The phone felt like a live grenade in Takeda's hand. He stared at the dark screen, the dead dial tone still humming in his ear, and forced himself to breathe. Panic was a luxury he couldn't afford. Panic was what got people killed.
He checked the time: 11:47 PM. The hostel's common room was empty, the fluorescent lights buzzing with a faint, sickly hum. He had been sitting in the corner booth for the past hour, nursing a cup of vending-machine coffee that had long gone cold. The notebook was spread before him, Emi's map and the crumpled receipt now surrounded by his own cramped annotations.
They had found Kobayashi Reiko. Or they had found her trail. Either way, the phone number was dead, and the woman was either in hiding or already silenced. The Kitajima family's reach was longer and faster than he had anticipated. They had money, connections, and no hesitation. He had a notebook and a handful of reluctant allies.
Takeda closed his eyes and forced himself to think like a chess player, not a cornered animal. If the Kitajimas had found Kobayashi, they would also be looking for anyone connected to her. The email address. The phone number. The charity event. They would be searching through call logs, cross-referencing names, building a web that would eventually ensnare Miki, Ishida, and himself.
But there was a flaw in their strategy. They were arrogant. They had been getting away with this for decades. They wouldn't expect a man like him—a nobody, a ghost—to be three moves ahead.
He took out his phone again, this time navigating to the encrypted messaging app that Saito had installed for him. He typed a quick message to Miki: "Don't contact anyone. Don't stay at your apartment. Meet me tomorrow at 6 AM at the old tram station in Kanda. Come alone."
He sent the same message to Ishida, adding: "Bring everything you have on Kobayashi Reiko. Her address, her workplace, her family. We have to move fast."
Then he gathered his belongings, slipped out of the hostel's back entrance, and disappeared into the night.
The old tram station in Kanda had been abandoned since the city's tram network was decommissioned in the late 1990s. The tracks were rusted, the platform overgrown with weeds, and the ticket booth had long since been boarded up. It was exactly the kind of place where three people with secrets could meet without being watched.
Takeda arrived at 5:45 AM, his jacket damp with morning dew. He had spent the night walking—not aimlessly, but with purpose, his steps tracing a random pattern through the city's back alleys and underpasses, checking for tails, doubling back, ensuring he was alone. He hadn't slept. He didn't need to.
Miki arrived next, her face pale, dark circles under her eyes. She carried a small duffel bag and wore a baseball cap pulled low over her forehead. She didn't speak; she just sat down on the rusted bench beside him, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
Ishida came ten minutes later, her satchel bulging with folders. Her expression was grim, but her eyes were sharp—the eyes of a reporter who had been in worse situations and lived to write about them.
"Kobayashi Reiko," Ishida said, pulling out a thin file. "She's thirty-four. Worked as a freelance event coordinator. No criminal record. No family in the city. She lived alone in a small apartment in the Shinjuku ward. I went there this morning. The door was unlocked. The place had been ransacked."
Takeda's jaw tightened. "Ransacked how?"
"Furniture overturned, drawers pulled out, books scattered. But nothing was taken—not the TV, not the laptop, not the jewelry in the bedroom. They were looking for something specific. Documents. Digital media. Probably the records Murakami gave her."
Miki spoke up, her voice trembling. "Is she dead?"
Ishida hesitated. "I don't know. There was no body. No blood. But her phone was on the floor, smashed. And there was a note—just a scrap of paper with a single word: 'Muranaki.'"
Takeda frowned. "Muranaki? That's not a name I recognize."
"It's not a name. It's a place. A small town in the mountains, about three hours from here. Murakami used to vacation there as a child. He mentioned it once in a conversation—said it was the only place he ever felt safe."
Takeda's mind raced. A vacation town. A place of safety. If Kobayashi had been threatened, she might have fled there, hoping to hide in the one place Murakami had trusted.
"Does anyone else know about this town?" he asked.
Ishida shook her head. "Not as far as I know. But we can't assume we're the only ones who made the connection. The Kitajimas have investigators who are very good at their jobs."
Takeda stood, his decision crystallizing. "Then we have to get there first. I'll go to Muranaki. Miki, you stay here and keep a low profile. Don't go home. Don't use your phone. Ishida, you keep working the media angle—leak information about the fraud case, keep pressure on the police. If the Kitajimas think their cover is about to blow, they'll make mistakes."
Miki stood up, her eyes fierce. "I'm not staying here. Emi was my sister. I have a right to be part of this."
Takeda turned to her, his voice hardening. "You have a right to be alive. If you come with me, you'll be a target. And if you're a target, I'll have to protect you, which means I'll be distracted. This isn't about rights. This is about strategy."
Miki's face crumpled, but she didn't argue. She nodded, a single, jerky movement, and sat back down.
Ishida looked at Takeda, her expression unreadable. "You're going alone? Into a mountain town with no backup?"
"I'm a nobody. I've been invisible my whole life. That's my advantage." He paused, pulling a crumpled map from his pocket—a tourist guide to the Muranaki region he had picked up from a convenience store. "I'll find Kobayashi. I'll get the records. And then we'll bring the Kitajimas down."
The bus to Muranaki left from the city's main terminal at 8:15 AM. Takeda boarded with a small backpack, a bottle of water, and a carefully constructed cover story: he was a retired teacher looking for a quiet place to write his memoirs. The other passengers were a mix of elderly tourists and a few young hikers. None of them paid him any attention.
The journey took three hours, winding through increasingly narrow roads that hugged the sides of forested mountains. The city gave way to suburbs, then farmland, then dense woodland. By the time the bus pulled into the tiny station at Muranaki, Takeda felt like he had traveled to a different world.
Muranaki was a postcard town: a single main street lined with traditional wooden buildings, a small shrine at one end, a river running through the center. The air was crisp and clean, scented with pine and damp earth. It was the kind of place where nothing ever happened—the perfect hiding spot for a woman who wanted to disappear.
Takeda found a small inn near the station, paid for one night in cash, and left his bag in the room. Then he began his search.
He started with the local shops, asking about a "new arrival"—a woman in her early thirties, dark hair, quiet demeanor. The shopkeepers were polite but unhelpful. Tourists came and went; they didn't keep track of faces.
He tried the shrine. The priest, an old man with a kind face, shook his head. "No woman fitting that description has come here in recent days. But there is a small cottage on the hill—the old Murakami family home. It's been empty for years, but someone has been seen there at night. Lights in the windows."
Takeda's pulse quickened. "Where is this cottage?"
The priest pointed toward a narrow path that wound up the hillside behind the shrine. "Follow the path for about twenty minutes. You'll see it just past the cedar grove."
Takeda thanked the priest and started up the path. The climb was steep, the ground uneven, but he pushed forward, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The cedars grew thicker as he ascended, their branches forming a canopy that blocked out most of the sunlight.
And then he saw it: a small, weathered cottage with a rusted tin roof and a chimney that had long since stopped smoking. The windows were dark, but the front door was slightly ajar.
Takeda approached cautiously, his senses on high alert. He pushed the door open with his fingertips and stepped inside.
The cottage was a single room, sparsely furnished with a cot, a table, and a wood-burning stove. A suitcase lay open on the floor, clothes spilling out. A half-eaten bowl of rice sat on the table, a pair of chopsticks resting beside it.
And in the corner, crouched behind the cot, was a woman.
She was trembling, her eyes wide with terror, a small kitchen knife clutched in her shaking hand. Her hair was disheveled, her clothes wrinkled, and there was a bruise forming on her cheek.
"Don't come closer," she said, her voice cracking. "I'll use this. I swear I will."
Takeda raised his hands slowly, palms forward. "Kobayashi Reiko-san? My name is Takeda Haruki. I'm a friend of Yamada Emi. I'm here to help you."
The woman stared at him, her eyes searching his face for deception. Then, slowly, she lowered the knife.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I've been so scared. They came to my apartment. They broke everything. They were looking for the records. I managed to escape through the back window. I took the first bus I could find. This was the only place I could think of."
Takeda knelt down beside her, his voice gentle. "You have the records? Murakami's files?"
She nodded, her hands trembling as she reached into her coat pocket. She pulled out a small USB drive, no bigger than her thumb.
"He gave it to me the night before he died. He said it was the only copy. He said if anything happened to him, I had to give it to someone who could use it. I tried to give it to Emi, but she never showed up. And then I heard she was dead—"
She broke off, sobbing. Takeda placed a hand on her shoulder, steadying her.
"You did the right thing," he said. "You kept it safe. Now I need you to come with me. We have to leave this town. They'll find you here eventually."
Kobayashi looked up, her eyes wet. "Where will we go?"
Takeda thought of the bus schedule, the winding roads, the city waiting with its shadows and dangers. He thought of Miki, waiting in Kanda, and Ishida, preparing the next leak. He thought of Kitajima Yuto, sleeping soundly in his penthouse, unaware that the net was tightening.
"We go back," he said. "We stop running. And we fight."
He helped her to her feet, taking the USB drive and placing it carefully in his inner pocket. As they walked out of the cottage, he glanced back at the horizon, where the sun was beginning to set behind the mountains.
But as they descended the hill toward the town, he noticed something: a car, parked at the bottom of the path, its engine running. A dark sedan, with tinted windows.
His blood ran cold. They had been followed. Or they had been expected.
He grabbed Kobayashi's arm and pulled her back into the trees, his heart pounding. The car's door opened, and a figure stepped out—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a dark suit.
It was Kuroki, the bodyguard from the night of the accident.
And he was looking directly at them.
"Run," Takeda whispered.
They ran.
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