The air in the high-security government facility office was thick with the stale scent of burnt tobacco. My boss, a man whose name was less important than the authority he exuded, sat behind his imposing desk, a cigarette glued to his lip as always. The sharp rap on the door broke the tense silence.
"Sir," Agent Kaito's voice was clipped, his face grim as he stepped into the room. "You need to see this."
My boss, Sakawa, flicked ash into a crystal tray, his gaze unwavering. Kaito handed him a remote, gesturing towards the massive monitor dominating the wall. With a sigh, Sakawa pressed play.
The news broadcast flickered to life, the familiar logo of NHK flashing before settling on a grainy image. A hooded figure stood amidst what looked like a war zone, the backdrop a chaotic blur of overturned vehicles and panicked figures. Beneath the image, stark red letters screamed: WANTED.
Then, the numbers hit me like a physical blow.
¥1,000,000,000,000.
A bounty so astronomical it bordered on the absurd. Almost.
The news anchor's voice, usually so measured, was laced with a chilling gravity. "This individual is considered extremely dangerous, with a confirmed kill count higher than ten known serial killers and psychopaths combined. The government urges the public to report any sightings immediately."
Sakawa finally exhaled, a plume of smoke curling towards the ceiling as he watched the screen, his eyes narrowed in grim contemplation. "So...they finally put a price on him."
He turned to his assembled agents, his voice sharp and decisive. "Gather the best investigators and spies we have. I want this man found. Now."
Weeks crawled by, each day a frustrating cycle of dead ends.
My agents, the supposed elite of our organization, scoured the neon-drenched streets of Tokyo, interrogated sniveling informants in the city's underbelly, and meticulously monitored every shadowed alleyway. But Mikimo was a phantom, a ghost story whispered in the dark corners of the internet. Every hooded figure they stopped, their hopes momentarily flaring, turned out to be just another lost soul seeking anonymity in the urban sprawl.
False alarms. Cold trails. The bitter taste of humiliation hung heavy in the air as, one by one, my agents returned to headquarters, their heads bowed in defeat.
I sat at my desk, the weight of their failure pressing down on me. My fingers steepled beneath my chin, my gaze fixed on the city lights twinkling far below. "Useless," I muttered, the word laced with a disappointment that bordered on contempt. I had handpicked these individuals, expecting a level of competence that had clearly been an illusion.
Leaning back in my chair, I let out a long, weary sigh before finally standing. "Fine. I'll do it myself."
Moving to a reinforced cabinet tucked away in the corner of my office, I punched in the access code. The heavy door hissed open, revealing a collection of classified technology. My hand reached for a sleek, metallic device – highly classified tech capable of scanning the entire country for a single biological signature.
Holding it above my head, I activated the scan. A low hum filled the room, the device whirring softly as it did its work.
The results flashed on its small screen in mere seconds.
One hit.
Mikimo.
A slow, predatory smirk spread across my face. The hunt was finally on.
Turning to the weapons rack behind my desk, my fingers brushed against the familiar hilt of my katana. I drew the blade, the polished steel gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights, feeling the perfectly balanced weight in my hand.
Time to end this.
Night had fallen, casting long, ominous shadows across the grimy streets of Yokohama, when I arrived at the designated location.
A darkened alleyway, reeking of stale garbage and damp concrete, was eerily quiet save for the distant hum of the city's relentless pulse.
The moment my boots touched the ground, the shadows themselves seemed to coalesce and move.
Ambush.
I had anticipated this. Mikimo was a survivor, a creature of the night. He wouldn't be caught unaware. His assassins, a motley crew of hired muscle, struck from every conceivable angle, cheap blades glinting menacingly in the dim light filtering from the streetlamps. But I had spent the last twenty-one years honing my skills, mastering the ancient art of combat. Their amateur attempts were almost insulting.
One attacker lunged, a crude knife aimed at my gut. I sidestepped his clumsy advance, my movements fluid and economical. Grabbing his wrist, I executed a textbook Judo throw, sending him hurtling over my shoulder to crash against the brick wall with a sickening thud. The second barely had time to register his comrade's defeat before my katana sang through the air, a silver arc of death that sliced clean across his chest. He gasped, his eyes widening in disbelief before he crumpled to the ground.
Then, Mikimo himself emerged from the darkness, a blur of speed and lethal intent. A dagger, its familiar rusty metal gleaming faintly, appeared in his hand. He moved with a predatory grace, honed by years of survival.
But I had anticipated this too.
Before this confrontation even began, I had taken precautions. A subtle, fast-acting paralytic agent, synthesized specifically for this purpose, coated the hilt of Mikimo's favored weapon, a silent trap waiting to be sprung.
The moment Mikimo's fingers closed around the familiar grip of his dagger, the effects began to take hold.
His movements, moments before so fluid, became jerky and uncoordinated. His vision swam, the edges of the alleyway blurring. A cold, creeping darkness began to encroach on the edges of his consciousness.
He staggered, his grip loosening. The rusty dagger clattered to the grimy pavement.
Then, the darkness consumed him entirely.
When Mikimo's eyes snapped open, the stench of the alley was gone, replaced by the sterile, metallic tang of a secure holding cell. He was bound to a cold steel chair, thick ropes digging into his wrists. A single, harsh overhead light cast stark, unforgiving shadows against the unyielding steel walls. The air was frigid, devoid of any warmth or comfort.
His breath hitched in his throat, a strangled gasp of returning awareness.
The dream, the recurring nightmare that had haunted his waking hours for six long years, was still vivid in his mind.
Ramini Akayashiki.
His sister.
The brutal image of the Yakuza leader's gun, the sickening spray of blood, the lifeless look in her eyes…it was a wound that refused to heal.
I'm sorry I couldn't help you, Mikimo… I'm sorry…
Her voice, a ghost of a memory, echoed in the hollow chambers of his skull. Then—
BANG.
He woke up screaming, the phantom gunshot still ringing in his ears.
A deep, resonant voice cut through his panicked gasps.
"You're awake, I see."
Mikimo's head snapped towards the sound, his eyes, still clouded with the remnants of the nightmare, focusing on the figure standing before him.
A man stood with his arms crossed, his face an impassive mask. Yet, his very presence radiated an undeniable aura of authority, of power that brooked no argument.
"My name is Yakuru Sakawa," I said, my tone firm and unwavering, each word carrying the weight of my position. "I am the head of a secret organization operating directly under the government."
Mikimo glared at me, his body straining futilely against the unyielding restraints. The raw hatred in his eyes was almost palpable.
I continued, unfazed by his silent defiance.
"My job is to hunt down and eliminate the vermin that infest our society – serial killers, psychopaths, those who believe they can operate outside the bounds of justice." My sharp gaze bored into his, unwavering and cold. "And you, Mikimo… are my next mission."
Mikimo's jaw clenched, his fists balling despite the thick ropes binding his wrists.
I turned away, a curt nod signaling my men.
"Lock him up," I ordered, my voice leaving no room for dissent.
Two heavily armed guards stepped forward, the metallic click of their weapons a stark punctuation to my command. They unlocked the heavy steel door of the cell behind me, the hinges groaning in protest.
Mikimo thrashed, his muscles flexing with a desperate, primal strength as he tried to snap the restraints. But the specially designed ropes held firm.
They dragged him roughly from the chair, shoving him towards the cold, dark maw of the prison cell. The heavy steel bars slammed shut with a resounding clang, sealing his fate.
I stood outside, staring into the dimly lit cell, my expression unreadable.
"You can struggle all you want," I said, my voice devoid of emotion, as cold as the steel bars that separated us. "But you belong here."
Mikimo's eyes burned with a furious intensity, a silent promise of retribution.
This wasn't over.
Not by a long shot.