The Hunters' Compact — Chapter 2: Don't Blink
Shimo-Kitazawa, 06:24.
Rain threads the power lines. A noren hangs limp over the back door of a soba shop. Vending-machine neon washes the alley in a cold blue like a cigarette lit under water.
Rei walks like the ground owes him interest. Slate-gray coat. Black jacket under it. Gloves. A paper case tucked under his arm like a promise.
"Keep your distance," he says without looking back. "Don't touch anyone. Don't talk unless you have to."
"What are we hunting?"
"Call was quiet," he says. "One scream. Then nothing."
A city monitor blinks on the wall:
GRADE B — EVACUATE SIDE STREETS. KEEP EYES DOWN.
The back door is propped open with a bucket. Steam ropes past the curtain, pretending to be morning.
"Breathe even," Rei says.
He palms the door.
Soba broth fogs the threshold. The kind of warmth a body forgives itself for wanting.
I step left of it.
Inside: a narrow prep hall. Tile worn smooth by a thousand fast shifts. A ladle on the floor. Two bowls cooling. Chopsticks scattered like thin, dropped bones.
"Sumimasen," a voice says from the dark. Automatic. Polite. The way this city apologizes for existing.
The steam flexes.
Rei lifts a hand. Stops. Listens.
Between breaths: the soft rustle of heads bowing that aren't here. The apology echo. Again. Again. Again.
"Don't say sorry," Rei says. "Not for anything."
"Okay," I say.
The apology repeats from the end of the hall, closer. It isn't mocking. It wants to help. It wants to be fed.
We step in.
Cold skates my palms like it's been waiting for an excuse. Aura rides nerves when it wants. I keep it close.
"Sumimasen," the dark says again, and the steam lifts in the shape of a bow.
It's on the ceiling—a stain that learned posture. Human if you stare. Nothing if you blink. Arms too long because apologies stretch you out of shape.
Grade B. Apology-feeder.
When someone says sorry, it thickens. When someone bows, it drops lower, polite as a hand on your shoulder.
A woman's leg sticks out from behind a crate. Work shoe. Bent wrong at the ankle. The rest of her hidden. Breathing shallow. She whispers a word rubbed down to thread.
"Don't—" Rei says.
She whispers it again. "Sorry."
The Devil fattens on the sound. The rope of steam flattens into a spine. The noren stirs though the door doesn't move.
I put my palm to tile.
Frost runs in a white tape line across the floor—fast, hungry, finding seams. The air tightens. Steam hesitates where the cold takes it personally.
"Door," Rei says.
I kick the bucket. The door shuts on the steam's neck. The rope frays.
"Don't apologize," Rei tells the dark, the way you tell a dog to drop. "No bows. Stand tall."
The woman tries. The word claws her teeth and she swallows it.
The Devil tilts its head. A bow-thin seam brightens where a throat should be.
"On my count," Rei says.
I soak the tile colder. Arms buzzing like I did pushups with the worst idea on my back. Aura drains. Fatigue stacks. That's the bill.
"Three," Rei says.
The Devil leans for a bow that isn't offered.
"Two."
It doesn't like being refused. It reaches.
"One."
Rei stamps the permit in air. "Shut."
The room folds like a door closing. Sound thins. The steam knots on itself.
I drive cold through that knot. It holds.
Rei doesn't swing for the head. He threads the blade where the seam showed—one clean gesture taught in a room where talking wastes breath.
The Devil splits without a scream, then tries to knit around the apology it expects.
"Sumi—" the woman begins out of reflex.
"Don't," I say, not loud, not unkind.
She bites the rest of the word like it might bite back.
The Devil starves for a three-count.
It collapses into the sound only cities make: air conditioners switching off in chorus.
My knee hits tile. Arms heavy. Breath gravel. Honest tired.
Rei wipes the blade with paper he doesn't keep. Drops it in the sink without looking.
"Grade B," he says. "Apology-type."
"I guessed."
"You listened."
We move to the woman. Compact. Older than the uniform. She refuses to look at what isn't there. That's kind. The hall is clean again in the way alleys are clean: no one has time to grieve here.
"Can you stand?" Rei asks.
She nods. Tries. Fails. Tries again. Makes it.
"Thank you," she says, because language is a trap.
Rei nods, which isn't the same as accepting. "Keep the back door closed for three days. No apologies. Tape a sign if you have to."
She points at my hands. "You're new."
"Yeah."
"You think you're the hero who saves the city," she says, not unkind. "You're the man who keeps the broth from burning."
She almost bows. Checks herself like she touched a hot pan. Lifts a hand instead. "Okay," she says, and it doesn't sound like a debt.
Outside, the alley remembers it's a street. A scooter idles at the curb. The rider cranes for something worth filming. Rei glances once. The rider looks away. Not fear. Etiquette.
The monitor on the corner clicks over:
GRADE C — CONTAINMENT CLEARED.
Far strip: a red banner pulses.
GRADE S — SHINAGAWA — ACTIVE.
We don't talk about it. You learn not to look straight at storms from far away. It makes them curious.
Rei tosses me a disposable hand-warmer. The foil crinkles. Heat I don't have to take from a person.
"Put it in your sleeve," he says. "You're shaking."
"I'm fine."
"You're eighteen and you ran your Aura for six minutes," he says. "Put it in your sleeve."
I do. Warmth under fabric. Not skin. Loophole.
He watches me not smile about that. "You won't get medals for clever," he says. "You get to do this tomorrow. That's better."
We stand under the rain until the city decides to be loud again. A truck rumbles, late for a delivery. A shutter goes up like a sigh.
We start walking.
"Why did she say my name?" I ask. The question is about someone else.
"Devils learn," Rei says. "People remember. Or someone wanted you here."
"Which do you think?"
He checks his watch like the truth has a start time. "Doesn't matter," he says. "We grade. We act."
We pass a wall of missing posters layered thick as paint. Some edges frayed to lace. Some still bleed in the rain.
Kelly's face isn't there.
That's worse.
At the mouth of the alley, Rei stops. He looks like a man with an appointment and no one to confirm it.
"Can you walk?" he asks.
"Yes."
"Can you fight if we have to?"
"I can stand."
"Good enough."
He turns. Then: "Kaelen."
"Yeah?"
"Don't apologize," he says. "Not today."
I nod.
We step into the morning like it might allow us.
Tokyo inhales.
We go with it.