The lights of Tokyo were like fragments of a broken mirror, reflecting in puddles of water and shop windows, creating a play of shadows and glimmers that never ceased. The constant hum of the city—the buzz of cars, the rustle of hurried conversations, the sound of footsteps echoing on the wet asphalt—seemed like background music to Valentin Yuichi's life. He was accustomed to it more than to the presence of any human being. The anonymity of the night, the silent calm of his own thoughts, had always been his only refuge.
But tonight, something was different. Something he couldn't define but felt along his spine, like an invisible pressure.
Hiroshi Takeda walked beside him, as always, with a casual air, but Valentin couldn't help but notice the restlessness in his actions. The young man couldn't stand still—his quick steps, his hands constantly adjusting his worn leather jacket or lighting a cigarette, his restless eyes darting from side to side. It was a restlessness Valentin didn't understand, but it bothered him. The kind of anxiety that was impossible to ignore.
They arrived at the meeting place, an isolated warehouse on the outskirts of the city. The building was in ruins, with its facade crumbling and its doors rusted, a perfect metaphor for the business that took place within. Valentin cast a critical glance at the structure as he entered but made no comment. His focus was on the mission. Always.
Hiroshi followed closely behind, the smoke of his cigarette swirling around him like an indecipherable aura. He observed every move Valentin made, as if trying to find a crack in the man's icy façade. But the hitman never let himself be easily read. His actions were precise, calculated, and his expression was a mask of unshakable control. When he turned to look at the young man, his gaze was cold, emotionless. Only the efficiency of the task mattered.
"We'll do what needs to be done and get out of here as fast as possible," Valentin said, his voice low but firm. He knew Hiroshi was more than capable of understanding the rules, even if he was impulsive and undisciplined. For the hitman, the rule was simple: no distractions. No connection beyond the professional. And Valentin had no intention of making an exception.
Hiroshi shrugged, the familiar disdainful smile returning to his lips, but there was something else there. An intensity that Valentin couldn't ignore.
"I'm good at this," Hiroshi replied, not in a forced way, but in a tone that felt genuine. "Maybe you need someone like me more than you think."
Valentin regarded him with a mix of skepticism and attention. There was something in Hiroshi's eyes, a spark Valentin couldn't define, but that somehow intrigued him.
They moved deeper into the warehouse, where long shadows danced on the walls, cast by the few dim lights that hung from the ceiling. It was the kind of place where silence wasn't present, but a thick, palpable tension hung in the air.
When the meeting began, Valentin noticed, as always, the smallest details. The almost imperceptible tremor in a hand, the furtive glances, the muffled sound of a held breath. The tension was like a stretched cord, waiting for the right moment to snap. He was here to eliminate a threat, a figure who, while dangerous, was nothing Valentin couldn't handle. But what bothered him was Hiroshi's presence, the immense unspoken space between them, the feeling that there was something more in this moment—something that escaped the control Valentin so highly valued.
The job, in itself, was swift and precise. Valentin dealt with everything with the surgical precision that made him a legend in the dark world he inhabited. But when it was over, the weight of silence returned, heavier than ever. Hiroshi, at his side, was absorbed in his own thoughts, but his eyes kept flickering back to the hitman, studying him, silently challenging him.
The silence between them was now different. It wasn't the absence of words; it was the presence of something unspoken. Something Valentin didn't want to admit.
When they left the warehouse, the rain had ceased, leaving the air cooler, but the city was still shrouded in a gray mist. The street was empty, as if the two of them were alone in a world that existed solely for them, where nothing else mattered except what they had just done.
But unlike other jobs, where nothing mattered after the task was completed, something about Hiroshi lingered with Valentin. Maybe it was the challenging look in his eyes, the way the young man, though so different from Valentin, still felt somehow familiar. Or perhaps it was the way Hiroshi seemed to understand what Valentin tried to hide—those internal scars the hitman thought he'd buried so deeply.
In the end, as they walked back to the rendezvous point, Hiroshi broke the silence again, but this time, his voice was quieter, almost introspective.
"You always act like you don't care about anything, but I know that's not true."
Valentin didn't stop, but the impact of the words hit him with the force of a sharp blade. He felt the familiarity of the sentiment, the weight of the truth in Hiroshi's words. But he couldn't admit it. He couldn't afford to be vulnerable.
"What I do isn't about feelings," he replied, his voice cold. "It's about surviving."
The night in Tokyo was far from over, but for Valentin, that encounter—and what he had felt beside Hiroshi—had already begun to rewrite the rules of the game.