a/n

merry christmas everyone!! i hope you all have a restful day and are able to celebrate with any friends or family you might have :)

with that said, enjoy chapter 7 of half-sight and have an amazing rest of 2019. 

all my love,

krissy

♙

present day

hina ogawa

REN'S FACE IS everywhere.

Wanted announcements for Ren-shu Ko blur past my eyes as a detective's car takes us handcuffed and ankle-cuffed to the koban, or police station, in lower Minami District.

As if bolstered by our arrest, every screen in Osaka lights up with a furious blurs of reds, blacks, and whites. The police have the CCTV snapshot of Ren's face plastered on every platform possible, accompanied by a fat sum of money. And it's not just him. An array of portraits wrap the street sign. Snapshots from Goro's garage. Osaka Station. Tenshi Orphanage.

I catch the blur of kanji and know instantly what the characters shout.

HINA OGAWA. BOHAI TANAKA. KOTOMI GODA.

Officials are catching on. There are bounties on each of our heads now.

Ren must have seen the news. His mirthless smile flashes in my memory. Are you stupid? I guess I was, so desperate to leap out and prove my own fearlessness. I lean my head back and close my eyes.

Kotomi jabs my foot with hers. "Relax," she murmurs. "This is a normal thing."

"No." My eyes flicker open as a dozen posters flash. "No, it's not."

Minami's koban is a black-walled building with slits for windows and a flat, gray roof. Red-lit lanterns line the entrance. Already, the lot is crowded with clamoring reporters mass-herding camera drones for a better view of the city's accomplices to mass murder.

The door slams open. Arms drag me out into biting winds. I close my eyes as a dozen flashes go off.

"What are you relations with Ren-shu Ko?"

"Why would you associate yourself with such an act of terrorism—"

"Does Ren have any words for the families of the five thousand—"

Kotomi leans toward me as we're pulled through the fray. "Talk about a misled audience."

Another car door slams behind us. As if deactivated at once, the whir of camera snaps off, giving way to another domineering presence. Rounding the car is the same navy-dressed man from earlier, specs perched on his stubborn nose, face bright with a smile.

Shouts quiet to confused murmurs.

"How about we save the questions for Ren himself," he suggests pleasantly. Then he juts his chin toward the frontmost guard. "Go on."

They lead us through glass doors into a swath of gray. I register linoleum floors, old vintage doors cracked at the edges, steel knobs and reinforcements. Amber lanterns buzz overhead, attracting moths. Police officers stand to attention as we enter. I feel the deep disturbance in their gaze, as if they can't fathom how on earth the city's most wanted criminals could be so young.

We pass a set of office cubicles where police assigned to other areas of concern are speaking with men and women. The smell of tobacco fills my senses. They guide me away just as I glimpse a lanky man with something thin and white at his mouth.

Goro.

I was stupid to think partnering with Ren to hunt for the real murderer could end well. Goro might have been the one curled up in terror on the floor this morning, but now he has the upper hand. Maybe he always did. Seems like the police side with bounty hunters now.

I wind up in a room swathed in blackish-blue light. Kotomi disappears elsewhere. I should have knocked out Ren when I had the chance.

The instant I think it, guilt heats my face. I think of Bohai shivering in his bedrolls. Shirt sprayed with his own blood. Claw marks at his throat. Whimpering in pain. And the way Ren watched over him, lost in a world where only Bohai exists.

Hina, a voice chastises. Everyone is human. But you sell them out for money. You want to steal.

"Okazaki-san is on his way," snaps a grouchy voice. Then the door behind me slams shut.

I raise my eyes. The silver edge of a table sneers back.

An interrogation room.

The smell of burnt electricity stings my nostrils as I sit. The interrogation window gapes into darkness across from me, impossibly opaque. I study my reflection, making out a blur of half-shadow, half-cerulean. The cross lift of my chin. The narrow set of my shoulders.

Long minutes pass. My cuffs clink against the table.

I lean my forehead into the crook of my elbow.

I don't remember when I doze off. Some time later—whether hours or minutes—the door slams open. That same navy-dressed officer enters, muttering a few words to his men outside. Then the door shuts. I lift my head, heavy-lidded.

He strides to the table, then pauses just at his chair, studying me. I yawn and make out an earnest smile.

"Good nap?"

I straighten and pull my hands back. The man tilts his head to one side. Then he dumps a manila folder onto the table and takes a seat, adjusting his jacket accordingly.

"I'm detective Nobu Okazaki," he greets, leaning forward with a push of his glasses. "A little chaotic outside, huh?"

My eyes rove across his face, trying to pick out more details. Flat, dark-coffee eyes. It seems even a close-lipped smile is written permanently into his face. People love to play an array of sweet facades in these kind of rooms.

Nobu seems to prefer a patient, pleasant game.

He rubs his nose and scoots forward. "You know, Hina, I spent the past hour speaking with Kotomi. And I can tell you that she's a very clever girl. Do you know how many tissues she used?" He pats his pockets for show. "All the napkins I usually have on me are full of snot in the trash. She is one damn good actress."

Good to know. I turn away.

The weight of his gaze stays very still on my face. "Would you like to know how I know she's acting?"

I meet his gaze with irritation.

His brows raise. "Money." He leans away with an amused shake his finger. "You know"—he laughs—"there's a very distinctive look people get when they've got money on their mind. Something really eats at them till they're emptied out. I got her some water. Crying for nothing does dehydrate a girl like that, huh?"

I narrow my eyes.

"I'm just saying," he begins, tilting his head from side to side, "people like that follow the money. But I'm sure you're different. You seem like more of a well-rounded hunter. You know what I mean?"

People like that follow the money? My brows furrow.

He's going to bribe Kotomi.

In fact—telling from the glint in his eyes—he already has.

Did she fall for it?

"So." Nobu drums his fingers pleasantly. "We're going to have a conversation. I want you, Hina, to tell me everything you know about Tenshi Orphanage. Okay?"

I tilt my head stubbornly.

He purses his lips and nods, unfazed. "I can wait."

"Why don't you ask Kotomi?" I interrupt.

"I did," he answers calmly. "But I want to know what you know about Tenshi. From you. I can give you some incentive too, you know." He wrinkles his nose. "Only if you want it, of course...but I've heard half-sights go crazy over those...what are they called again?" His lips stretch wide. "Twenty-four hour contacts?"

I stiffen. "How did you know—"

"Analyzing people is my job, isn't it?" He shoots me a close-lipped smile, opens the manila folder, and jabs his thumb at a photo of me crouched atop the Tenshi gate. "Facial recognition caught your face when you hopped the gate while evacuees were escorted inside. But then look at you. You stop. What's on the roof, Hina?" I'm disturbed to see nothing but excitement in his eyes, as if his favorite crime show is unravelling before him. Nothing but a game. "A poison fog machine? Ren giving a signal, perhaps?"

"Piss off," I mutter.

"You—"

The lights shut off.

Pitch-black darkness swallows me whole. Nobu's chair screeches in panic as he stands.

A sharp slam of metal startles me as he slams his hand down. "Damn it—"

His footsteps rush into the distance. A door squeaks open and gives way to a flurry of telephone rings, panicked alarms, and puzzled shouts—

And then the door shuts again.

In the silence, the weight of darkness presses, hard, against my lungs. It's black as tar. No hint of light or shadow. I stare into the darkness, trying to get a grasp of space. Hina. Breathe.

I shift from side to side and test the chill of my metal restraints, then try in vain to remember what the room looked like when that blue light was on. Square room. Burnt electricity. One table, two chairs. The manila folder.

My lips twitch. Manila folder.

Nobu didn't take anything with him, did he?

I reach forward. Sure enough, my fingers graze the edge of a manila folder. "Jackpot," I whisper, tucking it into the inner pocket of my jacket.

I've just patted it neatly into its place when white flashes before my eyes.

Glass explodes into a million pieces. Impact knocks me from my chair onto the floor, hard. Ringing screams in my ears—shards spray across the ground, steel furniture rattles out of place, and my eyes burn.

Smoke fills my lungs. Coughing rips from my throat as I pull myself up—

Someone blew open the interrogation window.

Light streams into my vision—a faint flash of white and red light swims across my vision. Barely a second passes before a silhouette leaps over shattered glass and kneels in front of me.

I wince, allowing my eyes to adjust as a key clicks. My hands come free. Then my ankles.

My vision sharpens through a haze of blackish smoke. I see charcoal sleeves, wide eyeglass frames, and the glint of a badge. Police uniform. Gloved hands. Dark hair. Black half-mask hanging loose below a pointed chin. For a split second, I think it's a traitor in the police, or a bounty hunter masking as an official in Osaka's koban—

Until I see a scar.

Ren.

I cough and roll onto my feet with squinted eyes. "Your disguise got better."

He shoots me a look, as if he expected nothing less, then rises to his feet. I follow suit just as a wave of footsteps storm toward the door.

"Let's not get shot at," he says, breaking into a run. Mind spinning, I bolt after his silhouette, muscle memory kicking in as we leap through the shattered window and into a room of static screens and tables.

A doorway to red lantern light outside already gapes wide open. I'm so disoriented, so unused to navigating total darkness that my shoulder slams into walls and doorframes on the way out.

Cold night air chills my skin. Ren takes hold of my elbow and guides me through the dark toward alleys cloaked in shadow, our feet crunching against gravel. Behind us, the panicked alarms of a dozen cars and the shouts of jostling reporters rise in crescendo.

"How did you break in?" I'm breathless as we run. "What about Kotomi?"

We veer left past a row of quiet sake bars. In a pool of gold streetlight, Ren slows just enough for me to glimpse a smile as he tosses a fervent glance back. Unlike all his other sarcastic smiles, this is a real one, reaching his eyes with relief. As if, for the first time, something has gone right.

"I would've told you earlier, but I wanted to make sure we put on a good show," he says quickly, stopping.

My brows furrow. "I don't—"

"We planned it earlier today." His eyes settle on mine. "The arrest was a ruse. Kotomi's staying at the station to work undercover."