The city never really slept.
Neon lights glowed over the wet streets, reflecting in puddles like blue and red flames. The night air smelled of rain, exhaust fumes, and a faint trace of metal.
Eric walked through the crowd with steady steps — not drawing attention, but never completely invisible.
His black coat reached his knees, the collar turned up to hide part of his face. His eyes were sharp, scanning his surroundings without a hint of panic.
Tokyo at night was beautiful. But beauty was often the best place for danger to hide.
He stopped at the end of a narrow alley between two tall buildings. The light was dim, and the sound of his footsteps faded beneath the soft start of rain.
Eric pressed a small device in his ear.
A calm yet tense voice came through the comm line.
> "Target confirmed. Level twenty, Hotel Saiten. Do not make contact before the signal."
"Copy," he replied, voice flat and steady.
He pulled a pair of leather gloves from his pocket, slipping them on slowly as he looked up at the darkening sky.
In the reflection of the glass building across from him, he saw his own silhouette — a face that no longer seemed certain of who it belonged to.
He stepped back into the main street, crossing toward the tall building that towered over the glowing city. Hotel Saiten stood sleek and proud, its glass walls mirroring the neon colors around it. From the outside, it looked like a place for the rich to unwind, but Eric knew more secrets hid inside those walls than in any corporate boardroom.
At the entrance, two guards stood straight. Eric didn't look at them. A small wave of a black card was enough — a fake, too perfect to question.
He walked in. The air smelled of expensive perfume and warm coffee. The lobby buzzed with soft voices and gentle laughter, but it all blurred in his ears. His focus was on one thing: the elevator at the far right.
> "Level twenty," the voice reminded him again.
"Target in room 2009. Male. Alone."
"Understood."
The elevator rose slowly, the hum of machinery filling the small space. Eric clenched his gloved hand, eyes fixed on the reflection of his face in the steel wall. His breathing was steady, but something in his gaze felt heavy — like he was fighting a thought he couldn't afford to have.
When the doors opened, the corridor on level twenty was silent. The ceiling lights flickered faintly. He stepped out, soundless, and stopped in front of room 2009.
He touched the small device behind his ear again.
> "Visual contact in ten seconds."
Eric took a slow breath, letting the tension roll off his shoulders. In his mind, everything was numbers — distance, timing, sequence. Not feelings. Not anymore.
He muted the sound of the lock with a small suppressor tool; a faint click no louder than a heartbeat. The door opened just enough for one shadow to slip through. Eric moved inside like a passing draft, gun hidden under his arm, footsteps barely a whisper.
The room was almost dark, only the neon glow from outside cutting faint shapes through the curtains. On the desk, a laptop screen showed lines of code, but there was no panic, no alarm. Masato stood with his back turned, fixing his jacket collar, busy on the phone — unaware.
Eric took two steps forward. His hand was already near Masato's shoulder before the man could turn. In a single, precise motion, Eric grabbed him — one hand covering his mouth, the other twisting his wrist, forcing him down. No noise. No struggle. Just control.
Masato gasped, eyes wide as Eric pushed him against the table, a knee at his back to pin him. The phone fell, rolling under the desk.
> "Don't move," Eric whispered, his voice low and rough. "Legs back. Hands on your head."
The man's arms were bound quickly with a thin cable — not to hurt, just to prevent resistance. Eric scanned the room fast: door, window, corners. No one else. Everything pointed to one thing — this was an errand boy, not a trained spy.
He pulled the laptop closer, fingers moving fast over the keys. Code lines, shipping data, serial numbers — neat and organized. No countdowns. No traps. One file caught his eye: F-9_manifest.
He opened it, copying the data while keeping an eye on Masato.
The man stammered, trembling. "I don't— I just follow orders, I don't know anything!"
Eric nodded slightly, tone calm and even. "If you don't know, whose orders did you follow? Who contacted you? Who's next on the list?"
Masato hesitated. His plan had fallen apart too quickly. "A name— I don't know the name. They use codes. They called him… 'Fuji Courier'. I just pick up the package from the Yokohama warehouse."
Eric noted it down. He could piece the puzzle together later. For now, what mattered was the evidence — and the man. He attached a small recorder and continued questioning in a low, steady voice, forcing each answer out bit by bit.
In the reflection of the window, he saw two guards walking down the corridor — casual, routine. Eric checked the time. Perfect. He placed a small marker on the electronic lock and moved swiftly before anyone noticed. Every step clean, quiet, deliberate.
Within minutes, the situation was under his control: Masato restrained, files copied, numbers recorded. No alarms. No chaos. Just precision.
Before leaving, Eric leaned close to the man's ear — his words calm but cold.
> "What you read in that file will mirror your life. You talk, you die. You keep quiet, you live. Choose."
He left like a shadow, closing the door soundlessly behind him. The rain outside had grown heavier, washing away every trace of his steps on the marble floor.
In his ear, the comm voice returned, steady as ever:
> "Target secured. Extraction in two minutes."
Eric exhaled, lowering his collar. There was no smile on his face — only the quiet certainty of a man who knew his job was done.
In his mind, one name kept echoing — F-9 Manifest.
And that was enough to begin whatever came next.