The gunshot didn't even sound like a gunshot.
That was the first wrong thing.
It was a soft phut noise, like a child blowing through a straw into milk. The kind of sound you could miss entirely if you weren't listening for it. Hashiba had been listening his whole life.
He turned just in time to see Captain Lynn's body arch slightly forward, as if someone had tugged an invisible string attached between his shoulder blades. A perfect black dot appeared on the back of his uniform jacket, precisely where the seventh thoracic vertebra would be. No immediate bloodstain. Just a neat puncture in the dark fabric, edges still smoldering.
That's not—
Lynn took three mechanical steps forward, his polished boots clicking against the cobblestones with unnatural precision. One hand rose to press against his sternum, fingers splaying across the growing crimson blossom. When he pulled them away, they glistened wetly in the gaslight.
"Ambush," he announced calmly, as if reporting the weather. His voice didn't waver. "Three o'clock. Upper window."
Then his knees buckled.
The sound they made hitting stone—that sharp crack of bone meeting unyielding granite—jolted through Hashiba's nervous system like an electric shock. He was moving before conscious thought caught up, his body propelled by some primal engine that bypassed cognition entirely.
Six strides. That's all it took to cross the plaza. Six strides during which Hashiba's brain offered helpful observations:
Lynn's posture is all wrong. He never slumps like that.
The exit wound is too large. That's not standard ammunition.
His breathing sounds wet. That means lung penetration.
His medical training surfaced with cruel clarity even as his hands were already moving, already reaching for the field dressing in his belt pouch. The fabric tore open between his fingers, the sterile cotton unfolding like some grotesque white flower.
"Pressure," Lynn gasped, suddenly gripping Hashiba's wrist with terrifying strength. His fingers left bloody prints on Hashiba's skin. "On the—" A wet cough sprayed flecks of crimson across his chin. "—exit wound. Now."
Hashiba pressed both palms against Lynn's back. The blood was astonishingly hot, hotter than he'd imagined, soaking through layers of wool and cotton to sear his skin. Beneath his fingers, he could feel the jagged edges of bone fragments, the unnatural give of damaged tissue. Most of all, he felt Lynn's heartbeat—rapid and fluttering like a dying bird trapped between his hands.
This isn't happening.
Because Captain Lynn didn't get shot. Not like this. Not in some back-alley ambush. Hashiba had seen him take shrapnel at Kurosawa Ridge and still carry two wounded men to safety. Watched him fight off three Pride-beasts in the trenches with a broken arm and live to tell the tale over whiskey. This was the man who'd walked through an artillery barrage to retrieve a child's doll from no-man's land.
A shadow moved at the edge of his vision.
Hashiba looked up.
Uragiri stood twenty paces away, lowering a pistol with a barrel longer than a man's forearm. The porcelain mask gleamed under the gas lamps, its expression forever frozen in serene disapproval. Their eyes met through the swirling gunsmoke.
The assassin nodded once—a gesture almost respectful—then turned and walked away.
"Hashiba."
Amasu's voice cut through the fog. She was suddenly there beside him, her smaller hands replacing his on the wound. Her fingers were already slick with Lynn's blood.
"Go," she said.
Go?
"Chase him."
Her knee pressed against Lynn's shoulder, bracing him. Her other hand already reaching for the trauma kit at her belt.
Hashiba didn't move.
"NOW!" Amasu screamed, and something in her voice—some terrible knowledge—finally broke through the paralysis.
The world narrowed to a tunnel of cobblestones and rage.
Hashiba ran like a man possessed, his sword already drawn, the blade catching the first pale light of dawn as he charged after the retreating silhouette. Uragiri moved with infuriating grace, his long coat fluttering around corners like a living shadow.
"URAGIRI!"
His scream shattered the glass of a nearby apothecary window. The tinkling shards rained down onto the street as he charged past, boots kicking up gravel.
The assassin didn't slow.
Hashiba vaulted over a fruit cart rather than go around it. Wood splintered under his boots. Oranges exploded beneath his heels, their sweet citrus scent mixing with gunpowder and his own sweat. His shoulder clipped a lamppost—
—didn't feel it—
—kept running—
The alley twisted left, then right, the walls pressing close enough that his scabbard scraped brick. His breath came in ragged gasps, each inhale burning through his oxygen-starved lungs. Ahead, Uragiri's coat flickered around another corner—
Hashiba cut through a butcher's shop, bursting through the back door into an enclosed courtyard. Blood from hanging carcasses splashed across his uniform, the metallic tang flooding his nostrils. He barely registered the butcher's shout as he leapt onto a stack of crates and scrambled over the wall—
—landing hard on the other side just in time to see Uragiri ascending a rusted fire escape three buildings down.
Too far. Too slow.
The thought fueled him faster.
Hashiba took the stairs three at a time, the metal groaning under his weight. His sword left a bright scar along the brickwork as he used it for balance around tight corners. At the third-floor landing, he kicked open a tenant's door—
—through someone's bedroom—
—startled cries behind him—
—out the front door onto the opposite street—
Cutting the angle.
The docks opened before him, a maze of warehouses and fishing boats bobbing in the predawn gloom. Uragiri was already halfway across the nearest gangplank, moving with that same unhurried confidence.
Hashiba took the plank at a full sprint. It bowed dangerously under his weight, the old wood groaning in protest. Below, the canal water churned black and hungry.
Uragiri reached the barge and turned, pistol rising—
Hashiba dove left as the shot rang out. The bullet tore through his sleeve, missing flesh by millimeters. He hit the deck rolling, came up swinging—
—steel met porcelain as Uragiri blocked with his mask.
The impact vibrated up Hashiba's arm like a struck bell.
"You're predictable," Uragiri sighed, and kicked him square in the ribs.
Hashiba skidded across the deck, crashing into a stack of tea crates. Splinters rained down around him. His lungs burned. His vision swam.
Get up. Get up or he walks away.
He got up.
The barge became their battleground.
Hashiba attacked with everything he had—every feint, every dirty trick Lynn had ever taught him. His blade flashed in the dawn light, cutting through ropes and canvas, trying to corner the assassin against the cargo containers.
Uragiri moved like smoke between strikes.
"Bring him back," Hashiba panted during a brief lull. His sword trembled in his grip. "However you did it before. However you cheat."
Uragiri tilted his head. "And what makes you think I can?"
"Because you're you!" The words tore from Hashiba's throat raw. "You walk through walls. You disappear in broad daylight. You—"
"Parlor tricks." Uragiri's mask reflected the rising sun. "Death isn't a lock to be picked, Hashiba."
Behind them, Amasu's voice cut through the morning air—she was coming, but not fast enough.
"Then take me instead." Hashiba lowered his sword. "My life for his. However it works."
Uragiri went very still. For the first time, something like surprise colored his posture.
"You'd really—"
He had never experienced something like that before. Someone would be so foolish to bargain their life for another.
Hashiba seized the moment and pushed Uragiri off. Uragiri snapped back to reality as he violently thrashed at Hashiba.
A tangle of limbs crashed to the muddy ground in a thump as they both struggled to get on top. Uragiri lost and Hashiba had the chance to finish it but hesitated. He never wanted to kill anyone.
This was Uragiri's only chance. He pushed Hashiba off and they both stood. Hashiba looked deranged and psychotic whilst Uragiri looked almost calm yet a glint in his eye suggested otherwise.
Uragiri feinted left, not any good one but good enough to fool Hashiba. Hashiba guarded the left whilst Uragiri leaned to the right allowing himself to get some distance between them. Uragiri ran and ran with fear in his eyes. He partially looked back, the empty face of Hashiba stained his mind.
He carried on pacing rapidly for a few streets before he knew Hashiba was not catching up. Out of the shadows appeared a dark figure dressed in robes, the same one that gave him the orders to kill whoever opened the box.
"Do you have the subject?" Flaw 7, perched upon a building floated down, his gooey purple tentacles engulfing the wall behind.
"Affirmative." Uragiri gave flaw 7 the box and his goo engulfed it.
"Obstacles?" Flaw 7 asked .
"Dealt with," Uragiri stared down for a few seconds, the blood of captain Lynn stained his hands," Lord 7th, I don't think I can do this anymore. The amount of people I have had to kill." The image of captain Lynn's soft smile plastered his memory.
"You know the drill." Flaw 7 sighed in disappointment as Uragiri was his best student. A binder was handed to him," Amasu Hayate. Worked for captain Lynn. Holds the mark of envy."
Uragiri processed the information. First Hashiba's captain and now Amasu. The choice wandered. Do I help myself by ruining someone else's or... No that is the only choice. I am sorry Hashiba. I hope you recover from this.