Page 18

18

What Plays in the Shadows

MOMOI

T he sun was too bright for this kind of day, glaring down with a personal vendetta against me. But I didn’t care. I kept my pace steady, walking toward the bank like I was just another woman going about her business. But I knew better than to believe it was ever that simple.

I stepped inside the cool, air-conditioned lobby, the sterile scent of freshly printed bills and polished marble greeting me as I approached the teller. There was no line, which meant I didn’t have to wait long. I pulled out my check register from my bag, flipping through the pages with practiced precision. The transaction I was looking for came up quickly—my most recent deposit.

It should’ve been fine and exactly what it was supposed to be. But something was off.

I frowned, the familiar wave of unease creeping up my spine. The numbers didn’t add up. I wasn’t an accountant, but I had kept track of my finances too closely to miss a small discrepancy. It was barely a fraction, a minuscule difference—just a few hundred yen. Nothing to anyone else, nothing that would raise alarms.

But I knew. I felt it.

The Yakuza. They were sending me a message. Another subtle warning, one only I would recognize. They were getting bolder, more direct. I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or terrified that they were now sending these reminders through finances. It was a game, and I was still in it—whether I wanted to be or not. They were watching me, always watching me.

I shoved the register back into my bag, my hands trembling just slightly, betraying the calm exterior I was trying to maintain. I could hear the low hum of the bank’s air conditioning, but my mind was elsewhere, racing through possibilities. There was no way I was going to ignore this. The difference, no matter how small, meant they were telling me something. And I’d been through enough to know that ignoring a message from the Yakuza was a mistake that could cost you more than money.

I forced myself to stay composed as I turned to leave, but the moment I stepped outside into the harsh sunlight, I felt it. The feeling of eyes on me. It wasn’t just the normal paranoia I’d learned to live with—it was different. More immediate. More personal. I was being watched.

I knew it before I even looked around. I didn’t let the panic rise, but I couldn’t ignore how my heart started to beat faster. Every instinct screamed at me to be careful. To stay aware.

I paused for just a moment, scanning the street through the reflective glass of the bank’s front door. The street was busy with pedestrians going about their lives, but I didn’t trust any of them. The crowd was always a perfect cover for those who wanted to stay hidden. I knew the game too well.

I waited for a beat, then turned to walk in the opposite direction, down a different street, trying to shake off the feeling of being followed. If I was imagining things, I would calm down soon enough. But if I wasn’t…

I didn’t get far before I knew.

The footsteps behind me. The subtle shift in the rhythm of the footfalls—one or two people following just a bit too closely. Not quite in sync with the crowd, but enough to blend in if anyone was paying attention.

I kept walking, my pace measured, trying to control the panic creeping in. A quick glance over my shoulder told me nothing. No one looked suspicious. No one looked out of place.

But something unseen stretched over my skin. They were still there. Following me.

I couldn’t afford to be caught off guard, not again. I had to lose them.

I ducked down a side street, my heels clicking rapidly against the pavement as I changed direction, trying to be as discreet as possible. The alley was narrow and dim, a winding path that should’ve taken me out of sight. But the footsteps behind me didn’t fade. They grew louder, closer.

Someone was definitely tailing me.

I cursed under my breath and quickened my pace, taking a sharp left at the next corner, ignoring the burn in my lungs. I didn’t dare look back. If I turned around, I would give them exactly what they wanted. I had to stay calm and in control.

I made another turn, then another, weaving through the narrow streets and alleyways, always one step ahead. The tension in my neck was unbearable. The pounding of my heart was deafening, but I couldn’t let it control me.

I was running out of options.

I turned onto a larger street, hoping the more crowded area would make it harder for them to follow. But just as I took that turn, I felt the unmistakable presence behind me again. A shadow was looming. A body too close, steps too deliberate.

I knew this game too well.

I reached for my phone, my fingers trembling slightly as I pressed the emergency contact. My thumb hovered over the screen, ready to send a quick message to the one person who might be able to help—just in case things went south. My brother was able to smuggle a phone into the prison, and despite the barriers, he still held some power. But before I could hit send, the footsteps stopped.

A cold shiver ran down my spine.

I didn’t dare turn around. But I could feel the presence of someone, maybe more than one, just beyond the threshold of my peripheral vision.

I was trapped, for now. And I had no idea how this was going to play out.

But I wouldn’t let them take me without a fight.

The air around me thickened with tension. My heart slammed against my ribs, and every nerve in my body screamed for me to react, to be ready. But I kept walking, pretending I hadn’t heard the subtle shift in their movement. My hand brushed the inside of my jacket where my knife was tucked against my side. It was small, efficient, nothing fancy, but it was all I had.

The silence stretched, and I could almost hear their taunting smirks. They were playing with me, letting me think I could outrun them.

Then, a voice broke the quiet, gravelly and filled with venom.

"Thought you could escape, huh, princess?" The voice was low, mocking. "You never learn, do you?"

I curled my lip at their pet name. There were two of them. I’d counted four steps before they closed in on me, just enough to make sure I was surrounded.

"Not so tough without your little knife, are you?" the second voice added. "You know, I’m sure the Yakuza would love to see how you bleed… in more ways than one."

I didn’t turn around. Not yet.

But I felt the cold steel of their weapons shift, the distinct sound of metal sliding against fabric. One of them, the one closest, had a crowbar. The other—a knife, a larger blade that could easily cut through my skin.

I could almost hear the grins in their voices as they taunted me.

"You know, you should’ve stayed home, sweetheart," the one with the crowbar sneered. "You’re just a broken toy, easy to fix. But tonight? Tonight, we’ll see just how broken you really are."

I had no choice. The moment I heard the clink of metal on metal, I spun, moving faster than they expected. The crowbar swung in an arc toward my face, and I ducked just in time, my knife flashing in my hand. But I wasn’t fast enough.

The crowbar caught me on the side of my upper arm. A sickening thud echoed in my ear. Pain shot through my body, and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe. I staggered back, almost falling, but I caught myself against the wall.

"Didn’t see that coming, did you?" The man with the crowbar laughed, the sound grating against my nerves.

I ignored the pain and forced myself to stay upright. I wasn’t going to let them win. I couldn’t. My knife was in my hand, but I needed to be smarter than just swinging it blindly.

I pivoted, aiming for the man with the crowbar’s midsection, but he was ready. He twisted the crowbar in his hands, knocking mine aside. The moment of distraction cost me. The man with the knife lunged, his blade flashing through the air. I barely had time to react.

The cold steel sliced across my other arm, just above the elbow, leaving a deep, stinging cut. Blood welled up, dark and hot, as I barely dodged another strike.

"Come on," the crowbar guy taunted, "this is supposed to be fun."

I fought to keep my breath steady, to force my mind back to focus. The pain was overwhelming, but I couldn’t let it control me. I couldn’t show weakness. I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of seeing me break.

The crowbar swung again, this time aimed at my legs. I barely avoided it, but not without the bruise of it scraping against my calf. My vision blurred slightly, but I forced it back into focus.

I couldn’t keep dodging. I had to fight back, had to make the first move, had to hurt them before they hurt me more.

I leaped forward, aiming for the man with the knife. My knife slashed through the air, narrowly missing his neck. The man laughed again, taunting me.

"Is that all you’ve got?" he mocked.

I gritted my teeth. They were bigger, stronger. I was faster, and I had to use that speed.

I spun away, dodging another swipe from the crowbar, but the man with the knife was quick, too. He closed the distance faster than I expected, his blade catching my side. I hissed as it sliced through my jacket and into the surface of my flesh.

But it was a mistake.

I could feel the rage building in me, a blinding fury that cut through the fear. They were underestimating me. They thought they could break me with their words, with their weapons. They were wrong.

I attacked again, my knife slashing down and finding its mark this time. The man with the knife cursed as I drove it into his shoulder, the blade sinking deep into his muscle. He staggered back, clutching at the wound, and I didn’t give him a chance to recover.

But the crowbar man was still there, and he swung it wildly, knocking me back again. This time, I didn’t have time to recover. I hit the ground hard, my head slamming into the concrete. Everything went blurry for a moment, the taste of blood in my mouth.

"Pathetic," the crowbar man spat, his voice mocking.

I felt the blood soaking through my clothes, the sting of the cuts, the bruises, but I wasn’t done. I couldn’t be done. They were playing with me, toying with me. But I wasn’t their prey.

I gritted my teeth, my body screaming, but I pushed through the pain, rolling back onto my feet. My vision was tunneling, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps. My knife felt heavier, but I didn’t let it drop.

"You want to break me?" I snarled, my voice barely a whisper through the blood in my mouth. "You’ll have to do better than that."

The crowbar swung again, but this time I was ready. I dove forward, crashing into the man with the crowbar, sending him stumbling back. My knife found its target in the chaos—his side, his ribs, deep enough to make him yell out in pain.

But they weren’t backing down.