Sakura Avenues

Rei held her suitcase in front of her while entering her new apartment for the first time. It wasn’t the minimalistic luxury of Aurora Cliffs, nor the crammed practicality of Karasu’s apartment. Besides the unnerving fact that she knew surveillance gear was watching her every move, she finally had a taste of real freedom, her own place. In the back of her mind, she was cautiously thanking Takumi for his creativity and help gaining her more autonomy; even if he simultaneously signed a lease on her. She was scheduled to meet him later at some fancy restaurant, the instruction was to wear what he had sent. She had yet to open the box.

Isamu walked in behind her, his huge arms balancing the last of her belongings and the box from Takumi: a golden packet with a black ribbon from one of the most expensive malls in Mirage City. Isamu, an ex-boxer with both brains and brawl to rival Aoi, build like a mountain and covered in Japanese tattoos, dropped the stuff on the couch in the one-bedroom apartment, stating he would give her a tour of the place, but it was pretty self-evident, and he had to go assist Karasu-sama. Rei thanked him for the help and the ride. He waved dismissively no problem as he left, slamming the door behind him.

The slam echoed in the almost empty apartment. Rei stood alone, the suitcase still held before her like armor. She let out a long breath, she didn’t realize she’d been holding, the sound loud in the stillness. This place was hers. For the first time in her life, four walls and a roof that belonged to no one else. The knowledge that Karasu’s eyes were undoubtedly on her through hidden lenses was a cold undercurrent, but even that couldn’t dampen the thrill of independence. Rei finally lowered the suitcase from its defensive position. She let out another long, slow breath, the sound growing in the quietness. Hers. The word felt foreign and thrilling.

Her eyes scanned the living area. It was sparingly furnished, a blank canvas in muted blues and beiges. Functional. Anonymous. Her footsteps were loud on the polished wooden floor as she began her exploration. “Okay,” she murmured to herself, the silence suddenly feeling too vast, “Living room. Couch, table, window with a view of… another apartment complex. Fantastic.” A wry smile touched her lips. She moved to the kitchen, running a hand over the cold, unused countertop. “Stove. Fridge. Empty. Note to self: groceries”, she opened a cabinet, “Plates. Glasses. All terribly… beige.” The tour continued to the bedroom. A double bed, a tower of neatly folded linens resting on top. A closet, empty except for a few bare hangers.

Finally, she turned to her meager possessions. Two boxes and a suitcase of clothes. That was everything she owned. She knelt and opened the first box. Coats, bags and shoes, a mix of her old patched things and the newer, sharper pieces Karasu had provided. She began transferring them to the closet, the mundane task a grounding ritual.

The second box was heavier. She lifted the flaps, and a faint smile, softer this time, graced her face. Inside were the fragile, mismatched pieces of Jin Morita. Karasu had surprised her, when he brought them to her. An unusually thoughtful act. After Jin escaped she never went back to their basement hide-out, considering everything of the past lost. She carefully lifted out a ceramic bowl glazed in deep indigo. “Grandma’s mixing bowl,” she breathed, setting it on the kitchen counter. Next came two delicate teacups, their glaze crackling with age.

Beneath them lay her mother’s legacy: two cookbooks. One, its cover adorned with the Italian flag, was splattered with old sauce stains. The other, in Japanese, was filled with her mother’s elegant handwritten notes in the margins. Rei hugged them to her chest for a moment before placing them on the counter next to the bowl.

The rest of the box held a stack of old fashion magazines, their pages dog-eared, a pot of dried-up glue, and several folders filled with her own college projects; mood boards, fabric swatches, sketches of fashion designs she’d once dreamed of creating. A life put on permanent hold. She was arranging the ceramics on a shelf when her commlink buzzed. A private, encrypted message. Her heart leapt, thinking it was Karasu checking in. But the sender ID was the burner code Takumi Junior used. Her smile faded as she opened it.

» Rei. I didn’t forget you. But my dad is on to me. He’s shipping me off to a long-term internship in Geneva. I leave tonight and have to get rid of this phone. I’ve memorized your number. I hope to see you again. I really enjoyed our time together. I won’t forget you – T.J.

Rei read the message twice, a bittersweet ache settling in her chest. She had almost forgotten the genuine, uncomplicated sweetness he possessed. For a moment, she was back on the rooftop, feeling the earnest press of his kisses, so different from the combustion of Karasu. She began to type a response, her fingers flying.

» I’ll miss you. I hope we can—

She stopped. Deleted the line. Her thumb hovered over the screen. If Takumi Senior wanted to use her to punish his son, any continued connection would be a weapon. The kindest thing she could offer, was losing touch. Never seeing him again was the best-case scenario. She finished the message, her heart feeling heavy.

» I understand. Please do everything you need to be OK. I will do the same. I also enjoyed our time together. Take care Takumi – R

She hit send before she could second-guess herself again. The message whooshed away into the net, a gentle goodbye. She placed the commlink on the counter next to her mother’s cookbooks, the small gesture feeling like the closing of a brief, bright chapter. The game had changed. The players were more dangerous now. And she had to be ready.

Her eyes fell on the golden box back on the couch, stark against the neutral tones of the eggshell couch. It was heavy, impeccably wrapped, the black ribbon a slash of sophistication. Her fingers traced the expensive waxed paper. This was Takumi’s opening move. She untied the ribbon and lifted the lid. Bonze tissue paper sighed aside to reveal not just an outfit, but an entire identity.

The dress itself was a masterpiece of midnight blue silk, so dark it was almost black, shot through with subtle red metallic threads that caught the light like a solar eclipsing sky. It was elegant, with a high neckline and long sleeves, but the back was a dramatic plunge, and the fabric was whisper-thin, highlighting the form beneath rather than obscuring it. It was both demure and devastatingly sensual.

Beneath it lay more. Silk undergarments in a matching shade of red. Stockings so fine they felt like mist, a bold red line running up the back of the legs. Heels, sleek patent leather and deadly high, in her exact size.

Beneath the clothes she found a cosmetics case from a brand she’d only seen in holographic ads on plaza mega screens, filled with powders and pigments in shades clearly chosen to complement the dress and her coloring. A personalized facial wash, night and day cremes; how on earth did he know her exact skin type? A beautiful red bottle of unbranded perfume, its scent a complex, intoxicating blend of night-blooming flowers and something metallic, like the tense air before a rainstorm. Even the shower gel, shampoo, conditioner and body lotion were there, a matching set with the same exclusive fragrance. The box even revealed a red enamel clutch with a lazy flame pattern, an intricate jewelry box containing simple marine and red enamel ring, earrings and a choker necklace.

It was control, absolute and terrifying. He had anticipated her every need, dictated her every detail from head to toe. But instead of feeling suffocated, Rei felt a strange, powerful excitement. This was a game played at the highest level, with the most exquisite pieces. He wasn’t just buying her time; he was curating an experience. For himself, sure, but she was given new instruments too. A slow smile touched her lips. Karasu saw her as a blade, sharp and useful. Takumi saw her as a jewel, to be polished and displayed. Both views were reductive, but both held a thrilling kind of power.

Without hesitation, she carried everything in the golden box into the bathroom. She showered with the scented gel, the rich lather and complex aroma feeling like a transformation. She dried off and smoothed on the lotion, her skin humming with a new, expensive sensitivity. Doing her makeup with a careful, practiced hand, accentuating her eyes, making her lips a dark, glossy temptation, it felt like a movie scene.

The lingerie was soft despite the tightness. Stepping into the dress, the silk whispering against her skin like a secret, it fit like a glove. She looked in the mirror. The girl from Chochin was gone. In her place was a woman of devastating elegance and mysterious allure. A creation of Takumi Senior’s desire and her own formidable will.

Excitement, acid and bright, coursed through her. This was no longer just about survival or loyalty. This was about stepping onto a stage she had been coached for. She slipped her feet into the heels, grabbed the red clutch and walked through her new apartment. She felt the camera’s glare, letting Karasu see what leasing her to a corporate big shot had created. She was going to meet her benefactor and for the first time, she wasn’t chiefly scared of him; she was eager.

Rei took one last look in the hallway mirror, the woman staring back a stranger of silk, scent and sharp intent. The midnight blue dress clung to her soft as butter, the subtle red threads catching light with every breath. The high neckline felt both regal and restrictive, a constant reminder of the collar around her life. She adjusted the simple red enamel ring on her finger, a final, defiant touch of color. Then she froze, noticing Karasu’s alarm ring still on her other hand. She pulled it half off, hesitated. The thought of the cameras surfacing, but then she slipped it off completely and placed it in her clutch before opening the door.

In the hallway a man stood directly opposite her door, leaning against the wall with an unnerving immobility. He pushed himself upright as she emerged. He was tall with an athletic build emphasized by an impeccably tailored brown suit. His hair was a thick, unruly wave of hazel and his eyes a startling shade of green. He assessed her with a practiced detachment that didn’t quite mask a flicker of surprise. On his hip, a sleek state-of-the-art handgun rested, clearly visible. Polished bronze cufflinks bearing the Kuroda logo gleamed at his wrists.

“Miss Morita,” he said, his voice a calm baritone with a faint, unplaceable accent, “I’m Cillian Kelly. I’ve been assigned to you. Mr. Takumi is waiting at the restaurant. I’ll drive you there.” Rei’s heart, already beating a nervous rhythm, skipped a beat. Assigned to her? A driver? A bodyguard? A warden? Given Takumi Senior’s inclination for control, that she experienced first hand through her outfit, she supposed she shouldn’t be surprised. She offered a small, polite nod, her training as a hostess snapping into place, masking her unease, “You can call me Rei. It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Kelly”, she replied, her voice steadier than she felt. “Just Cillian is fine,” he countered, offering a brief, professional smile. He gestured down the hall, “This way. The car is waiting downstairs.”

He fell into step beside her, a subtle sign that his role was not that of a subordinate. Cillian was perfectly polite, utterly proficient, but Rei’s senses, honed in the Den, were on high alert. She noticed the way his gaze swept the hallway, the elevators, the lobby; constant, practiced threat assessment. His name, his coloring; Irish descent perhaps? But she held her tongue. Personal questions felt like a dangerous gamble.

He led her to a sleek, black luxury Rolls-Royce that whispered of expense and power. True to his professional demeanor, he moved ahead to open the rear passenger door for her. As she approached, the enthralling blend of blossoms and ozone from her new perfume wafted between them. It was then she saw the first crack in his expert armor. His grip on the car door tightened, his knuckles paling for a fraction of a second. As she slid into the soft leather interior, her dress riding up her thigh just a touch, his green eyes flicked down and then away, a little too fast.

The door closed with a hushed, expensive thud, sealing her in the quiet cabin. Cillian took his place in the driver’s seat, the partition between them remaining down. The engine purred to life, a vibration so faint it was almost felt rather than heard. They pulled out into the color-drenched river of Mirage City traffic. Rei watched the city blur past, her reflection a blurred painting in the tinted window, superimposed over the chaotic, vibrant life of the streets. She could see Cillian’s eyes in the rearview mirror, glancing at her reflection more often than was strictly necessary while driving.

The silence stretched, filled only by the hum of the engine and the distant wail of sirens. He was, she realized, as aware of her as she was of him. He was part of Takumi’s world, a piece on the board she needed to understand. A handsome, armed, and apparently not-entirely-immune piece. She filed the information away, another useful detail in her growing catalogue of information, as the car glided smoothly toward her rendezvous with the man who owned them both.

“Cillian?” she asked, the name feeling foreign on her tongue. “Forgive me if this is forward, but… are you of Irish descent by any chance?” His hand shifted on the steering wheel. He turned his head to look back at her directly for a moment. In the dim light of the dashboard, a genuine smile touched his lips, softening his serious demeanor. “I am,” he confirmed, his accent subtly more pronounced, “County Cork, originally. Though it’s been a long time. And you… Italian and Japanese, if I’m not mistaken? Rei is a beautiful name.”

His calm look held hers in the rearview mirror. In his eyes, she saw he already knew. He hadn’t guessed; he was stating a fact from a dossier. Still, she played along, a strange need to assert her own history rising in her. “My mother was Italian,” she said, her fingers tracing the flames in the enamel of her clutch, “She was a cook. She spoke and wrote Japanese fluently, loved the food, the culture. My father was Japanese, but… he took her last name. Morita. It made it harder for his debt collectors to find us… for a while.” She gave a small, bitter smile. Cillian nodded slowly, his green eyes holding a hint of something that might have been sympathy, or perhaps just acknowledgment of intel established. “I see”, he said, neither confirming nor denying prior knowledge.