I think about my hand. Then I think about what happened after I injured it. I think about the kind of person I was. The situation I was in. The fallout. The people I’ve lost.
War wounds. Scars both physical and mental, serving as a constant reminder of all the shit I went through to get here —my third attempt at a new life. You would think I’d be an expert at it by now, but the truth is, this is the first time it’s truly felt like it’s working.
The first time, way back when in Devil’s Spring, was perfect. I had a bar, a dog, a gorgeous woman who was crazy about me. It was everything I ever wanted. It ticked all the boxes. Problem was, it was too perfect. It’s as if my mind rejected it because it felt unreal. It was too far removed from my old life. The sad, horrible truth was that it only served as a beacon, summoning everything I was trying to escape from to come and take me back.
Eventually, it did, which didn’t end all that well for anyone.
The second time wasn’t really my choice. It felt like it was at first, but that soon changed. I ended up destroying that life myself. The whole experience left me feeling toxic. Like I was poison to anyone around me. That I was destined to be alone, for the sake of everyone else.
Things got a little dark for me after that. I remember looking in the mirror one morning and seeing a reflection of myself from thirteen years ago staring back. The same tired eyes that had lost their shine. The same burdened soul that struggled with losing everything it held dear. Back then, had I been alone, I’d have been dead inside six months. Either by eating my own bullet or choosing to live recklessly enough that I ate someone else’s. But I survived for one reason and one reason only.
Josh.
He stuck by me, put up with my shit and misery, and dragged me through the dark until I could walk unaided into the light.
When I saw that same guy in the mirror that morning, I panicked. I thought, after losing Josh, I’m going to end up traveling that same road, on the same journey, heading for the same destination. And this time, he wasn’t there to save me.
Except I didn’t.
This time, I saw it coming, and I asked for help. The time I spent in therapy helped me realize that asking for help isn’t a weakness. It doesn’t take away from who I am. I’m still the most dangerous assassin alive. I know it. The kind of people who used to hire me know it. My peers know it. If anything, help gives me strength. It allows me to still be that person, even though I’ve got some shit to deal with. And let’s face it, without wishing to turn things into a pissing contest, I’m confident in saying the amount of shit I’ve had thrown at me these last few years tops anything most other people have on their plate. It’s understandable I’d find it difficult coping at times. I’m a professional killer by nature, by design… but I’m still human.
So, I made it through. It wasn’t easy, but I did it. I got through the dark times because of Ruby. We’ve made one hell of a team these last couple years, and as much as I never thought I would say this, I’d be lost without her. I like to think she feels the same way, but you never quite know with her. She’s in character as much as she isn’t, and while she’s always honest with me, I’m pretty sure she masks a lot of her emotional and psychological issues by being Ruby . By turning the volume up and hiding behind the crazy noise. But that’s who she is. It’s what works for her, and it takes nothing away from the fact she’s always had my back.
So, third time’s a charm. We moved to Tokyo and decided between us what kind of life we want to carve out for ourselves over here—similar enough to what we know that we won’t feel lost but different enough that we feel as if we’re starting over.
It’s been working well. We—
“How come you never let me squeeze your balls like that?”
I open my eyes. Speak of the devil.
I lift my head. “Morning, Ruby.”
She appears in front of me wearing a short, silk robe, loosely tied, barely covering her breasts. Her long, tanned legs are almost completely visible, suggesting small or absent underwear. She decided to go blonde about six weeks ago. I’m still not sure it suits her, but as I’ve said, it’s best not to comment sometimes. She still turns heads everywhere she goes, so she must be doing something right.
She arches an eyebrow as she looks me up and down. “Rough night? You look like shit.”
“Thanks. No, it wasn’t rough or late. Just a few quiet beers.”
She sits down beside me, crossing her legs. “Where’d you go?”
“That place near the shrine, just across the river.”
“Cool. So, no trouble then?”
I turn to her. “Why d’you ask?”
She shrugs. “Because you have some impressive Louis Vuittons under your eyes. Plus, you seem far too relaxed, suggesting lethargy more than comfort. I know you can hold your drink, so my guess is you’re suffering from an adrenaline hangover. Figured you got into something last night.”
See why we’re such a good team?
I roll my eyes. Rest my head back and stare at the ceiling again. Can’t resist a smile. “Yeah, just a couple of assholes hitting on a young girl. One of them slapped her, so I stepped in. Wasn’t a big deal.”
Ruby gets to her feet and moves around the back of the sofa. She leans forward and kisses my forehead. “You’re a true gentleman, Adrian.”
I hear her padding barefoot across the wooden floor toward the kitchen.
“Coffee?” she shouts over.
“Just had one. But thanks.”
“I’m heading out later. You need anything?”
I think for a moment. “No, I’m good. Going anywhere nice?”
She pauses. “Nowhere specific. Just running a few errands.”
I don’t reply. A couple of minutes later, she disappears back upstairs.
Ruby and I came to an understanding when we moved in together that we will always be there for each other, for anything, no matter what, but we will each live our own lives. No question or judgment. We respect each other’s privacy and typically spend more time apart than together.
However, I’ve… kept my eye on her, shall we say. Not in an intrusive way. I’m not spying on her. I’m not prying into her life. I’m looking out for her, the same way a big brother would look out for his kid sister. It’s instinctive, whether she needs it or not. I don’t feel like I’m crossing any lines. Besides, it would surprise me if she hasn’t done the same thing. We know each other too well.
We’ve never spoken about it, or even admitted it to one another, but we’ve both chosen to stick to what we know. By that, I mean we’re both working contracts from time to time here in Tokyo. It’s not a full-time thing—not for me, at least—but it keeps us on our toes, and we would likely go crazy otherwise. A new life doesn’t mean a completely different life. We’re keeping things familiar, just changing our outlook on it all.
I felt bad at first. As if I was betraying her loyalty and support by picking up old habits. But when I realized she was doing the same thing, I just laughed. It only served as proof we’re the ideal company for each other at this stage of our lives. I’ll always remember what Josh said after he met Ruby for the first time. He said she was a female me. That we were each a side of the same coin. He was right. As he was about most things.
So, by running some errands , she means seeing a man about a job.
Which reminds me.
I check my watch.
I’m late.
I get to my feet, tossing the ball onto the sofa as I walk over to the sideboard by the stairs. I pick up my Pilot and place it in my ear. I drop the Ili in my pocket, just in case.
Good to go.
I move to the bottom of the stairs. “I’m heading out. See you later.”
“Be good,” she shouts back.
I grab the keys from the table by the elevator and press the call button.
I’ve got to see a man about a job.
3
09:54 JST
My hands are dug deep into my po
ckets. The collar on my jacket is turned up against the wind. It’s not usually warm in these parts this time of year, but it’s been colder than normal the last couple weeks. It was fifty degrees yesterday. Doesn’t feel much different today.
The streets of Tokyo are almost schizophrenic. At night, they pulse with life and vibrancy, bathed in neon and drenched in culture. Markets and pop-up restaurants attack your taste buds. Clubs and bars assault your senses with lights and music thumping so loud the sidewalk shakes. But when the sun rises, the city transforms into an overcrowded petri dish of urgency and introversion. Tall, crumbling buildings form borders around the narrow streets, trapping people like rats in a maze. Small cars shuffle along to a soundtrack of blaring horns. Sidewalks are crammed with people who want nothing more than to get where they’re going without having to look at anyone. Everywhere is shrouded in a light haze, a mixture of social disdain and pollution.
It's like nothing I’ve ever seen before.
I like it.
I twist my torso left and right, leading with my shoulders as I thread my way through the crowds, walking with unhurried purpose. It took me a while to get to grips with the landscape here. Not just the streets, but the city itself. Its structure and inner workings. Tokyo isn’t a city; it’s a metropolis—an amalgamation of cities and towns, split vertically down the middle. In the east, what we would call a city is known as a ward, and there are twenty-three of them. Chiyoda, where I live with Ruby, is in the heart of Tokyo’s financial district. Consequently, it’s a richer area than most. Property is more expensive, and the cost of living is high, but the place looks fantastic.
Our apartment overlooks Koto, which lies just across the river. That’s where I’m heading now. It’s another of the larger wards but one that’s steeped in tradition. Shrines and gardens are scattered throughout, and the overall tempo feels as if it’s a few notches below where I now call home. It’s a more modest way of life. People aren’t as wealthy, but they’re probably more welcoming than those who are used to the hustle and bustle of true city life. Restaurants aren’t places of extravagance; they’re small, one-story buildings, filled with the smell of hundred-year-old recipes being prepared by the great-grandchildren of the people who created them.
While I’ve adapted to life in Chiyoda, I feel far more comfortable in Koto.
I’ve been walking for almost twenty minutes. The sound of the busy streets fades away as I cross over the bridge. The dull hue is replaced by a warmth of color, which helps me forget the gradually declining fall temperature.
My errand involves meeting one of the few people I’ve allowed myself to befriend since moving here. Ichiro is maybe ten years older than me. Easily a hundred times crazier . He’s always chuckling to himself, even when he’s not saying anything. It’s as if he’s constantly telling a joke in his head. His skin is tanned and mottled, his head bald and wrinkled. A thin, gray beard stretches down to his chest. He’s always smoking a long pipe with God-knows-what inside it. At first glance, he looks as if he belongs in a temple. He even wears prayer beads around his neck.
But his appearance is deceiving. In his day, Ichiro was a feared member of a Yakuza family and served as one of their most dangerous enforcers. Now he spends his retirement running a noodle bar and working as a go-between for people looking to find employment in the global network of underworld activity that reaches this far east.
Maybe that’s why I got to know him. That similar approach to life. Both looking to start over. Both wanting a change, but both sticking to what we know. Kindred spirits. We occasionally meet for a drink, usually as a welcome accompaniment to whatever business we’re talking at the time. Neither of us speak at length about our pasts. Neither of us need to. He knows all about me. Most people do, even all the way out here. And the fact he not only survived the life he had but was able to leave it behind him says all I need to know about him.
His noodle bar is situated on a corner plot across from the park that divides the rural and modern areas of Koto. The street it’s on serves as a kind of DMZ for the ward. The whole place is Yakuza territory. The left, stretching back to the river, belongs to one family. The park and beyond belongs to another. But this street—his street—is holy ground for the rival factions. A show of respect for who Ichiro was and is today.
I push the door open and step inside. A wave of gentle heat and incredible aroma greets me. A low counter runs the full length of the right wall, serving as an open cooking area. A line of chefs hunch over huge woks, tossing noodles, meat, and vegetables expertly before ladling it into small cardboard tubs for the line of impatient customers. A handful of tables face the counter, but few people sit inside to eat.
It’s always busy in Ichiro’s place.
I idle near the door, scanning the crowd. My eyes rest on the doorway behind the counter, covered by hanging beads, leading to the kitchen area in the back. Standing just inside, seemingly in conversation with someone out of sight, is Ichiro. I recognize his outline. He steps out into the restaurant and looks around, surveying his small kingdom. His gaze falls to me. He nods and chuckles, signaling me over to him. I signal back with a slight wave. I reach the far end of the counter, and he lifts a section of it, allowing me to walk through.
He pats my shoulder as I pass him, still chuckling. “Adrian-san. Always pleasure to see Shinigami here.” He gestures me through the beads. “Come. Come. We talk. We drink!”
I step through, past some more staff and into the storage room on the far side. He follows me, closing the door behind us. The room isn’t huge, but it’s spacious enough for his stock. Metal shelving lines both sides. Piles of wooden boxes haphazardly litter the floor.
We walk to the far wall, and I side-step, allowing him to pass. About halfway up is a panel, roughly seven inches by ten, which lights up momentarily when he places his palm against it. A loud beep sounds, then a section of the wall clicks open with a hiss, revealing itself as a door to a hidden room. Ichiro pulls it open and ushers me inside.
This office is where he conducts the part of his business that doesn’t revolve around teriyaki sauce. A large painting of a samurai hangs on the wall facing the camouflaged door, above an old desk with a laptop and a lamp standing on it. He moves around it and sits in a worn leather chair. I sit opposite, shuffling in the creaky, wooden seat until I find some level of comfort.
Ichiro claps his hands together, grinning wide. “Good to see you again, Adrian-san.”
Despite having the luxury of technology to bridge any language barriers, it’s still nice to interact with someone who speaks the same language. Sort of.
I smile back. “You too, my friend. Business good?”
He nods. “Good enough. The client was impressed with how you handled last job.”
About a week ago, I took a small contract to kill a man who was sleeping with the client’s wife. Initially, I had turned it down. Domestic disputes don’t warrant a bullet from me. Ichiro had understood but had asked that I give him twenty-four hours to investigate, as the payout seemed unusually high for a job that appeared so mundane. I had no problem with that. Saved me doing it. Anyway, it turned out the guy sleeping with the client’s wife was also known to sleep with other peoples’ wives. And their daughters. Regardless of age. Or consent.
Six hours after Ichiro gave me that information, the guy was found hanging from the ceiling fan in the rented apartment he took his conquests to.
Staging a suicide isn’t difficult. We all know the different ways of doing it and what they’re supposed to look like. The hard part is making sure no one knows it’s staged. If you’re fortunate enough to have a target who is weak and spineless, as I was, the task is made much easier. I simply aimed my gun at him and explained that if he didn’t commit suicide, I would make him suffer to such an extent, his mind would give up trying to comprehend it. He noosed himself up real good. All I did was kick the chair out from under him.
No evidence I was ever involved. Easy.
I
shrug, trying not to appear modest. “It was a simple enough contract.”
Ichiro laughs. “Shinigami !”
He claps again. I roll my eyes.
Shinigami is a nickname he gave me the first time we met. My reputation preceded me when we were introduced, and it’s what he called me. At first, I figured it was some kind of informal greeting, but I later found out the rough translation is God of Death, or Grim Reaper, to give it its western meaning. It was said with tongue firmly in cheek, but it stuck, and now it’s our little private joke.
I wave a dismissive hand, keen to change the subject. “You said you have another job?”
He nods. “Yes. Yes. But first…”
He opens a deep drawer on his left, then takes out a decorated porcelain bottle and two small matching cups.
Sake.
I breathe out a reluctant sigh.
Great. This shit is lethal!
He uncaps the bottle and pours two measures. He takes one and passes the other to me. Raises his cup in a silent toast. I reciprocate, and we both slam it back. The flavor burns my throat. A combination of sweet and savory. The spice of the alcohol is offset by the hint of apples.
I suck a painful breath in through my teeth, grimacing as the oxygen stings my mouth. “How do you drink this stuff?”
Ichiro chuckles, slapping the surface of his desk with his hand. “Considering you so dangerous, Adrian-san, you can be real pussy!”
I roll my eyes again. Smile politely. “Thanks. So, this job?”
He packs the sake away. “Yes. Client asked for you specifically.”
“Repeat business?”
He shakes his head. “No. Just word…” He makes a snaking motion with his hand. “…traveling around.”
“Okay. Lay it on me.”
He spins the laptop around. There’s an image of a man, maybe my age. Short, dark hair. Narrowed eyes. A thin, curled line for a mouth. Wide jaw. Full cheeks.
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