You were ten, then. Back when time crawled furtively under the serveil of adagio. Back when the be all and end all were ensuring your yellow sticker workbooks were primly filled with crayon scribbles led by your hand—not hooking a finger around the trigger of a rifle.

The skies had draped itself across the horizon in the form of a perfect blue sheet, so perfectly bright and clear, mottled with cotton puff of clouds that swirled around the sun.

It was March, a period of time when war came to a pause. Diplomacy, at that time, between the Reich and the Empire was much needed for reconstruction for either countries. In Japan, the heart and sole of the walls, flowers blossomed then, able to breathe within this caesure; trees grew lush, it's folialge bush-like, rustling above as it's bark stood erect, lining up as rows across the pathway of the park, and the wind that drew by was was sweetly crisp, bringing forth the air of Spring. 

Dressed in a cream colored dress yourself, the hem fluttered around your knees as you jogged, white mary janes clomping across the granite path. Pink petals wafted around along with the bubbles blooming from children’s wands. Little cretins, all flushly cheeked and wide grins, squealing as they ran. Your hair, once primly swept back, were now disheveled from hours of play in the playground, sticking to your forehead in strands with sweat.

In your arms you clutched a bundle of books to your chest, panting. They were exambooks. On the laminated covers were red markings with a large capitalized A on each of them. Every step on the path sent a jolt to your throat. You were exhilerated, so much so that your chest swelled in the form fireworks about to launch.

And, it did.

A policeman whistled, guiding a dawdling motorcar that blocked the zebra crossing to the right parking spot. Weaving through the crossing, muttering 'excuse me's' and 'pardon's. You ducked below a man’s arms, and squeezed right out between two couples, who gasped.

It was then the cafe came into view. A dainty, teal green little thing tucked on the cornerside of the street, webbed across with black cords intervoven repeatedly, tangled from concrete power lines as dark bold stripes. Right beside the large paneled window, where the name of the establishment was printed across the surface in large curved letters, was your mother's table. 

She was donned in a silk kimono, the color of plums, smiling to herself, at the pages a book she was occupied with. A cup of coffee—expresso—at on the right hand side of her arm. Steamed swirled above the surface. Black with sugar. No milk. Just as she liked it. Calmly, she looked up as your eager little clomps approached — her little girl, eyes wide and sparkling, with a grin that held her entire universe. 

You finished school, it seemed.

"Yuki," She said, closing the book and setting it aside. Yuki, snow. A teasing moniker she often referred to you, Snow, because she birthed you during winter. When the war was at it's peak, and she was wailing because you were so, so cold in her arms,. A block of ice to against her already frigid heart. Everyone, the nurses and including your brother and father had huddled close to transfer enough warmth to keep your pulse beating. 

A drop of snow amongst a field of grass.

And since then—Snow. Your mother's birth. Your mother’s winter. Dawn of eve.

"Mama!" You said breathlessly, almost running into the table. 

She stopped you in time, her hands gentle on the knobs of your shoulders, “Easy, now sweetheart.”

"I did it!" You bounced on your heels, pushing against her palms, “I finally did it!”

The afternoon inception was not without it's usual clamor. The tongs of bells sounded from moving stalls, keen for customers. Wagons bustling with cardboards and scraps creaked, hauled upon pavements, continuining forth its lumber. Business men and students alike, pooled out from their respective gates, chattering away. Some young women sauntered to nearby stalls—elbows around each other, giggling—for hasty lunches, eager to return to their studies; some young men lounged on the steps of the school, laughing over the rim of their books.

A cycle passed, the bell tinkling.

She raised her eyebrows, "Oh? What did you do?"'

"Passed the exams!" You stumbled over your words, rambling off fervently, "In literature, and—and mathematics, and geography. I did it all in one go, the teacher said it was difficult but I did it anyways— in one minute, and after I rushed out and—"

"Deep breathes, honey,” She spoke, “Deep breathes.”

You opened your mouth, eager to elaborate, but you learned it was not proper to speak over elders. So, instead you said, "Okay, Mama," and scrambled on to seat on the chair adjacent to your mother.

She gathered the books from your arms and laid it on the table."I knew you were a smart apple," She said, caressing your hair, tucking one sticky strand over your ear, "Did you tell your papa yet? Noriaki would be glad to hear it."

"I want to tell you first," You wiggled in your seat, kicking your feet below— a habit she tried to discourage, but your knee did not like being still. Not at all. And so it goes in fluttering kicks. "Does that mean he gets to stay?" You looked up to her, eyes wide.

The hand on your head paused, Michiko regarded your gaze, slightly taken off-kilter by the sudden question. Each word spoken out of your mouth was strange. She recovered herself gracefully, saying slowly,"What do you mean, honey?"

"Noriaki," Your eagerness was palpable, "The— the empire said, said they won't take away people who study good. I study good. I get all A’s. The emperor is happy—and, if he is does that mean they wont take brother away?”

The empire declared any indiciduals with exemplary behavior in their studues were exempt from conscription—and then, were considered for intelligence. This proposition were mainly for older men, and rich young scholars who could not, or did not, want to physically serve. Noriaki was fit, young—a royal of all person. Deploying him to the army was a simple case of boosting morale. They had to. If a prince served alongside his men to the frontlines, then why couldn’t they?

She stilled, processing what you've said for a moment. And then, a wistful expression swept over.You didn’t understand, not when you were looking up to her with such guileless hope that destroying it, melting the paunchof snow you’d hold up to her, would make her wilt. So, instead, she said, "Yes. They won't take him away,” after a moment, she added cautiously, “But what happens if they do? Sometimes, the empire doesn’t listen sweetheart."

You blinked, confused, “Why not.”

“Well, if you look at it this way, can you tell me why you don’t listen to me, sometimes?”

“Because,” You said, “Because sweets are too good not to eat.”

“And like them, they also like good things.”

You puckered your lips and your face crumpled so adorably into that of a defiant child, "Then I wont let them." You firmed, tightening your little fists, "I'll hide Noriaki in my bed."

She smiled, the stinging tears drying away, "In your bed?"

"Under," You nodded, so sagely for someone chubby with baby cheeks and fat, "I'll hide him there."

"But your bed is small, how will he fit?"

You thought for a hard moment, your brows furrowed. then you look back up, said flatly, "Then he needs to stop eating so much."

Michiko laughed, a warm hurtle of breaths in her chest, and hauled her daughter into her arms. You went along with a squeal and wrapped your little arms around her neck. She held you close, her cheek on the crown of your forehead—inhaling the sweet scent of her daughter, strawberries and sweat. 

In the hearth, as the fire kindles low, Michiko was willing to hold the clasp of snow to her chest, away from the licks of the fire. If that was what kept you close to her heart, then she would burn first.

"I know you can do it," She whispered, "I know you can do anything, my little snow."

And from a distance the petal disentangles itself from a cloak of pink, and slowly, slowly drowns. Michiko hugs her daughter a little tighter. 

.

THROUGH THE windows, several miles beyond the Royal Tagomi estate and several more, trailing through a mudpath that meandered towards an enclosed forest—was the Hayashi Cottage. A typical wartime cottage, it huddled snugly between brambled bushes and was harbored under the shadeful canopies of trees.

Glints of the sun’s rays blistered through the crack of the rustling leaves, allowing the sparkles to move.On the soil, right beside the post, a pail stuck out at an angle, shrouded with vines and moss that weaved over one another, sinking it into the loam. 

The cottage itself was well groomed: gardeners kept the grass trimmed and the flowers blooming; and the interior, managed by the cleaners, ensured it was swept of dirt, mopped and dried—even when the floorboards were not often entertained with footsteps and the gleam of the overhead bulb, alight. They cleaned often in the weekends, which meant on the weekdays, it was vacant. 

There was no life, and yet—there was so much.

Within this silent stillness, Kotomichi knocked his heel against the door, slamming it open. The interior was alighted bright by the sun. The potent smell of birch wood shrouded your nose. You were slung on his side as he held you—an arm around your waist, guiding you to limp, the carpet soft under your boots. The hallway led to the living room, an oval space with two windows bolstered on the walls behind the sofa. 

You were not heavy, but with pain, you curled into yourself, and it took quite a while to to haul you across the rug. He laid you on the cushions. Wincing in pain, you caught sight of the old wartime radio—your father often listened to—on the table.

Usually, during silent nights he would. Tuning it mellow, the sound of jazz swirled from the speakers and you would sleep to it, snoring softly with your head in his lap. And he would smile. It has been there for years, when fingers first toggled the antennas to now, collecting dust on the surface.

You closed your eyes. 

Picture frames littered the walls. You made the cleaners turn it around. What use are they if the dwellers weren’t present? Straing through the eyes that belong to those who no longer walked this world You tried to keep your eyes drifting to a minmium. If you weren’t careful, the memories will come rushing back like unspooled threads around a knob.

So, deliriously, you kept it to the ceiling instead, focusing on the searing pain in your torso, your arms—your entire body. The pain felt like an ache in your chest.

Kotomichi laid your hat on the rug, along with your rifle, then he disappeared to the other rooms. For a moment you panicked, wondering if he truly left— then, it came to you, in muddled thoughts, that there was no use leaving you here. He was your mentor, wasn’t he?

You heard his footsteps padding around the floorboards. Surely to ensure they were the only ones here. Several minutes later, he returned to the living room and drew the curtains close, not fully— enough for a sliver of sunray to light the room aglow. He then knelt before the cabinet near the hearth. He pulled the drawer and plucked out a box. 

The first aid kit.

“Any bleeding, denka?” He knelt before you.

“I—” You shook your head, panting, feeling a cold chill up your spine “No—no, I don’t know. But i think my leg—it— burns.”

“Ah,” He looked down. It was difficult to tell, at least at first, from a glance. On closer inspection the crusted fabric smelt of iron. You were bleeding.

“I will have to touch you, denka,” He said.

“You have my permission.”

He slipped on his gloves. With a shear, he carefully snipped around the scabbed fabric, slowly peeling it off. You felt every sting. The cloth was crusted to your wound, after all. Eventually, when he drew the fabric aside, it revealed an bloody gash across your calf. 

“How does it look?” You kept your eyes to the ceiling, a little hesitant to look down. You were nearing the edge of unconciousness again, and perhaps, if you did swivel—that just might be the last addition.

“You were reckless, your highness,” Even in times of admonishment he sounded gentle. He uncapped the alcohol bottle and poured some onto a white cloth. “Reckless than usual.”

Of course you were. You were almost caught by the Kempeitai and you were in the temporary custody of an underground rebel, having to escape through the window and manuever grimey alleyways. How he found you was a means beyond your ability. Kotomichi found you slumped against the wall behind the dumpster, swept you in the motorcar before any patrol stumbled upon them. 

Reckless was a deserving referral.

“He will not compromise my position,” You said quietly.

“Under his terms, yes?” He gently dabbed your calf. You gritted your teeth, steeling in the painful sound through your molars.

Money isn’t so diffult to accumulate with your position. The only problem is where you’ll be aquiring them. As of now, the blackmarket is currently scrutinized by the Kempeitai.

“He is fighting for his place as much as i am fighting for mine,” You closed your eyes, vision swimming from the peircing pain, “As long as he is fighting, then he will not be idle enough to interfere.”

You have never encountered his community—which you assumed would be the Resistance—firsthand. And, perhaps, you've already had gotten a glimpse of their character through his own. Well-meaning, at times brash, but honest. However uncouth, even when the cause he fought wasn’t yours, you will always respect and admire those who act. Words will never have meaning. Silence maintained conformity. Violence, you believed, will always be the gear for change, the sole reason why you agreed to his proposal for arms. If there were many more causing revolts across the city—how else would the empire deal with them, if not to draw their soldiers from the frontlines to maintain peace? 

“Putting your trust in Wyatt Price and his organization will be something i will not implore you to do or the fact otherwise,” He said, “It is yours. I am simply the medium who will guide your decisions.”

You glanced to the rifle, Wyatt’s words echoing in your head, 

“Would they not find out it is you, sensei?” You leaned forward, concerned, “As we speak, the Kempeitai are going through the records of the battalion, those who survived—they will locate their housings, Kotomichi. And then they will find you.”

And when they do, you will protect him just as he did, to you.

“Then they will find a dead man,” He said.

You frowned, confused, “And what of the man that isn’t?”

Kotomichi looked up and smiled, “He goes by a different name, now doesn’t he?”

It took you a moment, your eyes scanning his own, “Kotomichi isn’t your name?” You asked, quietly,

“It is my grandfather’s,” He said, “My real name is gone. I have a new life, now, and i will live by this name. No matter how sparse it meant to me.”

You glanced to your lap, thinking about his family—the two sons and his wife he lost in the war,“You should not have to forgo the name your parents gave you. It was a name your wife called you by.”

“She would be glad to know i am alive,” He smiled. “It is my choice, denka. And it is your choice as well, to proceed as how you usually would.”

“I am proceeding just fine,” You said, a little defensively.

“Then realize your rebellion in this other life will be consequential,” He said, looking up, “You may revolt however you like in this suit, wearing a hat with your scarf around your face. But remember, when you are a Princess—you may be previleged enough to not suffer the usual consequences, but when the future draws near…”

“I cannot be desentisized, Kotomichi.” You said quietly.

“Even if you cannot bear to see those who lay their heart for the wrong cause,” He bandaged the cloth around your leg, “at least know that everyone is implicated in the war, even if you refused the Empire’s embrace. Sometimes, they simply desire the illusion of a normal life because it provided them so.”

“Then what about those people who died?” You said desperately, “Dont they want to live as well? An illusion where the ordinary was normal? Wives, husbands, children— don’t you think they want it as well?”

Hina would. Hina would want a simple stroll in the park donning that pretty yellow dress much too overbearing for their waller, the hem fluttering around her ankles as she walked. She had wanted to open a shop to support her artistry—she loved painting. But the war thinned our their savings and despite her amibitions, above it all, she loved him. So she applied to work at the garment factory as a seamstress. The first day she went to work was the day the shelling began.

“Yes,” He said quietly, “Yes, they do.”

Then, the doors of the cottage bursted open, startling you. You were too slow to register the assesment of the disturbance but Kotomichi did, holding up a hand just as you reached for your rifle. It was Yukiko—your personal attendant—who fluttered in. She had ran here, this girl, panting, her cheeks flushed and hair askew. In her arms were peach colored silks. A kimono, ones you recognized that are only used for formal occasions. When a high ranking guest would visit.

“Tagomi-sama is proceeding with the marriage, denka!” She cried, “Obersgrüppenfuherer and Chief Inspector Kido is currenly at the estate!”

That was how you found yourself dawdling in the hallway of Kido’s company, hands primly folded with a tote bag over your shoulder. You were still in your university clothes: beige sweater over a colored shirtt paired with a similar matching skirt. The company was Kagawa.inc—a corporation spanning across Japan in varying sizes. Something something about logistics, and whatever the other things were. Details weren’t important. Not as crucial as the fact that it was his workplace there you came to, where you often lounged after your late shift at the kindergarten.

You took out your phone and pulled up messages. 'Here'. You sent then promptly pocketed it back. He'll know what it means.

Then, not a minute later, he emerged from the glass doors, in deep discussion with an older woman, but not much older than him. She was beautiful. And he was smiling. Not excessively so, but with a mere gentle curve of his lips. At her. Kido rarely smiled. If he did, you were usually the wellspring of such smiles. His mother or sister might be graced with several. But a colleague was rarely the case.

This case, perhaps, was different.

Kido caught your eyes from across the hallway and nodded, gesturing for the woman to approach you. Your eyebrows raised. Just slightly. You crossed your arms. Now, what was he intending to do? When they neared her expression grew even more adoring, like the flares of an expanding sun, warming your skin. You blinked. What was she...?

"Oh my gosh!" She cooed, smiling earnestly sash grabbed your hand. "You're his-!"

"Neice." He said before you could say a word, "My niece. She's my niece. Distant not blood related neice." He added.

You stilled. His what?

Gina looked even more enthralled, "Are you?" Her tone was giddy, as if she discovered something innovative about the galactic sphere and not familial relations. "Oh my gosh I never knew you had a niece this adorable!" She turned to you, " Sweetheart, how old are you? Did you finish school yet? I simply must know. You see, everyone here knows up to nothing about this man."

You slowly turned towards him, eyes ablaze. He didn't spare a look. Instead, he fixed his gaze onto the shiny nubs of his oxfords. The linoleum floors were murky.They needed cleaning. Indeed, they were. Perhaps he could help. And you would allow it. If it meant using his head as a mop. "Twenty one," You said and Gina did not catch the slight cool undertones from your words. She didn't have to. It wasn't her fault. Anyone who is your family, including an overworked salaryman current staring at his toes from chagrin, would know how to catch it. Gina is simply another hare. You were one, too. Kido was the fruit. And you're going to maul him, " and I'm currently in university," You continued, " I'm interested in Early Childhood education at the moment."

"Is that so?" She said, "My mother is a teacher as well. Absolutely adores that work. Talks about it twenty four seven, I'll tell you. Maybe I can introduce you to her sometimes?"

You felt your chest warm a bit, "Really? I wouldn't want to impose."

"Oh, I don't mind," She patted your shoulder, "She's been raving about how young people are repulsed by pedagogical work. With you, here, that's not always the case."

"It has it's moments," You agreed. "Kids are not so easy to deal with."

"Take it from me, I've got five younger siblings. And! At a farm! Can you imagine how hellish that is?"

"I've got an older brother myself."

"See? You get it!" She chuckled, "And, god, and forgive me for being so forward but the genes in your family is simply divine. Your uncle, though, he needs a little fixing. Not that he's not soothing to look at. You know the," She gestured to her face, "Frowning, needs work."

"I agree." You said, "He needs a wife to smoothen those lines."

"Absolutely," She nodded earnestly, "Everyone here keeps trying to set him up on blind dates.

This was the second time you stilled. Kido, who was stiffly standing behind the women, stiffened even more.

"Is that so?" You said slowly.

Gina, god bless her, grinned, "Yes! We had so many contenders."

"Contenders." You echoed.

Kido closed his eyes.

"One was a lovely red head," She counted one hand, finger up, "works in marketing. Bold, tough attitude. Another was sweet Mary from sales. He was absolutely terrible to her, though, reason why we locked him up in the pantry." She laughed at the memory, "We threatened to lock him there forever if he continued that attitude."

"Nothing changed, I'm guessing." You said mildly.

"It's not like we can transfer his office there," She sighed, "So we make do."

"I see." You said, thinking for a moment. "How did he decline those women?"

Kido opened his mouth but Gina beat him to it, "Busy. You know. The 'sorry, I can't commit since the only thing I'm committed is with my work’ sort of busy."

"Ah..." You nodded, sparing him a glance. His expression was morphed in a way you could not tell if he was about to pounce to the nearest balcony, or he was simply about to get on his knees and pray. "Ah, is that what he said? Not that he was committed to someone else?"

"Not of anyone I could think of," She said thoughtfully, "Why, is there someone?"

“Gina—”

"No," You said primly, "There is no-one."

Kido cleared his throat but Gina cut him off again.

“Oh! Leave a girl be." Gina playfully pushed him away, and he surprisingly went along with he force of her shove. "Enough about that old man's love life."

He was internally in flames.

"Old?" He hoarsed.

"I want to know about yours," Gina's cheeks went pink and she playfully whispered, though Kido could hear it, "Boyfriend?"

"She doesn't-"

"I do have one," You said with a smile, "I have a boyfriend. He's, ah, an athlete at my university. Young. Handsome. Outgoing. He takes me to dinner everynight. Brings me home after, too. Unlike most boyfriend, he's not cold, not frugal with his money and definitely does not lie about things he shouldn't be..." You turned to him, " lying about."

Kido closed his eyes again. He was in a relationship with a woman twenty years his junior, if he had not lied Gina would have never looked at him in the same way again. Even that is a mistake you considered life-threatening.

"Even the small little white lies, you know," She sighed, "But I'm glad you found someone and-"

Kido stepped in. He rarely does whenever there's a conversation, however, this one is different. His life depended on it. He placed a hand on your wrist, squeezing it slightly, "I think that's enough for today," He said lowly. "Yuki has class tommorow."

"I don't."

"She does." He said firmly, "And, Gina I think the boss wants to meet you for your weekly reports."

For a man who decieves so terribly you wondered how Gina believed it. She gasped, clapping her hands, "Absolutely. Forgive me, I'll get going right now," She checked her watch and made a sound," Gosh! I'm running late. Lovely to meet you both!"

She hugged you and waved to Kido goodbye, her heels pattering away as she jogged downstairs. Eventually, when you were both alone he turned to you, jaw tight. "Boyfriend." He said flatly, "Which class is that fool residing in. I would like to meet him."

"You can't."

"And why can't I?" He said coldly, "Does he not exist?"

"Oh, he does. It's just that. I'm your niece and you can't tell me what to do."

"That was a coverup I cannot have you going around telling everyone that you're meddling with a middle aged man," He said lowly, "Your reputation will be affected. What will your parents think?"

"That I'm giving an older man my weekly pocket money.”

“Yuki.” He strained, “Enough.”

"Alright fine," You said, a prim proper smile on your lips, "I will go to class tommorow even if I don't have an, and I will also meet my non-existent boyfriend who is an athlete and is in within the same financial regard as me. So. Won't you bring me home first, uncle?"

He closed his eyes, praying for patience, “Get in the car and we’ll talk about this.”

Before he could reply, you went onto the soles of your Mary Janes and pressed a quick light kiss, barely even noticeable against his mouth, to his lips.

“Of course, uncle. Meet you there.” You gave him one more smile, even more mischievous than the last, and walked down the hall.

The wraith of the cup burned his fingertips.

Tagomi steadied his breaths, curling his hands that shook, into a fist. Before him, you stood erect— suppressing shudders of a little girl confronted with the lashes of her father’s rancor. Tears burned a path over your delicate cheeks, mottling the whites of your eyes red. His Snow—his precious little snow—reduced to desolation becuase he was plunged too deep into the depths of his own dwellings. An unstitched wound. The hematology, congested.

The maid fluttered nervously between them, “I will clean this up, your highness.”

“No,” You snarled out, voice trembling, your eyes burning into his. A locked chain unbroken. “Let him see for what it is—what he’s done.”

Words elude him. Even as he swiveled up and his eyes met those locked chains—words were clumped knots on a rope, refusing to tunnel through its burrow.

“Dont you see it, father?” You spoke up again, “What you’ve done?”

I know what I have done.

Behind you, stood a man in a uniform he knew very well. In a uniform that plagued his waking days, the nights he laid in bed with his eyes peeled to the ceiling, and the days forward where he could not forget the look he was given last. The brown leather straps went over one shoulder, and crossed to the other, accreting a diagonal crucifix. The dagger protruded from the belt buckle engraved with the runes of martialism.

Held within the hands of his son.

Tagomi could only perceive the lower half of his face—the other half was obfuscated. Out of view, shadowed with darkness.

“What have you…” The focus went on you. Your voice trembled as you spoke, “What have you done for them?”

Tagomi opened his eyes.

The latticed wooden ceiling with met his vision, illumed with the flare of the morning light. At the window, the drapes of the curtain, billowing from the open breeze, glowed ivory white. He slowly sat up, felt his bare feet in the cold floorboards and walked towards the window. As he closed the shutters, the drapery brushed the back of his hand. He turned his head, just slightly. And turned his palm over, gliding.The fabric slid across his skin—supple and silken.

He stood there. The room, once hospitable to two, is much too sparse for one.

.

NOBUSUKE TAGOMI, donning his pressed suit, descended the stairs to the breakfast room.The maids stationed on each side kept their heads low as they opened the shoji screens.

“Good morning, your highness.”

“Good morning,” He nodded, and stepped inside.

The windows were opened, alighting the room with sunlight. Several maids fluttered around, dusting vases and cabinets. When they saw him, they bowed deeply in greeting. He turned his head, just slightly. The zabuton at the table—her zabuton, burgundy silk ornated with cranes—lay unseated.

“Where is the princess?” He asked.

The maids exchanged glances. One of them—Yukiko—turned to him, eyes low, bowing, “I was told not to bring her highness breakfast, Denka.“

He thought for a moment, “Why not?”

“She says,” She swallowed, and then paused, considering if she should speak further. Then, “She said she would be at the old cottage, sir.”

“Ah,” His eyes turned to the window.

Beyond the frame, shrouded the foliage of leaves. They bloomed from the spindly fingertips of branches, and beyond more—several miles rolling over grass-tufted hills—stood a cottage, sheltered by the canopy, and nestled between tulip knotted shrubberies and lichens. They would often retreat to the cottage ere the dawn of war. Back when the ring on his finger gleamed, and he hadn’t lost a son to his homeland.

He hadn’t realized it was the weekends already.

“The clock does not bide its time,” He said to himself, “Not at all.” He turned to the table, preparing to kneel on his zabuton, “Please, Inform me of her return when she comes.”

The maid bowed, “Yes, of course your highness.”

He thought for a moment.

“Notify Kotomichi,” He said. “I require him to my office when I arrive. Tell him—it is about the marriage proposed to my daughter.”

Yukiko, her eyes low, blinked with confusion but she bows again.“Yes, sir.”

Crossing his legs, he laid his palms on his knees, the fabric rough. He looked ahead and caught sight of the illustration on the shoji walls. Mountains rose in jagged strokes, and the clouded were black coiling swirls across the screen. A hare stood atop a hill, its eyes dotted with piercing red paint.

Burning.

.

“I’ll give you around a minute to elaborate.”

WITH HIS arms crossed, Wyatt leaned against the edge of the table. He thumped his boot idly against the floorboard with that particular expression that denoted ‘Well? Go on?’ across his face. You kept quiet. You refused to speak. Instead, you glared at the ground—at your bare feet that began turning numb from the cold.

“I’m waiting,” He said conversationally, and checked his watch,. “I could wait for another hour, if you’d like.”

So goes another minute and another more, dragging the sky from its bright blue sheen to a dusky fade. You sat there, ensconced in that moss-laden chair, erectly rigid with your eyes fixed on the green veneer of the jade pendant. You gripped your knees. Your fingers curled into the fabric of the trousers tight.

Your eyes caught the glass mug on the corner of the table.

Externally, you appeared unflappable. Kotomichi drilled the regimen into you tooth and nail, until the muscles on your cheeks wouldn’t dream of jumping. Internally, your mind was racing. For the past few minutes you’ve been sitting perfectly still; you could hardly break that now.

He knew about the pendant. He’s stripped you bare of your rifles. It is likely he also knew your identity. In a case like this, the only way to resolve the situation is a bullet to the head. Yours or his. No circumstances differ.

The room shifted, blurring at the edges. At the sink, the water from the tap dripped from the nozzle plinking into the bowl, spilling over the rim. Plink. Drip. Plink. Drip. You could hear your breath, feeling your spasmodic heartbeat in your ears. Plink. Drip. Plink. Drip. Plink—

Then—

He sighed, “Fine. Let’s do this the hard way.”

He turned around, went to a nearby cabinet and rummaged through the shelves, opening and closing drawers. Then later, he whirled back to you with a bundle of fabric in his arms—wrapped cylindericallg— and tossed it.It landed with a clatter on the table. The fabric unfurled as it rolled.And it had everything. Your black scarf. The fedora dusted with glass shards. Your rifle.

“Enough recalling yet?”

“Those are not mine.”

“Hard to say….” He sucked a breath through his teeth, “It’s hard to say when I found you clutching this to your chest. So let’s cut it short. No dillies, no dallies, no ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’ becuase you know precisely well what you are. So!

—You’re the princess, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Funny, you should say that,” He swung the rifle’s bolt around one finger. “At first I thought it might be a joke. That you’re some weird peddler—a woman who makes antiques, replicates and scams customers with them. Cause you’d have to assume princesses like you would stick to palaces and the archery range. Not,” He nudged the butt of the rifle with a push, “Assasinating German officials.”

You don’t reply.

The muzzle nudged your forearm. The metal was cold against your skin.

“You’re her, aren’t you?” He asked again, even when he’s precisely sure of his answer. Smug, all grinning.

A hit to his face would wipe it off.

If you were quick enough, you could quickly incapacitate him—but that was a fool’s fantasy, is it not? He was stronger. More adept. You could guess from the way he stood with his legs apart, he was a soldier in the past.

Another minute.

Another second.

“They are traitors,” You said quietly “That’s what they are.”

“They’re.” He repeated, “That’s a plural. Not singular.”

“The men I’ve killed.”

“Quite a lot for ‘the men’ I’ve killed,” He said, “Unless you’re some sort of a two point ‘oh’ Kempeitai limited to royal officials. What’s your shtick, maintaining law in the Empire the royal way?”

“The nationality does not matter to me,” You said, staring straight stand, “Think of me however you like, I am not obligated to give an explanation. However, if a man were to sell information in exchange for money. Even a Japanese man. Or any person for that matter. Kowtowing for the Nazis, and for a regime no longer the country you would regard as home, wjo desecrated every land it touches.” Your fingers curled into a fist, “I’m sure you would understand why those bullets are neccessary.”

His eyes became wistful for moment, falling to the picture behind you,“And not the probable cause of a war on two fronts.”

“I’ve calculated the odds,” You said, “The empire can take it.”

“If it doesn’t?”

“It sows what it reaps.“

He whistled, “Not very princessy of you, Princess.”

You slowly swivelled up, “And what answer would you prefer from me?”

“One that tells me which ground you stand on,” He said, “Because at the moment I can’t tell if you’re siding with your country, or if you’re with the underground. Which is, if you don’t know—wink, wink, is key word for—”

“I side with humanity.” You stood up, “And you cannot force me otherwise.”

“So you’re with us.”

“I never said I was.”

“Well, I’m saying you’re now.” He pulled out the revolver again, held it to your head. “And you’re going to have to suck it up, Princess. Or you’ll find your pretty head on the ground.”

You stared at him, straight on, “You’re willing to risk your location simply to shoot me?”

He smiled lopsidedly, “You don’t know what I’m willing to do for my people. So, here’s the ultimatum.”

You closed your eyes, “How many?”

“Just one” He leaned over the table. “All you have to do,” He tapped the rifle with his free hand. Once. Twice. “Is tell me where you’re getting more of these.”

“These rifles are specially assigned,” You gritted out, “and even if there were any, you wouldn’t be able to find it.”

“Why not?”

“This particular version is obsolete. Only limited to a special platoon. It was quickly discontinued after the war.”

The perplexed expression on his face made you inhale.

“Highly trained snipers deployed at regions of high risk.” You explained, “The 17th Platoon. You’ve heard of them, yes?”

“Wouldn’t it be easier for them to track you down that way?”

“This rifle beings to a dead man.” You said, looking away, “It is exactly what I want them to do.”

“Tracking you down is what you want them to do.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Who knows, perhaps they’ll realize how terrible each of them are, and eventually turn those guns to themselves.”

He leaned back, laughing incredulously, “Alright,” He held up a hand, “Alright. I get it. You do you. And I do me. Even when think what you’re doing is insane, really. Don’t know where it falls when you’re with the—well, other folks. But I’ll let you go. For now. As long as you get me my sweets.”

You blink “You are?”

“Obviously,” He opened his palms, “I’m not getting hanged for keeping a Japanese princess in my basement, am I? I’ve got self preservation even if it’s hard to believe I do. ‘Sides,” He gestured to the boxes, the room, the clutter, “Where will my babies go?”

You narrowed your eyes, “I’m in your basement?”

“You’re always about to kill someone. I can’t have you killing my folks.”

“I do not kill without reason.” You said defensively, though you felt your neck warm.

“You’re about to strangle the first man who walked through that door,” He pointed to his face, “Me. You already did that to me.“

“We all have our own reasons.”

“Throw a bag over your shoulder,” Kotomichi would say, “And stick with it.”

So, you did.

Breathe. Assess. Ground. Beside the bed was a cloudy glass window, providing you with the perpetual view of brick walls. Red, crumbling, cracked. Poor bastard, whoever lived here. You wouldn’t know—you lived in a place elsewhere, with arched windows rimmed with gold, that oversaw lush opulent gardens.

You lived better.

Looking outside, you can tell it was morning; the sky was bright. Bleak in a way early mornings were. You gathered your breath, inhaling as much air as you can to calm the tides. Your face was bare. Scarf, gone. You felt up your body—you were in just a dresshirt and trousers. Feet bare and cold. Whoever found you last night must’ve stripped the garments off.

And, whoever it was—

You’ll be sure to do a little talking, with them.

You swung your legs off the bed, standing on your toes. The floorboard was cold. There was no heating in the room, you could tell. You winced as a spasm of pain shot up from your ankle—your ribs, muscles and just another every nerve in your body to boot. Groaning, cradling your sides, as if it would make things any better—you looked around the room.

It was small, woodenly furnished. Barely any space for walking with how much boxes littered the place. Dusts motes floated around the air. They sparkled like little stars touched by sunlight and collected on the surfaces of cabinets in a thin fine sheen. On corners of the ceiling, cobwebs clumped like little puffs of cotton.

It was old, dilapidated, and worn—splintered surfaces and grooved floorboards—but it was used. Lived in. Well-accommodated.

A table stood in the middle, stacked with boxes, unused cups crusted with—coffee? You assume? And the new editions of the Reich Magazines were sprawled all over the surface. An avid reader, whoever this person is. There were several publications, the latest to the earliest ones. Men in stark military clothing posed on the covers, statuesque. ‘The right feel to your body, is the right way to live the Reich’.

You tossed the book to the other end of the table, scoffing.

To your right was a closet. Left open, perhaps in a hurry, with how the doors were yanked apart—providing view of the clothes inside, stuffed to the brim. Mostly black coats, beige jackets and caps. A kitchen counter was adjacent on the other end, tacked with unwashed dishes.

On a cabinet, you caught sight of a framed picture. Slowly, minding your ankle, you shuffled close. You held it up to the light, the glass glinting. It was an old portrait. Black and white. Taken at a farm. Two men stood in the middle in a half hug, a tractor behind. One was old and bearded, laughing at the camera. He wore a flannel with trousers, face smudged with dirt, but it appeared much to dark for it to be so. Coal, your mind supplied. Must be. The other man on his side appeared younger, in worn overalls, giving a thumbs up with his free hand.

Your fingers brushed against the smooth back of the frame behind, and you turned it over. On the back of the picture, something was written. A sentence in black cursive ink. It took you a moment to comprehend it.

“Use your hands well, Li. Love, pa.”

Your line of thought was cut off by a distant door closing. You flinched, heart pounding in your ears. Slowly, you set the picture down, stance crouched low, creeping towards the door on your toes. Footsteps approached, you heard the low tones of a man grumbling to himself. As the knob turned—

“Bloody milkman, giving me spoiled ones—”

You launched for a tackle, arms wrapping around his neck and squeezing it into a headlock. The man, caught off guard, grunted in surprise as you pummeled to the ground with him on top. His back against your chest. The paper bag in his arms fell, sliding across the floor and bumping the hinds of the table. Apples rolled out. You heard the clink of glass bottles.

“Oh,” He choked out, blinking to the ceiling, “Oh, jesus you’re awake.”

You were on your back, legs around him, heels digging into his shins to keep him down.

“Anta wa dare da?” You hissed, “Identify yourself.”

Blindly, in the heat of the moment, you were sure for a second there you could restrain him. He had been caught off guard, a perfect element to leverage. Then again, he was a larger man, and you were simply a young woman, foolish.

“Could ask you the same thing, sweetheart.”

His hands fisted your sleeves and he slammed his boots onto the floor. It took you a moment to realize what he was doing. He lifted himself forward, and with the weight of his knees bearing against the ground, threw you over his shoulder.

You soared over the table, landing onto your sides, rolling across the wooden floor. The pain in your ankle barreled back with vengeance, and you gritted your teeth from crying out in pain. Regardless, you made a noise from the impact.

From the ground, the glass mug idling on the table caught your eye. The visuals ran through. A quick snatch and a throw—you’d land it on his head for a slim knockout if you were careful enough. You rose, ready for another onslaught.

“Ah, ah,” When the click of a revolver stopped you mid-rise.

You froze, eyes on the floorboard. The sound of your own breath panted in your ears. Your knees ached from maintaining the hunched posture.

“Let me see those hands,”He gestured with the revolver, “Come on, let me see ‘em.”

You refused. You refused to be led around by this—this man as if he had any business laying lordship over your person. If he were at the palace his hands would’ve been cleaved for the mere crime of touching you.

“Hands, darling,” He pressed firmly, “Don’t make this difficult for us, yeah? Let me see your hands, and when that’s done, you get your arse over there and we’ll talk this through.”

“How can I trust you not to shoot me?”

He took in a deep breath and let it out as though he’s been through this plenty times, “You’ve got a sprained ankle, broken ribs, and a twisted wrist. But you’re still standing aren’t ye’. Two legs intact. Arms moving perfectly. Not dead if that’s what you’re worried about,” He went on, “If I could, I would have. But I didn’t. That’s trust enough for you yet?”

“Not enough.” You hissed.

“Is that how it is, now. You?” He shook the gun at you before pointing to his chest, “Trusting me? Darling, I found you on the ground with a rifle strapped to your shoulder, and not any rifle too—a type ninety nine, limited to the Japanese military.”

“My—”

“Your girl’s somewhere safe,” He cut in, “and I’ll decide what to do with it after we talk. It’s not the sort of gun you’d see idly hanging around in the NZ either, scarce as an American dollar in the black market. So believe me when I say I know how this sounds.”

“You don’t understand what you’re getting into.”

“Then explain.” He raised the revolver , “Because I’ve got all morning. Or, if that’s a bit difficult, I’ll find other ways to get you to. Ways you wouldn’t like. But that’ll be a stretch, ‘cause I’m a patient man. The ones you should be worrying are them.”

“Them?”

“My community,” He simply said, “And my community, well, they’re a piece of work, currently muddled at the moment since a non-res got the job done. And that usually mean’s the job’s a nought.”

Your throat worked for a moment. You’ve heard of them. This community. Underground rebels defying the empire with the cost of their lives on the line. Your brother had called them reckless—said they were indoctrinated by the masses with hate and lies to compromise their repose. And you’ve seen it for yourself.

You remembered sitting behind your brother. The flocks of bird that dispersed at the sound of gunshots. And in front, at the corner of your peripheral, you watched as the Crowned Prince stumbled to the ground, the many ministers themselves, shocked and mortified, reaching towards him with their arms outstretched.You had stood there, eyes wide as you were yanked backwards towards the exist.

Often times, you wondered if you were any different from them.

“So?” He prodded, “What will it be? Judge now or be judged later?”

If your legs weren’t so sore—if you weren’t so exhausted you might have ducked, bolted through the window and left. But you were, on all two accounts. One move and you’re good as dead with a bullet through your heart, and a letter of condolence sent to your father.

Slowly, you raised your hands, “I will take your word for it.”

“Take it well.”

With a begrudging expression, you shuffled towards the table, eyes locked on his.

“There you go. Wasn’t so hard was it?” He gestured to the table, “Nice and easy. No bullets wasted. No need to alert the Kempeitai for nothing. Oh, mind your step—there’s a lose floorboard.”

The chair was weathered. Grooves in the seat, smeared with moss. You hesitated, imagining it would rub off on your trousers. The fabric used were beyond a commoners mean. To sit on that thing and—

“Is there a more appropriate chair I can use?” You said.

“Basement has it.”

Your eyes twitched.

“Alright,” You settled down on the chair, crossing one leg over the other, ignoring the sudden wave of revulsion at the sensation. You gathered yourself for a moment before sitting up straight and raised your chin up, “Let us talk.”

He smiled, “Good. But first—breakfast. Hope you like mushed up apples because that’s what you’ll get for today. With a dust of dirt on top. And when your belly’s full then you’ll need to tell me what’s a woman like you doing here.”

“A woman like me.” You said lowly, bristling at his insolent tone.

He was undeterred, simply reaching into his pocket in response and pulled something out.“Yeah,” He tossed it onto the table, “A woman like you.”

The object clattered onto the surface and slid towards you, stopping short several inches before the edge. It was a pendant. A royal pendant, with a simple function of denoting one’s status, carved from jadeite. It glowed a luminous green under the flare of the sunlight.

“Rare thing, that is.” He pointed out, “Counting the emperor himself, it marks only several, if not limited to a few, people in this country able to have such a thing.”

You kept quiet, staring at the insignia, fingers slowly curling into a fist.

“Now, I ain’t no pon-noser but I’m sure ,” He went on, a slight grin spreading across his lips, “the Imperial Crest engraved at the top could tell me a thing or two about what it is.”

.

THE MOTORCAR pulled up by the curb of the brothel. The driver pulled the brakes, parked the vehicle, and simply drummed his hands on the wheels, idle. He did not say a word as Kido laid his head against the seat for a moment, gathering his thoughts. They were racing in a way he could not keep up.

Those eyes. They came to him again. The ones that burned bright under the shine of the moon. He imagined being closer. Imagined standing on the rooftop inches before the gunner, his coat billowing against the wind. Imagined fisting the scarf that covered the lower half of their face. If he tore it off, he wondered, whose face would lay in place?

He thought of none.

None came.

Earlier, Kido had reconvened with the other officers at the Nippon building. He considered it a waste of time; he could’ve begin the investigation right away when evidences are still fresh. Unfortunately, it was simply protocol to follow the process as such— a prompt debrief with General Onoda before the interrogations would begin. Given he was the main witness to the assassination as well, he was top priority to relay the events of what escalated.

“You should rest, Kido Tai’i,” Onoda had said after he was informed, “Let your subordinates handle the investigation.”

It was several hours after the shooting. When Kido had gotten his bearings, and not stood by the window, shell-shocked and furious at himself for being so careless. He hadn’t realized Strohell’s blood was still on his dresshirt and was told to change.

“I appreciate your concern, kakka,” He replied and bowed sharply, “but I find that I cannot rest when the perpetrator is still on the loose. The death of a German National is at my hands, a mistake mine entirely, and one that I will rectify.”

“Do what you will,” Onoda turned to look at the window, “But the Nazis will come and they will attend to the dog your killer put down.”

There was no doubt they would. The Reich prided themselves greatly in being an unstoppable superpower. That meant any iota of Faux Pas is to be handled with grave consideration—even such a minor killing of an official with no use whatsoever to the Reich.

“Who will receive us?” Kido asked.

“They will try to put the blame on us, and they will try to twist our words for the opportunity of using every reason to compromise the treaty.” He was quiet for a moment, tapping his fingers on the leather chair, “Obergruppenführer Smith.”

Kido opened his eyes, staring at the grains of the leather seat ahead. Then let him come, he thought, and let the man speculate. I do not have time to spare, postulating with the likes of a German like him when the reputation of the empire is at stake.

If it was resistance, they could be easily incriminated with a few slips of a hand. A Japanese national—the same could be done. A German, however. That is their consequence to decide.

For now, the investigation must begin.

Kido opened the door and stepped out of the motorcar, slipping on his gloves with sharp flicks of his wrist. Sargent Yoshida was already waiting by the pavement, hands studiously behind his back. He stood there for some time when Kido was recuperating.

“Sir,” He bowed.

“The ballistics of the bullet in Strohell,” He began without preamble, “Are forensics done?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“Expedite the process,” He clipped, “I expect the documents to be on my desk by the time I return. And the ballistics in Taikoshi—I expect that too.”

He had an inkling they were from the same sniper.

“Of course sir, I will send a message.”

He grunted, walking towards the building, “What do we have?”

“The brothel, sir.” He said, “A witness stepped forward. Yovana Reiss. She said she was approached by the shooter himself.”

He raised his eyebrows, “And where is this witness now?”

“Upstairs.”

When the gloves settled over his fingers, he flexed his hands, and strode towards the entrance. “Let’s pay Miss Reiss a visit.”

.

HE WENT up the stairs. The brothel had seen better days, dilapidated with worn wooden framework. The Madam of the establishment was already driven to HQ for questioning. Dust permeated the smothering air, suffused with the musky stench of flesh sliding on flesh. Kido with distaste wrung out a napkin from his breast pocket and pressed it against his nose.

Soldiers flood in from behind, marching across the threshold. As he passed the rooms, heading for the upper levels, women of all ages, young and old stood against the walls beside the doorways. They were dressed, rumpled and disheveled, in their nightwear. Some half naked, roused from the middle of their endeavor and the clients were ushered elsewhere to a separate room for questioning. Mostly of military officials biding their time—who were let off without a word, men with nothing to do, and salary men with broken marriages.

Boots thumped across the floorboards, sharp yells bounced from soldiers room to room as they barged inside. They peeled off carpets and heaved mattresses aside, turning over drawers and shook off the contents through windows where there were hills of paper, objects and clothes piling at the facade of the establishment. Those below sunk their hands in these mounds, examining each item with scrutiny to search for hidden latches or incriminating pamphlets

“Searching for the murder weapon,” Yoshida supplied.

“If it is even here.” Kido muttered.

Regardless, it was customary procedure to search the establishment from top to bottom. To uncover contraband and to use those same uncovering as leverage against them.

They reached the fifth floor after several more flights of stairs, where he was led to a room with ‘28’ engraved in the brass tag. He opened the door. Few Kempeitai officers roamed around the room, cameras in hands. Flashes went off, followed by the slow chutter of the pictures developing. An officer crouched by the window, a good few inches away, careful not to intrude within the region of the glass shards.

Kido took off his fedora and held it against his chest. In the middle of the room, a woman sat on a chair besides the table. She was undoubtedly beautiful, the way women from brothels were—pale-faced with ruddy tear stained cheeks. Her hair was a red mane that draped in thick locks over her shoulders. A doctor was attending her, rubbing ointment on her neck. A purple bruise bloomed across her collar bone.

“Leave us.” Kido said.

Yoshida bowed and clipped out, “Iku zo!”

The other men followed suit, quickly gathering their things before leaving through the door. When they were gone and the door closed with a click, they were the only ones in the sparse room. Reiss had never felt the distance so wide from where she sat.

“Yovanna Reiss, Chief Inspctor.” She quickly stood up and bowed.

“Sit down Miss Reiss before you faint.” His tone was polite, though, not kind.

“Of course,” She nodded, her eyes remained on the floor, flickering here and there.

Once seated, she wrung her hands, kneading her thumb. Kido looked around the room for a moment. It was nothing significant. Small and functional, serving its purpose as a transactional room. He pulled out a chair from the table and settled. Leaning back, he slowly crossed his legs, regarding her with his eyes for a moment, assessing.

“Where do you come from, Miss Reiss?” He asked.

She blinked, thrown off kilter by the question. “Belgium, sir.” She managed.

“Oh, Belgium,” He said airily, “That’s a long way from home, Miss Reiss. Quite the distance it is.”

“It is, sir.” She nodded slowly, “The war displaced my family and I was forced on a boat that sent me elsewhere—and I found myself here.”

“You understand,” He began, “as you are a long way from home, the laws there, however they may be reigned under the Japanese State or the Reich, they do not apply correspondingly to the laws inhabited by San Francisco, yes?”

She nodded again cautiously, her fingers tightening around each other, “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” He smiled, a tight one and gestured ahead, “You came forward with substantive testimony and I would like to hear it now. Without other versions and details unnecessarily added. If you have given me a false testimony,” His eyes were cold as he regarded her, “I would know.”

She nodded, swallowing, “Of course.”

“Begin.”

“It was, um,” She sniffled, “Uh, eight o’clock last night that I uh. I met a man last night. He was at the telephone booth and didn’t have any change for the call. So I slipped in and gave him mine. And we talked. Then—then I brought him to my room and we fought—”

“About?”

“Nothing important,” She replied.

“Nothing is ever not important, Miss Reiss.”

“It was just back and forth, something I’m used to. I was just flirting and he was answering me with vague responses I didn’t think much of, at first.”

“What sort of responses?”

“That he didn’t seem to have a wife and he looked like a cop,” She rubbed her neck, “And that was when he took me out. I…couldn’t see anything after.”

“Were you able to observe his features?” He leaned in, “What he looked like?”

Her eyes flickered over the floorboards, trying to remember the details, “Not much. But he was a little shorter than me. A— a little broad, too? I couldn’t tell because he had this thick coat on. A thick black coat. Expensive, I think. I couldn’t catch the tags. And—and it was a joke but I said he might be the type of man who took his mother’s features.”

Kido tilted his head, “Why do you say so?”

“I only saw his eyes,” She explained, squinting, “but—but they were young. They look young at least. No wrinkles on the corners or the cheeks. And I’ve seen those kinds of eyes, if you know what I mean. Almost like the eyes of someone who wore their mother’s face.”

Young. Male. Early twenties, Kido’s mind supplied. Does it burn? He wanted to ask. Do those eyes burn?

“Miss Reiss,” He began, his tone low, “you were in close proximity to a man last night and you mean tell me you cannot comprehend properly any inch of his features?”

Yovona’s heart pounded in her chest.

“I thought he was shy at first,” She said desperately and shuffled to the edge of her seat so she could be closer, “A man unused to these sights and I believed it too. Because we have many peculiar clients, from generals who wore wigs, men who cross dress to hide their identity and others who killed their wives—all just for a warm body at this establishment. I’ve seen things, sir. I’ve seen worse and this—this is the least peculiar way I’ve seen someone hid their identity.”

The closest a witness has been to the perpetrators. And yet—

“Mattaku…” He palmed his face. “And his voice? If I were to play a tape of several men speaking now, would you recognize it?”

“No,” She stammered, “I couldn’t hear it all. He—he mumbled a lot, sir. Wore a scarf that covered his mouth. I thought he had some sort of disability he might have been embarrassed about.”

“Then try your best to listen. Yoshida!” He called out.

“Sir,” The door opened.

The Sargeant came in with five tapes in one arm and a cassette player on the other. Reiss watched apprehensively as he laid it on the table and slotted one tape inside. With a few flicks of a button, it started turning. Then it played. The first one was of a Japanese man. He spoke quickly, his voice low and clipped. Reiss listened for a minute more before shaking her head. Yoshida took out the tape and popped in another one. This time, a German. Too high, too smarmy. She shook her head.

When all of the tapes were eventually played, she leaned back, quiet.

“All I remember is that his voice,” She spoke up, “it was gentle. Almost—almost like a breeze.”

“I thought as much.” He palmed his face, then stood up, “Clean up the space Sargeant. We’ll be taking our leave. And Miss Reiss?”

“Yes?” She perked up.

“If this—this man approaches you again,” He wakes towards her chair, towering above her, “I hope it is within your most wisest sensibilities that you approach me. Do you understand?”

She nodded, her voice shaky, “Yes, yes sir. I will.”