Chương 7: Act 1, Chapter 7: A chase

Day in the story: 12th September (Friday) We were in there for three hours, combing through every drawer, peeling back rugs, even prying off wall panels and floor tiles in spots that seemed the slightest bit off. And we still found nothing that screamed "seer" or "magic" or even "dangerous woman." Just a locked, password-protected laptop. We'd need a professional to crack it.

Frustrated, we were just digging through the innards of Honey's couch—where we found crushed pills, coins, what might have once been a lollipop—when we heard a sound behind us. It was a strange, dry tearing noise, like cloth ripping. And then in a burst of purple bright light the apartment door disintegrated into thousands of tiny splinters. Sending dust and metal flecks raining across the floor. Standing in the wreckage, framed by hallway light, was Shiroi. The same Shiroi I'd shot yesterday at point-blank range.

He looked as surprised to see us as we were to see him.

"Don't let him touch you!" I shouted, but Thomas already had his silenced pistol drawn. The soft sound of the suppressed shot was still loud, a hollow snap that echoed off the apartment's walls. The bullet hit Shiroi clean in the chest and he slammed back against the wall. He didn't fall completely and instead leaned, clutching the wound with one hand. His face twisted in a grimace that wasn't pain—it was rage.

"You will pay for that," he hissed, his voice low and inhumanly steady. Thomas sent another shot his way, this one square to the head. Shiroi's neck snapped back slightly, but when I looked closer, I saw no blood. Just a faint red spot, like he'd been flicked by a giant finger.

"You see that?" I pointed at his forehead, backing up. Thomas nodded grimly.

"He's still breathing," he replied, reaching behind his belt and pulling out a massive serrated combat knife. He knelt and slashed it across Shiroi's neck. The blade met flesh and unraveled. Steel transformed into strands of glittering wire. As it shredded in Thomas's grip, he let it fall. The handle dissolved next, threads of composite and metal dancing into the air like it had been undone at the molecular level.

"Fuck that shit," Thomas growled, leaping back.

"He's a demon." For a single heartbeat, we stared at each other, fear written across both our faces. Then, without a word, we turned and ran.

"Wait!" Thomas shouted, just before he joined me near the staircase.

"Cameras!"

"Just go," I shot back.

"He must've gotten rid of them. They're not there anymore."

"Good." He bolted for the staircase. I followed without hesitation—no way in hell I'd take the elevator in a situation like this, especially not when someone might be able to melt the cables. We burst into the ground floor hallway. It was empty, the concierge was gone, turned into ribbons. Him and the computer. Thomas hovered behind me, watching warily as I checked. I turned my head toward him, just once. We both noticed the elevator moving, descending straight toward our floor.

With Honey's laptop clutched tight, we ran out of the hallway, pivoting hard toward the curb where Thomas's car waited—a battered, steel-gray beast. It looked like hell on wheels, but it was our only chance right now and I knew that despite the exterior it was well taken care of under the hood. I dove into the passenger seat and yanked the door shut as Thomas fired up the engine. It growled awake, then screamed into motion—tires shrieking as we launched down the alley. The sound echoed off the concrete walls.

Just seconds before the other sound reached us. High-pitched, needle-sharp roar of a motorcycle. I twisted in my seat and looked back. From the alley's far end, a single headlight cut through the shadows. God forbid the Yakuza use a car like normal people. It would've made tailing us so much harder. But no, he had to glide in on that white, predatory machine-like Death on one of his pale horses. We blasted onto the main road, nearly flattening a couple on scooters.

Thomas cut across two lanes and mounted the pavement, rubber burning against the stone, but he avoided them. Pedestrians scattered—some screaming, others frozen like startled deer, but he managed to weave between all of them. It was nearing five—fucking rush hour, which meant chaos was inbound. That might have been both a blessing and a curse.

"He's gaining!" I shouted. In the mirror, Shiroi crouched low over the bike. His suit flowed in the wind, creating the illusion of shadow moving over the concrete. The man moved like he'd made a pact with gravity. Then, with a guttural roar of acceleration, he reached us. I pulled my pistol, clicked the safety off and leaned out of the window. The cold wind cut at my eyes but I aimed nonetheless. Shiroi saw it coming, twisted the bike into a swerve, veering off course just seconds before he could touch the car.

It was a smart move. A second more and I would've taken the shot. He had to weave again now, threading between the cars that Thomas had left between us with his exceptional driving. That bought us a short moment. Up ahead, a red light spelled potential doom. A dozen cars waiting, making a wall of shiny metal and indifference, but waiting meant death and neither Thomas nor I was in mood to die. He yanked the wheel right, launching us back onto the sidewalk.

People screamed, leaping aside, but some didn't move fast enough, and he was forced to decelerate to avoid killing them. He honked, bellowed, cursed, but one stubborn pack of pedestrians held their ground like law was stronger than terror. Thomas snarled, reached under his coat, pulled his pistol and fired two quick rounds into the pavement near their feet. He hit the gas when they finally scattered and we were gone. But those wasted seconds were all Shiroi needed. He was back, right behind us again.

Thomas punched the accelerator and the car surged forward, not just with speed, but silence too. The old chassis hid a modified electric engine, one of Thomas's little secrets. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. Shiroi stayed close, dancing behind us, but we swerved hard left onto Riverside Avenue, narrowly missing a delivery truck that had no business being there.

The city blurred, storefronts flashing by like neon ghosts, reflections warping across the windshield.

"He's not stopping," I muttered. Behind us, that glowing, cyclopean eye of Shiroi's bike never wavered. I didn't need to see his face to know, he was smiling—I would if I was the one giving a chase. He pivoted around, creeping up on Thomas's side now. It was a smart move, as I couldn't get a clear shot without leaning across the entire cabin. In the side mirror, I saw his ungloved hand reaching out, fingers spread like claws. The car began to dissolve where his hand touched it, illuminated by purple light.

Metal and plastic peeled away from the frame like they were melting, turning into silvery ribbons that fluttered in the wind. A brutal gust slammed into us through the exposed wheel well. Shards of our own car whipped through the open windows and scratched at our skin like angry hornets. It hurt, but Thomas held the wheel steady. With a hard yank, he veered sharply, cutting Shiroi off just long enough to make him brake or risk being sprayed by his own handiwork.

"I swear to God," Thomas yelled, "what the hell is this guy?! He touches stuff and it just melts!"

"No shit," I snapped.

"Focus on the road!" Thomas swerved hard, running another red light. Horns screamed and tires shrieked in response. A yellow cab clipped what was left of our bumper and spun out into the intersection—metal crunching in our wake. We didn't stop, we were heading for the industrial district now, toward the old warehouses, the bridges and the dark water beyond. Still, Shiroi followed. He wanted to stop us, but he also counted on the car eroding from the damage already done.

Testing the limits of the machine, letting time and fear chew us apart.

"Elle!" Thomas barked, glancing at me.

"Get the bag from the backseat. Laptop's inside. First chance you get, jump!" Oh, great. Car acrobatics. Again. My body still ached from the last time I had a pleasure of fighting in a vehicle.

"Okay," I muttered, already reaching back. But of course, I had to be right when I was being pessimistic—Shiroi came for me next. I saw it in the corner of my eye, just as I reached the bag, he swept to my side and reached out again. The doors, both front and back, dissolved—the frame wept into strips of plastic and alloy, fluttering out like dying leaves caught in a storm.

"Motherfucker!" Thomas shouted. He swerved left, trying to put some breathing room between us. Shiroi faltered, only for a second, grabbing the handlebars to steady himself as the gap widened. Thomas's face was set like concrete, eyes locked forward. Then he took a corner too fast, the tires lifted and for a second I thought we were gone for. I was sure we were going to roll. But the car slammed back to earth, groaning under its own unraveling frame. Up ahead, I noticed the bridge.

Just past the train yard, but I was also sure that we weren't going to make it in this car.

"We're losing it, Elle!" Thomas shouted.

"It's coming apart! Any second now!"

"Then aim for the river." He shot me a look like I'd just suggested eating a live grenade, but then he saw my face and nodded.

"Hold on." The last hundred meters blurred, then something hit the roof. I felt it buckle above me. Heard the steel groan in agony. Then a soft, almost tender tap followed and the roof began to dissolve. He was right above me, fingers curling through the thinning metal like a god reaching through clouds. I moved the pistol up, aimed point-blank at his hand and fired. The world exploded into noise as I grabbed Thomas's bag, hugged it to my chest and jumped.

The ground slammed into me—a strip of grass just feet from the riverbank. I rolled, gasped and tasted iron in my blood. Thomas flew a second later, straight into the water. His body hit with a clean splash, just before the car—what was left of it—followed in a tangled, glimmering ribbon of shredded metal. Then came the third splash—Shiroi—but his path had skewed. He must've been caught mid-leap.

I looked for his bike, but it must have crashed earlier, tumbling toward the edge and slamming straight into a rusted industrial machine. It collapsed under the impact with a metallic groan. I forced myself to stand with my eyes stinging and my knees trembling. I checked the bag, and fortunately the laptop was still intact. Turning back to the river, I saw Thomas already swimming toward the metal ladder embedded in the wall. He was bleeding, but he was moving. A second later, Shiroi surfaced.

I raised my pistol, took aim and fired a few rounds. One by one, the bullets dove into the water or the man. I was too far and couldn't be sure if I hit him. He sent me one look and dove, vanishing beneath the black water. I didn't wait until he resurfaced and ran through the docks instead. Past startled workers and shouting foremen. Someone tried to grab my arm, but I shoved him aside. Another called out, tried to chase me, I didn't even look back. I let the cops deal with Shiroi.

I wasn't going to be there when they arrived.

"Thank you, sir," I said as Phillip Penrose gently pressed a bandage over my left arm. Some of the metallic ribbons from the car had sliced me open pretty good when it started unraveling beneath us.

"It's good you managed to confirm what happened last night." His voice was calm and steady.

"I was hoping for a quieter approach. But we don't always get what we want." Yeah. No kidding. Quiet had been extinct lately, along with subtlety and peace of mind.

"When do you think the laptop will yield any results, sir?"

"Hard to say," he replied, standing up and brushing off his sleeves.

"I'll hand it off to a specialist. We'll know more once they've cracked the encryption, if there is any." He checked his phone again. No missed calls, no new messages. I didn't need to ask who he was waiting on.

"You think Thomas is dead?" I asked quietly.

"No," he said, without missing a beat.

"He had never been before." He chuckled at his own joke, but jokes were rare from him and that meant that he was concerned.

"I hope Shiroi's feeding the fish, though," I muttered, not entirely proud of the feeling, but not denying it either. I'd never wished someone dead before. But that man… that thing—he was something else. Something that shouldn't exist. Penrose nodded faintly.

"I've been digging into him since yesterday. He works for someone, probably not yakuza, though. Used to be one, but his whole unit packed up and left for Japan a while back. He stayed behind and started freelancing. Cleaner work. High-end, no questions asked." Yeah. I could imagine how clean his jobs turned out.

"At some point," he continued, "he vanished off the grid too for two years, until recently when people began taking notice." I leaned back against the wall, letting the dull throb in my arm settle into something manageable.

"What are we going to do about him?"

"Well," Penrose said, "you wore a different face. You can become someone else again if need be. The laptop's ours and hopefully, they don't know who they hired Honey to target. But Thomas—" He paused.

"Thomas wears his real face, despite my insistence." That lingered in the air for a moment. Penrose was the one who had taught me how to become someone else whenever the situation demanded it. Even though he rarely seemed to do it anymore, I was one hundred percent certain he still could. If becoming another person meant getting what he wanted, Penrose would do it without hesitation.

"If they trace him, they could trace me," he said.

"And that's... not a desirable outcome."

"I'm sorry, sir."

"It's the risk of the job, Alexandra. We deal with people like this all the time. The nature of the dealings just changes with the threat." I looked at him.

"But this guy isn't just a threat. He's using literal magic. He turns things into threads—metal, walls, people. Anything, sir."

"I believe you," he said, calm as ever.

"But from what you told me, that's also a weakness." He met my eyes.

"If he wanted you dead, he could've shot you. But he didn't. Maybe too proud. Maybe too stupid to carry a weapon." He paused, looking at his decanter.

"That will be his downfall." I wanted to believe him. Wanted to cling to that logic like a lifeline. But something told me Shiroi wasn't finished with us yet.