The warehouse sat alone at the edge of a crumbling industrial district, the kind of place people drove past without looking twice. Weather-beaten walls, shattered windows, a crooked sign with no name—just the hollow, skeletal remains of something long forgotten.
Raito parked down the block and walked the rest of the way, his footsteps silent on the cracked concrete. As he approached the rusted side door, he adjusted his coat and double-checked that Emi's sling was still secured under his jacket—empty now, but a sharp reminder of why he was here.
He stepped inside.
Dim light filtered through broken panes above, casting long shadows across crates, rusting scaffolding, and broken machinery. The air was stale—old oil and dust with a faint chemical undertone.
He scanned the area quickly. No signs of Emi. No toys, no blankets, no recent footprints.
Nothing.
His brow twitched. Had the woman lied? If so, she'd regret not dying by that door.
But then—he felt it.
Movement.
Behind him.
Two shadows creeping closer from the far right side of the warehouse.
Amateurs.
One of them was trying to be light-footed, but the other dragged a bit—like he carried something heavy. Raito's gaze dropped briefly to the floor, where the shadows stretched long under the low light. One held a blunt object. A bat.
Cute, he thought.
They were close now. Five feet. Four.
He let his shoulders drop slightly, as if he hadn't noticed.
Then—
THWACK.
The bat struck the side of his head with full force.
Or, rather, it should have.
The pain was real, but dulled. A sting, no more.
"Oof. That tickled," Kurai chuckled in his head. "Humans really do bring sticks to sword fights."
Raito staggered slightly, letting himself slump to the floor with a faint grunt, arms loose at his sides.
Eyes closed.
Breathing even.
Unmoving.
"Heh... You really are going with the old 'play dead' trick?" Kurai smirked inside his mind. "Alright then, Raito. Let's see who dragged us into this little circus."