The scent of death first touched Tokyo's Line 7 morning train when the familiar chime of coins and transit cards gave way to the thunder of gunfire. A carriage, filled moments ago with the murmur of casual conversation, had become a cage for those whose only dream was to reach their workplace.
The trembling voice of an elderly conductor crackled through the speaker as he desperately tried to calm the passengers:
— Please, stay calm! The police have been called! Remain in your seats and do not panic!
But his words were lost in a rising storm of chaos: the cries of children, the desperate whispers of prayers, and piercing screams drowned out everything. People pressed together, forming living barricades of flesh, their eyes darting between the sealed doors and the three figures in black masks.
In the center of the car stood a tall man wielding an automatic rifle, his movements sharp and taut, like a trained dog on the verge of snapping.
— We're not joking! — he shouted. — Anyone tries to play the hero, and the next bullet goes in a skull, not the ceiling!
One of the terrorists, younger and visibly trembling, licked his lips nervously as he reloaded his weapon. He turned to the leader, eyes burning with raw excitement.
— Just give me the word! I'll shoot the first one that moves! They'll know this isn't a game!
The older man swept his gaze across the terrified crowd, his eyes drinking in their fear. Slowly, he raised a hand, signaling for silence.
— No. We're not at the point where killing is necessary. — His voice was calm, but each word struck like a dagger. — Calm is our weapon. Fear is our strength. They will obey if they believe we feel no weakness.
Between the terrorists and their captives yawned a chasm of dread. No one dared meet their eyes—no one, except for a lone figure whose face was half-concealed by a dark blindfold.
— Hey, you! — the younger terrorist barked, noticing the calm stillness of the stranger. — What are you staring at, blind man? You think you're special or something?
The figure, dressed in a pale coat with shades of blue, tilted his head slightly. Though his eyes were hidden, the faintest smile curled beneath his mask.
— Think I'm special? — His voice was smooth, unshaken. — No need to think. I'm certain of it.
A heavy, suffocating silence gripped the car.
— Shut up! — the young terrorist roared, stepping forward with white-knuckled hands clutching his weapon. — Or I'll shut you up myself!
The blindfolded man's head swayed gently.
— Go ahead.
The click of a trigger echoed before anyone could process the movement. In an instant, the magazine of the assault rifle slipped free and clattered to the floor. Before the terrorist could react, a hand closed over his wrist with a grip so soft it was almost kind.
— You hold your gun like despair, — the blindfolded man murmured. — But you don't understand that it's nothing without your will.
There was a quiet, dreadful snap, a sound that barely registered—but the scream that followed reverberated like a thunderclap. The passengers flinched as if lightning had struck, the very air thickening as if heavy with summer storm clouds.
A frail old man clutching his granddaughter's hand in the corner whispered a silent prayer.
— Please… please let this end…
But it was far from over.
The second terrorist, realizing that control was slipping through his fingers, raised his gun and aimed it at the blindfolded stranger.
— Stop! — he bellowed. — I'll kill you! I swear I will!
The man smiled, wider now.
— If you were going to kill me, — his voice was velvet and shadow, — you already would have.
As if pulled by invisible strings of truth, the terrorist froze. His finger trembled, but the trigger remained untouched. Time stretched painfully thin; every breath felt like an eternity.
— I… I…
The blindfolded man stepped forward, effortlessly sidestepping the line of fire.
— Afraid? That's fine. Fear is a friend if you know how to listen. But you don't. You're shouting over it, drowning out your own heartbeat.
Another swift movement. The gun was in his hands, disarmed with a precision so elegant it seemed like art. Bullets slipped out one by one, falling like raindrops onto the cold metal floor.
Silence gripped the train once more, thick and breathless.
— Wh-who are you?! — the last terrorist stammered, retreating toward the door.
— Just a man, — came the soft reply. — But my name isn't something you need to know.
The faintest tilt of his head raised the edge of his blindfold. An unseen gaze, sharp and frigid as a winter wind, pierced the soul of the trembling man.
The terrorist whimpered, dropped his weapon, and collapsed to his knees.
A final sound—a snap, a blur—and all three lay unconscious on the ground.
It had happened so fast that the passengers remained frozen, too stunned to move. A murmur crept through the crowd like fire through dry grass:
— Who… who is he?
— What just happened?
— A hero. A real one.
But the man they called a hero stood still, as if the true battle had only just begun. One last click, and he vanished into thin air.
No one understood what they had seen. The sirens of approaching police cars screamed in the distance.
© Marukuro Rafaello, 2025. All rights reserved.