Five in the morning. The sky was still a dense gray, visibility poor.
In the new apartment, the mop in Alan's hand moved slowly and precisely. No water left behind that might make the tile slippery. His index finger traced the edge of the table. His nail caught no dust. Cleanliness standard: met.
The night before, he had spent two full hours setting the stage.
The refrigerator shelves held standard items: whole wheat bread, crackers, green tea. Camouflage.
Behind those containers, the red-and-white cans were stacked close together. Frozen meat was wrapped in three layers of airtight plastic to lock the scent in.
Ding.
The muscles in Alan's back tightened—a fight-or-flight reflex immediately forced back under control. He regulated his breathing, waited for his pulse to steady, then opened the door.
Alina stood there. Hair tied back, workout shirt damp with morning dew. Bright face. Zero suspicion.
"Ready?" Alina said.
Alan opened the door wider. "Jogging?"
"Yeah. Just nearby. Come on."
"Give me a second. I need my keys."
They ran side by side. Alan automatically took his place half a step behind her—to monitor Alina's breathing rhythm while also keeping track of the perimeter.
"Let's walk for a bit," Alina panted after five minutes. "My lungs are pathetic."
Alan held out a bottle of water before she even asked for one. "Breathe through your nose. Slowly."
They kept going in cycles: run, walk, run. A pattern.
"Are you actually running?" Alina asked suspiciously.
"Obviously. I've been right here the whole time."
"Then why aren't you sweating?" Alina grabbed the back of Alan's shirt and felt the fabric—still completely dry. "We've been running for an hour, Alan."
"Natural talent. I'm used to long distances."
"Let's just head back. My lungs are about to give out."
"Alright."
The second the apartment door opened, Alina collapsed onto the couch. "This place is ridiculously neat. Are you living here or staging a furniture showroom?"
"So you won't run away."
Alina grinned. "Or so I won't complain."
"Both."
"This apartment's nice, honestly. When I was looking around, this building was always full. Kind of impressive that you got a unit here." Alina wandered a little, her eyes sweeping over everything arranged with exact precision.
Alan came out of the kitchen. He set the things Alina liked on the table. His expression stayed neutral, but there was a faint trace of satisfaction underneath it—the result of paying double rent for a unit that was never supposed to open up.
They sat beside each other, stretching their legs out.
"I don't get Marina lately," Alina said. "It's been impossible to get her to meet up."
Alan handed her a tissue. "She's probably just busy."
"During the festival, her dad called and made her go home because some important client was visiting. What does that even have to do with Marina?"
"Family business, maybe," Alan said shortly. He was more interested in the way Alina's brows drew together—the look she got when her mind was turning over a problem.
"Marina's never talked about any family business. But she does travel out of town a lot."
"Don't overthink it. After the festival, we'll go somewhere. Invite her when she's free again."
"Let's go somewhere different. What about my grandmother's place in Wakayama?"
"Okay. Send me the coordinates." Alan answered instantly. He didn't care where it was. What mattered was that Alina wanted to bring him into her world.
"But I still haven't told her about us. My grandma's kind of scary," Alina whispered.
Alan looked straight at her. "As long as you're here, leave the rest to me. Your grandmother isn't a major problem."
Alina laughed and pinched his cheek. "What skincare are you using? Your skin is ridiculous."
"Nothing. This unit has good air filtration," Alan said, choosing the most practical dodge available.
Alina leaned against his shoulder. Alan could feel her heartbeat—slow, calm. Then suddenly she sat up again.
"Oh, right. Some weird guy talked to me during the festival."
"What did he say?"
"He knew my father's name. I was actually going to ask him how my dad was doing and where he is now."
Alan felt his adrenaline start to rise. He made sure his shoulders didn't tense. "What did he look like?"
"Leather jacket. Green contacts. Neat black hair. His whole vibe was... sharp."
Alan knew the profile immediately. Zylar Grimmwolf.
He remembered being a child: Zylar arriving at the house wearing a polite smile that never touched his eyes. Alan's father hadn't even wanted to shake the man's hand. They had only talked briefly, then Zylar left with two of his men.
"He called me Hamish. Then he asked if I really knew who you were. Do you know him?"
Alan stared at a breadcrumb on the table. He needed an answer that made sense without making Alina panic. "A lot of people know me. Maybe he's just some old enemy looking for attention."
"A grudge?"
"Maybe. But don't worry. As long as I'm here, there's nothing you need to be afraid of." Alan forced a small smile into the corner of his mouth.
After Alina said goodbye, Alan stood in the doorway until the sound of her footsteps had fully disappeared. Then he stepped back inside, shut the door, and locked it.
His thoughts immediately started running like a processor, mapping the data. The festival photo. The man in the crowd. Alina's description. All of it pointed to one name.
Zylar would never move without a reason. If Alina had been approached, then the security system Alan had built had already been compromised.
By nine in the morning, Alan was gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping his thoughts in a straight line.
The red light turned green. The car in front moved too slowly. Alan slipped into a gap that barely existed, cut the wheel hard, and braked only as much as necessary—smooth but decisive—while his eyes kept scanning the mirrors.
Construction at the far end of the street had narrowed the lane. Horns kept going off. Alan didn't bother looking at the face shouting at him from the next car over; he just held his breath, then hit the gas the second half a meter of space opened up.
All the city's noise felt far away. The only thing close was one sentence repeating in his head.
I never blacked out or lost consciousness for that long.
Alina appeared on the exact night he went down. A coincidence arranged too neatly. Too perfectly. And now, after hearing about the man with green eyes, the scattered pieces were forcing themselves into one shape.
He had to confirm it.
Bar Ukai sat hidden between a laundromat and a ramen shop, its sign still off because opening hour was nowhere near. The shutters were only half-raised.
Alan got out of the car, stepped inside, and let the familiar smell hit him all at once—stale alcohol, old wood, cold smoke trapped in the curtains.
The bartender looked up from wiping glasses. His eyes changed the second he recognized Alan.
Alan didn't waste time.
"The drink I had that night," he said. "What brand was it?"
The bartender froze for a fraction too long. "We serve a lot of drinks here."
Alan reached into his pocket and set folded cash on the counter. Not flashy. Just enough to make honesty cheaper than silence.
"The bottle."
The bartender swallowed. Then he turned, crouched behind the back shelf, and came up with a red-and-white bottle.
Alan took it immediately.
Same label. Same colors. Same brand marking.
But he knew at once that something was wrong.
The seal looked perfect, too perfect. Replaced.
"Who gave this to you?" Alan asked.
"I-I don't know his name," the bartender said quickly. "A man. Came in before opening. Said it was a special order. Paid extra. Told us not to ask questions."
"What did he look like?"
"Tall. Leather jacket. Green eyes. Or maybe contacts. I don't know. He wasn't the kind of guy you stare at for long."
Zylar.
Alan closed his hand around the bottle.
"Did anyone else touch this?"
"No. It stayed where he told us to keep it until that night."
Alan gave a short nod, then turned and left before the bartender could say anything else.
He drove straight to the hospital.
The hospital smelled exactly the way Alan hated: antiseptic, cold air, something metallic hiding underneath it all.
Alan held his breath and let the smell wash over him without breathing too deeply.
Right turn. Long corridor. He read the nameplates on the doors quickly—not out of caution, but because he couldn't afford the wrong room.
Richard.
The doctor was in the middle of speaking with two colleagues. The second he saw Alan, Richard closed the folder in his hands and gave a small signal. Both colleagues excused themselves immediately.
Richard's expression turned serious at once. He gestured Alan into the office.
"What happened—"
"Check this." Alan held out the red-and-white bottle.
Richard went still. His face tightened on the spot. Gora was a private formula, Alan's own brand—not sold anywhere. Its contents were a specialized nutrient mixture Richard himself had developed. Which meant that if a new bottle with the same label existed, someone had broken into their secret.
"Where did you get this?"
"Bar Ukai."
Richard didn't ask anything else. He pressed the call button.
A woman arrived quickly, her lab coat slightly wrinkled. Richard spoke to her in a low but firm voice. "Take this to the lab. Run the tests."
The assistant nodded the moment she saw Alan—like his tense expression was nothing unusual. She tucked the bottle beneath her coat and moved fast.
Alan and Richard followed.
The lab was quieter, but the smell was sharper. Antiseptic. Rubber. Metal.
Alan hated hospitals. The smell always dragged him back toward places he was trying to erase. But today he had no choice except to stand still.
The assistant worked quickly. Gloves on, tools laid out. The bottle was opened only long enough to extract a sample. There wasn't time to test for everything, so she ran the tests that made the most sense first.
First strip.
Morphine: negative.
Second strip.
Methadone: negative.
Alan didn't blink. Richard gripped the edge of the table hard, holding himself back from stepping closer.
Third strip.
The line appeared slowly.
Fentanyl: positive.
Richard let out a long breath, his face going paler than usual. "This isn't standard medical fentanyl, Alan. There's a synthetic compound mixed into it—designed for one purpose only: to shut the nervous system down from the inside. This isn't a sedative. It's a consciousness lock."
"What does that mean?"
"In theory, even a body with an extremely high recovery rate would become completely helpless. This compound doesn't damage the blood. It disrupts synchronization between the brain and physical movement."
The assistant capped the bottle and left without being told. The room grew quieter as the door shut behind her.
"So it's a different kind of fentanyl?" Alan stared at the test strip. Not the way someone looked at medical equipment. The way someone looked at a bullet.
"Yes. A synthetic opioid. Extremely potent," Richard said, lowering his voice. "Somewhere between fifty and a hundred times stronger than morphine. This was designed specifically to bring someone like you down."
"So this is what took me out."
Richard nodded slowly. "Correct. It was made so that even an extreme metabolic rate wouldn't be able to clear it quickly. That's why I was confused about how you went down in the first place, since your metabolism is immune to ordinary alcohol and toxins."
"It was a setup. I'm sure Zylar did this."
Richard frowned. "Why would he be after you?"
"I don't know what he wants." Alan took the bottle again and gripped it until his knuckles turned white. "But this is clearly not a coincidence. Doctor Richard—what's really going on? You've heard something."
Richard made a quiet sound and started rearranging the test equipment—the medical version of stalling. "Alan, I'm a doctor. Not an informant."
"Please," Alan said, voice rough. "Even the smallest piece of information could mean the difference between living and not."
Richard went silent for a few seconds. His gaze flicked to the door, making sure the lab was completely empty.
"I've only heard... that they've been meeting more often," he said at last. "Intensively. And one phrase has come up more than once..."
Richard looked at Alan as if weighing whether he was about to throw a match into gasoline.
"Emerald Moon."
The words hit like a brake yanked inside Alan's head.
His breath snagged. His chest tightened. His knees nearly gave way—his right hand shot to the edge of the table on reflex so he wouldn't visibly stumble.
"Alan, are you alright?" Richard grabbed his shoulder. "Sit down. You can rest here."
"I... was only guessing," Alan managed, trying to breathe through air that suddenly felt too thin. "But if that plan is really aimed at me, then our world isn't safe anymore. Including you."
"What do you mean?"
Alan pressed a hand to his chest, as if he could physically keep his heartbeat under control. "Prepare for the worst."
Richard held his gaze for a long moment. "Then what's your next move?"
"Alina." Alan's jaw tightened. "I have to make sure she's safe."
He turned and left—no, ran. His shoulder nearly clipped a shelf. His stride devoured the corridor. At the corner he almost ran into a patient, but all he managed was a quick apology without slowing down.
In the parking lot, Alan threw himself into the car.
Pedal down.
Tires screaming.
And for the first time all morning, he realized his left hand was shaking on the gear shift.
Alan barely felt the drive back.
The words Emerald Moon still rang inside his head, mixed with the scream of the tires he'd forced in the parking lot. He slammed the car door shut, then stared up at Alina's building like he was calculating how many seconds he had left before being too late.
Doorbell.
No answer.
He pressed it again. Longer this time. Then followed with three quick knocks.
Still nothing.
His breathing started to fall apart. He reached into his jacket pocket for the spare key.
Click.
Door open.
Empty.
The apartment was tidy. Too tidy. No TV. No footsteps. No signs of life anywhere.
"Alina?" Alan called, keeping his voice low.
Only silence answered.
He moved fast—living room, bedroom, kitchen, bathroom. His eyes swept each corner for danger. Nothing.
His phone was already in his hand.
Call.
Ringing.
No answer.
He called again.
Alan paced like a starving animal in a cage. He checked the window, the balcony, the gap beneath the door. Looking for shadows, movement, anything.
Still no answer.
He left without locking the door—careless, something he would never normally do. He took the stairs at a run. In his head, the worst versions of events were already forming: a black car, a hand over a mouth, a pair of cold green eyes.
Then he reached the lobby.
Near the main entrance, Alina was standing with three little kids. Her voice was firm, but affectionate too—the tone she always used when she was scolding children.
"Don't play with the bell again, okay?"
"Yes, Miss!" they answered together.
"If you keep acting up, no more ice cream treats."
"Okay!"
"Promise?"
"Promise!"
They ran off laughing, small feet slapping against the marble floor. The world snapped back into place.
Alina turned, still holding back a smile—and only then did she see Alan.
He stood rigid in the middle of the lobby. His face was trying to stay blank, but his eyes were too honest: relief breaking through in the shape of leftover panic.
"Alan, what's wrong?" Alina asked.
Alan shook his head.
Any version of the truth would sound like a threat right now.
He only reached for Alina's hand and pulled her into a hug. His hand moved through her hair, not romantically—more like checking: warm, whole, still here.
"I—" Alan started, then stopped.
"We literally saw each other this morning," Alina said, confused. "What is wrong with you?"
"Nothing." Alan let go too quickly, like he was afraid of looking too needy.
They went up to the third floor. Their footsteps echoed through the narrow hallway.
"If something's going on, you can tell me," Alina said again as they walked.
Alan swallowed. He wanted to tell her everything: the bottle, the fentanyl, Zylar—Emerald Moon, and the way those two words had nearly made him feel like he was dying.
But he didn't want Alina to be afraid. He didn't want her to pull away, or become a target just because she knew too much.
So Alan reached for the most reasonable excuse he could make.
"I was thinking maybe I should teach you self-defense," he said.
"Out of nowhere?" Alina frowned.
"I saw a girl being followed by some thugs on the way here." Alan kept looking straight ahead. "For a second I thought it was you. So... better to be prepared."
Alina looked at him suspiciously. "You're sure that's all?"
Alan forced a smile. "Yeah."
Alina let out a breath, then finally nodded. "Okay, fine. But who's teaching me? Yuki?"
"No need. I'll do it."
"You?" Alina laughed. "You fight like you're making it up as you go."
Alan lifted a shoulder, pretending to stay casual. "I can teach. We'll warm up now. Come on."
Inside, Alan taught her the basics: how to stand, how to keep distance, how to protect her jaw if someone came at her. He corrected the position of Alina's feet with careful precision—far too serious for someone doing this casually.
Alina pretended to dodge. Alan pretended to close in. Their laughter sounded light—but Alan could still feel the tightness in his chest, like a rope being pulled a little too hard.
One thing Alan made absolutely certain of: if he couldn't get to her first, then at the very least, Alina had to be able to defend herself.
And that started now.