February 14, 2020.
Tokyo, Japan. 11:45 PM.
Big cities are a paradise for the scum of humanity, the most repulsive beings to ever exist, crawling and hiding in casinos, betting houses, red-light districts, and brothels. It is the home to everything vile and unspeakable, a nightmare traped in a single place, like a fragment of hell on Earth. By day, one could only sense the subtle beginning of all that malice, when night fell, everything hidden in plain sight burst forth with euphoria, and all that could never be done under the sun was watched horrified by the moon.
For Vasiliy, it was just another night of work. Though he wasn't the type to judge the crimes of others or the uncontrollable desires of some, he was certainly a hunter with specific tastes. It wasn't worth it if he didn't enjoy the chase, or if he simply let himself be driven by the violent impulse that lived within him. His adolescence seemed like something distant, almost forgotten, so close to the brink of adulthood. He possessed both beauty and inhuman strength, though often his only hobby was lounging on his bedroom couch, staring at that one corner of the room that recently seemed strange to him, though he didn't know why.
In any case, his very existence revolved around being a guard dog. Up until now, he had no reason to bite the hand that fed him, but perhaps one day he would find that small flaw, that tiny dogma that would eventually lead him to uncontrollable greed. His body reacted to the thought with a yawn, drawing disgusted glances from those around him. Right, in that community, to which he did not belong, everyone worshipped the act of criticizing the smallest details. It wasn't the extravagant masks they wore to conceal their identities, nor their designer dresses or replica jewelry; it was simply a bunch of strange people. So, he kept walking, without thinking about anything else.
That day, there was an auction organized by his father, promising the sale of unique products designed by Alexandra, who, for the entertainment of her guests, was to assemble several of these designs as they were offered. The auction place was surprisingly elegant for being hidden beneath a street boxing venue, accessible only with a digital invitation and a code word to verify the authenticity of each participant. Every code was unique, designed to prevent spies. The venue was so vast that it was hard to believe it was just a basement. It was mostly covered by a casino, and once the auction began, customers were escorted to a theater where Alexandra would put on a show for her buyers.
At that time of the year Japanese people were rarely seen. There was always an exaggerated influx of foreigners: Germans, Russians, Venezuelan, Chinese, Cubans; all the scum from those countries, each with a more twisted mindset than the other, exchanging ideals and nationalistic thoughts as they drank vodka and whiskey, growing even more excited.
The numbers reached huge digits, each one larger than the last, and the only sound was the auctioneer shouting figures, duplicates, and names that heightened the excitement of the sale. Somehow, it was artistic to see so many people gathered with a single twisted ideal in mind.
The auction that night would begin in half an hour, and Vasiliy was tasked with overseeing the security of the entire place. All the guards answered to him, he knew the faces of all his colleagues, and while he wasn't particularly friendly with them, it was enough for them to harbor both hatred and admiration for him. He had to manage everything from the room where he sat with his sister, lounging on the small couch of the dressing room while she quietly did her makeup and preparations.
"Will Mom be coming?"
Alexandra looked at her brother through the mirror, brushing her beautiful hair with a wooden comb, stopping soon after to leave it on the vanity. She wore a purple yukata, which complemented her traditional makeup almost like a geisha. She nervously fiddled with the ornaments she had prepared for her hair, her face reflecting impatience.
Vasiliy removed the magazine he had been using to shield his face from the light in an attempt to sleep. He turned his head toward her, giving a delicate smile that, although meant to make her feel better, did the opposite.
—Probably. —He answered quickly, then returned to covering his face and rested both hands on his chest.
Alexandra sighed heavily.
She didn't even care about the show, or whether her products were sold or not; what terrified her most was stepping on stage, fearing her mother might see her mistakes in the traditional attire representing their clan. Fixing her hair was the hardest part, but time was running out, and it felt even shorter when all she wanted was to go home. Even if it didn't feel like a home, anything was better than this.
Suddenly, Vasiliy stood up without a word, his expression visibly annoyed. He stretched his body slowly, letting out a long yawn.
—Headphones. —He said, with a weariness that made no sense.
Alexandra didn't want to ask any more questions, and, just as he'd instructed, she put on the headphones connected to her phone, cranking up the volume to drown out the anxiety. While she finished getting ready, her brother stepped out for a few long minutes, returning to the hall while wiping his hands with a handkerchief, lightly stained with small splashes of blood from two unauthorized individuals who, although detected by the security system, failed to be stopped before reaching the dressing room. Of course, this didn't matter much, as it was impossible to stop him. By the time he returned, Alexandra was ready to go on stage.
He checked the room before leaving, sensing something was wrong, as if there were eyes on him from every direction. However, after finding nothing out of place, he closed the door behind him and accompanied his sister. He offered her his arm to make walking easier, and silently led her backstage where another security team was waiting.
It felt strange. Even there, he still felt observed, as if he were being hunted.
When Alexandra stepped onto the stage, he returned to the entrance of the theater walking calmly. People clustered together, not paying attention to their surroundings, all wearing masks, their bodies cloaked in perfumes of every kind, mingling with the smell of metal and chemicals from the stage, as the show went on.
He stood at the back of the theater, leaning against a pillar, his senses slightly overwhelmed, but still sharp enough to catch the slightest movement out of place. From there he had a peripheral view of all the seats, even the balconies above which he would later inspect.
This auction was a target for many assassins, spies, and hitmen. Stealing the products, threatening the life of their creator; there were many reasons someone might want Alexandra Ryokakku dead. But he would be there to feed on those bloodthirsty ones, to sate his own need. In any case, he was certain no one would dare to approach while she was up there. She wasn't only under his watch; the security surrounding her was large enough to cover every corner of the room during the event.
He had always been sensitive to things that others found almost imperceptible. He could easily hear whispered conversations, recognize even the faintest of scents, and his sharp vision allowed him to see much more than an average human. There was nothing ordinary about him after all, and he knew it. He was nothing but another anomaly in an imperfect world. What did it matter? There was no need to dwell on it.
As the auction continued, he moved to strategic points, a small rotation designed not to attract undue attention. This ended when he finally stopped feeling the bloodlust saturating the surroundings. He made his way up the stairs at the back of the theater that led to one of the balconies, where he would stay for the rest of the auction. The voices faded as he walked, the smells dissipated, and he finally felt less overstimulated. Now, he could focus on specific aromas and soft whispers around him. It was peaceful.
He walked slowly, the hallway empty except for a few foreigners, sipping liquor. But among them, there were a few scents that sent chills through his body. One in particular, a scent he was sure he had smelled before, though he couldn't quite place where. His feet moved of their own accord, following the scent, chasing it with no specific reason other than to satisfy his cruel curiosity. After all, it was a scent he couldn't fully decipher. The scent led him through the casino and up to the door that opened to the basement elevator, where it was abruptly interrupted by the stench of air freshener from the reception. Disgusting.
Turning to leave, his shoe sank into a crimson puddle. He barely noticed the smell of blood, so focused was he on the other scent. The blood came from a body, artfully arranged almost like a painting, draped over a set of nails used to hang artwork.
"Oh."
His face became a melody, surprise, and somehow, a certain amusement. The woman had been in his pants just a few days ago.
He didn't remember her name, but he remembered her face.
Beneath her, there was a letter addressed to him, bathed in the blood puddle. The delicate handwriting, in clumsy Russian, was barely legible amid the crimson smear, "Vasiliy Ryokakku," marking the recipient, but there was no trace of the sender. He carefully took it with his gloved hands, trying not to disturb the scene too much. Inside, there was only a photo of himself, taken the day he had met that woman to satisfy his carnal desires, which had recently grown exponentially, perhaps simply out of extreme boredom. On the back of the photo, there was a single phrase in English, ending with a heart.
"Happy Valentine's Day, dear Vasya."
Given the bizarre nature of the situation, a laugh escaped his lips. What kind of game was this? Who had sent this? The answers didn't matter much, as he actually found it amusing. He brought a hand to his face, trying to hide his strange good humor, and after a moment, stood up, observing his little gift. The woman still wore the same clothes from that night, the same perfume, and jewelry. She was arranged so meticulously that it was certainly something worthy of praise.
Again, he felt that strange sensation of being watched, even though he was the only one there.
Romantic, indeed.
" I need cleaning at reception. "He spoke through his coms.
It was a shame. While undoubtedly a spectacle to behold, he couldn't allow himself to be distracted any longer. He dipped his fingers, still gloved, into the blood and carefully painted the woman's lips with the rich color. It was the only thing she had distinct from that night. He remembered it clearly because, for him, red was an addiction. He constantly avoided touching her lips directly, so he could appreciate the color in the darkness, to prevent losing his sanity. It was his only anchor to reality.
Soon after the cleaning crew arrived he left heading back again to the balcony where he primarily intended to be. Once there, sitting in a chair that seemed to swallow him whole, he had the chance to reflect on what he had observed. The more he thought about it, the more excited he became. He breathed in, exhilarated, filled with a euphoric sense of joy for no apparent reason. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt so alive.
A sigh escaped his lips. Trying to remember if he ever felt like that before he couldn't help but recall certain black eyes devoid of sparkle, staring at him with such desire. Those lamb eyes, which he thought could never be replaced. No, he didn't want them replaced. He bit his lip, unable to think much further, for the show must go on.