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Chapter 95: Meteor City
The car pulled away from the docks, its tires crunching over layers of compacted grime. Beyond the immediate mountain ranges of refuse, the landscape shifted into a sprawling, suffocating labyrinth of shacks. These were structures birthed from desperation—hastily assembled from rusted corrugated metal, rotting timber, and discarded plastic tarps.
On the roadside, children with hollow eyes and ribs like birdcages picked through the fresh arrivals of trash, their small hands moving with a practiced, predatory efficiency. Adults sat in the dirt before their hovels, eyes vacant as they tinkered with salvaged machinery or stared at the passing vehicle with a mixture of apathy and ancient, buried resentment.
Filth. Poverty. Chaos. This was the trinity of Meteor City, a place that existed in the world's blind spot.
"I'm Damian. I'm a private investigator by trade," the man behind the wheel said. His voice was smooth, possessing a professional cadence that felt jarringly out of place amidst the backdrop of urban decay.
Ronin pulled his gaze from the window and turned it toward the interior of the car. On the glove compartment, a cobra lay coiled. Its scales were a dull, metallic gray, and a bright white number 5 was painted starkly against its hood. The serpent moved with an unnatural fluidity, its tail flicking out to deftly unlatch the storage compartment.
Ronin felt the steady, rhythmic pulse of Ten radiating from the driver. As the cobra moved, he noticed a thread of aura connecting the man to the beast.
A Manipulator, Ronin noted silently.
The number on the snake's hood was a curious detail. It could represent a serial number in a collection of lethal tools, or perhaps it was a psychological trick designed to make opponents wonder what happened to numbers one through four.
"The information you're looking for is in that dossier," Damian said, lighting a cigarette as the car cleared the shadow of a particularly massive trash heap. "We're currently heading toward the area where Shizuku is likely lying low. You don't mind the smoke, do you?"
He didn't wait for an answer, nor did he offer a cigarette; it was a hollow courtesy, born of habit rather than genuine intent.
Ronin remained silent, his face hidden behind the sleek contours of his filtration mask. Under the unblinking gaze of the cobra, he reached out and pulled the thick manila folder from the compartment. He unwound the string and let the contents spill onto his lap.
A stack of candid photographs slid out. They depicted a girl with short, raven hair and large-framed glasses that gave her an air of studious innocence—an innocence sharply contradicted by her environment. She wore a simple hoodie and jeans, but Ronin's eyes narrowed as he looked closer. There were dark, crusted stains on the fabric—dried blood. It was on her sleeves, her knees, and even caught in the strands of her hair.
The photos were taken from a distance, yet in several of them, Shizuku seemed to be looking directly at the lens. Her expression was neutral, but her eyes held a sharp, instinctive clarity. She knew she was being watched.
Ronin began to flip through the intelligence reports.
Subject: Shizuku Murasaki, 16.
Father: Hiroki Murasaki, a doctor known for his rigid adherence to clinic rules.
Mother: Unnamed housewife, noted for her striking beauty.
According to the files, this seemingly ordinary family had been torn apart a month ago. Hiroki Murasaki had been living a double life. Beneath the facade of a humble physician, he was a master thief. His final act had been the assassination of Spence, an Elder of Meteor City's 3rd District.
The theft had been successful, but the getaway had not. Hiroki had managed to relocate a significant portion of Spence's private treasury, but he had been identified in the process.
The Council of Elders had responded with the cold, overwhelming force that was their trademark. The Cleaning Squad was unleashed to hunt the doctor down, while Spence's private mercenaries laid siege to the family clinic. They wanted the treasure, but more than that, they wanted leverage.
The details of the report turned increasingly grim. Shizuku's mother had sacrificed herself to buy her daughter a few precious seconds of flight. Ronin saw the crime scene photos from the clinic—a horrific tapestry of blood and viscera. The woman had been subjected to a "prolonged interrogation" by Spence's men, a process that left the walls of the clinic painted in a way that no amount of scrubbing could ever truly erase.
Yet, seven days after the massacre, Shizuku had returned.
The guards stationed there had vanished. The Cleaning Squad sent to monitor the site had been erased. The clinic had been restored to a pristine, clinical state. Every drop of blood, every piece of broken furniture—gone. It was as if a giant vacuum had sucked the tragedy out of the room.
Ronin closed the folder. "Is there any word on her father?"
"Nothing definitive," Damian said, pulling the car to a halt several blocks away from their destination. "In a place like this, silence usually means the body has already been processed. But if you want me to find Hiroki Murasaki, I can—for a price."
Ronin looked through the windshield at the small, unassuming clinic in the distance. "No need."
He remembered the line from Neon's prophecy: In the house surrounded by uninvited guests, you will surely find the one you seek.
The context was now crystal clear. He pushed open the car door.
"Hey, you'll be seen!" Damian hissed, his professional composure slipping for a moment.
In the back seat, Kurapika and Neon stepped out simultaneously.
"Wait for me here," Ronin said, his voice muffled but firm. "If you see her try to bolt, intercept her. I'll handle the welcome committee."
He began to walk toward the clinic. The building was a beacon of order in a sea of filth, but it was currently besieged by a cordon of men in gray uniforms, clutching assault rifles. The pedestrians of Meteor City gave the area a wide berth, their gazes filled with the cold schadenfreude of those who had seen too many people die to care about one more.
Kurapika and Neon exchanged a silent glance. They didn't follow. Instead, they moved with ghost-like precision, fading into the shadows of a nearby alleyway to flank the building.
Damian watched them from the driver's seat, muttering a string of curses. He kept the engine running, ready to floor it the second things turned bloody. He had a bad feeling about these outsiders.
The guards spotted Ronin immediately.
"Halt! Do you have a death wish?" one of the Cleaning Squad members barked.
A rifle was leveled at Ronin's head. When Ronin didn't break his stride, the guard pulled the trigger. A warning shot whistled past Ronin's ear, carrying the acrid scent of cordite and unmistakable ill intent.
"I said stop!"
The shout drew the rest of the squad. Half a dozen rifles swiveled, sights locking onto Ronin's chest. The air grew heavy with the pressure of their collective aggression.
Ronin reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins.
The squad opened fire.
A deafening roar of gunfire erupted, but the results were not what the guards expected. The lead projectiles sparked and ricocheted in mid-air, knocked aside by the coins Ronin flicked with effortless precision. The coins didn't stop—they punched through the barrels of the rifles and buried themselves in the shooters' chests with the force of a cannonball.
Ronin's supply of coins was exhausted before the guards stopped firing. As the next volley screamed toward him, he simply raised his hands.
His movements were a blur of perfect economy. He plucked the remaining bullets out of the air as if he were catching slow-moving flies. With his body refined by months of grueling training and his skin hardened by Enhancement aura, the bullets felt like nothing more than harmless pebbles.
He rolled the hot lead between his fingers, then flicked them back. They returned to their owners with twice the velocity and ten times the lethality.
Ronin stepped over the collapsing bodies of the Cleaning Squad and reached for the clinic door. He didn't knock. He shoved the door wide.
The instant the threshold was crossed, a long blade—shrouded in a dense, shimmering aura—whistled down toward his skull.
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