Kill Sector: Tokyo

Chapter 7: Chapter 7: Trapped in the Ghosts’ Haven!!



Behind Akagami stood a boy in a black cheongsam.

Glossy black hair fell straight. About Miyuki's height, his slender frame and long limbs gave a youthful, androgynous air. Narrow, captivating black eyes and red-tinted lips exuded mystique and allure. His delicate, almost doll-like features could pass for a girl's, radiating an unsettling charm. Undeniably a beautiful boy.

Yet, despite his striking appearance, he was like a shadow, nearly invisible. Miyuki hadn't noticed him at first. Something made his presence elusive—his movements, perhaps. No footsteps, no rustle of clothes. He glided with eerie precision, his black attire blending into the dim room. A cheongsam could look like a costume, but on him, it felt natural, devoid of artificiality.

Who was he? His attire and demeanor screamed anything but ordinary. Miyuki nodded politely, but the boy didn't acknowledge him.

(Rude…) he thought, frowning.

Shiro, unfazed as with Naraku, chirped, "Welcome back, Shenran!"

"Sleepy," the boy muttered, collapsing onto the sofa opposite Miyuki. With a yawn, he dozed off. No one scolded or disturbed him, as if this was routine.

What kind of group was this? Miyuki's confusion grew. A priest, a soldier, a cheongsam-clad boy, a middle-school girl, and a former cop—utterly mismatched, no cohesion.

What were they doing here?

"Didn't catch your name," Akagami said. "I'm Akagami Ryusei. The big eyepatch guy's Fudo Naraku. And the one napping is Hon Shenran."

He pointed them out in turn.

"…Amamiya Miyuki," he replied after a pause. They'd shared their names; ignoring them felt unwise, and he didn't want to seem hostile.

Akagami's eyes widened slightly. "Miyuki? Sounds like a girl's name."

"So what!?" he snapped, scowling. His name had always drawn teasing, and his reflex was to bristle, despite knowing it betrayed his insecurity.

Akagami grinned, teasing. "My bad, don't get mad, Miyuki-chan. So, got plans for where you're headed?"

"Uh… well…" Miyuki faltered. He planned to visit his home and school, but explaining meant mentioning his cryogenic sleep—a complicated, possibly unbelievable story. Given his cellmates' reactions, his situation was unusual. Looking down, he stayed silent.

Akagami rubbed his chin. "Just got here, huh? Probably clueless. Wanna crash here for a bit?"

"What? Why?" Miyuki blurted.

He shrugged. "Better than sleeping on the street. Our rooms are nicer than cheap hotels."

Miyuki hesitated, unsure of his motives. He was a stranger—why offer him a place? Was this agency also an inn?

Glancing for answers, he saw Shenran asleep and Naraku smoking by the window, both indifferent. Olivier, returning with three fresh teacups, smiled.

"It may surprise you, but Prison City folks are often kind to newcomers. It's an unspoken rule. Otherwise, everyone would be isolated and vulnerable."

Rule—Akagami had said something similar to Sakamoto's thugs: No newbie bullying. Isolation bred crime, either as victim or perpetrator, worsening security. It made sense. Miyuki stayed quiet.

Akagami sighed. "Don't be so paranoid."

"It's not that… I just… I'll pass. Got no money."

His envelope with the card and passbook was lost, thrown at the thugs. Akagami chuckled.

"Don't worry about that. We'll sort it later."

He vanished through a different door, returning with a room key. "Second floor. Got a spare."

Shiro set her teacup down and sprang up. "I'll show him!"

"Cool, thanks," Akagami said, tossing her the key.

Shiro caught it, grabbed Miyuki's hand, and beamed. "Let's go!"

Her clear, earnest eyes left Miyuki no room to resist. Half-dragged, he followed Shiro out.

The remaining group watched in silence.

Olivier spoke first. "An ordinary boy, maybe high school age."

His blue eyes held sympathy, pain, and a hint of caution. Naraku scoffed coldly.

"Kid or not, a Ghost's a Ghost. What's Rokudo saying?"

"Test if he's useful," Akagami replied, arms crossed, staring at the door Miyuki left through, his expression grim.

"Don't need him," a high-pitched voice cut in.

All eyes turned. Shenran, awake unnoticed, sipped Olivier's tea.

"You're up?" Akagami said.

"Weak ones die quick," Shenran continued. "Better off gone."

"Well, let's see tomorrow," Akagami said, reverting to his breezy tone, throwing up his hands. "Show us what you've got."

Shenran narrowed his eyes, displeased. Naraku snorted. Olivier's face darkened, his gaze dropping.

Led by Shiro up the stairs, Miyuki saw a hallway with rooms on both sides—two large ones on the right, several smaller ones on the left. Shiro explained: the second floor had two meeting rooms, with the rest being private rooms, a bathroom, and a shower.

Shiro stopped at a door. "Here! My room's over there; everyone else's is on the third floor."

Miyuki glanced where Shiro pointed, spotting a cute "Shiro's Room" plaque on a door, jarringly out of place in the grim building.

He turned the knob and entered. The room was dark until Shiro flicked on a switch. Barely six tatami mats, it held a bed, a built-in closet, and a shelf. Wooden flooring and white walls felt cold. A window sat on the far wall. Shiro opened it, letting dry air rustle her flaxen hair.

"Everyone lives here?" Miyuki asked.

"Nope, just me," Shiro replied, turning. "They've got homes outside. But when it's busy or we're helping someone, they stay here. It's tough, so we've got rooms."

Miyuki nodded. It seemed the agency sheltered newcomers from beyond the Wall. Odd, but Olivier's talk of Prison City rules rang true.

Still, something felt off.

"I'll bring dinner later," Shiro added. "If you're hungry, grab something from the kitchen—everyone does. Questions? Just ask."

Miyuki seized the chance. "This is a detective agency, right? What do you do? Doesn't seem like cheating spouse cases…"

"Cheating what?" Shiro tilted her head, clueless.

Miyuki's suspicion grew. Too strange for a normal agency. Shiro tapped her chin, thinking.

"Dunno much, but… we take down bad Ghosts!"

"You… fight?" Miyuki asked, stunned.

"Yup!" Shiro chirped.

Miyuki shuddered. Ghost versus Ghost often meant bloodshed. Their Animus powers were terrifying weapons. Emotions fueled violence, and unchecked, it led to carnage.

High-Animus Ghosts could wreak havoc beyond gunfire. Rumors of towns and villages destroyed by Ghosts littered the world.

Was fighting Ghosts routine in this Prison City? As Miyuki pondered, Shiro spoke.

"Can I call you Yuki?"

"Huh?"

"Miyuki, so Yuki! Or Yuki-chan?"

Yuki-chan sounded too girly. "…Yuki's fine," Miyuki said, his face twitching.

Shiro nodded happily. "Okay! Call me Shiro!"

She giggled like a tickled child, a middle schooler thrilled by a new friend. In another world, not this warped Tokyo, Miyuki might've welcomed it. But here, accepting Shiro's warmth was impossible.

She was a Ghost. And so was Miyuki.

"See ya later!" Shiro said, leaving with a grin.

Alone, the sparse room felt vast. Miyuki shed his coat, revealing a black tank top, and sat on the bed's edge. Collapsing onto the white sheets, he realized his exhaustion.

From the ferry port to Tokyo Station, then along the Chuo Line, he'd walked for hours—three, at least. Facing the thugs had been terrifying, but landing a bed was an unexpected win. Compared to the grim fates he'd imagined on the prisoner ship, this was lucky.

"They don't hide it…" he murmured.

Shiro and Olivier openly admitted being Ghosts, as casually as stating their birthdays. Miyuki couldn't fathom it. Akagami, Naraku, and Shenran likely were too, showing no pretense of being human.

Here, it was normal.

Miyuki had always carried guilt for being a Ghost—twenty years ago and now. He'd wished to erase that part of himself. But these people felt no shame.

"Of course…" he whispered. "This is a Prison City for Ghosts. Tokyo's that kind of place now."

Saying it aloud didn't make it real. It felt like a foreign land.

Was he in shock? Despairing at the world's changes?

He didn't know. Too much had happened; his emotions couldn't keep up. Surviving the onslaught of reality took everything.

Closing his eyes, he longed for sleep, but his nerves blocked it despite his fatigue.

As if rejecting the world itself.

His emotions drained like a wrung-out rag, leaving him empty. He stared at the ceiling, lost in a daze.


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