Miyako's flat was steeped in half-light, lit only by the trembling glow of a lamp in the corner. On the rickety table lay scattered pieces of metal, loose bullets, a pair of knives, and a dismantled submachine gun arranged like a puzzle.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Miyako hummed to herself as she fitted the pieces together, her grease-stained hands glinting under the dim light.
—Hear that? —she asked suddenly, without lifting her gaze—. It's the sound of a new adventure. A great, great adventure!
From the darkest corner of the room came her mother's imaginary voice, soft as a reproach:—You should rest, Miyako. You can't live on blood alone.
Miyako smirked, caressing the barrel of the submachine gun as though it were the skin of a lover.—Oh, Mum… always so moralistic. But this time it isn't just any job, you know? This time… it's a hero! —Her eyes widened, gleaming with a spark that skirted the childish—. Can you imagine? Me, Miyako, hunter of heroes.
Her father broke in with a low growl, an echo of authority:—Do not underestimate the enemy.
She rolled her eyes, lips pursed like a child denied her game.—Oh, Dad, when was it ever fun to do as you say?
Shrill laughter rang out, and her brother Ren's piercing voice chimed in:—You'll end up in pieces.
Miyako burst into wild laughter, almost animal.—Exactly! And what a show it'll be! —She raised the assembled submachine gun and aimed at the ceiling, miming a shot—. Boom, boom, goodbye hero!
She tucked the weapon beneath her jacket and sprang to her feet. At the cracked mirror by the entrance, she paused, studying herself. The fractured reflection multiplied her crooked smile into imperfect halves.
—Perfect… —she whispered—. Today I begin to write my own legend.
She twirled a magazine in her palm before slipping it into her pocket. The voices fell silent for a heartbeat, as though even her phantoms held their breath in expectation. Whistling off-key, Miyako left the flat and descended the creaking stairs.
The streets glistened wet beneath the neon, like mirrors stained with oil. The air reeked of petrol and rancid fried food, yet to Miyako it felt almost homely. She walked with a skipping step, hopping from paving stone to paving stone as though playing a childish game of avoiding the cracks.
—If I step on one… the hero lives. If not… the hero dies! —she chanted in the sing-song rhythm of a nursery rhyme.
With each hop she let out a nervous giggle, drawing fleeting glances from passers-by who swiftly averted their eyes. No one in that city wanted to be caught in the orbit of a madness like hers.
The boss's words rang in her head: "Your target is Isamu Tenjō, Rank A. Skin indestructible. Find a way."
Miyako frowned, then twisted it into a crooked grin.—Without my submachine gun? —she mocked aloud—. Oh, come on, what kind of cruel joke is that? My little darling wanted to play!
She patted the weapon hidden beneath her jacket, as though consoling it.—Don't worry… we'll find a way to have our fun. Maybe I'll tickle him differently.
She stopped dead before a shattered shop window. The jagged glass reflected her silhouette in warped fragments. Tilting her head, she studied herself.—Think he's afraid of me, Ren? —she asked the reflection.
Her brother's mocking voice answered in her head:—He'll squash you like a cockroach.
Miyako laughed, tapping the glass with a finger until a shard clattered to the pavement.—Then I'll be… the funniest cockroach in history.
She walked on, humming a broken tune. As she neared the residential district, the ruined buildings gave way to cleaner streets, tall lampposts and elegant façades. She spun on her heels, arms raised as if parading down a catwalk.
—The most important date of my life… and I still turn up alone? —she declaimed theatrically—. Well, Isamu, you'll have to make do with me and my little ghostly family.
Turning the corner, sirens wailed in the distance. She froze, head tilted, lips curling into a wide smile.—Ohhh… what have we here?
Engines roared, and the flicker of red and blue lights painted the walls. Miyako pressed a hand to her chest in mock surprise.—Looks like the party started early.
Skipping to some secret rhythm, she followed the noise.
The sirens led her to an imposing building of marble columns and glowing stained glass: the city's central museum. Police lights flashed across its façade, bathing the statues at the entrance in frantic red and blue. A crowd pressed against the security tape, shouting and thrusting phones into the air.
Miyako pushed through the onlookers without apology, her smile stretching wider.—A museum robbery? —she sang—. What a delicious cliché.
Then she saw them.
Two figures crossed the museum threshold with the determination of men carrying the world on their shoulders. One was broad-shouldered, radiating almost military firmness: Isamu Tenjō, the hero she had sworn to hunt. The other, agile and clad in crimson armour gleaming under the lights, was unmistakable: Crimson Spark.
The moment her eyes met that armour, Miyako's heart stopped. The air grew thick, unbreathable. Her smile vanished, crushed beneath a cruel pressure on her chest.
—No… —she whispered, stepping back.
The voices erupted at once, a deranged chorus.—Him! He's the one who killed them! —Ren's shrill voice shrieked.—Look well, daughter… —her mother's voice whispered, laden with grief—. That man is the executioner of our family.—Do not let him go, Miyako! —her father thundered, authoritarian, pounding in her skull—. Avenge us!
The world fractured. Every red light was a burst of blood. Every scream in the crowd became her family's last breath. Miyako's breathing turned erratic, broken, as if oxygen itself refused her. Clawing at her throat, she raked her nails against her skin, desperate to silence the suffocating pressure.
—Shut up… —she whispered, but the voices swelled louder.
In a blink, the street dissolved. She was back in that distorted memory: Crimson Spark lit by flames, the cruel laughter, the hot blood on the floor. Her family collapsing before her eyes.
—SHUT UP! —she screamed, doubling over as the crowd around her recoiled, muttering that she must be mad.
A sudden silence wrapped her. And in that void, only one certainty remained: she wanted to tear Crimson Spark's throat out with her bare hands.
But…
Another voice pierced the storm. Cold, dry. Not her family's. Her own.—The mission is Isamu Tenjō. Not Crimson.
—But he killed them! —her mother cried, breaking apart.
—The mission… is Isamu.
Miyako clenched her teeth, eyes brimming with tears yet blazing with a manic gleam. She trembled all over, torn between rage and duty.—Isamu… —she spat the name like poison—. Yes… first Isamu. Crimson can wait.
She forced her head up. Her lips curled into a crooked grin, though her hands still shook. The inner chaos had not left —it was merely chained, roaring inside her skull.
Inside the museum, explosions thundered. The villains were at work. Isamu and Crimson split without a word, each darting in opposite directions. That was enough to convince her.
—Perfect… —Miyako murmured, regaining composure—. Fate is opening the way.
She followed Isamu, her steps silent beneath the din of combat. The air reeked of gunpowder, sweat, and fractured marble. And, above all, of opportunity.
The museum's interior had become a graveyard of art. Classical statues lay decapitated, columns cracked by blasts, paintings burned or slashed, and shattered glass cases carpeted the floor with glittering shards. Every corner was a reminder that violence could turn beauty into ruin. To Miyako, it was perfect —almost poetic.
The metallic echo of battle rang from the main hall. There, Isamu Tenjō fought a hulking thief wielding an electrified mace. The villain's brutal swings shook the marble with each strike, but the hero's skin absorbed the blows without so much as a scratch.
—Surrender, you damned tank! —the criminal gasped, breath ragged.
Implacable, Isamu did not flinch. His eyes remained steady, his movements controlled, almost elegant. With a swift turn, a hold, and a single sharp strike, he felled the villain, leaving him unconscious.
Hidden behind the wreck of a glass case, Miyako smiled.—How efficient. How dreadfully efficient… —she whispered, biting her lip with feverish delight—. Hard skin, stern face, every inch the glossy magazine hero.
The voices tried to break through again, dragging her back to Crimson Spark, to her true hatred. The pressure on her chest nearly made her stumble, but she clenched her teeth and steadied herself.—No —she scolded herself, like a parent to a petulant child—. Not today. Today it's him. Today's my challenge.
Isamu straightened his dark-blue uniform, breathing evenly. That was when he noticed her.
Miyako had let her guard slip; excitement made her invisibility flicker, revealing her silhouette for a heartbeat amidst the smoke.
The hero frowned.—What…? —He stepped towards her, voice deep and commanding—. You. What are you doing here? It's dangerous. Leave at once.
Miyako tilted her head, her smile spreading slowly, crookedly, splitting her face.—Civilian…? —she echoed mockingly, advancing with a light, dance-like gait—. Oh, hero, what a boring word.
—There's no time for this —Isamu snapped—. Hide and wait until we've secured the building.
The crack of gunfire cut him off.
Miyako, with playful flourish, had drawn her submachine gun and pulled the trigger. The roar ricocheted off the walls. Bullets hammered his chest, sparking against his flesh like raindrops on steel.
Isamu staggered back a single step, more startled than hurt. He glanced down at the dented marks on his uniform, then back at Miyako, incredulous.—What… the hell?
She let out a shrill laugh, a jagged cackle that filled the ruined hall.—Knock, knock! —she sang, waving the gun like a toy—. Who's there? Bullets that don't even tickle!
The hero clenched his fists, his expression hardening.—So you're no civilian. You're part of this.
Miyako clicked her tongue, wagging a finger in mock scolding.—No, no, no, pretty hero. I'm not part of some shabby heist. I'm… something much worse.
Isamu tensed, discipline radiating from every muscle.—Then I'll have to stop you.
Miyako threw back her head, blue hair tumbling wildly over her shoulders, and unleashed a piercing laugh so loud the smoke itself seemed to tremble.—Stop me! —she repeated between peals—. Oh, Isamu, you've no idea what you've just begun.
Flames consumed a nearby tapestry, casting the scene in a hellish glow. Amid the smoke, broken marble, and the echo of her manic laughter, the battle between the impenetrable hero and the invisible assassin was about to begin.