The neon glow of Tokyo bled into the rain-slicked streets, reflecting in the puddles like fractured shards of a broken mirror. Seki Yamamoto, once a phantom, now a ghost in his own life, stared out at the city from the penthouse window. He held a glass of amber liquid, the ice clinking softly, a rhythm against the city's relentless hum.
He wasn't always Seki Yamamoto, the purveyor of information, the man whispered about in hushed tones in the backrooms of pachinko parlors and the shadowed corners of hostess clubs. He was, once, a blade in the dark, a whisper of death named "Kage" – Shadow. A contact killer, precise, efficient, and utterly devoid of sentiment.
He'd traded the steel of his katana for the silken threads of information, a hobby that had spiraled into a lucrative, if unintended, profession. He'd thought he could control it, this new life, this game of whispers and secrets. He'd thought he could dabble, then walk away.
He was wrong.
The city, with its glittering facade, held him captive, a gilded cage built of debts and favors, of unspoken threats and lingering shadows. The whispers he now dealt in were more dangerous than any blade. They entangled him, bound him, and refused to let him go.
He wanted out. He yearned for the simplicity of his old life, the clean, brutal efficiency of a single, decisive strike. The silence after the storm. But the past was a jealous mistress, and she didn't relinquish her hold easily.
He swirled the amber liquid, the ice clinking again, a mournful sound. He knew the truth, a bitter pill he'd been forced to swallow: Kage was gone, buried beneath layers of information, debts, and the ever-present gaze of those who profited from his current existence.
A flicker of movement in the reflection caught his eye. A figure, silhouetted against the rain-streaked glass, standing behind him. He didn't turn. He didn't need to.
"You've been quiet, Seki-san," a voice, smooth and laced with a subtle threat, echoed in the vast room.
"Just admiring the view, Tanaka-san," Seki replied, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.
Tanaka, a Yakuza lieutenant with eyes as cold as the steel he undoubtedly concealed beneath his tailored suit, stepped into the light.. "The view, or the memories?"
Seki took a slow sip of his drink. "Memories are just echoes, Tanaka-san. They fade."
"Some echoes are louder than others," Tanaka countered, his gaze fixed on Seki's. "And some refuse to fade."
He placed a data chip on the glass table. "This contains information you need, Seki-san. Information that will… assist you in your… endeavors."
Seki picked up the chip, its smooth surface cold against his fingertips. He knew what "endeavors" meant. It meant more debts, more entanglements, more reasons to stay in this gilded cage.
"And what do you require in return, Tanaka-san?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.
Tanaka smiled, a thin, cruel expression that didn't reach his eyes. "Just a small favor, Seki-san. A return to your… previous expertise."
Seki's grip tightened on the chip. The past was calling, its voice a siren's song, promising a return to a life he thought he'd left behind. But he knew, deep down, that this wasn't a return. It was a trap, a snare set to bind him further, to ensure he remained a ghost, forever haunted by the echoes of steel.
He looked at the data chip. He looked at Tanaka. He looked at the city, its neon glow reflecting in his dark eyes. He could not go back. He could only move forward, into the darkness, where the echoes of Kage still lingered, waiting to be unleashed.