Director Himura did not pace. Pacing indicated uncertainty, and uncertainty was inefficient.
Instead, he stood perfectly still before the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office, hands clasped behind his back, watching the Tokyo skyline with the detached interest of a man observing an elaborate game board. Fifty-seven floors above the city streets, the lights below formed patterns that most would find merely beautiful. Himura saw data points: traffic flows, population densities, power consumption metrics. A living algorithm of urban existence.
"Preliminary forensics report from the convenience store, sir," said a voice behind him.
Himura didn't turn. "Summarize."
Nakamura, his operations coordinator, cleared her throat. "Security shutters were triggered from behind the counter. Tunnel access located in the storage room, expertly concealed. No fingerprints, no DNA traces." She hesitated. "Though we did find an unusual number of neatly arranged protein bar wrappers in the trash. Precisely folded into identical squares."
"Timekeeper always did have a sweet tooth," Himura murmured. "Especially during operations."
"There's more, sir. The store inventory was..."
"Was what?"
"Meticulously maintained," Nakamura confirmed, a note of puzzled respect in her voice. "Every item accounted for. Stock rotation optimized for maximum shelf life and sales efficiency. Even the receipts were organized chronologically in perfect sequence. And sir—" she sounded almost embarrassed, "—the bathroom was the cleanest commercial restroom our forensic team has ever encountered. One agent actually took a photo for his wife. Said it was 'bathroom goals.'"
A small smile touched Himura's thin lips. "He always did have an exceptional mind for systems."
"And cleanliness," Nakamura added. "One might say pathologically so."
Himura turned from the window, one aristocratic eyebrow slightly raised. "Are you suggesting that one of our most effective operatives has spent a decade channeling his tactical genius into... janitorial excellence?"
"I'm merely reporting observations, sir."
"Indeed." Himura moved to his desk, a modernist expanse of smoked glass and brushed steel. He pressed a concealed button, and a holographic display materialized above the surface, showing a map of Tokyo with pulsing markers indicating key locations.
"He always preferred a seven-minute response window," Himura mused, almost to himself. "From first alert to full mobilization. Seven minutes to gather essentials, secure communication channels, and implement evacuation protocols. The perfect time to microwave a convenience store burrito, if I recall."
Nakamura stared at him. "Sir?"
"A private joke, Nakamura." Himura waved a dismissive hand. "Something from another life."
He moved toward a cabinet disguised within the office's sleek wall paneling. The cabinet opened at his touch, revealing not weapons or technology, but a selection of precisely arranged personal items: a vintage mechanical watch, a set of fountain pens, a small leather-bound book, and—incongruously—a faded protein bar wrapper preserved in a small glass frame.
"Assemble Units Seven and Twelve," he instructed. "And contact Operative Crane."
Nakamura stiffened visibly. "Sir, Operative Crane is currently assigned to the Beijing surveillance operation. Extracting her would compromise—"
"I'm aware of the operational implications." Himura's tone remained even, but something dangerous flickered in his eyes. "Contact her. Priority Alpha."
"Yes, Director." Nakamura bowed slightly and retreated from the office.
Alone again, Himura returned to the window, the vintage watch now cradled in his palm. "Seven minutes," he murmured to the silent timepiece. "Always seven minutes. Some habits never change, old friend."
---
Kojima Takeshi's motorcycle growled beneath him like an overfed tiger, vibrating through his substantial frame as he navigated Tokyo's narrow backstreets. Rain had begun to fall, slicking the pavement to a dangerous sheen.
Perfect weather for bad decisions, he thought, grinning behind his helmet visor.
At forty-five, Kojima cut an imposing figure: six-foot-two, broad-shouldered, with the solid build of a man who enjoyed life's pleasures without sacrificing the physical conditioning of his previous profession. The expensive leather jacket—a gaudy purple monstrosity embroidered with golden dragons—strained slightly across his back, its custom tailoring accommodating both his muscular physique and the shoulder holster concealed beneath.
The restaurant owner's hands, adorned with flashy rings that most would assume were merely decorative, guided the high-performance Kawasaki with practiced skill. Those same hands had prepared delicate sashimi for Tokyo's elite earlier that evening, had poured sake with theatrical flourish, had accepted compliments with self-deprecating charm.
Those same hands had also killed seventeen people during his operational years with Hourglass.
But that was a long time ago, before he'd traded covert surveillance for seating charts, poison compounds for recipe innovations, asset elimination for restaurant management. A different life. A different identity.
Or so he had believed until twenty-seven minutes ago, when a particular sequence of orders had appeared in his restaurant's electronic reservation system—a sequence that had activated protocols he had established years ago and nearly forgotten.
TIMEKEEPER ACTIVE. MINUTEHAND COMPROMISED. SAFE HOUSE MAPLE PENDING.
Kojima had stared at the code for a full five seconds before exploding into action, much to the alarm of his hostess.
"Miko-chan!" he'd announced with dramatic flair, untying his chef's apron. "I must depart immediately! A matter of the heart! Tell the Yamamoto party I apologize profusely, but true love waits for no man!"
"Again, boss?" The young woman had rolled her eyes. "Third 'emergency of the heart' this month."
"What can I say?" Kojima had shrugged, already backing toward his office. "I contain multitudes. Also, tell Hiroshi to watch the rice for Table Seven. He always overcooks it when I'm not looking. The man is a culinary criminal."
Now he cut through the rain-slicked city, navigating by memory to the safe house location. As he approached the nondescript bookstore, he couldn't help but shake his head at the contrast between his own flamboyant cover identity and Timekeeper's suburban domesticity.
The convenience store. The actual convenience store. It was so boringly perfect, so meticulously ordinary, that it circled all the way back to suspicious—if you knew what to look for. Which, apparently, only Timekeeper's former colleagues and a teenage shop girl had managed to do in ten years.
Kojima parked three blocks away, behind a small pachinko parlor whose owner owed him several favors and never asked inconvenient questions. He removed his helmet, ran a hand through his rain-dampened hair, and took a moment to compose himself.
At the rear of the bookstore, he approached the service entrance, fishing in his pocket as if searching for keys. What he actually retrieved was a small electronic device that, when pressed against the security panel beside the door, cycled through a series of access codes until it found the current one.
The door unlocked with a soft click. Kojima slipped inside, closing it silently behind him. The darkness was nearly complete, but he navigated confidently through the storage room and up the narrow back stairs.
At the apartment door, he hesitated. The proper protocol would be to use the established knock pattern: three quick, two slow, three quick again. But something—instinct, perhaps, or the memory of who awaited him—made him choose a different approach.
"Oi, Timekeeper," he called, his voice carrying just enough to be heard through the door but not beyond. "It's Kojima. I brought sushi, but I ate it on the way. Traffic was terrible. Also, your security system is criminally outdated. I'm genuinely offended on your behalf."
For three heartbeats, there was silence. Then the door opened, revealing Matsuda Kenji holding a Glock 19 with suppressor attached, the barrel aimed precisely at Kojima's chest.
"You didn't bring sushi," Matsuda said, his voice eerily calm, his eyes coolly assessing. "You never bring food when you visit colleagues. You consider it 'mixing business with pleasure.' Your exact words, Zagreb, 2011."
Kojima grinned, spreading his hands in a gesture of mock surrender. "Just checking if marriage and fatherhood had dulled your memory. Good to see some things never change." He nodded at the gun. "Though your choice in firearms has. You used to prefer the Beretta."
"The Glock is more reliable in humid conditions."
"And here I thought maybe you'd just gotten less pretentious." Kojima's gaze swept the apartment as he entered. "Speaking of which, have you seen my jacket? Magnificent, isn't it? Hand-embroidered by a monk who left his monastery to pursue fashion. True story."
"That jacket," Matsuda replied, holstering his weapon, "is visible from space. It's tactically unsound."
"That's the beauty of it! So outrageous that it becomes invisible. No one remembers the man, only the jacket." Kojima's expression softened slightly. "It's good to see you, Timekeeper. Even under these circumstances."
A woman emerged from what appeared to be a bedroom, closing the door softly behind her. Even in simple civilian clothes, with her hair pulled back and no makeup, Yumi carried herself with the quiet competence that Kojima remembered from their limited interactions years ago.
"Kojima-san," she said, inclining her head slightly. "It's been a long time."
"Yumi-chan! Lovelier than ever." He offered an exaggerated bow. "Marriage to this human calculator hasn't dimmed your radiance at all. Tell me, does he still alphabetize the spice rack and calculate the optimal shower temperature each morning?"
"Only on Tuesdays," Yumi replied with a small smile. "The rest of the week he's too busy measuring the perfect rice-to-protein ratio in our daughter's lunch box."
Kojima barked a laugh, genuinely delighted by her response. "She has a sense of humor! The greatest mystery is solved at last—how Japan's most efficient killing machine managed to maintain a marriage for ten years!"
Matsuda's expression remained impassive, but something like amusement flickered briefly in his eyes. "How's our guest?" he asked, nodding toward the young man lying on the sofa.
"Stable," Yumi replied, her demeanor shifting seamlessly from gentle humor to professional assessment. "Single knife wound, right side, between the seventh and eighth ribs. Missed anything vital. Blood loss was the primary concern, but I've started him on fluids and antibiotics. He'll recover, assuming we have time."
Kojima caught the meaningful glance she exchanged with her husband. "Ah. So we're on a clock, are we? What's the timeline?"
"Himura will already have identified the store," Matsuda said. "He'll have deployed surveillance teams to our residence, Yumi's hospital, Hana's school. Standard protocol would suggest a three-tier containment strategy: immediate locations, probable escape routes, known associates."
"But Himura won't follow standard protocol," Kojima finished. "Not for you."
"No." A ghost of expression crossed Matsuda's face, something between respect and resignation. "He'll anticipate that I'll anticipate the standard approach. He'll implement something custom."
"The eternal chess match," Kojima sighed dramatically. "This is why I could never rise above field operative. Too many layers of 'I know that you know that I know that you know.' Makes my head hurt. I prefer a good bottle of sake and a beautiful woman. Sometimes simultaneously."
"Which is why you contacted me," Kojima continued, helping himself to a glass of water with the casual familiarity of someone used to making himself at home anywhere. "Because I'm not in your standard contingency playbook. I'm the wild card. The unpredictable element. The devastatingly handsome joker in your tactical deck."
"You're the most effective infiltration specialist Hourglass ever produced," Matsuda corrected. "And you've maintained your connections to Tokyo's information networks despite your... retirement."
"You mean despite opening a restaurant that serves overpriced sushi to celebrities and yakuza bosses alike? A restaurant, I might add, that just earned its second Michelin star while your convenience store still sells expired milk to hungover salarymen."
"Our milk is never expired," Matsuda replied with unexpected seriousness. "We implement a rigorous rotation system that ensures optimal freshness."
Kojima stared at him for a beat, then burst into laughter. "Ten years running a store, and that's what offends you? An aspersion on your dairy products? Oh, my friend, domesticity has changed you in ways I never imagined."
Before Matsuda could respond, the apartment door swung open again—despite having been locked moments earlier—revealing Sato Aiko in dark jeans and a hoodie, her expression a complicated mixture of determination and uncertainty.
"Aiko-chan," Matsuda said, his voice betraying nothing of the shock he must have felt. "How did you find this place?"
The teenage girl swallowed, but met his gaze directly. "I followed the electronic trail from the store's security system. It connects to a monitoring service registered to a shell company, which links to the property management firm that owns this building." She hesitated. "Also, I placed a tracking device in your jacket pocket six weeks ago. After I noticed the gun you keep behind the flour canisters."
A startled laugh escaped Kojima. "Oh, I like this one. She's got more nerve than half the field operatives I've worked with."
"I was wondering why my jacket felt heavier on the left side," Matsuda mused. "I calculated a 28-gram discrepancy but attributed it to uneven wear on the lining."
Aiko blinked. "You... weighed your jacket?"
"Not deliberately. I simply notice mass differentials."
"Of course you do," Kojima muttered. "Perfectly normal behavior."
Yumi approached the girl with gentle concern. "Aiko-chan, you seem to know a great deal about surveillance protocols for a high school student."
The girl's fingers twisted nervously in the hem of her hoodie. "I... observe things. Notice patterns. Read... certain forums. And Matsuda-san isn't the only one who can maintain a cover identity."
"Meaning?" Kojima prompted, his tone somewhere between amused and wary.
"Meaning," Aiko said, drawing herself up with visible effort, "that while I am technically a high school student who works part-time at a convenience store, I also maintain several online personas that are... involved in information security communities."
"A hacker," Kojima translated, grinning broadly now. "The quiet shop girl is a hacker. This just keeps getting better! Next you'll tell me his daughter is secretly running a counterintelligence operation from her elementary school."
As if on cue, a small figure appeared in the hallway doorway—Hana, Matsuda's nine-year-old daughter, dressed in star-patterned pajamas and regarding the adults with solemn eyes that seemed too knowing for her age.
"Papa," she said calmly, "there's someone in the air duct. Female, approximately 173 centimeters tall, carrying a modified Walther P99 with an integrated suppressor. Not standard police issue."
Kojima's jaw dropped. "You have got to be kidding me."
---
Operative Crane considered herself a consummate professional. Fifteen years of specialized training, five years of field operations across three continents, commendations in infiltration, extraction, and asset management. A perfect record.
Until tonight.
Because tonight, she had been detected by a nine-year-old in cartoon pajamas.
The humiliation burned almost as much as the tactical disadvantage as she found herself facing Timekeeper and the flamboyantly dressed man she recognized from archives as Kojima Takeshi, both with weapons trained on her position in the utility closet.
"Well, well," Kojima said, his tone conversational despite the deadly intent evident in his stance. "Looks like we have a little bird in our nest. And not a very good one, if primary school children can spot you."
Crane assessed her options with lightning speed. The confined space limited her movement. Two experienced operatives blocked her exit. Her support team was positioned for external containment, not internal extraction.
Tactical disadvantage.
But operatives of Crane's caliber were trained for exactly such scenarios. In one fluid motion, she deployed the sedative canister, the fine mist billowing outward as she simultaneously kicked hard against the duct wall, creating a secondary exit point into the adjacent bathroom.
Timekeeper and Kojima reacted instantly, both darting backward to avoid the sedative cloud while maintaining weapon orientation on her position. But Crane was already moving, twisting through the new opening with gymnastic flexibility, rolling into the bathroom and coming up with her weapon trained on the doorway.
A standoff, then. Not ideal, but manageable.
"Operative Crane, I presume," Timekeeper said from the other side of the wall, his voice unnervingly calm. "Himura always did prefer to send his best."
"You know why I'm here," Crane replied, keeping her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her system. "The Minutehand. Ryusei Takashi. And you. Director Himura wants all three intact."
"Of course he does." There was something in Timekeeper's voice—not fear, not anger, but a kind of weary recognition. "Tell your support team to stand down, Crane. This doesn't have to escalate."
"You know I can't do that."
"Can't? Or won't?" This from Kojima, his voice carrying that strangely jovial quality despite the deadly serious situation. "Because those are very different problems with very different solutions. Also, not to be overly critical of your technique, but that entrance through the vent? Very 1990s. Next time consider something more original. The chimney, perhaps. Or dressed as a pizza delivery person. Everyone opens the door for pizza."
Crane didn't respond to the provocation, instead using the moment to assess her surroundings. The bathroom window offered a potential exit point, but would expose her to the support team member stationed in the building opposite. The door was the only practical route back into the main apartment, where her primary objectives remained.
A tactical impasse—momentarily.
The wife's voice came next, calm and professional. "Your sedative compound won't be effective. The apartment's air circulation system has been modified to filter chemical agents. Standard protocol for Hourglass safe houses. You should know that."
Of course Crane knew that. But standard protocols were meant to be exploited. The gas was merely a distraction.
"Impressive setup you've maintained, Timekeeper," she called, shifting her position silently within the bathroom. "Ten years playing shopkeeper while keeping your skills sharp. Director Himura speaks of you with such... nostalgia."
A soft chuckle from Kojima filtered through the wall. "Nostalgia? Is that what we're calling obsession these days? Next you'll tell us he keeps a shrine with Timekeeper's old mission reports. Wait—does he? Please tell me he does. That would be both creepy and oddly flattering."
"He kept the watch," Crane said, the words calculated to provoke a reaction. "Your Omega Speedmaster. Carries it with him everywhere."
A momentary silence followed her revelation. Crane used it to edge closer to the doorway, gauging angles, calculating trajectories.
"Papa?" The child's voice again, confusion mingling with concern. "What watch is she talking about?"
"It's nothing, Hana-chan," Timekeeper replied, his tone gentler than Crane would have expected from the legendary operative. "Go with your mother now."
"But—"
"Now, Hana." The steel returned to his voice, not harsh but unyielding.
Crane heard movement beyond the bathroom door—the wife and child retreating, presumably to a more secure position within the apartment. Two fewer variables to manage. An improvement in the tactical situation.
"You have one opportunity to withdraw, Crane," Timekeeper said, his voice closer now. He had advanced while she was tracking the others. Clever. "Tell Himura I'll contact him directly. We'll negotiate terms."
Crane almost laughed. "You know that's not how this works. The Minutehand isn't negotiable. Neither is your return."
"Return?" Kojima snorted. "You make it sound like a company retirement plan. 'After ten years, we'd like to welcome you back to the organization that tried to kill you! Your cubicle is just how you left it, though the coffee machine now has oat milk options.'"
"Himura never authorized your elimination," Crane countered, recognizing an opportunity to introduce doubt. "Prague was meant to be an extraction. Things... escalated due to field decisions beyond his control."
"Is that the story he tells now?" Timekeeper's voice betrayed nothing, but Crane knew her words had landed. Seeds of uncertainty were powerful tactical tools.
A new voice joined the conversation—female, young. The teenage girl, speaking from somewhere in the main living area.
"They're deploying a tactical team," she said, urgency threading through her words. "I've intercepted their communications. Six operatives converging on this location from multiple approaches. ETA three minutes."
"Show-off," Kojima muttered, just loud enough for Crane to hear. "In my day, we had to actually see the tactical team to know they were coming. Uphill both ways."
"We need to go," Timekeeper said, no longer addressing Crane. "Secondary exit route. Kojima, take point. Yumi, prep Takashi for transport."
"You're not leaving," Crane stated, stepping into the doorway with her weapon raised, presenting a clear threat while calculating the precise angle that would incapacitate rather than kill if she needed to fire. "Not with the Minutehand."
For the first time, she had a clear view of Timekeeper—Matsuda Kenji—in his entirety. The photographs in his file hadn't captured the full reality of him. The perfectly ordinary-looking man from surveillance images had been replaced by someone whose very stillness radiated lethal capability. Without the glasses and deliberately poor posture, he projected a focused intensity that made the small apartment seem somehow insufficient to contain him.
Their eyes met, and Crane experienced something rare in her professional life: doubt.
Timekeeper held her gaze for approximately 1.7 seconds—she counted internally, as she'd been trained to do—before his expression shifted subtly. Recognition, perhaps. Or decision.
"You're Nakamura's protégé," he said. Not a question. "Beijing was your first deep cover assignment. You've been active for... four years?"
"Five," Crane corrected automatically, then silently reprimanded herself for the response. Personal engagement was a vulnerability.
"Look, she's keeping count too," Kojima stage-whispered. "Another one for the rain man club. What is it with you people? Do they screen for obsessive-compulsive tendencies at Hourglass recruitment?"
Timekeeper ignored him. "You're good. One of the best of the new generation, based on your infiltration approach. But you've made a critical error."
"Which is?" Crane maintained her weapon's alignment, aware that Kojima had used the conversation to adjust his position, creating a crossfire scenario. Manageable, but increasingly complex.
"You've created a tactical situation with only binary outcomes," Timekeeper said, his tone almost pedagogical. "In your calculation, either you succeed in your extraction mission, or you fail. Success or failure. Nothing in between."
"That's how extraction parameters work," Crane replied, a hint of impatience coloring her voice despite her training.
"No," Timekeeper said simply. "That's how they *taught* you extraction parameters work. Reality is more complex. There are always more variables, more potential outcomes than binary success or failure."
"Oh god, here we go," Kojima groaned. "Philosophical Timekeeper. This could take hours if we let him. Can we just knock her out and go? The tactical team, remember?"
Before Crane could respond, multiple things happened simultaneously.
The lights throughout the apartment shut off completely, plunging the space into darkness. A sharp, high-pitched tone emanated from somewhere in the main living area—painful enough to cause momentary disorientation but not debilitating. And most surprisingly, the floor beneath Crane's feet shifted, the bathroom tiles sliding laterally to reveal a hidden compartment below.
As she instinctively adjusted her balance, Crane felt something strike her hand with surgical precision—a blow that targeted nerve clusters rather than bone, causing her fingers to spasm involuntarily. Her weapon clattered to the floor, disappearing into the opening beneath her.
In the darkness, Timekeeper moved.
Crane sensed rather than saw him enter the bathroom, his presence registering through displaced air and subtle vibrations rather than visual confirmation. She pivoted, launching a precisely targeted strike toward where his solar plexus should be.
Her fist met empty air.
A touch at the back of her neck—gentle, almost respectful—and then pressure against a specific point that sent cascading numbness through her limbs. Crane recognized the technique: a specialized nerve strike taught only to the most elite Hourglass operatives. Temporary paralysis without permanent damage. Extraction-friendly, just as her mission parameters required.
As she felt her consciousness beginning to fade, Timekeeper's voice came close to her ear, quiet and somehow regretful.
"Tell Himura he taught me too well," he said. "And that the Minutehand stays with me."
The last thing Crane heard as darkness claimed her was Kojima's voice, theatrical even in crisis:
"Now that's just showing off. Would it kill you to just use a tranquilizer like a normal person?"
---
Matsuda watched the fish market from the shadows, waiting for Himura to arrive. The emergency lighting cast elongated shadows across the concrete floor, creating a landscape of light and dark perfectly suited for what was to come.
His phone vibrated with an incoming message from Kojima:
*Packages secured at alternate location. Little hacker girl cracked Minutehand encryption. You won't believe what's on it. Also, your daughter frightens me. Pretty sure she's plotting world domination via multiplication tables.*
A small smile touched Matsuda's lips. The plan was proceeding. The others were safe. Now he just needed to handle Himura—to create enough time for them to implement the next phase.
He felt, rather than heard, Himura's arrival. A subtle shift in the atmosphere, a reconfiguration of the tactical space. His former mentor had always possessed that quality—the ability to transform any environment simply by entering it.
"Ten years playing shopkeeper," Himura's voice emerged from the darkness at the far end of the market. "Counting inventory, assisting housewives with their shopping lists, dispensing gentle advice to schoolchildren buying snacks. Was it terribly boring, old friend?"
Matsuda didn't turn immediately, taking the measure of Himura's position through sound reflection patterns before responding.
"On the contrary," he replied, his voice carrying easily in the empty space. "There's a certain satisfaction in ordinary competence. In knowing exactly how many bottles of soy sauce should be on the shelf, or remembering a customer's preferences without being asked. You might have enjoyed it."
"I doubt that very much." Himura emerged from the shadows, his elegant suit incongruous in the utilitarian surroundings. At sixty-two, he moved with the same precise economy that had characterized him as a field operative decades earlier, before his ascension to Hourglass's directorship. "I lack your talent for... diminishment."
Now Matsuda turned to face him fully, noting that Himura had approached alone—a calculated risk that spoke of either supreme confidence or profound arrogance. Perhaps both.
"Is that what you think I've been doing?" Matsuda asked. "Diminishing myself?"
"What else would you call it?" Himura gestured dismissively. "The greatest tactical mind Hourglass ever produced, reduced to tracking inventory fluctuations and managing part-time employees. A waste beyond calculation."
"A choice," Matsuda corrected. "One you never understood because you never saw value in anything beyond the organization's parameters."
Himura smiled thinly, circling Matsuda with measured steps. "A choice," he repeated, the word carrying an almost philosophical weight in his cultured tone. "How very... democratic of you. As if all choices carry equal merit." He stopped, precisely seven steps from Matsuda. "But you and I both know better, don't we? Some choices elevate. Others... diminish."
"And who decides which is which?" Matsuda remained still, only his eyes tracking Himura's movement. "You? Hourglass? The mysterious benefactors who fund Project Clockwork?"
A flicker of genuine surprise crossed Himura's face before his composed mask returned. "Ryusei Takashi has been quite informative, I see. Though I question how much he truly understands about what he's stolen."
"Enough to recognize corruption when he sees it," Matsuda replied. "Enough to risk everything to expose it."
Himura laughed—a short, genuine sound that echoed oddly in the cavernous market. "Corruption! Such a simplistic framing. As if the world divides neatly into righteous and corrupt, into heroes and villains." He shook his head with something like disappointment. "I expected better from you, old friend. You, who once understood the necessity of balance. The importance of systems rather than sentiment."
"I understood systems," Matsuda acknowledged. "What I failed to understand was their purpose. Systems should serve people, Himura. Not the other way around."
"Ah, the convenient morality of a family man." Himura's voice carried a hint of mockery. "Tell me, when did this epiphany occur? Before or after you betrayed everything we built together?"
The accusation hung in the air between them, weighty with shared history. Matsuda could feel Hourglass operatives positioning themselves throughout the market—at least twelve, moving with the silent efficiency that marked their training. Containment protocols nearing completion.
"Prague wasn't betrayal," Matsuda said finally. "It was clarity."
"Clarity," Himura echoed, genuine curiosity entering his voice. "What did you see in that collapsed building that changed everything? What revelation justified abandoning your purpose, your potential? Abandoning me?"
The question contained unexpected vulnerability beneath its accusatory surface. For a moment, Matsuda glimpsed something he had never fully recognized during their years working together: Himura had considered him not just a valuable asset or even a protégé, but something closer to a friend. Perhaps the closest thing to friendship the director had ever allowed himself.
"I saw a mirror," Matsuda answered simply. "In the eyes of the banker we were sent to extract. I saw myself in twenty years—hollow, efficient, disconnected from anything real. And I chose a different path."
"Disconnected?" Himura laughed bitterly. "And what remarkable connections you've made since then. The neighborhood housewives who discuss their children's school performances while you bag their groceries? The salary men buying cigarettes and pornography magazines with equal measures of shame? Such profound human engagement."
"You've had me under surveillance," Matsuda observed.
"Periodically. Not continuously. Just enough to confirm that you remained... occupied." Himura's mouth quirked slightly. "I confess I was curious to see how long you could sustain the charade. How long before the precision, the excellence that defined you would demand expression beyond inventory management. I underestimated your commitment to mediocrity."
"Or perhaps," Matsuda countered, "you overestimated the appeal of what we once were."
The words struck harder than Matsuda had intended. Something genuine flickered across Himura's aristocratic features—a brief glimpse of pain before his composure reasserted itself.
"The Minutehand," Himura said, extending his hand. "Give it to me, and perhaps we can negotiate terms that protect your... attachments."
"You know I can't do that."
"Can't? Or won't?" Himura echoed Kojima's earlier question, though with none of the restaurant owner's irreverent humor. "Are you prepared for what refusing me will mean for your wife? Your daughter? The awkward shop girl who's shown such unexpected talent? Are they merely acceptable collateral in your moral crusade?"
The threat was delivered with precise calculation—targeting the very connections Matsuda valued above his former purpose. For a moment, something dangerous flickered in his eyes, a glimpse of the operative who had once been Hourglass's most effective instrument.
"Threatening my family," Matsuda observed, his voice dropping to that lower register that contained barely leashed capability, "is tactically unsound. You taught me that, remember? Never threaten what a capable opponent values most unless you're prepared for disproportionate response."
Himura's smile returned, satisfied rather than intimidated. "There he is. The Timekeeper I remember. I was beginning to think he'd been completely buried beneath the shopkeeper's facade."
With deliberate control, Matsuda recalibrated, refusing to be provoked into the persona Himura clearly wanted to evoke. "The Minutehand stays with me until I understand exactly what's on it. Until I confirm what Takashi claims about Singapore. About what you've done to Hourglass."
"Singapore," Himura sighed, genuine regret coloring the word. "Always Singapore. The operation that keeps returning like an unresolved phantom." He studied Matsuda with calculating eyes. "What would you say if I told you it was necessary? That those seventeen civilians were an acceptable cost for preventing something far worse?"
"I'd say that sounds remarkably like what we told ourselves in Prague," Matsuda replied. "And I didn't believe it then either."
Himura checked his watch—an elegant modern piece that had replaced the vintage Omega he apparently still carried as a memento. "This conversation, while nostalgic, has served its purpose." He gestured subtly, and the shadows around them shifted as Hourglass operatives moved into final position. "I had hoped to appeal to your reason, to the analytical brilliance that once made you indispensable. But I see you've chosen sentiment over logic."
"Logic without humanity is just