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Years before a driver’s license, Shin was awarded his JAA membership card.
Strangely, it was going to the office to receive the card itself that scared him, much more than anything he had signed himself up for. Being admitted to the JAA was no small feat, let alone at his age, but Shin had taken to it like any job. His hands no longer shook when he held a knife or a gun. It felt natural.
It wasn’t until standing in line before the JAA at its most bureaucratic that he started feeling uneasy. The lobby buzzed with thoughts of tired office workers and prospective assassins, and Shin felt all too small in the middle of it. The killers around him knew how to look the part, twice his size and showing none of his nerves; Most of them had their documents in manila folders or briefcases, or at least tucked underneath their arms, far too smart to leave such important information out in the open.
Shin didn’t know where to buy a manila folder, even if he had the money for one. He gripped his paperwork in front of him with both hands like holding on tight would somehow keep him from being swept away. He didn’t realize that he’d crumpled the edges until he was next in line, but the attendant behind the desk didn’t even seem to notice. He took the documents without looking up, and ran through the necessary information with a rote consistency of tone.
“Name?”
The first question, and still, it managed to give Shin pause. He cleared his throat. “Shin,” he said. The attendant glanced up at him, eyebrow raised. He thought some more, considered his father and Mr. Asakura—shook his head. “Just Shin.”
The man shrugged and resumed typing, and luckily, no question that followed made Shin think twice. It helped that the attendant’s thoughts were almost entirely occupied with what he’d be having for lunch that day. He didn’t seem to be paying any mind to Shin’s awkward answers, or how small and out of place he was in the sea of trained killers. It always eased his mind just to know he was being ignored.
“Stand back for your picture,” the attendant said, bored. Shin pressed his back to the white background and braced himself for the camera flash.
They printed it on the spot, and Shin got to watch as the computer spat out a picture of him mid-blink on the plastic card. The desk attendant didn’t even glance at it, and though Shin meant to ask for a retake, he couldn’t seem to summon his voice. He stepped away with a meek expression of thanks the moment it was in his hands.
Later, Shin would learn it wasn’t so strange for an assassin to carry their ID without any family name. It was, after all, a profession best fit for people without families. If Shin had lingered in the lobby, he would’ve had a front row seat to the thoughts of every other assassin faced with an ache at that absence. Shin wasn’t the only JAA contractor followed by loneliness—far from it.
Still, knowing that never seemed to make him feel any better, no matter how hard he tried. And Shin had worked so hard for the privilege of carrying that card. It seemed like a waste that he could only look at it with contempt.
#
Mr. Sakamoto was quiet. Anyone who worked with him knew this, and Shin had seen him teased by his colleagues for his reticence—but it was more than that. Even this thoughts were soft, hard for Shin to parse.
He had gotten used to loud minds at the JAA. There was a specific kind of person who took a joy in their work, their thoughts an overwhelming deluge of sadistic desire; There was another kind of person, overwhelmed with fear that the next day would be their last, whose mind was always a stormy sea of anxieties and regret. Shin came to realize that only the best in their profession would think with clarity.
Mr. Sakamoto’s mind was quiet, and Shin knew that meant he was good at what he did.
Not that he needed to check his thoughts to know that. Shin looked at Mr. Sakamoto with awe from the moment he met him, like any new recruit to the JAA. Anyone would have been lucky to learn under him, Shin thought, and he took to him like a devoted apprentice, etching every sparing word into his memory.
Mr. Sakamoto took to him, too. Shin suspected that he just liked teaching someone without having to speak; But whatever made Mr. Sakamoto keep him around, Shin didn’t mind. It made moments together feel uniquely easy, like Shin’s abilities were anything other than a burden.
Unsteady, Mr. Sakamoto thought, and the lack of specificity left Shin to wonder if it was a criticism meant for him or an unconscious observation. Either way, Shin spun to face him, letting the weight of the rifle in his hands drop. Its heft still felt awkward, and Shin hadn’t quite gotten used to handling it. It was so much easier to rely on a handgun.
But Mr. Sakamoto had already demonstrated to him that only amateurs relied on one weapon, and Shin wouldn’t stay an amateur in his eyes for long. “Sorry,” he mumbled, looking back at his target. “It’s too heavy.” But no, that wasn’t quite right. “I need to get stronger,” he corrected himself.
Mr. Sakamoto approached him as he set his aim back on the target, watching from the side silently. Without a word, he placed a hand on Shin’s wrist, shifting its placement. Shin let himself be as malleable as he could, fought against the animal in him that wanted to bite whenever he was touched.
“There,” Mr. Sakamoto said, and when he withdrew his hand and Shin found it in himself to focus, he realized his shoulder no longer felt so strained underneath the weight.
If he didn’t know better, he would’ve leapt on Mr. Sakamoto with a hug the first time he shot the human silhouette of a target clean through the heart. But he had learned better than to act like anything more than a colleague. Still, he couldn’t help the way he spun to face him, eyes shining in a silent request for praise.
Mr. Sakamoto’s eyes were hidden behind the shine of his glasses, and he said nothing. But—Good, he thought, with a slight nod of the head, and it shouldn’t have been enough to make Shin preen.
#
In his uniquely atypical childhood, there were lots of things Shin had never been given the chance to do. There weren’t many opportunities for normal juvenile experiences in the lab, and few uniquely enjoyable allowances, either. Shin had always grumbled about that to the old man. What kid would want to be stuck there?
Still, when faced with the lonely street and a cold night, he was sure it had to be better than this. If he had been a smarter kid, he would’ve turned back. But Shin was always more stubborn than he was smart, and the look on Mr. Asakura’s face flashed in his mind whenever he started to consider the possibility.
He got used to life on his own surprisingly quickly. He had a job, one as well paying as it was unrespected, and a place of his own, though he wouldn’t go so far as to call his four and a half tatami apartment a home. It smelled like smoke from the last tenant when he moved in, and it took days for him not to scrunch up his nose every time he set foot inside.
Of course, things changed, and Shin did everything he could to acclimate to playing the part of his profession. This, he assumed, was a piece of it: What self-respecting assassin didn’t light up a cigarette after a well-earned kill? That’s what he told himself, when his boss gave him a pack for a job well done.
Shin coughed and spluttered through his first one, but he was stubborn, after all. He figured it would only be so long before he got used to it. He had already grown to tolerate the smell. There were lots of things that Shin had never been able to do before, things like have a room of his own, or smoking a cigarette. So, he told himself, being on his own wasn’t so bad, after all.
Are you ready to go? Shin turned to face Mr. Sakamoto out of habit, though he hadn’t actually spoken. The gruff presence of his thoughts was enough to make Shin sharpen up, and he grinned at him as he stood.
“Almost,” he said, “just let me finish up my cigarette.” Mr. Sakamoto had insisted on coming to help him move, no matter how much Shin told him it wasn’t necessary. In the end, he had managed to fit his entire last nine years of life into four cardboard boxes. After packing up what mattered and throwing away the rest, his four and a half tatami apartment looked as sad as it had when he first moved in. It was hard not to reminisce.
You can’t smoke in the shop, Mr. Sakamoto reminded him. And of course Shin knew that—he’d already memorized the family rules, and he’d given up on fighting for a smoke when Mr. Sakamoto kept using Hana for his argument.
“I get it,” he huffed, and he snuffed out his cigarette on the windowsill for the final time.
#
How the mighty have fallen, Shin thought, as he approached Hana’s preschool while trying as hard as possible not to look totally shady. What would the Shin of a year ago say, if he was told that he’d given up killing to be a babysitter? He wouldn’t believe it. Who would?
Well, it hadn’t taken much insisting for Shin to agree to picking Hana up while Mr. Sakamoto and his wife were busy. She was a cute kid, at least, and he’d grown strangely fond of her since moving in. Shin had never been around kids much before, and he was positive he was doing everything wrong—but Mr. Sakamoto trusted him with this much, and that had to count for something.
With the way Hana’s face lit up the moment she saw him, Shin couldn’t find it in himself to focus on his doubts. She sprinted to the door, barrelling into him and embracing his legs before he could speak. He sheepishly tried to pry her off as he signed the pick-up form.
Her teacher laughed into the back of her hand, amused enough to mortify Shin. “Mr. Sakamoto called about you,” she said, with the uniquely sweet tone that people who worked with children had, one that always managed to make Shin feel like he was suddenly taken off balance. “It’s so sweet to see an older brother walk his sister home.”
Shin went stiff, but Hana didn’t seem to mind. If anything, the way she refused to let go of him was an affirmation. Well. Shin supposed there was no point in correcting her.
“I’m just helping out where I can,” he said, and he smiled and handed back the form.
There were lots of things Shin had learned since ending up on his own, things that every assassin needed to stay alive. It wasn’t enough to kill the target: Shin had learned to kill the part of himself that wanted anything more, to strangle any desire for companionship and suffocate the need to be human, because an assassin who couldn’t turn that part of himself off would end up in a body bag. Mr. Sakamoto had taught him that, and Shin held himself to every word Mr. Sakamoto said.
Even still.
With a shaky hand, Shin took Hana’s palm and squeezed it as they stepped out the door. “You want icecream on the way home? I promise not to tell dad.”
#
Slow shifts with Lu always ended up like this: Shin doing everything in his power to find something to do, while Lu sat around and goofed off. After working with her long enough, Shin couldn’t bother to care about the slacking anymore. For the last half hour she’d played games on his phone, and he didn’t have it in himself to protest.
“Your phone’s ringing,” she said, and Shin looked up from where he’d been scrubbing the shelves—his neck ached from the awkward position he held himself in. She waved the screen in his direction. “It’s your dad.”
The words, as casual as they came out, set Shin springing towards her like a bullet exiting a barrel. Nevermind the fact that, if he’d thought about it calmly for a moment, he’d remember he didn’t have his father’s phone number. Nevermind the fact that he could barely remember the man’s face, that hearing his voice wouldn’t have any meaning. Nevermind the fact that he’d sworn off on caring about a man who abandoned him, anyway.
Shin took the phone from her hand like a dog snatching food, almost threatening her fingers. It was only when he looked at the screen that he felt the familiar pang of disappointment. “That’s not my dad,” he said, and Lu blinked at him.
“Isn’t he? He said he was your adoptive father.”
Shin wondered just when the hell Mr. Asakura had found the time to tell her that, nevermind what he meant by it. Their relationship had always been symbiotic at best, parasitic at worst. Shin knew that. He knew that Mr. Asakura had never wanted a son, and Shin gave up on trying to be one. Why Mr. Asakura would hold onto a title like father was beyond him.
“It’s gonna go to voicemail,” Lu said, and Shin decided there could be a better time to ponder all that. He stepped outside as he raised the phone to his ear, unwilling to let Lu eavesdrop. “Hey,” he said as he answered, “what do you need?”
Maybe it didn’t mean anything at all. Maybe Mr. Asakura used the word without any sense of weight, and maybe Shin was unreasonable, for feeling so strongly about an insignificant title.
He held a hand over the receiver while Mr. Asakura spoke, just to make sure he couldn’t hear the way Shin’s breathe caught. It seemed like Mr. Asakura had always been able to tell when he was fighting back tears just by his expression, and Shin didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing.
Mr. Asakura didn’t seem to have a reason to call him, and Shin made sure to scold him for wasting his time with pointless chatter while he was working. They talked for the rest of his shift, and for once, it was Lu’s turn to complain while Shin slacked off.
#
There was an absence that Shin had quietly felt for his entire life, but it wasn’t until moving in with the Sakamoto family that he became sure of it. To put it bluntly, Shin didn’t know what it meant to have a mother. It was the hardest part of moving into the Sakamoto household, those brief moments when he and Mrs. Sakamoto were alone and he was confronted with the simple fact that he had no idea how to speak with her.
Of course he had no intention of being a burden. He helped clean up after dinner, assisted her with anything she might need, thanked her as politely as possible whenever he could. He did his own laundry and kept his belongings in his own room and left some of his paycheck on the countertop from time to time, whenever Mrs. Sakamoto left to buy groceries. And he stayed away, whenever he could, so she wouldn’t have to be bothered with another person staying under her roof. He thought that would be enough.
But Mrs. Sakamoto was incredible; Shin knew that, and he should’ve known there was no way to run from her for long. “Shin,” she started, in that familiar way that made him start feeling sick, a tone that let him know he was done for, “does being around me make you uncomfortable?”
He looked up from the sink to face her where she still sat at the table—he had rushed to gather the dishes from their family dinner before she could. “Of course not,” he said, trying to laugh, like the question was absurd. It didn’t come out quite right.
She had her chin propped up on her hand so she could look at him, closely enough to make Shin hold his breath. “You act too much like a guest in your own home, Shin. You’re a member of the family. There’s no need to be so stiff.”
Shin tried to relax his shoulders—but he knew that wasn’t what she meant. “... You didn’t ask for another person to stay with you,” he mumbled, after a moment’s pause. “I know it’s an inconvenience.”
Mrs. Sakamoto started to stand up from her chair, and Shin clutched the rim of the kitchen sink. “It hurts our feelings, you know. That you won’t settle into the family. I’ve done everything I could to be welcoming to you.” She was facing him with a smile. Why did it make Shin’s skin crawl? “We’ve done all we can to trust you. Can’t you do the same for us?”
Shin took a steady breath. He wasn’t being cornered, he knew. It wasn’t like Mrs. Sakamoto could hurt him. But he lowered his eyes, anyway, so he wouldn’t have to deal with the pang of guilt that came from looking at her.
“I don’t want you to regret letting me stay here.”
Mrs. Sakamoto’s arms were warm and soft and still, Shin went stiff like a cornered cat when she pulled him into a hug. But he fought to keep himself breathing, fought to keep himself still.
“I don’t expect it to happen now,” she said, voice too soft to spark fear. “I know it’ll take time. But when the time comes, I just hope you’ll find it in yourself to have a little faith.”
Shin didn’t know what it meant to have a mother. He didn’t really know what it meant to have a family, or anything close to the comfort of a warm bed and a nice meal. But Mrs. Sakamoto’s arms were soft, and when he hugged her back, just for a moment, he felt a warmth he’d never felt before, washing away some of his fear.
So maybe he could learn.