Chapter Text
Aster walked along the dimly lit backstreet, her hands tucked into the pockets of her denim jacket. Even after six months in Tokyo, she hadn’t adjusted to the constant crush of the city. The noise, the endless sea of people, the bright neon lights, it was all too much. This quieter route, one block back from the nightlife strip, was her escape. Here, she didn’t have to dodge crowds or jostle shoulders. She could just walk, her pace unhurried, her thoughts her own.
The muffled clang of pachinko machines spilled out from the connecting laneways every few buildings, mingling with laughter and the occasional shout. Neon light flickered over the damp asphalt, but in this stretch of the backstreet, the darkness reclaimed most of the space. It wasn’t completely silent, but it was quiet enough to let her breathe, to loosen her shoulders a little.
Her colleagues had protested when she’d excused herself from the bar earlier. “It’s your farewell! Stay out a little longer!” One of them had insisted, his cheeks flushed from sake. But she’d shaken her head, smiling as she declined. Aster liked them well enough, but tonight’s goodbye drinks had only reminded her of why she was leaving.
Tokyo had been an experiment, a bold leap into the unfamiliar. She’d thought the city’s endless distractions would help her move on, keep her from dwelling on everything she’d left behind. Instead, it had burned her out. Too much noise, too little space to think. She was overwhelmed.
Now, the thought of her new position in a smaller town felt like a lifeline. Spring was in full bloom, and her new office was near some of the country’s most beautiful hiking trails. She had a month before her next contract started, plenty of time to settle in, explore the area, and maybe, finally, face what she’d been running from.
Aster shifted her shoulders, the weight of her jacket more noticeable as her body warmed from the walk. It wasn’t cold enough to need it, but she kept it on anyway. She was self-conscious of the tattoos on her forearms and preferred to keep them covered in public. Back home, tattoos were practically a non-issue, half the people she knew had them. But in Japan, they carried a different connotation. She’d caught enough wary glances at the gym to know it was better to avoid the attention.
A drop of sweat trickled down her spine, and she adjusted the collar of her jacket, letting the night air cool her neck. She was nearing the end of the street, where the alley would rejoin the bustling main strip, when the sound of something, a shuffle, then a low groan, made her pause.
From the shadows of a nearby laneway, a figure stumbled out.
Aster froze, her heart skipping as she watched a woman stagger into the dim light. Her clothes were rumpled, her face pale, and she clutched her side with one hand. Blood seeped between her fingers, dark against the fabric of her shirt.
“Oh my God,” Aster breathed, instinct propelling her forward. “Are you okay?”
The woman’s head snapped up, her dark eyes locking onto Aster. There was something fierce and unyielding in her gaze, despite the clear pain etched into her features. The woman staggered again, her knees nearly buckling, but she caught herself. Before Aster could reach her, another figure emerged from the laneway. A man, his arm raised high, a blade catching the faint glow of the streetlight.
Aster acted on pure instinct, “Hey!” she shouted, her voice sharp and panicked.
The man faltered, his attention snapping toward her, his weapon pausing mid-air. The distraction was enough. The woman spun, a knife flashing in her hand. The motion was quick, brutal, and efficient. The force of the strike was visceral, the blade slicing cleanly through flesh and sending a spray of blood outward. Aster felt the warm splatter hit her face, sticky and metallic. She flinched, frozen in place as the man staggered back, his hands clawing at his throat in a futile attempt to stem the torrent of blood. He took a few stumbling steps before collapsing in a heap, the life draining from his body within moments.
Aster’s heart pounded in her chest, the scene burning itself into her mind. She stood rooted to the spot, her breath caught in her throat. The violence was so sudden, so raw, that she couldn’t make herself move. The gruesome silence that followed was broken only by the woman’s pained grunt as she collapsed the rest of the way to the ground, landing on her back.
The sound jolted Aster back to the present. She hesitated, her mind racing. This was no helpless victim. This woman was clearly capable of defending herself, lethally so. But she was also hurt, badly. The blood pooling beneath her was undeniable.
Aster approached cautiously, her hands raised in a gesture of peace, her movements deliberate and slow. "Hey," she said softly, her voice trembling despite her efforts to keep calm. "I’m just trying to help, okay?"
The woman’s dark eyes met hers. She was breathing shallowly, her grip on the knife still firm, though her hand trembled. With a weak motion, she lifted the blade, pointing it toward Aster in warning.
Aster swallowed hard, her mind screaming at her to back away, to leave this whole mess behind. But instead, she shrugged off her light denim jacket and folded it over a few times, holding it up like a shield. She tilted her head toward the woman’s abdomen, making her intentions clear. The woman’s gaze narrowed, studying her with unnerving intensity before she gave the barest of nods.
Kneeling beside her, Aster lifted the edge of the woman’s shirt, revealing the deep, angry wound beneath. Blood welled up, dark and unrelenting. As she pressed the folded jacket against the wound, she noticed something else - the bold lines of tattoos peeking out from beneath the woman’s clothing, both at the cuffs of her sleeves and the collar.
Aster’s stomach dropped.
Her thoughts spiralled. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Of course, she’s probably Yakuza. Why didn’t I just keep walking? Why did I have to play hero?
Panic clawed at her. If the police show up and find her, a foreigner, helping a Yakuza member next to a dead body, it won’t matter how innocent her intentions were. She glanced at the blood-soaked jacket in her hands, at the woman staring at her, unflinching despite her pain. There was no fear in her gaze, no plea for help. Just a steady, unwavering intensity that pinned Aster in place.
She shifted her weight, pressing more firmly against the wound with one hand as she reached for her phone with the other. She unlocked it and held it up for the woman to see. "Ambulance?" she asked hesitantly.
The woman groaned, her face contorting in effort as she raised her free hand to snatch the phone from Aster’s grasp. Her finger tapped out a number, not emergency services, Aster noted with growing unease, and she held the phone to her ear. Her gaze never left Aster as she spoke rapidly in Japanese, her words were clipped, authoritative, despite the obvious strain to speak.
Aster watched helplessly, understanding none of the conversation. When the woman finished, she didn’t hand the phone back. Instead, she let it fall to the ground, her arm dropping limply at her side.
Aster stared at the phone, her pulse thundering in her ears. She probably called backup. Yakuza backup. She knew she should leave, this was the perfect chance to walk away, to pretend she was never here. But as her eyes drifted back to the woman’s face, she hesitated, she was still staring at her, her eyes dropped briefly to Aster’s arms, noticing her tattoos maybe, before they returned to her face, maybe Aster was imagining it, but was her gaze a little softer now, less intense?
The knife slipped from the woman’s grasp, landing on the asphalt beside her, though her fingers twitched as if reluctant to let it go. Her other hand, trembling and slick with blood, lifted weakly toward Aster’s face. Aster flinched but didn’t pull away as the woman’s fingers brushed her cheek. The touch was surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the violence of moments ago, but Aster felt the faint movement as though the woman was tracing something onto her skin.
The hand fell away, her eyes fluttering closed.
Panic surged again. Did she just die? No, no, her chest is still moving. She’s breathing. Barely.
Aster exhaled shakily, her thoughts racing. She looked around desperately for any sign of help, another person, a passing car, but the street remained eerily empty. Her gaze fell back to the woman, whose bloodied form seemed to hold her in place.
Damn it. She pressed harder on the wound, her voice a shaky whisper. "You better not die before your people get here, lady."
___________________________
The screech of brakes pierced the silence, and a sleek black sedan skidded to a stop beside her. The doors flew open, and three men stepped out, their appearance unmistakably Yakuza; sharp black suits, the glint of tattoos snaking out from beneath their collars and cuffs, and an air of controlled menace that turned her stomach.
Oh fuck, Aster thought, her pulse hammering. Surely they can see I’m helping her. There’s a dead guy right there. They won’t think a random gaijin did this, right?
Her hope was short-lived. One of the men strode toward her, his expression cold and unreadable. Without a word, he grabbed her upper arm in a crushing grip, yanking her away from the unconscious woman and shoving her back against the grimy wall of the laneway. The impact stole her breath, and her pulse raced as he scrutinized her, his sharp gaze flicking between her face and the body on the ground.
The still wet blood on her cheek caught the dim light, and his grip on her arm tightened. He grasped her chin roughly, turning her face side to side as though examining evidence. His eyes narrowed as he barked something in rapid Japanese over his shoulder to his companions who were carefully lifting the unconscious woman and moving her into the back seat of the car.
Aster’s heart sank as one of the other men responded curtly, the two exchanging a quick, heated conversation. The only word she could pick out was gaijin, so at the very least she knew they were talking about her. Then, without warning, the man holding her spun her around and shoved her forward, slamming her chest against the cool metal of the car’s trunk.
“Wait!” Aster cried, struggling against him as he wrenched her arms behind her back. “I was only trying to help her. I didn’t do this! I didn’t see anything! Stop! Please!”
Her pleas fell on deaf ears. She felt the bite of a cable tie tightening around her wrists, the sharp plastic cutting into her skin. The man’s hands left her shoulders, only to push her forcefully into the open trunk.
“No! Please!” she shouted, but her voice cracked as he shoved her inside.
Her protests turned to panicked silence as the lifeless body of the dead man was unceremoniously dumped into the trunk behind her. His weight pressed against her back, warm blood still slowly seeping from his slashed throat.
The trunk slammed shut, cutting off the faint light and plunging her into total darkness. The car jolted as the engine revved, then sped off, throwing her roughly against the unyielding sides of the cramped space.
The metallic tang of blood filled the confined air, mingling with the scent of sweat and fear. The sticky warmth of the dead guy’s blood seeped into her skin, soaking her hair and shirt, making her stomach churn. There was no room to move, no space to pull away. Her arms were pinned awkwardly behind her, and every attempt to shift only pressed her tighter against the dead man. Her hands were slick with the woman’s blood but the cable tie left no room to slip out of it.
Panic clawed at her throat, her breathing shallow and erratic. Her thoughts spiralled. This can’t be happening. This isn’t real. Oh God, it’s real.
She thought about her last day at work, the awkward goodbyes, the gap before her next job. No one’s expecting me for weeks. No one will look for me. I haven’t talked to anyone back home in ages.
The weight of isolation crushed her, stealing what little air remained in the cramped trunk. The combination of claustrophobia, the smell of blood, and the horrific reality of her situation overwhelmed her senses. Her vision blurred, her breath coming in frantic, shallow gasps.
And then, mercifully, everything went dark.