The silence in the room was dense, so heavy that Miyako could hear the crackle of the embers in the fireplace across the way. Naoki Hoshikawa did not rise immediately; he simply watched her like a chess master weighing every piece on the board.
At last, he stood, his silk robe flowing across the polished floor like a river of deep blue. He walked unhurriedly to the food trolley, and with the same calm a guest might show when pouring wine, he picked up the dinner knife.
Miyako narrowed her eyes, amused.—Really, Naoki? A dinner knife? This is turning gourmet.
The young Hoshikawa gave no answer. With a subtle gesture, the knife began to vibrate in his hand, distorting the air around it. The metal arched as though an unseen force twisted it, and in seconds the blade resembled a weapon born from the very heart of the earth.
—Gravity obeys the one who understands it —he said evenly, though a feverish glint burned in his eyes—. And I understand it better than anyone.
Suddenly, a nearby chair lifted of its own accord, spinning in the air as if suspended by invisible strings. Naoki raised his hand slightly, and the chair shot across the room at Miyako.
She clicked her tongue and vanished in an instant. The chair tore through the space where she had been and smashed against the wall, shattering into splinters.
—Oh! —Miyako's playful voice bounced around the room, though she was nowhere in sight—. Such rudeness, Naoki. That's no way to treat a lady.
Naoki remained unmoved. His gravitational knife still pulsed in his grip, glowing with an eerie halo. Plates on the table began to rise as well, circling like satellites ready to crash into a planet.
—I don't need to see you to hit you —he said coldly.
One plate shot into the void, then another, and another. Each explosion against the walls echoed like a gunshot.
Miyako reappeared for a heartbeat at the centre of the room, perched casually on the desk, smiling with legs crossed.—I like your style… but do you know what the problem is? —She leaned forward, her voice dropping to an almost intimate whisper—. You're playing by the wrong rules.
She vanished again just as the gravitational knife cut through the air where she had been. For the first time, Naoki growled, his mask of serenity cracking.
Invisible footsteps slid across the room, circling him. Every so often, her voice chimed from a different corner:—To the right…—No, better here…—Or perhaps behind you?
Naoki spun in circles, sweat beading on his brow. He slashed at the emptiness, hurled objects with his power, but everything struck nothing.
The tension mounted until, breath ragged, he clenched his teeth.—Coward…
Miyako appeared suddenly at his back, silent as a shadow given flesh. Delicately, she plucked the fork still resting on the porcelain plate. A crooked smile gleamed in the metal's reflection.
—Naoki, Naoki… —she whispered at his ear—. Playing with food isn't so bad, you know?
A second later, dinner was over for good.
Naoki's body toppled forward with a dull thud, wine spilling across the papers he had been reviewing so calmly moments before. The red liquid spread grotesquely, mingling with the shadow spilling from his neck.
Miyako released him gently, almost tenderly, and placed the bloodied fork back onto the plate, as though she disliked disturbing the table's order too much.—There. Dinner's done. —She wiped her hands on the napkin, sighing theatrically—. Not bad, though I think the service was a little slow.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor. Miyako clicked her tongue and vanished once more. A guard pushed the door open, peering inside.—Sir Naoki?
Silence.
The guard frowned, but seeing the dim light and apparent calm, he shut the door again.—He must have stepped onto the balcony… —he muttered, walking away.
Miyako waited a few seconds before stifling a laugh. She slipped to the window and opened it carefully. The night air drifted in like a conspirator's sigh.
The garden stretched below, patrolled by guards and restless dogs. Miyako climbed onto the ledge, invisible, and leapt. She landed on the grass with a cat's agility, rolling soundlessly. The dogs barked, sniffing the void, but she was already gliding through the hedges like a shadow unwilling to be caught.
Within minutes she had left the mansion behind, slipping over the gate as if she had never been there. Only when she reached a deserted street did she become visible again. She walked upright, whistling, as though returning from an ordinary date.—Ah, Naoki… you were a fine host —she murmured, glancing at the distant lights of the mansion—. A pity your party was so short-lived.
The true appointment awaited elsewhere.
A closed bank, the kind that by night looked like a mausoleum of stone columns and armoured doors. Miyako pushed open the heavy side entrance —the kind only someone with money could access at that hour— and stepped into the lobby. The echo of her boots rang beneath the darkened lamps.
At the centre, standing as if rehearsing the pose, was Haruto Hoshikawa. The younger brother. Impeccable suit, perfectly knotted tie, a black briefcase at his feet.—You're late —he said without fully looking at her, his voice calculated, revealing nothing.
Miyako arched a brow, smiling like a mischievous child.—Oh, come on, Haruto. Aren't you going to ask how dinner went?
He allowed the barest hint of a smile, the corner of his lips twitching.—No need. I know Naoki no longer breathes.
Miyako feigned surprise, hand to her chest.—So distrustful! And I even thought of bringing you a souvenir… —she leaned towards him, voice dropping to a playful whisper—. Want the fork?
Haruto ignored the taunt. He opened the briefcase, revealing neat stacks of banknotes. The scent of ink and paper filled the lobby like a harsh perfume.—The agreed sum. Not a yen less.
Miyako's eyes sparkled, almost as if the money were a new toy.—Ah… Haruto, always so serious. Good thing at least you know how to pay for your whims. —She snatched the case as though it weighed nothing—. Thank you for the money… and for being a bad brother.
Haruto finally looked at her directly. His eyes were mirrors of ice, empty of guilt.—The world belongs to those willing to dirty their hands. You understand that. He never did.
Miyako tilted her head, studying him a moment longer, then smiled her crooked smile.—How inspiring. If I ever get bored, perhaps you'll be next on my list.
Haruto did not flinch; he simply turned and walked towards the exit. His figure slipped between the columns like an elegant shadow.
Miyako remained alone in the bank, hugging the briefcase. She hummed an off-key tune and left as well, heading for her apartment. The city lights welcomed her like old friends.
In her mind, the voices returned:—You did what you had to —murmured her father.—And now what? —asked Ren.
Miyako smiled, offering no answer.The night was still young.
The following days passed in uncanny quiet. The city still roared with engines, with nocturnal cries and weary lights, but in Miyako's small flat the calm was almost unbearable.
She sprawled on the sofa, feet dangling, submachine gun resting on the table. On her stomach, as though claiming the space as his own, lay the black cat that always appeared from nowhere. His coat gleamed in the yellow lamplight, and his golden eyes seemed to pierce the dark.
Miyako stroked him with a finger, smiling.—You're the only one who understands me… you know? Not Mum, not Dad, not Ren. Just you. —The cat closed his eyes, purring in reply.
She tilted her head, thoughtful.—But I can't keep calling you "cat". You need a name. Let's see… how about… Kuma? —The animal yawned, indifferent.—No? Fine… Shiro? —Still no reaction.
Miyako grinned slyly.—And what if I say… Kuro?
The cat gave a soft mew, almost approving, before settling back on her chest.
Miyako laughed aloud, tapping him lightly on the head.—Perfect! Then Kuro it is.
The phone buzzed on the table, interrupting the moment. Miyako grabbed it without disturbing the cat. On the screen: a message from her boss.
"Come to my office. I have a different mission for you. Better. Important."
Miyako's eyes gleamed as if a spark had been lit inside her. She sprang up, forcing Kuro to leap to the floor.—Ohhh, how exciting! See, Kuro? I knew boredom wouldn't last.
The cat gazed with eternal eyes, purred, and curled into the warm hollow she had left.—Guard the fort, all right? —said Miyako as she donned her jacket and slung the submachine gun—. Don't let the voices take over the house.
Kuro stretched a paw as if lazily blessing her.
The usual bar greeted her with the stench of stale tobacco and cheap booze. Goro, behind the counter, lifted his head when she walked in.—Well, well, the princess of the night.
Miyako saluted with two fingers to her brow, exaggerating the gesture.—Hi, Goro. How kind of you to welcome me so elegantly.
Ryo sat slumped at a nearby table, half-asleep over an empty sake glass. He barely raised a hand in a lazy greeting.—I missed you too, Ryo —Miyako said drily, before heading to the office at the back.
She paused at the door, fussing with her hair as though about to step into a formal date.—Well then, Miyako… time to see how fun this new game will be.
She knocked lightly. The office opened to receive her.
She entered as if striding onto a borrowed stage. Daisuke studied her a moment, weighing the crooked smile already fixed on her lips, then raised a hand in a gesture that between them was as good as a signed contract.—Sit down, Miyako —he said curtly; his voice was a knife honed by routine.
She dropped into the chair with her favourite bored-child pose, eyes locked on him as though trying to rip secrets from his skull.—What surprise today, old man? —she asked, tongue between her teeth.
Daisuke set a file on the desk and slid it towards her like a card placed face-up.—Time for your next mission. Not a mobster, not a convict. This time you're going after a hero. Rank A. Number fifty-seven.
Miyako's pupils flared wide, like windows thrown open in a storm. A gleam of contained delirium sparked through her eyes, and suddenly she laughed —the sound of broken bells.—A hero? —she sang—. Oh, please! Does the menu come with a cape or silk gloves?
Daisuke did not blink. He placed a dossier card on top of the file: Isamu Tenjō.—Skin practically impenetrable. Bullets don't touch him. Rank A, number 57.
Miyako's glee turned electric. She burst into laughter as if served her favourite dessert for free. Her cackles ricocheted off the smoke-stained walls.—A hero! An A! —she chanted—. And how am I supposed to work without my toy? —She glanced at the submachine gun peeking from her jacket, biting her lip in mock despair—. If I can't shoot, I'll just have to find… another way to play.
Daisuke leaned on the desk, calm as always before bad news.—Figure it out. This killing has to be done. Full stop. —He paused—. Good luck.
She rose with theatrical flourish, like one accepting an invitation to a bloody gala. At the door, she tossed a last remark:—You're a lovable coward, boss. Thanks for the gift.
Already her blood was boiling with ideas. With the money from the last job, she could fashion something special —a little "grenade" that released liquid or darts to nullify powers for a few seconds, the same tech her father had stored in old weapons. If she could stun Tenjō, even for an instant, his skin would be just skin, not fortress.
At the bar, Goro glanced up and winked.—The boss is back with news —he grunted, pouring a drink—. Come on, I'll buy you one.
Ryo loomed behind her like an unhurried titan, sniffing out the joke.—And you owe me a round too, shadow girl —he grumbled, jug already in hand.
They sat, the bar heavy with smoke and belated laughter. Miyako told them, casually, about the insane assignment. Ryo slapped her on the back with rough pride.—Good for you! An A's an A. If the boss trusts you with that, means you're moving up, earning his trust.
She smirked, sipping her drink, the phantom clink of an imaginary briefcase echoing in her mind.—Trust, eh —she mused—. Maybe I deserve a crown of rubbish. But not today. Today I'm making myself a new toy.
With a theatrical wave she slipped away into the night. Already screws, darts and a little casing danced in her head —a device to spit the nausea of powerlessness. The game was only beginning.
At home she opened the box of her father's relics: old parts, broken buttons, the little twin-barrelled gun he had once used. Each piece spoke in a tongue only she understood.
She did not work like a craftsman —no plans, no rituals. It was instinctive alchemy. She mixed what she remembered with what new money had bought: casings, nameless little mechanisms, a dark vial of liquid that seemed to swallow the light. Each part fitted more in her mind than in her hands, until the machine took shape between her fingers as if it had always belonged there.
There were no instructions, only memory: her father tightening barrels, her own cold hands dismantling the gun in days that smelled of oil and gunpowder. But this time she sought no noise, no blast. She wanted precision —a wink of nothingness, blinding an enemy for mere seconds. Long enough for impenetrable skin to be just skin.
When she finished, she held it like a newborn toy. Small, discreet, clad in a black shell without markings. She weighed it in her palm and smiled: harmless in appearance, yet promising to change the night.
She tucked the "grenade" into her jacket's inner pocket, beside the submachine gun, and stroked Kuro's fur. The cat gazed back with golden eyes as though he knew. Miyako bent, kissed his forehead, and whispered:—This one's for fun… and for business.
She switched off the light. Outside, the city kept breathing, oblivious to the little bomb of silence she now carried within her coat.