Minoh Falls.
A rental car pulled up in front of a derelict wooden cabin. Inside the crawlspace above the ceiling, Kevin Nelms sat huddled against a pillar, his left hand cuffed to a support beam. He didn't even flinch at the sound of the engine.
Moments later, a rustling came from below. The ceiling hatch creaked open, a coil of rope was tossed up, and a dark silhouette vaulted into the cramped space with practiced ease.
As Steve Smith's eyes adjusted to the gloom, he stood up, gripping the rope. Through the sliver of light filtering in from the window slats, he spotted the gaunt figure of Kevin Nelms.
"Found you."
Kevin tilted his head back. His skeletal face was a mask of hollow indifference, but his pupils constricted as they reflected the man standing over him—dressed entirely in black, a baseball cap pulled low. From Kevin's angle, all he could see were those pale violet eyes staring down at him with icy detachment.
Found... I've been found...
It's them. It has to be them!
The gnawing hunger in his gut vanished instantly. Adrenaline surged through his emaciated frame. His hands trembled, his expression twisting into a snarl. He lunged at Steve with a guttural roar. "Go to hell!"
Steve didn't flinch. He watched the skeletal face and the desperate, lethal strike... and he watched as Kevin was yanked back by the handcuffs, slamming hard onto the floorboards.
Good, Steve thought. Keeping my distance was the right call.
Despite looking like he was one step away from starvation, the heavy thud of Kevin's fall proved the man still possessed terrifying explosive power. Steve had been training this new body for a month, but it wasn't enough to go toe-to-toe with a "beast" like Nelms in a fair fight.
"Argh!"
Kevin scrambled up, screaming, lunging again, and slamming down again. He repeated the cycle like a trapped animal.
"You won't get me! I'll kill you all!" "Stay away!" "Die! Die!"
Steve watched the man spiral into madness and looked down at his own black clothes. He sighed inwardly. Is there something wrong with wearing black? It was understated, professional, and easy to match. He'd worn it for years in his past life.
Just because some cult-like Organization wears black doesn't mean I have to change my wardrobe, he grumbled mentally. And as for the 'cold face'... that's just my face.
After three minutes of futile struggling, Kevin collapsed, gasping for air on the dusty floor.
Steve finally spoke. "Stop torturing yourself. I'm taking you to prison. You'll be safe there."
"Prison..." Kevin muttered.
Steve stayed put. Predictably, Kevin gathered his strength for one last desperate lunge, only to be snapped back again.
"Liar!" Kevin hissed. "They'd never be 'kind' enough to send me to prison! You're never letting me go, are you?!"
A minute later, Kevin truly bottomed out. He lay limp.
"That's enough."
Steve pulled a lockpick from his pocket, crouched down, and set the rope aside. He went to work on the cuffs. After ten years of martial arts and field work, he knew exactly how to tell when a man was truly spent.
Kevin glared at him, chest heaving. The moment the cuff clicked open, he tried to spring up one last time. Simultaneously, Steve grabbed the rope and stood. He stepped aside, tripped the lunging man, and as Kevin pitched forward, Steve seized his wrist, pinning him to the floor with a clean joint lock.
This time, Kevin didn't fight back. He allowed Steve to bind him and lead him down. He simply didn't have any fight left in him.
Steve tossed him into the passenger seat, looped the seatbelt around him for extra security, and snapped a photo. He sent an email to the bounty portal:
[Kevin Nelms captured. Location: Osaka. — July]
The reply was instant:
[Deliver him to the Police Headquarters. Bounty will be wired upon verification.]
[Copy.]
Inside the car, Kevin stared at a box sitting on the dashboard. Steve got in, opened the box, and handed a skewer of takoyaki to the man's bound hands.
Steve noticed Kevin staring at his gloved hands—he'd been wearing them the whole time—but neither of them said a word. Kevin just buried his face in the food, eating like a man possessed.
Steve didn't start the engine yet. He was worried the guy might choke to death on the octopus balls. Once the box was empty, Steve took it back and handed him a napkin.
Kevin wiped his mouth in silence. Steve then handed him a bottle of water. Kevin drained it in seconds.
"As a reward for the meal," Steve said as he started the car, "when the police ask about my appearance, do me a favor and keep it vague."
Kevin clutched the empty water bottle, his face a blank mask. He said nothing.
Steve didn't expect a "yes." He drove down the mountain. He didn't want his identity flagged too early, mostly because a "psychiatric history" tended to complicate legal bounty payments. But if he proved himself efficient enough, the authorities would eventually view his "little issues" as a fair trade for his results.
2:36 PM. Osaka Prefectural Police Headquarters.
A dispatcher picked up a strange call. The voice on the other end was low and raspy. "Hello. Your express delivery has arrived at the front gate. Please come out and sign for it."
"Excuse me?" the dispatcher stammered. The line went dead.
"What is it?" a colleague asked.
"A weird call... said a package is at the front gate."
"You ordered a delivery to the station?"
"No! And that was the emergency line, not my personal phone!"
"Maybe it's a prank? But they said the front gate..."
"Let's go look."
Two officers went downstairs and immediately spotted a large cardboard box sitting under a tree by the curb. It was hard to miss; a large sign was taped to the side:
[LIVE SHIPMENT. HANDLE WITH CARE. NO VIOLENT UNBOXING.]
Across the street, Steve sat in his car, watching. He was satisfied when the police didn't just ignore it.
The officers didn't open it right away. They called for a bomb squad. A group of specialized officers carefully peeled back the tape, only to find a hollow-eyed Kevin Nelms, tied up like a Thanksgiving turkey, sitting inside.
A second sign was pinned to his chest: [I am the fugitive, Kevin Nelms.]
The police stood in stunned silence for a heartbeat before swarming the box to haul him inside. Steve watched the station doors close, then shifted into gear and drove away.
Twenty minutes later, his phone buzzed. The transfer was complete. 3,500,000 Yen. (Roughly $23,000 USD).
It was a solid payday—about a year's salary for an average office worker.
Steve returned the rental car, paid the 5,000-yen fee, and the owner saw him out with a smile. A fat calico cat sat on the counter, meowing lazily. The owner turned to scratch its head.
"Do you usually feed her dried fish snacks?" Steve asked.
"Huh?" the owner blinked. "How did you know?"
"I'm a vet student," Steve lied smoothly. "Her coat looks healthy; I just guessed you were giving her the right amount of fish oil."
He made a quick exit. He was a student in the Veterinary Department at Metropolitan University, but the "healthy coat" comment was pure nonsense.
The calico hadn't been "purring." It had been complaining: 'You cheap, round human. You make all this money and you won't buy me a fresh trout? Dried snacks every day... dried snacks...!'
The "hallucinations" were back.
But after a month of testing, Steve knew they weren't hallucinations. The animals and plants were telling the truth. Back at the asylum, a tree in the courtyard had told him the hospital's history, the head doctor's temper, and several staff secrets. He'd verified every single one.
When he'd tried to explain this to Dr. Miller, the response had been clinical: 'Steve, these are things your subconscious observed or overheard. Your mind is simply projecting them onto your environment as a symptom of your disorder.'
Blah, blah, blah.
In short: Superpowers don't exist. The plants aren't talking; you're just crazy. Now, let's talk about your childhood.