Miyako's flat was steeped in a strange silence, broken only by the soft purr of Kuro, her cat, who lounged across the back of the sofa. She lay on her side, fiddling with a loose thread on her jacket, her expression a blend of boredom and irritation.
"I'm bored, Kuro…" she muttered in a drawl. "Daisuke says nothing, Katsuo neither, and it's been days. What's the point of being the brightest hunter if no one gives me prey?"
The cat met her gaze with yellow eyes, blinking slowly, as if he couldn't care less.
A ringing shattered the lull. The phone buzzed on the table, and Miyako leapt up, a hopeful smile spreading across her face.
"At last! It must be Katsuo with good news… or Daisuke, finally giving in."
She darted to answer, but her smile faltered the moment she heard the voice on the line.
"Miyako…" Katsuo, though he sounded weary. "I still haven't got any information."
Her face hardened instantly.
"Then why call me?" she growled, pressing the phone tight to her ear. "Keep looking. Don't bother me just to say that!"
"Listen," Katsuo cut in calmly. "I think it'd be best if you tried searching directly for Crimson Streak. I'll continue digging into who's leaking your movements. But we can't wait forever… It's more than likely he'll find you first, and if that happens, it'll be worse."
Miyako's lips pressed into a thin line, caught between fury and reluctant acceptance. At last she exhaled through her teeth.
"Damn it… you're right." She raked her hand through her hair, making the mess worse. "Then I'll go looking for him later. But you—keep at it, Katsuo. Find that bastard who's talking about me."
"I will. Be careful, Miyako." The call ended.
She let the phone fall onto the sofa and turned to her cat, who was staring back with the same impassive look as ever.
"Lucky you, eh, Kuro?" she said with a bitter little laugh. "Nothing to worry about. Just eat, sleep and meow."
The cat meowed, as if in answer, before curling up again.
Then the voices returned. First a whisper, then a swelling chorus, each word clawing at her skull.
"You avoid it…" murmured her mother. "You avoid facing him because you're afraid."
"It's not fear…" Miyako snapped through clenched teeth.
"Of course it is," Ren sneered. "If you wanted him dead, you'd have done it at the museum. Or the very night you learnt of him. But no—you asked for help. Like a coward."
"NO!" she roared, springing to her feet. "It's not fear, it's hatred! I want to kill him, I want to tear his throat out with my own hands!"
Her father thundered, unyielding:"Stop lying to yourself, daughter. If you truly wanted him dead, you wouldn't be looking for excuses."
Miyako felt her skull about to burst. She seized a vase from the table and hurled it against the wall. It shattered, shards scattering like broken teeth across the floor. The crash reverberated through the room—and for the first time in a long while, the voices fell silent.
Startled, the cat bolted from the sofa and vanished down the hall. Miyako, panting, collapsed back into the chair.
"Silence, at last…" she whispered, covering her face with her hands.
The echo of ceramic fragments still vibrated in the air, as though madness itself had found a new crack in which to hide.
That silence, born of destruction, felt almost curative. Miyako drew several deep breaths until her pulse slowed to something human. The voices, as if obeying a ceasefire, ebbed away, leaving only a faint hum that was almost pleasant. She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them, her features had steadied.
"I'm not afraid," she told herself softly, tuning the words into truth. "I don't fear him. I hate him. Hate, and nothing more."
She rose with deliberate movements, went to the kitchen, switched on a small lamp, and began preparing her old belt with its holsters for the folding submachine gun and the knife. Each motion carried the weight of ritual: slotting in a magazine, checking the slide, sheathing the blade with mechanical calm. Madness had its ceremonies.
Kuro watched from the doorway, eyes like yellow coins. Miyako crouched, brushed his head with the back of her hand and gave a faint smile.
"I'm going out for a bit, Kuro," she whispered. "I'm going to find that bastard. Not out of fear… out of pleasure. Got it?"
The cat meowed and leapt back onto the sofa as if he did understand. She slipped on her jacket, locked the door behind her, and stepped into the night.
The city received her with its habitual face: flickering street lamps, cars belching smoke, and people moving as though on the board of an oversized game. Miyako wandered aimlessly at first, speaking aloud—anchoring her decision in words—that she didn't know where to start, that she'd search everywhere until she stumbled upon the right trail.
As she walked, the city struck her in small, ordinary vignettes: couples laughing at corners, a family sharing an ice cream on the pavement, two children chasing shadows. Each scene jabbed a needle into her chest. Rage pulsed harder with every stranger's smile.
"How dare you be happy?" Miyako muttered to the street lamps. "Centella… for leaving me alone, I'll rip even the words from your throat."
The image of the crimson-armoured hero surged in waves: the light that had carved into her night, the laugh she thought she'd heard amid the flames of memory. Her thirst for vengeance merged with something more primal: the hunger for her world to make sense again. She quickened her pace, boots striking the cobblestones.
Turning a corner, she halted at the sight of a commotion: a crowd outside a bank, police tape, officers holding back gawkers. Blue flashes from cameras lit the small stage. Miyako lingered at the edge, leaning against a column, a half-smile tugging at her lips.
The robbers were still inside, shouts carried through the air, the metallic clank of a cash machine vibrated, and through megaphones the police pleaded for negotiation. Miyako leaned back, muttering in a mocking tone as if addressing an unseen audience:
"Oh, how lovely. Robbery, tension and… perhaps a hero making a late entrance? Let's hope it's the one I want to see."
Through the megaphone came the announcement: a rank S hero was on his way to intervene. Miyako's lips tightened. Crimson Streak was rank A, not S, but the thought of a powerful hero arriving rekindled her hope.
Her expectation curdled to disappointment when a man strode into view radiating a different presence: tall, gestures wild, eyes gleaming with animal hunger. Not Crimson. Wildfang—a rank S hero whose name stalked the underworld for his power, the Primordial Beast, the ability to transform into a fearsome creature. The crowd exhaled in awe and relief; the officers relaxed.
Miyako watched for two seconds before letting out a short, bitter laugh. No crimson tonight, only fangs and fur.
"Bah," she muttered. "Better that way. I won't play the fool waiting for him to show. I'm off."
She turned and walked away, with the bittersweet sensation of crossing a rope bridge only to find no monster on the far side. Behind her, the noise of the rescue dwindled: sirens, broken applause, the voice of a radio host broadcasting live.
Miyako melted into the city's shadows, determined not to return without a lead. She hadn't found Crimson Streak that night, but the hunt knew no schedule: prey roamed, predators too. With the submachine gun hidden beneath her jacket and the last gleam of rancour in her eyes, she pressed on.
The phone rang just as she was about to turn back towards home. Hands buried in her jacket pockets, impatience tingled in her chest as she pulled out the mobile. The name flashing on the screen raised an eyebrow.
"Katsuo…" she muttered, answering with a sharp edge. "What is it? Did you find something?"
"Not exactly," came his cautious reply.
Her face hardened at once.
"Then why are you calling?" she snapped, kicking a tin can along the pavement. "Do you enjoy wasting my time?"
"Listen," Katsuo insisted, a trace of annoyance in his voice. "It's not that I found nothing. It's that, after all this searching, I've got an idea… something I'd rather tell you in person."
Miyako widened her eyes in mock surprise, then burst into playful laughter.
"In person, eh?" she teased. "And why's that? Do you want a young, beautiful woman like me to come alone to your place at this hour? Hoping to take advantage of my delicate nature, Katsuo?"
Her laughter echoed down the empty street. Katsuo was silent for a few seconds before growling:
"Drop the games and just come. It's serious."
"All right, all right!" she chuckled, still poking at him. "Such a temper, eh? Fine, I'm coming."
She ended the call with a crooked smile, though curiosity gnawed at her insides. Tucking the phone away, she headed towards Katsuo's house, letting her thoughts run free.
"What does he want now? If he says he hasn't found anything, then why call? Is he afraid I'll outpace him? Or does he simply want me close, because without me he's lost? Men… always the same."
The night air was damp, heavy with the metallic scent of distant rain. Street lamps lit the pavement with a jaundiced glow, casting shadows blacker than the darkness itself. Miyako walked at a leisurely pace, kicking pebbles, her mind swaying between irritation and intrigue.
When she arrived, the door swung open almost instantly. Katsuo stood there, his face serious, as though he'd been watching from the window.
"Come in," he said bluntly.
Miyako arched a brow and smirked.
"My, how quick to open… you'd think you were expecting a romantic date."
Katsuo snorted and turned his back, leaving the door open. She stepped inside, swinging her jacket with exaggerated coquettishness.
"Miyako," he growled, "I'm serious—drop the jokes."
She raised her hands in mock surrender, lips still curved.
"Fine, fine. So, what's this all-important thing you need to tell me?"
They sat in the living room. Katsuo drew a breath before speaking, as though weighing each word.
"While I haven't uncovered exactly who's causing you trouble… I think I know why it's been so hard to track them down."
Miyako tilted her head, intrigued.
"Go on, then."
"The person leaking information about you…" Katsuo folded his arms. "…might be inside the bounty hunters' organisation itself."
Silence pooled in the room. Miyako blinked a couple of times before letting out a nervous laugh.
"Inside? You mean… one of us?"
"Exactly."
"That's absurd," she said, though her voice lacked conviction. "Who would do something like that? Let's see… Shun? No, too clumsy. Aya? Hm, too busy with her rank nonsense. Goro the bartender, maybe? Nah… he only pours drinks."
As she rattled off names, her eyes darted quickly, as though trying to dismiss everyone but secretly suspecting them all.
Katsuo shook his head.
"I don't know—and that's the problem. It could be anyone. So from now on, you'd better stop giving details about your missions when you're at headquarters. Someone's listening."
Miyako's playful expression vanished for a moment. Her face grew solemn—an unusual thing for her.
"You're right," she said, leaning her elbows on her knees. "Damn traitor… I never thought I'd have someone breathing down my neck inside my own home."
Katsuo nodded calmly.
"I'll keep digging from the inside, pretending nothing's amiss. You, in the meantime, focus on your part. Crimson Streak is your target, isn't he? Then go after him."
Miyako lifted her head, meeting his eyes. For a flicker, gratitude crossed her face, mingling with that ever-present madness.
"Fine. I'll handle Crimson. You clean the burrow."
She stood abruptly, stretching like a lazy cat.
"Then that's settled. I'm off."
"Be careful, Miyako," Katsuo said, walking her to the door.
She spun on her heel, striding out lightly.
"I always am, darling."
The door closed behind her, and the night wrapped her once more in its damp cloak. She walked for a while through silent streets, mulling over what Katsuo had said.
"A traitor in the organisation? Didn't see that coming… Well, at least I've got two hunts now: Crimson and the mole. How delightful."
Her boots echoed on the pavement when, rounding a corner, a figure appeared ahead. Miyako froze, her shadow stretching beneath the street lamp. Her lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile.
"Well, well… look who we have here."
Her voice carried a playful lilt, but beneath it gleamed a blade of menace in every syllable.