The television crackled in the half-dark of a wide room, curtains drawn to choke out any natural light. The news replayed the same images again and again: the stern face of hero Isamu Tenjō, alongside a red banner flashing with manufactured drama.
"The rank A hero, number 57 in the classification, remains missing. Authorities do not rule out a premeditated attack, though no evidence has yet been confirmed. His whereabouts are still a mystery…"
A gloved finger pressed the button, and the screen went black. Silence grew heavy, almost solemn. The figure standing before the television remained still a moment before rising. His crimson armour gleamed in the gloom, reflecting the pale light of a single lamp.
Crimson Spark drew a long breath, his jaw clenched.
—This isn't a disappearance, he muttered, voice low, hoarse with restraint. —It smells of blood.
His eyes hardened, recalling flashes from the museum: that woman with the fractured laughter, the sharpened gaze, the movements of a hunter.
—It was her… He ground his teeth. —That woman from the museum.
The metallic echo of his armour rang as he stepped forward. He was not speaking of justice, nor even of duty. What burned in his chest was vengeance.
—No matter how well she hides. I'll find her. And when I do… she'll pay.
On the other side of the city, the night pulsed with a wholly different energy.
The door of the bounty hunters' den swung open and, as though fired from a spring, Miyako burst inside with little hops, arms outstretched like a child pretending to fly.
—I'm baaaack! she sang, offering an exaggerated bow in the middle of the hall.
Heads turned towards her. Some smiled knowingly, others merely shook their heads, long accustomed to her antics. Ryo lifted a hand in warm greeting; Katsuo slammed the table in celebration.
—There she is, our star! Katsuo roared.
—Welcome back, Miyako! added Ryo. —How does it feel to be the hunter of heroes?
From the bar, Goro raised his mug of beer, his booming voice rolling over the general murmur.
—First round's on me! This lass deserves a bloody toast! Not every day someone takes down a rank A hero!
Laughter and applause shook the room. Miyako pressed both hands to her cheeks, feigning modesty like an actress centre stage.
—Oh, oh, you'll make me blush. But if you're buying beer… I can't possibly say no!
She dropped into the usual seat beside Ryo and Katsuo. Ryo, eyes glittering with curiosity, leaned towards her.
—Go on then, tell us. How was it? How did you bring him down?
Miyako's eyes widened, as if preparing a grim fairytale. She flailed her arms, shaped her hands into claws, nearly knocking Katsuo's glass in her theatrics.
—He was a monster! Skin like iron, muscles like mountains… and there I was with my little submachine gun! She mimed the trigger, adding a ratatatata sound that set the whole table laughing. —Not even a scratch! So I pulled my special trick — an explosion that lit up the world like fireworks! Boom!
Katsuo nearly choked with laughter. Ryo slapped the table, unable to contain himself. Miyako's storytelling was so flamboyant it was impossible not to be swept along.
In the midst of the rowdiness, an elegant shadow approached. A woman of serene poise, her beauty cold and sophisticated. She walked with quiet authority, though her lips carried a courteous smile. The keeper of the house.
Ryo, ever quick, straightened and greeted her with a roguish tilt of his head.
—Good evening… will you join us for a toast?
She barely glanced at him. Her eyes were fixed on Miyako.
—Daisuke wants to see you. Now.
The merriment at the table faltered for a beat. Miyako cocked her head, her crooked smile returning.
—Oh my, looks like the boss wants an audience. What an honour, eh? She rose with a spin, as if swept into an impromptu dance.
Ryo watched her with a blend of curiosity and unease, though he said nothing. Katsuo gave a low whistle. From behind the bar, Goro raised a brow.
Miyako waved theatrically to her companions.
—Wish me luck… or don't.
She vanished down the hall as though heading for a spotlight meant only for her.
The passage to Daisuke's office was lit by just a pair of lamps, their glow casting long shadows on the walls. The silence here was of another breed — heavy, expectant, each footfall louder than it ought to be.
Miyako reached the far door and, with her usual ritual, tapped three light, almost playful knocks.
—Knock, knock…
Daisuke's deep voice answered from within.
—Enter.
Miyako pushed the door open with a broad, almost childlike grin, as if returning from a funfair. Planting herself before the wooden desk, hands on her hips, she chirped:
—Heeey… I did it! My very first hero, and a rank A no less. Going to give me a medal, boss?
Daisuke lifted his eyes from the papers before him. His dark gaze pierced her, devoid of warmth.
—Congratulations, Miyako. His tone was flat, utterly absent of celebration. —You did it.
Miyako tilted her head, clasping her hands as though accepting a long-awaited compliment.
—Thank you, thank you. It wasn't easy, but see? I told you I could.
The boss laid the documents aside, fingers interlaced on the desk. His expression remained severe — far too severe for her triumphant tone.
—However, we have a problem.
Miyako blinked, her smile faltering just a fraction.
—A problem?
—My informants tell me a hero is hunting you. And from what I hear, not just any hero. He paused, then dropped the name like a hammer. —Crimson Spark.
The name crashed into the room. Miyako froze, her smile rigid on her face. Her pulse raced, the air around her suddenly dense, suffocating.
—C-Crimson… she stammered, the word itself tearing her throat.
Daisuke's fingers drummed against the wood.
—Explain. Why would a rank S be after you?
She swallowed, forcing her cheerful mask back on. With exaggerated shrugs and nervous laughter, she said:
—Well, well… maybe he saw me, eh? I was fighting Isamu, not the best stage for a performance. Had to slip away for a bit, you know, then come back to… finish the job.
Daisuke's stare was unblinking, as if trying to read the truth beneath her words. At length he sighed, heavy, reclining into his chair. A yawn cracked the air — his patience, wearing thin.
—Doesn't matter. What's done is done. But until I've cleared matters with Crimson Spark, you'll have no new missions.
Miyako's smile collapsed entirely. She stepped forward, voice rising.
—What?! You can't cut me off now!
He raised one hand, silencing her coldly.
—Listen. If I learn anything further, you'll be the first to know. But until then, at least from me, you'll get nothing. I won't risk this house's name on your obsession.
Her lips trembled. For a moment it seemed she'd argue, but the frost in Daisuke's eyes forced her still.
—Tsk… Fine. Whatever you say.
She spun on her heel and stormed out, the door slamming louder than needed. The corridor swallowed her up in silence, the shadow of Crimson Spark burning in her mind like a wound that would not close.
Miyako burst back into the hall with a door slam that echoed down the passage. Her usual playfulness was twisted now into a grimace of restrained fury. She stomped down the stairs, nearly leaping the last steps. Crossing into the main room, her eyes found Ryo and Katsuo at their usual table.
Without asking, she dropped into the chair opposite and raised her hand.
—Another beer! she barked.
Ryo arched a brow, Katsuo shifting uneasily at the intensity radiating off her.
—What happened to you? Ryo asked, elbows on the table. —You look fit to tear someone's head off.
Miyako took a long pull from the freshly served jug, then slammed it down hard.
—Daisuke's cut me off. No missions till the Crimson Spark business is settled.
The two men exchanged startled looks. Ryo sighed, scratching at his neck.
—Crimson Spark? Katsuo echoed. —What's he got to do with this?
Miyako set the jug down, leaning in, eyes fever-bright.
—Because he saw me. She said it bluntly. —He was at the museum. He saw me fight Isamu, saw me escape. I went back later, finished him… but it seems the doubts stuck in his head. Daisuke says informants claim a hero is after me. They think I was the one at the museum. That Spark is on my trail.
Ryo's brow furrowed, the pieces fitting together.
—If he saw you… of course they'll react, he murmured. —They can't just let that slide.
Miyako's gaze fixed on them, fierce yet weary.
—Exactly. That's why no jobs for me. Daisuke said until this is clear, I'm grounded. Won't risk the house or us.
Silence thickened. Ryo cleared his throat, rubbing his palm across his sleeve.
—Look, maybe it's for the best. Having a rank S hero as an enemy… not exactly a luxury we can afford.
Miyako shot him a glare but said nothing, only drank again, droplets running down the jug's edge.
The room's buzz continued until a hunter approached and slipped a paper to Ryo. He read it swiftly, standing.
—I've got a mission. Take care, don't do anything mad.
—Stay safe, Ryo, Katsuo said, watching him leave.
The doors closed behind him, noise swelling again around the table. Katsuo leaned in towards Miyako, lowering his voice with a mix of seriousness and suggestion.
—Oi, Miyako… what if, instead of waiting, you went after Crimson Spark yourself?
For a second, Miyako stared at him as though the idea were a mirror reflecting a thought she already knew. Then she burst into a high, unsettling laugh. It rang across the room, drawing glances. Katsuo frowned, baffled.
—What's so funny?
She wiped a tear from her eye, and when the laughter faded, her voice dropped sharp and low.
—Not like you, Katsuo, to plant seeds of madness. She wagged a playful finger at him. —But you're right. I've thought of it.
Her eyes hardened, the mask of levity cracking completely.
—I need information, she confessed. —I can't march blind into the wolf's maw. Every time I see him —even just hear his name— the voices turn hurricane. They shatter me inside. I'm not sure I can face Crimson without breaking first.
Miyako tilted her head, her gaze glinting with something dangerously close to gratitude. Her smile stretched slow, sharp — a blade withheld, for now.
—Fine. she said, voice low and amused. —Follow him. Find out if he truly is after me, and who's pulling his strings. I want names, routes, allies — everything. If the crimson rumour's real, I need to know whose game I'm playing.
Katsuo nodded, serious now. Miyako slapped the table with her palm and raised her jug.
—Then let's drink. To the greatest hunt of my life.
Their jugs clinked hollow between the tavern's laughter, but in their eyes was the promise of an investigation already weaving itself in the shadows.
The city whispered in hushes. Streetlamps vomited yellow light on wet tarmac, the buildings beyond sleeping with shuttered eyes. This was the hour when even sound measured its steps.
Crimson Spark waited in a quieter quarter, dressed in dark, plain clothes that made him almost vanish among the shadows. Tonight, there was no gleam of armour — only the anonymity of discretion. His face, however, still bore the hardness welded into his eyes.
From one shadow, another emerged: a hooded figure, presence heavy with distrust. The exchange was brief, curt. From beneath his cloak, the figure pulled a crumpled envelope, thrusting it out without ceremony.
Spark took it with controlled hands. Opening it, the first thing he saw was a name, written in hurried ink: Miyako. Beneath, a black-and-white photograph caught her in a grimace — half challenge, half damnation.
The silence struck between them like a blow. Spark clenched the photo in his fingers, as though to press it into his palm, into the certainty now lodged inside him.
—So it was you, he murmured, not with loud fury, but with the cold calm of a man who holds his grudge like a knife. —Isamu didn't vanish by accident.
He lifted his eyes to the informant.
—You've done the right thing. His tone sought no gratitude, only results.
The hooded figure dipped his head faintly and melted back into the gloom, leaving only the faint smell of the alley.
Spark slid the photograph into the inner pocket of his jacket, his gaze fixed for a moment on the night before him. Then, unhurried but resolute, he began to walk. His footsteps marked the beginning of a hunt — not questions, but pursuit.
The city's lights flickered on, indifferent. Yet somewhere, a line had been drawn: the piece was set, and the board had begun to move.