The smell of cheap detergent lingered as Daigo Shirosagi wrung out the mop for the fifth time.
"You missed a spot, Shirosagi. Don't slack off just because we're closing," his boss barked, tossing the keys onto the counter.
"Yeah, yeah…" Daigo muttered, finishing the last patch of floor and dragging the bucket back behind the counter. He stood there for a moment, just looking out through the shop's glass at the drizzle-slick street. A cluster of teenagers roared past on battered bikes, laughter and hoarse yells cutting through the humid night. For a beat Daigo let himself slip into the memory of a younger, louder life — fists and bravado, a reckless kind of hope he hadn't felt in years.
A customer's shadow fell over the counter and pulled him back. He blinked. For a second his brain refused to align the face with the man in his memory.
She looked like her — older, cleaner, sharper around the edges — but it was the same tilt to the jaw, the same eyes that had once made him feel untouchable and then made him feel small with a single sentence. Kyoju Hiwatari.
"Are you all right?" the woman asked. Her voice was level, but there was an edge to it — the kind of edge that saved time and didn't invite questions.
Daigo came back from the flash of memory and answered before he fully understood what he was doing. "Yeah. I— I'm fine. Just thought I saw someone I knew."
She didn't smile. "Daigo."
The name landed like a thrown rock. He felt the cold wash through him — not just surprise, but a fury he'd fermented for nine years. In his head: why this witch show back up now? After everything she'd said? After everything he'd wasted replaying in the dark?
"What do you want, miss?" he said aloud, trying for distance and getting only stiffness.
"Kyoju," she corrected without irritation. "Daigo, I want your help."
Her words stalled him in a way seeing her hadn't. Help. From him. He had to force the question past his tongue. How does she even— "How do you know my name? Did we… did we meet before? Who are you—" He stopped. No. She couldn't be Kyoju. If she was, why would she come back after all these years?
"Yes. I'm Kyoju Hiwatari — your ex," she said plainly. There was no softening it, no nostalgia. It was the fact of it, like putting a hand on a bruise.
Daigo tried to make sense of the set of her shoulders, the way she kept her gaze low and quick. "Why are you here?" he asked. He wanted to slice through the old hurt with a thousand small, angry questions, but something in her posture made him keep his voice smaller.
She glanced at the street, at the line of neon and the rumor of engines. "I told you — I want your help."
"From what?" The word came out sharper than he intended.
"I'll explain everything later. But… can you hide me?" Her whisper cracked at the end. It was the first crack he'd heard; it changed the thing he felt from anger to something like alarm.
"But why? Just tell me—" He didn't get to finish. Kyoju's eyes shot up, hard as flint.
"I SAID I WILL EXPLAIN LATER. LET ME IN." The shout surprised everyone in the shop — a raw, animal sound that didn't belong to the composed woman who'd been speaking a moment before.
Daigo held up his hands. "Okay, okay. Calm down." He pointed to the door behind him, toward the narrow stockroom that smelled of cardboard and forgotten inventory. "You can— you can hide back there for a bit."
She didn't hesitate. She crossed the counter with the sure, irritated movement of someone who had been forced to swallow pride before; she ducked into the dim stockroom while Daigo pulled the heavy curtain across and flipped off the overhead light. The shop sank into a hush that felt louder than the street.
Inside, the room was cramped and smelled of paper and old oranges. Kyoju crouched on a crate, hands clenched between her knees, breathing fast. She looked younger now in a way that made him ache — not because she was pretty, but because the shield she'd built had a crack.
Daigo stood in the doorway for a moment, the mop handle under his arm suddenly ridiculous. He wanted to ask a hundred things all at once: Why come here? Why to him? What could she possibly need from the guy who'd stopped at part-time jobs and cigarettes?
But then, muffled through the curtain, a low, familiar sound reached them — a motorcycle idling. Slow, deliberate, and not one of the kids from earlier. Voices drifted past outside; closer this time. Someone laughed too loud and then swore.
Kyoju's shoulders tensed. "They're outside," she whispered. "They're looking for me."
Daigo's jaw worked. The old dares and scraps of courage — the ones that only ever came out when someone he cared for was in trouble — uncoiled somewhere in him. He braced his back against the stockroom wall and met her eyes.
"All right," he said. "Tell me everything. Start from the beginning."
Kyoju (trembling):
They… they are members of a group called WHOLE. They're finding me because of the land my father owns. That group wants that land to build a shopping mall.
Daigo (leaning against the wall, calm):
So what you want me to do?
Kyoju (looking straight into his eyes):
Please… help me.
Daigo (thinking, annoyed):
Tch… that face always makes me sick.
Daigo (to Kyoju, out loud):
…Fine. I'll help you.
Daigo steps out of the stockroom, closing the door behind him. He grabs the mop bucket, his only weapon at hand, and pushes open the shop's shutter. The night air hums with the idling of motorcycles. A couple of men in leather jackets stand nearby, scanning the street.
Daigo walks casually toward one of them.
Man 1:
Oi, what are you lookin' at—
THUD!!
The metal bucket slams down on his skull, dropping him instantly.
Man 2:
Bastard!
He rushes forward, but Daigo spins, swinging the bucket sideways — smashing it into his temple. The man crumples.
Another thug charges, fist cocked. Daigo grips the bucket with both hands, jumps slightly, and brings it down like an axe. The bucket dents, splitting at the base with the force of the impact.
Man 3 (angry):
You're dead!!
He throws a punch, but Daigo tilts his head back just enough. The fist misses by inches. Daigo pivots — his leg sweeps up.
WHAM!!
A spinning kick smashes into the thug's back. He goes down, coughing, and doesn't get up.
Silence. Four men, all out cold on the pavement. The dented bucket clangs as Daigo tosses it aside.
Daigo (panting lightly, muttering):
…Still got it.
The street echoes with the faint hum of more engines in the distance.
Daigo (thinking, grim):
This isn't over… not by a long shot.