"Sometimes the truth hides between the lines...."
The lounge felt softer now—dim lights reflected off crystal glasses and amber drinks, the air wrapped in mellow jazz. But as Nala stepped onto the small stage, the music faded, and all that remained was her and the microphone.
Her heels barely made a sound as she walked, but something about her presence silenced even the quietest whisper. The black silk of her dress fell elegantly to her ankles, silver jewelry catching the light in fleeting, delicate glints. Her curls framed her face like a crown born of defiance and dusk.
She opened her journal, her fingers steady even if her pulse wasn't.
A pause.
Then—
"The night they died,
The moon didn't cry.
It watched.
Like everything else.
Cold. Still.
Unmoving."
The audience grew silent, leaning in.
"There was screaming—
Not mine,
Not yet.
There was fire—
Not the kind that warms,
But the kind that consumes.
And I stood in it.
The last one standing."
No sound came from the lounge now. Not a clink of glass, not a breath too loud.
"They told me to run,
But I froze.
Tried to swallow the flames
With silence.
Tried to pray
But couldn't remember how.
I only remembered
The way Mama held my hand
Like she knew
It would be the last time."
Lena's eyes welled with tears, one hand gripping the edge of the table.
"So I don't write poems.
I write tombstones.
Each word I bleed
Is a body I buried.
Each line a name
I couldn't save."
Nala's voice stayed level, but her eyes glazed over as if reliving the memory behind every syllable.
"And if you ask me why I smile now—
It's because the world thinks silence is strength.
But they never heard mine scream."
She closed the journal softly. No bow. No theatrics. She stepped back from the mic and walked off stage like she had simply said hello.
And still—the lounge stayed quiet, unsure if applause was even worthy of what they'd just witnessed.
Then it came—hesitant, scattered, then rising into a wave of claps and snaps. Lena blinked hard, brushing a tear from her cheek.
At the table, R.K. gave Nala a subtle, approving nod.
But Hikaru...
He didn't move.
Not at first.
He just watched her walk back through the crowd, his jaw tight, eyes slightly wider. His brows drew together slightly. He felt every word.
Every syllable unraveled something. He'd seen her fight. He'd seen her silent. But this... this was her soul, stripped and exposed in front of strangers—and it was beautiful. Painful. Powerful.
Hikaru wasn't just mesmerized—he was moved. And that scared him more than he'd admit.
Back at the booth, the air was different. Lena leaned into R.K., her eyes still soft with emotion, while Nala casually flipped her journal closed like she hadn't just unraveled herself under a spotlight.
Across from her, Hikaru hadn't said much since.
But she could feel his gaze on her. Intense. Quiet. Like he was trying to read her between the lines.
R.K. cleared his throat and leaned in. "We have a window."
Nala glanced up, her voice returning to its cool, focused tone. "Tonight?"
He nodded. "The Flame Fox will be under the bridge near Kyoto's Old Quarter in less than an hour. If we're going to catch him, this is our only shot."
Lena straightened. "So, what's the play?"
Hikaru finally spoke. "The Fox doesn't come to you unless he wants something. He'll blend in with the crowd at first—watching, waiting. He looks for weakness."
Nala tilted her head. "Then we don't show any."
She stood up, brushing her curls off her shoulder as her silver earrings caught the dim light. "I'll go first. Alone."
Hikaru's chair shifted. "That's not happening."
She smirked at him. "Did I ask for permission?"
His eyes narrowed slightly, and for a moment the heat between them returned—but this time, it wasn't about poetry.
"I'll keep eyes from a distance," he muttered.
"Fine." She turned to R.K. "If we split the team, we'll cover more ground. You and Lena can monitor the perimeter from the van. Hikaru can be my shadow—if it comes to that."
R.K. nodded slowly. "No contact unless absolutely necessary. If the Flame Fox shows, we let Nala make the move."
"And if it's a trap?" Lena asked quietly.
Nala's voice was like ice. "Then I spring it."
Hikaru stood too, and for a brief second their shoulders brushed as they moved.
Neither acknowledged it.
But the tension was unmistakable.
R.K. tapped his earpiece. "Let's move."
As they headed for the exit, the crowd began to settle back into casual conversation, unaware of the storm that had just passed through.
Nala didn't look back at the stage.
But Hikaru did.
And something told him her poem had only scratched the surface.
The old quarter of Kyoto was quiet.
Narrow alleys twisted between stone walls and shuttered shops, lit by flickering lanterns and the dull glow of overhead bulbs. The streets felt like they held their breath—still, watchful.
Nala walked with purpose, her black dress sleek against her frame, silver jewelry catching the faint light. Her curls were pulled back just enough to show her sharp eyes, alert and unbothered. She wasn't nervous. She had no room to be.
She paused at the edge of the old bridge—low, wide, its underpass swallowed by shadow.
A shift in the darkness.
He appeared without ceremony. Cloaked in navy, wearing a fox-shaped mask—white with bold red lines slashing across the face. A symbol of silence and deception. His posture was relaxed, but his presence wasn't.
"You came alone," he said simply.
"You expected a crowd?"
"No," he replied. "But most people bring backup when they want something from me."
"I don't have time for dramatics."
"Neither do I."
He began to circle her, hands clasped behind his back, voice calm.
"You're looking for someone," he said. "I hear things."
Nala didn't move. "So do I."
"And what do you offer in return?"
"I came to trade information. Not grovel."
He stopped beside her, turning his masked face slightly.
"Someone with your kind of posture usually has a lot to lose. Or a lot to hide."
"I came here to get answers. Not be analyzed."
Another pause. Then, with a slow motion, he pulled a folded slip of paper from his coat and held it out to her.
She didn't flinch as she took it, unfolded it, and read the words scrawled across in sharp, deliberate ink:
"He walks beside."
She frowned. "What the hell does that mean?"
But when she looked up—he was already walking away into the dark alley, disappearing like he'd never been there.
She looked at the note again.
A sharp step behind her.
She turned quickly—Hikaru stood just beyond the alley's edge, half-lit by the dull amber streetlight.
"How long were you watching?" she asked, voice flat.
"Long enough," he said, his gaze on the paper. "What did he give you?"
"A riddle."
"Figures."
He stepped forward, eyes narrowing. "You okay?"
"I'm fine."
"Let me see it."
She hesitated for a second. Then handed him the slip of paper. He read it, then looked up at her.
"'He walks beside.' That's not a clue. That's a warning."
Nala's jaw clenched. "Then we don't waste time. We find out who it's about."
Hikaru nodded, slipping the note into his pocket. "Let's move."