Silence settled in after the last bite.
Teïkō slowly placed the empty bowl on the low table. The warmth of the stew still spread through his chest, a strange contrast to the cold tightening around his heart. His body felt slightly better, but his mind refused to calm down.
Yora watched him without pressing, leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed. He hadn't said a word while Teïkō was eating, as if he knew that moment needed to remain untouched.
"Thank you…" Teïkō finally murmured.
"Hm?" Yora replied, lifting his head.
"For the meal. And for… everything else."
Yora smiled softly.
"Don't thank me too quickly. You're not out of danger yet."
Teïkō frowned.
"What do you mean?"
Yora pushed himself off the counter and came closer, pulling out a chair to sit across from him. This time, his expression was more serious.
"Your injuries aren't normal," he began. "Not just burns. Your body took something far more violent."
Teïkō looked down at his bandages.
"I… I fell. The fire was everywhere."
"That's not what I'm talking about."
The tone had changed. Heavier.
Teïkō looked up.
"When I found you," Yora continued, "the building was already mostly destroyed. Emergency services hadn't arrived yet. And yet… some of the damage didn't match a simple fire."
A chill ran through Teïkō.
"What kind of damage?"
Yora paused, as if choosing his words carefully.
"Impacts. Abnormal fractures. And above all… a presence."
"A presence?" Teïkō repeated.
"Yes. Someone was there. And that someone wasn't a civilian."
Teïkō's heart began to race.
The men in black suits.
The alley.
The chilling smile.
Tiger.
"My friends…" he murmured. "Simon. Marc. The others. They're in danger, aren't they?"
Yora didn't answer right away.
That silence hurt more than a lie.
"You're not dealing with ordinary people," he finally said. "And neither are you, for that matter."
Teïkō flinched.
"Me? I'm just—"
"You survived something that should have killed you," Yora cut in calmly. "And it's not the first time I've seen that."
He stood and walked to a shelf, pulling out an old, yellowed file.
"Tell me, Teïkō… have you ever wondered why certain people always seem to attract disasters?"
A heavy weight pressed down on Teïkō's shoulders.
"I just want to find my friends," he said firmly. "Whatever you know… help me."
Yora studied him for a long moment. Then he smiled—but this time, there was nothing light about it.
"In that case, you'd better rest," he said. "Because this world is far more dangerous than you imagine."
He walked to the window and slightly pulled back the curtain.
In the distance, flashing police lights still painted the night.
"And the ones who found you…" he added quietly, "they never stop at just one attempt."
Teïkō clenched his fists.
He didn't know how.
He didn't know when.
But one thing was certain.
He wasn't going to stay lying down for very long.
The movement never stopped.
That was the first thing Simon understood—no, felt.
The constant swaying. The irregular jolts. The dull growl of an engine vibrating deep into his bones.
He opened his eyes… or at least, he thought he did.
There was nothing but darkness.
A blindfold was strapped tightly around his face, too tight, scraping his skin with every breath. His wrists were bound behind his back, his ankles restrained. The floor beneath him hummed faintly.
A van.
He knew it without really knowing how. The smell of metal, rubber, oil. The confined air. The sound of tires rolling over asphalt.
How long have we been driving?
Impossible to tell. Time had lost all meaning. Each second stretched, warped, then vanished. Simon had no reference points left. No light. No clock. Just motion.
And fear.
His heart was racing. Every breath felt insufficient. He tried to move his hands. Useless. The restraints held firm.
Nearby, he heard uneven breathing. Then another.
William.
He would have recognized that breath anywhere—short, irregular, on the edge of panic. A little farther away, the soft rustle of fabric, a muffled groan.
Marc. Yurim.
They were all there.
Alive.
The relief hit him hard—and vanished just as quickly, replaced by a deeper, heavier dread.
Why are we still alive?
The van turned sharply. Simon was thrown against the wall, his shoulder slamming into metal. He stifled a cry. William let out a sob.
It didn't stop. Turns. Straight lines. Then more turns. As if they were deliberately driving in circles. As if they wanted to disorient them.
Simon tried to count the turns. One. Two. Three.
Then he lost track.
His mind kept returning to the same image.
The fire.
The unbearable heat. The black smoke. And above all…
Teïkō.
Teïkō yelling at him to jump. Teïkō promising to follow. Teïkō disappearing into the flames.
His throat tightened.
No. Not now.
He shut his eyes beneath the blindfold, as if that could push the memory away.
Finally—after what could have been an hour or an eternity—the van slowed.
Then stopped.
The engine kept running for a few seconds before shutting off. The silence that followed was brutal. Thick. Almost deafening.
Doors slammed.
Footsteps.
"Get them out."
The voice was cold. Mechanical.
Hands grabbed Simon roughly, dragging him forward. He nearly fell, barely caught before being pulled out of the vehicle.
The air changed instantly. Cooler. More open.
They walked.
For a long time.
Simon counted his steps without meaning to. The floor beneath his feet was smooth, hard. The sound of their footsteps echoed loudly, amplified, as if inside an endless tunnel.
A corridor.
A very long corridor.
No one spoke. Only footsteps, steady and controlled, and occasionally the faint clink of weapons or keys breaking the silence.
Then they stopped.
A soft metallic click sounded. Doors slid open with a muted hiss.
An elevator.
Simon felt the change immediately—the strange sensation in his stomach, the pressure shifting.
They were going down.
Still going down.
His thoughts spiraled. Why descend so deep? How many levels?
Then something else caught his attention.
A sound.
Distant, but unmistakable.
A sharp impact. Then another. Heavy blows. Muffled shouts. The clear, brutal noise of strikes landing. Bodies hitting the ground.
Sounds of combat.
Simon frowned beneath the blindfold. This wasn't a simple fight. It was too rhythmic. Too violent.
And yet… the atmosphere was strange.
He felt as though he were outdoors.
It made no sense. They were descending underground, yet the air felt vast, open. As if the space around them had no walls.
The elevator stopped.
The doors opened.
They walked again. Only a few dozen meters this time.
Then someone stopped in front of them.
"Remove them."
The blindfolds were torn away in a single sharp motion.
Light slammed into Simon's eyes.
He let out a strangled cry and turned his head, eyes burning, blinded. Tears flooded instantly.
When he finally managed to open his eyes again, he froze.
The room was white.
Not just bright. White. Uniform. Blinding.
The floor, the ceiling—everything blended into a single luminous expanse. The space was so vast that he couldn't see its limits. No visible walls. Just an endless white void, almost unreal.
They looked tiny.
In front of them stood a man.
Tall. Lean. Perfectly still.
He wore traditional samurai trousers. His torso was bare, revealing a lean, scarred body shaped by years of training. A katana rested at his waist, immaculate.
His hair was tied back in an old-fashioned style.
He observed them without expression.
"Here are the subjects, sir," said one of the men in suits.
The samurai inclined his head slightly, scanning them from head to toe.
"Seriously?" he asked, his voice calm, almost disappointed.
Another man in a suit replied immediately:
"Yes. These are the new recruits that sir personally retrieved last night."
The man's gaze settled on Simon. A cold shiver ran down his spine.
"They look rather… sickly," he remarked.
A third man stepped forward.
"Mr. Kaijin, the boss was clear about the training guide—"
"Watch your language when you address me, Celera," the man with the katana cut him off sharply. "For you, it's 'sir.'"
The silence that followed was heavy.
Kaijin then focused entirely on Simon and the others. His gaze was cold, clinical. He assessed their bodies the way one would evaluate tools. Or animals.
A cold sweat ran down Simon's neck.
"Separate them," Kaijin ordered. "Each one in an isolated room."
The men in suits nodded immediately.
Hands closed around Simon again. He barely had time to meet Marc's eyes. To see the raw fear in William's gaze. Yurim's tense, silent stare.
Then they were dragged in opposite directions.
As the white light disappeared behind him, one thought pounded in Simon's mind, louder than all the others:
They're not here to kill us.
They're here for something far worse.