Seaside Drive

The Corolla glided through the rain-slick road like it had nowhere to be, the kind of unremarkable car that didn’t draw glances—just as Ryoji wanted.

He’d stood up from our moment before the tracker even changed tone.

Just like that. Gone. Back to mission mode.

“Stay down during the pursuit,” he’d said.

So here I was. Curled in the back of the AE92 like a cat in a shoebox, the ceiling inches from my face, the worn fabric of the rear seat pressed against my shoulder. The parasol screen on the side window blushed with streaks of fading rain. Gentle now. Softer than before.

I hated this.

Not the car. Not the waiting. Not even the closeness.

But the not knowing.

The not seeing.

I craned a little, trying to switch position, shifting onto my elbows. If I angled right, I could just barely peer through the seam between the front seats.

There it was—the road ahead. A blur of gray asphalt and faint red lights.

We were really doing this.

Tailing our tails.

I could feel it in the hum of the tires.

In the rhythm of Ryoji’s hands on the wheel.

In the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

We were the ghosts now.

Watching the watchers.

Before I even had to ask, Ryoji began his quiet play-by-play, like some detached commentator for a game only he could hear.

“It’s them,” he said, calm as ever. “They’re talking about shifts. Checking back tonight at the onsen.”

Wait—how was he… listening?

I blinked and squinted toward him, trying to see the side of his face. The left ear. That had to be it. A tiny auricular tucked there—barely visible from this angle. No doubt something Hiro cobbled together from the future.

“Relax,” Ryoji said without looking back. “Stay low. We’ll just follow their route at a very long distance. We won’t even establish line of sight.”

Fifteen minutes passed. The rain thinned to a whisper, and I could see the sea again—gray and vast, stretching beyond the windows on our right.

The beach.

I felt something tug in my chest. I missed it.

Until the car slowed.

Ryoji turned off the main road and pulled into a wide parking area—deserted except for a few bleached cones and forgotten vending machines. A rundown sea resort stood across the road, one of those places that probably peaked in 1978.

“We’re stopping?” I asked, barely daring to hope.

“Yes,” he said, already reaching forward. “Second stakeout.”

Stakeout.

He leaned over the console and retrieved the backpack from the passenger seat. Quick hands moved gear from our duffel into it—metal clicks, soft straps tightening. He moved like a machine in tune with his own logic.

Then the back door on my side swung open.

The damp, sharp air hit me like a cold slap—smelling of brine and asphalt and some half-washed storm. I was still half-coiled, like a snake guarding her own panic.

“Let’s go,” he said.

Let’s go.

Let’s go?!

My brain screeched. Go where?! Assault their hideout? Sneak into their car? Stab them in the kneecaps with Hiro’s pen-radio?!

“Where are they?” I whispered, trying to get closer, my feet tangling in the duffel like a slapstick routine.

Ryoji caught me by the elbow and steadied me without a word.

“Leave it,” he said. “We’ll be back in three hours tops.”

“What? Where?”

He glanced both ways, then started walking.

“Come.”

And just like that, we crossed the street.

His gait was sharp. Controlled.

Each step said: I know what I’m doing.

I didn’t.

Every step of mine said: I’ve never been this close to real danger before.

He grabbed my hand without warning—warm, firm—and led me at a steady pace through a zigzag of narrow alleys on the other side of the street. Not too fast, not suspicious. Not slow either. His grip anchored me, tight enough that I didn’t question following.

The air still carried the sharpness of the storm, pavement glistening in the after-rain sheen. Here and there, locals milled about: a housewife unloading groceries, a man fixing his bike chain, kids on summer break sketching stars and dinosaurs in chalk across the sidewalk like nothing bad had ever happened in the world.

Lucky them, I thought bitterly.

There we were—playing Spy the Spies, while they played hopscotch and shouted about whose turn it was to draw a UFO.

We took turns, ducking behind corners, slipping past vending machines, weaving through gaps between buildings. My breath was steady but shallow. I wasn’t tired. Not yet. Just bracing.

Then we reached it. One of the taller buildings in the block, maybe four floors above the rest. A washed-out apartment complex, laundry drying from iron balconies and the faint whirr of a distant television murmuring from one open window.

Ryoji didn’t slow down. We entered without a word. Stairs only. Of course.

By the time we hit the top floor, I was still fine physically—dancer legs have some perks—but my brain kept whispering, rooftop… rooftop… what if someone’s waiting there already?

We reached the door. He glanced around, then pushed it open.

No creak. Just air.

Then he dragged me to the edge—not the edge edge, thank god, but close—right next to the thick concrete railing. We ducked down into the far corner, knees bent, backs pressed low.

The view? Obstructed.

“What’s the play?” I whispered, barely loud enough for myself.

He didn’t answer with words.

Instead, Ryoji reached into the bag he’d been carrying and pulled out… a brick.

Or at least, it looked like one.

My first thought: he’d grabbed it off the roof—some prop or weight. But no. He’d brought it. Packed it. Dark purple at first, then as he set it on the ledge, it shifted—chameleon-like—to the exact gray of the railing. I blinked.

A slight twist, a seam opened, and a cord slithered out like a snake. He clipped it under his obsidian shirt, soft click, muted green pulse.

My eyebrows rose. “Wait—what… what is that?”

He didn’t even glance at me. “Mic.”

“A mic?”

“High-power directional. Camouflaged shell to mask interference.” He whispered under his breath into a lapel pin, tiny, efficient. I watched, wordless.

Five days ago, my biggest problem was a practice leotard. Now I was crouched on a rooftop staring at a man with a spy brick that blended into concrete, eavesdropping on undercover agents. Who lives like this?

The sun climbed, clouds parted. A window below slid open.

“—And now, today’s Telephone Shocking guest—Kimura Takuya!”

Squeals erupted, a bowl clattered, someone gasped. Ryoji didn’t flinch. I blinked. “He’s even more popular than when I left…” I murmured.

That show… it had to be Waratte Iitomo!

The noon slot. The flowers in the studio. The daily phone guest.

I remembered watching it during sick days and holidays, hoping the guest would be someone dreamy, someone cute, or at least not a comedian in drag.

I turned slightly toward Ryoji, keeping low. “Did you ever watch it?”

“Didn’t really have a TV during stakeouts,” he murmured, eyes still trained on the horizon. “But I really need to get that mini-set commissioned from Hiro.”

I started to quip, then froze. He’d shifted—barely—but taut, hand to his left ear, adjusting a discreet audio relay. Eyes forward, breath steady.

Then, voice low and deliberate, he said into the pin on his lapel: “Check matching voice pattern: Anastasiya Reznikova—codename Krysha. Over.”

My blood turned to ice.

He reached for the camo-brick mic, coiled the cord in a practiced sweep, and tucked it back into the pack without a sound.

Then he whispered, “Crawl with me to the door.”

“What?” I hissed.

“Someone’s sweeping the rooftops,” he said. Calm. Too calm.

That calmness made it worse—because I could feel my heart spasm like it wanted to sprint out of my chest and leave me behind.

He met my gaze, steady. “Relax. We’ve got what we came for. Let’s go back to the car.”

I nodded stiffly. Not because I felt calm.

But because panic wouldn’t help us now.

I exhaled the tension, but the relief barely lasted.

Ryoji didn’t just get into the car. He crouched down beside it, scanning every corner, every crevice, even checking underneath the undercarriage. Then he pulled out another device—sleek, silver, blinking green—and pressed it to the door handle.

“Step back,” he said, gripping my wrist gently but firmly.

The device let out a rapid sequence of beeps, each one making my pulse climb. Then… a chime. A single, satisfied note.

“Safe,” he said.

We slid in quickly. He dropped the device into the center console, turned the key, and the engine rumbled alive. He was driving faster than usual—not reckless, just with a purpose.

“Ryoji?” I asked, still catching up. My voice felt like it lagged behind time itself.

“It’s a five-hour drive to Matsumoto.”

“Matsumoto?” I blinked. “Where’s that? Why there?”

“We’re crossing to the east coast. Through Nagano Prefecture. It’s safer now to move inland.”

My tension spiked again. “Wait—what did you hear? Who are they?”

He was silent a moment, eyes on the road. “I’ll tell you in a minute.”

A soft static crackled from the radio in the dashboard. Then Hiro’s voice—calm, subdued, none of the usual gremlin energy:

“Drying message… confirmed.”

Ryoji pressed a small toggle on the console and turned to me.

“Scarlet Wind. Ex-elite operatives from the Eastern bloc.”

“Wait—was that Hiro? On the radio?” I blinked again, like reality was glitching around me. “Scarlet what? Soviet—? The ones tailing us all this time?!?”

He nodded once, eyes still forward.

“Soviet spies?! What the hell would the Soviets want with me?!”

I nearly shouted, then—almost involuntarily—I let out a small, shaky laugh. Like I’d just said something from a Cold War movie.

Like I was waiting for someone to yell “cut.”

But no one did.

Only the road ahead waited. Long, winding, and suddenly far more dangerous than I’d ever imagined.

And somewhere between the sea breeze, the rooftop laughter, and the voice from a stranger’s TV, I felt it—quiet and final—

The life I used to belong to was slipping out of reach.