Kazou Kuroda sat on the edge of the narrow hotel bed, the thin mattress creaking softly beneath him. The pale glow of a worn desk lamp cast long shadows across the faded wallpaper, its floral pattern peeling at the edges. His fingers traced the worn leather cover of the small diary he had found at the Tokyo museum — a diary belonging to Casimir Bielska containing an dress to Sasha Bielska.
Sasha... Who was Sasha to Casimir?
Kazou's eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. The hour was late — the narrow streets outside cloaked in deepening twilight, the amber glow of street lamps spilling onto damp cobblestones.
He folded the diary carefully, slipping it into the inner pocket of his coat.
Tonight, he would follow the trail Sasha left behind.
***
Clutched in his gloved hand was a worn piece of paper—a page torn from a diary he had found at the museum. The address scrawled in faded ink: "Sasha Bielska, ul. Cicha 12." The name had resonated with him, a whisper from the past beckoning him forward.
Navigating the labyrinthine alleys, Kazou's footsteps echoed softly, the city around him hushed, as if holding its breath. He reached ul. Cicha, a narrow street lined with aging buildings, their facades bearing the weight of history.
But number 12 was conspicuously absent.
Where he expected a building, there was an empty lot, overgrown with weeds and strewn with debris. A rusted fence encircled the space, its gate hanging ajar. Kazou stepped closer, peering into the void where a life once unfolded.
He stood there for a long moment, the silence pressing in. The anticipation that had propelled him across continents now gave way to a hollow ache.
He breathed out a slow, weary sigh, the sound barely louder than the cold wind rustling through broken branches.
Kazou's hands clenched at his sides. The diary had been real. Sasha had been real. But this place — this address — was gone, erased by time or something darker.
The question rose sharp and bitter: was the entire trail a lie? Or was the truth simply waiting deeper in the shadows?
Kazou looked once more toward the empty lot, the city humming faintly around him — distant voices, the rustle of tires on wet asphalt, the faint scrape of a door closing.
Turning away, Kazou retraced his steps, the weight of disappointment heavy on his shoulders. He made his way to the bus station, hoping to return to Warsaw and regroup.
***
The bus stop was a ten-minute walk back toward the center. Kazou's coat flared behind him as he walked. His mind churned with fragmented thoughts — the diary, the missing house, the strange sense of being watched that had grown since he arrived in Poland.
The bus arrived with a hiss and screech, metal folding doors parting to swallow passengers inside. Kazou stepped on board and found a seat near the window.
The bus was nearly full, a quiet mix of tired locals and travelers like himself.
He leaned his head against the cold glass, watching the streets blur past in the reflection. The city lights flickered, casting ghostly images on his face.
Where else could I look to find out more about Casimir's past?
As the bus rumbled out of Gdańsk and toward Warsaw, Kazou kept his eyes open, alert for any sign or clue.
But the night was indifferent, wrapped in cold silence.
Hours passed, and the bus rolled steadily down highways flanked by dark forests and empty fields.
Kazou's thoughts began to dull, lulled by the steady hum of the engine and the rhythmic thump of tires on asphalt.
Outside, the sky had deepened to a velvety black, stars pricking faintly through the chill.
Suddenly, a loud grinding sound jerked the bus forward — then a harsh, uneven lurch.
The engine coughed violently and then fell silent.
The bus slowed, then stopped entirely on the shoulder of a deserted road.
A sharp murmur rose from the passengers — irritation, frustration, and low curses.
The driver climbed down from his seat, muttering under his breath as he popped the hood.
Kazou watched through the window as a few passengers began gathering their bags, muttering about walking or finding other rides.
Some stepped off the bus into the dark night, their footsteps crunching on gravel as they disappeared into the shadows.
Kazou's gaze drifted to the dark road stretching into the distance, the occasional flicker of headlights passing by like wandering ghosts.
Minutes stretched, tension mounting in the chill air.
He glanced around — the remaining passengers looked tense, weary, and angry.
Eventually, the driver returned, shaking his head.
"The engine's shot," he said gruffly. "Won't be moving till morning, or we find help."
Groans and complaints rippled through the bus.
Kazou felt a familiar tightening in his chest — the burden of waiting, uncertainty, and the cold creeping into his bones.
He stood, gathering his bag.
Outside, the stars hung cold and distant.
Most passengers decided to hitch rides or start walking toward the nearest town several kilometers away.
Kazou lingered near the door, the driver pacing, smoking a cigarette.
The driver glanced at Kazou. "You planning to walk?"
Kazou shook his head. "I'll try to hitch a ride."
The driver grunted. "Good luck with that out here."
Kazou stepped off the bus into the night, the cold air biting his face. The sky above was moonless, a thick shroud of clouds blotting out any stars that might have offered comfort. A wet wind pressed against him, cutting through the thin lining of his coat and rustling the brittle grass beside the shoulder. In the distance, the road unwound like a ribbon of dim asphalt, winding into nowhere.
Kazou raised his right arm, his gloved hand extending forward, thumb pointed skyward — a small, desperate gesture in the vast Polish countryside. It felt strange.
A single car passed without slowing.
He waited.
The cold crept into his bones.
Another five minutes. Then ten. The wind picked up. The only sounds were the soft sighing of trees and the occasional whisper of tires in the far distance.
Then — headlights.
Two pale beams cut through the darkness, first distant and uncertain, then drawing closer with an urgency that made his heart beat faster.
Kazou stepped back slightly from the edge of the road. The vehicle slowed. Tires crackled over loose gravel and broken ice as the car pulled off to the side and came to a halt a few feet in front of him.
A taxi.
It was an older model — a boxy Fiat with a dented rear bumper and rust curling at the edges of the door panels. The yellow light on top flickered dimly, casting a wan glow in the mist. The passenger window rolled down with a mechanical groan, and a man's face leaned out.
Without another word, the man reached across to unlock the back door.
The car was an old Polish Fiat, battered and worn. Yellow paint chipped along the door, the back bumper half-dangling from a rusted frame. The roof light buzzed softly.
The window rolled down with a squeal. The driver leaned out—a grizzled man in a faux leather jacket, cigarette dangling from cracked lips. His face was weathered, stubbled, with bags under his eyes that looked years old.
He gave Kazou a squint. "Dokąd idziesz?"
Kazou stepped forward, speaking evenly. "Warsaw."
The driver frowned, eyes scanning Kazou's face.
Then his lips curled into a sneer-smile.
"Warsaw, eh? Long way. You pay cash, yes?"
Kazou nodded. "Of course."
The man sniffed, as if surprised he spoke Polish at all. "Hmm. Well. Get in. But we stop first. The girl's going to Kłodzko. After that, Warsaw." He gave a vague gesture to the back seat. "You okay with that?"
The interior reeked of stale cigarette smoke, sweat, and a cheap pine-scented air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror. The seat creaked under his weight as he sank into the back. The leather was cracked and torn, the foam underneath hardened from years of use.
The driver grunted and took the money from Kazou's extended hand without even counting it. "Good," he muttered, folding the bills with thick fingers. "Not bad..."
Kazou froze mid-motion.
He said nothing. His face remained composed. But his eyes narrowed.
To his right, a presence stirred.
He turned.
A young woman sat beside him, her posture delicate and still. Blonde hair fell loosely across her shoulders, strands catching the flickering light. She wore a navy wool coat and dark trousers tucked into worn boots. Her eyes—cool, blue, and watchful—met his.
The man continued, clearly entertained by his monologue. "You know, I drove a Chinese guy last year. Not much difference. You all look the same to me. Little, polite, serious."
"I'm Japanese," Kazou said quietly, not looking at him.
The driver made a face, feigning an apology. "Ah, yes. Japanese. Very important difference. Big pride in a small island, eh?" He tapped his temple mockingly. "Samurai spirit or something."
Kazou exhaled through his nose. Calmly. Patiently. The way one might breathe while watching a fire burn something irreplaceable.
Natalie shifted, her tone soft but clear. "You should watch your mouth."
The driver glanced at her in the mirror. "Ah, sorry, miss. No offense. I like your friend. Quiet fellow. Doesn't make trouble."
Kazou didn't respond. His eyes had dulled into something unreadable.
"Don't let him get to you."
Kazou looked at her, something soft flickering behind his eyes.
"I've heard worse," he said.
She gave a small nod. "So have I."
Outside the window, the fields rolled past like a dream — dark silhouettes of trees, lone farmhouses set back from the road.
Inside the cab, the silence stretched.
Natalie smiled faintly. "Hi."
Kazou returned the nod. "Hello."
"I'm Natalie," she said, her voice gentle but firm.
He was about to respond—perhaps with his own name, perhaps with silence—but the driver interrupted again, barking over the low hum of the engine.
"Dr. Kazou Kuroda."
Kazou turned his head slowly. Kazou's heart skipped a beat. He turned to the driver, eyes narrowing.
"How do you know my name?"
The driver chuckled. "Lucky guess."
The air inside the car felt colder suddenly. He hadn't introduced himself.
The driver let out a smug laugh. "See? I know everything. You Japanese, yes? I've seen your type on TV. Smart, quiet. You people always work hard. Not like us Poles, eh?" He cackled hoarsely, slapping the steering wheel. "Maybe you fix the car if it breaks down, huh?"
Kazou stared straight ahead, saying nothing.
Natalie turned her head slightly, her gaze flicking between Kazou and the driver.
Kazou blinked once, the name hanging in the air between them. His fingers tightened slowly around the edge of his coat.
"How..." he began. "Who told you my name?"
The driver chuckled to himself, tapping the steering wheel with one hand as the other rested lazily near the gearshift.
"What? You're famous in Japan, maybe?" he said, glancing at Kazou in the rearview mirror, his grin showing a flash of yellowed teeth. "Or maybe I have sixth sense."
Kazou didn't answer. He stared at the man's eyes in the mirror — dark, amused, and unreadable.
He leaned back slowly into his seat, his muscles taut beneath his coat.
Natalie was still looking at him. Her smile had vanished.
The driver lit another cigarette with the stub of the last one, the flame briefly illuminating his lined face in the dark cab. His hands shook slightly as he flicked the match away and inhaled deeply. The smell of burning tobacco filled the car, mingling with the scent of damp upholstery and something older — metallic, sour, faintly chemical.
He muttered something in Polish under his breath.
Kazou leaned forward, voice low. "What did you say?"
The driver smirked and exhaled smoke through his nose. "Just a prayer. For safe travel."
He said it too easily.
Natalie shifted beside Kazou, her posture straightening. Her eyes hadn't left the driver's reflection in the mirror. She looked more alert now, the casual softness in her face replaced by the stillness of someone listening closely — too closely.
The car veered slightly, tires scraping the edge of the shoulder before the driver jerked the wheel back. He didn't apologize. He just chuckled under his breath again, muttering to himself in a low, incoherent rhythm.
Kazou narrowed his eyes. "You've driven this road before?"
The driver didn't answer for a few seconds. When he did, it was with a strange, sing-song tone.
"Many times. But the road… it changes."
Natalie frowned. "What do you mean?"
The man smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Sometimes it's longer. Sometimes the trees get closer. Sometimes the lights go out, and no one remembers your face."
Kazou turned his head slowly toward the window. The trees did feel unnaturally close now, their black silhouettes looming like watchers just beyond the guardrail. The headlights barely reached past the bend in the road, swallowed quickly by the thick woods.
The driver laughed again, but there was no joy in it. "You think I don't know things. But I do. I've seen things in this job. I've driven men who don't come back. Women too. You hear things in the mirror — little whispers." He tapped the rearview with one yellowed fingernail. "Sometimes they say your name."
Natalie's voice was quiet but sharp. "You're trying to scare us."
The driver looked at her in the mirror and, for the first time, didn't smile. "Am I?"
Then, without warning, he turned off the main road.
The car jostled violently as it hit a gravel path. The sudden change made Kazou's body pitch forward slightly. He grabbed the door handle on instinct.
Natalie's voice cut through the noise. "Where are you going?"
"Shortcut," the driver said casually. "Faster this way."
"There's no marked turn," Kazou said. "This wasn't on the road."
The driver shrugged. "I know these parts better than the signs."
Natalie's hand slid slowly into her coat pocket. "Take us back to the highway."
The driver ignored her.
Kazou's voice dropped. "Stop the car."
Silence.
The cab continued, bumping over ruts and stones. The trees grew denser, crowding closer, their branches like crooked arms reaching toward the road.
"Stop the car," Kazou repeated, louder this time.
The driver finally glanced back in the mirror, his voice now almost amused. "You paid for the ride. You get the whole ride."
Natalie's hand emerged from her pocket, gripping something small and metallic — a penknife. She hadn't unfolded it yet. She didn't need to.
Kazou saw it. So did the driver.
"Careful," the driver said softly. "Sharp things cause accidents."
His tone had changed. No longer playful, no longer amused. There was something hollow behind it now, something blank.
Kazou leaned forward. "I asked you a question earlier. How did you know my name?"
"Let's say I hear things," he said at last. "Radio. Whispers. People who talk more than they think."
He glanced in the mirror again. "Warsaw's not so big. Neither is Japan when you think about it... Casimir Bielska told me everything."
Kazou stared at him. "What do you know about Casimir Bielska?"
That made Natalie twitch.
Just slightly. His lips parted. His shoulders rose, then lowered again.
He chuckled. "Ah. That name... I work for him, you know? He pays well. Isn't that who you're going to see, Natalie?"
"H-huh?! Casimir is actually in that town?! Wait... What? You guys have been stalking me?"
The driver didn't answer. He just turned the wheel slightly, and the forest swallowed the road behind them.
Natalie gripped the door. "Pull over. Now."
But the driver only laughed again. "You'll find Sasha soon. If she wants to be found."
"S-Sasha? Those letters... They were for Sasha... Who is Sasha?! Is it me?! Why am I being called Sasha?!"
Kazou gasped. Could Natalie be connected to the Bielska family? Is she a descendant that Casimir is trying to reach? Is he calling her Sasha because of this?
The car continued down the unlit road, headlights barely piercing the woods. The engine growled. The tires scraped gravel. The shadows grew longer.
The driver never stopped grinning.
The car jolted violently as it climbed the final stretch of uneven terrain. Gravel turned to soil, and headlights flicked across ancient stone walls rising out of the night — Fortezza di Kłodzko, a looming silhouette against the low-hanging clouds. Centuries old, the fortress sat like a slumbering beast atop the hill, its battlements jagged, moss-laced, and shadow-drenched.
The driver chuckled low in his throat, the sound barely audible over the engine's strained rumble.
"End of the line," he muttered, easing the car onto a patch of overgrown grass just beneath the towering structure. The tires crunched to a halt. The cab shuddered once, then went still.
He turned slowly in his seat, casting a sly glance toward Kazou and Natalie.
"I promised you a shortcut," he said. "...And Klodzko. As you requested."
Kazou's hand instinctively moved in front of Natalie, shielding her as the hairs on his neck rose. Natalie leaned forward slightly, eyes locked on the crumbling castle beyond the windshield, her breath fogging the glass.
The driver's smile widened, showing the yellow edges of his teeth. "You want Casimir, yes? You've come all this way. Don't stop now."
From the shadows near the fortress wall, figures emerged. Three men. They wore dark uniforms — black boots, padded jackets, heavy belts. Flashlights clipped to their chests, holsters at their sides. At first glance, they resembled security guards.
The driver rolled down his window, waving with casual familiarity. "Evening, boys."
Natalie narrowed her eyes. "Something's wrong."
One of the "guards" stepped closer to the driver's side. His jacket bore no insignia. His flashlight remained off. And in his hand was no clipboard, but the hilt of a weapon, tucked too loosely for real protocol.
The driver leaned out and gave a mock salute. "They don't talk much," he said with a smirk. "But they do listen."
Kazou's stomach twisted. These weren't guards.
Natalie's voice cut through the rising dread. "Where is Casimir?! Where is he hiding?!"
The man closest to the window looked at her — a long, lingering stare that slid over her features like a hand pressed to glass.
Then, without a word, he stepped forward and slammed the blunt end of an axe into the passenger window.
CRASH.
The glass exploded inward. Natalie screamed as shards flew past her face. Kazou lunged across the seat, pulling her down with both arms, shielding her as best he could. Slivers of glass bit into his shoulders, drawing thin lines of blood through his coat.
"S-Shit!" Kazou winced.
The driver didn't flinch. He just laughed. "They're a little rough, but they get the job done."
"Out!" the man barked. "Now! Hands where I can see them. Knees."
Kazou held Natalie tight for one more moment, then hissed into her ear, "Do as they say. Just for now."
"But—!"
"Now, Natalie."
They climbed out slowly, their movements stiff and disjointed from adrenaline. The wind at the hilltop whipped around them, tugging at coats and hair, carrying the sour, ancient scent of lichen and stone.
The men surrounded them quickly. One jammed the butt of his weapon into Kazou's back, forcing him down. Another grabbed Natalie's arm and shoved her to her knees beside him.
The driver stepped out last, lighting another cigarette, watching with quiet satisfaction.
"Dr. Kuroda. Miss Chmiel," he said, as if introducing them at a dinner party. "It's not every day we get such special visitors."
Natalie's eyes burned with rage. "H-how do you know my name?! Who are you working for?!"
The driver's eyes glinted. "We are working for Casimir Bielska. And he's waiting. He wanted you brought here himself. Especially you, Sasha."
"W-who the hell is Sasha?!" Natalie hisses.
The name... Again.
The driver knelt slightly, cigarette dangling between his fingers, eyes locked on Natalie's.
"Casimir remembers everything. And so will you."
He stood. Then he gave the command.
"Take them below."
Suddenly, from the shadows near the fortress wall, a lone silhouette appeared, slicing through the misty night like a knife through smoke. The three men froze mid-step, their breaths hitching in unison. One of them swallowed hard, his voice trembling as he whispered, "C-c-casimir…"
Their eyes flickered with something like reverence, even worship, as the figure grew clearer — a middle-aged man with calm brown hair, his smile unsettling in its ease. His hand was steady, a handgun aimed without hesitation at the group.
The men's adoration cracked as recognition dawned. This was not Casimir himself.
"No," the man said smoothly, voice low but cutting through the tension like a razor. "Not Casimir. His disciple."
Then — BOOM.
The sharp crack of gunfire shattered the night.