The night was quiet — too quiet for Los Angeles.
A thin fog crept over the streets as Aki's van rolled through the industrial district, its headlights cutting pale paths through the mist. Midnight was close.
She parked two blocks from the address the man had given her, shut off the engine, and listened. The sound of the city faded away until there was nothing but the distant hum of air vents and dripping rain.
Her hands moved with practiced rhythm as she opened the silver case.
Latex gloves. Compact knife. Spray bottles. Small mirror. Flashlight.
And beneath it all, hidden in a velvet sleeve — her old weapon.
A folding blade, short and silent, black as ink. The steel had no reflection, no shine, as if it refused to remember what it had done.
She turned it once in her hand, testing the balance.
Five years, and it still felt perfect.
---
The warehouse looked almost identical to the one in Tokyo.
Empty. Cold. Waiting.
The door was unlocked, just as expected. She stepped inside, the click of her boots echoing softly across the concrete. Her flashlight swept the corners — empty crates, rusted pipes, dust floating like pale ghosts.
Then she saw it.
A single chair stood in the center of the room.
On it, a man sat slumped forward, wrists tied, mouth gagged. His chest rose and fell slowly. Still alive.
Aki's expression didn't change.
She took a step closer — and the light above her flickered once. That's when she noticed it: a tiny glint near the rafters.
Glass lenses.
At least four of them.
Cameras.
She exhaled quietly.
So that was the game.
They hadn't hired her to clean.
They'd brought her back to expose her — to film the infamous "Kurokami no Onna" alive again, and to end her in the same place her legend was born.
From the shadows behind the crates came a soft metallic sound — the unmistakable click of a gun being readied.
Then another.
And another.
Ten… no, twelve men stepped out, surrounding her. Black suits, rifles, earpieces. Professional.
The man from the hotel stepped forward, still wearing that smug, practiced smile.
"I see you came after all."
Aki didn't answer.
"I told my men," he continued, "you wouldn't run. You killers never do. You always think you're the hunter."
He raised his gun.
"But tonight, you're the prey."
Aki tilted her head slightly, as if studying the pattern of dust in the air. Then, very softly, she said, "Prey doesn't walk into the trap with her hands empty."
The man frowned. "What—"
The lights went out.
---
Darkness swallowed the room.
Then came the first sound — the wet crack of a neck breaking, followed by the thud of a body hitting concrete.
Someone shouted, "Flashlights!"
Beams flickered on, slicing through the black.
Aki was already gone.
Another scream — cut short.
A shadow moved fast across the ceiling beams, dropped silently behind a gunman, and the blade flashed once.
When the lights flickered back on, two more were down.
"She's behind the crates!"
"Shoot!"
Bullets tore through the air, splintering wood, echoing like thunder in the metal hall. But Aki wasn't there anymore. She moved between the shadows, fast and low, each motion precise, controlled.
One man turned just in time to see her reflection in his own gun barrel — then her knife cut the air, clean and final.
The smell of blood began to mix with the sharp scent of disinfectant from her cleaning spray. It filled the air like perfume — familiar, almost comforting.
Within minutes, the shouting stopped.
All that remained was silence and the faint drip of blood from the rafters.
---
The only one left standing was the man in the suit.
He backed away, eyes wide, the gun trembling in his hand.
"You… you're not human," he gasped.
Aki stepped into the dim light, her face calm, her hair falling over one shoulder. "You wanted the ghost," she said softly. "Now you've met her."
He tried to fire, but she was already there — a blur of black and white, her hand closing around his wrist. One twist, one movement, and the gun clattered to the floor.
He fell to his knees, clutching his broken arm.
"Who sent you?" she asked quietly.
He didn't answer. His eyes darted toward one of the cameras, still recording.
Aki followed his gaze, then stepped over and looked straight into the lens.
"If you're watching," she said in a voice as soft as falling snow, "you made a mistake."
She reached up and pulled the camera cable free. Sparks hissed, then darkness again.
When the emergency lights came back on five minutes later, the warehouse was clean.
The bodies were gone. The floor was washed. The smell of blood was gone too — replaced, once again, by lemon and silence.
The man in the suit was still alive, barely.
Aki knelt beside him, her voice calm as ever. "Tell whoever sent you this," she whispered, "I stopped being a killer. But that doesn't mean I forgot how."
She stood, picked up her silver case, and walked out into the night.
---
Outside, the fog had lifted. The moon hung low and full, its light washing over the street in pale silver. Aki lit a cigarette, something she hadn't done in years, and exhaled slowly.
She looked down at her gloved hands — spotless, steady, precise.
No one would ever find the bodies. No one would ever know what happened inside that warehouse.
And tomorrow, she would open Sato Cleaners at 9 a.m. as usual.
Because no matter how much blood the world spilled,
someone always had to clean it up.