a/n

hey everyone! i hope everyone's doing well and hanging in there before school wraps up for the holidays. 

here is an update for chapter 4 of half-sight :) feel free to reach out to me if you have any questions or comments!

all my love,

krissy

♙

nine years ago

hina ogawa

CONGENITAL TOXOPLASMOSIS.

It's a mouthful. But they're the first words that carve a space into bones even though I have no idea what they mean.

"It's hereditary," says the doctor. The office walls are peeling with lavender paint. Sunlight streams through wooden blinds. I'm young, so young the only thing I remember is the onigiri trembling in my hands. Pity gift. "I pulled up her records. A parasite from her mother's Red Lung infection caused her retinas to experience severe scarring upon birth."

"We know that. She's half-sighted," otousan murmurs. "I'm just wondering why she's experiencing...stinging."

"Well, that's common," the doctor offers. "Her vision may be worsening."

His eyes widen. "Worsening? But when she was born, the doctors said this was it."

A puzzled pause. "This is it? I'm sorry, what does that mean?"

"Her vision. As in no progression toward good or bad."

"That's not true," replies the doctor slowly. "Perhaps they meant this was her best possible outcome. There are new accommodations that prevent worsened vision now." Papers shift. "In fact, there's a very popular brand with built-in AI systems..."

Tension spikes. My dad's voice lowers. "She doesn't need AI."

"Of course not. It's just an option. I mean, she doesn't even have a cane."

"I'm not going to give my daughter a cane if it's going to heighten the chances of her being terrorized on the streets—"

"As I said, okyaku-san. An option."

And that's that. My dad bows his thanks and guides me from the room gently but firmly. The entire walk home is unsettling.

Otousan gets in these stormy moods often—face dark, brows creased low, this really angst-ridden, agitated look in his eyes. It's a little over a year after okaasan has passed, so any mention of her infection's side effects in me is like poison to his mood. At times like this, a voice flares up in my head. Real useless, Hina. You want to be a liability for the rest of your life?

So the idea of not even a cane, but a vision-enhancing AI system makes my heartbeat spike with disbelieving excitement. Advertisements on train station walls or bus pelts start speaking to me. I see bold kanji written beside an image of a contact lens.

LIVE HALF-SIGHTED. Except the word HALF is blacked out in a sweep of ink.

But then otousan comes back late from work, ridden with exhaustion and smelling of tobacco, bringing home a paycheck that can barely pay for food, utilities, transportation, rent—and all my hopes fade gently away.

You don't need contacts, Hina. You've lived so long without them anyway.

Except I'm not. I'm holed up in my house, stiff from fear. A real party, huh? It's not until otousan frequents the brawlery and needs me to guide him home drunk and coinless, that the possibility of my independence becomes real in his mind. So he begins training my hearing and teaching me some self-defense in the trash-caked alley outside our apartment.

And then, years later, he remembers the contacts exist. He begins to save money.

When we go in for the first lens appointment, I'm twelve. The same doctor greets us, and he seems to recognize my dad's stubborn face perfectly.

"As I said, okyaku-san." He's pleased. "It's a very good option."

♙

present day

hina ogawa

"DON'T ORDER THEM."

It's the first thing Ren says to me as he leads me past shoji screen doors to an empty room lined with racks of knives, where he intends to return my confiscated weapons.

I toss a dirty look his way. "I need them."

"It just doesn't make sense," he counters, picking familiar objects off the racks. "You're going to get brand new contacts in three weeks. Why would you order a new pair of, from what I've heard, are really bad, really expensive, and really slow-charging lens? Just go off the skills you do have."

"I can count the number of times I've fought without contacts. On my fingers."

He tosses a knife in his hand and tilts his head, as if impressed by its weight. "So ten times?"

I roll my eyes. "Less."

"So you're telling me your skills at the station, against mine, were only possible with your contacts?"

I can't help but feel offended at the way he phrases it. "Well, no, but—"

"You know, I've heard half-sighted bounty hunters are particularly vicious grapplers, hand-to-hand kind of guys. Bohai was surprised when I lugged in a whole armful of guns and knives in here. By the way, do you have a preference?"

I blink, so astounded by how fast this conversation is moving as he dumps two bed rolls in front of me—one dark blue and linty, the other smooth and plain black.

"What's that?" I sputter.

He laughs and nudges one with his foot. "It's a bed roll."

"I know what it is," I cut in, frustrated. "But I'm not staying here."

Ren approaches, close enough for me to see the confused squint of his eyes. "As opposed to going back to your hideout and ratting me out to the police?"

"No," I return slowly, "because we have a partnership going. Based on mutual trust."

He snorts and takes the black bed roll. "Just admit it. You would totally rat me out for money."

"Not true—"

"Your weapons are over there, by the way. If you think about doing anything, Bohai will scream so loud all the neighbors will call the police. So."

I can't tell if he's serious, but he leaves the room before I can find out. Muscle memory helps me tuck away the weapons with speed—then I follow his footsteps out into the living room, where Bohai is bent over the couch, spraying white cleanser all over the dark surface.

"I'm paying rent for my apartment," I announce, folding my arms. "So I'm going to leave, make the most of my living expenses, and come back tomorrow morning at dawn. And then we'll work together, and you'll trust me to not screw you over."

Bohai straightens. "At dawn? How about nine?"

"Or nine," I amend.

Ren releases a slow breath through his nose. I feel his gaze on my face, studying me for answers. One more push.

"I won't turn you in," I tell him firmly. "You know I won't, because if the whole city is looking for you, no one is looking for the murderer except us."

Silence settles in the room. Ren turns to Bohai, who nods. I can't for the life of me figure out why Bohai trusts me. Can't say I'm complaining, either.

Ren sighs. "What's your name?"

His resignation makes me smile. "Hina."

"Hina, this is Bohai. And I'm Ren," he adds. His voice is dry. "But you already know that."

♙

DAWN BREAKS SLOW over the horizon.

Mornings without Lin begin quietly. Monorails hum outside the window. Trams squeak, footsteps entangle, voices murmur. A soft horn sounds from a distant barge. The full aroma of seasoned seaweed and freshly steamed rice wafts through the frosted glass.

A shaft of sunlight pours faithfully onto my floor, sharpening outlines of furniture. I hardly need them. After years of independent living, I've memorized the layout of my floor down to the very inch.

Usually, I heat eggs and leftover soup over the stove or fire a batch of rice. I wash up and pull on a set of dark clothes, faded to an off-black after years of wash, sleeve edges worn-out as if the fabric's been nibbled on. And then, every day, before I tug on battered sneakers for a round of errands, I reach for my contacts on the tabletop, and Lin springs to life at the tap of my temple.

"Good morning, Hina," she'll say. "Would you like a weather report this morning?"

"Mm, maybe not today." I bump my toe against the floor to get my feet settled into the shoes. "Take me to Nagahoribashi Station, oneigashimasu."

"Destination: your nearest transportation stop, Nagahoribashi Station. Running navigation system."

Today, however, the world is silent. The tabletop is empty. The stove remains off.

Instead, I fish through a woven basket for my stash of notes, tuck all my weapons into their rightful places, and jam a battered marigold cap over my short hair. As I reach the door, I tug out the red wing card, my throat dry as I run a finger over its blackish-red stains.

You want to stop hanging onto that playing card like it's the bane of your existence?

I have a flash of my otousan, his hand on my arm, guiding me through each stance. When he was young, he worked at Shibuya Brawlery in Tokyo, helping boys who craved to make a name for themselves in the ring. It seemed that all our nights in that alley, training, returned him to his old self.

Toxoplasmosis meant nearly total blindness in the dark, so during the late hours of night, he would teach me how to listen.

Focus, Hina. Your focus is a knife.

I tuck the card away and step out into the hall. The world is a blur. For the first time, there are no contacts over my eyes or charging in my pocket. Lin, for the first time in nine years, is silent.

"Destination, Nagahoribashi Station," I murmur.

My meeting point with Ren is at the station, where we plan to take the line back to Osaka Port.

♙

"THIS IS FOR you," says Ren by way of greeting. That same battered police cap is jammed so low on his head I can barely see his eyes. He hands me a black box. "For communication."

I feel along its smooth surface. "What's this?"

"Open it."

The lid slides open easy, revealing small contents. It's not until I reach for them that I realize I'm touching an earpiece and a mike for the inner cheek, so lightweight I'm afraid they'll slip from my fingers. They're an expensive brand, not clunky like the ones I see at street markets.

A tram squeaks past us, ruffling my hair as I put them on. At the touch of a finger, the earpiece crackles like an old vinyl.

Power on.

"Where'd you buy these?" I ask incredulously.

Ren smiles. "I didn't."

My gaze flattens. "You stole them?"

"If you want to know if I'm a chronic thief, I'm not. Anymore," he adds. "Also, if you hear another one of those crackles, that means Bohai's got something to say. He's watching, in case we're being followed."

Like Lin, I think, remembering how Lin's system could somehow tap into a lot of the security cameras in the area, borrowing live footage like a new pair of eyes.

If only she was here, sharpening my blurred vision. Through I can make out streets, trees, and silhouettes, I can still feel the echo of my nervous heartbeat, of claustrophobia from being trapped for the first time in years within this frosted-glass world.

"Bohai managed to get his hands on this week's work schedule for the Osaka Port crew members," Ren tells me as we head into the train station. "We're going to catch the supervisor right when his first break starts. He should know who was supposed to be here the day of the shipment."

"When's his break?"

"In half an hour."

Nagahoribashi Station's southbound train takes twenty-five minutes to transport us to the water's edge, where we transfer lines to arrive at Osaka Station. In the full swing of morning traffic, crowds shift in and out like waves of a blurred sea, dressed in an array of muted colors. Holographic signs trace train routes through maps of Osaka—beginning from the Nanka Port Area, up toward the Minami District to the Kita District, the eastward toward the Castle District. Gone are the white funeral flags—the Jumbotrons are alive, the lanterns lit, the canals blaring their horns.

Light blurs in and out as the train's rusted metal body slides toward the platform. My fingers wrap tight around the steel pole for balance. Suddenly, I don't know what to expect, where I'll stumble, can't even fathom climbing onto a rooftop for a better view.

Hina. You've lost your mind. Hina, proceeding further is not recommended.

"Osaka Station. This is the end of the Southbound Line. Osaka Station..."

The doors slide open.

We step out into daylight. A voice delineates arrival and departure times over an overhead system. White sunlight bathes the platforms, and through the open arches, the runway looks bright as snow, peppered by a navy sea of what looks like crew members welcoming a new barge. A rainbow of bright colors slides across my vision—storage shipping containers, a maze of them stacked beneath the elevated train station.

Ren's dark clothing provides a solid outline to follow. We take escalators down to a maze of shipping storage containers in a concrete lot, labeled by a bunch of signs I can't read. The farther we go, the thicker the smell of tobacco becomes.

Ren leans toward a sign.

"Bohai?" He taps his ear. "What's the supervisor's name?"

On cue, the line crackles. Bohai's voice, heavy with sleep, becomes clear. "Goro Ito."

"Goro Ito..."

"I've been keeping an eye on him since he got to the site this morning," goes on Bohai with a yawn. "The amount of cigarettes the guy's gone through...wah, how many can you go through in an hour, huh?"

"Heavy smoker," I murmur, following the thick smell through the portables. Ren takes notice and follows.

My eyes water with the smell right up into an alley shrouded in smoke, where a skinny guy with greasy hair in a battered, oversized navy bomber leans against the side of a rattling portable. Trash and cigarette stubs litter the ground.

I try to make out his face, but the smell overwhelms my focus. "Excuse me. Goro-san?"

There's an exasperated sigh. Then a grunt as the man pushes off the portable. "What is it now? You can't lift something? Truck's got no gas? Barge crew being assholes?"

"Actually," interrupts Ren, drawing out something small from his jacket. "Kai Watanabe. Police detective. I want to know which of your crew members were here at three in the morning, two nights ago, when the Red Lung medicine shipment came in."

I stare at Ren as he tucks away his fake badge. Where on earth—

"Police," sneers the man. "The police always gotta poke their nose through everything. You think I'm not doing my job right?"

"Yes," answers Ren calmly, to which I blink. "I'm a very paranoid man, unfortunately."

"You're a boy."

"Paranoid boy. Your choice. Crew members, please?"

The man squashes his cigarette underfoot with a crunch of gravel, then spits and strides off. Ren scratches his brow and follows.

As the supervisor passes me, I catch a more foul smell beneath that tobacco, glimpse a powdery stain by his ear.

"That's strange," I mutter.

Bohai picks up on it immediately. "What's strange?"

My brows furrow. "Nothing."

He takes us to a fat, sprawling building with ribbed walls and rusted garage doors, then manually cranks open the leftmost door. Inside, the stench of wet cement fills my senses so strongly my eyes water, and only a weak shaft of sunlight flows through narrow windows, lighting dust. My eyes sweep across metallic shelves and desks, wishing in vain that Lin was here, clearing every image for me, allowing me to notice details.

Your focus is a knife, I think. Yet all I can hear are my doubts repeating in Lin's monotonous rhythm. Hina. You are useless. Without me, you cannot see.

The garage door cranks shut, sealing us in silence. I linger there as Ren watches Goro rummage behind his desk. Papers shuffle. Murmuring. Cabinets bang.

Somewhere in there, I hear a soft click.

"I think he's armed," I whisper.

Goro pauses as if he's found something. At the desk, Ren stiffens, no doubt listening through the earpiece.

"Okay," returns Bohai reluctantly, "but he's a bum. The guy was all over the place this morning. Looked kind of hungover, too, so definitely not a mastermind planning anything. I don't think he would put on a show if he didn't think anyone was watching. You know?"

A fat load of papers tips over the desk as Goro wrenches out a document.

"Found it," he announces, voice scratchy. He coughs to clear it. "Big fat list, but it's pretty useless. We got a bunch of sick calls that day, so we had to make an urgent call for volunteers. Outsourced half our team."

"Outsourced," Ren repeats quizzically. "From where?"

Shouting and beeping entangle outside. I frown and tip my head, trying to glimpse out the blinds of the portable window, but it's all just white.

"Bohai," I whisper.

"Yup, I'm checking."

Goro clucks his tongue. "From...where is it...Oh. Some guy named Yun working for some company...the name is here somewhere..."

Yun. The memory of that night flashes through my mind.

You gonna drive the train just as slowly, Yun?

Very funny.

The shouting increases. At the same time, Bohai's voice breaks through the earpiece, panicked. "Yeah, that's not good news," he says quickly. "You might want to get out of th—"

The window shatters.

A dozen gunshots ring out. I drop to the ground as glass shards fly, heart in my throat. White panic flares over my vision as my hand flies to my temple. "Lin—"

But she's not here. Ren shouts.

The reception through my earpiece goes choppy. "Hina—" I hear coughing. "Are you—to the—drive—"

In the fray, Goro begins to laugh. I rise to my feet, a hand already on my knife as the door cranks open.

Bounty hunters.

"Sorry," he breathes pitifully. "A million and two notes was just too tempting."