Archive of Our Own

Kawano Mizuki had a problem.

Several, really.

Crunchy hair strands from the gel Sakura forcibly ran through his bangs to keep them out of his face. Discomfort in his shoulders where the awkwardly fitting suit he’d rented strained. Gloves pinched by the joints of his prosthetic hand, giving him a phantom itch none of his friends could even begin to fathom. Don’t even get him started on the uncomfortable dress shoes he had to borrow from Ryouta’s brother’s roommate. 

And, well, the fact that he was currently attending a gala hosted by the darling of Kanezaka, Hayakawa Aria. Though she had the rest of Tokyo fooled into believing she was as generous as the news portrayed her, Mizuki knew her dirty little secret. A walking blank check for the Hashimoto, money dancing from offshore account to offshore account.

Kiriko was the one who discovered Ms. Aria’s secrets, gleefully sharing the intel at the Youkai hideaway over a dinner of stale donuts and konbini onigiri. Chikasa gasped that her celebrity girl crush wasn’t as wholesome and clean as her public image presented her to be. Nobuto nodded, holding his chin pensively. Mizuki hid his clenched fist and white knuckles in his hoodie pouch, not letting his expression betray that Ms. Aria’s identity came at no surprise to him.

When news came out that Ms. Aria was hosting a gala, the Youkai planned an infiltration. As the oldest and stealthiest members of the group, Kiriko and Mizuki would attend the gala in disguise. From there, Mizuki would get into Ms. Aria’s private quarters and steal whatever valuable information on Hashimoto’s movements he could find.

In theory.

In actuality, his plan was to fail. Feign searching Ms. Aria’s mansion, tell Kiriko he couldn’t find the information they wanted, then escape the gala without anyone getting hurt. That way the Youkai were disappointed but safe, while the Hashimoto didn't flay him alive for leaking critical information.

Getting into Ms. Aria’s quarters was easy enough. Guards posted at every private doorway were no match for a well placed katashiro. A wave of gut churning anxiety was all that stood in Mizuki’s way once he was within. He has to fail. He has to fail. He has to fail. He has to…

Keep moving.

Darkened hallway. Footsteps.

Someone else.

Mizuki paused, pressing himself against the wall. There was no reason for Ms. Aria’s guards to be back here. The woman of the hour herself was lording over her gala, giving a speech on charity, good will, and the power of community. There was a soft clink of metal — likely a weapon of some kind. Another Hashimoto, then. He exhaled a sigh of relief. This would be the perfect excuse for him to call the infiltration off.

He poked his head around the corner, getting a quick look at the Hashimoto. Young, Mizuki’s age. Good looking. Much shorter, but filled out his suit nicely. Wielding a strange staff, likely one of Toshiro-ojisan’s pet projects. Long black hair brushing his collarbones, a perplexed expression on his face as he moved through the hallway.

As the young Hashimoto approached Mizuki’s position, a quick, stupid decision took hold of his brain. Mizuki stepped out to reveal himself. He could inform the young man of the Youkai’s plans, pass on some of the intel he'd gathered, then be on his merry way without anyone coming to harm.

Or, get nailed in the ribs by the staff. That worked, too.

Mizuki stumbled, coughing but staying as steady as he could manage. He pressed his fingers to his ribs — no blood, good. The young man drew his staff back, priming to strike him again.

“Stop. Stop!” Mizuki said, blocking the staff strike with his prosthetic arm. “It's me, Mizuki. Kawano Mizuki. I’m from headquarters.”

“Huh?” The young man stopped, brows rising and head cocking. “Are you with Overwatch too?”

Shit.

Insects crawling up his spine. Fingers curled around his ankles. Darkness at the edge of his vision. No. No. Not again.

Mizuki bit the inside of his mouth, grounding himself with the familiar pinch of pain. The presence of an Overwatch agent was an unmitigated disaster. A massive thorn in his plan’s side.

“Nah, ‘course not,” Mizuki said, attempting a smile. He switched to English, noting the shakiness in the agent’s Japanese. “I’m with the Youkai. The, uh, vigilante group here in Kanezaka. I think we’re on the same side here, man.”

“Oh!” The young man’s face lit up. “Genji said we might run into your group here. Didn't expect it to be at the gala of all places, though. But that's beside the point. This is great, we can work together!”

“Yeah, uh, sure.”

“I’m Ye Wuyang.” He extended his hand to shake Mizuki’s, but dropped it when he realized he was still clutching his ribs. “I'm so sorry for whacking you, Kawano-san. Are you okay?”

Mizuki knew from experience that his ribs weren't broken. At worst there'd be a purple-black bloom across his skin in the morning. Thank the spirits.

“Yeah, yeah. You don't have to worry about me,” he said. “And please, just call me Mizuki.”

“Sure, Mizuki-sa—”

“Just Mizuki. Why exactly are you here?”

“Overwatch got a tip about Hayakawa Aria’s operations, so my bosses sent me and my sister to collect intelligence. But, to be honest, we’re still pretty new and—” Wuyang stopped before he completely wedged his own foot into his mouth. “Anyway, Overwatch wants to take down the Hashimoto.”

“Easier said than done,” Mizuki said. If only. Then he could finally be free from his father's debts. Might not quell the spirits, but it would be a start. “Let’s find Ms. Aria’s office, then.”

“Keep watch, will ya?” Mizuki said, finally getting his hands on Ms. Aria's keyboard. “I've got it from here.”

Wuyang nodded, taking position by the office door. Though his staff hand was steady, his empty hand fidgeted. Poor guy was nervous. Mizuki wasn't surprised — new to Overwatch and young, likely younger than himself.

“So, are you a hacker?” Wuyang asked, rocking back and forth on his heels.

“No way,” Mizuki said. He removed a small device from his chest pocket and showed it to Wuyang before plugging it into the computer. Immediately, the login screen lit up as hundreds of passwords were cycled through. “My friend Kiriko picked this up from a contact of hers. It's programmed with all the known Hashimoto passwords, just needs to find the right one.”

“You just casually have something like that in your pocket?” Wuyang’s brown eyes resembled saucers. “Do you know this contact? Can you get them in touch with Overwatch?”

“Never met her. According to Kiriko, she's not all that interested in the hero stuff. Though, I'm sure she's interested in the heroes’ stuff.” Mizuki chuckled. “Don’t bother clearing your browser history when you get back to base. She already knows it all.”

“Well, that's not terrifying at all!”

“Why? Got somethin’ to hide?”

“N-no!”

[WELCOME ARIA]

Once into the socialite’s account, Sombra’s program dug into the recesses of her hard drive. The console pinged as an invisible password-protected folder opened. Within were countless files, many of which dated to the past week or so. 

With Wuyang here, Mizuki had to tweak his original plan. Bailing without gathering data was not an option. Instead, he opted to be selective with which files he transferred to the external hard drive he brought with him. Frantic double-clicks opened files revealing the locations of weapon drops and trafficking rings. He'll snag those. Shutting a few minor gang activities down won't catch the attention and ire of the Hashimoto elders. Besides, the people of Kanezaka deserved safer streets — fewer weapons, fewer stolen children.

Mizuki was about to shut down the computer when he discovered a final file. Within was a collection of information that he had personally leaked to the Hashimoto about the Youkai members. He always tried to skirt around the truth as best as possible when passing along intel, but seeing it all laid out this way sent a chill up his spine. Mizuki had told them too much. The Hashimoto were planning an attack against the Youkai in a mere week, planning to bait them into a trap at a warehouse by the river. They would put an end to the Youkai. Capturing or killing his friends as he watched, spirits clawing at his tainted soul.

He transferred it over.

There will be punishment, he knows that. But he can't let that happen.

“Wuyang, we gotta go. I heard something,” Mizuki said, letting his anxiety about his actions seep into his voice. 

“Huh? I didn’t—”

“Trust me, we gotta go now. If they catch us, we’re dead.” Mizuki unplugged the hard drive and Sombra’s program. “Man, I couldn't get everything.”

“It's okay. We’ll just have to work with what we've got,” Wuyang said with a warm smile. “Nice work, Mizuki!”

“Mm.” Mizuki looked away as he pocketed the devices, a bit of warmth on his cheeks. “Door’s a no go with someone in the hallway. We can't exactly pass as lost partygoers with that staff of yours. And unless you're wearing a bulletproof vest under that suit…”

Wuyang bit his lower lip.

“I’d rather not have an Overwatch agent bleeding out on my hands, if it’s all the same to you.” Mizuki glanced behind him. According to the schematic Sakura found, this window led to the back of the house. The gala was constrained to the front, so it was unlikely there’d be anyone other than a guard or two patrolling back there. “Window it is.”

“Aw, man.”

Mizuki pried the window open before leaning out over the edge. He’d never been too good at scaling walls, but a climb down was nothing. “Follow me,” he said, crouching on the sill. Using his prosthetic arm to get a better grip on the edge, he swung himself downward. A footrest here, a handhold there, and Mizuki’s dress shoes hit the mulch. He looked up to see Wuyang’s head poking out of the window, looking like a frightened rabbit. “Relax, dude. I’ll help you.”

Wuyang tentatively lowered himself, one hand clutching the windowsill and the other awkwardly holding the staff, unwilling to drop it to the ground. Must be as precious to him as Mizuki’s kusarigama was. Not one of Toshiro-san’s, but there was the same love and care put into it.

“There's a small ledge to rest your foot, just stretch down a few more centimeters,” Mizuki said, careful not to be too loud. Wuyang nodded before pushing himself downward. “Steady.”

“I think I've got it,” Wuyang said, using his staff to leverage himself against the wall. After he built up the courage to let go, he let his fingers slip from the sill. He scrambled to find a handhold, but couldn't get a good grip on it. “Uh, Mizuki!”

Mizuki readied himself, arms stretched to catch Wuyang. He slipped, dropping down. The angle was perfect — Wuyang landed right in Mizuki’s waiting arms — but Mizuki hadn't anticipated how densely built Wuyang was under his suit. The two crumpled to the ground, landing in one of Ms. Aria’s bushes. Thorns pierced Mizuki’s clothes, sending pricks of pain throughout his back.

Well. There goes the deposit on the suit.

“Oh my god, you’re bleeding!” Wuyang exclaimed, the weight of his body on Mizuki’s lap pressing him further into the thorns. “I’m so sorry.”

“Eugh. I’m fine, man. Why are you so heavy?” Mizuki nudged Wuyang off of him, all too grateful to take the hand extended to haul himself off the ground. When he rubbed at the back of his head, blood darkened his glove. “C’mon, let’s get outta here.”

“My sister’s still inside,” Wuyang said, cringing as he put weight on both of his feet. He leaned on his staff, exhaling a pained breath.

“I’m sure she’s fine, trust me,” Mizuki said, wrapping his prosthetic arm around Wuyang’s waist to give him some support. “Neither of us are at our best right now. Kiriko always scolds me, saying that you have to take care of yourself before you worry about anyone else.”

“I take it you don’t follow her advice very often, huh?”

“Shut it,” Mizuki grumbled. 

Mizuki slid down the alley wall until his butt hit the back stoop of a closed shop, a cool bottle of Pocari Sweat pressed against the cut on his head. It wasn’t deep, but it bled like a motherfucker. Wuyang limp-paced in circles around the alley as he and his sister talked in rapid-fire Mandarin. Most of it was completely unintelligible to Mizuki, though he could catch Mizuki, Kiriko, Kanezaka, and Hashimoto. 

His own call with Kiriko was short. An I got what I could manage, a you should get outta there, and a if you run into a Chinese girl dressed in orange, she’s on our side. Kiriko’s side, at least. Mizuki needed this collaboration with Overwatch to be over as fast as humanly possible. 

When Wuyang finally ended the call with his sister, he joined Mizuki on the stoop. There was a nervous air to his demeanor before he willed himself to speak, “can I take a look at the cut on your head?”

“It’s f—”

“Let me help you, Mizuki,” Wuyang scolded. “I’m literally a med student.”

Mizuki sighed. There was no arguing against that. He lowered his head, giving Wuyang an easy angle. Though he set the Pocari Sweat on the stoop beside him, the flare of heat and pain on his head was caressed by coolness. Something about it was reminiscent of his last pilgrimage to Mount Ontake, the icy waters of the crater lakes purifying some of the filth his soul carried.

It was quiet. The angry beehive of thoughts calmed as he let himself lean into Wuyang’s touch. Darkness now awash in soft tones of green and blue. The tinkling of shrine bells. The flutter of shide in the wind. The patter of water on stone.

“What are you doing?” Mizuki murmured, eyes closed as he overindulged in the feeling of peace. Something clawed at him, a guilt he pushed down. The spirits would punish him later for his greed, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“It’s water infused with nanobiotics,” Wuyang said. “It’s tech developed by Wuxing University in Chengdu to help revolutionize traditional Chinese medicine. I keep a supply of it in my staff.”

The stream of water faded away, stealing Mizuki’s peace of mind. Everything good will always come to an end, a painful lesson he was forced to relearn over and over again. “No wonder you held onto that thing like it was precious. How’d you manage to get it into the gala in the first place?”

“Claimed I needed it for medical reasons, which isn’t entirely a lie.” Wuyang tapped a finger against his chin, a bashful smile on his lips. “Anran and I got drop shipped here, so there was no leaving our weapons behind.”

Man. If he’d realized security was so lax, he might’ve brought his kusarigama along. Though if it got confiscated, he wasn’t sure he could ever face Toshiro-san again for wasting one of his masterpieces.

“Oh! That reminds me,” Wuyang said, gently resting his hand on Mizuki’s prosthetic arm. “Do you need me to heal your arm? It can’t be feeling too good after taking the full brunt of my staff and our fall.”

“It’s fine. Really. You should heal up your own leg instead,” Mizuki said, eyes settling on the staff half-settled in his lap. A golden turtle-like creature adorned it, face resembling his own Youkai mask. “What’s this?”

“That's Xuanwu, one of the Four Guardians in Chinese mythology. It’s like a mix of a tortoise and a snake.”

“Oh, I see. We call it the Genbu here in Japan.”

“It’s cool, right?” Wuyang grinned. “My best friend Ming made this staff for me. It’s based on the fire staves used at my university, but designed to work with nanobiotic water instead. He thought Xuanwu would be a fun motif for it.”

“It’s funny,” Mizuki murmured. “One of the other Youkai made me a kasa — a, uh, traditional hat — and a mask based on the Kappa. What’s with our friends and turtles, man?”

Wuyang laughed, bringing to Mizuki’s mind thoughts of shrine bells, shide, and rainfall. Hm.

There was no time to dwell on such thoughts, as his name rang out in a familiar voice. At the end of the alleyway, Kiriko waved the moment their eyes met. The suit she had rented was still in pristine condition, something Mizuki was sure he’d never live down. Behind her was a woman he assumed was Wuyang’s sister Anran, dressed in an orange cocktail dress that seemed a bit impractical for an infiltration.

“There you are!” Anran said, rushing forward to scoop Wuyang into a hug. “I was so worried about you. Are you hurt at all?”

“Anraan,” Wuyang mumbled into her shoulder. “Please, put me down.”

“Oh!” Anran let him down, frowning at Wuyang’s wince when his injured leg met the alleyway. Mizuki was sure Anran was about to start motherhenning, when he noticed her focus flicker between Wuyang’s face and Mizuki. A sick grin formed on her face. “You’re blushing! Embarrassed by your big sister?”

The pair exchanged a few more quips in Mandarin, with Anran’s smile scrunching up her entire face and the red flushed across Wuyang’s ears glowing in the streetlights. Kiriko caught his eye, jerking her head away from the siblings.

“What happened back there, Mizuki?” Kiriko asked in Japanese. “You should've bailed the moment you realized you weren't alone. Your safety is more important than that data.”

“I know. I fucked up. I'll be the first one to admit that.” Mizuki wished he had his kasa, so he could dip it down over his eyes. He settled on averting them. “But, Kiriko, I found something big in Ms. Aria’s system.”

Kiriko’s brows knit together. “We’ll go over it back at the shop.” She glanced back at the siblings. “What are we gonna do about them?”

“Wuyang helped me get what data I could. The least we could do is get them a copy.” Mizuki dug his teeth into his cheek, desperate to quell the murmur of spirits in the recesses of his mind. “Having Overwatch on our side can't hurt, right?”

“Anran was really nice…” Kiriko mumbled. The two shared a silent nod.

It was odd, having strangers inside the Youkai hideout. Despite being in the center of Kanezaka, no one had yet discovered the place. Nobuto’s cousin owned the tailor’s shop downstairs, even making bespoke suits for members of the Hashimoto. Mizuki had taken care not to leak the location of the hideout to the elders, always reporting that they met in different places every time.

Otherwise, it was possible the planned strike against the Youkai would have far greater consequences than just their deaths. Everyday citizens caught in the crossfire, local businesses torched to the ground.

Mizuki settled on the ratty old couch, hair damp from washing the gel out at the sink. Wuyang was sitting on the other end of it, posture stiff like he'd never been allowed to sit a day in his life. Anran was relaxed against the kitchenette, heels kicked off at the door and elaborate updo undone. Kiriko tapped away at Chikasa’s laptop, bringing up the files on their projector.

“Most of what I found was small fry shit,” Mizuki said. “But Kiriko, click on that one there.”

“What the—” Kiriko’s expression fell as her gaze frantically flicked through the data and the plans. “They know so much about us. We…”

“What's going on?” Anran asked.

“The Hashimoto…” Kiriko trailed off before steeling herself, fists clenched at her sides. “Have scheduled the Youkai’s execution a week from now.”

The siblings shared a frantic look.

“It says they plan on abducting our loved ones — one for each of us — over the next few days. When all six have been gathered, they'll send us a ransom,” Mizuki said. The idea was beyond horrifying to him, but he also wondered who the Hashimoto could possibly abduct in his ‘honor.’ He'd kept everyone but the Youkai themselves at a distance. “If we don’t all go to the meeting place, they’ll kill them.”

“It's a deathtrap,” Kiriko said, shaking her head. “It’s either us or our family, our friends.”

“That's horrible,” Anran said. “I'm so sorry, Kiriko. You too, Mizuki.”

“Yeah,” Wuyang added, eyes glued to the staff in his lap and fingers fidgeting with it.

“At least we have time to prepare ourselves. That's our one consolation,” Kiriko said. “Here, let me get you guys your copy of the data. Hopefully Overwatch can continue our fight after we're gone.”

“Woah, woah, woah,” Anran said, practically stomping forward. Kiriko’s eyes widened as Anran gripped her shoulder. “We’ll send the data back to base, sure, but there's no way Wuyang and I are leaving now. Overwatch never turns its back on its allies!”

Except when it does. Like Dr. Zhou’s colleagues in Antarctica. Like the civilians slaughtered in Tahiti. Mizuki kept his mouth shut. Anran believed in her convictions, that much was true. 

“You mean that?” Kiriko exhaled, eyes closing. There was a long pause as she relaxed her shoulders, easing out the anxiety she did her best to conceal from the younger Youkai. “We can't thank you enough, really.”

“We’ll do our best!” Wuyang flashed Mizuki a smile, pairing it with a thumbs up. Cringey. But, also, kinda cute. 

“I better call up Winston to let him know we’re staying!” Anran said, fishing her phone out. She stepped out for a moment, nothing more than an unintelligible murmur on the other side of the hideout door.

“What a fucking mess. Excuse my French, Wuyang,” Kiriko said, flopping down into a beanbag chair. Her scrawny limbs spread out like a dried up starfish — exhausted and ready to crumble into dust at the next possible inconvenience. 

“But you're speaking Eng—” Wuyang stopped. “Figure of speech. Right.”

“We’ll need to tell the others,” Mizuki said.

“I know, I know.” Kiriko’s eyes clenched shut. “Tomorrow. After Ryouta’s done with his shift and… shit… Sakura’s swim meet. I told her I could make it this time.”

“Relax. You can still go. Hell, maybe you can warn Sakura’s brother to stay vigilant for the next week while you're there. He'll definitely listen to his favorite shrine maiden.” Mizuki held his hands together, batting his lashes in Kiriko’s direction. 

“You're so annoying.” Kiriko scowled.

Wuyang laughed, startling both of them. “You two are just like siblings. It's hilarious.”

“No, we’re not!” They said in unison before sharing a horrified glance. 

The door creaked back open as Anran rejoined them, tucking her phone into her bag. She clapped her hands together in front of her chest, spine going straight. A big smile. “So! Winston agreed to let us stay. He would also like to formally invite the Youkai to visit HQ and discuss an official partnership when this is all over.”

“It'll probably just be Mizuki and I,” Kiriko said. “Our other members have too many responsibilities here to slip away, even for a weekend.”

“Yeah, whatever works for you guys!”

What worked for Mizuki was avoiding getting dragged into the lion’s den altogether. At least with the Youkai he was only surrounded by five enemies at any given time. Half of them were too stressed by tests and papers to notice his erratic-at-times behavior. Overwatch, however, consisted of some of the brightest minds and keenest agents this world has ever known. His cover wouldn't last a minute.

“Why do I feel like there's a ‘but’ here?” Wuyang asked.

“Well…” Anran rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet. “Since it’s so last minute and late, Winston can't arrange a safe house for us tonight. I was wondering if you guys had… anywhere we could stay? Just for tonight, promise!”

“Yeah, sure. I can bunk one of you in my extra room. I take it you two don't have any spare clothes, right?” At the siblings’ head shake, Kiriko continued, “then Anran can stay with me. We’re about the same size.”

“You're the best! Thanks Kiriko.”

“And, I'm sure Mizuki would be happy to let Wuyang crash on his pullout couch. Right, Mizuki?” 

Mizuki pressed down on his eyes with the heels of his palms, stars dotting his darkened vision. A complete stranger sleeping in his apartment? He'd rather go to the dentist. Or his Hashimoto debriefings. Even his— Don't be so ridiculous. Wuyang would invade his space for a singular night. Not even twelve hours. It would be a dick move if he refused. 

“Yeah, yeah, he can stay with me.”

With most of the Hashimoto still at the gala, the late night streets of Kanezaka were peaceful. The faint breeze was cool on Mizuki’s skin, rustling scattered leaves and tinkling wind chimes. A quiet only interrupted by the sound of Wuyang’s voice and the familiar thrum of spirits digging into the back of Mizuki’s mind.

“I've never been to Japan before, even though we’re practically neighbors!” Wuyang said. “I was so excited when Commander Chase gave us this mission, so it was a bit disappointing that we were supposed to leave immediately. But now we can stay! We’ll be busy of course, but maybe I can squeeze in some sightseeing. Hm, I'll have to get some recommendations—”

Mizuki opted to just let him ramble, chiming in with the occasional mhm and yeah. It was hard to focus on Wuyang’s words, not when his brain felt like it was underwater.

He was well and truly fucked. 

There was no winning.

If he hadn't leaked the plans, Kiriko and the others would be killed. People he… people he cared about lost to the curse that stole everyone from him. Perhaps he would be another step closer to wiping away his debt with that mission, but at what cost?

By leaking the plans, he'd given the Youkai a chance to fight back at the cost of his own safety. If they survive the upcoming attack, the elders will know he was the one at fault. He paid an unspeakable price last time he made a mistake like this. Mizuki would be lying to himself if he said he wasn't terrified. 

Would it be like last time?

Strapped to that chair, a river of tears flowing down his face as excruciating pain screamed through his nervous system. Peaking, peaking, peaking until the world went black.

Another piece of himself lost?

There was a hint of iron in his mouth, blood where he'd bitten down on the same tender spot on his cheek he’d been abusing all evening. Desperate to calm his breathing, to avoid falling over the edge into a panic attack. Something, anything to ground him.

Grrro.

Mizuki blinked. The streets of Kanezaka came rushing back to him. Cool breeze, soft lights.

“Oh!” Wuyang laughed — loud, bright. “Was that my stomach? I guess I did only manage to snag a few hors d’oeuvres at the gala.”

“Mm. I know a place nearby where we can stop for dinner,” Mizuki said. “Open late, thankfully.”

“We don't need to do all that, it's fine! I'll stop at the next konbini and buy a cup of noodles to eat at your pl—”

“No.” Mizuki cringed at how firm his voice was, even though he meant it. Not in his apartment. There would never be another mountain of paper cups to throw out. Tears in his eyes as he cleaned, knowing his father would never come home again. Not again. Never again. “I… mean, no, I insist. It's your first time in Japan, lemme treat you to a good meal.”

With no further complaints, they continued on to the cozy izakaya around the corner from Mizuki’s apartment. It was late enough that most of the businessmen had left already, leaving a few scattered patrons nursing their drinks. Thankfully, Mizuki’s favorite table was free — one able to get a clear shot of the front door, but not in the natural line of sight of anyone coming through it. 

“Oh, it’s… all in Japanese,” Wuyang said as he looked over the handwritten menu.

“Well, yeah, tourists don’t usually come to this part of the city anymore.” Mizuki tapped his thumb against the table, eyes fixed on the door. “We got on one of those Worst Neighborhoods in Tokyo lists a few years back.”

“Why? Kanezaka seems so nice!”

“Organized crime and gang violence alone would be enough to send them running,” Mizuki said. “But it also doesn’t help that Yamagami Blades shut down. Kiriko said there used to always be tourists checking it out, hoping to snag a masterpiece.”

Wuyang’s brows knit in thought. “Does that mean you’re not a local?”

“Nah, I’m from Fukuoka. Down south. All that shit doesn’t matter to me as long as the rent’s cheap.” Mizuki shrugged. “‘Sides, at least our shrine’s still nice.”

“What brought you to Toky—oh, shoot, I didn't get a chance to translate the menu,” Wuyang said, startling when the server appeared. Her timing was impeccable — saving him from one of the many questions he hadn't found a good answer for yet.

“My usual,” Mizuki told the server in Japanese, flashing her his driver’s license. More of a formality than anything else as a frequent patron. In the corner of his vision, Wuyang seemed keenly fixated on Mizuki's face. “Hm. And for him? Sapporo. Plus, whatever nabemono is on special.” He swapped back to English to add, “show her your ID.”

“Wuh?” Wuyang's focus snapped, replaced by a flush across his cheeks. “I um… I don't have it with me. Anran said we— Not important. Why does she need to see my ID?”

“I ordered a round of beer.”

“Ugh, that sounds so good right now.” Wuyang’s lips parted in a sigh before he slumped back against the izakaya wall. “Even if I had it, I'd still be screwed. I'm only nineteen.”

“Wow. You're a baby.”

“Hey!” Wuyang whined.

“I'll let you have a sip of mine. Just don't let the waitress see,” Mizuki said, donning his best conspiratorial smile. He quickly turned to the server. “Water for him, then.”

As they waited for their food, Wuyang filled the time rambling about his and Anran's flight from Overwatch’s base to the local drop ship port. Though he wasn't too interested in hearing about how the field rations passed off as airplane food tasted, comments about Overwatch’s base piqued his interest. Everyone knew the watchpoint at Gibraltar was the base of new Overwatch before Talon attacked. But as far as Mizuki knew, no one in the Hashimoto was aware of their current hideaway.

Maybe if worse came to worse, Mizuki could use any exclusive knowledge about Overwatch as leverage. Save himself from the elders’ wrath. But… yet another terrible cost. Letting Hashimoto — no, Talon — get their hands on that information would cause senseless bloodshed. A waste. The spirits would never be appeased by the blood of strangers. Only his loved ones. Only his own.

He cleared the thoughts away with a sip of ice cold beer, opting to focus on the young man across the table instead. Wuyang was quite animated — expressive brown eyes and brows, statements punctuated by gestures, excitement and disappointment clearly coloring his words. His shoulder length hair, once smooth at the gala, had gotten wavier and fuller as the humidity of the evening took over. Both ears were pierced, wearing simple gold studs that mirrored the silver in his own. A hint of a necklace could be seen beneath his suit collar. He really was quite attractive. 

Mizuki bit the inside of his lip, eyes averting to the izakaya door. Stupid.

“...at least, that's what Genji told me would happen. In reality— oh!” Wuyang’s face lit up, excitedly clapping as the server set a still bubbling stoneware pot before him. “This smells incredible! Xièxie!”

“Can't go wrong with nabemono,” Mizuki said as his own usual — fried horse mackerel — was placed on the table. He pressed his hands together, letting his forehead touch the tips of his fingers. An exhale. “Itadakimasu.”

“You can have some of mine, if you'd like.” Wuyang wore a kind-hearted smile. “Anran and I always eat family style cause neither of us can ever decide what to eat.”

Mizuki set his piece of fish down before pointing his chopsticks at Wuyang. “Is this your way of saying you wanna try my aji fry?”

“Well…”

“Fine,” Mizuki said, nudging the plate closer to the middle. He had no real interest in Wuyang's nabemono — his diet skewed pescetarian — but made a show of snagging a bamboo shoot from the top of the pot.

Wuyang dove in — slurping noodles, grinning before shoving thin sliced beef into his mouth, and stealing sips of Mizuki’s beer. It felt like watching a puppy. Eager.

“Is that a good thing?” Wuyang mumbled when Mizuki voiced his thoughts, mouth full of shiitake mushroom.

Mizuki shrugged. “It's kinda charming.”

“Oh.” A flush spread across Wuyang’s cheeks, bashful as he returned his focus to his hot pot.

Mizuki clenched his teeth as he unlocked the front door of his apartment. He opened it slowly, letting out a sigh of relief that the piece of paper he slipped into the door frame fell to the floor. No one broke in while he was away. Satisfied, he pushed it the rest of the way — the suzu that hung from the back of the handle chiming. 

He slipped off his dress shoes, setting them neatly on the genkan floor. On the cabinet beside the door, his kusarigama sat right where he left it — glowing a faint teal in the dark. When he turned on the light, Wuyang inhaled a little breath.

“It's nothin’ special, I know,” Mizuki said. He shed the suit jacket, stealing a frown at the rips in the back. 

“No, no! I love it,” Wuyang said. His focus flicked from one thing another, like a too small apartment in a grimy building was a part of his carefully planned dream Japan itinerary. “I didn't expect it to be so neat! Uh… no offense.”

Neat? 

His main living area was cramped, with room enough for a tiny kitchen, a pullout couch, and a television pressed against the wall. Charms and amulets dotted the space, a desperate attempt at keeping his apartment a safe place from the spirits. He had brought very few personal belongings to Kanezaka with him, leaving the apartment feeling otherwise bland and without character. It was difficult to justify putting much work into the aesthetics when he could be recalled by the Hashimoto at any time. But, he supposed he did keep everything clean. 

“Mm. As long as you're comfortable, I guess,” Mizuki mumbled. He wasn't particularly sure how to be a good host. The younger Youkai boys crashed here occasionally, but for the most part the pullout couch was for himself. For the nights his skin crawled, brain conjuring vivid nightmares of enemies infiltrating his apartment and slaughtering him in his own bed. A change of scenery and a view of the door kept those nightmares at bay. “The couch is for you. If you can't get it to pull out, give it a kick.”

“Sounds good!” Wuyang set his staff against the wall, pausing to make sure it didn't tumble over before he stepped away. Mizuki watched as Wuyang removed his own jacket, eyes settling on the way his biceps could not be tamed by the pale blue button up he wore beneath it. “Do you have some clothes I can borrow? Just to sleep in.”

“Yeah, I'm sure I got somethin’ in my room that'll fit you,” Mizuki said, jerking his head in the direction of his bedroom door. Before opening it, he tapped his knuckles against the wood — a tiny ritual he couldn't explain. He cast a side glance at his PC tucked into the corner, grateful for his clean freak tendencies. The last thing he needed was Wuyang seeing any incriminating evidence.

The bottom drawer of his secondhand dresser had what Mizuki was looking for — a shirt a size or two bigger than his own and a pair of black sweats. He tossed them to Wuyang, who hovered near his bed. 

“‘Waseda University,’” Wuyang said, holding up the shirt. “Is that where you went to school?”

“Me? No. I didn't go to college,” Mizuki said, leaning on the edge of his bed. “I think that's Nobuto's. He studied nanoengineering at Waseda for two semesters before crashing out.”

“Oh. So they're not your clothes.” 

“Eh?”

“Nevermind,” Wuyang said. As he unbuttoned his shirt, Mizuki got a glimpse of the muscles concealed by the gala wear. Biceps that dwarfed his own, more abdominal muscles than he knew existed, and well trained pecs underlined by familiar scars. A jade necklace sat in the hollow of his throat. “Nobuto is one of the Youkai, right?”

Mizuki’s focus snapped away from Wuyang’s body — stop ogling, you freak — to the question. What was Wuyang’s angle here? Fishing for information while Mizuki seemed vulnerable? Did he really think Mizuki was that naive?

“Yeah,” Mizuki said, giving the bait a tiny nibble. As with his briefings with the Hashimoto, he would keep his answers scant. 

“Are you guys…” Wuyang slipped the Waseda shirt on — a tad tight on his built arms but the right size elsewhere. “Together?”

Mizuki blinked, then barked out a laugh. He let his back hit the bed, feeling his eyes water. 

“Hey! It's an honest question.”

“No.” Mizuki snorted. “Idiot just goes drinking at Tora no Sumika down the street while digging for Hashimoto intel. Most of the time he ends up drunk on my doorstep with not a drop of useful information and only the clothes on his back. So I made him keep some of his stuff here.”

“You're a bit of a softie, aren't you?” Wuyang said, unbuttoning his pants. Mizuki averted his eyes. 

“They're just kids. Even Kiriko,” Mizuki said, gloved hands fidgeting in his lap. A phantom itch lingered in his prosthetic fingers. He shouldn't care. But he did. “Someone needs to keep an eye on ‘em.”

“Aren't you my big sister’s age? You're a kid, too,” Wuyang laughed. The bed creaked as he sat beside him. “You two are gonna run yourselves into the ground, I swear.”

Movement in the corner of Mizuki's eye. An attack. Not here. He reacted — heart racing, prosthetic fingers grabbing, gloved metal digging into bare skin.

“Ow!”

Mizuki exhaled a sharp breath. It was just Wuyang. Trying to rest his hand on Mizuki’s shoulder. A kindness, a comfort, yet redness bloomed where Mizuki vise gripped his wrist. There'd be a bruise there in the morning, he already knew.

“Sorry, sorry,” Mizuki mumbled. 

Wuyang rubbed at his wrist, eyes on the floor. Yet, a small smile formed on his lips. “Proving my point, I suppose. Man, you're strong.”

The presence beside him overwhelmed him, like the walls of his microscopic room were caving in. He had to step away — away from Wuyang’s warmth, boiling his blood. Forehead pressed against the wall, Mizuki peeled off his leather gloves and slipped off his black button up. Chilled air caressed his skin, settling his nerves. 

“Oh, so that's how he tanked the hit from my staff,” Wuyang whispered to himself, yet deafeningly loud in Mizuki’s ears. 

He flexed his prosthetic fingers, a faint whir as the chain coiled within shifted. Scratched his nails against the metal of his wrist and the access panel along his forearm. Finally, relief. 

When Mizuki’s heart slowed he turned, letting his back lean against the wall. Hand pressed to his chest, he breathed out a final low and slow breath.

“Hey, are you okay?” Wuyang asked. There was a tension in his body, like half of him wanted to be standing before Mizuki and the other half wanted to keep its distance. “I'm sorry I startled you.”

“It's not your fault,” Mizuki said. “I’m cursed. Have been my whole life.”

“Is… that how you lost your arm? Is it okay to ask that question?”

“I was a teenager. I had to make a decision between—” Mizuki paused, realizing he was about to tell Wuyang the truth. “It doesn't matter. I made the wrong choice. The spirits were pleased to take their pound of flesh.”

“Do you regret that decision?”

“Huh?”

“Knowing the result would be the same, would you do it again?”

It had been a woman and her young son that day. Caught in a gang skirmish they didn't belong in. The boy wasn't even old enough to start school yet, terror in his green eyes. The mother clutched him to her chest as gunfire roared around them. All Mizuki could think about was his own mother, what he could've done to stop her the day she died. To save her from the spirits. 

The boy needed his mother.

And now, the counterattack against the Youkai. They were a meddling gang of kids, troublemakers, but innocents with their whole lives ahead of them. He refused to let the spirits take them.

“Yes.”

“Then it wasn't the wrong choice at all!”

When he looked up, Wuyang was smiling. Eyes curved and crinkled. Overly optimistic. Disarming. Adorable. Mizuki closed his eyes, shoulders relaxing.

“Maybe you're right.”

It took Mizuki a moment to remember he wasn't alone in his apartment when he woke up. Tentative footsteps could be heard outside his bedroom door, those of a guest in an unfamiliar place awake before their host. Not quite sure where they were and weren't allowed to go, do, touch.

When he opened up his door, Wuyang was standing in front of a calligraphic scroll Mizuki had pinned above his bookcase. It was a yojijukugo — a four kanji idiom: 明鏡止水. A mind as serene as still water. To Mizuki, it was a reminder, an aspiration, a foolish hope.

“Míngjìng zhishuǐ,” Wuyang said, turning his head in Mizuki’s direction. A smile. “A clear mirror, still water?”

“Meikyou shisui,” Mizuki said, heading into his tiny kitchen area. “A mind undisturbed by evil thoughts.”

“I like it! It’s nice being able to understand something for once,” Wuyang said. He perked up as Mizuki handed him a glass of water. “Did you sleep well?”

“I…” Mizuki paused, finger resting on the open button for his rice cooker. Sleep had come surprisingly easy to him the night before. After Wuyang went to bed, Mizuki changed, washed his face, cleaned his teeth, and was lulled to sleep by the sound of the light rail train rumbling in the distance. No voices, no spirits, no nightmares. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

“Yes!” Wuyang thrust his fist in the air, a gleeful smile on his face. “I feel great, too. If I had my sneakers, I'd probably go for a run after breakfast. Which, by the way…”

“Don’t worry about it.” Mizuki scooped out two bowls of rice, kept warm in his rice cooker since breakfast the day before. For protein, he still had leftover grilled salmon in the fridge. All he needed to make was some miso soup. “Just give me a few.”

“Do you mind if I call my sister? I can step outside if it'd disturb you too much.”

“Nah, go ahead.”

Wuyang kneeled down at Mizuki's table before fishing his phone out of his borrowed sweatpants pocket — a brand new and unbelievably expensive holophone. Mizuki snorted, too quiet for Wuyang to hear. His own personal phone was secondhand, cracked, and could barely run sudoku. It was best not to mention the Hashimoto burner he kept stashed away.

A holographic video of Anran’s upper body was projected above Wuyang’s phone. She had her hair pulled back into a wild ponytail and was wearing a shirt from Kiriko’s favorite donut shop. The siblings shared an excitable wave before diving into their conversation.

“Is Mizuki there right now?” Anran said, switching to English. 

Mizuki had just finished portioning out the miso soup and was moving everything to the table. “Yo.”

“Okay, cool! So, I heard from Winston this morning. The safe house isn't gonna be set up until after our meeting with the Youkai tonight. So we kinda have the whole day to kill,” Anran said. “Kiri’s gonna show me some of her favorite neighborhoods for shopping if you two wanna come along. That shirt is a little too tight on you, Wuyang.”

Wuyang crossed his arms over his chest, mouth hanging open in faux indignance. “Anran!”

“I’ll pass. Shopping isn't my thing,” Mizuki said.

“It's ‘cause he's broke,” Kiriko said in the distance. She wasn't wrong, though it also didn't help that Kiriko's favorite shops were riotous messes of colors amidst throngs of people crammed into small spaces with loud music thrumming over the speakers. Overstimulating, unsafe.

“Mm, I don't think I wanna go either,” Wuyang said. “Text me if you find something I'd like though!”

“Cool, no worries,” Anran said. “Did you guys plan something already?”

Wuyang glanced at Mizuki, a puppylike curiosity in those big brown eyes. Mizuki sighed. “Yeah, maybe I'll show him around Kanezaka.”

“Have fun,” Kiriko said, a dash of mischief in her tone. Mizuki knew she was up to no good. “You definitely should take him to you-know-where behind Tetsuzan Shrine for a lil fun.”

Mizuki rolled his eyes. 

“Anyway. We’re gonna head out soon, so we’ll catch you guys at the meeting tonight,” Anran said, waving goodbye. “Later!”

“Kiriko, one more thing,” Mizuki called out in Japanese before Anran hung up. “Make sure to feed her something other than donuts, ‘kay?”

“Shut up, Mizuki,” Kiriko responded in English.

“Like I mentioned, Kanezaka isn't all that exciting to visit,” Mizuki said, tucking his black face mask under his chin to take a sip of his iced americano. They made a pit stop at the cafe on the first floor of his apartment building before venturing out into the city. Wuyang had an enormous milk tea with a complicated combination of ingredients that Mizuki couldn't even repeat at gunpoint. At least he seemed happy chewing away at the gummy blue boba. “Maybe if we're lucky we’ll walk into a gang fight and get to kick some ass.”

“I hope not,” Wuyang said. “I don't have my staff.”

Mizuki’s eyes shifted to the man beside him. Sleeves tight across biceps, a sliver of abs above his waistband. A snort. “If you couldn't throw a half decent punch with a body like that, I'd be embarrassed for you.”

“Sure, but don't they usually have guns? If one of us got shot…”

“Wuyang,” Mizuki said, lowering his voice. He settled his hand on Wuyang’s shoulder. Brown eyes met his own, concern etched deep. “I was kidding. The Hashimoto have full control over this area — not counting the Youkai’s activities. There's no other gang dumb enough to infringe on their territory and the Enforcer puts an end to any ambitious individual upstarts.”

“The Enforcer?” Wuyang’s voice was nothing more than a whisper.

“Asa-san,” Mizuki responded. “She's like an onryou — a vengeful ghost — haunting Kanezaka. It's a wonder she hasn't destroyed the Youkai already. I'm sure she knows more about us than she lets on.”

“Is it possible she's the one orchestrating the kidnapping?”

“Nah, Kiriko's got some intel of some kind on her. Kidnapping isn't her style,” Mizuki said. Not to mention, he knew the truth. Yamagami Asa was blackmailed into working for the Hashimoto, using her husband’s imprisonment as a leash. Toshiro-san spoke fondly of his wife, believing her sense of justice kept her from harming innocents. “Well, I guess our timing is perfect. Here’s Asa-san’s old place.”

Before them sat the closed Yamagami Blades building. The blacksmithy dated back to before the Meiji Restoration, the art of weapon-making passed down from generation to generation. Since Toshiro-san’s ‘disappearance,’ it had been shut down. Mizuki wasn't around when it was still operating, but Nobuto spent a lot of time lingering around the smithy as a child. He was fascinated, telling Toshiro-san that he wanted to apprentice with him when he was older. That never happened, of course, but it was what encouraged Nobuto to craft tools like Mizuki's kasa and Sakura’s uchiwa.

“Wanna go inside?” Mizuki asked, grinning at Wuyang.

“What? We can?”

“Just don't let anyone see,” Mizuki said. He scaled the wooden fence with ease, having done it countless times over his tenure with the Youkai. He straddled the top, stretching his hand out to Wuyang. “And don't fall this time.”

“Aye! Aye!” Wuyang did a little hop to get one hand on top of the fence, using Mizuki's hand as a foothold to propel himself upward. Much easier without that bulky staff. The pair dropped down on the other side of the fence. “Oh!”

The backside of the smithy had a small garden overgrown with weeds, a stockpile of mossy wood that once kept the fires burning, and a courtyard where the Yamagami family tested their blades for centuries. Beneath the large black pine was a small sitting area, shaded from the morning sun but with a perfect shot of the sky.

“We come here often to train,” Mizuki said. “You might not be able to tell, but there’s a sound blocking barrier around the garden. Plus, there’s plenty of room to move around back here.”

“This is perfect. Maybe we can spar together before the mission. I really wanna see—” Wuyang wore a sheepish grin on his lips. “I mean, if we’re gonna work together it’d help if I was familiar with your fighting style.”

“Mhm, sure,” Mizuki said. “C’mon, let’s go inside.”

The inside of Toshiro-san’s former workshop always made him sad. His current setup at the Hashimoto headquarters was minuscule compared to Yamagami Blades, far too cramped and dark for a genius to work. It was easy to imagine Toshiro-san in this airy workshop, hammering away at expertly folded steel and singing his favorite show tunes. His joy and pride intertwined to form his anima masterpieces. Now, a thick layer of dust covered everything. 

His hand found his hip, where his kusarigama was strapped and concealed beneath his jacket. How much more powerful would it be if Toshiro-san wasn’t forced into servitude under the Hashimoto? Would it compare to the legendary Storm Bow? Mizuki sighed. It still meant the world to him that he trusted Mizuki enough to wield it.

“Ming would lose his mind if he saw this place,” Wuyang said, walking through the workshop. He kept his hands to himself, polite not to touch anything. “No wonder tourists used to come to Kanezaka to visit.”

“I wish I got to see it in action,” Mizuki said.

“Maybe some day.”

Mizuki bit his cheek, a faint burst of iron on his tongue. Even if Toshiro-san was one day released or rescued, Mizuki had his doubts he’d be around to see it. If he survived his mission to Kanezaka, the guilt that clawed at his throat would stop him from ever coming back. And that was being optimistic. He knew his days were numbered, whether it was from the curse or the elders finally putting him down.

“Yeah, maybe.”

After slipping out of Yamagami Blades, they continued their wander about old Kanezaka. Wuyang hung on Mizuki’s every word about the town’s many nooks and crannies. The convenience store with the nicest cashiers who saved the discounted expiring bentos for him. The piercing shop who gave him a two for one deal when he got his cartilage done after the Youkai helped them out. The takoyaki stand who always put extra octopus in his order because they knew Mizuki only ate seafood.

“I think it’s time for a snack,” Wuyang said, fanning himself with his hand. As the day grew hotter, Wuyang had pulled his long hair back into a messy half-bun. The now-exposed traps of Wuyang's neck were hard for Mizuki to tear his eyes away from. He felt like a scrawny toothpick in comparison with his own lean muscle. “Sweets?”

“There’s a food truck Kiriko and Sakura are obsessed with between here and the shrine,” Mizuki said, tugging his ball cap off and ruffling his damp bangs. He'd kill for a cool breeze right about now, sweat clinging to his skin long after shedding his jacket. “God, I hope they have ice cream.”

It only took a few minutes to come across a bright pink and teal food truck, advertising crepes in a bubbly font. Wax food models of a billion different crepe fillings lined a large window with cute handwritten signs and clever nicknames.

“Oh, I don't know,” Wuyang said. “There's too many combos.”

“Sakura usually gets… hm. This one.” Mizuki pointed at one named Ocean Moon featuring a base of sea salt ice cream studded with blueberries and slivered almonds, a shot of whipped cream, and drizzled with salted caramel. “Kiriko’s order would send the average person to the dentist, so out of the kindness of my heart I'll keep that to myself.”

“That’s totally fine. I don't like super sweet things anyway. So, Ocean Moon sounds perfect.” Wuyang found it on the display before flashing Mizuki an excited smile. “There's little fish sprinkles!”

Mizuki let out a low snort. He went ahead and ordered for both of them. Ocean Moon for Wuyang and a monstrosity known as Mt. Choco for himself, featuring mint ice cream, brownie ‘boulders’, chocolate chips, and a drizzle of ganache. Though he went to dig his credit card out of his pocket, he was beaten to the punch by Wuyang tapping his phone against the reader. A triumphant grin crossed his face, as if Mizuki would say no to free crepes. 

“Do you wanna try some of mine?” Wuyang said, holding his crepe out to Mizuki. “If you don't want to, that's cool, too. Don't have to say yeah just for my sake. Since, you, uh, didn't have any of my nabemono last night, after all.”

Why did he sound so nervous?

“Oh, I just don't eat beef,” Mizuki said, chewing a bit of brownie. “I'm a pescetarian.”

“Wait, that makes so much sense,” Wuyang said. They swapped their crepes, with Wuyang taking the first tentative bite. His face twisted. “Oh, ooh, eugh.”

“Too sweet, still?”

“Lotta chocolate. Wow. Woof.”

Mizuki took a bite of Wuyang’s. Though the blueberries were fresh and snappy in his teeth, the sea salt ice cream made him flinch. The combination of salty and sweet reminded him of summer days by Hakata Bay — sea breeze, fresh fruit, and a sharp tang. Blood on the tongue, a thrash in the water.

A hand found his shoulder and his eyes blinked open, the blackness of the memory blinded by bright white. He was back in Kanezaka, melted ice cream dripping down his prosthetic and onto the stone path. Wuyang was before him, brows raised in concern. “Mizuki, are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah,” Mizuki said with a shaky breath. He rested his hand over Wuyang’s, chasing the touch for a fleeting scrap of comfort. Fingers curled around his own. Warm. “Sorry. Bad case of deja vu.”

“Deja vu? It looked like a panic attack.”

“No, never,” Mizuki murmured.

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Wuyang said, squeezing his hand. “You don’t need to be ashamed.”

Mizuki stole a moment for himself, pressing his back against the wall and letting his chest settle into a steady rhythm. There was no point in hiding it from Wuyang. If anything, his presence helped. It was hard to break free of the spirits on his own once they’ve taken hold, but Wuyang’s gentle aura seemed to soothe them.

“We can go back to your apartment, if you want?” Wuyang said.

“It’s… it’s okay. Let’s go to Tetsuzan Shrine. It’s… peaceful there,” Mizuki said. 

“Okay. If anything else happens, we’re heading straight back. Deal?”

“Yeah, deal.”

Throughout the entire walk to Tetsuzan Shrine, a gentle hand was pressed between Mizuki’s shoulder blades. A chain tethering himself in the real world, when the spirits so desperately wanted to drag him away. 

Wuyang filled the silence with a lighthearted story from his first semester at Wuxing University — some foolishness he and Ming got into. A nice distraction, with no expectations of a response from Mizuki.

Tetsuzan Shrine’s torii stretched above the pathway, gleaming a bright red. Kiriko had bribed Nobuto and Ryouta into helping her repaint it a few months back — one could get those boys to do just about anything if you fed them enough. Outside of a few older folks in Kanezaka who pitched in here and there, most of the shrine maintenance fell on Kiriko’s and the other Youkai’s shoulders. 

“Follow me,” Mizuki said, leading Wuyang to the small water pavilion. “We have to purify ourselves of kegare before we can properly go in.”

“Kegare?”

“Pollution of the soul,” Mizuki said. “A shrine is a holy place, so we must leave behind the filth we've collected.”

“Oh, like dryer lint!”

“...Sure.” Mizuki shook his head, unable to stop a tiny smile. “Follow my lead.”

He lifted the ladle from the water pavilion with his right hand and poured it over his prosthetic hand. 

I wash away Hakata Bay, I wash away the blood on my fingertips.

Then, swapped hands to pour on his right. The water was cool and soothing on his skin.

I wash away the Hashimoto, I wash away the inevitable truth.

Another swap, pouring water into his cupped prosthetic hand and drawing it into his mouth.

I wash away my broken heart, I wash away the Youkai’s trust.

After spitting the water in his mouth onto the ground, Mizuki let the remaining water flow down the ladle and back into the basin.

I thank the water for cleansing me. Please take care of Wuyang.

He set the ladle back down before giving Wuyang an encouraging nod to begin.

“Do you… pray in your mind, or something?” Wuyang’s hand hovered over the ladle. “I don't know any.”

“Just… think about your regrets, your anxieties, your thanks. Form them in your mind and let them be carried by the flowing water. Washed away,” Mizuki said. “Even if just for a little bit.”

Oh, how he wished it could be forever.

Wuyang was tense at first, but his spine relaxed as he went through the four steps. When he finally set the ladle on the rack, a smile had settled on his lips.

“That almost felt like nanobiotic water healing.” Wuyang held his chin in thought. “I wonder if there's a similar traditional ritual back home that inspired the founders of Wuxing University to develop Water College as a medical school. I'll have to do some research.”

“File that away for later. It's time for you to see the sanctuary.”

The chittering of birds and animals bounced around the trees that loomed over the shrine grounds. Loud enough to keep away the distant rumble of cars and trains, but gentle enough to be a sweet melody instead of an uproarious cacophony. A light breeze rustled through the trees, twinkling the shrine bells hanging from the branches.

They came to a stop behind the main shrine area at an unpainted wooden gate tucked into the wall, carved with a fox. A lock kept the door fastened shut, but being best friends with the head shrine maiden had its perks. Mizuki unlocked it, gesturing for Wuyang to go first.

A gasp. Mizuki smiled.

Pink-toned purple wisteria blossoms danced along trellises on either side of them, leading to a babbling pond and a rocky ledge. Above them sat Shimada Castle, shining from its high perch and sparkling with blooming cherry blossoms. Below them stretched the rest of the city, distant and cold to Kanezaka’s intimate warmth. In the distance, the sun kissed the top of Fuji-san in its slow journey back to the horizon.

Mizuki laid the jacket tied around his waist on the rocks, gesturing for Wuyang to sit before following himself. 

“How on earth do you just happen to have a key to this place?”

“I didn't tell you? Kiriko’s the shrinekeeper,” Mizuki said. “All of us have a copy for emergencies. Or, well, any reason, as long as we don't make more work for her in the process.”

“Oh, is this the place she was talking about this morning? Why was she so weird about it? It’s beautiful here.”

“Ah, uh, yeah,” Mizuki said. He didn't realize Wuyang remembered that. “Not naming any names but someone likes to take her girlfriends back here to make out with. It's just a chill place for the rest of us.”

A long silence stretched between them, Wuyang’s hands curled in his lap. Mizuki expected a nervous comment about kissing or questions about Kiriko’s job at the shrine, but he was dead wrong.

“Are you feeling better now?”

Soft brown eyes were on him, knees tucked up to his chin. Mizuki was suddenly hyper aware of the minuscule space between their shoulders. The twitch of fingers that had touched — been touched. A craving for comfort.

“Yeah.”

“For real this time?”

“Yes, yes,” Mizuki said. “Thanks… thanks for the help earlier. I don't usually…”

Yes, you do. 

“Like I said, there's no shame in it. I just hope I didn't trigger it somehow,” Wuyang said, hand meeting Mizuki’s upper arm. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No, I don't,” Mizuki said. But, he bit the inside of his mouth and sighed. “But, I will. A little. I was hit with the memories of the day my mother drowned. I was barely in elementary school at the time, watching her struggle in the waves before she disappeared below.”

“I'm so sorry, Mizuki.” Strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him into a tight hug. When was the last time? When she was still alive? His father? So many of the good memories were nothing more than a blur. “What was your favorite thing about your mom?”

Mizuki blinked. Most people tried to pry further or gave him useless platitudes about love and loss. He wasn't sure anyone had ever asked him about his mother as a person — her life and not her death. 

“She was brave,” Mizuki said. “No one cared about Fukuoka after the Omnic Crisis. Yet another coastal city out of hundreds decimated by the Colossus. But she was there. Left her comfortable home and moved across the world to help with recovery.”

“Caring and brave,” Wuyang murmured. “Just like yourself.”

“I'm a coward, Wuyang,” Mizuki said. “I'm nothing like her.”

“I bet if you said that in front of the Youkai at the meeting later, they'd all laugh in your face.” Wuyang grinned. “We all can see the true you, Mizuki.”

No. He cannot. They cannot.

“By the way, thanks for showing me around today,” Wuyang said, hand settling on Mizuki's back again.

Mizuki nodded, letting the noisy silence fade in. A distant car horn. A chattering fox scampering through the bushes. A koi splashing in the pond.

Yet, no spirits.

“This is it, then?” Sakura was pacing around the hideout, still dressed in her swim team jacket. Her bleach blonde hair had taken on a faint green cast from too much chlorine. “I thought we'd have more time.”

“Hey, we had a good run at least,” Nobuto said, tinkering with a smoke bomb at the table. His fingers were blackened with machine oil, a smear on his cheek. “We’ve put in damn good work.”

“I wish we knew who they were planning to kidnap,” Ryouta said from his spot by the window, arms crossed over his chest. “If it's any of my cousins, I think my aunt will kill me before the Hashimoto do.”

“Kiriko, is Shimada-san around?” Chikasa was typing away at her laptop, expression on her metal face as unreadable as ever. “Anran and Wuyang are a big help, but his experience would be invaluable.”

“Shimada-san?” Wuyang said, sitting on the couch beside Mizuki. “Do you mean Genji?”

“No, Hanzo. Genji’s older brother.” Kiriko didn't look up from the pile of scrap paper in front of her, scribbling away plans. “Sorry, Chikasa, he’s out of the country. Doing recon on Hashimoto inroads abroad. It's just the eight of us.”

“Could Overwatch send more agents? No way the Hashimoto would bother us if that talking gorilla was here,” Nobuto said.

“Winston said—” Anran started.

“Overwatch is weak. We all saw the news reports about Gibraltar last month,” Mizuki said, ignoring the bit of annoyance brewing between Anran’s eyebrows. “They can't spare the manpower when they're still reeling from the Talon strike. It's a miracle these two are even alive, much less here to help.”

“Good point,” Ryouta said.

“What I was trying to say…” Anran said, arms crossed over the donut on her borrowed shirt. “Winston will have a drop ship with one of our field medics on it nearby. That’ll ease some pressure after the mission in case of serious injuries. But… well, Mizuki is right. That's all they can spare for this mission.”

“That’ll have to be enough,” Kiriko said. “We've been kicking Hashimoto ass for years now. It's time to trust ourselves and our abilities.”

“Yeah!” Several of the Youkai called out.

“Tell all of your family and friends to be vigilant,” Nobuto chimed in. “No travelling alone, especially in dark or quiet places. Lock all their doors. Et cetera.”

“Keep up your training over the next week. This one's gonna get messy,” Kiriko said. “Any other concerns?”

The Youkai were silent, serious.

“Then the meeting is adjourned. Get some rest, ‘kay?”

“That goes for you, too,” Chikasa said, the lights of her eyes flickering with mischief. “Have you eaten a full square meal today, Kiriko? Or, a single vegetable. Any vegetable at all?”

Anran giggled, the only answer anyone needed to know.

“Anran told me the safe house is ready now,” Wuyang spoke softly, leaning towards Mizuki. The others were busy packing up their things and preparing to head back to their respective homes. “So, I guess we’ll be off soon.”

“Probably will be a hell of a lot more comfortable than my shitty apartment,” Mizuki said, resting his arm on the back of the couch.

“I'll miss the free breakfast, though.”

“Greedy.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Wuyang laughed, smile wide and eyes scrunched. “Would you… be down to train together tomorrow?”

“Oh, uh, sure.” Mizuki had planned on grabbing some food from the konbini and wallowing away in his apartment the entire day. Training with Wuyang was certainly better for his mental health. 

“Can I get your phone number?” Wuyang averted his eyes, a faint flush on the tips of his ears. “So we can work out a good time.”

Cute.

“Cursebreaker reporting,” Mizuki murmured into his burner phone from the safety of his living room.

“Welcome, Agent Cursebreaker,” the AI voice chirped. “Connecting to Agent R. Please hold.”

It was always those painfully slow minutes ticking by where Mizuki’s teeth clenched, fingers twitched, heart raced. Then, a click.

“Kawano, you're late.” All Mizuki knew about his handler was that she was a woman, high-ranking in the Hashimoto, and middle aged. “We received reports of a young woman matching the Kitsune’s description at Hayakawa Aria’s gala. And that she was accompanied by a young man with silver hair.”

Mizuki said nothing, waiting for Agent R to continue. 

“This is information I need to be hearing directly from you, Agent Kawano.” She clicked her tongue. “You are not a common goon. We need you to act like it.”

“Yes, ma’am, I understand,” Mizuki said, voice even. Agent R didn't react to things like emotions or feelings particularly well. “I called as soon as I was able. I would have been at risk of blowing my cover before now.”

“Understood. Report.”

“It is true that the Kitsune and I infiltrated the gala. The Youkai’s goal was to obtain secure Hashimoto files and plans in order to foil and subvert them. I volunteered to be the one to steal the data while the Kitsune kept watch. She and I left before we could steal any data. I lied to her, saying I’d run into trouble.”

“Good job,” Agent R said. “We believe there was still a data leak that evening due to the presence of Overwatch agents in the area. Members of the local branch reported seeing an Orca drop ship near Hanamura. Do you have any knowledge of this?”

“No, I do not.” Teeth, cheek, blood, tongue.

“Stay alert. If you encounter any member of Overwatch, you should eliminate them with extreme prejudice. The elders have told me that your debt to the Hashimoto would be considered paid in full if you brought them the head of an Overwatch agent. We are at war, Agent Kawano.”

“I understand,” Mizuki said. “Do you have a new mission for me?”

“Carry on as usual. But remember, I want to hear the report from you and not those Kanezaka numbskulls next time.”

“...” Mizuki swallowed around the knot building in his throat. “Yes, ma’am.”

The line went dead.

He set his burner on the table, lowering himself to the floor. Knees hitting vinyl, body curled tight. A haze to his mind, nausea in his gut. Cold palms pressed against his eyes, dull pain spiking through his system. He gagged on nothing, spit dripping down his chin.

Every single time. Every single call.

Mizuki sobbed as the spirits howled, a pack of wolves baying for blood. Thirteen years since they claimed their last victim. Starving for someone Mizuki cared about. Desperate.

And they were coming. His friends would die in a week. Their plan would fail, their blood would spill. There was nothing he could do about it.

Blue lights flickering before fading away. Shattered goggles crushed beneath a boot. A snapped sword fallen just out of reach. Blonde hair stained scarlet. Betrayal in brown eyes, snuffed out too soon.

Spirits preserve them, spirits preserve them, spirits preserve them.

He'd just about accepted his fate and slept in the fetal position on the living room floor, when he heard a chime. Mizuki lifted his head, pushing his hair out of his face. His eyes stung, throat hurt. Hunger bit at his stomach despite the nausea.

Another chime.

He used the couch to support himself as he got to his feet, fighting away the dizziness that threatened to bring him back down.

The screen of his personal phone glowed on the kitchen counter.

[23:47]
Ye Wuyang: thanks again for showing me around today
Ye Wuyang: seee ya tomorrow!!

He set it back down. 

A sigh. He needed to sleep.

The sun was already high in the sky when Mizuki met up with Wuyang inside the Yamagami Blades courtyard. He'd woken up that morning to his alarm and another text from Wuyang, this time suggesting they meet up at 8 AM. A throb of pain echoed in his skull from crying the night before and he promptly fell back asleep. Thankfully, Wuyang didn't seem bothered about being left on read.

“You really must've needed that extra sleep,” Wuyang said, smiling as bright as the late morning sun. He was dressed in his own clothes again — sneakers, baggy sweatpants, and an illegally tight tank top. In addition to his staff, he also donned gloves and a gauntlet of some kind. A duffel bag was slung over his shoulder. “I love the fit, by the way.”

Mizuki had worn his typical combat gear — kasa on his head, mask on his face, chain in his prosthetic curled around his torso. Where Wuyang looked like he could head to the gym or the Kanezaka mall after their session, Mizuki needed to stick to the shadows.

“Thanks,” Mizuki said. He opened his mouth to complement Wuyang, but felt his eyes catch on the hint of pec poking out the side of his tank top. “How on earth are your muscles this big? Genuinely.”

Wuyang laughed. “I've been training for years to get into Wuxing University. Helped that my parents have a home gym and well, going on T helped too.”

“How long’s it been?” 

“Mm, three years, I think. I'm really happy with how everything turned out, but…” Wuyang let out a huff. “I'm so short!”

“That's not a bad thing.” Mizuki snorted, a grin playing on his lips. “Ladies love a short king.”

“Says the skyscraper!”

“Hey, it's not my fault my mom was Dutch. They're built different over there,” Mizuki said. He set his gear bag down below the black pine, drawing his kusarigama out of it.

“How long has it been for you?”

“Huh?” Mizuki paused, wondering how Wuyang could possibly know. Then, he remembered the night after the gala. The boiling in his blood, cool air on his skin. Wuyang never said anything about his scars. “Oh, five years. The… uh… my legal guardian was hesitant.”

“Tell me about it!” Wuyang pulled his hair back into a bun, staff perched in the crook of his arm. “My parents were shocked, as if I wasn't the biggest tomboy of all time growing up. I mean, Anran’s been calling me dìdi since I was eight.”

“At least they got there in the end,” Mizuki said. He flicked his kusarigama, the blades extending out. “We ready?”

“Woah, woah. I wanna spar but… I don't think I'm ready to fight against that scythe thingy yet,” Wuyang said, raising his hand.

“Aw, why not? You got me good with your staff the other night. Isn't it my turn?” Mizuki tapped his kusarigama against his prosthetic hand. “Thought a good boy like yourself would wanna play fair.”

“Stop teasing me!” Wuyang whined as Mizuki laughed. Pink dusted his cheeks.

“You make it so easy,” Mizuki said. “Relax, I’ll keep the blades retracted. Can’t guarantee you won’t get scratched, but a feral cat could do more damage than my kusarigama like this.”

Wuyang drew a foot back, angling his staff in Mizuki’s direction. His posture was flawless — that of a well trained fighter confident in his own capability. A rarity in Mizuki’s world, so used to the Hashimoto goons he trained with and fought against. Cogs in the machine — arrogant, clumsy, and barely able to hold a gun much less shoot it. 

Mizuki grinned. This would be fun.

“I’m ready,” Wuyang said.

“Let's see if you can keep up, Overwatch.” Mizuki slid into his own preferred stance, spinning the kusarigama’s weight in an arching circle with his prosthetic hand. Wuyang’s eyes went wide — excitement glimmering in rich brown.

Wuyang dipped low as Mizuki swung the chained weight at the back tip of his staff. A swipe to Mizuki's legs dodged with a quick sidestep. Staff twirled around behind him, Wuyang put a little space between them. They orbited one another, eye locked to eye.

“It's a traditional weapon, right?” Wuyang said, swinging again — this time a jab at Mizuki’s bruised ribs that glanced off of the kusarigama's weight. Expertly spun, expertly blocked. “What made you decide to learn it?”

“Boredom.”

Clang of metal on metal as the staff hit his prosthetic. Chain caught around an ankle, causing Wuyang to stumble. Curling clouds of kicked up dust as Mizuki dodged.

“And the real answer?”

At twelve, the elders graduated him from hand to hand combat to weapons training. He built a foundation in all the options — pistol, knife, sword, naginata, rifle — but found himself drawn to an antique kusarigama on display at headquarters. After much convincing, Mizuki was allowed to learn how to wield it — most of it self taught over long, lonely days alone. At night, he'd tell Toshiro-san of his progress, basking in the pride shining in the bladesmith’s smile. 

“Saw it in a museum. Looked cool, so I taught myself how to fight with it,” Mizuki said, not entirely a lie. Wuyang blocked another of his weight strikes with his staff, letting out a small hiss as it collided with his hand. “You’re lasting longer than I expected.”

“You don't spend all this time training without building up your stamina,” Wuyang said as he attempted another strike. Too fast to dodge, Mizuki blocked with his handle and planted his feet firmly on the ground to keep from falling back. “Man, this is fun.”

Mizuki smiled as he pushed Wuyang away. Attacks were quick, dodges were quicker, but Wuyang suffered from a lower recovery time. He had him.

“Yeah,” Mizuki said. He aimed the weight at Wuyang's bare arm, pleased when Wuyang changed his entire stance to dodge. Without enough time to fix his posture, the staff swing towards Mizuki’s shoulder was awkward. Mizuki dropped and rolled, twirling his chain around Wuyang's staff from below. He yanked, sending the weapon clattering to the ground. Mizuki kicked it to the side.

Wuyang raised his fists, disarmed but not out of the fight yet. “Damn, you're good.”

“You're slow on recovery, especially if your form slips,” Mizuki said.

“None of my trainers have ever told me that,” Wuyang said. Sweat trickled down Wuyang’s forehead, damp black hair slipping out of his bun. 

“Because they've trained you to look pretty when you fight. You're doing a damn good job at that,” Mizuki said. “But a pretty mistake will get you killed in the streets.”

Another block, a frustrated grunt. Mizuki dashed to the side, tossing his weight out like a fishing net. Chain curled around Wuyang’s torso, pinning down his arms in the process. They dropped, Wuyang grunting as his back hit the ground and Mizuki’s knee pressed into his chest. 

A clink as the kusarigama’s blades extended, sharp against Wuyang's throat. So strong, yet so weak. A life able to be snuffed out with a single stroke. If he ended it here, he would be free from the Hashimoto. Wuyang’s life for his own. 

What a pathetic life that would be.

“Mi-Mizuki,” Wuyang panted. He swallowed, a whine escaping his mouth as the blades grazed his skin. “You've won, I get it.”

Mizuki pulled his kusarigama away, letting it drop to the ground. His prosthetic fingers immediately found the cuts on Wuyang's neck, shallow but welling up with bright red blood.

“I'm sorry. I didn't—” He drew his knee off Wuyang’s chest, moving to kneel beside him. The chains tied around Wuyang’s body fell slack. “I didn't mean to—”

“Hey.” Wuyang's eyes were soft as they looked up at him. A faint smile. “Don't beat yourself up. It's just a scratch.”

I wanted to kill you. 

Tears had welled up in the corner of Wuyang's eyes, dampening Mizuki’s glove as he wiped them away with his thumb. His hand lingered — Wuyang's cheeks were warm. 

Mizuki tilted his head down, removing his kasa with his bloodstained fingertips and setting it beside Wuyang. A faint golden glow caressed Wuyang's tanned skin as the wound knit itself back together. The tech Nobuto installed into his kasa couldn't perform miracles, but stabilizing wounds was all Mizuki needed.

“You…” Wuyang's eyes were wide as he pushed himself onto his elbows. “You can heal, too?”

“It's nothing.”

“You're incredible.” Wuyang laughed. “I've never seen anyone fight like you do. Felt like trying to catch a shadow off guard.”

Mizuki felt his cheeks burn beneath his mask, overexposed without his hat. 

“Seriously. You have gotta show me some of your tricks.” Wuyang grabbed a fistful of Mizuki’s cropped shirt, pulling until they were nose to nose. “Let's go again!”

This boy was going to be the death of him.

Chime. Chime. Chime.

The room was blurry as Mizuki opened his eyes, roused from sleep far too early. Wuyang’s incessant sparring yesterday reverberated throughout his entire body. Definitely would be an ibuprofen morning.

Mizuki groaned, shifting onto his side to fumble for his phone. When his vision focused enough to read his messages, he knew he was doomed.

[6:12]
kk: u have to help me
kk: this is serious
kk: the yes are making me go hiking
Kawano Mizuki: ? it's 6 am
Kawano Mizuki: what’s that gotta do with me
kk: get out of bed now

Thirty minutes later, Mizuki stood outside of Tetsuzan Shrine with a backpack, the comfiest pair of sneakers he owned, and the largest iced americano the nearby cafe could legally sell him. He’d shrouded himself in an oversized hoodie — desperately clinging to the feeling of his warm bed — knowing full well he’d be shedding it the moment they stepped on the trail.

“Oh, Mizuki’s here!” Anran’s voice rang out from behind him. She had her hair in her usual ponytail and wearing far more hike appropriate clothing than he was. Hiking shoes, a UV protective shirt, and comfy shorts. He was willing to bet she was rocking nutritious snacks, fancy electrolyte drink powders, and extra socks in her backpack. “Morning!”

“Yo,” Mizuki said with a nod. “Where's Wuyang?”

“Wu—” Anran turned around, hair swishing in a black arc. “Eh? Where'd that dummy go?” She shouted something in Mandarin, flinching when she realized how loud she’d been. 

“Aiya, I’m right behind you big sis,” Wuyang’s voice came from around a corner. When he emerged, he was carrying a Family Mart shopping bag. Mizuki had to do a double take when he saw Wuyang’s clothes — black sweats, a track jacket, and a cropped shirt. That could not possibly be allowed. “You're the one who didn't wait for— Mizuki!”

“Hey.”

“Kiri didn't say you were coming along,” Anran said.

“When I told him where we were going, Mizuki was so excited he invited himself along.” Kiriko emerged from the shrine gate, decked out in her usual athleisure. “He just loves collecting the lucky charms and amulets that shrines sell. Hasn't been to this one yet.”

Mizuki scowled at her. Though, she did have a point. He had been wanting a charm of Oukuchi no Magami — one of the kami enshrined on the mountain — for protection against the spirits. 

“That's perfect then!”

“Except, we didn't grab enough breakfast for four people,” Wuyang said, lifting the shopping bag.

“Mizuki can have my portion,” Kiriko said, waving it off. “I ate breakfast already.”

“How many donuts was that?” Anran said.

“None! I eat real food, too.” Kiriko gave a thumbs up as they began trudging towards the subway station. “Um, especially when my mom drops me off a week's worth of pre-made meals.”

“There it is,” Mizuki said, earning himself a tiny swat from his best friend. Kiriko never talked much about her biological family, other than her now deceased grandmother. The most he knew about her parents was that her mother taught her how to fight and she was away for work ninety nine percent of the time. As for her father, she’d never outright confirmed his fate, but Mizuki assumed he’d been killed by the Hashimoto. He never asked — staying out of his friends’ past typically meant they stayed out of his in return.

After Wuyang distributed onigiri and bottles of barley tea between them, the group continued on to the subway station that would get them to Mt. Mitake. 

“Did Kiriko con you into this?” Wuyang whispered from the seat beside Mizuki. Anran and Kiriko sat on the opposite side of the train, chatting away about a TV show they'd both seen. “No offense, but you don't seem the hiking type.”

“Is it that obvious?” 

Wuyang snickered, a cute grin on his lips. “You look like you crawled out of bed and brought it with you.”

“Can you blame me? It's barely seven.”

“Most days I've already had my breakfast and a morning jog by now,” Wuyang said. “Rise and grind, like they say!”

“You can keep the worms, early bird,” Mizuki said, slumping in his seat. Maybe he could steal some shuteye before they arrive. He tilted his Fukuoka Hawks cap low over his eyes.

“I'm curious. If Kiriko conned you into coming, does that mean Kiriko doesn't wanna go either?”

Mizuki glanced up to see Wuyang’s brows knitted together, lips pursed in thought. Across the way, Kiriko had a huge smile on her face. “Don't let her sporty look fool you, she doesn't wanna hike any more than I do. Unfortunately, as her ‘bestie,’ if she has to be tortured, so do I.”

“You both could've said no.” Wuyang laughed.

“Kiriko is scary when she's angry, so there'd be con…” Mizuki yawned. “Consequences if I said no. Why she said yes? I dunno. Maybe she thinks Anran is hot.”

“Oh my god,” Wuyang said. He turned in his seat, hands finding Mizuki's shoulder and shaking him back and forth in excitement. Eugh. Too early. “Do you really think so?”

“Her decision making skills severely plummet whenever there's a pretty girl involved. Honestly, if the Hashimoto really wanted to take us down they'd fill the Kanezaka branch with those edgy pop idols. Wouldn't even need guns.”

“I'll be sure to remember that in case she annoys me after the Youkai join Overwatch.”

“Please, you’re too much of a good boy to ever blackmail someone.”

“Well…” Wuyang grinned. “Maybe you're right there.”

A few minutes of quiet stretched between them, Wuyang looking out the window at the flickering orange lights of the tunnel and Mizuki resting his eyes.

“So, what about you?” Wuyang’s voice was soft. “What are you into?”

It was a difficult question, really. Being a trained assassin and double agent didn't leave much room in Mizuki’s life for frivolous things like romance. He had no qualms about seducing anyone of any gender if the mission called for it — he felt the same hollow, guilty ache in his chest after all of them. 

“I dunno.” Mizuki shrugged. “Guess I don't really have a preference. It's all low on my priority list.”

He knew he'd feel less lonely with a partner, but the curse would never allow it. His parents were evidence enough of that. The love his mother and father shared wasn’t enough to stop the water pooling in her lungs.

“Oh, I can see that,” Wuyang said. “I guess the same for me now. It’s been one mission after another. I've barely had a chance to talk to my friends from school, much less date anyone. Though… hm… nevermind.”

Mizuki didn't pry, opting to burrow into his hoodie.

“Um, by the way, Dr. Zhou says my shoulder is comfy to sleep on if you wanna put your head down.” 

“Okay.” 

Mizuki rested his head on Wuyang’s shoulder, the fabric of his track jacket soft on his cheek. He yawned before his eyes fell closed. A soft breath slipped through Wuyang’s lips, fluttering the top of Mizuki’s hair. Dr. Zhou was onto something. Though Mizuki had a feeling her experience was different — no knuckles brushing, no fingers tangling together, no thumb making circles on soft skin. It wasn’t long before he drifted into slumber.

The next thing he knew, a gentle voice was saying his name. Across the subway car, Anran was putting a book into her backpack and Kiriko was stretching her arms above her head, seemingly just waking up from a nap herself. He and Wuyang’s hands were tucked into the pocket of his hoodie, fully clasped together and hidden from their friends.

“Hey, next stop’s ours.”

Mizuki let out a soft groan. Couldn’t he just stay asleep forever?

A cable car brought them up to a tiny village with narrow roads, clusters of guest houses, and a single soba shop. Anran and Wuyang took the lead, sharing big grins with one another as they followed the paved road upwards. At the top, a large white torii arched over a staircase with a small water pavilion at its base.

Mizuki stole a smile as he watched Wuyang perform the proper steps of the chouzu ritual.

Their first stop was a museum built inside one of the shrine buildings, hosting war relics — a sword said to belong to the gods, crimson armor that never lost vibrance over its thousand years, and horse tack studded with gleaming nacre. Mizuki was unmoved — he was interested in the old shogunates as a child with nothing to do but read books in the Hashimoto library, but grew out of it when he learned how to wield these war relics, how to kill with them. The Ye siblings were more enthused, both nerding out over a class they both took at Wuxing University.

A small shop was set up across from the museum, lined with charms, ofuda, and far less spiritual knickknacks. Mizuki leaned against the counter, reading the blessings embroidered into the various omamori. Fertility, Good harvest, Harmony with nature. Wuyang came beside him, fingers gently reaching out to pluck one off its hook and run his thumb over the silk embroidery. 

“Are you looking for something specific?” Wuyang asked, turning it over in his hands before putting it back.

“No… and yes,” Mizuki said. “The main kami enshrined here is Oukuchi no Magami. In ancient times, a prince got lost on the mountain due to demons blocking the paths home. He encountered a white wolf in the forest who calmed his mind, slayed the demons, and showed the prince the right path. I suppose… I’m looking for a blessing that encompasses that.”

“Mm, I see,” Wuyang said. “Is it bad luck to buy someone else an omamori?”

“No. If anything, it might make it even more potent since it's an unselfish desire.”

“Then, can I pick one for you?” Mizuki tilted his head to see Wuyang looking at him, cheek pressed against his fist and a sparkle in his gaze. Then, a broad smile, crinkled eyes. “Please?”

“They’re all in Japanese, though.”

“Chǔnhuò,” Wuyang said, flicking him on the forehead. “I don’t need a dictionary to know that one says ‘Good Health.’”

“Right. I'm stupid.” Mizuki turned his back to the display, shoulder brushing with Wuyang’s as he waited. From here, he could see the distant city in a shroud of fog — its problems so minuscule and mundane from this far away. Kiriko was out of earshot, chatting with a miko dressed in traditional garb. Anran snapped photos of the wolf statues guarding the shrine grounds. 

“Okay! I’ve picked the best one,” Wuyang said a few minutes later. He had his hands cupped together like he'd captured a firefly. “Give me your hand.”

Mizuki placed his hands out in front of him, receiving the deposited omamori. The silk fabric was a light blue, the color of forget-me-nots. On one side was an embroidered white wolf beneath a crescent moon, the symbol of the shrine. The other bore the kanji 明晰. Clarity.

“For a lost prince.”

Mizuki smiled, curling his fingers over it. He leaned in to press a kiss to Wuyang’s cheek, earning himself a flustered little squeak.

“Thank you, Wuyang.”

The hike itself was rather uneventful. As he'd guessed, once they left the village and started trudging through the woods, Mizuki shed his hoodie. Anran was all too gleeful to lead the charge, stopping them when she spotted deer and other animals through the verdant trees.

Mizuki had to admit that the fresh air in his lungs and the smell of rich earth was soothing. A clear stream flowed alongside the trail, water babbling like wooden wind chimes. The spirit’s roar had quieted, as if they hadn’t followed him up the mountain. A well needed respite.

“Owah, it's getting so hot,” Kiriko said, fanning herself with her hand. They'd just completed a section of steeper and rockier trail, stealing a moment to drink some water and catch their breath.

“We should be getting close to the falls soon!” Anran said, opening up the paper trail map she picked up at the shrine.

“Can we go swimming?” Wuyang chimed in, excitement in his voice. “Is that allowed?”

Anran squinted at the map, turning to Kiriko. “Hey, what's this say?”

“Yeah, we can swim there. It's not sacred,” Kiriko said, resting her chin on Anran’s shoulder. She pointed to two other spots on the map. “We'd all be as cursed as Mizuki if we swam in these ones, though.”

“Oi,” Mizuki grumbled. 

They carried on down the trail before reaching the path to the falls. It was a steep trek down narrow planked steps embedded into the side of a cliff, one Mizuki already dreaded having to climb back up later. When his soles finally hit the ground again, his eyes widened. It was beautiful — a wall of mossy stone, a pool of crystalline water, and a waterfall carving its way down. The air was cool despite the early afternoon sun scattering light across the pool’s surface. A teasing rainbow flickered in the mist.

They found a dry stone to set their things on, with Anran fishing out packed sandwiches. Despite only planning on three, she thankfully had a fourth sandwich in case her brother’s endless pit of a stomach needed it. He could survive, surely.

After they finished, Wuyang was the first to make the plunge. He was all too eager to pull off his cropped shirt and sweats until he was left sitting on a rock in his underwear and necklace. Black hair tumbled to his shoulders as he loosened it from its tie. Pushing off the rock with his foot, Wuyang jumped into the pool and slipped below the surface. When he emerged again, he flipped his hair back, droplets snaking their way down his chest. Whew.

“Okay, Flipper, we all see you,” Anran said, her dark hair fluttering in the breeze made by her paper fan. “No need to show off.”

“It’s so nice!” Wuyang shouted. “You guys gotta jump in!”

Kiriko finished off her bottle of barley tea and hopped to her feet. A shed shirt later and she was jumping in herself, letting out a whoop as she landed in the pool. Wuyang laughed as water splashed him in the face, unbothered by it all. Anran let out a sigh and followed suit, leaving Mizuki sitting alone on the shore.

Mizuki tucked his knees against his chest, resting his chin on them. Every breath ached as he watched them laughing — ice in his lungs, sun on his skin. Water deep enough to jump into was water deep enough to drown in. His friends needed someone to keep an eye on them, someone to save them if something happened. He refused to let it happen again. He refused. He refused. He refused.

“Mizuki!”

He raised his head, wiping the dampness from his face with the back of his hand. He was crying?

“Come on in!” Wuyang called out, waving. “Don’t be shy!”

“I don’t want to swim,” he responded, swallowing around the frog in his throat. “It’s okay.”

“C’mon! At least dip your feet in!” Wuyang said. “It’s perfect!”

Mizuki clenched his teeth, inhaling a deep breath. Just his feet. The white wolf fulfilled his promise to the prince a millennium ago — the mountain was safe from the spirits, they couldn’t follow. Nothing would happen. Everyone was okay. Would be okay.

He stripped out of his shirt and track pants, folding them before placing them on his backpack. His gaze lingered on the blue omamori Wuyang had tied to one of his zipper pulls. A calmed mind. He nodded to himself. He could do this.

Wuyang smiled, broad and bright as he saw Mizuki approach the pool. He patted his hand on a relatively dry rock near the edge, perfect for Mizuki to sit without fear of slipping. As Mizuki dipped his legs into the water, he was immediately soothed by its coolness. Wuyang pressed his chest against the rock, leaning on his folded elbows.

“How is it?”

“Yeah, you were right,” Mizuki said, fingers fidgeting. “It does feel good.”

“I’m glad,” Wuyang said. He lowered his voice, even though the other two were sitting in a shallow spot across the pool. “You know that we’ve all got your back if anything happens, right?”

Mizuki said nothing, gaze focused on the swirl of water around his calves.

“I was scared of water when I was younger,” Wuyang said. “My parents would take us to Jiuzhaigou National Park every year and the lakes there terrified me. The water was this gorgeous crystal clear blue, so clear that you could see down into the depths filled with these huge skeletal trees. Anran swam down once and couldn’t get anywhere near them before she had to return to the surface.”

“Like thalassophobia?”

“Yeah, maybe. My parents thought I was being ridiculous about it. They thought… They think I am ridiculous about a lot of things.” Wuyang sighed. “Anran helped me get over it, thankfully.”

“Did she dunk you?”

“No!” He laughed. “Oh my god. I would’ve killed her. She didn’t want to scare me, just wanted the two of us to have fun together again. So we took it one step at a time, did her best to keep me calm, and never let me out of her sight. I’ve loved the water ever since.”

“Not sure about all that,” Mizuki said.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m not trying to convince you to do anything you don’t wanna do,” Wuyang said. “I dunno, just wanted you to know that you’re not alone.”

“Thanks.” Mizuki watched the ripples as he swirled his foot around in the cool water. It wasn't as if he was afraid of water — he performed misogi once a year on the anniversary of his father's death. If anything, he'd feel at peace standing below the waterfall. 

It was the feeling of being helpless and alone. Abandoned, facing the whims of a cold and unfeeling force of nature. That was what terrified him. But Wuyang was right — he wasn't alone. If anything went wrong, any one of his friends would come to the others’ aid.

“How deep is it right here?” Mizuki asked.

Wuyang stood up beside him, the surface lapping below his rib cage. “Not very deep. Wh—” His eyes widened as Mizuki slid himself down the rock, letting his legs sink into the pool. When his feet hit the stone bottom, the water only came up to his bellybutton. “Hey, hey, is it okay to get your arm wet?”

“Only if my forearm panel’s off in saltwater,” Mizuki said. He let out a slow breath — he could do this — before sinking down to his collarbones. A gentle hand settled on his waist beneath the water, there to support him. “I feel a bit stupid.”

“Aw, don’t! There’s nothing stupid about conquering a fear.” Wuyang’s head rested on Mizuki’s shoulder, a soft laugh escaping his lips. This was nice, comfortable almost. Mizuki closed his eyes, cheek tickled by damp locks of hair. “I’m proud of you.”

An exhale, a tiny smile.

“Mizuki.”

After a sparring session with Wuyang in the morning, they went their separate ways for the rest of the day. The Ye siblings wanted to squeeze in a little more sightseeing before training together.

Kiriko, on the other hand, was doomsday prepping the shrine. Though she wasn't as gloomy as the other Youkai, she still wanted to make sure all her ducks were in a row in case she didn't come home. Mizuki had opted to join her and help out, giving himself a distraction from it all.

They had just finished sweeping the main pathways and had gotten to work folding new shide for the shrine when Kiriko broke the silence.

“Yeah?”

“I have a bad feeling about all of this,” Kiriko said, sitting cross legged on the stairs. Her typical teasing lilt was absent, voice somber. “I talked with the others earlier and they said no one’s been taken yet.”

“Maybe the Hashimoto called it off?” Mizuki suggested, though he didn't believe his own words. “If they noticed Overwatch’s presence in the area, they might've gotten spooked.”

“Yeah, maybe. But I don't want us to get lulled into a false sense of security.”

“They’re good kids,” Mizuki said. “They won't let their guard down, no matter what. Everything will turn out okay.”

“I…” Kiriko sniffled. “It’s just… I've lost my dad to them already, I can't lose you guys, too.”

“Aw, Kiriko.” Mizuki shuffled over, wrapping his arms around her. Soft sobs sank into his shoulder, tears staining his button up. She was so strong all the time, emotions tied up in a snarky little bow. “Let it out.”

When Kiriko quieted after a few minutes — her chest slowing and sobs softening into tiny hiccups — she pulled away. With a sniffle, she wiped at her nose with her sleeve. “Thanks. I needed that.”

“Yeah, anytime.”

“I still can't thank you enough. For joining us,” Kiriko said, returning to her shide. “The others see you as their big brother, did you know that?”

Gloomy and sullen didn't exactly suit Mizuki's idea of what the ideal older sibling would be. Not when Anran was vibrant, intelligent, and kind. But then he recalled. Chikasa in standby mode, her head resting on his lap. Ryouta asking for tips on how to avoid getting disarmed against a kusarigama. Nobuto calling him Mizu-nii with a grin as he gave him his new kasa. Sakura death gripping his hand as she got her lip pierced. Kiriko coming to him for advice, as if he had any to give.

“Yeah,” Mizuki murmured, swallowing thickly. “Like family.”

Kiriko finished one, dangling it in front of her face to inspect her handiwork. She hummed. “It’s funny. You've been different lately.”

“What do you mean?”

“You seem a lot more relaxed than usual. I mean, not completely, because you're still Mizuki, but…” She set the shide to the side and got to work on the next one. “I don't know, you seem less caught up in your own thoughts.”

“We’re at the shrine. Being here has always been calming to me.”

“Not just today, dummy.” Kiriko laughed. “You were so mellow at dinner last night. Hell, you went swimming yesterday. Sakura’s been trying to get you to go to the pool since last summer!”

Mizuki set his own shide down, resting his arms on his knees. He watched a leaf flutter down from one of the trees spanning the stairway. “The spirits have been quieter lately. That’s true.”

“Hm.” In the corner of his eye, Kiriko smiled. “Maybe your Lucky Lucky Good Luck Amulet has finally kicked in.”

“I didn't buy one this week.” Mizuki touched his chest, feeling the Clarity omamori tucked into his shirt pocket.

“Well, maybe they're the reason you're cursed.”

“Shut up,” Mizuki said, shaking his head.

“No, I know what it is!” Kiriko snickered, flinging a crumbled ball of hemp paper at him. “Our new friends.”

“Mm.”

“Mm?” Kiriko shoved him on the shoulder, light enough to make him bob back and forth. “C’mon, at least fight back. It’s true, isn’t it? You like Wuyang?”

Charming smile, disarming. Warm eyes, coffee brown. Gentle voice, soothing. 

“I don’t know,” Mizuki admitted. Wuyang’s presence was a comforting one, with his kind words and reassuring touches. And he wasn’t blind — Wuyang was gorgeous. But feelings beyond friendship were as incomprehensible as a language he’d never learned. 

Kiriko’s hand found the top of Mizuki’s head, ruffling his bangs. She leaned into him, a big smile on her face. “Aw, you are too cute.”

Mizuki swatted her off.

“Look,” she said. “He’s been making little puppy dog eyes at you ever since the night of the gala. Even if you don't know what the hell you're feeling, I think you should talk to him about it.”

“He's wasting his time,” Mizuki said. “If he gets too close, the curse will come for him.”

“Ugh,” Kiriko groaned, rolling her eyes. “The curse hasn't gotten me and our friends yet, has it? All you're doing is closing yourself off from having something — someone — special in your life. Live a little, Mizuki.”

“I'm scared,” he murmured.

“I know.” She took his hand, sliding her fingers into the grooves and holding tight. They sat in the peaceful silence of the shrine grounds for a moment, little more than leaves rustling in the breeze. “I just don't want you wasting your life away because of fear. You deserve better than that.”

He deserved a bullet to the head. For betraying her, for lying to them all. 

Mizuki went to bite down on the inside of his cheek, only to not feel that familiar sting. He prodded his tongue against his usual spot — the flesh had healed. No pain, no blood. Months of worrying that same spot and it was gone in the span of a few days.

It had been Wuyang. Not healing it with his nanobiotic water, no. But giving Mizuki a distraction. Breaking him free from a spiral once broken only by his own self-inflicted pain, now shattered by attentive care. 

The tinkling of shrine bells. The flutter of shide in the wind. The patter of water on stone.

Darkness washed away.

“Oh my god,” Mizuki said, burying his face in the crook of his prosthetic arm. Kiriko squeezed his hand. “I really do like him, don't I?”

“Aw, there's our Mizuki again,” she said with a teasing coo. “You should tell him tomorrow when you're done sparring. Or, or, or! Maybe while you're sparring, when you've got him pinned down and you can—”

Mizuki slapped his prosthetic hand over her mouth, her eyes curving into sinister little crescents as she grinned behind cover. If it had been his normal hand, he was sure she'd have already licked it. “I'm gonna need you to shut the fuck up.”

When he let her go, she got to her feet. With an outstretched hand, she helped pull him up. 

“Well! Now that we've both shown uncharacteristic emotion to our own embarrassment, we better finish up our chores before the meeting tonight,” Kiriko said. “Would you rather scrub mildew off the Inari statues or weed the flowerbeds?”

Mizuki groaned as he followed her up the steps.

There were no confessions during their training.

Wuyang seemed off. Not enough to keep him distracted and weak during their session, but enough that he didn't seem his normal enthusiastic self. There was a hard edge to the way he fought — not afraid to get bloody, not holding back. Even as Wuyang healed Mizuki's cuts and scrapes, he was lost in his own head.

At first, Mizuki assumed he'd done something to piss Wuyang off. But when it was time to leave, Wuyang smiled and thanked him for the session before climbing over the Yamagami Blades fence.

Very confusing mixed signals.

Mizuki spent most of the day holed up in his apartment, eyes straining as he explored through the Hashimoto database on his computer. Looking, searching, analyzing for any sign of the attack supposedly happening tomorrow. Even if he was purposefully blocked from the information to prevent his cover from being blown tomorrow, there had to be traces of it somewhere in here.

He was listening to the scanner logs from the last few days when a knock sounded from his door. Frantic, he tore off his headset and shut down the database — waiting until all signs of it vanished before he answered.

“Hey.” Wuyang was outside — hair down and dressed in baggy sweats and a tight black shirt. In his hand was a plastic bag filled with takeout containers. He wore a half-hearted smile, not quite concealing the feelings lurking beneath the surface. “Do you mind if I come in?”

“Is that an attempted bribe?” Mizuki said, gesturing to the bag.

“Only if it needs to be one. Otherwise, it's just dinner.”

“C’mon.” Mizuki gestured with his head for Wuyang to follow. Kicking off his shoes in the genkan, Wuyang set the takeout on the table and sat on the couch. He let out a relieved sigh when Mizuki set a lemon chuhai on the table before taking a seat next to him. “What's up?”

“Ugh.” Wuyang cracked open the chuhai, immediately taking a long gulp. “What a fucking day.”

“That bad, huh? Don't usually hear you swear,” Mizuki said, opening up his own green apple chuhai.

“Had a call with my parents this morning before we met up. Let's just say they got under my skin.”

“You did seem off. And… extra violent.”

A tiny smile, a sheepish dip of the head. “Sorry if I hurt you.”

“It's all good. Just hope you can channel that frustration on the enemies next time,” Mizuki said. “Did something else happen afterwards?”

“Yeah, well, I told Anran about what they said and she tried to give me that middle of the road nonsense about hearing them out and finding common ground.” Wuyang groaned. “I've had enough of my family for one day, thank you very much.”

Wuyang tore open the takeout bag and set two large containers in front of them. One had mapo tofu with mushrooms instead of beef, the sauce mouthwateringly fragrant. The other was a fiery red stew snaking with glass noodles and fried soybeans. On the side was a small container of cooked ground pork, a few vegetable sides, and plenty of gleaming white rice.

“Both of these are vegetarian,” Wuyang explained. “Uh, probably, they might've used a meat-based broth.”

“It's fine, I'm not too picky about that,” Mizuki said, cracking open a pair of disposable chopsticks. He slid to the floor so he could lean back against the couch as he ate. Wuyang joined him. “I'm familiar with mapo tofu, but what's this?”

“Suan la fen. It's a stew from my hometown,” Wuyang said. “I found the Sichuan restaurant not long after I stormed out of our safe house. It was like a choir of angels came from the sky!”

Mizuki smiled to himself as he offered a tiny itadakimasu. “Do you miss home?”

Wuyang swirled his chopsticks around in the suan la fen, drawing out a hearty mouthful of glass noodles. He paused. “Yeah, I do. I don't want to say I regret joining Overwatch, because I don't. But it's hard not to miss it all.”

Mizuki took a mouthful of rice and mapo tofu, savoring the taste of chili oil and ginger. It was spicier than the mapo tofu served at local restaurants, toned down to suit a milder palate. His cheeks felt warm, throat tingling. 

“What about you? Do you miss Fukuoka?”

“Hm. Sometimes. I think I miss my family more than anything else,” Mizuki said. He plucked an unfamiliar pickled vegetable out of the suan la fen, crunching down on it. “A five hour train ride can get me home, but can't bring back my parents.”

“Oh, I'm—”

“Don't be.” Mizuki waved it off. “Were you and your own folks beefing over you being gone?”

“Yeah, sorta.” Wuyang slurped broth from a spoon. “We’ve had a bit of a rocky relationship ever since I flunked the Fire College exam and got into Water College instead. After we helped put down the Null Sector invasion in Chengdu, I thought we were okay again. That they were proud I was chosen for Overwatch. But now they think I should come home.”

“Why?”

“Maybe they thought I was going there to do an internship with Dr. Ziegler or something, not doing missions in the field.” He sighed. “I spend years training in combat under their tutelage as Omnic Crisis vets, but they still don't trust me.”

“That is frustrating,” Mizuki said, taking a sip of chuhai. It was cool on his burning throat. “What did Anran tell you?”

“She does think I belong in Overwatch, but I can still tell she's anxious about having me around. I was shot during Talon’s attack on Gibraltar and she blamed herself.” Wuyang rubbed at a spot on his left arm. Mizuki hadn't noticed a scar there, likely fully healed by Dr. Ziegler not long after the injury. “She thinks I should take a leave of absence when we're done here and go home. Catch up on my missed classes until the next break. Like, sure, maybe when things settle down but Talon is growing in power as we speak! How am I supposed to— I'm talking too much.” Wuyang’s expression fell.

“It doesn't bother me. You have a nice voice.”

“I… oh! Thanks.” Wuyang stuffed his mouth with rice, a flush to his cheeks.  

“Honestly, you're one of the most talented fighters I've gone up against. You've more than earned your spot in Overwatch on that alone. And that doesn't even count your healing, your expert control over water, your kind heart, your…” It was Mizuki’s turn to replace the foot in his mouth with a desperate sip of chuhai. 

“Do you really think so?” Wuyang held his can close to his chest, eyes cast downward as he smiled to himself. “You’re pretty great yourself.”

Mizuki placed his chopsticks down on the folded wrapper and wiped any trace of mala sauce off with a napkin. He leaned back against the couch, letting out a slow breath. “Wuyang, what are we doing here?”

“Huh?”

“You’re infinitely more flustered than usual and I feel like I’m about to choke,” Mizuki said, crossing his arms. Wuyang scratched his head, a cute little smile on his lips. “So, what are we doing here?”

“Anran told me I needed to say something before the mission,” Wuyang said, resting his elbow on the couch and leaning on his fist. His brows knit together. “But then she pissed me off so bad this morning that I got completely sidetracked!”

Mizuki huffed out a soft laugh. “Is that what she’s been doing with Kiriko? Scheming?”

“I think I’d have preferred them kissing, to be honest.”

“Oh, I’m sure they’ve done some of that, too,” Mizuki said, shaking his head.

“To be honest, I’m a bit jealous.” Wuyang’s eyes were steady on Mizuki’s face, the nerves shaken away.

“If you wanna kiss Kiriko, be my guest.” Mizuki scrunched his nose as Wuyang chuckled.

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

“Well, use your words then.” A lock of hair hung over Wuyang’s forehead, distracting. Mizuki reached out, tucking it behind his ear. His fingers lingered, resting against the smooth skin of Wuyang’s cheek.

“You—” Wuyang’s face scrunched up. “Ugh! Kiss me already!”

Mizuki leaned in, hand sliding into Wuyang’s locks. Brown eyes widened — as if shocked that worked — before fluttering closed into a line of thick lashes. With a smile, Mizuki met Wuyang’s lips. A sweet push and pull, a touch of lemon chuhai. A hand on his rib cage, bruise fading into indigo and green. Teeth sinking into a plush lip, thumb brushing to soothe.

Eyes meeting, foreheads pressed together. A shared laugh. A quieted mind. This was right.

“If we survive tomorrow, go out with me?” Mizuki murmured.

Wuyang bit his lip, a smile. “Deal.”

Morning came too soon.

Mizuki’s eyes peeled open as his phone chimed, black hair soft against his chin. Wuyang was warm beneath his arm, gentle breaths on his collarbones. By the time they crawled into bed, they were several cans of chuhai deep and the sky glowed red from the city lights. He’d texted Anran to let her know Wuyang was safe, before letting himself sink into the most relaxing night of sleep he’d had in a long time.

[8:12]

kk: look outside

Mizuki set his phone on his side table and shifted to lay on his back. Wuyang stirred, falling back into sleep as Mizuki pressed a kiss to his forehead. He flicked two blind slats open to see freshly tagged graffiti splashed across the side of the apartment building next door.

WE SEE YOU KAPPA

[8:14]

kk: did you get one too
Kawano Mizuki: yeah
kk: shit
kk: there was a note outside my apt building
kk: u better check downstairs
Kawano Mizuki: what did it say

Silence. 

[8:23]

kk: sorry im trying to talk to all 5 of u at once
kk: just go check

Mizuki let the phone fall out of his hand and onto the mattress. He looked over at Wuyang, so peaceful in his sleep. Chest rising and falling rhythmically, a natural upturn to the corners of his lips, hands curled under his chin. 

He brushed his thumb under Wuyang’s eyes, gently holding his jaw. They opened, slow and hazy. 

“Hey. I'm gonna get up,” he whispered. “You can go back to sleep. I just didn't want you to wake up confused.”

“Mm. Mhm.” Wuyang yawned, before nestling his cheek against Mizuki’s pillow and his eyes falling closed. “Thanks for the warning.”

Mizuki attached his prosthetic arm to his shoulder, flexing his fingers and joints to make sure everything was synced. After slipping clean clothes on, he checked to make sure Wuyang was asleep. He nodded to himself before activating the biolock on his bottom desk drawer and withdrawing his standard issue 9mm pistol. Though he preferred martial weapons, the elders wouldn't let him leave for Kanezaka without a gun. At the front door, he toed on the closest sneakers, grabbed his kusarigama, and headed out into the hallway.

A note was haphazardly taped to the wall behind the apartment building’s rotting hydrangea bush. Mizuki scanned the area around him, hand poised to grab the pistol hidden beneath his jacket. No one. To the Kappa was written in calligraphic kanji across the back.

We have the person that is most precious to you. Come to the marine warehouse by the river. Ask the Kitsune if you don't know it. 13:00 and don't you dare be late.

A tiger head was drawn on the bottom in a gleaming gold ink.

[8:31]

Kawano Mizuki: i got it
kk: address is 2-chome-49
kk: meet at the onigiri shop at noon
kk: tell wuyang
Kawano Mizuki: how do you know he's here
kk: u just told me
kk: later

Mizuki jogged up the steps, tearing back into his apartment. He discarded his weapons, kicked off his shoes, and ran to the bedroom. Wuyang was still curled up — asleep, at peace, and not abducted by the Hashimoto. There was no possible way they'd know about him already, but Mizuki couldn't help the paranoia crawling across his brain. 

He sat on the edge of the bed and roused Wuyang again. This time, Wuyang was fully alert and pushed himself up. A hand curled around Mizuki’s prosthetic fingers, a forehead pressed to his shoulder.

“It’s begun, hasn't it?” Wuyang murmured. “And here I hoped you'd come back to bed.”

“It’s nearly nine. So much for ‘rise and grind,’” Mizuki said.

“That's only…” Wuyang yawned. “When I'm not hungover.”

“I'll make us some breakfast,” Mizuki said, giving Wuyang's hand a squeeze. “Then escort you back to the safe house.”

“I can get back on my own, you can focus on getting ready.”

“No. The Hashimoto are on high alert this morning. You're tough, Wuyang, but you're also an unarmed Overwatch agent deep in Talon-affiliated territory.” Mizuki recalled his handler’s promise — his freedom after thirteen years of servitude. “If they find out who you are, your head is worth a pretty sum.”

“I get it,” Wuyang said. “We better get moving, then.”

Mizuki stood up, though Wuyang didn't let go of his hand. When he turned back, Wuyang had a conspiratorial smile splashed across his handsome features. 

“One more thing,” Wuyang said, getting to his feet. He shifted onto his toes, extending himself tall enough to kiss Mizuki — a short, sneaky peck. “Now you're free to go.”

Though his heart stuttered, the bile in his gut churned and twisted. Lungs shallow, throat dry, knuckles white.

This would be a long day.

Mizuki affixed his mask back on his face, crumpling up the onigiri wrapper from their last minute meeting slash lunch. They'd gotten visual on the warehouse — perched on the river seawall and seemingly abandoned. Only a few dinged up aluminum boats and piles of engine parts remained scattered in the yard. Several warnings from the Kanezaka local authority were tacked to the chain link fence, declaring the place needed to be torn down or cleaned up.

The eight of them came to the consensus that the Ye siblings would sneak in first. Sakura spent her morning looking through her city planner father’s computer until she found a blueprint for the warehouse. As Anran was quiet and agile, she would take out as many security cameras as she could with well aimed bursts of fire from the surrounding buildings and then infiltrate via a roof access. There was a boat dock inside the warehouse, so Wuyang would enter through the river and slip beneath the door. They would lie in wait until the hostages were safe or Kiriko gave them a signal, whichever came first.

No one was thrilled about the fact that the Youkai needed to go through the front door.

“We better go,” Anran said, eyes glued to her watch. She shared a nod with her brother. “We’ll be watching over you.”

“Thank you, both of you,” Kiriko said. She pulled Anran into a hug before ruffling Wuyang's hair. A tiny smile flickered across her lips as he groaned. After exchanging a few quiet words with the siblings, they parted. Kiriko waved for the Youkai to follow her. “On me!”

Then, there were two.

Wuyang’s knuckles were white where they gripped his staff, posture tense. His gaze was unfocused, staring nebulously into nothing. When Mizuki placed his hands on Wuyang’s shoulders, he jolted as if woken up from a deep sleep. 

“You with us, still?” Mizuki asked, tipping Wuyang's chin up with a knuckle. He was zoned back in now, eyes wide and ears red.

“I don't like this, Mizuki,” Wuyang said, keeping his voice low. “I overheard Ryouta say that he doesn't think anyone in his family was abducted. This has gotta be a trap.”

“We've known that from the start, I'm afraid,” Mizuki said. He let his hand shift from Wuyang's chin to his jaw, a soft exhale as Wuyang leaned into it. “Do your best out there. But… if there's no saving us, you and Anran have to get out with your lives.”

“The Youkai are our allies and you're my—” Wuyang's brows furrowed. “We’re not leaving you behind.”

“You may have to.” 

“Just… don't do anything stupid.” Wuyang reached between them to take Mizuki’s mask off. “Don't forget our deal.”

“I won't.”

Wuyang hugged him, arms tight around his midsection. Mizuki rested his cheek on the top of his head, a fleeting comfort. When they separated, Wuyang stood on his tiptoes, kissed the corner of Mizuki's mouth, and gave him a determined nod. 

“Wuyang, wait,” Mizuki murmured. Fingers in black hair, lips brushing together, chests beating in sync. That was better. “Good luck.”

Then, he was gone.

Mizuki was glad he'd put his mask back on before joining up with the Youkai. Five knowing looks greeted him — a full on smirk from Kiriko, mischievous curved eyes from Sakura and Ryouta, blank stares from Chikasa and Nobuto that concealed multitudes. Mizuki tipped his kasa down low.

“You took your sweet time, lover boy,” Kiriko said.

“Yeah, yeah,” Mizuki grumbled. 

Agonizing minutes passed, all of them watching and waiting as the seconds slowly ticked by. A garbled comm came through their earpieces — both of the Ye siblings were in position. 12:57.

“Let's go.”

A lock on the chain link fence had been shredded open by a pair of bolt cutters, leaving the gate cracked open. The yard around the warehouse reeked — smelling of diesel fuel, epoxy resin, and dead fish. As she went to grab the thick handle on the front door, Kiriko turned back to the rest of the Youkai. 12:59.

“I love you guys,” she said. “Now let's kick their asses.”

Blackness greeted them as they entered the warehouse. All overhead lamps had been shut off and tarps were spread over the skylights, leaving only a few aberrant rays of light to show their path forward.

They stuck close to one another, with Kiriko and Mizuki leading while the others formed a tight arch on either side. Backs protected, eyes alert. 

“The Hashimoto welcome you, friends.” A crackly voice came over an old speaker as they neared the approximate center of the warehouse. “Meet our guests.”

Dim lights flickered on above them, revealing five people tied to chairs — chains linking their ankles together. Only five meant they hadn't found someone for him at all.

“We must admit,” the representative said. Their voice was modulated into something inhuman. “It was challenging finding targets, you Youkai keep a surprisingly low profile.”

They were strangers, Mizuki realized as spotlights flicked on one by one to fully illuminate each person’s face. From beside him, Sakura clenched her fists. Even strangers didn't deserve this.

But then, the light shone on the final person. The man was older with faded salt and pepper hair pulled away from his face by a red kerchief. His eyes were painted in horror as he gazed at them.

“Toshiro-san!”

“Dad!”

It felt as though the world had ended. Beating heart slowed to an arduous thump. Lungs teased with short, quick, sharp, aching breaths. Wide eyes in his periphery, confusion on his best friend’s face.

How often Toshiro-san spoke about a daughter back in Kanezaka. Brave and kind and funny, yet a snarky little firecracker of a girl. Blessed by Inari, protected by an anima weapon. He’d never made the connection before — Kiriko’s kunai were standard blacksmith-made without a hint of special tech to them.

Mizuki recalled electric blue and soft yellow, somehow never intermingling into green. A soothing glow as a deep cut along his torso mended itself shut. No scar, just a hint of fading pink. Her ofuda.

“How do you—”

“Great question, Yamagami Kiriko,” the voice called out. “What do you say, Kawano Mizuki? Shall I tell them, or will you?”

He wanted nothing more than to curl up on the floor, stop the screaming in his head. A thrash in the water, a filthy dark apartment, blood splattered on his skin, searing pain spiking through his body, Kiriko's tears tracking down her cheeks.

“I work for the Hashimoto,” he said, removing his mask and tossing it to the floor. “I was sent here by the elders with the goal of infiltrating the Youkai.”

“Now’s not the time to fuck around, Mizuki,” Ryouta said.

“I do not think he is joking,” Chikasa said, a waver to her usual even voice. 

“It's true.” Mizuki lowered his head. “I wouldn't joke about this.”

Movement as he stood motionless. Gleaming red sword to his throat, kunai pressed to his jugular, the barrel of Nobuto’s matchlock cold against his temple. He would not fight them.

“How do you know my father?” Kiriko gritted through clenched teeth. Mizuki angled his neck, giving her a broader expanse of exposed skin.

“Toshiro-san has been my one ally, my one friend for the last thirteen years,” Mizuki said, little more than a whisper. “He is like a father to me. I wouldn't… I wouldn't joke about that, either.”

“Eleven, ten… he was only nine when he joined?” Sakura’s voice was behind him.

A light flared on in the upper level of the warehouse as an older woman in a suit emerged. Her features were concealed by a tiger mask, a plated gold pistol in her hand. Surrounding her were countless Hashimoto goons, dressed to the nines and armed to the teeth.

“Agent Kawano,” she called out. He immediately recognized her voice — Agent R. “I must say, we have been quite disappointed in your performance lately. It's been one year to the day since we sent you to Kanezaka, and where has that gotten us?”

She took slow steps down the stairs, her heels clanging against the metal grates.

“Nowhere.” Agent R laughed, one arm resting on the katana hanging at her hip. “Did you really believe the elders would be satisfied with the sparse information you've been leaking?”

“They’re just kids,” Mizuki said, his voice cracking. A flinch as his arms were jerked back, the feeling of Chikasa’s mechanical hand on his wrist, the kusarigama wrenched from his grip and thrown to the floor, his own chains binding him. Every breath, every swallow was a torture. Cheeks wet, eyes burning as he choked out a sob.

“The elders even gave you a second chance,” Agent R said. Her masked face was upturned and tilted, as if she heard something they didn’t. “Kill one of the Overwatch agents lurking around Kanezaka. It’s not too late, Agent Kawano, I know they’re here. Prove yourself.”

“I won’t,” he mouthed.

“Pity. You’re nothing but a weak, foolish boy. Why she thought you had potential is beyond me.” Agent R stopped at the foot of the stairs and flicked her long silvered ponytail behind her. She withdrew her katana, as gleaming gold as the pistol she still carried. “Agent Kawano, consider yourself terminated.”

She raised her katana, gesturing to her men.

“Kill them all.”

“Mizuki.” Kiriko lifted his chin with the flat of her kunai, eyes sharp and voice a hard whisper. “Keep my dad safe and I will think twice about killing you. Try to escape and you’re dead before you hit the door.”

Mizuki clenched his teeth and nodded. A hand shoved him in the direction of the hostages, the chains binding him unraveling and withdrawing back into his prosthetic arm. He stumbled, nearly falling, as he grabbed his kusarigama and ran to the hostages. Even this was more than he deserved.

“Youkai, Suzaku, Genbu! On me!” Kiriko called out. She folded her hands together, a blue glow to her gaze as spectral torii gates cut through the warehouse’s gloom. A blaze of flames heralded Anran as she dove from the rafters, poised and ready to strike with her fans. Wuyang emerged from the dock gliding on a wave of water, shaking droplets from his hair. 

The others dove straight into combat with the Hashimoto, but Wuyang hopped off the wave as he neared where Mizuki worked the locks on the hostages' ankle chains. The strangers first, then Toshiro-san. Wuyang reached down to touch Mizuki’s face, gently cradling his jaw. “What’s going on? Why did the Youkai attack you?”

“I’m sorry,” Mizuki said, brushing away Wuyang’s hand. “They’ll explain it later, I’m sure. Go. Please. They need you.”

“But—” Wuyang exhaled, pained eyes turning to the battle before them. He nodded, adjusting his grip on his staff. Without another word, he was off.

Mizuki swallowed thickly, returning to picking the locks. Fresh blood coated his tongue as he bit deep into his inner cheek. Pain to quell the spirits, the voices, the curse. Focusing came harder than he needed it to be — flinching at the kicking bang of Nobuto’s matchlock, the crackling whoosh of Anran’s fans, the sharp shick of Ryouta’s sword.

Once he broke the first hostage free — shackles fallen to the filthy concrete, rope ties severed with his kusarigama, gag untied — the rest were simple. He’d gotten all of them loose, except for Toshiro, when he heard a clatter nearby. Chikasa had knocked down a Hashimoto goon with her parasol, stabbing him with the spear tip. An idea blossomed in Mizuki’s head, but they had to move fast.

“Chikasa, cover!”

She turned to him — her lights flaring red before fading back to blue as she nodded. As angry as she was, getting the civilians out took priority. Shifting her leg back, she opened her parasol — shield spreading from the bamboo tines.

“Go, go!” Mizuki said, ushering them towards the exit. “If you’re injured, there’s an Overwatch drop ship nearby.”

After the hostages escaped, Mizuki returned to Toshiro. He slipped the fabric gag out of his mouth, tossing it to the side. The moment he cut the rope, Toshiro’s arms were around him and his face pressed into the crook of Mizuki’s shoulder.

“It's so good to see you, my boy,” Toshiro said, voice scratchy. “It's been a long year without your company. No one plays shogi as well as you do.”

“I know, I know,” Mizuki murmured. “I've made a real mess of things, ojisan.”

“No. You were given a terrible draw of cards and you've done the best you possibly could've done with them,” Toshiro said, clapping a hand on the back of Mizuki's neck. “You’ve followed your own path. Defied the Hashimoto, made friends who care about you for you. I'm so proud of you.”

Mizuki looked over his shoulder to see Kiriko brawling with Agent R, blocking her katana strikes with her kunai. Wuyang had her back, knocking half the Hashimoto forces off balance with a roaring wave.

“They know the truth now.”

“Yes,” Toshiro said. “Now you must atone. Earn their forgiveness.”

How?

Mizuki started to pick at the shackles. He could start by freeing Kiriko's father, keeping him safe like she asked. 

“Hashimoto!” Agent R’s voice howled over the cacophony. “Do not let Yamagami Toshiro escape! Stop the traitor!”

“Shit,” Mizuki said. He was so close. “Shit, shit, shit.” 

A gaggle of goons approached — pistol shots clanking off of Mizuki's kasa and the concrete floor. He couldn't work like this.

“Not on my watch!” English. Anran. A haughty smile on her lips as she ignited the men’s fancy suits and superheated their guns. Melting plastic fell from their hands, leaving scorch marks on the floor. 

Despite his friends’ best efforts, they were quickly running out of ground. Skirmishes drew closer and closer, movements slower and slower. They couldn't hold out like this much longer.

Mizuki fumbled with the lock before it finally clicked open. Toshiro was free.

Sakura was on one knee clutching a bleeding wound on her side, struggling to keep fighting. Nobuto had long run out of bullets and had resorted to using his matchlock as a club. Wuyang’s form was slipping, his orbs no longer precise and his staff work sloppy.

“We’re… losing,” Mizuki said, struggling to speak as anxiety flared. 

“You know what to do, Mizuki,” Toshiro said. His hand curled around where Mizuki gripped his kusarigama. “I gave you a masterpiece for a reason.”

Mizuki gritted his teeth, grabbing his kusarigama with both hands. He held it against the ground until it glowed. Gunfire behind him, pain searing through his back, a wheeze as his lung deflated. Then, his thigh — leg giving out beneath him. He can't stop. “Protect us!”

The warehouse darkened and a spectral shimenawa encircled them. Through the pain, Mizuki's eyes widened as the Hashimoto's bullets were absorbed by the field. A new determination brewed in the air amongst his friends. Without their guns, all but the most elite Hashimoto agents were nothing.

Mizuki collapsed, struggling to breathe. Black bit at his vision, pain searing white coursing through his blood. Toshiro was above him, saying something, pressing down on his wounds. Red, red. 

Agent R’s raised katana, her depleted men, the muffled order of retreat was the last thing he saw before his world faded into darkness.

Parched throat, aching head. Too bright lights.

Mizuki opened his eyes to find himself in a strange place. A medical room — equipment beeping at regular intervals, a faded Overwatch logo painted on the wall. He attempted to sit up, but found himself unable to move. His prosthetic arm was gone, his other limbs securely fastened to the bed. 

“Oh,” Mizuki murmured as his eyes settled on Wuyang. He was sitting beside the bed, half draped over the mattress fast asleep. Wuyang's hand clutched his own — something soft and silky between their palms. Mizuki shifted his head to see the Clarity omamori tucked there, a rusted stain where his blood had been washed away. “You shouldn't be here.”

He may have been ignorant of the events at the warehouse due to the language barrier, but there was no way Wuyang hadn't been told since.

So peaceful, he looked. Hair loose, a relaxed curve of lashes, cheek squished where he pillowed it on his own arm. 

“You are probably right,” an unfamiliar voice said in Japanese. 

Mizuki flinched, eyes frantic as they searched. A spirit? Then, a glow of green. Black hair threaded with silver at the temples. Hanzo? No, close. A scarred face, kind eyes, cybernetic jaw. “Genji-san.”

“It is nice to finally meet you,” Genji said, standing up. Mizuki jerked as Genji’s hand neared him, a quiet shush from the cyborg’s lips as he pressed two fingers to Mizuki's neck. A moment, then a nod. “My brother has told me about you. A troubled boy with a good heart.”

“He said that?” Mizuki chuckled. “Hanzo always found me suspicious and shady. And, well, rightfully so. I'm surprised he had a single nice thing to say about me.”

“I think…” Genji flashed a small smile. “It helps that he, too, is a troubled boy with a good heart.”

Genji crossed the room to a storage cabinet, drawing out a blanket. He draped it over Wuyang's back.

“This one has insisted on being here the whole time. Even when Dr. Ziegler was doing surgery,” Genji said, taking a seat beside Wuyang. “I'm glad to see he's getting some rest.”

“Doesn't he know?”

Genji sighed. “Yes, of course he knows. But he also sees the good in you.”

“There is none.”

“I wasn't much older than you when I first found myself waking up in an Overwatch exam room. Broken, betrayed, furious at the world.” Genji rested a hand on Wuyang's back. “And by the side of my bed, there was a medic waiting for me. Optimistic, idealistic, desperate to save me despite my messy past. Despite the fact that her superiors only saw me as a potential weapon, a way to take down their enemies. People like Wuyang, like Angela… I think they know things the rest of us do not.

“We’re not so dissimilar, you and I. Growing up in a crime family, forced to do things that chafed against our conscience, then betrayed and discarded by those we trusted. And we’re not the only ones.” Genji paused, a pensive look on his face. “This… isn't an invitation. I’m not Sojourn or Winston. I do not know your whole story, nor is it my business to learn. But, Overwatch is committed to stopping the Hashimoto. They may be amiable to your assistance, just as I once helped them take down the Shimada. Think on it.”

“I will, I promise.”

Wuyang made a soft sound in his sleep, fingers squeezing Mizuki's. Genji smiled, giving his back a couple of pats before standing back up again.

“Now, Ms. Ye doesn't want the two of you to be alone. Dr. Ziegler is usually here, but asked me to cover her break now that you're in stable condition.” Genji put his hands on his hips. “However, there won't be any problems if I wait for her just outside, right?”

Even if he wanted to harm Wuyang, he wasn't sure he could, strapped to the bed. He brushed his thumb over Wuyang's knuckles.

“None.”

“I understand,” Genji said. At the door, he turned back. “And Mizuki? Thank you for saving Toshiro-san and Kiriko. They are family to me.”

“They are to me too.”

A crooked smile, a scrunched nose, a quick nod. Then, Genji was gone.

Mizuki let his eyes fall closed, resting them from the bright lights of the examination room. A fresh wave of something flowed through the IV embedded in his inner elbow, immediately washing his pain away with a comforting numbness. No more ache to his skull, no more tingle in his wounds. Sleep was about to take him when the grip on his hand shifted.

Wuyang was rubbing his face, exhaling a quiet yawn. Then, his gaze swept over Mizuki, expression lighting up. “You’re awake!”

“Hi.”

“I was so worried,” Wuyang said, hand finding his cheek. Warm on his clammy skin — a reminder of what living felt like. A kiss was pressed to his forehead. “You’ve been out for days.”

“What happened?”

“You were shot twice during the brawl trying to protect Mr. Yamagami. With your shield-thingy we all were able to counterattack and drive the Hashimoto back,” Wuyang said. His thumb stroked wide arcs across Mizuki’s under eye. “Thankfully, it kept you alive long enough for us to get you to the drop ship. Dr. Ziegler’s been working her magic ever since.”

“No, no, why…” Mizuki coughed — like glass in his lungs, even through the painkillers. “Why am I here? Why are you here? I’m a Hashimoto, Wuyang.”

Wuyang was quiet for a long moment, thoughts brewing in the scrunch of his brows. He let go of Mizuki’s hand, withdrawing the omamori in the process. A small smile as he ran his fingernail over the embroidery.

“Someone once told me a story about a prince lost in the mountains, surrounded by his enemies. He was lost and the paths home were blocked by demons. Though he was brave, he couldn't do it alone,” Wuyang said. “All he needed was a little help — a path forward, a calm mind, a gentle touch — to get home.”

“It's just a fairy tale, Wuyang,” Mizuki said despite the tears tracking down his temple.

“Yeah, it is. But you're still that lost prince to me. Just needing a little help to get home.” Wuyang wiped the tears away, the gleam in his own eyes threatening to spill over. “I know you are — well, were, since you famously got fired last week — a Hashimoto, but it sounds like you were quite terrible at it.”

Mizuki laughed, another painful cough. “You're too trusting.”

“Maybe. But this is something we all agreed on, not just me,” Wuyang said. “You saved all of us with that barrier. If you hadn't… you and Sakura both would've died. Mr. Yamagami taken again. The rest of us didn't have much fight left, I doubt we could've held on any longer. You were a hero. That deserves another chance.”

Though Mizuki’s mind swirled — doubt, anxiety, disbelief, remorse, fear, mistrust, sadness — he was only able to say one thing:

“Thank you.”

Not long after he came to, Commander Chase approved of him being unbound, though he was still under constant supervision. After another week, Dr. Ziegler put him under for round two of surgery, this time removing the device that kept his damaged lung pumping and replacing it with a biotic patch. Then one more until he was finally allowed limited movement, short limping walks through the medbay.

Throughout his recovery, Wuyang visited as often as he could. Sitting beside Mizuki's bed as he told him about the mission he'd just returned from, his antics around base with the other members of the team, and his latest troubles with his parents. Every time Mizuki tangled their fingers together, listening until he dozed off from his next dose of painkillers.

Unfortunately, the Youkai had already returned to Kanezaka by the time Mizuki had woken up from his first surgery. Ryouta, Chikasa, and Nobuto all had to return to their daily lives, while Sakura was released from Dr. Ziegler’s care to continue her recovery at home.

The only exception was Kiriko. As Toshiro-san had been imprisoned for over a decade, the Overwatch medics wanted to keep him under observation. There were also concerns from the higher-ups that he may be abducted again, even under the protection of the Youkai. Both of the Yamagamis agreed to stay — Kiriko wasn't about to leave her father, not again. 

She apparently visited Mizuki regularly while he was unconscious, but hadn't seen her since. His betrayal had hurt her to her core, Toshiro-san told him one evening during a game of shogi, but her joy at seeing her father freed left her conflicted. Lost.

Once he was finally declared strong enough to leave the medical bay for more than a few minutes, it was time for Mizuki to talk. No more secrets, no more dodging the truth.

“After my mom died, my dad had to sell off the print shop to pay for her funeral expenses. We left Fukuoka not long after that,” Mizuki said. It was impossible to look at everyone, so he focused on his hands. The joints of his prosthetic, the faint scars on his other hand, the fresh black nail polish Zarya applied for him. “He’d been destroyed — mentally, emotionally, financially — by the cu… by her death. In order to support us, he got into debt with the Hashimoto. But we all know they never play fair. He died a few years later when I was nine, leaving me with nothing but that debt.”

He looked up to see Toshiro-san nodding at him to continue.

“Toshiro-san was my one ally. Where the Hashimoto elders saw me as a weapon to hone, Toshiro-san treated me like the child I was. A child who wanted to play, to learn, to grow, to change. Like I was his son.” Mizuki wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, realizing Kiriko was doing the same when his gaze fell on her. “Once I came of age, Toshiro-san couldn't shield me any longer. The Hashimoto put me to work. My handler, the woman from the warehouse, sent me on missions across Japan. Contract killings, intimidation, theft.”

In the corner of his eye, Mizuki noticed Genji nudge the man standing next to him — Cole, the cowboy. The two shared a weary head shake, as if Mizuki's story reminded them of their shared past.

“Then, she sent me to Kanezaka a year ago.” His four friends — watching from Japan via stream — shifted in the video call window projected by Athena. “I wanted to barf when she told me what my mission would be. Infiltrate, disrupt, spy on, hurt a group of kids, those brave enough to take a fucking stand. Of course, it was Toshiro-san who encouraged me to live like a normal kid. To be your friend. To seek peace. To follow my own path in life. I don't think I would've made that same decision without him.”

“You would have, Mizuki,” Toshiro-san said. You have never been cruel enough for this life.

Mizuki sniffled, burying his face in his hands. “So, I joined. Shared information with the Hashimoto, enough to keep them happy but not enough to harm anyone. And in reverse, manipulated the Youkai into ‘stumbling’ upon leaked intel that would help them in their fight against the Hashimoto. Nothing that could get traced back to me. One month ago, Kiriko and I infiltrated a gala—”

As he told those gathered his story, Mizuki felt an unfamiliar weightlessness. He almost alerted Dr. Ziegler — thinking it was a side effect of his pain medicine — but then he realized something. His mind was quiet as his soul was bared. The spirits weren't with him, not now.

Curses can be broken, Mizuki.

“—Which brings us to today,” Mizuki said, raising his head. All eyes on him as he stared back. “There's nothing I can do except apologize to you all.”

“Hm.” The sound came from Commander Chase, reclining on the lounge’s sofa and sipping from a cup of coffee. “I can think of one more thing you can do.”

“Vivian, he needs to recover—” Dr. Ziegler began to argue.

“I’m not keen to repeat Morrison and Reyes’ mistakes, Angela,” Commander Chase said, standing up to cross the room. A firm hand rested on Mizuki’s back, her dark eyes gentle without their usual cybernetic blue glow. “Kawano will recover completely before we make any movement against the Hashimoto. He may also say no.”

Mizuki’s eyes found Genji in the crowd, a dorky grin on his scarred face and two thumbs up. Wuyang sparkling with pride, a flush on his ears. Then, Kiriko, arms crossed over her chest and a dour expression on her face.

“With all due respect, Commander,” said the girl who had never shown an authority figure respect once in her life and wasn't about to start today. Kiriko stood up, hands on her hips. “You're trying to poach the Youkai's lieutenant right out from under me.”

“Huh?” Mizuki’s eyes widened. She still considered him one of them?

Commander Chase raised a brow. “What? Do the rest of the Youkai want their invitations engraved in stone?”

“Might be nice.”

“I’ll do it,” Mizuki said. “Let's take the bastards down.”

“Hey.”

Mizuki stopped buttoning his shirt, turning at the familiar voice. Wuyang stood in the doorway of his bedroom, leaning against the frame. His backpack sat beside him, green omamori reading Safety hanging from the handle. He wasn't supposed to be arriving in Tokyo for another twelve hours — Mizuki had already planned on picking him up from the airport and then going out on a date. Their first. Well, their first real one, that is.

“You're early.”

“And you're late,” Wuyang said, arms crossed over his chest. Mizuki was about to argue that he can't be late if Wuyang never told him his flight got changed, when he continued, “Three months is a long time.”

“Didn't have much say in the matter. Dr. Ziegler and Commander Chase are scary.”

He was completely cleared two months after the warehouse attack — leg wound closed, limp disappeared, ribs mended, and the biotic patch on his lung letting him breathe better than he did before getting shot. Commander Chase sent him back to Kanezaka almost immediately. Though he was formally an Overwatch agent now, she wanted the Youkai to carry on with their sabotage until further orders. Unfortunately, this meant he had to leave without spending any valuable time with his… Wuyang?

“Mizuki.”

Oh. Right.

Four steps, then he held Wuyang in his arms. Relaxed shoulders beneath his fingertips, scent of clean laundry where his face buried into Wuyang's shirt, a tingle down his spine as nails gently ran through his undercut. Draw back, eyes met, lips found. 

God, he missed him.

“Why didn't you say you were coming early?” Mizuki murmured. It was clear he came via drop ship instead of commercial flight — far too relaxed and clean for that. Were the rest of the strike team here too? Did the timeline of their plans change? He thought that they'd have at least a few days to themselves before their first attack on the Hashimoto but—

Wuyang's hand caressed his cheek, bringing him back to reality. Though he was feeling a lot better — thanks to Wuyang, his friends, and especially to the antidepressant Dr. Ziegler prescribed him — he still had the tendency to get lost in his own mind. 

At least Wuyang could always guide him back to clarity.

“I hitched a ride on the Orca with Lena and Hana since they were on their way to Busan,” Wuyang said, smile as soft as his touch. “I wanted to surprise you.”

“You know I don't do well with surprises,” Mizuki murmured.

“I do, but at least it was a good one. Right?”

Mizuki backed them against the wall, answering with Wuyang's lower lip beneath his teeth, hands on his narrow waist. Staff-calloused fingers brushed along fresh scars, sensitive. A tiny whine as Mizuki's tongue slipped in, body trembling beneath him.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Wuyang said, a grin spreading across flushed lips. A small groan escaped them as Mizuki painted a bruise across the column of his throat. “Aw, that's gonna show.”

“Yeah,” Mizuki said, resting his forehead on Wuyang's collarbone. “Need the Hashimoto to know you’re under my protection.”

“Aiya, I'm more worried about Anran thinking I was attacked by one of Kiriko's shrine foxes,” Wuyang grumbled. “Though, if it keeps the Hashimoto away then I better return the favor.”

“Oh?” Mizuki curled his hand around Wuyang's neck — light, but with his thumb pressed gently into the reddened mark. “I'd like to see you try.”

Wuyang stared up at him, a flicker of flame in his brown irises. This was where Wuyang shone — his abilities being challenged, a fire lit within him with the desire to prove himself no matter what cards lay on the table. Mizuki looked forward to manipulating this to their mutual benefit, whether on the battlefield or in the quiet, private moments.

“Did you plan a first date for us already?”

“Yeah,” Mizuki said. “A late dinner at my favorite kaisen donburi place and a walk along the river. Then back to my apartment for bed. Something simple after a long flight.”

“Hm.” Wuyang pretended to ponder it, though Mizuki knew he'd already found himself a different plan. “How about we make that our second date?”

“You have something better in mind?”

“Yeah, how about a visit to Yamagami Blades?” Wuyang said, grin crooked. “You want me to try? I want to see you try to stop me.”

“Save that energy for the Hashimoto,” Mizuki said, his prosthetic hand on Wuyang's hip snaking behind him — fingertips teasingly close to his waistband. “Besides, who says we can't spar here?”

“It's not roomy enough. One swing of my staff and I take out half your furniture. It just—” Wuyang blinked. “Oh. That's not what you were…”

Mizuki snorted before Wuyang's arms wrapped around his torso, face buried against his bare sternum as they laughed together. 

“I've missed you,” Mizuki said, running his thumb along Wuyang's bottom lip. 

An inhale, a lean in. A smile on the lips, a sweetness on the tongue. A pair of roaming hands, a knee between thighs.

Heart racing, though his thoughts were calm. Pleasure, not pain. Clarity — this was where he was meant to be. With Overwatch, with the Youkai, with Wuyang.

Beautiful brown eyes on his as they parted, shining with the bright gleam of something Mizuki hadn't seen since he was a child.

“I’ve missed you, too.”