Chapter Text
It all starts entirely by accident, actually.
Shin Asakura finds himself in a quaint town on the outskirts of Tokyo.
Suburbs galore, children playing at every other corner, winding streets and cicadas chirping ceaselessly in the warm summer heat. The buildings are well-maintained, tenderly cared for—both upheld with communal responsibility and worn in a way that spelt just how many years it’s been that way.
If Shin were to describe it, he’d say it exemplified the exact opposite of what assassins like himself stood for.
Quiet living. Peaceful living. Living—as opposed to surviving.
It simply is.
He might even find it nice, had he not been bleeding out.
Shin hisses out a pained gasp, clutching his side tighter instinctively as a wave of pain rolls over him. He tips sideways, eyelids fluttering, before catching himself against a nearby alley wall.
His palm lands firmly against the brick with a resounding smack, and the rest of his body follows suit soon thereafter.
Ow.
He rests his head there, for a moment, then two, allowing him to heave out a few shuddering breaths and readjust the pressure he placed on his side as he waits for his vision to unblur.
It does, eventually—enough to walk at least—and he pushes himself off the wall with a grunt, continuing his slow, determined trudge forward.
The job went bad. Very bad.
There were too many people. Unaccounted for by his assignment. An ambush, really. He’d completed his mission, in the end. Came out alive but not unscathed, and his aching, bloody body was a testament to that.
That’s all that mattered.
Except—
God, please no. I don’t want to die—I can’t feel my legs—my daughter. Let me see my daughter again—It hurts. It hurts—I’m scared—I should have called my mom more—Is this how it ends—Who’s going to take care of my cats—It wasn’t supposed to end like this—I don’t want to die here—I don’t want to die.
Their thoughts just—
I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. Someone, anyone—save me.
—wouldn’t stop.
The mission ended, but it wasn’t over.
Seared like a brand into his brain was the ever-present ghost of their screams: their last prayers, wishes, words to their loved ones, the terrible pervasiveness of a mind moments before death, but above all, the agonizing silence afterward.
It’s the type of brutality most experience once in their life—and never again.
But of course, that’s not the case for Shin the Clairvoyant.
Shin grips his side tighter, using the pain to ground himself. He grits his teeth, and it does its job. His mind clears, marginally.
I’m no better than a sitting duck, right now, he thinks to himself, sardonically, trying once again to access the minds of those around him and failing.
All he can hear is—
Please, please. No. No, no, no—
Shin slams his eyes shut, sucks in a deep breath.
Any other time, he might be grateful for the chance to turn his ability off. He can’t remember the last time he had.
But, in truth, he’d take the mindreading anyday over this.
Dammit. He needs a cigarette.
Shin all but collapses into the nearest convenience store. Partly to scrounge up whatever first aid he could find, partly (mostly) for cigarettes.
“Is this everything?” a kind woman’s voice reaches his ears. Shin’s too busy rifling through his pockets for spare change to face her fully.
“And a pack from behind the counter. I don’t care what brand.”
“Ah, about that…” she trails off, and Shin glances up. The woman has bright eyes, neat black bangs tucked behind a pink hairclip on one side and a kind smile—if a bit sheepish.
A green apron covers her torso, completed with a small, engraved nametag: Aoi.
She holds a hand out: a simple gesture, revealing an entirely empty wall where cigarettes should have been.
“We don’t sell those here.”
Shin’s jaw drops minutely. He feels a migraine coming on—but whether that’s out of annoyance or blood loss, he can’t know for sure.
Just his luck.
“Oh, okay. Just this then,” Shin responds with only a smidgeon of disappointment. He pulls out some crumpled bills, frowns at them, and does his best to straighten them with one hand still glued to his side.
The woman behind the counter—Aoi, he supposes—tells him his total, smiling reassuringly at his somewhat failed attempt to uncrumple them.
“Here, allow me,” she tells him, not unkindly, and Shin places his semi-crumpled bills into the proffered tray, oddly humbled under her gentle eyes.
He mutters out a quiet, embarrassed thanks under his breath.
“Any plans for the day?” she asks, amiably, as she counts out his change.
“Nothing yet,” he responds. He feels his gaze wander, partly out of dizziness, partly out of interest.
He’s never been to a convenience store without cigarettes, after all.
It’s homey, the same way the rest of the town is.
The store is covered in a distinct sense of coziness, despite the very nature of a convenience store being anything but. Homemade signs line the walls; toys for young children are piled behind the counter; kid’s books and kindergarten schoolwork fill the shelves; a personal calendar with bright red circles and x’s hangs idly on the back wall.
Then there are the pictures. Smiling faces. Warm and comforting. Shin squints, “Is that you up there?”
Aoi looks up, turns her head, “Oh yes! And that’s my daughter, Hana. I think my husband’s in a few up there, too.”
Are injuries meant to make you this dizzy?
He can’t make out much of the photos—Aoi herself is starting to look like she’s grown a second head—but he thinks he can say this: “You have a beautiful family.”
Aoi smiles brightly, “Why, thank you. You’re not too shabby yourself, you know.” She gestures to her name tag, “I’m Aoi. It’s nice to meet you…?” She trails off, tone prompting.
Shin blinks, “It’s Shin. Nice to meet you, too, miss.”
“Shin, then. Here you go. I went ahead and threw in a few pork buns. On the house.”
Shin blinks, staring wide-eyed at the bag, “You’re sure? I—Thank you.”
Her expression softens, “Come back soon, okay?”
Shin swallows, throat tight. He nods, forces his feet to move and stiffly marches out of the store.
As he does so, the soft cadence of Aoi’s voice reaches his ears, “Oh, there you are, dear. I was wondering where you wandered off to. Hmm? What’s with that look? Is there something on my face?”
The pork buns, as expected, were delicious.
Shin finds a secluded park bench to patch himself up.
The setting sun brings with it a deepening chill, and even Shin’s jacket does little to block the cold.
With a shiver, he pulls out some gauze and rolls up the lower half of his jacket. It’s…definitely not the best injury he could have, but he’ll live, and the action of dressing his wounds gives him something concrete to focus on.
It doesn’t take long before he’s finished, and the next moment he slumps with a sigh. He’s beat.
He probably should move, but his eyelids droop, and his limbs feel like lead. He’s too far from any of his or the JAA’s safehouses. He’s broke, too. So a nearby hotel wasn’t going to cut it.
He could call someone from the JAA; they’d probably come for him.
But he had no desire to let anyone see him in this state.
Their stares are enough. Their thoughts are. Their expectations.
Shin the Clairvoyant—the Legendary Assassin Taro Sakamoto’s successor.
Shin exhales shakily. “Has it really been five years already?” he says to himself.
He wants to laugh. Five years feels too long.
It feels too short.
God. He could really use a cigarette.
“I can’t imagine what you’d think if you could see me now, Mr. Sakamoto.”
He’s tired.
Shin feels a tiredness so bone deep, so pervasive and heavy, it settles into his very soul, chaining him inexorably in place.
It’s an oppressive tiredness. Built from exhaustion, from years of living in the shadow of a loss he couldn’t face. From screaming voices ringing in his skull that wouldn’t quiet, no matter how hard he tries to shut them out. From the disquiet of always looking over his shoulder, always feeling eyes on him, even when no one else is around.
He couldn’t—wouldn’t move, even if he wanted to.
Alright, another night on a park bench it is. Squirrels are good enough company.
He couldn’t rely on his mind-reading abilities, not now, and that should be enough to sway him into action, but—
Not tonight.
Tomorrow, he’ll see Granny Miya. Get his wounds treated beyond shoddy first-aid. Tomorrow, he’ll get his payment, convince himself he won’t spend it all right away again. Tomorrow, he’ll find somewhere nice to sleep for the night.
Tomorrow.
Tonight, he’ll sleep.
It’s not comfortable, but he doesn’t mind. The quiet and calm of the town is enough to lull him to sleep.
His eyes drift close, and he falls into a listless slumber.