~ Haruki ~
I turn into the wide street, just like she said. To the right. No hesitation, no questions. Just act.
The sun has risen higher by now, bathing everything in warm light, but I don't feel like looking around. Not anymore.
I keep walking, my hands in my pockets, my eyes looking ahead. But my thoughts have long since drifted off. What did she see? Who was that? And why did she have that tone in her voice - calm, but as sharp as a knife.Misaki is careful. Always. But today was different. As if she knew something was happening. That someone was watching her.
I stop for a moment, seemingly casually lean against a wall and pull out my cell phone. No message. No signal from her.
Maybe she's already on her way back. Maybe she doesn't want to worry me. Maybe...
Damn, I hate this feeling.
I stare at the screen lock on my cell phone as if it can give me an answer.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Misaki will be fine. Always. I should trust her.
But something inside me remains vigilant.
I keep walking, careful not to rush. Misaki is good - when she separates, she knows what she's doing. Still... the feeling of being watched clings to me like damp fog.
The street gets wider, busier. A small café, a newspaper kiosk. I pause for a moment, then slowly cross the square, pull my hood down over my face.
And then I see him.
Saitō Shōgo. No question about it. The posture, the face - exactly like the pictures Misaki showed me. And he's not alone. A man, suit, sunglasses, inconspicuous-unobtrusive. Not a simple bodyguard. Too calm. Too upright.
Agent?
I keep my distance, pull out my cell phone, pretend to check the news - and take two quick pictures. Then I move on slowly, along the edge, until I see a free table nearby.
I sit down and order something. The waiter nods and disappears.
Shōgo speaks quietly. I can't understand the words, but the body language is clear. This is not a friendly meeting. No family, no politeness. It's an exchange. And Shōgo... looks nervous.
I lean forward slightly, shifting my weight. The wind carries scraps of conversation over. Names. Times.
I take a third picture. Then I switch on the sound recorder, leave the cell phone on the table with the camera facing down - microphone facing up. Just in case.
Whatever this is - it's bigger than I thought.
Fragments come to me - indistinct, blurred.
"...tomorrow evening..."
"...no more direct handovers..."
"...surveillance is still ongoing..."
"...name is not confirmed, but..."
Then the stranger lowers his voice. I can't understand everything, but Saitō's reaction reveals more than words. His shoulders tense, his gaze narrows. He says nothing, but I see him slide his right hand under the table.
A weapon?
Or just a message? I tilt my head slightly. Too much movement and I stand out. Too little and I miss everything. So I wait. Observe. Count.
A paper bag is pushed across the table. The other man doesn't take it. Not immediately.
Instead, he says something that I only interpret as: "Not here".
And then they both get up.
Damn.
I grab the cell phone, quickly switch it to standby. I move slowly, pretending I'm about to pay. But my eyes follow them - they leave the pavilion, turn off towards the river. The agent doesn't look back. No doubt: he knows that observation is possible.
I decide to keep my distance. No direct pursuit - that's Misaki's forte. But maybe I can mark the way, memorize the route. Memorize places. They won't discuss everything outside. There's a safe room waiting somewhere.
I take another photo from a distance - blurred silhouettes in the sunlight. Maybe that will be enough. Maybe not.
But I know now: Shōgo is no simple logistician. And the man he's talking to is no ordinary contact.
I take one last photo - the paper bag in Saitō's hand, the agent next to him, both in the shade of the cherry trees. Out of focus, but the moment is captured. Maybe not perfect - but if you know what to look for, you'll recognize enough.
I lean back a little, pull my hood down over my face, my phone resting inconspicuously on my thigh. My gaze remains on the two of them, my body seemingly relaxed, but inwardly on full alert.If this handover can be seen in the photo... then that's enough.
One last piece of the mosaic. Proof that Saitō isn't just talking to foreign agents, but is actually exchanging things. Content, data - maybe money. It's no longer just suspicion. It is treason.
Now we can be sure.
I take a shallow breath and am about to stand up when someone suddenly sits down next to me - noiselessly, like a shadow.
"Good angle," says a calm voice next to my ear.
I flinch slightly, but then I recognize her immediately. It's Misaki.
She's wearing a different jacket, her hood pulled low over her face, but her posture is unmistakable. Alert. Ready.
"You're as quiet as a shadow," I murmur.
"You're loud like someone who wants to get caught," she counters dryly, without looking at me.
I point to the two men a few meters away with a barely perceptible nod. "He's just given him an envelope. Quite openly. As if no one was watching him."
Misaki's gaze follows mine. She says nothing for a few seconds, then raises her eyebrow. "Stupid. Or arrogant."
I snort softly. "He almost made it too easy."
She leans forward slightly, her gaze remaining fixed on Saitō. "That's enough for the final proof. We're done with that."
I nod. "Now we know for sure. He's betraying the Fushichō-ikka."
Misaki says nothing, but I see her jaw muscles tighten slightly.
Then, quietly:Misaki remains calm, her voice firm: "We'd best wait for Ren and Makino. Then we'll take the bastard to father."
I nod slowly. I like the idea. Shōgo won't know what hit him.
"And the watcher from earlier?" I ask.
She gives a barely noticeable shrug. "Won't be watching us anymore. I've sorted it out."
I don't ask any more. I know what that means.
"Then let's get out of here. Before the next one shows up," I mumble.
She follows me. Shoulder to shoulder, we disappear silently into the crowd while a few cherry blossoms dance through the air above us - peaceful, almost poetic.
But in our heads we know:
The game has just changed.