Prep Time

I must’ve slept through the whole day. The fever had finally broken, and though my body still ached in that aftershock way, I could sit up without wobbling. My skin wasn’t burning anymore. I was even hungry—a good sign.

The infirmary was dim, lantern glow mingling with the amber sunset bleeding across the valley.

Ryoji knelt beside me, focused and quiet. Two fingers to my pulse, then my forehead. His touch was steady, clinical—but grounding, too. Like he’d done this before. Maybe too many times.

“Temp’s down,” he murmured, half to himself. “Pulse steady. You’re recovering.”

I exhaled softly, leaning back into the makeshift bedding.

“Where are we?” I asked, glancing at the streaks of light on the faded green walls.

He didn’t look up. “Abandoned school. Top of a clearing. About ten clicks west of Shimosuwa. Hiro had it marked—last used in the ’70s, before the town dried up.”

“Felt familiar,” I said, surprising myself. “The layout. The way the hall echoes.”

He glanced at me then.

“I went to school in a place a bit like this. Smaller, though. Just outside Tokyo. My mom used to walk me there every morning. Had this way of holding my hand tightly, like she thought I might run off and join the circus if she didn’t give me a full grip.”

A faint smile tugged at his mouth.

I tilted my head at him. “What about you? Did you ever go to school?”

He went back to sealing something in a med pouch but nodded. “Yeah. A little.”

“A little?”

“Couple of months a year. Visiting student.”

I blinked. “Visiting from where?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Just zipped the pouch with a quiet finality, as if the sound could replace the explanation.

I narrowed my eyes. “How does that even work?”

His face was unreadable again, but the pause said more than he probably meant it to.

Then the pager on the duffel blinked—twice.

I saw it before he did, the green LED stuttering.

He turned. Looked.

And for the first time since I’d known him, I saw real surprise crack through his armor.

“No way,” he muttered.

The hairs on my arms lifted.

“Ryo?” I sat up straighter, but he was already moving—fluid, efficient, pulling gear from the bag and sliding a small earpiece into place. Another device, blocky and matte black, clipped onto his belt.

His voice dropped low and fast, the kind of sharp rhythm that made no space for doubt.

“Red marker confirmed. Opening burst channel. Do we have uplink?”

A beat.

Then Hiro’s voice, faint and distant through the static, filtered through the room like a ghost from another world:

“Uplink secure. Commencing trace sweep. Markers live. You’ve got five hostiles inbound—profile match confirmed.”

“What kind of hostiles?” Ryoji asked, already rolling up our sleeping gear, hands not stopping even for a second.

“One recon medic. One armored rifleman. Three special ops. One of them’s her. Reznikova.”

I froze.

Krisha.

“Affiliations?” Ryoji pressed, calm.

Hiro didn’t miss a beat. “Two Spetsgruppa Vets, one Japanese independent. Heavy loadout, analog fallback. Operating without masks. Stealth insertion from the east trailhead. ETA visual contact: under six minutes.”

Ryoji pulled the pouch tight and stood.

I grabbed the edge of the mattress. “Wait—wait, what does that mean?”

His expression barely shifted—just the faint tightness at the corners of his mouth, the one I’d started to associate with suppressed urgency.

“They’re here,” he said. “I set perimeter alerts this morning. We’re still ahead of them, but not by much.”

My stomach dropped.

“They want to… capture us?”

“Yes.” He looked at me, finally, eyes steady but sharp. “They’re entering visual range now.”

Ryoji knelt beside the duffel again, pulled something from one of the side pockets, and handed it to me. A compact earpiece, matte black, snug and clearly well-worn.

“Wear this,” he said.

I nodded, fingers fumbling slightly as I fitted it over my ear. It settled into place with a faint click.

“Breathe,” he said, voice quiet but anchored. “And move with me when I tell you to. No need to crouch—just slow, controlled. Got it?”

“Okay,” I said, steadying my voice.

He turned to face me fully, his tone all business. “Stay behind me at all times. Unless I gesture otherwise.”

He held up a hand, made a wave with the fingers curling backward toward his chest. “This means come with me.”

Then a closed fist. “This means wait.”

Simple enough. But my breath caught anyway.

“I—okay. I mean, yes.”

My chest tightened. “Gosh. Staying in Italy actually helped me read gestures. Never thought I’d use them like this.”

I looked up at him. “I’m scared, Ryo.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Of what?”

I swallowed. “That they’ll catch us. Or worse.”

His eyes didn’t flinch. “I won’t let them catch a glimpse of you—much less lay a finger.”

Something in the way he said it made my fear hitch—pause, flicker, hesitate. Like it wanted to stay but couldn’t find ground.

I didn’t believe in promises. But somehow, I believed him.

Then he reached out and gently touched his fingers to my lips—soft, brief, firm.

“And no talking once we’re out of this room. Keep these cute lips sealed.”

That little flicker of his touch did something strange—cut through the fear, grounded it. I managed a breath. My body remembered how.

He gave a half-smile. Not his usual smirk. Something warmer. Real.

“We’ll go through Fukushima in the morning,” he said like it was any normal road trip. “Maybe we can grab some real food.”

”…Huh?”

“No protein bars. I was thinking pizza.”

I blinked. A beat passed. Then I let out a tiny, breathless laugh. It wasn’t much, but it cracked the weight that had been pressing down on my lungs.

“Pizza,” I repeated.

But before I could say more, a soft chirp came from the analog clock on his belt.

One sharp beep.

His smile dropped. His fingers closed around the duffel bag.

The tempo shifted.

The sharp burst of gunfire echoed through the empty halls—three cracks in quick succession, like firecrackers set off inside a cathedral.

Ryoji didn’t flinch. He was already moving, signaling me to follow.

A crackle of static, then Hiro’s voice filtered through my earpiece, clipped and urgent.

“—point taken out by trap 7. Partial visual on camo shell. It fired darts—non-standard. They’ve returned fire, position’s blown.”

Ryoji turned toward me, his eyes catching mine with the force of an unspoken command. He raised a single finger to his lips.

Not a sound.

Then pointed to his own eyes, then toward the hallway.

Stay sharp.

He pulled the duffel onto his back, adjusted the straps in two practiced motions, and moved to the door. His footsteps made no sound. When he opened it, he held it for me—barely ajar.

I slipped out behind him, pulse in my throat.

Hiro’s voice kept whispering in my ear, along with bursts of sharp Russian. I didn’t speak the language, but I didn’t need to—just the tone was enough. The woman—Krisha—was giving orders. Cold, efficient, measured.

Then came a sound that didn’t need translation.

A muffled scream—wet, choked—cut through the background chatter. Someone had been hit by a trap. The pain must’ve started to settle by then. I imagined if it was an arrow or a spike: narrow, barbed, fired point-blank through concrete shadow. Not enough to kill. Just enough to halt the advance.

Hiro paused for half a beat. Then:

“Confirmed hit. Squad shifting positions. They’re getting cautious.”

Of course they were.

Krisha wouldn’t stop. But now she’d know—whoever they were dealing with had prepared for them.

They were sweeping the building.

And we were still inside.