The television crackled, the signal wavering between interference and shadows. On the screen, a newsreader with a grave voice recounted the aftermath of a night already turning into legend.
"The hero Crimson Spark remains in critical condition after the clash in the northern district.
Material damage is considerable: three blocks destroyed, multiple power cuts, and an entire zone cordoned off by the authorities.
Sources close to the Hero Association confirm that the assailant could be the same individual involved in the disappearance of Isamu…"
Miyako watched from her sofa, legs crossed, her smile growing wider by the second.
In the gloom of her apartment, the television's blue glow carved out her silhouette. Kuro, her cat, dozed beside her, utterly indifferent to the chaos outside.
"Did you hear that, Kuro?" she murmured mockingly. "The mysterious assassin… sounds good, doesn't it?"
The cat mewed, without enthusiasm, and Miyako burst out laughing.
As the reporter went on about "the waning faith in heroes", a childlike laugh escaped her—sincere and cruel.
"This is incredible!" she cried. "The great Crimson Spark lying in a hospital bed! Who would've thought!"
Then, the voices began.
At first, a whisper. Then, a chorus inside her skull.
"Why didn't you kill him, Miyako?"
"You could have finished him… you could have avenged us."
"You're afraid."
Miyako clutched her head in both hands.
"Shut up!" she snarled, her eyes bloodshot with fury. "I didn't kill him because I want him to suffer! I want him to wake and realise he failed! That he couldn't save anyone!"
The voices ebbed away, receding like a fading echo.
She took a long breath, sank back into the sofa and lit a cigarette.
"Idiots," she muttered, exhaling smoke. "They don't understand a thing…"
Kuro padded over to her leg, rubbing against her. Miyako smiled, her gaze softening ever so slightly.
"You really are lucky, aren't you?" she said, stroking his head. "You don't have to worry about anything—just eat, sleep, and watch me lose my temper."
She clicked the television off. Silence swallowed the apartment.
Rising, she shrugged on her jacket and slung the submachine gun over her shoulder.
"Come on, Kuro. Time to get back to the bar," she said with playful mischief. "I'm sure they're celebrating… and I don't intend to miss the party."
The cat mewed, as if in understanding, and Miyako, still smiling, stepped out into the night, beneath the flickering lights of the city.
The night air carried that scent of smoke, beer and petrol that only the lower quarters seemed able to preserve. Miyako walked with her hands in her pockets, the submachine gun swinging on her back. Her steps echoed against the damp cobbles while a satisfied smile remained fixed upon her lips.
In the distance, the neon sign of the bar flickered with its usual weary hum: "The Hunter's Den."
The hunters' refuge.
Her refuge.
She pushed the door open with her shoulder. A wave of heat and noise enveloped her: laughter, old music, and the familiar stench of cheap tobacco. A few men raised their glasses when they saw her enter. Not out of fondness… but because they knew who she was, and what she was capable of.
"Miyako!" shouted Ryo from the back table, waving with a huge grin. "The woman of the hour!"
She strode over with confidence. Katsuo sat beside him, jacket open, arms crossed, a half-smile on his face.
"Seems someone made history," Katsuo said, tone neutral but with a glint of respect in his eyes.
"History, I'm not sure…" Miyako shrugged. "But let's just say the night was entertaining."
Ryo roared with laughter, loud enough to turn heads.
"Entertaining, she says! You knocked out a rank-A hero! Not just anyone can claim that!"
Miyako dropped into the chair opposite them.
"Don't talk to me about heroes," she muttered, pouring herself from the jug Ryo had ordered. "The word alone makes me itch."
Katsuo raised his glass.
"To the end of Crimson Spark—at least for a while."
The three clinked their drinks, the metallic sound ringing amidst the bar's laughter.
Miyako drained her glass in one long gulp and set it back down with a sharp thud.
"Ah, that's what I needed."
For a moment, everything felt almost normal.
Until her gaze drifted to the bar.
The spot where Goro, the barman, would usually be—polishing glasses and smiling with that strange calm that defined him.
But tonight… he wasn't there.
"And Goro?" Miyako asked, frowning. "Don't tell me he took the night off, of all nights."
Ryo lowered his tone.
"Said he had some business to see to. Left a while back."
"Business?" Miyako narrowed her eyes. "Goro never leaves before closing."
Katsuo intervened, trying to dismiss it.
"Must be important. He'll be back."
Miyako studied him a second too long, then sighed.
"Well, that's his problem. But I'm not going dry just because he's gone."
She stood, went to the bar and ordered three beers. At that moment, the back door opened and a woman in a black suit and tied-up hair appeared. Reina—Daisuke's personal secretary.
"Miyako," she called, voice firm. "The boss wants to see you in his office."
The hunter raised an eyebrow.
"So quick to congratulate me? Efficient." She smirked.
Reina didn't answer. She simply waited.
Miyako carried the three beers back to the table, setting them down before her companions.
"The boss wants a word," she said, sipping hers. "Maybe now that the hero's out of play, he'll give me some real work."
"Most likely," Ryo commented, raising his jug.
"Good luck, Miyako," Katsuo added, glancing sideways at her.
She winked and walked off, her silhouette swallowed by the smoke and dim lights of the bar.
Daisuke's office always carried a weight, as if the smoke of cigars and the burden of secrets refused to leave the room.
When Miyako pushed the door open, the scent of old wood and expensive alcohol filled her lungs. The lighting was dim, barely enough to reveal the massive desk where the boss sat leafing through documents.
Daisuke looked up at the sound of her entrance.
"You're quick." His deep voice broke the silence, balanced between command and respect in the way only he could.
Miyako shut the door behind her and folded her arms.
"You said you wanted to see me. Thought it was to congratulate me… or better yet, to give me work."
Daisuke chuckled briefly and leaned back in his chair.
"Work. Always so impatient, Miyako. Not every day does someone knock out a rank-A hero."
"Then I should be rewarded, don't you think?" she replied with a crooked smile.
He stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray, eyes fixed on her.
"I'll be blunt. You've made a mess… a useful mess, but a mess nonetheless. The whole city's talking about you. The heroes are rattled. The hunters admire you. And the Council want you dead."
Miyako tilted her head, amused.
"Doesn't sound like a wasted day to me."
"Depends how long your luck lasts." His tone darkened. "For now, no missions for you."
Miyako's smile vanished.
"What did you just say?"
"Exactly that." Daisuke rose, his grey eyes locking on her. "We need the noise to settle. I can't risk you getting caught up in some reckless stunt."
Miyako slammed her hand on the desk.
"You can't sideline me now! I'm sharper than ever!"
He didn't flinch.
"And that's precisely why I'm saying it. If I send you out now, you'll die."
Silence fell for a beat.
Miyako stared at him, fury mixed with curiosity.
"Die? Don't be ridiculous. No one's killed me yet."
Daisuke held her gaze—no smile, no irony.
"What's coming isn't a simple job. Something big is moving… something that could bury both heroes and villains alike."
Her brow arched, curiosity beginning to outweigh her anger.
"And what's that got to do with me?"
"Everything." Daisuke walked to the window, gazing at the distant city lights. "Soon I'll be given a special mission. One that cannot fail. If it's mishandled, the person sent will die on the spot."
Miyako was silent for a moment. Then, slowly, a smile crept onto her lips.
"Then give it to me."
Daisuke turned, startled.
"What?"
"You heard me." Miyako planted both hands on the desk, leaning forward. "If there's an impossible mission, I want to be the one to take it."
He studied her for a long while. His expression was not approval… but neither was it rejection.
"I always knew you were mad," he sighed at last. "Fine. When the time comes, it'll be yours. But hear me, Miyako: if you fail, no one will come looking for you."
"I won't need them." She grinned, teeth flashing. "If I'm to die, it'll be leaving the ground soaked red."
Daisuke nodded, almost resigned.
"Go, before I change my mind."
Miyako turned on her heel, heading for the door. Before leaving, she paused.
"Boss…" she said without looking back. "Thanks for not taking the fun away."
He didn't answer. He merely watched as the door shut behind her.
Miyako's smile returned as she strode down the corridor. She didn't yet know what the mission was, or when it would come… but she sensed it would be the kind of job that made history.
And she loved making history.
The bar was as it had always been: air thick with smoke, lights flickering, laughter and old music mingling. Miyako returned to the table with steady steps, placing the beers before Ryo and Katsuo.
"Finally," said Ryo, raising his glass. "To the fall of the Crimson hero!"
Katsuo allowed himself a small smile.
"Let's drink to that."
The three clinked glasses and drank. Foam slid down the sides, and for a moment, everything seemed calm.
"What did Daisuke say?" Katsuo asked, setting down his drink.
"That there are no missions for now." Miyako scoffed. "But he assured me something big is coming. Something important."
"Then brace yourself," Ryo laughed. "When you say something big, it usually means half the city explodes."
Miyako shot him a sarcastic smile.
"And when have I ever been wrong?"
Katsuo chuckled.
"That's why I'm glad you're on our side."
They toasted again.
But soon after, Katsuo glanced at his watch, frowning.
"I've got to go. I was assigned a small job in the southern district."
"This late?" Ryo asked, surprised.
"There's no schedule for the boss's work," Katsuo said calmly. Then to Miyako: "See you tomorrow."
She nodded.
"Try not to die, will you?"
"I'll do my best," he joked, rising and leaving the bar.
The door shut, noise rushing back in. Ryo lingered a moment, watching where Katsuo had gone, before turning to Miyako.
"Don't you think he's been acting strange lately?" he asked casually.
"Katsuo?" Miyako arched a brow. "No, why?"
Ryo shrugged.
"Since you came back, he's been distant, quieter. I don't know, I thought maybe…" He grinned mischievously. "Maybe he's in love."
Miyako set her glass down slowly. Her expression hardened.
"What did you just say?" she whispered.
"Nothing, nothing—it was a joke," Ryo laughed nervously, raising his hands. "Come on, Miyako!"
But she had already slid the submachine gun from her thigh, pointing it straight at his forehead. The metallic click rang over the bar's din, drawing a few glances.
"Say it again," she said, face blank.
"Easy, I was just—"
"I don't like stupid jokes."
For a few seconds, the silence weighed heavier than the smoke.
At last, Miyako lowered the weapon, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
"But I'll forgive you… for now."
Ryo chuckled weakly.
"Thanks… I suppose."
She stood.
"I'm off. If the boss won't give me work, I'll get some sleep."
Ryo nodded quickly.
"Good idea."
Miyako left the bar without a backward glance.
Ryo exhaled the breath he'd been holding and muttered:
"That woman's going to scare me to death one of these days…"
The dawn air smelled of iron and stale rain. Miyako walked the deserted streets, neon lights shimmering across puddles left by the storm. The echo of her footsteps beat a slow rhythm. No hurry, no guilt.
She reached her flat. The black cat, Kuro, was waiting on the sill, golden eyes fixed on her.
"Hello, Kuro," she murmured, unlocking the door.
The animal leapt inside, rubbing against her legs. Miyako placed the submachine gun on the table, kicked off her boots and jacket, and collapsed into the armchair.
She switched on the television. The news still played on repeat: images of wreckage, ruined streets, the Hero Association's logo flashing crimson.
"The S-rank hero, Crimson Spark, remains in critical condition. Internal sources claim his status is stable, but it is unknown when he will regain consciousness."
Miyako smirked.
"Stable… so they say." She stroked the cat's back. "But I doubt his mind is as calm as his body."
She closed her eyes. For an instant, silence wrapped around her.
Several kilometres away, Katsuo walked alone through a ruined avenue. The streetlights fizzed, cars lay overturned, and the scars of battle were still fresh.
"It was too much… even for him," he murmured.
His boots crunched over shattered glass. He thought of Miyako, of her smile in the fight, of that spark of madness that made her unpredictable.
"If she keeps this up, one day she won't come back," he said quietly.
At last, he reached his home. He opened the door—darkness everywhere.
He dropped his keys on the table and flicked the main switch.
The lights came on.
A man in a mask was sitting on his sofa. He didn't move. He simply watched him in silence.
The mask covered his mouth and most of his face, like those worn by assassins from the underworld.
Katsuo stepped back, instinctively hardening his arms—the texture of wood creeping over them.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
The man didn't answer. He only tilted his head. And in that simple gesture, Katsuo felt the pulse of danger.
The scene froze in absolute silence.
Only the tick of the clock broke the heavy air.