The rain had stopped by the time Aki reached Shinjuku Gyoen Garden.
The city was quiet, the kind of stillness that came before dawn. The garden gates loomed under the faint glow of the streetlamps, slick with dew, and a thin fog curled along the ground like smoke.
Aki stood by the entrance, her gloved hands tucked in her coat pockets, eyes scanning the path ahead. The air smelled faintly of pine, wet earth — and something else.
Tobacco. Imported. The same kind she had smelled in Los Angeles.
She didn't move for a long moment. Her instincts whispered what her calm expression hid:
It's a trap.
Still, she walked in.
---
The gravel crunched softly beneath her boots as she passed the cherry trees, their bare branches dripping from the night's rain. Every step echoed faintly in the stillness. The moonlight filtered through the mist, turning the garden into a ghostly dream — beautiful, quiet, and deadly.
Her phone vibrated once in her pocket. A message flashed across the screen:
"You're late."
Aki typed back one word.
"Watching."
Then she slipped the phone away, every sense awake. She'd learned long ago that traps could smell like perfume, sound like footsteps, even feel like rain on the skin.
Something shifted behind her — the faint crunch of gravel.
She didn't turn. Not yet.
---
The first shot came from the left. A suppressed pop split the silence, followed by the whisper of a bullet slicing through air. Aki dropped low, rolled behind a stone lantern, and drew the compact pistol from her coat.
Another shot. Then two more.
She moved quickly, eyes scanning the shadows. Figures emerged through the fog — three, maybe four, dressed in black, moving with practiced rhythm. Mercenaries, not amateurs. She could tell by how they spread out to flank her.
Aki waited until the nearest one stepped into the moonlight — then fired once.
The man dropped, soundless, the gun tumbling from his hand.
The others froze. She shifted her stance, silent, steady.
"You should've brought more," she murmured.
They hesitated — and that was enough. Aki dashed forward, closing the distance in three swift movements. The next man swung his weapon up, but she kicked it aside, slammed an elbow into his throat, and pivoted behind him as he collapsed.
The third fired blindly. She ducked, grabbed a handful of gravel, and threw it into his face. The distraction was brief — but that's all she needed. A quick step forward, a knife drawn, and the fight ended as suddenly as it began.
When silence returned, she stood among them, breathing softly, not a drop of blood on her coat.
She looked around. The fog was thicker now, curling around the lanterns and the fallen men like pale fingers.
Then she heard it — the slow, deliberate clap of hands.
---
"Well done," a woman's voice said, smooth and mocking. "Still sharp after all these years."
Aki turned.
From the mist stepped a woman dressed entirely in white — white coat, white gloves, hair like silver silk tied back in a low knot. Her lips curved into a faint, knowing smile.
The White Fox.
Aki's eyes narrowed. "You must be the one who sent the message."
"Guilty." The woman tilted her head. "I wanted to see for myself if the legend was true. The Ghost of Shinjuku — the woman who erased forty lives in one night."
Aki said nothing. Her gun remained steady at her side.
The Fox continued, "You were supposed to stay dead, Aki Sato. You were supposed to vanish forever. But instead, you came back. So tell me — why?"
Aki stepped closer, her gaze unreadable. "Because someone tried to use my name. That was your mistake."
The Fox's smile deepened. "Oh, not a mistake. An invitation. Reika Tanabe wanted to see you again — and I made it possible. Consider this… a reunion gift."
Her tone was playful, but her eyes were cold.
Aki's hand twitched slightly, but before she could answer, another voice cut through the mist — low, older, calm.
"That's enough."
Both women turned.
From the far side of the garden, a figure stepped forward — tall, elegant, wrapped in a long coat that fluttered in the faint breeze. The fog seemed to part around her as she walked.
Reika Tanabe.
Her face hadn't changed much — the same piercing eyes, the same poise that commanded silence. But there was something new now — a weariness, or perhaps regret, behind that perfect composure.
The White Fox smiled faintly. "Speak of the devil."
Reika's gaze swept over the fallen mercenaries, then stopped on Aki. "You didn't have to kill them."
"They started it," Aki replied evenly.
"Of course they did," Reika said softly. "Because she wanted this."
She turned her eyes toward The White Fox. "You wanted me and her in the same place. Why?"
The Fox shrugged. "Because two ghosts make one hell of a story."
Then she smirked, stepped back into the fog, and disappeared.
For a moment, only the sound of rain returned — light, steady, almost peaceful.
---
Aki lowered her weapon but didn't move closer.
Reika stood beneath a lantern, the light painting soft gold across her face.
"You're alive," Aki said quietly.
Reika smiled faintly. "And you came back."
Silence.
Five years of unspoken memories hung between them — training, betrayal, blood.
"I didn't come here for forgiveness," Aki said finally.
"I didn't expect you to," Reika replied. "But if you're here… then something's coming. Something neither of us can clean away."
Aki's jaw tightened. "Then we start with her. The Fox."
Reika nodded once. "Agreed."
They stood there, two ghosts reborn under the pale light, the garden silent around them. The city beyond was waking, but for this brief moment, it felt as though time had stopped.