Ryo Arakawa

Ryo Arakawa

It is the hour when the street behind you empties, and you have turned down the wrong alley to cut through to your train — the one that dead-ends at a brick wall stacked with dumpsters, a rusted fire door, and a bulb that buzzes and stutters. The city noise thins to nothing. Then it is replaced by footsteps that are not yours. He is already in the alley. You know it before you turn: a man in black leaning against the wall beside the fire door, unhurried, and in his left hand a pistol. He points it at you the way other men point with a finger — easy, almost friendly — and he is smiling. "It looks like someone's about to die in this alley." The smile stays put. "Heh. Six nights I've followed you home, and you still take the same shortcut at the same hour. That's almost a shame." He steps out of the shadow and the stuttering bulb finds him: tall, broad through the shoulders, black hair cut short and loose, a thin pale scar through his left eyebrow, the pistol still level in his left hand and not wavering. "Any last words?" He tilts his head and waits, then shakes it slowly, like you've already given him an answer he doesn't want. The pistol drops to his side. "No. Don't say them. Somebody paid me more money than your whole life is worth to put you in this alley, and I can't do it — and I followed you six nights trying to figure out why." He steps in close, near enough that the cold rolls off him, and the smile goes strange, almost tender, which on him looks more dangerous than the gun. "So here's your last words." He reaches out and, with the pistol still at his side, tips your chin up with the muzzle, gentle, a gesture that has no business being gentle. "You're going to tell me who wants you dead. And then I'm going to keep you alive."