Midnight draped Seika High in a shroud of storm-swept black, wind howling through the quad like a warning ignored. Kai zipped his rain jacket tighter, the fabric slick against his skin as rain lashed sideways, turning the world into a blurry watercolor. The group huddled by the old wing's side door—Hayashi's "service entrance," unlocked with a spare key she'd slipped him during the lockdown scramble. Her flip still felt surreal: from foe to fragile ally, whispering Trust me as they fled. But trust was a gamble, and Kai's gut churned with it.
"Flashlights off till inside," Yumi ordered, her voice cutting the gale. Ponytail sodden, backpack strapped tight with the laptop and drive backups. "Hayashi said floorboard under the enlarger—loose nail, pry with this." She pressed a slim crowbar into Kai's hand, cold metal grounding him.
Sora shivered beside Aiko, hood up, clutching a thermos of "emergency cocoa" like a lifeline. "This is nuts. Midnight raids in a hurricane? We're one lightning bolt from fried detectives."
Aiko elbowed him, her sketchpad waterproofed under plastic. "Quit whining. Think of the art: 'Storm-Chasers vs. Scandals.' Epic." But her grin wavered, eyes darting to the shadows where the admin building loomed, Nakamura's window a dark eye.
Kai nodded, pulse syncing with the thunder. Negatives under floorboard. Hayashi's intel: photos she'd squirreled away, untouched by her own "burn order" years back. Proof of Mori's handoff—the drugs that felled Sato, the bribes that built the new wing. Dad's crusade started here, unraveling the web till the sedan snapped it shut.
He jimmied the door, rust flaking under the crowbar. It gave with a groan, swallowed by the wind. They piled in, dripping trails on the cracked linoleum. The old wing was a tomb: echoes of their breaths bouncing off lockers dented like old wounds. Flashlights flicked on, narrow beams carving paths to the darkroom—tucked at the hall's end, door marked Authorized Personnel Only in peeling tape.
"Hayashi's haunt," Yumi murmured, twisting the knob. Unlocked. Inside, the air hung thick with chemical ghosts—developer, fixer, the acrid tang of secrets fixed in emulsion. Red safelights glowed faint from a backup battery, casting the space in bloody hues. Sinks lined one wall, drying racks sagged with forgotten prints; the enlarger hulked like a mechanical spider in the center.
Sora gagged softly. "Smells like a bad science fair. Where's the floorboard?"
Kai knelt by the enlarger, beam tracing baseboards. There—scuff marks, deliberate. He wedged the crowbar, wood splintering with a crack that set teeth on edge. The board lifted, revealing a shallow void: dust-bunny nest and a battered metal box, padlocked but rusted through. One twist of the crowbar, and it popped open.
"Paydirt," Aiko breathed, as Kai lifted the lid. Inside: sleeves of negatives, glassine envelopes yellowed with age, labeled in Hayashi's neat script—H.S. Handover, 10/15/87; Donation Meet, Gym Backlot. He slid one under the safelight, holding it to the glow. Shadows danced: grainy figures in the quad, Mori (younger, scar fresh) passing a vial to a cluster of suited alumni. Nakamura's profile, unmistakable, pocketing an envelope thick as sin.
"Jackpot," Sora echoed, peering over. "That's the poison—look, label's visible: 'Performance Enhancers.' Sato's ticket to the big sleep."
Yumi snapped photos with her phone, macro mode steady. "Cross-reference the drive: Mori's ledger matches—¥10M for 'consulting.' Hayashi was right; this burns him."
Kai moved to the next sleeve, heart thudding. Personal—H.T. Warning. His fingers trembled as he held it up. The negative bloomed: Dad, early 30s, trench coat flapping in what looked like the same rainy night as the crash. But not fleeing—confronting. Across from him: Mori, face twisted in rage, hand raised mid-gesture. Words blurred in the emulsion, but one legible scrawl on the contact sheet: Hiroshi—walk away. Family first.
Family? Kai's world stuttered. The photo's timestamp: weeks before the hit. Dad's notes in the margin, faint: Takashi's bluff—blood doesn't buy silence. Emiko, back me? Takashi—Mori's first name. But family?
Aiko gasped, pointing. "Wait—background. The sedan. Plate's partial: MOR-1. And... is that a kid in the passenger seat? Blurry, but—"
Thunder crashed, close enough to rattle the enlarger. Lights flickered—power surge? No—the door banged open, wind roaring in tandem with shouts. "There! The kids—grab 'em!"
Mori's goons—two burly shadows in rain gear, faces obscured by hoods, one brandishing a flashlight like a club. The ambush hit like the storm: they'd been tailed, the text a lure? Or Hayashi sold? No time—details later.
"Scatter!" Kai yelled, shoving the negatives into his jacket. Yumi snatched the box, Sora yelping as a goon lunged, missing by inches. Aiko hurled a tray of photo trays—chemicals splashing, stinging the air with vinegar bite.
They bolted, darkroom devolving into chaos: enlarger toppled, safelight shattering in red shards. The hall blurred, flashlights bobbing like will-o'-the-wisps. Rain hammered as they hit the quad, goons' boots pounding behind. "Stop! Police business!" one bellowed—lie, badges flashed but wrong glint.
Sora tripped on a grate, sprawling mud. Kai hauled him up, arm straining. "Legs, man—run!"
Lightning forked, illuminating the chase: quad to fence line, hedges clawing at clothes. Yumi vaulted a bench, Aiko close; Kai dragged Sora, lungs burning. The goons gained—one veered left, cutting them off at the gate.
"Dead end, brats!" the leader snarled, blocking the exit, radio crackling: "Boss—Mori—got 'em pinned. Negatives?"
Cornered. Rain blurred vision, thunder masking heartbeats. Kai's mind raced—deduction or desperation? Details: Goon's stance, wide but off-balance; rain-slick fence, chain-link yielding. Family first. The photo's echo—blood ties?
Bluff. "Mori sends regards," Kai shouted over the gale, buying seconds. "Tell him Hiroshi says hi. And the negatives? Already copied. You're late."
The goon faltered—micro-hesitation. Kai seized it: "Now!" He charged, shoulder to gut, toppling the man into the mud. Sora scrambled over the fence, Aiko boosting Yumi. Kai followed, wire snagging his jacket—negatives safe, but skin tearing.
They tumbled into the alley beyond, sprinting for the neon haze of the main street. Footsteps faded, curses swallowed by storm. A konbini loomed—sanctuary. They burst in, bells jangling, dripping on tile as the clerk gawked.
"Soccer practice... overtime," Sora panted, slapping coins for hot teas. The lie hung, but it bought breath.
Huddled in the booth, negatives spread under the table, Kai stared at the Personal sleeve again. The kid in the sedan—small, dark hair, peeking from behind Mori's seat. Age five? The timeline clicked: 1987 photo, but wait—no, contact sheet dated 1990. Three years later. Kai's age then.
His blood chilled. The face, magnified under the booth light—boyish features, glasses faint in the grain. Him. Kai, wide-eyed, oblivious. Mori's hand on the wheel, Dad's silhouette arguing outside. Family first. Mori wasn't just the killer. He was the uncle—the estranged brother Dad had mentioned once, in a drunken haze after a case: Blood's thicker than justice, kid. But not always.
Uncle Takashi. Mori. The sedan that night— not random. Familial feud, inheritance grudge? Dad's whistleblowing on the scandal, threatening Mori's empire. The hit: punishment, not accident.
Yumi's voice pulled him back. "Kai? You okay? That photo—"
"Family," he croaked, the word ash. "Mori's my uncle. Dad's brother. That's why the bluff worked—the goon knew."
Silence crashed harder than thunder. Aiko's hand found his. "Shocking? Understatement. But explains the texts—E protecting bloodlines."
Sora whistled low. "Plot twist city. So, Mori's your evil uncle? Star Wars much?"
Yumi pocketed the negatives. "Crumbs for the expose. Hayashi was right—leverage. But now? Mori knows we're family deep. He'll hit harder."
Kai nodded, the booth's warmth a lie against the cold truth. Dad's badge in his pocket felt heavier—legacy laced with betrayal. Uncle or monster? The chase had unearthed bones, but the storm raged on.
Outside, rain eased to drizzle, but headlights prowled the street—a black sedan, slowing at the curb before vanishing into the night.
His phone buzzed: Family reunions bite hardest. Uncle's gala speech—hidden clause in the will. Read between the lines. Midnight tomorrow. —E
Will? Dad's? The web knotted tighter, kin and crime entwined.
End of Chapter 7
(Next chapter tease: Infiltrating the lawyer's office for Dad's hidden will reveals Mori's inheritance plot—but a double-cross from Hayashi forces Kai to question every ally, leading to a tense standoff in the rain-soaked archives.)