Foldflat Backseat

The truck rolled to a slow stop. The crate bumped forward slightly, then silence.

Then Ryoji’s voice, calm but clipped. “Stay inside,” he said, already shifting toward the back of the truck. “Ten minutes. I’ll sweep the place.”

He tossed me the pen.

The pen.

The world’s tiniest radio and my one line of contact. It looked like a regular fountain pen from a stationery store in Ginza, but Hiro had said it could transmit a distress pulse on encrypted bandwidth. Only if needed.

If needed.

And then he was gone.

Ten minutes.

Ten minutes without Ryoji.

I shifted slightly in the crate, back pressing to the wood behind me. I hadn’t realized it until that moment—how closely I’d grown used to him being there. Always somewhere in my periphery. Always ready to intercept the next weird twist in my life.

He’d been with me for five days. Five days of planes, corridors, changing booths, fake honeymoons, bodyguard banter, warm baths, and whispered warnings. And never once had he left me completely alone.

Until now.

I looked at the pen in my hand. It felt heavy. I wrapped my fingers tighter around it and pulled my knees up, telling myself it was fine. We were in a delivery crate, surrounded by mineral purifiers and towel racks and fake onsen paperwork.

No one knew we were here. No one was coming.

Still, the crate creaked.

A bird called out. And then… the latch.

A sound from outside—metal shifting, then a faint clunk, and then the wooden door of the crate edged open.

I tensed, shoulders stiff.

But I couldn’t quite see who it was.

Then the sound hit me.

“Come out,” Ryoji’s voice called, low but unmistakable.

Relief hit me like a sharp breath. My hands grabbed the bag before my brain caught up. I ducked under the crate’s lid as he pulled it wider and reached for me—steady, insistent, the hand that meant now.

And we were moving.

Morning sunlight filtered through slatted wood and damp alley air. I stumbled forward, bag slung over my shoulder, trailing him down the narrow lane behind the onsen, sulfur and hinoki clinging to the air. Ten seconds, maybe less. My breath hadn’t even steadied.

Ryoji didn’t look back. Jeans, obsidian shirt, leather jacket over it. Fast, smooth, unshaken, slipping into alley shadows.

On his left wrist—another band. Like the one in the pool, but dry, taut, matte, seams catching the light. He didn’t explain. Tilted his head slightly. One word:

“Follow.”

He led me out into a quiet parking lot tucked behind the onsen’s rear gate. The late-spring haze thickened. I scanned the rooftops, half-expecting cameras, half-expecting nothing.

Ryoji didn’t slow. He pulled a key from his jacket and unlocked a grey Toyota Corolla AE92 hatchback. Five-door, faded paint, no stickers, no mods. Perfectly invisible.

Which, I was starting to realize, probably made it the perfect one.

He tilted his chin toward the trunk. “Throw the bags in.”

I did, hands shaking slightly. Not from effort. From exposure. We were out in the open. And for the first time in days, there were no backdoors, no security lobbies, no Hiro, no reinforced steel between us and whoever was watching.

We climbed in. He took the driver’s seat. I instinctively moved to the door—but his voice came sharp and quiet:

“Hop in.”

“What?” I blinked, halfway down.

“Get in,” he said.

The Corolla suspensions buckled gently under our weight.

“Where are we going?” I asked from.

“You’ll find out soon.”

He reached beneath the dash and pulled out a small black display, sleek and faintly glowing. He clipped it just under the stick shift. A green light pulsed once.

Then it beeped. Once. Then again.

Then, without a word, he slipped into the back, and popped down the rear seats with practiced efficiency.

Fold-flat rear seats. Lucky me.

“Come on,” he muttered.

I followed him, crawling between the seats and tucking in next to our bags. It was cramped. It was stuffy. And it was happening.

We had upgraded from a crate to the backseat cargo area of the most unremarkable car in Japan.

We lay low, stashed together among our luggage, shoulder to shoulder, knee to thigh, barely enough room to breathe without accidentally brushing against him.

And still… that device.

Beep.

Beep.

“Ryoji,” I whispered. “What are we doing again?”

“Waiting for them to leave the onsen.”

“Who?”

“The operatives tailing us.”

I sat up an inch too quickly. “WHAT?!”

“Shhh,” he warned, low and calm. “They’re posing as maintenance company staff. Working inside the onsen.”

My mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. “Okay… but can’t we just—like—be on our way to Wakkanai? Keep going?”

“No. We need to find out who they are.”

“Right… and how?”

“We wait.”

Beep.

I sighed and let my head fall gently against the bag behind me, staring up through the rear window.

The Corolla was parked dead center in the lot. The sun was just beginning to slant low enough to cast golden rays through the hazy sky, and for a moment I panicked. We were so exposed.

Until I realized—

The rear windows were tinted. Not factory tint. No—stick-on parasol panels, the kind you’d use to nap or… hide. As a couple. Getting cozy. Privacy screens.

Right.

“Try to stretch,” Ryoji whispered beside me. “Don’t let your muscles cramp.”

I shifted slightly. Our heads were… very close. His voice was practically in my ear.

This whole setup… this was exactly the kind of arrangement you’d find in some dimly-lit European indie film. Two lovers stealing kisses in the back of a beat-up car, hiding from the world in a hatchback sanctuary.

A far cry from covert surveillance.

Still… thinking about that was somehow better than spiraling into the fear that we might be caught. That someone might see us. That the wrong person might knock on the window.

I closed my eyes and listened.

Beep.

Beep.

About half an hour must’ve passed—maybe more. Time was hard to count with nothing but the sound of beep… beep and the warmth of someone lying way too close for clarity.

”…How is it,” I muttered, cheeks already betraying me, “that every time we do one of these ‘tactical maneuvers,’ we end up in cramped spaces, or half naked, or faking intimacy?”

I felt him shift just slightly beside me, like a shrug beneath the leather. “Covert ops involve mostly waiting in tight spaces. Stakeouts. Disguises. Acting.”

His voice was dry, as usual. But that little edge of mockery was unmistakable.

“Did you think they’d just chase us down the street like Wile E. Coyote and the Road Runner?”

I chuckled despite myself. “So you did watch cartoons.”

“Not many. Can’t exactly bring a TV on a stakeout. But a mini portable one…” He trailed off, then added, “That’s a good ask for Hiro.”

Of course it was.

My superspy bodyguard was casually daydreaming about a battery-powered cathode-ray set while hiding in the back of a Corolla.

My gaze drifted. His lips weren’t far from mine. Not far at all.

“You’re lucky,” he said then, low and almost to himself.

“Lucky?” I asked, brows arching. “What does that mean?”

“It rained yesterday. And it’s about to rain again now.”

I blinked. “Wait, you mean—oh.”

I got it.

The car would’ve been sweltering—unbearable—if it had been a sunny June morning. But now? With clouds rolling in and the last storm’s breath still lingering?

Still, for me, it was as hot as it could get.

Then it started.

First a few faint taps, like whispers on the roof.

Then more.

Soft ticking, like a rhythm barely audible through the tension in my chest.

And then the rain really came.

Pouring, streaking down the side windows, turning the hatchback into a cocoon of shadow and silver. The sound filled the space—muted the world.

But I could still hear the beep… beep of the tracker.

And the pounding in my chest.

We were one inch apart.

In the back of a grey AE92.

Listening to summer rain, waiting to start a pursuit.

And I couldn’t tell which sound was louder—

The rain.

The tracker.

Or my heart.