Tokyo never truly slept.
Even at midnight, the streets breathed — vending machines hummed softly, lights from ramen stalls flickered in the drizzle, and the smell of wet asphalt mixed with cigarette smoke. Aki moved through it like a shadow, hood drawn, eyes scanning everything yet revealing nothing.
She had returned home, but home no longer recognized her. And that was exactly how she wanted it.
---
Her first lead was the warehouse. The one where the trap was set. Before leaving Los Angeles, she'd copied the phone logs from the client who hired her — fake name, fake company, but one number kept repeating: +81, Japan's country code.
Now, in the back of a narrow cybercafé in Shibuya, she traced that number. The glow of the monitor painted her face in cold light as lines of code flickered across the screen.
It belonged to a logistics company — Nishida Imports. On the surface, they moved shipping containers between Yokohama and California. But Aki had seen that name before. Years ago. On a weapons shipment Reika Tanabe ordered during one of their darkest nights.
She leaned back in her chair, a faint exhale leaving her lips. The pieces were falling into place — and she didn't like the picture forming.
Someone had used her old life to lure her out.
Someone who wanted her to remember what she had been.
---
Outside, the rain had stopped. She walked down the narrow alleys of Shibuya, passing closed stores and neon reflections in puddles. The scent of grilled meat drifted from a late-night yakitori stall. A man in a black coat sat there, smoking the same imported tobacco she'd smelled at the warehouse.
Aki approached slowly.
"Mind if I sit?" she asked, voice calm.
The man looked up, startled. His face was sharp, young, but his eyes flickered — recognition. "You—"
She pressed a gloved hand to his shoulder, pinning him gently but firmly. "Don't shout. Just nod if you know who I am."
He hesitated. Then nodded.
"Good." She took the seat beside him, ordered nothing, and continued quietly, "You were at the warehouse."
"I— I didn't—"
"Don't lie. Your hands smell like gunpowder."
His breath hitched. The sound of rain returned in the distance, soft and rhythmic. For a moment, neither spoke.
Finally, he said, "They told me it was a test."
"A test for what?"
He swallowed. "To see if you were still alive."
Aki's fingers tightened slightly. "Who gave the order?"
"I don't know her real name," he whispered. "Everyone calls her The White Fox. She works for Tanabe Group, but… rumor says she took over after Reika disappeared."
Reika. Gone.
That was news Aki hadn't expected.
She let go of his shoulder. "Leave Tokyo," she said quietly. "Don't take any more jobs."
He looked at her, confused. "You're letting me go?"
She stood, turning her gaze toward the rain-slick street. "If you run fast enough, maybe no one else will find you."
When she walked away, the sound of his lighter flicking behind her was swallowed by the city's hum. She didn't look back. She didn't need to.
---
That night, Aki checked into a capsule hotel under a false name. The room was small, barely enough to stretch her legs, but it was quiet. She sat on the narrow bed, opened the photo of Reika again, and stared at it under the harsh white light.
The White Fox.
If this woman had replaced Reika, it meant the organization had evolved. And that meant someone was cleaning the cleaners now — erasing old ghosts like Aki before they could resurface.
She took out her knife, flipped it open, and inspected the reflection on the blade. Her own eyes stared back — steady, distant, unreadable.
"Someone thinks they can use me," she murmured. "Let's see how long they last."
---
Morning crept in gray through the blinds. Aki dressed in plain clothes — jeans, dark jacket, her gloves hidden in her pocket — and headed to Shinjuku's financial district. If Nishida Imports was still active, its main office would be nearby.
She found it easily: a sleek, modern building with mirrored glass and a lobby that smelled like coffee and expensive perfume. She walked in, calm as a whisper.
At the reception desk, a young woman looked up. "May I help you?"
Aki smiled faintly. "I'm here to see Director Nishida. He's expecting me."
The receptionist frowned, checked her list, and said politely, "I'm sorry, there's no appointment—"
Aki leaned closer. "He'll want to make one."
Her tone was polite. Her eyes were not.
The woman blinked, hesitated, then picked up the phone. Two minutes later, a man in a suit appeared, confusion written across his face. "Miss—?"
"Just Aki," she said. "We need to talk. Privately."
In his office, she closed the blinds, and her smile vanished. "I'll make this quick," she said. "Who's funding your imports?"
Nishida hesitated. "It's—private investors."
"Name one."
He opened his mouth — then froze as Aki placed the knife on his desk, its edge gleaming under the fluorescent light.
"The White Fox," she said quietly. "You work for her, don't you?"
A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. "She—she took over after Tanabe vanished. I swear I don't know where she is. The Fox handles everything now. The overseas operations, the cleanups, the—"
"The traps," Aki finished.
He flinched.
She closed the knife and slipped it back into her coat. "Tell her Aki Sato is back in Japan. And I'm cleaning up again."
Then she walked out, leaving him trembling behind the desk.
---
That night, the city glowed silver under the drizzle. Aki stood on a rooftop overlooking the skyline — Tokyo Tower lit in red, trains gliding below like veins of light. Her phone vibrated once in her pocket.
A message. No name.
Just one line:
'Reika Tanabe is alive. Shinjuku Gardens. Tomorrow night.'
Aki's fingers tightened around the phone.
The past wasn't buried after all.
And this time, she wouldn't run from it.