The city slept beneath a grey sky, faintly lit by streetlamps that sputtered along the narrow roads. The usual clamour had long since died down; only the distant mutter of a drunkard and the metallic echo of patrols remained. Amid that unsettling silence, Crimson Streak walked with a grave face, without his armour, without the crimson gleam that defined him in battle. Now he was just a man in a long coat and a furrowed brow, yet his steps carried the same weight as on the battlefield.
He could not stop thinking of Isamu. The memory of his comrade, unyielding as stone in the thick of any fight, burned in his chest. And the news of his "disappearance" rang through every corner of the city like a poorly told lie. Crimson knew it was no mystery, no accident. It had been murder.
He halted before an abandoned newsstand. The headlines still bore Isamu Tenjō's name: "A-Rank Hero Vanishes Mysteriously", "Where Is the Indestructible Hero?", "Iron Fades Away". Crimson crushed the paper in his hands, balling it into a fist.
"Disappeared…" he muttered bitterly. "No, Isamu. You didn't disappear. You were torn from this world. And I will find the one who did it."
They had told him a woman was behind it all. A shadow in the museum, a ghost with a broken laugh. That name kept hammering at his mind: Miyako.
He walked towards the lower districts, where the city bared its rotten teeth. Graffiti covered the walls, alleys reeked of smoke and urine, and the eyes of passers-by quickly averted when they sensed the presence of a man who walked with such purpose. Crimson was used to the stares, but tonight he sought neither admiration nor respect. He sought answers.
His thoughts were sharp: that woman had not only killed his comrade—she was hunting him as well. Instinct told him the encounter would not take long. And if it came, he would not fail.
Turning a corner, he stopped. There was a murmur in the shadows, a harsh whisper of a voice. He was not alone. Someone awaited him. And though he showed no sign of it, he had known before he arrived: the informant always kept his word.
Crimson stepped further into the darkness of the alley.
"Speak," he said, his voice dry. "What do you know of her?"
And the shadows began to answer.
From the alley's darkest corner emerged a barely discernible figure, a man with his face hidden beneath a scarf and a brim pulled low. The weak glow of a lamp scarcely outlined his profile. His movements were calm, deliberate, as though the hero's presence posed no threat at all.
"I knew you would come back to me," said the deep voice, muffled by the scarf. "You're not the sort to leave matters half-done."
Crimson narrowed his eyes. He did not trust the man, nor anyone of his ilk, yet the information he had given before had proven true. The woman's name, her trail through the museum… it had all fit.
"Spare me the courtesies," Crimson replied coldly. "What have you for me this time?"
The informant drew a crumpled envelope from his jacket and held it between two fingers, not yet offering it over.
"Your murderess, this Miyako… she does not merely hide. She hunts you. She speaks of you in taverns, among mercenaries. She says the day will come when you will pay." His tone was hushed, conspiratorial.
Crimson clenched his jaw but said nothing.
"And there is more you must know," the man went on, leaning forward slightly. "Her powers. I have confirmed she can make herself invisible, though not flawlessly: when agitated, her silhouette flickers. And…"—he paused, lowering his voice still further—"her weapon is no ordinary gun. A sub-machine gun with twin barrels: one fires standard rounds, but the other… projectiles designed to neutralise gifts."
The words hung in the air like knives.
Crimson did not move, yet the weight of the memory struck like a hammer. The "indestructible" Isamu. His skin, his body—virtually unbreakable. And still, he had fallen.
"So that is how it was…" he murmured, his voice thin. For the first time in years, sorrow crept across the hero's features.
The informant watched in silence, then tossed the envelope at his feet.
"Be wary, Crimson Streak. That woman is unpredictable. She has fangs, but she also knows when to bite. And if she has already brought down an A-Rank hero…" He shrugged. "Well, I needn't tell you what that means."
The hero picked up the envelope without looking away, his hands steady though fury roiled in his chest.
"If she seeks me… then she will find me. But I will not fall as Isamu did."
The informant gave no reply. He simply turned and melted into the shadows, as though he had never been there.
Crimson opened the envelope. Inside was a grainy photograph of Miyako, taken from afar. Her messy blue hair, her crooked smile. A huntress pretending to be queen of chaos.
His fingers tightened around the image.
"Miyako…" he whispered, with a tone that mingled pain and promise. "This time, you will be the one to vanish."
The wind stirred, lifting dust and scraps of paper through the alley. Crimson slid the photo into his coat and strode towards the avenue, each step firmer than the last.
The hunt had begun.
The echo of his footsteps rang upon the damp asphalt. The city was not entirely asleep: the distant drone of engines, the muffled laughter of those lingering in bars, and the scattered barks of a stray dog mingled in the night air. Crimson Streak walked with head bowed, hands sunk into his coat pockets, still feeling the weight of the envelope against his chest.
The photo of Miyako. That crooked smile haunted him more than any shadow. It was not merely the face of a killer; it was a living reminder of his own failure, a cruel proof that he had failed to protect Isamu.
He stopped beneath a lamppost, drew out the photo once more, and studied it closely. The grain did not obscure the spark in the woman's eyes. There was something in that gaze that mocked him, as though Miyako knew precisely how much pain she had wrought—and relished it.
"You seek me…" he muttered through clenched teeth. "Here I am."
His thoughts drifted back to Isamu. He recalled him fighting with near-indestructible vigour, his confident laughter amid the fray, the way he always had his back. Had anyone told him that a bullet could pierce that unbreakable flesh, he would have thought it a cruel jest. Yet here was the truth: a strange barrel, rounds that stripped away what was most sacred to a hero—his gift.
Crimson's stomach turned. It was not fear. It was rage. A fury that drove him forward, that forbade him to stop until justice—or vengeance—was done.
He tightened his coat and resolved not to wander aimlessly. He needed more than a name and a face: he needed a trail. So he ventured into the district the informant had mentioned, one of the city's oldest quarters. Cobbled streets, small businesses that shut early, and an air thick with secrets.
The district was known as a nest of informants and bounty hunters, people who never spoke freely. Crimson knew he would find rumours there, though he would have to tread carefully: his face was known, and even without armour, the bearing of a hero was hard to disguise.
He passed a tavern with dim lights. The discordant wheeze of an accordion leaked through the open windows, mingled with laughter and quarrels. He hesitated a moment, then entered.
The reek of tobacco engulfed him. Crowded tables, spilled drinks, cards slapped upon wooden boards. No one looked particularly surprised to see him; the patrons were too absorbed in their own diversions. He strode to the bar, ordered coffee—no alcohol tonight—and left a few coins.
The barman eyed him with suspicion but said nothing. Crimson pressed no further; it was not the time to draw attention. He simply listened, though he soon realised the only way to get anything concrete was to ask outright.
"I'm looking for a woman with blue hair," he said firmly, not loudly, but enough for nearby tables to hear.
A murmur spread amongst the drinkers. Some smirked, others burst out laughing. One, red-nosed with drink, leaned towards him from the nearest table.
"The woman with blue hair?" he said, provoking cackles from his companions.
"They say she vanishes like smoke," added another, waving his arms as if mimicking a ghost. "Careful, hero—don't go chasing shadows."
"No, no, the best tale I've heard," a third chimed in, "is that she doesn't exist at all. Just a yarn spun by hunters to frighten greenhorns."
The laughter swelled, and Crimson clenched his fists. Frustration rose in his throat: rumours, exaggerations, cruel jests. No one seemed willing to offer anything serious.
He stood abruptly, leaving the coffee half-finished, and walked out of the tavern. The night air swept the smoke from his clothes, though not the anger of wasted time. He strode several blocks, ducking into a side alley, intent on searching elsewhere.
It was then he noticed: someone was following him.
He spun around, and from the shadows stepped a boy of sixteen or seventeen. His clothes were worn, trainers coated in dust, but his eyes gleamed with something sharper, more calculating than those of a mere vagrant.
"You're looking for the woman, aren't you?" the boy asked softly, his tone steady, though his stance betrayed a thread of tension.
Crimson measured him from head to foot, not lowering his guard.
"That depends. What do you know?"
The youth held out his hand, direct, without pretence. He was no naïve child; he knew well what information was worth in that district. Crimson sighed, pulled a few coins, and dropped them into his palm.
The clink of metal was enough to loose his tongue.
"I saw her a few days ago, at the old district market. Buying knives. She didn't speak to anyone, but she smiled… as if savouring the thought of what she was planning."
Crimson frowned. The detail matched what he had overheard in the tavern, yet here it was told plainly, without embellishment.
The boy went on:
"They say she hates happy families. That when she sees them, she boils inside. Once I saw her staring at a couple with children… I thought she'd draw a weapon then and there."
The hero watched him in silence, the words sinking deeper than he wished to admit. That was the sort of wound invisible to the eye, the kind that gnawed within.
"Anything else?" Crimson asked.
The boy hesitated, as though weighing whether to hold back the rest for more coin. At last, he spoke:
"Just be careful. She isn't like other killers. She toys with people, mocks them… and she doesn't seem to fear anything. If you face her, don't underestimate her."
The air in the alley thickened. Crimson nodded gravely, and the youth turned and slipped into the city's shadows.
The hero remained alone, fresh information heavy in his mind, the photo's weight renewed in his pocket.
Hours later, well into the night, Crimson walked along the main avenue. Neon lights from late-night businesses bathed the street in red and green, shimmering in puddles. His search was consuming him: every corner whispered a rumour, yet none led him directly to Miyako.
Still, the tension in the air was undeniable. Each step brought him closer; he could feel it.
Then, a woman's murmur threaded through the crowd. Not a shout, not a loud voice. A clear whisper, meant for him.
"Well, look who we have here…"
Crimson froze. Time itself seemed to halt around him.
The hero's heart thundered in his chest.