The day began too quietly.
Even for their small neighborhood, the stillness felt unnatural, like the world was holding its breath. Ryouji Hyūga had learned to recognize that silence—it was the kind that came before something happened.
He stood by the window, mug of black coffee in hand, watching the street below. The same man had walked past their house three times since morning. Same hat, same limp, same unlit cigarette between his lips.
"Three rounds in less than an hour," Ryouji muttered. "He's not lost."
Behind him, Hana was folding laundry. She hadn't said much all morning. Her movements were mechanical, too focused, as if she feared stopping might make her thoughts louder.
Ryouji turned to her. "He's watching again."
"I know." Her voice was low, almost a whisper. "He's been here since yesterday."
Ryouji's eyes narrowed. He put down the mug, walked to the entryway, and opened the small drawer beside the shoe rack. Inside lay a single piece of metal—an old folding knife with a polished handle. The moment he touched it, something long-buried inside him stirred.
"Don't," Hana said firmly.
He paused.
"Not again," she continued, her tone sharper now. "You promised."
Ryouji sighed. "I promised not to go looking for trouble. But trouble's looking for us."
Her hands froze mid-fold. "Do you think it's them?"
"I think it's someone who knows them." He slid the knife into his pocket, the weight familiar, comforting, dangerous. "I'll check around town later."
Hana wanted to argue, but the look in his eyes stopped her. It wasn't anger—it was instinct. The part of him that once lived in a world ruled by fear and silence had never truly died.
She turned away, gripping the edge of the laundry basket until her knuckles whitened. "If you go," she said softly, "don't come back with blood on your hands."
He didn't answer.
---
The afternoon sun was harsh when Ryouji stepped outside. He wore a simple jacket, sunglasses, and a calm expression that could pass for any other middle-aged man heading to work. But inside, every sense was on alert.
The streets were busy—vendors shouting, children laughing, bikes rattling past—but beneath the noise, something off lingered. The man with the limp had disappeared. In his place, two others now stood near the convenience store, pretending to smoke.
He recognized the pattern instantly. Surveillance relay.
He walked casually down the street, glancing at shop windows to catch reflections. One of the men reached for his phone, murmuring something before moving. The second one crossed the street, heading toward the old subway entrance.
Old tricks, Ryouji thought. Different faces.
He followed.
The air in the abandoned subway tunnel was cold and thick with dust. The dim light above flickered weakly, humming with the faint sound of electricity. Footsteps echoed ahead—measured, deliberate.
Ryouji stopped halfway down the tunnel, crouched low. His hand brushed the wall, finding a piece of loose concrete. He waited.
A shadow moved at the far end.
He threw the concrete. It clattered loudly against the rails—enough to make the man flinch and turn.
"Still sloppy," Ryouji muttered.
Before the stranger could react, Ryouji was already behind him. A swift movement, a twist of the arm, and the man was pinned against the wall with the knife pressed to his neck.
"Who sent you?"
The man's breath came in quick, ragged gasps. "N-no one—"
Ryouji tightened his grip. "Don't lie."
"Th-the Organization," the man stammered. "They said—there's a ghost in this city. A man who shouldn't exist. Said his name was Hyūga."
Ryouji's blood ran cold. The way the man said it—calm, certain—told him everything. Someone from his past had started digging again.
"Why now?" Ryouji asked.
The man laughed bitterly. "Because the ghost had a family."
Ryouji's expression darkened. His hand trembled, but he didn't strike. Instead, he pulled the man closer and whispered, "Tell your masters this ghost is still dead. If they come near my house again, they'll join him."
He released him. The man fell to the ground, coughing, terrified. By the time he looked up again, Ryouji was gone.
---
When he returned home, the sun was setting. Hana was in the garden, watering the flowers, her expression distant.
He stopped by the gate and watched her for a moment. The quiet rhythm of her movements, the sound of water, the glow of late afternoon—everything looked peaceful, fragile.
She turned, sensing him. "You went."
"I did."
"And?"
"They know my name again."
Her hand froze midair, droplets scattering over her sleeve. "Then it's starting."
Ryouji stepped closer, voice low. "Not yet. I told them to stay away."
"You think words will stop them?" she asked bitterly.
He looked at her for a long moment, then smiled faintly. "No. But it'll buy us time."
Hana exhaled, setting the watering can aside. The worry in her eyes was raw, but there was something else too—resolve. "We can't keep running, Ryouji. If they find us again…"
He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "They won't. Not this time."
The warmth in his touch was real, but so was the weight of the shadow behind it. Both of them knew the truth: peace was slipping through their fingers again.
And far away, in a dimly lit control room, a voice whispered through static:
> "Target confirmed. Family identified. Proceed with Phase One."