sleep.'
She shot to her feet, shoving the chair back with a metallic screech.
'Monsters don't rest, boss. They only wait.'
Daisuke held her gaze without replying. Miyako smiled again, that twisted smile, and left the office, slamming the door.
She stomped down the metal stairs, one step kicked harder than needed, as if she wanted the whole place to hear her frustration. The echo of her own door-slam still rattled in her skull.
In the hall, Ryo and Katsuo were still in their corner, glasses half-drained, surrounded by cigarette butts and beer stains. From the bar, Goro glanced up as she descended.
'Long face, Miyako?' he asked, pouring another round.
'More like a bored face,' she said, dropping into a chair opposite Ryo as if her body weighed a ton. 'Boss says nothing for me.'
Ryo burst out laughing, shaking the table.
'Look at that! Even ghosts need holidays.'
Miyako stuck her tongue out like a sulky child, though her eyes shone with irritation. Katsuo, meanwhile, exhaled smoke slowly and let the faintest smile creep across his lips.
'A day off won't kill you. Though… of course… impatience might.'
Miyako snorted, taking the beer Ryo slid towards her.
'Impatience is better than emptiness.' She drank deeply, foam wetting her lips. 'I hate feeling useless.'
The giant leaned his elbows on the table, peering at her.
'If you're so eager to kill, come along on my next little job. Got a client wants a snitch to disappear. Pays well.'
She stayed silent for a moment, tapping her fingers against the glass. Then she smiled, childish and mocking.
'No, Ryo. Sounds too… ordinary. Tonight I want something different. Something to take me out of here.'
Ryo raised an eyebrow.
'Different? What the hell's that mean?'
Katsuo cut in, his voice low and sharp as a blade.
'It means you can't cage her, Ryo. Miyako's not pack-hunter stock. She hunts alone.'
She raised her glass towards Katsuo, as though toasting him.
'The Fox always understands.'
Ryo snorted, then chuckled.
'Fine, but don't come crying when you die of boredom.'
Miyako tipped her head back and drained the glass in one long draught. She set it down with a sharp thud.
'Dying of boredom sounds worse than dying happy, doesn't it?'
The three of them laughed, though in Miyako's there was a strange edge, almost electric. She stretched like a cat and stood.
'I'm off. Find your fun without me.'
'Where to?' Ryo asked.
Miyako walked to the door without answering. As she passed the bar, she gave Goro a quick wink.
'Keep me a drink, old man. Don't let it go cold.'
Goro shook his head, grinning wryly.
'One day you'll come back too late, girl.'
She waved without looking back and pushed the door, letting the city's damp night air swallow her.
Her flat was an organised chaos. Dismantled weapons sprawled across the table, old magazines littered the floor, a couple of empty bottles tipped in corners. The place was half mechanic's workshop, half rebellious girl's lair.
She tossed her jacket onto the back of a chair and collapsed onto the sofa with a dramatic sigh.
'Another day without fun…' she murmured, as if someone were listening.
Only silence replied. That never bothered her; she was used to talking to herself, as if her words hung in the air and stuck to the walls.
She rose lazily, opened a metal drawer, and took out her favourite gun. The steel gleamed in the dim light of the dead television. With a childlike delicacy—almost tender—she began to clean it with a cloth.
'See? You never let me down. Not like that boss who leaves me without games.'
She paused, catching her reflection in the barrel. She tilted her head, as though speaking to another person in the mirror.
'Though… what's a weapon without shots? Like a cat without claws.'
She put the cloth away, checked the magazine without firing, and returned to the sofa. She laid the gun on the table in front of her and flopped back, arms spread.
'This is so boring…' she said aloud, as if confessing.
She lay there a while, staring at the ceiling. The ticking of the clock mocked her, marking every useless second.
Suddenly she sprang up, that abrupt burst of energy so typical of her.
'No! I'm not spending the night locked in.'
She grabbed her jacket, slung it over her shoulder, and picked up the gun with the same casualness others might take an umbrella. At the mirror by the door, she stuck out her tongue at her own reflection.
'Come on, Miyako. If no one gives you a game, you find one yourself.'
She twisted the handle and stepped out, letting the door swing shut behind her. The city awaited, neon-lit and thick with dark promises.
The streets were wet, glowing under neon signs as if the city itself were sweating. Miyako walked aimlessly, whistling a discordant tune that mingled with the distant roar of engines and sirens. Her jacket hung loose, her fingers playing with the cold metal of magazines in her pockets.
At the corner of an alley, a pair of gleaming eyes watched her. There it was again: the black cat from the fire, perched on a bin, tail flicking like a metronome.
Miyako stopped, twisting a smile.
'You again… following me, eh?' She bent down, hands on knees, as if speaking to a child. 'I've no food, only stories. Want one?'
The cat, of course, gave no answer, but its eyes seemed intent. Miyako crouched down before it.
'No fun today. Boss said I've a day off. Can you believe it? Day off?' She pulled a mock grimace, as if the word itself were an insult. 'I don't want freedom… I want blood.'
The cat blinked slowly, and Miyako burst into a quick laugh.
'You listen better than Ryo and Katsuo. Perhaps I should take you with me.'
Time slipped by unnoticed. The city dimmed its noise and raised its shadows. When the clock in the nearby tower struck ten, Miyako sighed and stood, stretching.
'Well, little one, time to go back to the cage.'
She turned to leave. That was when a rough, dry voice stopped her.
'You're Miyako?'
She turned slowly, narrowing her eyes. A man loomed in the gloom: tall, broad, a silhouette like a wall.
Miyako pressed a finger to her lips and smiled mockingly.
'What's it to you?' she sang.
The man stepped forward, a lamppost casting light across him. He stood at least two metres, shoulders wide, a face carved from stone. His shadow swallowed her whole.
Miyako cocked her head, smile intact, though surprise glimmered in her eyes.
'My, you're big… strong too, or just decoration?'
The stranger ignored the taunt. His voice was a low growl.
'I need your help… with a murder.'
Miyako widened her eyes as if offered sweets. She skipped a few playful steps closer.
'Murder? Now that sounds interesting. But it has to be right now. I'm…' she leaned in, dropping her voice to a mischievous whisper, 'bored.'
The man arched a brow, startled by her lack of fear. Finally, he nodded.
'We'll talk in a nearby bar.'
Miyako clapped her hands, delighted.
'Perfect! You're buying.'
Without waiting, she walked at his side, whistling again. The city swallowed them, leaving the black cat behind, watching from the shadows with unreadable eyes.
The bar was thick with smoke, a stew of cheap cigarettes and fried meat. Red neon lights flickered across greasy walls, and the music of a battered jukebox barely rose above secret murmurs. In one corner, two men played cards, swapping crumpled notes and dark looks; in another, a woman slept with her forehead pressed to an empty bottle.
Miyako entered with the stranger and, crossing the threshold, flung her arms wide as if greeting an invisible audience.
'How marvellous!' she sang. 'This place reeks of death… and cheap beer.'
The man didn't flinch. He headed for a table in the back, sitting to wait for her. Miyako followed, dragging the chair out with exaggerated noise before dropping into it with a loud thud, as though demanding the room's attention.
'So then, big man,' she said, lacing her fingers under her chin, tilting her head. 'What juicy business do you have for me?'
The man inhaled deeply, as if to steady himself. Miyako's loudness had already drawn half the bar's eyes.
'My brother and I are set to inherit a company. It's vast, powerful… but he doesn't deserve it.'
Miyako arched an eyebrow, smothering a laugh.
'Ah, the classic tale. Rich father, two spoiled sons, and one wants the toy all to himself.' She clicked her tongue. 'Do you know how many times I've heard that?'
The man's jaw hardened.
'I don't care what you've heard. I want him dead.'
For a heartbeat, silence. Then Miyako burst into a shrill laugh, so sudden several heads turned. She leaned forward, knuckles on the table, laughing as if it were the best joke she'd ever been told.
'You're wonderful! First you ask if I'm Miyako, then you drag me into a dingy bar… and now you tell me your soap opera?'
The man didn't move. He waited. When her laughter thinned to a murmur, he spoke, voice grave:
'Do you accept?'
Miyako studied him, her smile fading into something colder. Her blue eyes gleamed, and for a moment the whole bar seemed to freeze.
'Obviously,' she said, not a trace of jest.
The big man swallowed, startled by the shift. He nodded, then set a metal briefcase on the table and snapped open the locks with a sound like a gunshot.
Stacks of notes, thick, green, tempting.
Miyako leaned close, eyes wide as a child before a sweet shop window. Her smile returned, playful, though in her gaze calculation stirred.
'With this I could improve my toys… too many sweets for one girl.'
He shut the case firmly.
'First the job, then the payment. But you should know: my brother isn't… normal.'
Miyako lifted her brows, intrigued.
'A monster? A superhero? A cheap magician?'
'Everything he touches changes gravity at will,' the man explained, plain and unadorned. 'A stone can crush you like a train… or float like a feather.'
For a beat, silence. Then Miyako gave a soft laugh, almost intimate.
'That sounds fun.'
The man stared, incredulous.
'You're not afraid?'
She leaned closer, voice gleaming with madness.
'Fear is boring.'
Then she straightened, holding out her hand.
'I'll need a photo. And an address.'
The man drew a brown envelope and slid it across.
'Open it when you're alone.'
Miyako snatched it up, pointing at the briefcase with a playful finger.
'Since you invited me to this date, you're paying the bill.'
He gave a tight smile.
'Done.'
Miyako twirled on her heels and left the bar whistling, leaving behind the smoke, the murmur, and the promise of a murder yet to come.
Her flat smelled of old gunpowder and oiled metal. She flung her jacket onto the sofa, dropped the envelope on the table, and collapsed, chuckling as though she'd just returned from a show.
'What a strange date…' she murmured, glancing at the envelope.
The silence of the room wrapped around her, broken only by the cheap clock's tick-tock. At last she sat up, tore open the envelope with her teeth. Inside: a black-and-white photograph and a sheet with an address.
The man in the photo was young, dressed immaculately, wearing an arrogant smile and cold eyes. Beneath the portrait, a name scrawled in black ink:
Naoki Hoshikawa.
Miyako propped the photo against the table, studying it with childlike curiosity, as if it might speak back.
'So… you can play with gravity.' She traced the surface with her fingertip. 'And what if I make you fall from the sky, Naoki?'
She giggled, then dropped back onto the sofa, eyes closed, humming that childish tune that clung to her. The gun lay across her lap, gleaming from its polish.
'We've a date tonight, Mr Hoshikawa,' she said at last, a mischievous glint in her voice.
Neon seeped through the blinds, bathing the room in red and blue. Outside, the night breathed danger. Inside, Miyako already dreamt of her next dance of blood.