“The cops,” Kouta echoed, tapping his feet against the linoleum floor. He grimaced, furrowed his brow, and let out a sigh. Shook his head, slowly. “You know how it is, Mana. Maybe if we were rich or something but…school girls go missing and no one bats an eye.”

Most of the time it was nothing. A shelter, a government program, family outside of Tenoroshi, or simply wanting a new life. But there were always cracks, and it was always hard to confirm. He jammed his own hands into his pockets, feeling the silent phone pressed against his thigh. There was a furtive glance towards the manager of the convenience store, before Kouta shook his head again.

“Checked all the places I thought she’d be,” Kouta waved helplessly, “And that’s including her parents’ home. But they didn’t know either. They didn’t care either.” Frustration leaked into his tone, the muscles in his shoulder tensing up again, collarbone sticking out against taut flesh. “Just...was hoping that she might have said something to you, or, I don’t know, god.”

But it was clear that Hanami hadn’t met Mana at all, not in recent memory.

He breathed out deep, stepping back. “But thanks. It means a lot to me, Mana. You have my number, yeah?”

“Ah,” came a calm voice, “Apologies for the inconvenience, Sou-san. We’ve received a report about the sixth floor a couple minutes back, and decided to lockdown all other floors as a precaution. Don’t worry, the keypad isn’t broken.”

There was a break, as muffled voices sounded in the background, a hand obviously placed over the receiver. Even through it, however, the (former) idol could faintly make out words such as ‘fire’ and ‘break in’ or, at least, what sounded like such words. Soon enough, the man behind the phone continued to speak.

“We’re investigating the report right now, but if you have somewhere you need to be immediately, I can arrange for an escort to bring you down to the ground level. Would you like that, Sou-san?”

“Mmm, gotta stay flexible, neh? Go with the f-”

Yasuo blinked as a familiar, nameless face approached out of the blue, his cheeks already flushed from the alcohol, his eyes a bit woozy. Tilting his head to the side, he tried for another three sick af pen spins, but ended up fumbling and dropping the pen instead. He pitched forward, picked it up, marked off another number in his own puzzle book and, after shooting a glance towards Marina, smiled towards Tsurushi.

“Minami,” he said, offering a handshake, “Minami Yasuo. You live round here, taser lady?”

He looked again at Marina, as if willing her to chill. “Ah, and don’t mind my friend too much. She’s just surly in the mornings.”

---

Swift like a shadow, the blond urban explorer rushed towards the door, securing it with nothing more than the momentary pain of a heavy door falling against his foot. From there, what Marc heard from the Whispers Through The Gaps were...

_{"Everything looking good?"
"Hell naw, everyone else is still running around headless."
"Hey, c'mon, didn't I always tell you? You'd be so much better if you just got your shit together."
"But my shit ain't together, so ey, I'll just stick around here doing what I do."
"My offer's still available, Nori."}

_{"And like always, thanks, but, y'know. I separate fun from work."
"Ever thought of trying to be a Virtual Youtuber?"
"Uwah, how the heck didja stumble upon that?"
"New girl in the agency's got her start from there. Not gonna name names, but..."
"Wow, absolutely awful."}

_{"Think of the ad revenue though!"
"C'mon Daehyun, I ain't about that shit."
"I know, I know...but I still am."
"Really? Thought you were more of the beer and peace sorta person."
"Well, those come hand to hand."
"Sure sure, just rich boi hijinks, eh? Anyways, 'bout that thing you wanted..."
"Oh, let's see i-"}

Click.

A door closed shut within the building, and the rest of the conversation was silenced behind soundproof walls, leaning Marc alone in the back of the building once more, feeling oddly vulnerable, simply laying his head against the door without leaving or entering. It was quite a bit nervewracking, being so exposed. If someone of any repute walked by and saw this, what exactly would they make of it?

Mana didn’t say anything more, and Kouta let out a pained smile at her silence. The conversation was over, wasn’t it? He nodded slightly towards the overworked manager, before pocketing his pack of gum.

“Keep it touch, alright?” he repeated once more, to the lethargic convenience store part-timer’s silence again, and then turned around, exiting.

Filtered through the glass doors and lit in the gray morning, the delinquent really did look so much less vibrant than he used to, back in the days where Mana and him were both young and unburdened.

Outside, it was cloudy but quiet, the sky looming close but promising no rain. There was only a gloomy dampness in the air, a chill brought by a silent wind. As the Okinawan held the door for Miyane, he signalled the others to continue with their own tasks, being the only one to stay behind. Ostensibly, he would remain with the former star, at least until she found it fit to head out of the grounds of Tamagakahara, positioning himself beside the emergency exit.

Miyane’s call was answered after five long rings, the smooth, dulcet voice of Daehyun answering, “<<Morning, Miyane-ssi. Slept well?>>”

In the background, the strumming of guitar strings and the tip-tapping of drumsticks could be heard, as conversation in Japanese, incomprehensible but certainly not inaudible, show back and forth, interspersed by raucous laughter.

“Ishiyama Tsurushi, mm?” Yasuo repeated, leaning forward to mark down another couple of numbers in his own sudoku book. “Pretty crazy you’d walk so far down, considering how the psychologists with the actually-rich clients would all be Central, but hey, no judgment.”

He shrugged, smiled, then frowned when it looked like his pen had dried up. Slipping it into his pocket, the handkerchief boy stretched his right hand out, cracking each finger back in a way that was satisfying but also sorta cringe-inducing.

“It’ll probs help,” Yasuo said, after another moment. “Hitsu’s pretty good at her job, after all. Used to be like, super big in the field ‘fore stuff happened and she set up her own practice. And hey, considering her usual clientele…”

The youth trailed off from there, before winking.

“It’ll be fine.”

---

Was that how he was positioned? One could never be sure, in the end, but neither did it really matter. The inconsistency between how his incorporeal body was positioned and how his corporeal body was positioned was fixed with a quick jerk of movements, wholly awkward but not massively obvious. Marc hadn’t knocked anything over while his body spasmed, after all, and soon enough, he was free to move once more, the sounds of the once-silent live house now resounding brightly through the backstage.

The stage area, far off, was a mecca of noise as people shouted over each other, each handling more tasks than they had hands and feet for. In the rooms reserved for the few bands that had arrived, the tuning of instruments and the vocal exercises of singers all mixing together in a quagmire of noise. Had it always been so loud, or had it just been numbed back when Marc was eavesdropping through the door?

Before he could go through the complex set of maneuvers required to move through all the stage equipment in the back, however, one of the part-timers at Galaxy popped up, a tall woman with short, silver hair and gray eyes. Pale, whether through lack of sleep or natural complexion, she wore a black t-shirt with the Galaxy logo printed upon it, and carried two boxes of miscellaneous junk.

“Oi!” she called out, spotting Marc almost immediately, “Who you with?”

Well, her food was certainly food. In a dusty place like this, with so many thoughts on her mind, Mana could hardly taste what she was eating. The atmosphere wasn’t the best either, the fluorescent light and incessant dinging of trains coming to and fro serving to distract her from truly meditating on the problem at hand. But perhaps that was for the best. If enough time passed, Hanami was bound to turn up somewhere. Or maybe Kouta’s concern will shift into apathy, and he’ll just move on. All convenient resolutions, despite the bitter aftertaste that’d accompany it.

It was easy enough to finish up her meal. Pre-packaged subway bentos were only gonna be the size of her two hands, if she planned to be economical, and even the specials weren’t that much larger. There was plenty of time left for her to idle, and naturally, the pale woman’s eyes gravitated towards the hissing doors of arriving trains, still no small amount of people heading out. Just the usual salaryworkers though, grabbing a late lunch or heading out to meet a client, was her immediate assessment, but as she turned, a familiar countenance broke off from the crowd.

It was the schoolgirl from before, dressed in the same somber outfit she had worn on that rainy day, but there was a medical eyepatch over her right eye this time, spots of dark red indicating where blood had dried. Without noticing Mana, she nodded at her companion, before heading off and away towards the escalator.

But while that schoolgirl, with her grave posture and her striking attire, had caught Mana’s gaze first, it was her companion, still standing inside the train, that made her do a double take.

Boyishly cut hair. A tall, healthily proportioned body. She hadn’t seen her in some time, but…

...wasn’t that Hanami?

The doors hissed shut. The train began to depart.

It looked like the conversation was coming to an end, or, at the very least, an awkward silence. Checking his phone, Yasuo nodded once, before promptly kicking up onto his feet. “Welp,” he said, “Looks like we’re gonna go now, so, uh...peace, tas- Tsurushi.”

He hefted up his backpacking, shoved the paper bag (that was definitely filled with only a water bottle) into the large pockets of his hoodie, and turned to Marina, eyes flickering in the direction of the live house.

“Better start lining up now, Rina.”

---

“New Blue Glitch?” She narrowed her eyes at this, before placing her box of stuff down. “Thought you guys weren’t showing up today.”

The woman let that stew for a moment, before sighing. “Yeah, we do need the help. If you’re gonna show up just to watch, help me set up the wiring for the lights. Name?”

Non-confrontation was the norm when faced with train-barging miscreants, and though there were plenty of hard stares in the direction of Mana, none of the normal people within the train said anything; delinquents were to be seen and avoided, not to be chastised publicly. Midday meant, thankfully, that the train hadn’t been packed to the brim, and though Mana had to push past some people (who refused to move in a meager show of disapproval towards her actions), her path through the cars was relatively smooth. There was a young woman holding a silent bundle to her chest. There was an office worker, eyes downcast, staring at the box of personal stationary resting on his lap. There was a child with brown twintails, eyes set to a hard glare upon Mana, before they directed themselves back to the window, the dark blur of the tunnels. Mana passed them all by in her hurry, eyes searching for that head of short hair.

And then, she saw her. Leaning against the door, arms crossed, one foot tapping against the ground. A beat, or just a tic? Her eyes flickered upwards, and in that moment, their gazes met. The woman blinked, a mixture of fear and surprise in her eyes.

“Juujomaru Station, Juujomaru Station. Arriving at Juujomaru Station.”

Five, ten seconds before the doors opened again. Clutching her purse against her chest, she turned out of the entrance and strode quickly down the train cars. There was no question about it: she was walking away from Mana.

The office building that Anenokoji’s business was in certainly could have seen better days. Though the stone steps leading up to higher floors looked relatively intact, graffiti spilled on every inch imaginable once you got past the first floor (which smelled of blood, piss, and fear, but was otherwise spotless). The second floor’s CGA office had the sadness of an accounting firm that didn’t see all that much business, with the place only being open three hours a day, and only four days a week. Today, it was closed, and tomorrow, it was also closed. A dirty glass window showed nothing but empty shelves and cardboard boxes, as if the firm was perpetually in a state of movement, whether it be in or out of this office. A couple cigarette stubs were swept in one corner of that floor, but Tsurushi found it easy enough to step over that. It was on the third, however, that things changed. Though graffiti still coated the walls, they did not cross over onto the heavy, steel door with ‘Anenokoji Counseling’ written on a plate.

She opened the door, of course. There was no buzzer, and, twisting the knob, the door was unlocked to begin with. A cool breeze breathed out as Tsurushi entered the third floor office, and the first thing that was noticeable was just how meticulously clean everything was. Linoleum reflected the incandescent lights affixed to the ceiling, while a speaker system somewhere played Wagner’s Prelude to “Tristan Und Isolde” softly. Though there were no sofas, the chairs were padded, and the coffee table had a spread of magazines on top, largely innocuous genres such as lifestyle and cooking, with the occasional science magazine sprinkled in. Potted plants were lined up on the windowsill; a half-full water dispenser gurgled out bubbles of air every couple of minutes. There was no receptionist present, nor even a desk for them, but it was a small room anyways.

It wouldn’t be all too surprising if Hisui ran this place herself.

There was another door in the room, incomprehensible words slipping out from the gap below. It was really simply a matter then, of whether to wait or to enter.

---

With mere minutes to go before the doors to the live house opened up, the area around Galaxy had certainly become congested, crowds of young folk spilling out onto the roads. Vehicular traffic was sparse, of course, so it wasn’t as bad of a situation as it could have been, but there was a thick atmosphere of rowdiness that seemed to defy the perpetual gloominess of Tenoroshi. People jostled each other, bumping hips and elbows as they crowded around the small entrance, no proper queue in sight. From mohawk-sporting punks with piercings all over their face to prep student desperately trying to fit in to wizened old men who smacked younger folks with their canes to families with young children who just happened to enjoy satanic shredding and hellish hammering, there was a wide enough variety of people that Yasuo and Marina, with their sudoku books and their bagged vodka, were one of the more normal features.

Unnoticed too, amongst the chaotic anticipation, was the taxi that passed by the crowd and circled around to the back of the building. By the private parking lot, Daehyun, in his sorta ridiculous and certainly not serious get-up of big shades, a baseball cap, and a cough mask, stood, leaned against the door, one foot placed against it to keep it open. It was the privilege of the rich and famous, after all, to obtain backstage passes to everything, and Miyane, fallen idol as she may have been, was no exception. As she stepped out of the taxi, he pulled the door open, and the strumming of the last instrument check washed over her, the sound so bright and so dark.

Only a few minutes left before the show began. Overhead, the clouds began to part, bright rays of sunshine breaking through the gloomy expanse.

Indeed, for Marc, the end was almost here. He had been yelled at more in the past hour than he had in his entire life, all cordiality gone once the blond youth decided to ‘play’ along and help out the understaffed part-timers at Galaxy. Once it became abundantly clear that he didn’t know what he was doing at all with the mess of cables, he had been passed around like a present that no one wanted, forced to carry things to and fro while dancing around amplifiers and taut wires, instrument cases and railings. Given no mercy or leniency due to his tall stature, he was worked to the bones with no real chance to escape and lock himself in the washroom. All work had to end though, and finally, everything looked ready to go. The lights were working, the sound systems were working, the seats were lined up, the floor was swept, the wiring taped, and the fences, ostensibly to discourage stage-diving, were set up.

“Akira,” the icy part-timer called from across the room, a mixture of anticipation and exhaustion in her own voice, “Drink up. You’re on fence duty. Make sure people don’t knock it over.”

Moments later, she hurled a can of some sort of Chinese energy drink towards him, the beverage whump-whumping towards him like a fastball from an ace pitcher.

Mind games only worked when both parties actually decided to think so far. Rather than play the guessing game, the short-haired woman simply leveraged her physical prowess instead, pushing through the groups of people gathered before the entrance, before striding away, not breaking into a full sprint but certainly still aware that she was being followed.

Juujomaru Station was in the western district, and it certainly reflected the aesthetic of the older part of Tenoroshi: there were no escalators and the construction was still a mixture of wood and iron, a constant cave-like dampness clinging to it. At this time of day, few others were in the station, and Mana had no trouble at all with spotting her quarry, her own tenacity helping her keep up. The stairs did a number on her sides, the station master blew a whistle and shouted at her to slow down (not that either woman heeded his instructions), and the dimness of the subterranean station soon gave way to the light that spilled from breaking clouds.

The splotches of blue that made it past the overcast skies was beautiful enough to give Mana pause.

But the short-haired woman turned the corner down a side street, and Mana continued her pursuit. It carried her up the hills, down winding roads, past neglected playgrounds, between aged apartments, all as her heart hammered against her ribs, her lungs heaving up and down. And yet, the distance between the two never closed, and the posture of the woman she chased never flagged. Was Hanami ever that good a runner? Like Kouta, she had been in the Go Home Club during high school, with a propensity for loitering around convenience stores after school. Could someone change that much in two years? Or had she never been close enough to Hanami to notice all this?

Mana’s thoughts were cut short as she turned down another alleyway, colliding with, no, being bodyslammed by the woman who she had pursued just moments ago. Her back pressed against the wall, a garbage can toppling over as the woman’s forearm positioned itself over her neck. This close, the difference in height, in muscle mass, was clear; Mana was an entire half foot shorter than her, and it looked as if she had noticed that as well. There was still fear in her tawny eyes, but it was frenetic now, aggressive, as she leaned in close.

“Who the hell are you and why are you following me?!”

Well, it was the polite thing to do, doing nothing. Minutes passed into an hour as Tsurushi waited, doing nothing of importance. Maybe she stood up to get herself a glass of water. Maybe she closed her eyes to doze off a bit, sleep being a scarce resource for any teacher of elementary schoolers. Maybe she searched for free Wi-Fi in vain, and settled for browsing on data instead.

Regardless, time passed meaninglessly, and soon, the door opened, a middle-aged man with a bulbous nose stepping out. With pale skin and blue eyes, he looked at least half-foreign, and each movement of his spoke of confidence and competence. Dark hair parted to either sides of his face, and his neck was thick and powerful, the hallmarks of a lifter. He fixed his tie as he walked out, Hisui leaning against the doorframe to watch him leave. Her own complexion was slightly flushed, the difference standing out only more when framed by her silvery locks.

The man picked up his suit jacket from the coat rack, nodded once at Hisui, then at Tsurushi, and strode out of the office. His steps hadn’t made a sound throughout.

“Bit early,” Hisui remarked after a couple seconds, “But no point in making you wait without purpose. Tsurushi, you’re free to come in.”

Tristan Und Isolde continued to play in the background as Tsurushi stepped into Hisui’s office. There was consistence in design here, the office sharing the same bright, sterile appearance that the rest of place had. Linoleum floors again, monochrome-and-glass furniture again. The fluorescent lights were replaced with dimmer, incandescent lighting, however, and the blinds of the window were open as well. Noontime sunlight filtered through, giving life to the potted plants by the windowsill and giving warmth to the room. It wasn’t air-conditioned, here, and a faint, floral aroma was dispensed by a silent machine in the corner of the room. Hisui sat in her black leather swivel chair, while motioning for Tsurushi to lie on the white lounge chair.

She waited a couple of moments for her client to settle, before asking, “Troublesome week?”

---

The sound was explosive and passionate, raw and hungering. It fed off the crowd’s enthusiasm and amplified it in turn, everything rising and rising to whip the crowd into a frenzy. Though New Blue Glitch had to take a rain check for the event, their absence was hardly noticed, the rest of the lineup intense enough to keep people from being dissatisfied at all. ApocaSis had the opening act, heavy metal triplets performing purely instrumental music that had the entire live house shaking in their bones. Rites of Hammerhead followed up with their own act, madmen who were, if their Facebook page was to be believed, “classical musicians brought back from hell to unleash true torment upon the spineless strummers of modern society”. Wielding electric versions of classic stringed instruments, most impressive being their absolutely savage contrabass, they pizzacato’d away while their lead singer screamed Latin into a loudspeaker. Compared to the eccentric starters, Dread Daughter and Handmask were certainly more standard, but doubtlessly equal in energy as well, their setlist one technically complex song after another. Their explosive (and maybe a bit stupid) guitarist even dove off the stage regardless of the fence, his feet almost smacking a blond part-timer in the head before he was surfing the crowd. And, in a rare occurrence, Firestarter, despite being busy with their aboveground music careers, showed up again as well, old-timers in the field still belting out their signature lyrics of apocalypse and rebirth, resurgence and revenge. Closing things off, of course, were the Quartermasters, the bone-pulverizing solos of each member of the band looking both absolutely painful and absolutely glorious. It was youthful excess and it was semi-deranged grunge, but only in Galaxy could one get away with smashing one’s drum set so hard that the drumsticks cracked, before tossing the sticks into the crowd and continuing the solo with his knuckles.

That too was stupid, but in the end, it was entertaining and it was metal, and that was exactly what the concert-goers had paid for: unrestrained entertainment on the day of the Lord. Or, well, that was what most of them paid for.

Some of them, like Marc, hadn’t paid at all, not with money at least. Holding back the fence and almost being decapitated by someone’s foot, while being right behind an amplifier had made the concert a far more intense experience than he had expected. The fatigue was certainly growing now, but there was also the buzz of adrenaline that coursed right underneath his skin, electric and eclectic. Looking around, it was clear that other part-timers at Galaxy felt the same thing. They had only barely made the deadline, but in the end, everything worked out and they got to enjoy for free what others had to pay for. A hard smack landed between his shoulder blades as Miwa showed up beside him. “Nice work,” she said, her own countenance a far cry from the stressed, ice-cold persona she had before all this began, “Have some water. And this as well.”

The mixed-blood had a bottle of ice cold water shoved into one hand, and in his other hand, he received an empty garbage bag and a trash picker. Of course. As the live house emptied out, it was clear that no one but the staff were expected to pick up all the cups and shit that was littered on the ground. Work never ended, it seemed. Miwa had already turned away, hopping up onto the stage to inspect damages and disconnect amplifiers.

Some others were more fortunate, though they were unable to appreciate it all that much. With a backstage pass gained solely from knowing a guy who knew another guy, Miyane stood alone, watching people file out of the live house and leaving only chaos and trash behind. No one spared her a glance, all enthused about the performances they’ve just witnessed, the plans they had for the afternoon. Was it going to be food? Were they inspired to get back to their own instruments? Were they just content to head off to a park and bask in the afterglow? No one here, not even the Firestarters, were ever going to make it big, not nationally, not internationally. But inside, at least, in this little hole in the ground, they were stars. And who was she?

“Oh shit, Daehyun, didn’t know you were talking about MiA!” A reedy, unfamiliar sounded amongst the din, closer and closer. It belonged to the same drummer from before, the dumbass knucklerapper. Bichromatic hair was swept back in wild curls, while his ear piercings were similarly different, a ring in one and a nail in another. Though his face seemed to lend itself well to a naturally nasty sneer, the youth’s expressions were wholly divorced of sarcasm in this instance, dark eyes widening.

Daehyun was beside him, his own manicured features standing out all the more when complemented by this wild child. “Well, surprise. Miyane, Yuudai. Yuudai, Miyane,” he introduced swiftly, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

“Pleasure to meetcha,” Yuudai said, immediately bowing. “Real big fan of your earlier works, miss!”

Well, he was certainly earnest.

Which was a far cry from what he was in that alleyway, watching her bleed out as her organs were plundered. Yasuo nudged Marina, but she was doubtlessly already aware of the presence of the young man, the way he acted without looking at all bothered by the murders he had been an accomplice to in the past. The voice was the same. The appearance was the same. Only the mannerisms were different, but then again, Japanese society was skilled at cultivating humans with multiple faces.

“Kang Daehyun and Sou Miyane,” Yasuo supplied, eyes glancing towards the two beside Marina’s quarry. “One’s a big name in K-pop, and another used to be. What’s the plan now?”