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Chapter Text

Kasumi Miwa gripped the worn strap of her carry-on as the plane finally touched down with a gentle jolt at Munich Airport. The journey from Tokyo had been a blur of time zones and recycled air, but now, a crisp sense of reality settled in. She followed the stream of disembarking passengers toward baggage claim, her eyes scanning the foreign signs written in a language that, for the next three years, she would have to master. She could translate them, thanks to her diligent study back home, but seeing them in real life felt different—a tangible first step into a new life.

Once she’d retrieved her single large suitcase—packed with sensible clothes and far too many books she’d optimistically thought she would have time to read—she navigated the customs line. A stoic officer glanced at her passport and study visa, stamped them with an efficient thud, and waved her through. The sliding glass doors part, and Miwa stepped out into the arrival hall. The air was cool and smelled faintly of something she couldn’t place—maybe a subtle blend of German coffee and the chill of early autumn. She paused, taking in the bustle of the large terminal. Families reunited, business travelers hurrying past, and her, a lone Japanese student about to start at the Ludwig Maximilian University of Munich (LMU).

She pulled out the printout with the address of the student dormitory she’d been assigned. Her next hurdle was finding the S-Bahn train into the city center. A nervous flutter settled in her stomach. This was so much bigger than the dojo, so much bigger than Tokyo. “Excuse me,” she murmured to a passing airport employee, her voice barely a whisper, then quickly corrected herself, speaking up and enunciating her German carefully. The woman smiled kindly and pointed toward a set of escalators. Miwa offered a deep bow of thanks, shouldered her heavy backpack, and began the walk toward the train station, her gaze fixed forward.

Miwa continued to follow signs down two escalators, the murmur of German voices growing louder as she approached the subterranean train platforms. The S-Bahn station was clean and efficient-looking, with bright fluorescent lighting reflecting off the tiled walls. A digital display board confirmed her train, the S8, would be arriving in two minutes. She purchased her ticket from a machine, navigating the interface with deliberate care, and then stood on the platform, surrounded by people who all seemed to know exactly where they were going. When the sleek, quiet train slid into the station and opened its doors, she found an empty single seat near a window facing the right direction. She carefully stowed her suitcase in the small rack by the door and settled in, clutching her carry-on in her lap.

The train departed smoothly, picking up speed as it left the airport behind. Initially, the view outside the windows was typical of an airport perimeter—fences, service roads, and industrial buildings. But as they traveled further, the landscape began to change. Miwa watched the passing scenery with a quiet intensity. The initial grey urban sprawl gave way to rolling green fields dotted with distinct, red-roofed Bavarian houses. The sky, which had been clear blue above the airport, now held soft, cotton-ball clouds that looked close enough to touch. Everything felt expansive and vibrant, a stark contrast to the dense, vertical landscape of her home city. Her mind drifted from the changing world outside to the new world she was about to enter. The University of Munich. The name alone made her feel a mix of intense pride and gnawing anxiety. She was here to study international relations and European law—a massive leap from her life in a traditional dojo focused on martial arts.

She thought about her family back in Japan. They were supportive, of course, but she knew they worried about her being so far from home, a solo woman in a foreign country. They had instilled in her a strong sense of discipline and responsibility, qualities she was now going to put to the test in a rigorous academic environment she had only ever read about. The university was renowned, a place of historical significance and academic excellence. Miwa knew her German was good enough for daily communication and basic coursework, but was it truly academic fluent? She had studied the texts, memorized the grammar rules, but intellectual debate in a language that wasn’t her own seemed like a mountain she still had to climb. She also pondered the social dynamics. Her life in Japan had been clearly defined by her role in the dojo and her high school studies. Here, she was a blank slate, an “international student,” a category she had yet to fully understand. Would she make friends? Would she be lonely?

A gentle ding and an announcement of the next station pulled her momentarily from her thoughts. The countryside view was briefly replaced by suburban platforms and passing trains. She took a deep, steadying breath, trying to draw on the calm meditative focus she used before a Kendo match. She had made this choice. This daunting, exciting, terrifying choice to leave everything she knew behind and pursue her own path. The train rattled along, the rhythmic clickety-clack against the tracks almost lulling Miwa into a daze. She reached into the side pocket of her backpack for her phone, intending to text her parents a quick “I landed safely” message once she got a signal. Her fingers brushed against a folded paper pamphlet she’d been giving with her acceptance pocket. Orientation Schedule, the title read. She hadn’t really looked at it yet, planning to organize her life once she was safely in her dorm room.

With time to kill on the train, she unfolded the paper and scanned the first few lines, translating the German dates and times in her head.

Monday, November 3rd…Welcome Day. That was today. She quickly scanned the schedule for the main welcome session details.

Main building, Large Auditorium, Start: 2 PM.

Miwa’s eyes darted up to her phone screen to check the current time. It read 1:15 PM.

A jolt of adrenaline, sharp and immediate, shot through her. She was currently somewhere between the airport and the city center, and she had no idea how long the rest of the journey would take, let alone how to find the main university building from the central station. Panic began to bubble to her chest. Missing the main orientation session on her first day would be a disastrous start. She couldn’t afford to be disorganized here. Not now.

The train dinged again, and an automated voice announced her arrival. Miwa sprang up from her seat, nearly knocking her knee on the seat in front of her. She grabbed her heavy suitcase from the rack, heart pounding a frantic beat against her ribs. She was grateful for the years of Kendo training that allowed her to move with agility even while burdened with luggage. As the train pulled in Munich Central Station—a massive, sprawling hub of activity—the doors opened with a hiss. Miwa burst onto the platform, a small, focused whirlwind amidst the calm commuters. She had mere minutes to figure out the tram system or a taxi stand, drop her bags somewhere, and find the LMU main building. She looked wildly around the station concourse, her calm resolve of moments ago completely evaporated. This was no gentle introduction; this was a test.

Focus, Miwa, she told herself, the voice of her dojo master echoing in her mind. One step at a time.

Miwa arrived at the information desk slightly out of breath. A woman with short, particle blonde hair and a professional smile sat behind the counter. She was currently directing an older couple toward a regional train platform, speaking in fluent, rapid German. Miwa waited impatiently, shifting her weight from foot to foot, her eyes darting toward the main station exits. The clock on the wall above the desk now read 1:28 PM. As soon as the couple left, Miwa stepped up, placing both hands on the smooth countertop, leaning in slightly. Her German came out quickly, a little stressed, but clear.

“Greetings,” she began, slightly breathless. “I need to get Ludwig Maximillan University. The main building. How far is it from here?”

The woman’s smile remained, though her eyes widened slightly at the urgency in Miwa’s tone. “The university? It’s not far, perhaps twenty minutes by public transport, depending on traffic.”

“Twenty minutes,” Miwa repeated, doing the mental math. That would get her there right at 2:00 PM, assuming zero delays, but she still needed to check in and find the specific room. “Are there any taxis available right now?” she asked, already looking past the desk toward the main exits of the station, hoping to spot a taxi queue.

The woman pointed toward a specific set of revolving doors. “Yes, the taxi rank is just outside Exit North. You can’t miss it.” She paused, then added helpfully, “But the U-Bahn is very direct, too. U3 or U6 to the University station. It’s probably faster than a taxi at this time of day.”

Miwa considered the options quickly. The U-Bahn sounded faster, but involved navigating another system and carrying her heavy luggage through platforms and stairs. A taxi was a known quantity—door-to-door, faster to board, even if it might hit traffic. The stress of figuring out a subway route right now felt like too much.

“A taxi, thank you,” Miwa decided firmly. She gave the woman a hurried bow of thanks and pivoted away from the desk. She started power-walking toward the designated exit, the wheels of her suitcase rattling loudly on the hard station floor. She navigated around crowds of travelers and vendor kiosks, her eyes locked on the exit sign. She pushed through the revolving door and found herself in the cool autumn air of Munich.

A line of beige Mercedes taxis was waiting. Relief washed over her. She rushed to the front of the queue, hauling her suitcase with surprising strength, and opened the rear door of the first available car.

“Ludwig Maximilian University, Main building,” she instructed the driver as she climbed in, pointing to the university address on her pamphlet. The driver, a middle-aged man with a thick mustache, nodded and pulled smoothly away from the curb, merging into the city traffic. Miwa leaned back against the seat, her breathing gradually slow. The clock in the taxi read 1:35 PM. It was going to be close.

—

The taxi threaded through the narrow, busy streets of Munich’s city center. Miwa watched the time tick by on the meter, her tension mounting with every red light. They passed historic buildings and bustling shops, a vibrant new world blurring past her window, unseen in her focused anxiety. At 1:55 PM, the taxi pulled to a stop at a large, imposing building with a grand entrance. It was magnificent, much older and more ornate than she had pictured.

“Thank you,” Miwa quickly paid him, adding a generous tip in her haste, then wrestled her suitcase out of the trunk and onto the sidewalk. The massive building loomed over her. She hurried up the wide stone steps, pushing through heavy oak doors into the vast bustling foyer. Students were everywhere, laughing, talking, and hurrying between classes. Miwa felt incredibly conspicuous with her large suitcase, but she ignored the glances and scanned the hallway signs frantically. She broke into a half-jog, her suitcase rattling behind her like a determined little engine. She reached another set of heavy doors, paused for a split second to catch her breath, and pushed them open.

A wave of warm air and hundreds of eyes met her immediately. The massive auditorium was nearly full. People were gathered in small groups around the edges of the room, while others found seats in the tiered rows. At the front of the room, a woman with a microphone was already beginning her presentation, gesturing to a screen displaying the university crest. Miwa froze just inside the doorway. She was late enough to be noticed, but early enough not to miss the opening remarks. Just in time.

A student volunteer standing near the door saw her and smiled warmly, gesturing to a small table near the entrance laden with folders. Miwa quickly made her way over, dropped her suitcase beside the table, and grabbed a welcome packet.

“Weclome to LMU,” the volunteer whispered cheerfully in heavily accented English, noticing Miwa’s luggage and possibly her flustered state.

“Thank you,” Miwa whispered back, her heart finally settling into a normal rhythm. She quickly scanned the room for a free seat, her eyes landing on an aisle seat halfway up the auditorium. Clutching her folder, Miwa navigated the steps, her focus now entirely on the woman at the lectern who was beginning to introduce the faculty. She settled into her seat, trying to blend in despite the lingering sound of her arrival. She opened her welcome packet, attempting to follow along as the speaker outlined the history of the university. Her mind, however, was still racing from the taxi ride.

She forced herself to focus, taking in the scene before her. Most students were gathered with friends, animatedly chatting, but a few sat alone, looking as overwhelmed as she felt. It was during a lull in the presentation, when the speaker paused for applause after introducing the Dean of the Political Science department, that Miwa felt a gaze. It was not an obvious stare, but a subtle, steady weight. Years of dojo discipline had honed her awareness of her surroundings. She discreetly glanced across the auditorium, letting her eyes drift over the faces.

About four rows up and slightly to her right, sat a young man.

He was striking, with pale blonde hair that seemed to catch the auditorium's overhead lights, framing a face of almost unnerving symmetry and stillness. Unlike the other students around him who were either taking notes or whispering to neighbors, he was completely motionless, hands folded neatly in his lap, his posture impeccably relaxed. But it was his eyes that held her. They were a clear, almost translucent blue, fixed directly on her. There was no curiosity in his gaze, no overt interest, just pure, calm analysis, as if she were a piece of data to be cataloged.

MIwa felt an immediate, instinctive shiver that had nothing to do with the room’s temperature. It wasn’t threatening, exactly, but it was profoundly unsettling. His presence was a void of calm in a chaotic room, yet it drew her attention more than the speaker on stage. She broke eye contact first, a slight flush rising in her cheeks. She quickly looked down at her welcome packet, pretending to read the schedule. She tried to dismiss the moment, attributing the intense gaze to her own conspicuous entrance with the suitcase. He was probably just wondering why some international student had rushed in late with her luggage. She made herself listen to the presentation again, focusing on the words about student services and library access. Yet, an invisible thread seemed to remain between them.

After a few minutes, unable to help herself, Miwa subtly raised her eyes again.

He was no longer looking at her. His attention was now directed forward toward the podium, a slight, almost imperceptible smile touching the corner of his lips as the speaker introduced the general rules of the campus conduct. He seemed utterly absorbed in the rules and structures of the university, his face once again a picture of composed, passive perfection. Miwa let out a silent breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She decided he was simply focused and perhaps a little peculiar.

The orientation session finally drew to a close with a final round of polite applause. Miwa gathered her belongings, retrieved her suitcase from the back of the auditorium, and navigated her way out of the main building with the flow of departing students. The encounter with the intense young man was pushed to the back of her mind, replaced by the immediate, practical challenge of getting to her accommodation.

Following the information she’s scrawled on a piece of paper earlier, she found the nearby U-Bahn station and rode the subway for a few stops to the area where her dorm was located. The journey was smoother this time; she was growing accustomed to the efficiency of Munich’s public transport. She emerged like a quieter, tree-lined street that looked exactly like the photos she’d been sent. The student housing complex was modern, with large windows and a clean, minimalist design. Finding the administrative office was easy, and after showing her passport and signing a few forms written in fastidious legal German, she was handed a small set of keys and a map to her block and room.

“Fourth floor, room 402,” the helpful housing officer told her. “Elevator to your left.”

Miwa thanked her and followed the directions. The elevator ride was mercifully brief. She found room 402 tucked at the end of the corridor. Taking a deep breath, she inserted the key and turned the lock. The door opened onto a small but functional single dorm room. It was sparse and clean: a single bed in the corner with crisp white linens, a large desk by the window, a bookshelf, and a small wardrobe. A private, compact bathroom was just off the entrance. It was a blank canvas, completely devoid of personality, but it was hers. She rolled her suitcase into the room and let it fall silent on the laminate flooring. The sudden silence after the noise of the airport, the trains, and the university felt heavy. She stood in the center of the room for a long moment, simply taking it all in. She walked over to the window and looked out. The view wasn’t spectacular—just an inner courtyard and another wing of the dorm—but it was peaceful.

A wave of exhaustion finally hit her, both physical and emotional. Miwa had made it through the travel, the rush, and orientation without any major blunders. She picked up her backpack, rummaged inside, and pulled out a small, framed photo of her parents and her little brother, taken in the dojo garden in Japan. She placed it carefully on her desk, right beside the desk lamp. It was a small anchor in this vast new reality.

Miwa unzipped her large suitcase and pushed it onto the open floor space. The act felt definitive, a firm step toward making this blank room her own. The suitcase was a neatly packed, compartmentalized version of her life. She started with the bedding, pulling out a plush, dark blue comforter that felt much softer and thicker than the standard-issue white one on the bed. She laid it out, its deep color immediately making the space feel warmer. The two pillows followed, one for her head and a smaller decorative one she had impulsively bought, a geometric pattern of muted blues and greys.

Next came the items for her desk. After placing her framed family photo, she took out a compact desk lamp. The warm, diffused light from the lamp cut through the harsh overhead lighting, carving out a small, inviting pool of warmth. Beside it, she placed a simple pencil holder and a notebook with a leather-bound cover she’d received as a gift. It felt like a promise of study and hard work, a testament to why she was here. From a smaller side pocket, she pulled out a small packet of incense and a simple, unglazed ceramic holder. She had packed her favorite scent, a light, woody fragrance that reminded her of the dojo and the quiet rituals of home. She placed it near the window, deciding she would light it later, once she had settled everything else.

The closet was next. She hung her few nice jackets and organized her folded clothes on the small shelves. There wasn’t much, but every item was carefully chosen and folded with the precision of someone used to a spartan aesthetic. She found a spot for her kendo hakama and keikogi, placing them on their own hanger with a sense of reverence. The uniforms were a part of her, a connection to her discipline and her past, even as she stepped into a new future.

Finally, she opened the last zipper of her suitcase, revealing a rolled-up scroll wrapped neatly in silk. She unrolled it carefully on the clean floor, revealing a beautiful, traditional calligraphy piece, written by her grandfather. It was the kanji for “resolve.” She had already purchased some strong, removable adhesive hooks at the airport. After carefully measuring the space above her bed, she centered the scroll and hung it, smoothing it out so it lay flat against the stark white wall. It was the perfect final touch, a quiet, powerful presence in the room.

Stepping back, she surveyed the room. It was still, still a dorm room, but it was no longer a blank space. It was a place with purpose, with soft colors and personal items that grounded her. The warmth from the desk lamp, the memory held in the photograph, and the strength embodied in the calligraphy had transformed it. It was her own little sanctuary, thousands of miles from home, but feeling a little bit closer all the same.

Miwa stepped out of her room, leaving the door ajar. She looked down the long, carpeted hallway. The doors were all identical, and the space was quiet. The soft, impersonal lighting was a stark contrast to the cozy glow of her room. It was one long, empty corridor of potential neighbors. She took a deep breath, feeling a sense of satisfaction. Her personal space was secure, and now she was venturing out into the unknown of her new dorm life.

Just then, she noticed movement at the far end of the hallway. A figure was walking toward her, his posture relaxed yet elegant with his hands behind his back. The closer he got, the more the features became clear: the pale blonde hair, the calm, composed face. It was the young man from the orientation. A faint sense of unease flickered within her. The unnerving assessment from the auditorium flashed through her mind, but she quickly suppressed it. He was a fellow student, a potential neighbor, and her ingrained Japanese politeness dictated she be friendly. He hadn’t done anything wrong; he had simply looked at her.

As he drew level with her door, Miwa offered a small, friendly smile and a slight nod. “Hello, Kasumi Miwa,” she said, her voice clear and gentle.

The man’s pace didn’t change, but his head tilted almost imperceptibly, his cool blue eyes meeting hers. A small, almost invisible smile touched his lips, gone as quickly as it appeared. He didn’t speak. He simply walked past her, his footsteps making no sound on the carpet, and continued down the hall before entering a room just two doors down from hers.

Miwa stood there for a moment, the polite smile frozen on her face. The encounter was brief, yet it left a profound impression. The lack of a verbal response, the almost unnerving self-possession—it was unlike any social interaction she had ever experienced. It wasn’t rude, but it was certainly distant. She watched his door close quietly. A peculiar sensation settled over her, a strange mix of intrigue and apprehension. He wasn’t like the other students she had seen. He was a puzzle, and living just two doors away, he was a puzzle she now shared a hallway with. Miwa took a deep breath, closed her own door, and leaned against it for a moment, the cozy warmth of her suddenly feeling very important.

Chapter Text

It had been later that day after unpacking and settling in, Miwa began to feel a familiar restlessness. She had been cooped up for hours and the need to move, to occupy her body as well as her mind, was strong. She put on a light jacket and left her room, taking the U-Bahn back towards the main university campus. Her plan was simple: walk the grounds, get a feel for the layout, and stretch her legs before the academic year began in earnest.

The late afternoon light was gentle, casting long shadows across the cobblestone courtyards and the grand, historic buildings. The campus was quieter now, with most students likely having gone home for the evening. Miwa found herself drawn into a side courtyard, its serene atmosphere broken only by the soft rustling of leaves in the breeze. She wandered, admiring the intricate details of the centuries-old architecture, her anxiety momentarily replaced by a sense of awe. She thought she had a good mental map of the campus, but after turning several corners and navigating a few archways, she realized she was well and truly lost. All the ornate buildings began to look the same, and the distinctive landmarks she remembered seeing earlier were nowhere in sight. She stopped in a quiet, shadowed corner, pulling out the small campus map she had received earlier, but the diagram did little to help her orient herself.

“Lost already?” a voice cut sharply through the quiet. It was smooth, but held a noticeable edge of condescension.

Miwa spun around, startled. Standing near a stone archway was a young man with short, blonde-green hair and intense, light-colored eyes that seemed to rake over her with dismissive speed. He was dressed fashionably, his clothes suggesting wealth and a certain arrogance. She bristled slightly at his tone but kept her composure. “Just getting my bearings,” she replied coolly, folding her map and tucking it into her jacket pocket.

He pushed off the archway, sauntering closer. “Right. Well, this part of the campus can be tricky if you don’t know the layout.” He introduced himself with a casual wave. “Naoya Zenin. You’re new here, clearly.”

“Kasumi Miwa,” she offered, her tone neutral. She immediately disliked his patronizing manner.

“I’m heading toward the main gates anyway,” Naoya continued, an almost predatory confidence in his stride as he started walking. “I can show you the way. It’s easy to get turned around, especially for a girl like you. Best to have someone who knows what they’re doing show you.”

The dismissive “girl like you” comment flared Miwa’s temper, challenging her independence and training. Her instinct screamed at her to refuse his help and find her own way. But the practical side of her mind intervened: it was getting dark, she was lost, and he did know the campus. Accepting efficient help wasn’t weakness; it was strategy. She made her decision quickly. “That’s very helpful of you,” Miwa said, stepping into stride beside him. “Thank you.”

Naoya offered a brief, satisfied smirk and increased his pace. Miwa followed him, a quiet tension settling between them. She had a guide now, but she was acutely aware that this walk might be more complicated than simply finding the exit. He had led the way, setting a brisk pace that forced Miwa to focus on keeping up rather than her surroundings. He walked with a casual arrogance, talking intermittently about the campus, his commentary laced with judgments about the quality of various departments and the perceived laziness of the student body. He spoke mostly about himself, his connections, and his clear sense of superiority.

“They renovated this whole section for the business students,” he said with a dismissive wave towards a modern glass building. “A complete waste of money, if you ask me. All these extra services just breed mediocrity. People need to figure things out for themselves.”

Miwa remained mostly silent, offering only curt acknowledgments. She was used to disciplined silence in the dojo, and found Naoya’s constant chatter exhausting. She was busy tracking their route, trying to memorize landmarks and turnings so she wouldn’t get lost again. The main building, the library, a large lecture hall—she cataloged them all. As they passed a quiet, tree-lined square near the philosophy department building, a strange feeling washed over Miwa. It was the same unsettling sensation she’d had in the orientation auditorium and again back at the dorm hallway. Not a sound, not a specific smell, but a profound, almost primal awareness of being observed. The feeling was intense and focused, like a cold hand brushing the back of her neck.

She broke her stride slightly, turning her head to scan the darkening square. There were a few other students scattered about—some studying on benches, others walking in pairs—but no one that stood out. No blonde hair, no pale blue eyes. Just ordinary students going about their evenings.

“What are you looking at?” Naoya asked sharply, stopping a few feet ahead of her, an impatient edge to his voice.

“Nothing,” Miwa said, quickly catching up to him, trying to push the eerie feeling away. “I just thought I saw someone I knew.” It was a lie, but it was faster than explaining the strange premonition she felt. The sensation remained, though slightly muted, as they moved past the square and towards the main gates. Miwa discreetly scanned every archway and shadowed-doorway they passed. The feelings of eyes on her persisted, a silent, analytical weight that made her skin crawl. Was he watching her from a window? Behind a tree? She couldn’t tell. There was no sound, no visible sign of him anywhere. Yet, the distinct feeling lingered, a silent, unseen variable in the gathering twilight of the Munich campus.

They reached the main gate, and the feeling finally dissipated as they stepped out onto the busy street. The noise of the city street traffic was a relief, grounding her back in reality.

“Here you go,” Naoya said, gesturing toward the street, a satisfied smirk on his face. “Told you I’d get you out of that maze.”

“Thank you, Naoya,” Miwa said politely, offering a small, formal bow before turning to walk toward the U-Bahn station, her mind still racing with the inexplicable, unsettling presence she couldn’t escape.

“Hold on,” Naoya said, stopping her. His tone had a new, calculated edge to it. “You’re in the humanities, right? Political science or something basic like that?”

Miwa paused, turning back slightly. She suppressed a flicker of annoyance at his presumption. “International Relations and European Law,” she corrected him flatly.

Naoya’s expressed change, the cocky smirk shifting slightly into something that resembled mild interest, though it was still shadowed with skepticism. “Oh? High expectations, then. That’s one of the tougher tracks here. A lot of high-strung types in those courses.” He eyed her up and down, as if assessing her capability for the first time. “I’m in a few of the core law prerequisite seminars myself. For the sake of comparison, what classes did you register for this semester?”

It was a nosy question, more of a challenge than genuine curiosity. Miwa considered ignoring him entirely but decided it was simpler to just provide the basic information. “Introduction to European Union Law and Global Governance, and a German legal writing seminar,” she listed off succinctly.

Naoya nodded slowly, the smirk fully returning to his face. “Interesting choices. Ambitious, maybe. I know a few people in those classes.” He paused, letting his gaze linger on her. “We’ll have to see if you can keep up, Kasumi. This university isn’t for everyone.” He didn’t wait for a response, simply offering a dismissive wave before turning and walking quickly down the opposite street, melting into the evening crowd. Miwa watched him go, a sense of relief mixing with a renewed determination. His condescending words only fueled her resolve. She was here to succeed, and the competitive attitude she encountered wouldn’t deter her. She turned and headed toward the U-Bahn station, ready to go back to her dorm and start preparing for those challenging classes tomorrow.

—

The next morning, Miwa woke early. The jet lag had faded, leaving her energized and focused. She dressed simply in a sensible sweater and slacks, ate a small, quiet breakfast in the communal dorm kitchen, and double-checked her schedule and directions one last time. Her first class, "Introduction to European Union Law and Global Governance,” started at 9:00 AM in a large lecture hall in the North Wing. She left her dorm room, closing quietly behind her. The hallway was empty. The doors to her neighbors’ rooms, including the strange man’s two doors down, remained shut and silent. The U-Bahn ride to campus was a different story from her quiet arrival day. The train was packed with students. Miwa was swept up in the tide, an anonymous face in a sea of young people, all heading toward the university grounds.

When she emerged from the station, she was immediately overwhelmed. The campus was absolutely teeming with students. Hundreds of people were rushing in every direction, talking loudly in a myriad of languages, but mostly rapid-fire German. Miwa, used to the relatively subdued behavior of her previous environment, felt a moment of intense panic. She was a small fish in a massive, fast-moving ocean. She tried to follow her map, but the sheer volume of people obscured street signs and building markers. She was jostled and bumped as students hurried past her. A group of boisterous students nearly knocked a stack of books from her hands as they rushed by laughing. She was a single, still point in a chaotic river of bodies, and her internal compass was spinning wildly.

“Excuse me!” she managed to say to a girl rushing past, but her plea was lost in the noise.

Just the feeling of being truly lost again threatening to overwhelm her, a flash of accented blonde-green hair caught her eye. It was Naoya, walking with a few other students a short distance away. He was navigating the crowd with an easy arrogance, his group carving a path through the throngs. He glanced over and saw her struggling, a flicker of a smirk touching his lips before he turned away, likely uninterested in helping her for a second time. Miwa didn’t need his help anyway. She took a deep breath, focusing her mind. The Kendo training kicked in: observe the flow, find the rhythm, and move with intent. Instead of fighting the current, she found the general direction toward the North Wing—a direction many others were also heading—and used the energy of the crowd to propel her forward.

She navigated the flow of students, weaving in and out until she reached the North Wing building entrance. Pushing through the doors, she found the internal hallway signs easily and made it to the lecture hall just as the professor was walking up the steps to the podium. Miwa settled into her seat, pulling her notebook and pens from her bag. The massive lecture hall was quickly filling up. Students spilled in, taking every available seat, their conversations creating a low hum of anticipation and noise. She watched them, a myriad of faces from different backgrounds, wondering who her peers would be.

Just before the professor started his lecture, the door opened a final time, and several students rushed in. Miwa’s eyes widened slightly when she saw who was among them. Her stalker at this point. He moved with the same quiet grace she had observed before, seemingly unaffected by the last-minute rush. He scanned the rows for an empty spot. The room was almost entirely full, with only the seat immediately beside Miwa available. He started making his way down the steps towards her, his gaze locked on the empty chair. Miwa felt a familiar shiver as he approached, a strange mix of her earlier apprehension and the simple reality that they were clearly attending the same lectures.

He reached her row and paused, his clear blue eyes meeting hers. His expression was calm, composed, and devoid of the unsettling analytical look she had seen before. He inclined his head slightly, a gesture of polite inquiry. “Excuse me,” he said, his voice soft and smooth, with a subtle, melodic German accent. “Is this seat taken?” His question was simple, polite, and entirely ordinary. Yet, hearing him speak directly to her, after their silent hallway encounter the day before, felt surprisingly significant.

Miwa quickly recovered her composure and shook her head. “No, it’s free.”

“Thank you,” he replied, a fleeting, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. He moved into the row with an effortless elegance and took the seat beside her. He set his notebook and a single pen down on the small pull-out desk in front of him.

There was no extra chatter, no friendly ice-breaker about the rush or the lecture hall. He simply sat, instantly turning his attention forward as the professor cleared his throat to begin the lecture. Miwa did the same, but the sudden proximity of the enigmatic young man made it difficult to concentrate entirely on the professor’s introductory remarks. She was acutely aware of his quiet presence beside her, the subtle scent of something clean and crisp, and the stillness he exuded even in a room of hundreds.

The lecture finally concluded time later with the professor assigning the first reading list. As the room erupted in the sound of shifting chairs and conversation, Miwa quickly packed her bag. She needed to catch the man before he disappeared into the crowd, intending to clarify the living situation since they were clearly in close proximity. She shouldered her backpack and moved quickly to match his pace as he exited the row and began walking toward the large double doors. She hadn’t even known his name.

“Excuse me,” she said, raising her voice slightly to be heard over the noise of the crowded hallway.

He stopped, turning his head slightly to look at her, his expression placid.

“We live in the same dorm block, correct?” Miwa asked, getting straight to the point. “I’m in room 402, and I noticed you’re in 404.”

“Yes,” he confirmed simply.

“And you asked me about the seat today, so I was just curious,” Miwa continued, choosing her words carefully, “are we in the same suite? The dorm information was a little unclear on the setup. Are we roommates?”

The blonde’s pale eyes regarded her. A slow, composed smile spread across his face, more pronounced than any she had seen before. It held a cool amusement.

“No, Miwa,” he clarified, his voice calm. “We are not roommates. The rooms in our corridor are single occupancy.” He paused, the smile lingering. “We simply share a hallway and a floor. Nothing more.”

The directness of his answer, and the smile that accompanied it, made Miwa feel slightly embarrassed for asking. The idea that she might be rooming with a man she barely knew, let alone one as enigmatic as him, seemed absurd in retrospect.

“Ah, I see,” she said quickly, a slight flush rising in her cheeks. “Thank you for clarifying.”

“Of course,” he replied smoothly. He then turned and continued walking down the busy hallway, his elegant stride carrying him away from the main building and toward the quieter campus exit, leaving Miwa standing alone amidst the throng of students, now equipped with a clear understanding of her living arrangements.

The university library was another grand building, a mix of ancient architecture and modern infrastructure. Inside, the noise of the campus faded into a respectful hush. The air was cool and smelled of old paper and wood polish. She navigated the main floor and found the stairwell that led to the law section. She had a list of call numbers written on a notepad. Once on the correct floor, she began to walk the long aisles, the towering shelves creating quiet canyons of knowledge. The sheer volume of books was astounding. Rows upon rows of German texts, historical legal volumes, and international law journals lined the shelves. The language was everywhere, a constant reminder of the task ahead of her.

She ran her fingers along the spines of the books, the unfamiliar titles blurring together. Her natural curiosity took over. She momentarily abandoned her reading list and began to peruse the shelves with genuine interest. She picked up a thick book titled “Introduction to German Law.” The pages were thin, filled with dense, complex legal terminology. She flipped through it, the challenge of mastering this material both daunting and exhilarating. She paused at a section dedicated to international treaties, her eyes canning the varied spines. This was exactly what she had come for—a world of knowledge beyond the dojo walls.

As she moved further down an aisle, she noticed a set of older, leather-bound books on Bavarian legal history. The binding was worn, the gold leaf lettering faded. She pulled one down carefully, the heavy volume opening with a soft puff of dust. The interior was printed in an old Gothic script that was difficult to read, even with her German skills. She turned the pages, fascinated by the history these books held. Miwa felt a sense of profound purpose settle over her. The university was a world unto itself, a quiet place of study and history. This was her new battlefield, and these books were her training manuals.

Miwa had just placed the old Gothic volume back onto the shelf when a shadow fell over her. She turned, anticipating another student, and found herself face-to-face with Naoya Zenin. He was leaning against the adjacent bookshelf, watching her with that same, calculating look.

“Reading up on Bavarian history, Kasumi?” he asked, his voice low but sharp enough to carry in the quiet space. “Thought you were here for international law.”

Miwa resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Curiosity isn’t a crime, Naoya. I was simply getting a feel for the environment.” She held up a notepad with her list of required reading call numbers. “I’m looking for these now.”

Naoya pushed off the shelf and approached her, glancing at her notepad. A subtle change came over his expression; the usual dismissive smirk faded slightly, replaced by a more neutral, professional look. “I have some of those already,” he said, tapping a finger on a title she had circled. “The library’s system is a bit inefficient. If you know the right spot, you can save yourself the trouble.”

He gestured for her to follow him down the aisle. Miwa hesitated, remembering their last fraught encounter, but the desire for efficiency won out. “Fine,” she agreed, following him as they moved deeper into the stacks.

Naoya navigated the shelves with an effortless ease, stopping precisely at the right sections and pointing out the specific books she needed. He didn’t speak much during this time, focusing solely on the task. The shift in his demeanor was noticeable; in the library, in the realm of academic pursuit, his arrogance was channeled into a focused, almost competent efficiency.

“Here,” he said, handing her a key textbook. “This one’s essential. The professor is a stickler for the details in this edition.”

“Thank you,” Miwa said, balancing the growing stack of heavy books in her arms.

He looked at her, his light eyes assessing her stack of books and her determination. “Don’t fall behind,” he said, the hint of a challenge returning to his voice as he turned to leave. “This place doesn’t wait for anyone.” He walked away without another word, his footsteps quiet on the carpeted floor. Miwa’s expression was one of distaste, yet thankfulness.

—

Miwa arrived back at her dorm complex long after dark. The journey home was quieter; the energy of the day had faded, replaced by the calm silence of the late evening. She unlocked her room door, the heavy stack of law books a satisfying weight in her arms. She dropped them on her desk with a thud, the sound echoing slightly in the small space. She kicked off her shoes and turned on her warm desk lamp, the soft glow a welcome change from the harsh lights of the library. She was exhausted, but a sense of accomplishment buzzed through her veins. She had survived her first full day in Munich.

She sat at her desk, looking at the calligraphy scroll hanging above her bed—the symbol for “resolve” —and began to unpack her bag, her mind replaying the day’s events. Then there were two encounters that dominated her thoughts: Blonde boy and Naoya.

Naoya was simple enough to understand, even if she didn’t like his attitude. He was competitive, arrogant, and clearly came from a background of privilege. His condescending manner was annoying, but in the library, his efficiency had been useful. He was a straightforward rival, a type she understood well from kendo tournaments. She knew how to handle people like him; his challenges only made her more determined to prove him wrong.

Blondie, however, was a different story entirely. He was a mystery. His politeness was a thin veneer over an unnerving stillness. The way he looked at her wasn’t with competition or arrogance, but with a cold, clear analysis, as if he were trying to see past her facade and into her core. The strange feeling of being watched near the philosophy building still lingered in her memory, making her shiver slightly. He was quiet, composed, and somehow more unsettling than Naoya’s overt hostility.

She paused, holding a fountain pen in her hand, thinking about the perfectly smooth voice asking if the seat was taken, and his polite, almost amused clarification that they were only neighbors, not roommates. He seemed to exist on a different plane than everyone else. Miwa finished unpacking her bag and opened one of the heavy textbooks, running her hand over the dense German text. She had faced the first challenges of her new life, from navigating a foreign city to dealing with complicated personalities.

Miwa had spent an hour reading the complex legal text, but her mind kept drifting. The words blurred on the page as her thoughts returned stubbornly to the hallway and the auditorium. She was used to straightforward interactions, to the clear rules of engagement found in the dojo and the competitive world of high. Both of the men she’s encountered were departures from that clarity, but one more so than the other.

She closed the textbook softly, a plan forming in her mind. Politeness and observation had gotten her this far, but proactive action was necessary now. She wasn’t one to wait for things to happen to her. She checked the time. It was nearing 10:00 PM, late, but not unreasonable for a student dorm. She got up from her desk, straightened her sweater, and walked to her door.

Taking a steadying breath, Miwa opened her door and stepped out into the quiet corridor. The hall was silent, the overhead lights casting a sterile glow. She walked the short distance to room 404. She hesitated outside his door. It seemed somehow audacious, but she dismissed the thought. Resolve.

Miwa raised her hand and gave a firm, clear knock on the wooden door. She waited. A moment passed, then another. There was no sound from within. Just as she was about to turn away, thinking he might be out or asleep, the door opened silently. The young man stood there. He was wearing casual clothes—a purple pastel sweater and flannel pants—his pale blonde hair was slightly tousled, as if he had just run a hand through it. His clear blue eyes registered a flicker of surprise, which instantly vanished into a usual calm neutrality.

“Miwa,” he greeted, his voice even and smooth. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, everything is fine,” Miwa replied, trying to project a sense of calm confidence despite the slight nervousness she felt facing his intense gaze. “I apologize for calling on you so late. I was just reading and had a thought.”

He tilted his head slightly. “A thought?”

“We are neighbors, after all,” Miwa said, leaning into her cultural norms. “And we’re in the same class. It might be beneficial to know one another better. Perhaps we could…exchange contact information? It would be helpful for class notes or future group projects.”

It was a practical, sensible offer wrapped in the language of alliance-building. It was a first step toward understanding the enigma standing before her. The man looked at her for a long moment, the cool assessment returning to his eyes. He didn’t move, just stood there in the doorway, analyzing her proposition. The silence stretched, and Miwa began to wonder if she had miscalculated entirely.

Then the barest hint of that cool, composed smile reappeared. “A very sensible idea, Miwa,” he said softly. He stepped back slightly, gesturing for her to wait. “One moment, please.”

He disappeared inside his room briefly and returned with a small, elegant business card case. He extracted a simple, white card and handed it to her. It had only his name, “Johan Liebert,” a phone number with a German country code, and a simple email address.

“You can reach me here,” he said.

Miwa took the card, her fingers brushing his slightly cool ones. “Thank you,” she said, pulling out her own phone to quickly type in the details. “I appreciate it.”

“Goodnight, Miwa,” Johan said, inclining his head politely.

“Goodnight, Johan.”

He closed the door as silently as he had opened it, leaving Miwa standing in the empty hallway, a simple business card in her hand. She looked at the card, a sense of cautious satisfaction settled in her. The first move had been made. She had taken a step toward understanding this strange, silent young man. Whether he would be a friend or something else entirely remained to be seen, but the vulnerability of the unknown had been slightly reduced.

Chapter Text

The next day, Miwa arrived at her German legal writing seminar, a smaller, more intimate class held in a seminar room rather than a lecture hall. She took a seat at a large table, placing her notebook and pen in front of her. The professor, a stern-looking woman with a tight bun, was already at the front of the room, preparing notes on the blackboard. Students trickled in and filled the remaining seats. Unlike the law lecture, no one rushed in at the last minute. The atmosphere was focused and academic. Miwa focused on her penmanship, trying to write some basic German phrases, mindful that her handwriting, so precise in Japanese, might look a little clumsy in this foreign script.

She heard a voice beside her, a girl speaking with a bright, energetic tone. “Oh, is that a Japanese pen? I love Japanese pens! They’re so smooth to write with.”

Miwa looked up from her notebook. A young woman with short, blonde-straight and a friendly, open face was taking the seat next to her. She was already smiling, her brown eyes sparkling with a kind of over-eager friendliness that was a stark contrast to the guarded students Miwa had met so far. “Yes,” Miwa replied, gesturing to the pen. “I brought some with me. They are very reliable.”

“I’m Lotte,” the girl said, extending her hand across the table. “Lotte Frank. And you?”

“Kasumi Miwa,” Miwa replied, taking her hand. Lotte’s grip was firming and full of energy.

“It’s so great to meet someone new!” Lotte said, her voice a little too loud for the quiet seminar room. “You have such pretty handwriting. My German cursive looks like a spider fell in an inkwell.”

Miwa felt a small, genuine smile touch her lips. “Thank you. My German is not so good yet, but I am trying.”

“Oh, it’s fine! Mine is terrible, and I’m German!” Lotte said with a laugh, though she kept her voice low. “My major is cultural anthropology, but I have to take this for a credit. I’m much better with people than with paperwork.”

Before Miwa could reply, the professor cleared her throat loudly, shooting a stern look in their direction. Lotte immediately sat up straight, her face a mask of feigned innocence. She leaned in again, this time more subtly, and whispered, “We should get coffee after class. I’m hopeless at this, and you look like you know what you’re doing. You can give me tips.”

Miwa paused, considering the offer. Lotte was clearly a talker, and her energetic personality was a sharp change of pace. But her openness felt genuine, and her invitation felt like a breath of fresh air after the encounters with Naoya and the enigmatic Johan. A friend, even one she had to help with her German, might be exactly what she needed. “Okay,” Miwa whispered back, a sense of relief washing over her. “That would be nice.”

Lotte’s eyes lit up, and she gave a small, silent pump of her fist in celebration. Miwa turned her attention to the professor, feeling a little less alone in this large, foreign university.

The girls had found a cozy cafe tucked away on a small side street just a short walk from the campus. The place was warm and inviting, filled with the rich aroma of coffee and pastry. They ordered their drinks—a strong black coffee for Miwa and a frothy latte with an extra shot of syrup for Lotte—and settled into a small, quiet corner booth.

“Oh my gosh, I am so glad we escaped that class,” Lotte said, taking a loud, contented sip of her drink. “My brain felt like it was turning into a pretzel. All that legal jargon and ‘dass’ and ‘weil’ and ‘obwohl’...” She sighed dramatically.

Miwa smiled, a small genuine expression. “It is difficult. But necessary.”

“You’re so studious,” Lotte said, leaning forward. “I saw how focused you were. My mind was just…wandering. I was thinking about the new exhibits at the ethnological museum. They have some incredible artifacts from the Pacific Northwest.”

Miwa took a careful sip of her coffee, its bitterness a grounding presence. “What is your focus in anthropology?”

“Oh, I’m all about cultural exchange and social dynamics,” Lotte explained enthusiastically. “How people interact, how different groups influence each other. And not just from a historical perspective, but right now. Like, what we’re doing!” She gestured between them with her coffee cup. “You’re from Japan, right? How are you finding Munich so far? What’s the biggest difference?”

Miwa paused, considering. “It’s…very different,” she said slowly. “The pace is slower than Tokyo. The food is heavier.” She gestured to the pastry display. “And the people are…less reserved.” She was thinking of Naoya’s arrogance and Johan’s unnerving quietness, but Lotte’s friendly openness was a part of that, too.

Lotte laughed. “Yes, we can be a bit much sometimes! It’s just a different way of doing things. We like to get to the point.”

“I think I like that,” Miwa admitted. “In Japan, so much is unsaid. Here, it is…more clear.”

“Like that guy in the dorms?” Lotte leaned in conspiratorially. “The super-intense blonde one? He looks like he’s going to stare a hole right through you.”

Miwa’s teacup paused halfway to her lips. “You mean Johan?”

“That’s his name? See, even his name sounds intense,” Lotte whispered. “He’s on our floor, right? I saw him getting mail yesterday. He just…moved differently. Not like a normal person.”

Miwa felt a strange mix of relief and unease. Relief that she wasn’t the only one who found Johan unsettling, and unease that someone else had noticed the same peculiar quality. “I met him,” Miwa said, her voice low. “He is in our law lecture. He lives two doors down from me.”

Lotte’s eyes widened. “Two doors down? You have to tell me everything! Is he weird? I bet he’s weird. He has that look.”

Miwa shook her head slightly. “He was…polite. But yes, he is not like other people.” She didn’t want to elaborate, unwilling to share her strange encounters with a near-stranger.

Lotte, however, was already moving on. “Well, let’s not worry about the weird boys on our floor,” she said brightly. “Let’s focus on this class. I’m going to need your help with those grammar exercises. Seriously. And you’ll have to help me understand how Japanese culture influences international law. It’s for my elective.”

Miwa began going over the German grammar exercises Lotte needed help with, carefully explaining the nuances of the legal terminology they had covered in the seminar. Lotte was an eager, if slightly distracted, student.

“See?” Miwa explained patiently, pointing to a sentence in the textbook. “The verb conjugation here is different because of the ‘wenn’ clause at the beginning.”

“Right, right, the subordinate clause thing,” Lotte said, chewing thoughtfully on the end of her pen. “It’s a lot to keep track of. You make it look so easy.”

As Lotte worked on a practice sentence, Miwa took another sip of her coffee, her gaze drifting across the cafe. It was comfortably busy, the air thick with casual conversation. She scanned the faces of the patrons, a habit she had developed, looking for patterns, assessing the environment.

And then she saw him.

Across the cafe, seated at a table by the front window, was Johan. He was alone, a small stack of books beside him, a cup of tea or coffee in front of him. He was not looking at them. His entire attention was fixed on a complex-looking medical textbook, his pale, smooth features perfectly composed in the afternoon light. He appeared completely absorbed in his reading, his presence radiating that same profound stillness she had noticed before. He seemed entirely disconnected from the bustling environment around him, a silent island in the middle of a sea of noise. The casual, almost mundane setting of the cafe made his presence even more striking. Miwa froze, her hands still holding her coffee cup. The sight of him, so close yet so separate, sent a familiar, faint chill down her spine. He was just a student in a cafe, yet he seemed anything but ordinary.

“Miwa? Hello?” Lotte waved a hand in front of her face. “Did you see a ghost? You went all quiet.”

Miwa pulled her gaze away from Johan and focused back on Lotte, feeling a slight flush. “Sorry,” she murmured, “just distracted.”

“By what? The cute barista?” Lotte asked, trying to follow her line of sight.

“No, just…nothing. Focus on your homework, Lotte,” Miwa said quickly, trying to sound normal and redirect the conversation. She didn’t want to bring Lotte’s attention back to Johan; she felt a strange, protective instinct over his anonymity at this moment. She turned her full attention back to the grammar exercises, but she was acutely aware of the blonde-haired young man by the window, silently reading his medical book, a quiet, inscrutable presence just meters away.

Lotte gave Miwa a puzzled look. “Just distracted? Miwa, you looked like you saw a zombie. Is everything okay?”

Miwa hesitated, her gaze flickering over to Johan’s table once more before settling on Lotte. The cheerful, talkative anthropologist was the exact opposite of the silent, intense young man. And for some reason, Miwa felt a sudden need to confirm her intuition with someone else. “Lotte,” Miwa began, lowering her voice. “That blonde boy from our dorm…Johan.”

Lotte’s eyes widened, a mischievous glint in them. “The intense one? Did he do something? Is he looking at us right now? Oh, this is exciting! Are you having a secret campus rivalry with him?”

“No, no,” Miwa said, a small, weary sigh escaping her lips. “He’s over there.” She subtly nodded her head towards the window table.

Lotte turned, her eyes scanning the cafe. When she saw him, her enthusiastic expression melted into one of pure curiosity. “Oh my god, he is,” she whispered, leaning closer. “I didn’t even notice him. He’s just…so quiet.”

“He’s reading a medical book,” Miwa added, feeling a strange need to point out the detail, though she wasn’t sure why.

“A medical book? But he’s in our law class!” Lotte’s whispered voice was full of intrigue. “Is he a double major? Or is he one of those people who just studies everything? That’s so creepy.”

“He’s studying,” Miwa said simply, a subtle emphasis on the last word. She didn’t want to get into the ‘creepy’ assessment, even though a part of her felt it too.

Lotte watched him for another moment, her brows furrowed in thought. “He’s like a phantom,” she finally concluded, turning back to Miwa. “Just…there, Never making a sound.” She tapped her pen on her notebook. “This is definitely going into my notes on ‘social dynamics of strange people in cafes’. He’s a perfect case study.”

Miwa listened as Lotte continued her musings on Johan, a phantom presence on their floor. But the more Lotte chatted, the more Miwa’s resolve solidified. Her training had taught her not to fear a mysterious opponent, but to face them head-on. She wasn’t one to simply observe from a distance, and the polite-yet-elusive Johan presented an intellectual puzzle she was determined to solve. He was a piece on her board now, and she would engage. She pushed back her chair and stood up, placing her now-empty coffee cup on the table.

“Where are you going?” Lotte asked, looking from her notes, her pen poised.

“I am going to ask him to join us,” Miwa stated calmly.

Lotte’s jaw dropped slightly. “What!? The phantom? Miwa, you can’t just…he looks like he wants to be left alone to do…whatever it is he does.”

“We are all students at the same university,” Miwa said simply. “And he is in our class. It is only polite.”

Before Lotte could voice any more protests, Miwa began walking forward toward the window table. Her steps were steady and deliberate, a quiet confidence in her bearing. She walked past the other patrons, the low buzz of conversation filling her ears, until she stood before Johan. He didn’t notice her at first, his eyes still fixed on the medical textbook. Miwa cleared her throat softly.

Johan’s head lifted, his gaze moving from the text to her face with a smooth, unhurried motion. There was no startle, no surprise, just the calm, clear blue eyes regarding her with that same unsettling stillness.

“Miwa,” he greeted, his voice even. “Is there something you need?”
“Hello, Johan,” Miwa said, maintaining her composure. “My friend and I were just finishing our coffee. We thought that since we are all in the same law lecture and live in the same dorm, we could invite you to join us. For a short time, at least. We could discuss the class.”

She extended a small, polite gesture toward their table. It was a simple, friendly offer, but in the context of Johan’s isolating presence, it felt like an audacious challenge. Johan’s face remained unreadable for a long moment. He looked past her to Lotte, who gave a small, nervous wave. Then his eyes returned to Miwa, a hint of something complex and unidentifiable flickering in their depths.

“That is a kind offer,” he said softly. “I have quite a bit of reading, but perhaps a short break would be beneficial.” He began to gather his belongings with an unhurried grace. “Thank you, I will join you.”

Miwa felt a small, inward moment of surprise, quickly masked by polite satisfaction. “Good,” she said simply.

Johan effortlessly slid out from behind his table, gathering his book and cup. He walked with Miwa back toward the booth, his quiet presence now moving with a purpose toward her small circle. Lotte, who had been watching the exchange with bated breath, quickly shifted her things to make room as they approached. “Hello!” she greeted enthusiastically, though a nervous edge to her voice was present. “I’m Lotte Frank.”

“Johan Liebert,” he replied smoothly, giving Lotte the same fleeting, polite smile. He settled into the booth opposite the two girls, placing his single book neatly on the table.

Miwa sat back down, the dynamics of their small group instantly shifting with his presence. The cafe’s atmosphere suddenly felt different. Johan was here now, a silent, inscrutable figure in their midst. Miwa looked at Lotte, then at Johan, a quiet sense of curiosity rising within her.

Lotte, after an initial moment of mild apprehension, quickly reverted to her natural state: an enthusiastic and highly curious cultural anthropologist. Johan’s quiet composure didn’t intimidate her; it simply presented a fascinating new subject for study.

“So, Johan,” Lotte began almost immediately, leaning forward over the table, her eyes bright with interest. “Miwa said you’re in our law lecture, but you’re reading a medical book. Are you a double major? Or do you just love learning everything?”

Johan took a slow, measured sip of his drink. He placed the cup down with quiet precision before responding, his voice calm and even. “I find that all fields of study intersect in interesting ways. Law and medicine both deal fundamentally with human life and death, mortality and regulation.” His answer was philosophical and evasive, but Lotte didn’t seem to notice.

“Wow, that’s deep!” she exclaimed. “See, Miwa, I told you he was intense.” She turned her focus back to him. “Where are you from, Johan? Your German is perfect.”

“I have spent time in many places,” Johan said smoothly, avoiding a specific location. “I appreciate the efficiency of the German system.”

Miwa watched him carefully. He was deflecting every question with practiced ease, offering generic, unspecific answers that revealed nothing about his personal history. He was a master of polite evasion.

“But where are you living now, in Munich?” Lotte pressed on, undeterred by the lack of detail. “Miwa says you’re on our floor. It’s such a coincidence we’re all in the same area and the same class!”

A slight, almost imperceptible smile touched the corner of Johan’s lips. “A coincidence, yes. I am two doors down from Miwa-san.”

“Do you like your room? Mine is so crumpled, but the view is decent,” Lotte continued. “What do you think of the university so far? It seems so strict compared to what I expected.”

“The accommodations are adequate,” Johan replied. “And the structure of the university is a reflection of society itself. Rules are necessary for order.”

Miwa finally spoke up, a subtle challenge in her tone. “Lotte is studying social dynamics,” she explained to Johan. “She is interested in how people interact. You are quite the interesting case study for her, it seems.”

Johan turned his clear blue eyes toward Miwa. The faint smile remained. “Oh? A case study?” He looked at Lotte. “I’m flattered, Lotte. But I assure you, I am quite ordinary,”

“Ordinary? You are not ordinary!” Lotte insisted. “You’re like a phantom! Miwa and I were just talking about how you seem to appear and disappear silently.”

Johan’s smile widened slightly, showing an almost genuine amusement. “A phantom. I like that,” He paused, his gaze thoughtful. “But I fear I’m boring you both. Perhaps we should discuss the seminar reading list? Professor Bauer is quite strict on her deadlines, I hear.”

He effortlessly redirected the conversation back to academics, shutting down Lotte’s personal inquiries without being overtly rude. Miwa admired the technique, even as it reinforced her perception of him as an inscrutable and complex figure. He had joined their table, but he was still a world away, a perfectly composed stranger among potential friends. While he steered the conversation toward the professor’s expectations, the atmosphere became more focused and academic once more. Miwa was taking a note on her pad about the specific German legal codes, while Lotte was gesturing wildly, trying to explain her confusion regarding the BGB—the German Civil Code.

“But the BGB is just so…huge,” Lotte was saying, emphasizing her point with her hands. “How are we supposed to read all of that and the commentary? It’s impossible!” In her animated explanation, her elbow collided sharply with her coffee cup. The cup tipped over instantly. The frothy, syrup-lacked latte spilled across the table, a dark pool spreading rapidly. The liquid hit the edge of the table and dripped onto Johan’s leg and his pristine, dark shirt.

A shock silence fell over their small booth. Miwa froze, her pen hovering over her notebook. Johan didn’t jump or yelp. He simply closed his medical book, which he had placed on the table, just before the wave of coffee reached it. He looked down at his now-stained clothing with an expression of mild, detached observation, as if the spill had happened to someone else entirely.

“Oh my god! Oh my god, I am so sorry!” Lotte shrieked, instantly jumping up from the booth. Her face was flushed crimson with embarrassment and panic. She fumbled in her bag and pulled out a fistful of paper napkins, which were woefully inadequate for the job. “I am so clumsy! I am so, so sorry, Johan! I didn’t mean to, I promise!” she stammered, frantically dabbing at the growing coffee stain on the table.

The cafe around them suddenly seemed very quiet. A waitress noticed the commotion and began hurrying over with a towel. Johan finally looked up from his clothing, his expression shifting from detached observation to calm reassurance. He smiled faintly. “It is quite alright, Lotte,” he said, his voice smooth and untroubled. He lightly brushed at his shirt, accepting a dry napkin from Lotte. “Accidents happen.”

“But your shirt! It’s ruined!” Lotte was close to tears, her usual enthusiasm replaced by profound distress.

“Its just coffee,” Johan said softly. “It will wash out.” He turned his attention to the waitress who arrived, thanking her politely for the large towel she offered.

Miwa watched the interaction, almost fascinated. Naoya would have exploded with anger. Any other person would have at least shown some surprise or irritation. But Johan was a portrait of perfect, almost eerie, calm. There wasn't a hint of frustration in his eyes, only that strange, analytical serenity. He wiped the last of the liquid from his trousers, his movements graceful and efficient. “Well,” he said, standing up smoothly, “it seems my break is over. I should probably attend to this.” He gestured vaguely to his shirt.

“Johan, seriously, I will buy you a new shirt,” Lotte insisted, still mortified.

He smiled again, a cool, pleasant gesture that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s not necessary, Lotte. Enjoy the rest of your coffee.”

With a polite nod to both Miwa and Lotte, Johan turned and walked toward the exit, moving through the cafe crowd with that silent, phantom-like ease, leaving a flustered Lotte and a thoughtful Miwa in his wake. Lotte’s horrified whispers followed Johan’s silent exit from the cafe. “Oh my god, oh my god, I can’t believe I did that,” she moaned, burying her face in her hands. “I’m so sorry, Miwa. I’m so clumsy. And he was so calm. That just made it worse, didn’t it? It’s like he saw my clumsiness coming and just accepted it as an inevitability.”

Miwa, who had moved to the seat across from Lotte, offered a small, reassuring smile. “It was an accident, Lotte. It is fine.”

“No, it’s not!” Lotte wailed, peeking out from behind her hands. “First impressions are everything! And my first impression with the mysterious, phantom-like genius on our floor is that I’m a bumbling idiot who spills coffee on people. Oh, this is the worst! I just ruined any chance we had of being friends. Or even classmates who nod politely.”

“He said it was alright,” Miwa pointed out calmly.

“Yeah, he said that,” Lotte said, her voice dropping. “But did you see his eyes? They were empty! They were looking at a perfectly clean window, and you knew there was something on the other side, but you couldn’t see it. He’s probably thinking I’m a complete buffoon right now.” She shivered dramatically. “I’m a case study in human failure.”

Miwa reached out and placed a hand on Lotte’s arm. “You are not. He is…different. He does not show emotions like other people.” She thought back to Johan’s unreadable face, the detached way he had observed the mess. It was true. His calmness was its own kind of unsettling.

“See, that’s what I’m talking about!” Lotte said, her voice a theatrical whisper. “He’s not human! He’s a robot who escaped from a lab and is now studying medicine to figure out how to be a real boy! Or he’s an assassin! A professional assassin, and I just gave him a reason to…to use a napkin on me!” She paused, her eyes wide. “He didn’t even flinch. That’s a trained killer’s reflex, Miwa!”

“Lotte,” Miwa said firmly, though a small flicker of amusement touched her eyes at Lotte’s wild theories. “He is just a quiet student. You apologized. He accepted. It is over.”

“No, it’s not over,” Lotte insisted, pulling her hands from her face and starting to clean the table with a renewed, frantic energy. “He’s going to remember me as ‘the girl who spilled coffee’. And he’ll never invite me to his secret murder-robot meetings. All I wanted was to make a cool friend. And now I’ve made…a mortal enemy who has a clean shirt and a reason to be mad at me.”

Miwa simply shook her head, a small, genuine smile playing on her lips. Lotte’s effusive drama was a strange but welcome antidote to the day’s events. While Lotte worried about her clumsy impression, Miwa couldn’t help but think about Johan’s unnerving calm. The incident with the coffee hadn’t given her any new information about him. It had only confirmed that he was, in fact, not a normal person. And in a way, that made him even more interesting.

—

Miwa had spent the rest of the evening studying in her room, trying to make a dent in the seemingly endless cascade of reading material for seminars. By the time she decided to call it a night and head to the communal kitchen on the ground floor to make a cup of tea, it was nearly 11:00 PM. The building was usually quiet by this time, students respecting the implicit rule of late-night silence. She stepped out into the fourth-floor corridor. It was silent, lit by the sterile overhead lights. She walked past Johan’s door–room 404–and even then, the stairs, descending down to the ground level.

As she got closer to the lower floors, a faint noise began to filter up the stairwell. It was a low, muffled sound that didn’t belong to the usual quiet hum of the dorm. It sounded like voices, sharp and raised in anger, interspersed with the shuffling of feet. Miwa paused on the third-floor landing, her hand resting on the railing. Her dojo training instantly kicked in. She stopped breathing for a moment, listening intently, analyzing the sounds. It wasn’t a party; the voices were too strained, too few. It sounded like an argument.

Curiosity mixing with caution, Miwa continued her descent, her footsteps quiet on the tiled stairs. The noise grew louder as she reached the second floor, the words now almost discernible through the thick walls. German curses, harsh and quick, mixed with the sound of something heavy being pushed against a wall. She reached the ground floor landing. The voices were just down the hall, near the main entrance lobby and the communal kitchen area. Miwa moved with a deliberate, silent grace she’d honed over years of Kendo practice. She peeked around the corner of the hallway leading to the lobby. These figures were arguing heatedly near the main entrance doors. Two of them were bigger, imposing men she didn’t recognize, looking older than students. The third was Naoya Zenin.

Naoya had his back to her, but his voice was sharp and clear, full of his usual arrogance, but edged with a new, tight anger. “I already told you, the money will be wired tomorrow. There’s nothing here for you tonight.”

“Tomorrow? You said that yesterday!” one of the men growled back, his German thick and rough. He shoved Naoya hard against the wall. A framed notice board crashing to the floor, glass shattered.

“Do not touch me!” Naoya snapped, shoving the man back, though the man was clearly larger than him.

Miwa’s heart beat a little faster. This was not a student argument. This looked like trouble. The men seemed aggressive, clearly intent on getting something from Naoya, who looked slightly out of his depth despite his bravado. She quickly retreated behind the corner, out of sight. She should probably call someone, maybe the housing authority or the police. But her training also dictated that she observe first, understand the situation fully before acting. She listened, her senses heightened, processing the strange amount of noise breaking the silence of the night. She remained perfectly still behind the corner wall, her body tensed. The argument had continued, the voices low and intense, just barely audible.

“We aren’t leaving empty-handed, kid,” the rough voice of the man who had pushed Naoya muttered.

“You’ll get your money when you get it,” Naoya spat back. “The transfer is processing.”

There was the distinct sound of shuffling feet, then a metallic click that sent a new jolt of adrenaline through Miwa. Her breath hitched in her throat. A gun? In the student dorm?

“I don’t care about transfers,” the other man growled, his voice closer to the corner now. “We have ways of ensuring cooperation.”

The tension was suffocating. Miwa’s hand found the cold metal of a fire alarm on the wall beside her. One pull, and the entire building would wake up. But that might also escalate the situation, putting herself and potentially others in immediate danger. She hesitated, analyzing the pros and cons in rapid succession. The argument seemed to be moving towards the door. The voices grew slightly quieter, suggesting a possible de-escalation, a retreat. Maybe they were leaving, taking the argument outside. The tight knot in Miwa’s stomach began to loosen slightly. The confrontation was dying down naturally, just as quickly as it had erupted.

She started to carefully, silently, back away from the corner, planning to get to her room and call the authorities from the safety of her space. Her foot was on the first step of the staircase when she heard it.

BANG.

The sound was deafening in the enclosed space of the hallway, a sharp, concussive force that shattered the silence of the night. It echoed through the stairwell, immediate and final.

Miwa gasped, pressing her back flat against the wall, her heart hammering against her ribs. She didn’t move. She couldn’t.

Silence immediately fell over the lobby, a far more profound and terrifying silence than before. Then came the sound of hurried, panicked footsteps, running toward the main entrance, followed by the heavy slam of the front door. Faintly, she heard a car engine fire up and screech away into the night.

Miwa waited, frozen in the darkness of the stairwell, listening for any further sounds. Nothing. Only the slow, heavy pounding of her own heart. A knot of ice formed in her stomach. Someone had been shot. She had to do something.

Miwa forced herself to move. Every instinct screamed at her to flee, but her sense of duty and cold reality of the situation compelled her to act. Staying hidden was no longer an option.

She rushed back around the corner, her eyes wide, taking in the scene in the dim light of the lobby. The chaos of the argument had been replaced by a stark, terrifying tableau. One of the latrobe men, the one with the rough voice, was on the ground. He lay in a crumpled, unnatural heap near the front desk, a dark, rapidly spreading stain blooming on his chest. He was motionless. Dead. The second man was gone.

A few feet away, near the shattered remnants of the notice board, stood Naoya Zenin. He was as motionless as the man on the floor, his face pale, his eyes wide with shock, staring down at the ground. Near his fashionable leather boots, lying innocently on the laminate flooring, was a black handgun. The silence in the lobby was absolute, broken only by the faint whirring of the vending machine and Miwa’s sharp, ragged breaths.

Naoya looked up slowly, his eyes locking onto Miwa’s. The mask of arrogance he usually wore was completely gone, replaced by the raw, primal fear and shock of someone who had just witnessed or committed a violent act.

Miwa stared back, horror gripping her heart. A random man was dead, and the weapon was right at Naoya’s feet. The implication was clear and chilling. The quiet, disciplined world she had tried to build for herself in Munich had just collided violently with a dark reality, once she was now a silent witness to.

Naoya’s eyes were frantic now, darting from the dead man on the floor to Miwa’s horrified face, then back down to the gun at his feet. The silence stretched between them, thick with the smell of coffee and something coppery and cold. “It wasn’t me,” he finally said, his voice a hoarse whisper, completely stripped of its usual arrogance. “He…he had the gun.” He took a hesitant step away from the weapon, as if its proximity was a physical danger to him.

“We were arguing,” he stammered, gesturing wildly with trembling hands. “He pulled it out. We struggled. Then the other one, his friend, panicked and ran. They’re crazy, these people, they were shaking me down for money.” He stopped, taking a deep, shaky breath. “He shot himself. During the struggle, the gun went off. It was an accident. He did it to himself.”

Naoya was pleading now, his eyes locked on Miwa’s, seeking validation, seeking a witness. “You have to believe me, Kasumi. I didn’t do anything, I was just trying to get them out of here. He just…he fell. It was an accident.” He looked around the empty lobby, the reality of the situation crashing down on him. “We have to call the police,” he said, moving toward the front desk phone, then stopping short, glancing back at Miwa.

“Tell them what you saw,” he insisted, his voice rising in desperation. “Tell them they were harassing me. Tell them he shot himself. You were here. You saw it.”

Miwa remained still, watching him. She heard the metallic click, the raised voices, the single gunshot. She hadn’t seen the moment the trigger was pulled, only the aftermath: the dead man, the gun by Naoya’s feet, the lingering fear in his eyes. The story he was telling sounded plausible, but the immediate, desperate plea felt rehearsed. She had the presence of mind to pull out her phone and dial the emergency number—112 in Germany—her hands shaking as she replayed the incident in strained German. Within minutes, the quiet university area was flooded with the wail of sirens. Police cars and an ambulance arrived, lights flashing a frantic blue and red against the dark stone of the dormitory building.

The scene quickly became a hive of controlled chaos. Uniformed officers, some armed with assault rifles, swarmed the lobby. They secured the area immediately.
“Don’t move!” a loud, authoritative German voice commanded.

Miwa and Naoya were quickly separated. They were both asked for their identification and then moved to different areas of the lobby, out of sight of each other but under the watchful eyes of the police. Forensic experts arrived shortly after, their white coveralls stark in the flashing lights as they began cordoning off the area around the body and the gun.

A plainclothes detective, a woman with a serious face and a notepad, approached Miwa first. She spoke to her in careful German, assessing her state. “We need your statement, Miss Kasumi,” the detective said. “Exactly what you saw, from the beginning.”

Miwa, still shaken but regaining her composure, began recounting the events from the moment she had heard the argument from the stairwell. She described the raised voices, the metallic click she assumed was the gun, the de-escalation, the single shot, and the subsequent flight of the second man. She was careful, honest, and precise, the truthfulness ingrained by her Japanese culture and personal discipline guiding her words. She told them she hadn’t seen the moment of the shooting itself, only the aftermath.

Meanwhile, a second detective took Naoya aside. Miwa could see them from the corner of her eyes. Naoya gestured frantically, his voice still edged with a desperate panic she had never heard before. His testimony was impassioned and aggressive. He insisted on his innocence, painting a picture of an attempted shakedown gone wrong, a man accidentally shooting himself during a struggle. He painted the deceased man and his accomplice as the aggressors, highlighting his own position as a victim. He pleaded his case with fervent energy, trying to control the narrative. The detective listened stoically, taking detailed notes on separate notepads. They made no judgments, simply documenting every word. The separation of the testimonies was deliberate, a way to compare the accounts for consistency later.

As the forensic team continued their work, collecting the gun in an evidence bag and photographing the scene, Miwa looked over at Naoya one last time. He was arguing with the detective about his lawyer. Miwa’s own mind was a whirl of conflicting thoughts, the reality of the violence clashing with the contrasting stories told by the two witnesses in the quiet, shattered lobby of the student dorm.

The questioning had lasted for what felt like hours. Miwa had given her statement clearly and concisely, focusing only on the facts she had witnessed or heard directly. The police seemed satisfied for now, telling her not to leave the campus area and that they might have more questions later. They had finally been released, the crime taped off and guarded by a lone police officer, the body already removed.

Miwa walked away from the sterile, brightly lit lobby, her body moving on autopilot. The elevators were working again, and she took one up to the fourth floor, the ride up in the small, confined space feeling suffocating after the night’s events. When the doors opened onto her silent, empty corridor, the contrast was jarring. It was like stepping into a different world entirely. The peaceful hallway where she had seen Johan walk just the day before felt entirely disconnected from the violence downstairs.

She reached her door—room 402—and fumbled with the key, her hands still slightly shaking. She unlocked it and slipped inside, closing the door softly behind her. The warmth of her desk lamp and the presence of her personal items—the family photo, the calligraphy scroll—did little to calm the adrenaline still coursing through her veins. She leaned back against the door, the cold wood a shock to her senses. The reality of what had happened was beginning to settle in, the immediate crisis over, leaving a void filled with confusion and fear. A man was dead. In her dorm. She heard the gunshot.

She whispered to herself with a breaking voice in Japanese, the language of her heart and home, something she did when her thoughts became too tangled and overwhelming.

“I can’t believe it,” she murmured.

She pushed herself off the door and paced the small space between her bed and her desk, her mind racing. The police, the gun, the body, Naoya’s desperate eyes…The details were a blur of trauma and information she couldn’t process.

“Who caused the incident?” she whispered.

Naoya’s story of self-defense felt rushed, yet plausible given the aggressive men. But the gun was at his feet. The other man had fled. She hadn’t seen the action itself.

“What is true?”

Her first day in Germany, a place she had chosen for study and discipline, had devolved into a scene of violence and death. She had sought efficiency and clarity, but had found a deep, dark ambiguity. The contrast was too sharp, the world far more complex and dangerous than she had ever imagined from the home of Japan. She walked over to the window, looking out at the quiet courtyard, feeling lost and alone in a way she hadn’t since she first landed in this foreign country.

Chapter Text

The next morning, the campus was quiet, a stark difference from the usual bustle of students. Word of the shooting had spread like wildfire through the university network. At 10:00 AM, a campus-wide meeting was called in the main auditorium—the same large hall where Miwa had attended her orientation. The atmosphere was heavy and subdued. Students filled the seats, their conversations hushed whispers as they looked up at the podium. Miwa sat alone, toward the back, the events of the previous night still a fresh and terrifying memory. The sheer volume of people made her feel small, a single witness in a sea of unknown faces. On stage, a panel of serious-faced individuals from the university’s governing board and the local people department had taken their seats behind a long table. The university president, a man with grey hair and a grave expression, stepped up to the podium.

“Students,” he began, his voice amplified by the microphone, echoing through the large hall. “We have experienced a deeply unsettling and tragic event on our campus. Violence has no place here, and we want to assure all of you that your safety is our paramount concern.”

He spoke about the ongoing police investigation, the increased security measures that would be implemented, and the counseling services available for anyone who felt affected by the incident. The police liaison officer then took the stage, briefly outlining the facts they could share: an ongoing investigation into a death resulting from an altercation involving non-students on university property.

Miwa listened intently, her mind racing. They didn’t mention Naoya by name, only that one student was involved and cooperating fully. During the Q&A session, a student in the front row stood up. “What about the individuals involved? Was the student body member a victim or was he responsible?”

The police liaison was careful in his answer. “The investigation is still in its early stages. At this time, all parties are being treated as witnesses and victims until the full facts are established.”

Miwa shifted in her seat. She glanced around the auditorium, the feeling of being watched returning. She canned the faces of the students, and her eyes landed, once again, on Johan. He was seated a few rows ahead of her, on the aisle. He was composed, as always, his hands folded in his lap, listening to the proceedings with that same air of detached observation she had first noticed days ago.

As if feeling her gaze, Johan slowly turned his head. His clear blue met hers across the distance. There was no fear, no shock, no judgment in his expression—only a profound, calm stillness. A silent acknowledgment passed between them: two witnesses to the quiet undercurrents of the campus. He then turned his attention back to the stage, the enigma of his nature once again leaving Miwa with more questions than answers. The meeting concluded with a plea for the student body to remain vigilant and report anything unusual. The heavy silence of the auditorium was broken by a wave of hushed chatter as students filed out.

Miwa gathered her things slowly, the weight of the information she held making every movement feel deliberate. She was just stepping into the main hall when a hand lightly touched her arm. She turned to see Lotte, her normally cheerful face lined with concern.

“Miwa! Are you okay?” Lotte asked, her voice hushed, the usual energy muted by the somber atmosphere.

Miwa nodded. “I am fine, Lotte.”

“I heard it happened on our floor, or maybe the first floor of our building,” Lotte whispered, leaning in conspiratorially, yet her concern was genuine. “Did you hear anything? It’s so scary. I can’t believe something like that happened here.”

Miwa hesitated, her mind going back to the loud BANG and the subsequent silence. “I was in my room,” she said, choosing her words carefully, avoiding the full truth of her witness status for now. “I heard a sound, and the sirens later.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” Lotte sighed with relief, pulling her into a quick, spontaneous hug. “When I heard it was on our floor, I was so worried about you.” She pulled back, her eyes earnest. “It’s awful, isn’t it? Just when we were getting settled in. This is why I study people—they’re fascinating, but they can be so violent.”

“Yes,” Miwa agreed quietly. “It is awful.”

“Well, you have my number, right?” Lotte said, her natural optimism beginning to peek through the gloom. “If you need anything, or just want to get out of the dorm for a bit, let me know. We can go to that cafe again, just maybe I won’t spill my coffee this time.” She gave a small, nervous laugh.

Miwa felt a genuine wave of gratitude for her new friend’s straightforward kindness. “Thank you, Lotte. The offer for coffee is good.”

Lotte smiled and nodded, her spirits seemingly lifted by the interaction. “Great. I’ve got a class now, but I’ll text you later, okay?”

Miwa watched Lotte hurry off down the hall, a small solitary figure amidst the crowd of concerned students. The brief encounter was a bright spot of normalcy in a day that felt anything but normal. As she began her own walk towards her next class, the weight of the events remained, but it felt slightly more bearable, knowing she wasn’t entirely alone in this strange, complicated place.

Miwa finished her constitutional law seminar and stepped out of the building into the cool afternoon air. The campus felt different today, quieter, weighted by the events of the previous night and university meeting. She found a quiet bench under a large oak tree and pulled out her phone. The events in the dorm lobby were still raw in her mind, but so was the memory of Johan’s unnervingly calm face during the university assembly. Her initial idea to meet and discuss the incident as a neutral common ground was a good cover, but her true motivation ran deeper. She needed to know why he was so fascinated by her. The way his eyes had assessed her in the auditorium, the faint smiles, his quiet observations—they felt less about casual curiosity and more like a focused, intellectual dissection of her person.

She opened the message app and found his contact info.

Hello Johan

I hope your classes went well today.

Given the unsettling events of last night and your presence at the meeting today, I was hoping we could meet up after classes. There is something I wish to ask you.

I would also like to understand more of why you seem so fascinated with me.

Miwa

She paused, reading over the last line. It was direct, perhaps even rude by Japanese standards, but she had learned that here, clarity was valued. Besides, polite evasion seemed to be his strong suit. Directness might be the only way to get a genuine reaction. She took a steadying breath and hit send. She waited, her gaze fixed on the screen. A minute passed. Two. The silence of the phone was heavy. She started to wonder if she had pushed too far, if her directness would simply result in no reply at all.

Then, her phone buzzed.

Miwa

That is a bold question.

I am available at 5:00 PM at the cafe near campus. We can discuss your curiosity then.

Johan

A strange wave of relief mixed with profound apprehension washed over Miwa. He had accepted the challenge. He was willing to meet and address her question head-on.

5:00 PM is perfect. I will see you there.

She tucked her phone away, a sense of cautious resolve in her posture. She had secured a meeting with the phantom, not to discuss the shooting, but to discuss her. Tonight, she might just get a little closer to understanding him, and in the process, understand the strange, complicated, and shadowed world she had stepped into.

—

Miwa arrived at the cafe a few minutes before the designated time, choosing a small booth near the back, away from the window table where they had met the day before. She placed her notebook on the table and waited, the familiar smell of coffee and pastries a calming presence. At exactly 5:00 PM, Johan arrived. He was dressed neatly, in a different dark shirt than the one Lotte had spilled coffee on. He moved with that same quiet grace, his eyes scanning the cafe until they found Miwa. He walked directly to her booth and slid in across from her.

“Miwa,” he greeted calmly, offering a small composed smile.

“Hello, Johan,” Miwa replied. “Thank you for meeting me.”

“The pleasure is mine,” he said softly. “It is not often one is faced with such direct curiosity.”

There was no small talk, no mention of ordering drinks. He was going straight to the point. Miwa took a deep breath, focusing her mind as if preparing for a difficult question in a seminar. “Your message…you said my question was bold. I apologize if it was inappropriate.”

“Not at all,” Johan said smoothly, leaning back against the booth, his hands resting on the table. “In fact, I found it refreshing. Most people prefer to observe from a distance. You, however, choose to engage. It is a rare trait.”

“I am trained to face my opponents directly,” Miwa said, the dojo training giving her a line to fall back on. “It is my belief that understanding your opponent is the first step toward victory.”

A look of genuine, though unsettling, interest flickered in Johan’s clear blue eyes. “And you see me as an opponent?”

“An unknown,” Miwa corrected, choosing her words carefully. “I don’t know your intentions. And I am here to learn.”

“A very sensible position,” Johan mused. “You want to understand why I have taken an interest in you. Why I have been observing you.”

“Yes,” Miwa said, holding his gaze. “From the auditorium to the cafe, to the dorm. I feel your eyes, Johan. What is it that you see?”

Johan was silent for a moment, the calm in his eyes unwavering. He seemed to be choosing his words with an immense amount of care. “I see a young woman who has left a life of strict discipline and tradition to pursue a new and foreign world,” he began, his voice a low, melodic tone. “A woman who, despite her training, is still adjusting to the chaos and unpredictability of this environment. I saw you rush in late for the orientation, your composure momentarily shaken. I saw you and your friend in the cafe, and I observed your quiet resolve amidst her energetic nature.”

He paused, and Miwa felt a chill. He hadn’t just observed her, he had analyzed her with a chilling precision.

“And last night,” he continued, his voice dropping slightly. “I saw your stillness. Your incredible stillness after the gunshot. Most people would have panicked, screamed, or fled. You, however, waited. You calculated. You assessed. That is not an ordinary reaction, Miwa.”

Miwa’s heart hammered against her ribs. He hadn’t just been in the dorm; he had been watching the entire scene unfold, just as she had. She hadn’t heard him or seen him, but he had been a phantom witness, a silent observer just as she was.

“I am fascinated by what makes people different, Miwa,” Johan said, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. “And your resolve, your quiet courage, your ability to remain calm in the face of chaos…it is quite different indeed.” He leaned forward, slightly, his eyes never leaving hers. “Consider your questions answered. I am fascinated by what I believe is an incredibly strong resolve. What, then, is your next move?”

The intensity of his gaze was a challenge and an invitation all at once. Miwa didn’t flinch. She had asked for clarity, and she had received it, even if the result was more unnerving than a simple, friendly meeting. The field had been leveled.

“My next move,” Miwa said, her voice steady and deliberate, “is to understand the truth of what happened last night.”

Johan leaned back again, an expression of mild interest on his face. “The truth? A complicated concept. The police seem satisfied with the simple explanation for now.”

“Naoya told a story,” Miwa continued, the memory of his desperate, terrified eyes sharp in her mind. “He said the man shot himself during a struggle, that the other men were the aggressors shaking him down for money.”

“And you don’t believe him?” Johan asked softly.

“I don’t know what I believe,” Miwa admitted. “I heard the struggle, the man being shoved. I heard the click of the gun. But I only saw the aftermath. The man on the floor, the gun at Naoya’s feet. Naoya was in shock, yes, but he was also…performing. Pleading with me to corroborate his story.” She looked directly at Johan. “You said you saw my stillness. You were a witness, too. What did you see? Was he innocent?”

Johan was silent for a long moment, the cafe noise fading into the background. His eyes, clear as day, held a profound stillness. “Miwa,” he said, his voice a low, smooth cadence, "innocence and guilt are matters of law, of public record. They are narratives constructed for public consumption.” He paused, a strange, thoughtful expression on his face. “You asked me earlier what I see. I see patterns. I see human nature.”

“That’s not an answer,” Miwa pressed, frustrated by his philosophical evasion.

“Perhaps it is,” Johan replied smoothly. “Naoya Zenin is a prideful young man with a debt problem and connections to unsavory individuals. This is the truth I observed from the beginning, long before a gun was fired. Whether he pulled the trigger or the man on the floor did is just a single point in a much larger, more complex narrative.” He smiled faintly, a cool, intellectual gesture. “The law may determine his legal ‘innocence,’ but his involvement in this situation is the inevitable result of his nature. He is not a man who accepts responsibility easily.”

Miwa stared at him, absorbing his words. He had seen Naoya’s character in the same way he had seen her resolve. He saw the strings that moved the people around him. “You’re saying he’s guilty, regardless of who pulled the trigger,” Miwa said, a chilling realization settling in her.

“I am simply saying that the truth is often much larger than a single event in a dorm lobby,” Johan corrected her softly. He stood up, gathering his single medical book. “The police will do their work, Miwa. But you have a keen sense of observation. You should trust it. It is one of your most interesting traits.” Johan turned to leave, his polite dismissal final, but Miwa wasn’t finished. His analysis of Naoya, his ability to see patterns and human nature with such chilling clarity, had only deepened her fascination. Her curiosity about the incident and Naoya’s guilt was now secondary to the puzzle of the man in front of her.

“Wait,” Miwa said, her voice firmer this time, cutting through the cafe noise. “Don’t go yet.”

Johan paused at the edge of the booth, half-turned away from her, his posture conveying a sense of finality. He slowly turned his head to look back at her, a subtle question in his eyes.

“You’ve analyzed me, and you’ve analyzed Naoya,” Miwa said, her gaze steady, refusing to be dismissed. “But you’ve told me nothing about yourself. You see my resolve and his nature, but what is your nature, Johan Liebert?”

His expression remained placid, unreadable. He didn’t move to sit down, nor did he walk away. He simply stood there, assessing her persistence.

“I am an ordinary student, Miwa,” he replied smoothly, repeating the defense he had used with Lotte. “There is nothing of interest to discover.”

“I disagree,” Miwa said, standing up to face him fully, a challenge in her eyes. “Ordinary people do not look at a murder scene with detached observation. Ordinary people do not evade questions about their life with such skill. You are an unknown variable in my new world, and that is a vulnerability I intend to understand.” She was being bold, pushing the boundaries of polite interaction. She was calling him out, challenging the phantom.

A subtle change over Johan’s face. The cool amusement faded entirely, replaced by something far more complex—a flicker of acknowledgement, perhaps even a hint of respect for her steer determination. He had analyzed her resolve earlier; now she was demonstrating it. He hesitated for another long moment, his clear blue eyes fixed on hers. The cafe felt silent around them. Finally, with a slow, deliberate grace, Johan slid back into the booth, placing his medical book back on the table. He leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on his hands, the picture of composed interest.

“Very well, Miwa,” he said, his voice soft, almost a murmur, “What would you like to know about me?”

Miwa sat back down, the weight of the moment settling in the booth. She had pushed, and he had yielded, a small but significant victory. Now came the hard part.

“I am not interested in your classes or your hobbies,” Miwa began, her voice steady. “Lotte calls you the ‘phantom’. You move without a sound, you observe without emotion. You see patterns in human nature that others miss.” She paused, gathering her thoughts. “I want to know how you became this way. Were you always like this, or did something happen to you?”

It was a direct question, a demand for the core of his being. Johan’s placid expression didn’t change, but his eyes seemed to grow colder, more distant. He looked away for a moment, out the window, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular in the bustling street. The silence stretched between them again, deeper and more profound this time. When he finally looked back at her, his expression was entirely blank, all amusement gone.

“A profound question, Miwa,” he murmured, his voice softer than before, almost a whisper, forcing her to lean in to hear him over the cafe noise. “And a very human one. This desire to find the ‘origin’ story, the moment a person became who they are.” He leaned forward slightly, matching her posture. “Does it matter?”

“Yes,” Miwa said firmly. “Understanding the past helps to understand the future. It helps me to understand you.”

A faint, sad smile, the first genuinely emotional expression she had seen from him, touched his lips, and vanished instantly. “I was a child once,” he said, the words smooth, devoid of any real feeling, as if reciting a historical fact. “A boy like any other.” He paused, a shadow passing over his face. “But children are fragile things, Miwa. They are shaped by the world around them. And my world taught me that emotions are a vulnerability, that observation is survival, and that silence is safety.”

He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t offer a specific story, a specific trauma. Just abstract concepts.

“That’s not an answer,” Miwa pressed, frustrated by his continued evasion. She wanted details, she wanted the truth that was larger than a simple statement.

“It is the only one you will receive,” Johan said, his tone final. “I am a pattern of a man, Miwa. The result of observation and circumstance. There is no one moment, only the steady accumulation of quiet truths.” He looked at her intently, his eyes boring into hers. “You have your resolve, born of the dojo. I have my nature, born of necessity.”

Miwa studied his face, absorbing the weight of his abstract, yet deeply revealing, confession. He was a product of a harsh environment that demanded silence and observation for survival. It wasn’t the dramatic origin story she might have expected, but it was an answer nonetheless. He had opened a door just a crack, offering a glimpse into a void of quiet necessity. She realized pushing for more details right now would be futile. He had given her all he intended to for one evening. But she also sensed that his willingness to even meet and speak this openly meant a shift in their dynamic. The ‘opponent’ was now something else entirely. She leaned back in her seat, matching his relaxed posture, and took a different tack.

“I understand,” Miwa said, her voice softer, devoid of its earlier challenging edge. “The past is a pattern, as you say.” She paused, letting the silence settle for a moment. “But the future is unwritten. We are here now, at university, starting a new part of our lives.”

Johan watched her, his expression placid, waiting for her point.

“I believe friendship is built over time,” Miwa continued, choosing her words with care. “Not in a single conversation, or by demanding life stories.” She looked at him with an open, genuine expression. “You are not an easy person to get to know, Johan. But I am a patient person.” She gestured toward their surroundings. “We could meet here sometimes, or maybe study together in the library. Nothing formal, just spending time together as fellow students. It could be beneficial for both of us.”

It was a step back from the direct confrontation, an invitation to a different kind of engagement—one that might open the door to friendship, or at the very least, a cautious alliance. A flicker of something unidentifiable crossed Johan’s features. It wasn’t quite a smile, but an acknowledgement of her subtle pivot. He seemed to be considering the preposition, weighing the potential benefits against his inherent need for solitude.

“Patience is a valuable virtue, Miwa,” he murmured, his gaze thoughtful. “And efficiency is a necessity.” He seemed to be weighing her offer against his own sense of pragmatism. Finally, he nodded once, a brief, decisive gesture. “Very well,” he agreed softly. “Let us see what patterns the future might bring. I will see you in class tomorrow.” He stood up smoothly, picking up his medical book. This time, there was a sense of dismissal, only a quiet acceptance of a new arrangement. He gave her a polite nod and walked away.

—

Miwa returned to her dorm room that night with a sense of purpose. The conversation with Johan had been intense, but productive. She felt she underwood him just a fraction better, enough to know that a cautious, patient approach was necessary. The prospect of understanding the ‘phantom’ over time felt like a long-term strategy she could commit to. She unpacked her back and made her room cozy, then picked up the phone and sent a message to Lotte.

Lotte, are you free tonight? I’m in my room (402). I have an idea I wanted to share with you.

Lotte’s reply was instantaneous:

Be there in 2 mins!

True to her word, a rapid knocking came to Miwa’s door a moment later. Miwa opened it to find a bright-eyed Lotte, already full of curiosity.

“Okay, what’s the plan? Is it about the meeting today? The shooting? My terrible first impression with the phantom?” Lotte breezed past Miwa and settled onto the edge of Miwa’s bed.

Miwa smiled and closed the door. “All of the above, indirectly.” She sat down at her desk chair, turning to face her friend. “I saw Johan again, at the cafe.”

Lotte’s eyes widened. “You did? After the coffee incident? You’re brave! What did he say? Did he forgive me?”

“He did,” Miwa confirmed. “He accepted my apology for you, and we talked. I’ve decided I want to get to know him better.”

Lotte stared at her, an expression of confusion crossing her face. “Better? Miwa, the guy gives me the chills! He’s like a walking void of emotion. Why would you want to do that?”

“Because,” Miwa explained calmly, “I believe he is a complex person with a unique way of seeing the world. He’s very perceptive. And I prefer to understand the people around me, not fear them.”

“Well, you’re not going to understand him by yourself, Miwa,” Lotte said skeptically. “He evaded every question I had yesterday. He’s like a wall.”

“That’s why I need your help,” Miwa said, leaning forward slightly. “I’ve suggested we spend time together casually—studying in the library, or meeting at the cafe. A slow, steady approach.”

Lotte paused, her curiosity battling her apprehension. “You want me to join you? To…hang out with the phantom?”

“Yes,” Miwa nodded. “Your energy and openness are a good balance to his silence and my reserve. With both of us, it might create a more normal, relaxed environment where he might feel more comfortable to…be himself, slowly.”
Lotte considered this, chewing on her lower lip. The anthropologist in her was clearly intrigued by the prospect of close-up observation.

“Okay,” Lotte finally said, a mischievous spark in her eyes. “Okay, I’m in. He is a fascinating case study, and you’re right, understanding him is better than being creeped out by him.” She bounced slightly on the bed. “This is going to be so weird, but I’m in. When do we start our ‘bonding activities’?”

Miwa smiled, a wave of relief washing over her. She knew Lotte’s presence would make this strange plan slightly more normal and much less intense. “Tomorrow,” Miwa said. “We start tomorrow after our morning lecture. We have our first group study session planned.”

“Perfect,” Lotte grinned. “I’ll bring my notepad and my most non-spillable coffee mug.”

—

The next day, after their law lecture, Miwa, Lotte, and Johan met outside the large university library. The plan had been set, and Miwa felt a quiet resolve as they approached the grand building.

“Okay,” Lotte said, her voice slightly hushed by the library’s imposing atmosphere. “Study session number one! What’s the strategy? Are we focusing on the BGB or international law?”

“The BGB seems to be the current challenge,” Johan suggested smoothly. He was carrying only one book, his usual composition unchanged despite the new arrangement.

They navigated the vast library stacks and found a quiet study corner in the law section, with a large wooden table that offered some privacy. They sat down, Lotte placing her spill-proof travel mug carefully in the center of the table, making a show of securing it with her hands.

“See? No spills today,” she said with a forced cheerfulness.

A hint of a smile touched Johan’s lips. “Very commendable, Lotte.”

They laid out their books, the dense German legal texts a daunting presence. Miwa took the initiative, opening her notebook and pointing to the first chapter summary.

“I can review my notes on the first few articles,” Miwa offered. “Lotte, you said you were having trouble with the distinction between movable and immovable property?”

For the next hour, they worked. It was an unusual dynamic: Miwa, focused and disciplined, patiently explaining the concepts; Lotte, energetic and inquisitive, asking endless questions that sometimes verged into cultural comparisons; and Johan, the silent observer. He said very little, but his presence was a constant force. He corrected a minor point of law once, with perfect, concise accuracy, then returned to his quiet reading of his own text, simply listening as Miwa and Lotte debated property rights.

Miwa kept a subtle eye on him. He seemed at ease, not contributing much but certainly not an unwilling participant. He was observing their interaction as much as they were observing him. The dynamic was strange, a mix of genuine study, cautious social engineering. They were sharing a space, a task, and time together. As Lotte dissolved into a fit of dramatic frustration over a specific paragraph in the commentary, Miwa looked over at Johan. His clear eyes met hers across the table. In that moment, a silent acknowledgement passed between them: they were keeping their truce.

Miwa was in the middle of explaining the concept of culpability to Lotte when a shadow fell across their table. She looked up. Standing there was Naoya Zenin, looking far different from the desperate man in the lobby and the arrogant student from before. He was dressed casually but impeccably, his face smooth and composed, lacking the intense edge she had become accustomed to. His usual condescending smirk was gone, replaced by a polite, almost diffident smile. It was a mask Miwa had never seen before.

“Kasumi,” he said, his voice surprisingly gentle and low for the quiet of the library, “I was hoping I might run into you.”

Lotte stopped mid-sentence, looking up with wide, suspicious eyes, her hand instinctively going to secure her travel mug. Johan, who had been quietly absorbed in his book, slowly looked up, his clear blue eyes fixed on Naoya, a flicker of something unidentifiable—perhaps interest—crossing his placid features.

“Zenin,” Miwa replied, keeping her tone neutral, careful to use the formal address. “We’re studying.”

“Of course,” Naoya said, leaning slightly on the edge of the table, his posture relaxed and easy, a sharp contrast to his agitated state the night before. “I just wanted to say thank you again. For calling the police last night.” He looked directly at Miwa, his gaze sincere and earnest. “Things got out of hand. I was a mess. But the police have been very understanding. It seems the other man was known to them. It was a clear case of self-defense.” His voice was calm, almost humble, utterly lacking the aggression she had witnessed in the lobby or his usual arrogance on campus. The shift in his personality was so stark it was unsettling.
Miwa had seen him in moments of anger and sheer panic; the polite, composed version felt like a performative, deliberate narrative he was crafting.

“I am glad it worked out,” Miwa said, her voice remaining carefully measured.

Naoya then turned his attention to Johan and Lotte, a polite smile extended to them both. “I apologize for the commotion in the dorm last night. I hope I didn’t disturb your sleep too much.”

“Not at all,” Johan replied smoothly, his voice even. “Life has its moments of spontaneity. It can be fascinating to observe the dynamics of human nature.”

Naoya looked at Johan, an almost imperceptible pause in his movement. “Right. Well, in any case, thank you both for your understanding.” He then looked back. “If you need anything, Kasumi, anything at all, just ask. I owe you one.”

He gave her a final, genuine-looking smile and walked away, a picture of calm, approachable student life. Miwa, Lotte, and Johan were silent as they watched him go. Lotte was the first to break the tension, her whisper a mix of confusion and disbelief.

“Okay, what was that?” she asked. “Did he hit his head on the notice board last night? He was actually…nice. Almost human.”

Miwa looked at Johan. He had returned to his medical, his expression once again unreadable. She felt a cold knot form in her stomach. Naoya’s abrupt shift in personality, his calm recounting of events as a simple case of self-defense—it all felt too neat, too controlled. The mask was convincing, but Miwa knew the truth was far messier. The “patterns” Johan spoke of became clearer.

Naoya had reached a row of lockers, retrieved a few books, and then, without hesitation, walked back towards their table. Lotte noticed him returning and instantly adopted a guarded posture, her hands tightening around her coffee mug once more. Johan, who hadn’t looked up from his book since Naoya’s departure, remained the picture of indifference.

Naoya stopped by their table again, a polite smile still in place. “I was just organizing my things and realized that I am also struggling with the BGB commentary,” he said, holding up a thick volume. “You all seem to have a good system going here. Would you mind if I joined your study session? I think a fresh perspective might help me.”

Lotte opened her mouth, likely to protest, but Miwa cut her off smoothly. “Of course, Zenin,” she said, her voice even and welcoming, accepting his offer without any sign of hesitation. “There is plenty of room.”

Naoya smiled, that same unsettlingly mild expression on his face. “Thank you. You’re very kind.” He pulled up a chair and placed his books on the table, instantly settling in and opening the text to a specific page. He looked completely at home, the picture of an eager, diligent student.

Lotte shot Miwa a look of pure confusion, a silent question in her eyes. Miwa offered a small, stubble shake of her head, indicating that Lotte should play along.

“So,” Naoya began, turning to Lotte and pointing to a complex German legal term, “perhaps you could help me understand this paragraph? It seems a bit contradictory to the main statue.”

Lotte, completely thrown by his sudden shift to academic interest, stammered a bit but began to explain what she understood. Miwa watched the interaction, her mind calm and focused. The dynamic of the group had shifted again, the quiet corner of the library now a complex web of hidden agendas and contrasting personalities. She had a new piece on the board, one that was actively seeking involvement. Naoya’s carefully constructed calm was a fascinating puzzle in itself.

Chapter Text

Miwa had spent the rest of her evening with her new strange study group, the dynamics shifting with every interaction. Later that night, back in the silence of her dorm room, the academic focus and social maneuvering faded away, replaced by the deep, unsettling impact of the previous night’s shooting. She had pushed the trauma down, but her subconscious would not be denied.

She had fallen asleep around midnight, exhausted from the stress of the past two days. Her sleep was shallow and restless. Around 3:00 AM, the haunt began. She was back in the university auditorium, but it was different. The grand hall was dark and filled with people, but there was a tension in the air, a silent fear. The panel on the stage was there, but their faces were obscured by shadows. The air grew thick and heavy, and the hushed whispers of the students turned into a low, terrifying moan.

Suddenly, the historical building began to crack and groan under immense pressure. Dust and plaster rained down from the ceiling. A massive crack ripped across the stage, The students in the seats began to panic, a wave of sheer terror washing over them. They screamed, scrambling over one another in a frantic attempt to escape. Miwa was caught in the crush, pushed and shoved by faceless bodies, the familiar panic from the campus crowd returning with brutal force. She heard sounds of explosions from outside, a deep, concussive force that shook the entire foundation. Windows blew inwards, showering everything in broken glass and a wave of sound. The beautiful, centuries-old university was being torn apart. She saw faces of the people she had met: Lotte’s wide, terrified eyes; Naoya’s face contorted in a silent scream; and Johan’s pale composed face, observing the destruction around him with that same eerie calm, a knowing look in his eyes as the chaos unfolded. Miwa tried to run, tried to find an escape, but the crowd was too thick. The building groaned one last time, and the ceiling began to cave in, a final wave of total destruction descending upon.

She woke up with a sharp gasp, sitting bolt upright in her bed. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. She was drenched in sweat, her hands clutching the bedding tightly. She looked around the room, the soft glow of her desk lamp, a stark contrast to the darkness of her dream. The calligraphy scroll hung peacefully on the wall, and the family photo sat untouched on her desk. The silence of the dorm was profound, a sharp relief after the noise of the nightmare.

Miwa sat on the edge of her bed, her heart still hammering in her chest. The memory of the dream, the chaotic auditorium, the crashing ceiling, and the silent destruction, felt too real. The silence of her dorm room, once a comfort, now felt like a fragile barrier against a world she was just beginning to understand. The air felt heavy and thick, and she needed to escape. She needed fresh air.

She got up, put on her jacket and some shoes, and quietly left her room. The corridor was silent and empty, the sterile lights casting long, eerie shadows. She moved with a purpose, her steps hushed on the carpeted floor. She passed room 404, Johan’s room, a closed door behind which lay a quiet, inscrutable mystery. The elevator ride down felt suffocating. She took a deep breath as the doors opened onto the ground floor. The area was brightly lit, the crime scene tape gone, but the faint outline of a body on the floor still haunted the space. The air felt clean, but the memory was a stain.

Miwa walked out of the main entrance and stepped into the cool night air. It was a relief, the cold breeze a shock to her senses, a grounding reality check after the surreal horror of her dream. She walked out onto the small campus plaza, the same one where she had met Naoya yesterday. The plaza was deserted, the benches empty, the old lampposts casting a warm, comforting glow. She walked towards the fountain in the center of the plaza, the gentle sound of the water a soothing rhythm against the frantic beating of her heart.

She sat on the edge of the fountain, looking at the night sky. The moon was a pale white orb, the stars a dusting of distant light. It was a simple, beautiful sight, and for a moment, the fear and confusion of the past few days seemed to fade. She watched the water ripple under the moonlight, the cool air settling her race heart. The campus was quiet, a peaceful juxtaposition. A slight sound caught her attention—the snick of the heavy glass door of the dorm building closing. She turned her head slightly. Naoya emerged from the main entrance, pulling his jacket tighter around himself against the night chill. He looked around the empty plaza, his gaze eventually falling on her by the fountain. He paused for a moment, then began walking towards her, his footsteps deliberate on the cobblestones. The easy, polite mask he wore earlier that day in the library was back in place, masking the desperation she had witnessed the night before.

“Kasumi,” he greeted her as he reached the fountain, his voice calm and even. “Out for some air?” He didn’t sit down, choosing to stand nearby, his posture relaxed.

Miwa nodded. “The air in my room felt wavy. And you?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he admitted with a casual shrug, a perfectly crafted smile on his lips. “All the excitement from last night, you know?” It throws off your rhythm.” He leaned against the stone edge of the fountain, crossing his arms.

“Everything is settled with the police, then?” Miwa asked, her voice neutral, the image of the gun by his feet sharp in her memory.

“More or less,” Naoya said easily. “As I said, a clear case of self-defense. The other man was involved in a lot of trouble around the city. They weren’t exactly upstanding citizens.” He paused, then looked at her with a seemingly sincere expression. “It was just a bad situation, wrong place, wrong time. I’m glad it’s over.”

He spoke of the dead man and the shooting with a casual indifference that felt deeply unsettling, a dismissal of the violence she had witnessed. It was all a narrative now, a story of “bad guys” and “self-defense” for public consumption, just as Johan had suggested.

“I am glad you are safe,” Miwa said politely, mirroring his calm demeanor.

“Thanks to you calling the police,” Naoya replied smoothly. “Like I said, I owe you one. Seriously, anything you need.”

He stood there for another moment, the perfect image of a grateful, unharmed student in the quiet night. The performance was flawless. The casual ease of his manner felt more intentional now, a deliberate attempt to prolong the interaction.

“It’s quiet,” Miwa agreed neutrally, turning her gaze back to the rippling water.

“A good time to think,” Naoya mused. “You seem like a thoughtful person, Miwa. Quiet, observant.” He paused, a subtle shift in his tone suggesting he was moving past the casual pleasantries. “Not like the others here. Not like Lotte.”

“Lotte is a good person,” Miwa defended her friend, though her voice remained calm.

“She’s fine,” Naoya dismissed with a slight wave of his hand, “but a bit much. I prefer quiet myself.” He looked at her, his expression carefully curated to project a sense of shared depth. “You’re different. You have a quiet strength about you. I noticed it in the library today. The way you handle yourself.”

He was trying to build a bridge, using compliments and a manufactured sense of shared understanding. Miwa listened, analyzing his words, the contrast between his smooth flattery and the image of the frantic man in the lobby a sharp juxtaposition.

“I appreciate the complement,” Miwa said, maintaining her distance even with the polite address. “My strength comes from my training.”

“Kendo, right?” Naoya asked, a flicker of genuine interest in his eyes. “That takes discipline. Real discipline. Not like most of these students who just party all the time.” He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “I respect that. You’re serious about your future, just like me.”

He was creating a narrative of two serious, disciplined students in a frivolous world. It was a well-executed maneuver; utilizing the calm of the environment to focus her attention solely on him, trying to establish a connection that went beyond the casual interactions of campus life. He was seeking an ally, perhaps, a confidante who witnessed his vulnerability and could be convinced of his strength. Miwa looked at him, his carefully composed face a puzzle she was slowly starting to unravel. He wanted her on his side, and his ultimate charm was doing the work.

“It’s not just Lotte who is different,” Naoya said with a casual wave of his mind, adopting a more casual, almost friendly tone. “What about our quiet friend, Johan? He’s a strange one, isn’t he?”

Miwa kept her expression neutral. “He is quiet, yes. But very intelligent.”

A slight genuine smirk, the first real expression she had seen that matched her initial impression of him, touched Naoya’s lips. “Intelligent, maybe. But definitely strange.” He chuckled, a low, easy sound that was completely different from his earlier panicked voice. “He seems quite interested in you, you know. I noticed the way he looked at you in the library today.”
Miwa paused. “He is in our class. We were a study group.”

“Oh, I know,” Naoya said smoothly. “But it’s more than that. The guy seems obsessed with you, doesn’t he? Always watching. The way he just sits there, silent, like a shadow.” He gave a half-hearted, dismissive laugh. “It’s a little creepy, if you ask me. I figured a smart, serious girl like you would prefer a normal guy.”

He was trying to drive a wedge between her and Johan, using the ‘phantom’ persona to make Johan seem unnatural and himself seem ‘normal’ and relatable. He was trying to isolate her, to make himself her confidante.

“He is a serious student, like us,” Miwa said simply, refusing to take the bait. She didn’t want to play this game in the quiet night, with the man who had the confidence to manipulate a situation with a casual air.

“Right,” Naoya said, the smirk fading slightly, a hint of his old arrogance returning. “Well, just be careful with the quiet ones, Kasumi. They’re often the ones with the most to hide.” He looked at his watch, the moment of engineered camaraderie finished. “Anyways, I should be getting to sleep now. Goodnight.”

Miwa sat by the fountain for a few minutes longer after Naoya left, processing his words. His attempts to manipulate her felt obvious and amateurish compared to the subtle, almost undetectable way Johan operated. She was tired of the games and the stress of the day and night, deciding it was time to go back and try to get some sleep. She walked back to the dorm entrance, the quiet of the night a stark relief from the intense conversations. She took the elevator up to the fourth floor. The hallway was silent, the overhead lights humming faintly. She walked toward her room, passing the closed door of 404.

It had been when Miwa reached her door and fumbled in her pocket for her key, a sound stopped her cold in place. It came from behind Johan’s door. It wasn’t a normal sound. It was a low, guttural, a choked off whimper of pure, agonizing pain. It was a sound of absolute mental anguish, raw and unrestrained, completely unlike the composed, smooth demeanor he always presented. Her heart began hammering in her chest. She had never heard a human being sound so broken. The sound of silent, desperate crying mixing with a low, desperate moan of despair. It was the sound of someone in a horrible mental state, in the throes of a profound breakdown. All the ‘phantom’ persona, the cool analysis, the perfect composure—it shattered in her mind as she listened to the raw human suffering coming from behind the door.

She stared at the door, a mix of shock and concern running through her. The sound cut off abruptly, replaced by silence, but the impact lingered. He was not a phantom. He was human, and he was suffering in a way she couldn’t comprehend. Miwa stood there for a moment, unsure what to do. Her instinct was to knock, to help, to offer comfort. But the intensely private nature of the pain she had just heard made her hesitate. She had just seen the vulnerable underbelly of the man who saw patterns in human nature. He had shown her his strength, his control, but this was a raw, naked vulnerability he clearly never let anyone see.

Miwa decided to respect his privacy, quickly unlocking the door and slipping inside, closing it softly behind her. Safe in her room, the sound still echoing in her ears. She knew she had just stumbled upon a profound truth. The calm, composed Johan Liebert was just a mask, a highly effective defense mechanism for a person who was deeply broken inside.

She had leaned against her own door, her back pressed to the cool wood. She debated what to do now. Knocking on his door felt like a massive intrusion in a pain he clearly kept fiercely private. Instead, she pulled out her phone. It was a digital age’s way of navigating awkward social boundaries. She opened their chat.

Johan, are you awake? she typed simply.

She hit send and waited, her gaze fixed on the screen, listening intently to the silence of the hallway. The minutes stretched out. She didn’t hear another sound from his room. The silence was absolute, as if the cry of pain had never happened, as if the perfect mask had been firmly reapplied. Just as she was about to put her phone down, the screen lit up. A new message.

Yes, Miwa. I am awake. Is something wrong?

The reply was smooth, perfectly calm, and completely devoid of the distress she had just heard. The speed and composition of the message suggested he had recovered his composure instantly.

I was just up getting some water, Miwa replied, keeping her own message simply, providing a plausible reason for contacting him at this hour. I heard a noise, thought it might have been you.

She hit send, waiting to see how he would respond to subtle probing.

A noise? Johan’s reply came back quickly. My apologies. I dropped a book, I’m afraid. I’m fine, just restless after the day we’ve had.

A book. Miwa knew it was a lie. The sound she had heard was the rawest human emotion she had ever heard, not a book hitting the floor. He was a master of evasion, a master of control, determined to maintain his facade even in the dead of night.

Okay. Just checking in. Goodnight, Johan.
she sent back.

Goodnight, Miwa.

Miwa put her phone down on her desk, a sense of melancholy settling over her. She knew now that the cool, calm Johan was a performance, a shield he used to protect a deeply wounded, intensely vulnerable individual. The game of understanding had taken a sharp turn, revealing a depth of suffering she was determined, now more than ever, to understand and potentially alleviate.

—

The following morning, Miwa woke up tired, the memory of the previous night’s events and Johan’s hidden pain lingering in her mind. She got ready for her morning lecture, her thoughts consumed by the quiet, broken man two doors down. As she was gathering her books, her phone buzzed on the desk. It was a message from Lotte.

Miwa!

Are you up? You have to see this.

There are posters everywhere on campus. Missing people.

Miwa paused, her interest piqued. Missing people on campus was unsettling, but perhaps not entirely unheard in a massive city like Munich.

Missing students? Miwa typed back.

Not students. Local residents, Lotte’s message appeared immediately. It’s strange. They look like they’ve been missing for a while.

Where are the posters? Miwa asked.

The main notice board near the cafeteria, and also near the library entrance. Can you meet me after class? We should look at them together.

The mention of the library brought a knot to Miwa’s stomach. It was where they had their study session, where she had seen Naoya’s strange calm and Johan’s composed stillness. The quiet of the campus suddenly felt far more sinister. The violence in the dorm was one thing, an isolated incident that was being explained away as self-defense, but missing people posters suggested a darker, ongoing pattern.

Yes, I can meet you after class, Miwa sent back, a sense of quiet foreboding settling over her. At the library entrance.

Okay, see you then, Lotte replied.

Miwa put her phone away, her mind beginning to race. First the shooting, now missing people posters. Her peaceful academic life was quickly turning into something else entirely. The need for clarity felt more important than ever.

—

Miwa and Lotte met outside the library entrance after their respective classes. The afternoon was grey and overcast, the general mood on campus was subdued by the previous day’s events. The main bulletin board near the entrance was now a focal point, drawing the attention of many students.

“Look at this,” Lotte said softly, gesturing toward the board.

Miwa approached, her steps deliberate. The board was covered in posters, most official-looking announcements, but interspersed among them were several white flyers with bold black text. Each featured a photograph of a smiling, ordinary-looking person, accompanied by their name, age and the VERMISST—Missing. The faces belonged to different people: a middle-aged man with a kind face and glasses, a younger person with short brown hair, and an older woman with gentle eyes. The dates of their disappearances varied, but none were recent. The posters had clearly been up for a while, unnoticed by the general student body.

“They’ve been here all along,” Lotte whispered, her voice full of a sudden chilling realization. “We walk past this board every day, and I never noticed.”

“Local residents,” Miwa murmured, remembering Lotte’s text. She looked at the details: the name of the last seen location, the phone number to call. These weren’t students. They were part of the wider Munich community.

“The one with the glasses,” Lotte said, pointing to the middle-aged man. “The anime is Otto Jung. He was last seen near the river. And this one,” she pointed to the woman with brown hair, “Eva Steiner. Last seen near the botanical garden.”

Miwa’s eyes scanned the board, taking in the small, unsettling details. A sense of dread settled in her stomach. The dorm shooting had felt like an isolated incident, a crime fueled by desperation and bad blood. But these posters suggested something far more sinister, a quiet, ongoing darkness that permeated the city, just out of sight.

“This is not normal, is it?” Lotte asked, her usual cheerful confidence gone. “A few missing posters, maybe. But this many. And for so long?”

“No,” Miwa agreed quietly. “It is not normal.” She felt the connection to the shooting instinctively, a pattern emerging from the chaos.

Miwa remembered Johan’s words: I see patterns. I see human nature. He had been aware of the incident in the dorm lobby long before the police were involved. Had he been aware of these posters too?

She looked at Lotte, her expression serious. “We need to go to the cafe. We need to talk about this with Johan.”

Lotte nodded, a newfound solemnity on her face. “Right. The phantom might actually have some answers about the other phantoms.” The usual glint of mischievousness was gone from her eyes, replaced by a genuine sense of apprehension.
Their usual cafe plans were slightly accelerated by the unsettling discovery, walking through the busy campus, heading towards the university exit. Lotte was animatedly discussing the possibilities, her anthropological mind trying to find a pattern in her disappearances, while Miwa remained silent, her thoughts focused on Johan and the information he clearly possessed.

“It could be anything,” Lotte was saying, her voice hushed. “A cult, or maybe a serial phenomenon. It’s giving me chills, Miwa.”

They passed the large lecture hall for the European History department when Lotte suddenly stopped, her eyes fixed on the doors that had just opened, releasing a flood of students.

“There he is,” Lotte whispered, pointing subtly.

Johan emerged from the crowd, his pale blonde hair catching the overheard lights, moving with his usual unhurried grace, a single notebook under his arm. He didn’t seem to notice them in the throng of people.

“Johan!” Lotte called out, raising her voice slightly and waving her hand with a friendliness that felt starkly out of place in the serious moment.

Johan paused, his gaze sweeping over the area until he located them. His expression remained placid, but he subtly altered his course, walking towards the two girls waiting by the wall.

“Lotte, Miwa,” he greeted them as he reached them, his voice calm and even. “A coincidence seeing you here.”

“Not really,” Lotte said quickly, her enthusiasm back in full force, the serious conversation about missing people momentarily forgotten in the thrill of the interaction. “We were just heading to the cafe, and we were talking about you! We wanted to ask you something.”

Johan’s clear blue eyes shifted from Lotte to Miwa, a silent question in their depths.

“Yes,” Miwa confirmed, her tone more serious than Lotte’s. “We have something we want to show you. It’s important.”

Johan considered her for a moment, that analytical stillness returning to his gaze. He seemed to read the urgency in her expression that Lotte had missed.

“Very well,” he said smoothly, a flicker of interest in his eyes. “The cafe it is. Lead the way.”

—

Miwa, Lotte, and Johan settled into a booth at the cafe, the same one where Lotte had spilled coffee the day before. The atmosphere was different this time; Lotte was subdued, and a silent tension hung in the air between the three of them.

“So, what is it you wanted to discuss?” Johan asked, his voice calm and even. He hadn’t brought a book this time, his full attention on the two of them.

Lotte looked at Miwa, and Miwa took the lead. She pulled out her phone and showed Johan a picture she had taken of the missing person posters on the library bulletin board.

“We saw these posters today,” Miwa said quietly. “They’ve been up for a while, but we didn’t notice them until today. There are several of them, and the disappearances happened over time. A man is dead in our dorm lobby, and the campus is full of these posters. This is not a coincidence, is it?”

Johan looked at the picture on her phone, his face remaining impassive. He studied the image for a long moment before looking up at Miwa, his clear blue eyes unreadable.

“What is it that you think connects these events, Miwa?” he asked, his voice a low, smooth cadence that made the question feel like a quiet, intellectual puzzle rather than a grim reality.

“The shooting was a random act of violence, according to Naoya,” Miwa said, her voice firm. “But those posters suggest a pattern. Multiple disappearances over time. The campus, the surrounding area…it suggests something more. A deeper, darker pattern that we are only now seeing.”

Lotte shuddered. “I keep thinking about that phrase, ‘patterns of human nature’,” she whispered. “This feels like a really dark one.”

Johan turned his gaze to Lotte, a flicker of something that could have been amusement or satisfaction in his eyes. “Patterns are everywhere, Lotte. It is simply a matter of knowing where to look.” He leaned forward slightly, his eyes never leaving theirs, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “You believe I know something about these disappearances.” It wasn’t a question; it was a statement of fact.

Miwa held his gaze. “You see patterns. You were in the dorm last night. You knew what happened. We believe you might know something about these posters as well.”

Johan was silent for a moment, his gaze shifting between Miwa and Lotte. He leaned back, a faint, sad smile grazing his lips. “The world is a very complicated place, Miwa,” he said softly, avoiding a direct answer. “And this city is full of its own shadows. To see the patterns in the darkness is a talent, and sometimes, a burden.”

“What does that mean, Johan?” Lotte pressed, her voice laced with fear.

“It means,” Johan said, his voice a quiet murmur, “that you should be careful what you look for. And who you ask.” He stood up slowly, picking up his medical book from where he had left it. “I have my own studies to attend to. And so should you.” He had walked away, leaving the two girls with more questions than answers.

Miwa watched Johan disappear through the cafe exit, his departure smooth and silent as always, a ghost in the afternoon light. The calm way he deflected their questions, the subtle warnings about “shadows” and “burdens” —it felt like a deliberate, frustrating game. She had expected a challenge, but his practiced evasion was a wall she simply couldn’t climb.

“He’s impossible!” Miwa said, her tone sharp, the disciplined calm she usually maintained breaking for the first time. She slammed her hand down on the table, a stark contrast to her usual controlled demeanor. “A burden? What kind of answer is that?”

Lotte stared at her, wide-eyed. “Miwa, I’ve never seen you so worked up.”

“I asked for clarity,” Miwa fumed, running a hand through her hair in sheer frustration. “I asked for understanding. And all he gives us are these…philosophical riddles! He knows something, Lotte. I can feel it. The way he looked at the picture of the posters, his voice…” She trailed off, her frustration turning into an angry determination.

“I know,” Lotte whispered, leaning in. “He’s always like that. He avoids everything personal like its poison. But you usually handle him so well, with that calm kendo thing.”

“There’s nothing calm about this!” Miwa shot back, her Japanese politeness evaporating in her frustration. “A man is dead in our dorm. There are missing people all over this city, and we are right in the middle of it. I want to know the truth, Lotte, not some cryptic warning about where to look!” She stood up suddenly, grabbing her bag. “I’m tired of his games. I’m tired of being polite.”

Lotte scrambled to her feet. “Miwa, what are you going to do? Don’t go run after him and demand answers in the middle of the street.”

“No,” Miwa said, a quiet, cold resolve replacing her anger. “I am going to find my own answers. I don’t need Johan to show me the patterns. I can find them myself.” She looked at Lotte, her expression firm. “We’re going back to the library. We’re going to look up everything we can find about these disappearances.”

Lotte hesitated for just a second, the fear in her eyes battling her friend’s intense demeanor. Then she nodded, a determined look on her own face. “Okay. No more quiet observation. We’ll find our own damn answers.”

—

The walk back to the university was full of a new sense of purpose. The frustration with Johan had galvanized Miwa. Action was needed at this point in time. The cold air outside the cafe had cleared Miwa’s head, replacing anger with a steely focus. They entered the vast, silent library, a quiet stark contrast to their earlier conversation. They found their study corner, a large table in the law section, and dropped their bags onto the chairs.

“Okay,” Lotte said, a notepad already in hand. “Where do we start? News archives? Police records?”

“Both,” Miwa confirmed firmly, taking a seat. “We need to find any information we can on the missing people, and anything related to last night’s incident.” She paused, then pulled out her phone. There was one other person involved who might be a good source of information, whether he knew it or not, and he was eager to be an ally. She opened her message app and found Naoya’s number. She typed out a short message, keeping it professional and direct.

Hello Naoya.

Lotte and I are in the library, working on a project related to the recent campus events. Your insights might be helpful.

Can you meet us in the law section, study corner 3?

Miwa

She hit send, a quiet sense of strategy settling over her. Naoya wanted to be seen as a reliable, friendly student. He wanted her on his side. He had offered his help. Now she was going to call in that favor.

Lotte looked at her, a knowing look on her face. “Calling in the ‘owe you one’ already?”
Miwa nodded, her expression serious. “He wants to control the environment, Lotte. He wants us to see him as the victim. Let’s see how much of that narrative he’s willing to share with us when we start asking questions.”

A few minutes later, Miwa’s phone buzzed.

On my way. Happy to help in any way I can.

The group had been working for hours. The sun had set outside the library windows, and the vast hall was growing quiet as students packed up for the night. Their table was a mess of books, newspaper archives, and online search results, but they had nothing substantial to show for it. Naoya had been surprisingly helpful, at first. He had spent an hour with them, sharing snippets of information about the deceased man’s criminal history and the specifics of the police, all delivered with his practiced, calm sincerity. But his knowledge was limited to what the authorities had told him, or what he wanted them to believe. He deflected any probing questions about details in regards to the struggle or the second man who fled, always steering the conversation back to his role as a “victim” and the “clear case of self-defense.” Eventually, he had left to make a phone call, not returning.

Lotte and Miwa had continued without him, pouring through German news archives about the missing individuals. The articles were sparse and generic: police were investigating, families were grieving, no leads were apparent. The names and faces on the posters remained mysteries, unconnected to the violence in their dorm, unconnected to any clear pattern.

“It’s no use,” Lotte said at last, leaning back in her chair with a sigh of defeat. “There’s nothing here. Just missing people and a lot of dead ends.”

Miwa stared at the screen in front of her, the static faces of the missing individuals offering no answers. Frustration gnawed at her. She had been so sure she could find a link, a pattern, but the truth remained hidden in the shadows of the city. Johan’s cryptic warnings about the “darkness” and “shadows” returned to her, a frustration echo of her failure.

“We need to pack up,” Miwa said quietly, the energy from earlier that day completely gone.

They packed their bags in silence, the weight of their lack of progress a heavy presence. They left the library and walked back to the dorm complex in the quiet dark. Miwa arrived back at her dorm room, tired and disheartened. The fourth-floor hallway was silent. She unlocked her door, stepped inside, and closed it behind her. The comforting glow of her desk lamp was a small solace, but her frustration remained. She dropped her bag onto the floor and sat at her desk, looking at the calligraphy scroll above her head. Resolve. She had been so determined, so resolute in her pursuit of the truth. The quiet of her room was mirroring her own inner turmoil. The easy answers Naoya provided felt like a performance, while Johan’s silence felt like a wall. She leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes, trying to clear her mind as she would in the dojo. The silence of the dorm was usually a comfort, but tonight it felt oppressive.

Then she heard it.

The same choked-off sound as the night before, a muffled whimper of raw, unfiltered pain coming from Johan’s room, just two doors down. It was a sound of absolute mental anguish, a desperate, gut-wrenching noise that had no place in this sterile, quiet hallway.

Miwa froze, her eyes flying open, her heart beginning to pound in her chest. The sound was brief, a silent cry quickly stifled, followed by the familiar, heavy silence. But the impact lingered, a sense of human suffering that shattered the illusion of calm she had built around herself. She didn’t hesitate this time. The raw anguish she heard wasn’t something she could ignore or address via text message. It demanded an immediate, human response. The sound was too broken, too vulnerable.

She got up from her desk and moved into the hallway. The corridor was silent. She approached room 404, her heart still thumping, the image of his composed face warring with the sound she had just heard. She reached his door and paused, her hand hovering over the wood, about to knock. That’s when she noticed it. The door was ajar, a small sliver of light spilling into the dark hallway. He hadn’t closed it completely. Cautiously, driven by a compelling mix of concern and a need to understand the man who saw patterns in human nature, Miwa gently pushed the door open, a quiet creak echoing in the silence.

The scene inside was dimly lit by a single desk lamp. Johan was sitting on the edge of his bed, his back to the door. He was hunched over, his head in his hand, his body trembling slightly. There was no sound now, only the visual evidence of a silent breakdown. On the floor beside him, a photograph album lay open, its pages turned to old, faded black-and-white pictures. One photo, in particular, was prominently displayed: a smiling woman and two small children, a boy and a girl, all looking happy and composed in a grassy field. It was a picture of a family.

Johan lifted his head and saw his reflection in the dark, empty window opposite the bed. His face was a mask of raw anguish, eyes red and swollen, a silent scream of pain stretching his features. It was a face utterly devoid of the composure she had always seen. The ‘phantom’ was gone, replaced by a broken man. He had noticed her in the doorway. He was completely lost in his pain to act right away. Then his eyes flickered, moving away from his reflection. He noticed the soft light from the hallway on the wall just inside his room. His head turned slowly, the motion deliberate and controlled even in his distress. His red-rimmed eyes landed on Miwa, standing frozen in the doorway.

The mask, shattered just moments ago, began to reassemble with a chilling speed, The anguish in his eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, empty placidity. He dropped his hands from his face and sat up straight, his posture a model of perfect composure, as if he had simply been resting his eyes. The vulnerable, broken man disappeared, replaced by the ghost she knew.

“Miwa,” he said, his voice smooth and even, betraying no hint of the recent tears. “Is there something you need?”

Miwa was caught completely off guard. The raw sound, the broken face, the old family photo—it had been real. But his composure was absolute, a perfect denial of everything she had just witnessed.

“The door was open,” Miwa said, her voice a hushed whisper, a lame excuse that felt utterly inadequate.

“Yes,” Johan said, his eyes hard, a clear warning in their depths. “A careless mistake.”

He stood up and walked towards the door, his movements graceful and silent. As he drew near, Miwa instinctively took a step back into the hallway. The distance between them was minimal, the air thick with unspoken things. He didn’t say anything more. He simply reached for the door, his hand a steady, unyielding presence. Just as he reached the door and began to pull it shut, narrowing the opening, Miwa stepped forward, putting her hand on the edge of the wood.

“Wait,” she said, her voice clear and steady, refusing to back down from the challenge in his eyes.

Johan paused, the door half-closed, his gaze now cold and questioning.

“I can hear you,” Miwa said softly, her voice filled with a quiet compassion that surprised even herself. “I heard you suffering.”

He stared at her, an unreadable mask firmly in place.

“Please,” Miwa said, her hand still resting on the door, “can I come in? I’d like to help, if I can.”

The silence in the hallway stretched, thick and heavy with unspoken things. Johan’s eyes searched hers, an intense assessment of her sincerity. The coldness in his expression softened, just for a moment, revealing a glimpse of the vulnerability she had witnessed earlier. After a long pause, he slowly pulled the door open again, stepping back into the room. “Very well, Miwa,” he said, his voice a low murmur. “But I assure you, there is nothing to help with.”

Miwa stepped into the quiet space of Johan’s room. The single desk lamp cast a warm, intimate glow that felt at odds with the tension in the air. Johan stood by the window, his back to her, looking out at the silent courtyard below, his composure once more perfectly in place. The photo album remained on the floor, an open wound in the otherwise pristine room. Miwa closed the door behind her, the soft click of the latch a definitive sound in the silence. She turned to face the man she had called a case study, an opponent.

“Johan,” Miwa began, her voice soft but steady.

He turned to face her, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression blank.

“I wanted to apologize,” Miwa continued, choosing her words carefully, “for the things I said earlier today. In the cafe.”

A flicker of mild interest crossed his features. “An apology? For what?”

“For implying that you were involved in the missing persons cases or the shooting,” Miwa said, a quiet sincerity in her voice. “For accusing you of knowing more about the darkness of this city than you let on. I was frustrated and angry.” She paused, taking a step closer, into the circle of light cast by the lamp. “I was looking for easy answers, for a villain, for a simple explanation for the chaos around me.”

Johan listened silently, his clear blue eyes fixed on her, that analytical assessment returning to his gaze.

“But after what I just heard,” Miwa continued, her gaze dropping to the photo album on the floor, “and what I saw in the window…I realize the ‘patterns’ you speak of are far more personal and complex than a police investigation.” She looked back up at him. “Your silence isn’t a game, is it? It’s a shield. A defense mechanism.” She looked at him with genuine regret and newfound understanding. “I am sorry for treating your life, your pain, as a puzzle to be resolved. I was wrong.”

The silence stretched for a moment. Johan’s expression softened, infinitesimally, a subtle shift in the tightly held control of his emotions. The coldness in his eyes began to thaw, revealing a deep, quiet sadness.

“Miwa,” he said, his voice a low, smooth murmur, “you are a very perceptive person.”

He walked over to the photo album, knelt down, and gently closed. He stood up and placed it carefully on his desk, beside his neat stack of books.

“The world is full of complexities that the simple narratives of innocence and guilt cannot contain,” he said, turning back to face her. “I have no involvement in the events you are investigating. But I have seen the darkness Miwa, in a way you can only imagine.” He paused, a flicker of raw emotion flashing in his eyes. “But I appreciate your apology. It is a rare thing, in this world, to find such honesty.”

With his back once again to her, no conscious thought had run through Miwa’s thoughts, acting on a surge of empathetic instinct, she moved forward. She crossed the small distance between them and wrapped her arms gently around his torso from behind. It was a complete departure from her usual reserved and polite nature, a spontaneous act born from a desire to offer comfort to a man who had clearly experienced none for a very long time.

Johan froze instantly. His body went rigid, all the subtle signs of emotion from before replaced by a complete and total stillness. It was as if she had touched a statue. Miwa felt the tension in his muscles, the complete shock of her touch radiating from him.

“You don’t have to be alone,” Miwa whispered softly, her voice a gentle murmur against his back. “Whatever happened to you…you don’t have to carry it by yourself.” She held him, the hug a simple, quiet gesture of solidarity. She wasn’t asking for answers, wasn’t prying for secrets. She was simply offering a shared moment of human connection.

After a few long, silent moments, Miwa felt the tension in his body slowly begin to release. It was subtle, but it was there. His rigid posture softened, and she could feel a faint shudder run through him, a tremor of vulnerability he couldn’t clearly control in the moment. He didn’t return the embrace, but he didn’t pull away either. He simply stood there, accepting the surprising comfort from the young woman who had seen his most profound moment of weakness. The act of empathy had bypassed all defenses, offering a silent truth that no words could ever convey.

Miwa had held the quiet embrace for a moment longer, then gently let go, taking a half step back. Johan remained silent, his back to her, but the rigidity that had characterized him initially was gone. He took a slow, steadying breath, then turned around to face her.

“Miwa,” he said, his voice low, a tremor of emotion just beneath the smooth surface.

“I’m sorry,” Miwa said softly, her gaze steady and reassuring. “I didn’t mean to intrude, but you looked so…” she paused, choosing her words carefully. “Alone.”

Johan was silent for a moment, absorbing her words, the simple kindness of them.

“We talked about opponents and allies,” Miwa continued, her hands gently clasping in front of her. “I want you to know that I see you as an ally, Johan. Not an unknown to be solved, not a problem to be fixed. She looked at him with an open, genuine expression. “We’re neighbors, classmates, and…friends. Whatever happens in this city, with the police, with Naoya, with Lotte, we are in this together.” She offered a small, gentle smile. “You don’t have to carry your burdens alone. I won’t treat you as an unknown variable anymore. I’ll treat you as a person, a friend.”

Johan looked at her, the intensity in his gaze both haunting and hopeful. A faint, genuine smile, free from any hint of coldness or calculation, touched his lips, transforming his face entirely. It was a fleeting moment, but a real one.

“Thank you, Miwa,” he said, his voice quiet, but rich with sincerity. “That means… a great deal.”

Miwa smiled at his acknowledgment, a silent understanding passing between them. The heavy tension that had defined their interactions was finally gone, replaced by a quiet sense of mutual trust. Her gaze drifted back at this desk. The photo album sat there, a closed book of his past. The brief glimpse she’d had of a smiling family lingered in her mind. Now that the raw moment of vulnerability had passed and an alliance had been forged, she felt a different kind of curiosity—one born of genuine interest, not analytical deduction.

“The photo album,” Miwa began gently, turning her attention back to Johan. “The one you were looking at earlier.”

Johan’s expression remained calm, though a subtle flicker in his eyes indicated a momentary hesitation. He looked at the album, then back at her. The openness that had briefly surfaced remained. “Yes,” he confirmed simply.

“You don’t have to show me,” Miwa said quickly, not wanting to violate the trust they had just established. “But if you are comfortable sharing…I’d like to see it. I’d like to know more about the person behind the ‘patterns’.”

Johan paused, considering her request. The silence in the room was comfortable now, a shared space rather than a barrier. After a moment, he slowly walked to his desk and picked up the album. He returned to the center of the room and sat down on the edge of his bed, leaving the other half free for her.

“Sit,” he smiled softly.

Miwa walked over and sat down decide him, leaving a small space between them. Johan opened the album to the pages she had seen. It was a black-and-white photograph of the smiling woman and the two small children, a boy and a girl. They looked almost identical, with the same pale blonde hair and the same bright eyes. The scene was peaceful, a moment frozen in time.

“Your family?” Miwa asked, her voice hushed.

“Mother, sister, and myself,” Johan confirmed, his voice a quiet murmur. He pointed to the small boy with a faint, almost imperceptible smile. “That was me. A long time ago.”

“You both looked so happy,” Miwa said genuinely, looking at the bright smiles in the picture.

“We were,” Johan said, the quiet sadness returning his voice. He turned the page to another class: the same children, a bit older, standing beside an old-fashioned car. “A simple time.”

He continued to turn the pages slowly, one by one. The photos showed moments of normal life: birthdays, holidays, a trip to the beach. A quiet, ordinary childhood. But as the pages turned, the photos became fewer, the later pages empty, the narrative cutting off abruptly, just like his abstract confession earlier.

"What happened?" Miwa asked, her voice gentle.

Johan looked at the empty pages, his gaze distant, lost in a past she could only imagine. The mask was partially in place again, but she could see the pain in his eyes.

"That," Johan said softly, his voice barely a whisper, "is the darkness, Miwa. That is the pattern of what was lost."

Miwa looked at the empty pages and the profound sadness in Johan's eyes. The story ended abruptly, a quiet testament to a missing part of his life. The image of the little girl in the photograph, the twin sister with the same striking eyes, lingered in Miwa’s mind.

"What happened to her?" Miwa asked gently, her voice barely a whisper, not wanting to break the fragile moment of shared vulnerability. "Your sister. The girl in the picture."

Johan was silent for a long moment. His gaze was fixed on the empty page of the album, lost in a past she could only imagine. The casual air of the café and the dorm hallway felt miles away from the quiet intensity in this room. "Anna," Johan said softly, the name a faint echo of a memory. He didn't look at Miwa. "Her name is Anna."

He turned his gaze from the album to the dark window, his reflection staring back at him. "I don't know where she is.” His voice was a low murmur, the profound sadness returning. "We were separated a long time ago. After the... the events that ended the patterns of our lives." He paused, a shadow passing over his face. "I have searched for her. But she is gone."

"Gone?" Miwa asked, her hand still gently on his arm. "Is she... dead?"

"I don't know," Johan whispered, a quiet tremor in his voice that was more revealing than any outward show of emotion. "That is the uncertainty. That is the burden. Not knowing is the darkness I live with." He finally looked at Miwa, his blue eyes filled with a raw, haunting sincerity. "She is the only person who truly understands. The only one who saw what I saw, felt what I felt. And she is lost to me." He closed the album gently, the finality of the act a stark reminder of the missing pieces of his life. He placed the album back on his desk, his movements deliberate."The patterns are complicated, Miwa," he said, turning back to her. "The missing people on the posters, the man in the lobby... they are simple, external events. The real pattern is in the human heart, and the things that are lost and can never be found."

The conversation shifted after that, moving away from the painful specifics of Anna's disappearance to broader topics. They talked about the university, their classes, their aspirations, and the strange, quiet reality of their new life in Munich. Johan spoke of philosophy and medicine with an intelligent, almost academic detachment, but the coldness was gone. The quiet murmurs of his voice filled the small room, a comfortable backdrop to Miwa's thoughts. She learned about his keen interest in the structures of society, the reasons why he chose the law and medical fields—to understand the boundaries of human existence, he explained simply.

As the hours passed, the energy of the day finally caught up with Miwa. The intensity of the last few days, the emotional rollercoaster of fear, anger, and empathy, had drained her completely. They were sitting close on the edge of the bed, the single lamp still casting a warm glow, the world outside the window silent and dark.

Miwa felt her eyelids growing heavy. The quiet, calm cadence of Johan's voice, no longer defensive or guarded, was a soothing lullaby. She shifted slightly, naturally, tiredly, and let her head rest gently on his arm.

Johan paused mid-sentence. He didn't tense up, didn't pull away. He simply stopped talking, a quiet acceptance in his stillness.

Miwa smiled faintly, a silent acknowledgment of his understanding. "I am sorry," she murmured sleepily, her voice a soft whisper. "I am very tired."

"It is quite alright, Miwa," Johan whispered back, his voice surprisingly gentle, his arm remaining still, a quiet anchor in the night.

After a while, Johan carefully shifted his gaze from the dark window back to the young woman sleeping peacefully against his arm. The softness of her breathing was the only sound in the room. He remained motionless for a long time, the simple act of human contact a novelty he hadn't experienced in years. A small, sad smile touched his lips as he watched her sleep. But as the night wore on, he knew this couldn't last. The gesture of alliance was one thing; her sleeping in his room, another entirely. He looked at his watch, the time nearing 2 AM. He needed to get her back to her room.
Very gently, moving with that silent, phantom-like grace she had noticed before, he maneuvered his arm out from under her head. Miwa stirred slightly, a soft murmur escaping her lips, but she remained asleep. He then carefully, effortlessly, lifted her into his arms. She was light, a small, trusting weight against his chest. He paused for a moment, making sure the hallway was empty before opening his door and stepping out into the quiet corridor. The fluorescent lights hummed a low, sterile tune. He walked the short distance to room 402, carrying her with a quiet, careful tread.

He nudged her door, which was thankfully unlocked. He entered her room, the scent of her simple life—a hint of incense, clean fabric—filling the air. He walked to her bed and, with profound gentleness, laid her down, adjusting her position so she was lying comfortably on her side, her head resting on her pillow. He pulled the thick blue comforter over her, tucking it in carefully around her shoulders.

He stood there for a moment, looking at her peaceful, sleeping face in the warm glow of the desk lamp. A quiet sense of peace settled in him, a feeling he hadn't known in a very long time.He turned to leave, walking silently out of her room. The door clicked shut behind him, the small sound of finality sealing the events of the night. He was alone in the quiet hallway once more, but the memory of the warmth of her presence remained with him as he walked back to his room, a new pattern emerging in the silence of his life.

Chapter Text

Miwa awoke to the gentle stream of morning light filtering in from her window. For a moment, a sense of confusion washed over her. The last thing she remembered was falling asleep on Johan’s arm, the warmth of his presence and the soothing murmur of his voice was a comforting lullaby. Yet, she was in her own bed, tucked comfortably under her own blue quilt.

She sat up slowly, her mind hazy with sleep, trying to piece together the end of the night. Johan must have carried her back to her room. The thought of his quiet, careful movements, his gentle touch, sent a strange, warm feeling through her chest. It was an act of quiet tenderness she wasn’t surprised of, but at the same time, was an unexpected series of events. A subtle blush crept across her cheeks as the events of the night before returned in vivid detail: the raw sound of his pain, her spontaneous hug, their quiet conversation about her sister, and the shared vulnerability that replaced their cautious maneuvering.

She touched her arm, remembering the feeling of his presence beside her. He had revealed a level of pain, and she had responded with a simple act of empathy. Miwa smiled faintly, a personal smile that had nothing to do with kendo or academia. She had soon climbed out of her bed, quickly getting dressed in her usual practical clothing, making sure she looked neat and composed. She brushed her hair, gathered her books, and prepared for her morning class, her mind a mix of academic focus and the quiet excitement of seeing Johan again.

She opened her door and stepped into the hallway, closing it quietly behind her. The corridor was silent, bathed in the same sterile light as the night before. Just as she turned to walk toward the stairwell, the door of room 404 opened.

Johan stepped out, dressed in his typical quiet manner. He hadn’t seen her at first. When he noticed her, his movement didn’t startle, but his clear blue eyes registered a faint acknowledgement.

“Good morning, Miwa,” he greeted her, his voice smooth and calm, back in its normal register, but with a subtle warmth she had never heard before.

“Good morning, Johan,” Miwa replied, a slight natural blush touching her cheeks. She was glad she didn’t have to navigate an awkward reunion. His composure made it easy.

“Ready for the day?” he asked, falling into step beside her as they began walking toward the stairs.

“I am,” Miwa nodded.

The duo continued onto the hall in silence, a sense of shared purpose between them. They walked down the stairs, their footsteps hushed on the tiled floors, heading toward the main entrance. As they reached the lobby, near the main desk where the crime scene tape had been, the front door burst open, and Lotte practically bounced inside. She was a whirlwind of energy and color, a stark contrast to the quiet morning light. She didn’t see them at first, heading straight for the notice board near the kitchen.

“Lotte,” Miwa called out softly.

Lotte spun around, her eyes wide with surprise, her gaze moving from Miwa to Johan, who stood beside her with his usual composed stillness. A mischievous grin spread across Lotte’s face.

“Aha! I caught you!” Lotte exclaimed, lowering her voice to a dramatic whisper that still carried. “The two silent study partners, walking together in the morning light! My ‘case study’ observation skills are on point.”

“Good morning, Lotte,” Johan spoke as he offered a faint, smooth smile. “We were just heading to our morning lecture.”

“Of course you are,” Lotte said, her grin widening. “I have something for you two, by the way. I was just checking the board again.” She walked over to them, producing a small notebook from her bag. “I called a contact in the local police department who owes me a favor.”

“And?” Miwa asked, a hint of urgency in her voice.

“And he confirmed it,” Lotte said, leaning in. “The missing people on those posters? They are connected to the same crowd that Naoya was involved with. The police are starting to see a pattern, too.”

The silence returned, but this time it was heavy with the weight of Lotte’s words. The abstract “patterns” Johan spoke of were becoming concrete and dangerous.

—

The trio had been back at their usual study spot in the library, a large table in the quiet law section. It had been a few days since Lotte had shared her information about the missing people and the weight of their informal investigation was starting to affect the girl’s academic focus.

Miwa was staring intently at a dense paragraph in her German law textbook, but the words were a blur. The faces of the missing individuals and the memory of Naoya’s cold indifference kept invading her thoughts. She wasn’t processing a single.

Beside her, Lotte was fidgeting, chewing on the end of her pen with a speed and intensity that spoke volumes. She kept sighing dramatically, a stark contrast to the library’s quiet hum. “I can’t do this,” Lotte whispered, leaning over to Miwa. “My brain is just…fried. I keep thinking about Eva Steiner and Otto Jung. How can we focus on property law when things are slowly falling apart around us?”

Johan, seated opposite them, was the perfect picture as always. He was quietly reading a thick volume on forensic pathology, occasionally making a neat note in a small notepad. He didn’t seem to be affected by the distraction.

“Our academic duties remain a priority,” Johan said softly, without looking up from his book. “Focus allows for clarity.”

“Easy for you to say,” Lotte grumbled, slumped in her chair. “You’re a robot, Johan. You don’t get distracted by human suffering.” She sighed again, a sound of frustration. “We need to clear our minds. A proper break. Not just coffee.”

“What did you have in mind?” Miwa asked, closing her textbook with a quiet thud, her focus entirely broken. She was ready for anything that would take her mind off the grim reality.

Lotte’s eyes lit up, a spark of her usual mischievous energy returning. “We need a complete change of pace. Something totally unrelated to books or missing people or quiet people.” She looked around the solemn library with a wild grin. “I know this amazing underground techno club near the river. It’s intense. Loud. Full of people. We could go tonight. It’s the perfect way to reset our brains.”

Miwa paused, considering the suggestion. A noisy club felt like the exact opposite of everything she was used to, a departure from the discipline she lived by. But maybe that was exactly what she needed. A jolt to her system, a complete break from the patterns of her life.

“A club?” Miwa asked, a hint of curiosity in her voice. “That sounds…different.”

“Exactly!” Lotte said, her grin increasing in width. “It’s usually not the first thing that comes to mind, but maybe it’s time for us to get out of our comfort zones. What do you say? A night out, us three? It’ll be an experience.” She turned her gaze to Johan, who finally lowered the book, a flicker of something unreadable in his clear blue eyes.

A slow, thoughtful smile, one she had never seen before, touched his lips. It was a smile that acknowledged the absurdity of the idea, but also its inherent truth. “A complete change of pacing, yes,” he murmured, looking from Miwa to Lotte. “It seems…logical. A sensory overload to counteract the mental overload.”

Lotte beamed at how even he had agreed with her reasoning, “Yes! Forget the patterns for one night, let’s just feel the noise!”

“Alright, I’m in.” Miwa agreed.

“Wonderful!” Lotte exclaimed, a little too loudly for the library, causing a nearby student to shush them. “Okay, let’s go.”

Hours later, the three of them found themselves in a place that couldn’t have been more different from the quiet library. It wasn’t the throbbing techno club Lotte had initially suggested. Instead, in a moment of anthropological genius, she had taken them to a thermal bathhouse, or Therme, a more uniquely German and surprisingly effective form of ‘sensory overload.’ It was a massive complex of saunas, pools, and relaxation areas. They had navigated the changing rooms, and now found themselves submerged in a large, bubbling hot tub. The water was warm, the steam rising around them, and the gentle roar of the jets was a soothing white noise.

Lotte was immediately in her element, leaning back against the jets with a contented sigh. “See?” she said, her voice a relaxed murmur. “This is so much better than the library. Less existential dread, more…bubbles.”

Miwa was leaning against the side of the tub, her body relaxed in the soothing warmth. The water felt incredible on her tired muscles, a stark contrast to the rigid control she usually maintained. The tension of the past few days seemed to melt away.

Johan was sitting quietly opposite them, his pale skin seeming almost luminescent in the gentle underwater lights. The water rippled around him, but he was as still as ever. Yet, the usual intensity was gone from his face, replaced by a thoughtful repose. His eyes, usually so analytical, simply looked out across the pool area, watching the other bathers.
The silence returned among them, but it wasn’t awkward or tense. It was a comfortable, shared quiet, punctuated by the gentle rush of the water and the distant sounds of other bathers. It was however short-lived due to Lotte’s natural energy—and her inherent worries—began to bubble to the surface. She opened her eyes, the serenity replaced by a flicker of apprehension.

“It is nice here, isn’t it?” Lotte began, her voice a low murmur. “So peaceful, it almost makes you forget everything.”

“That is the point,” Johan replied smoothly, his eyes turning to her.

“Yeah, but that’s what’s worrying me,” Lotte continued, her brow furrowing slightly. “We’re here, and out there…that’s all the darkness you were talking about, Johan. The patterns.” She paused, the sounds of the water jets suddenly seeming loud. “We know something the police don’t, officially.” Lotte said, her tone serious now. “We’re looking into some heavy things. The people on those posters…” She took a deep breath, the concern clear in her eyes as she looked from the two like she had been straining her vision. “Do you think anything bad will happen to us?” she asked, her voice hushed. “Do you think we’re in danger, just by simply looking into this? We might just end up on a missing poster ourselves.”

The atmosphere within their small circle instantly evaporated at the question, replaced by a cold, sharp tension that the steaming water could not chase away.

“Worry is a natural human response to the unknown,” Johan said softly, his voice even. “But we must focus on the patterns, not exhausting the darkness."

“Focus is easier said than done when you’re thinking about being ‘disappeared’,” Lotte retorted, though she seemed to regain a sliver of her composure under Johan’s placid gaze. She sighed, shifting her weight in the tub, and the conversation drifted away from immediate danger. She leaned back against the jets again, a thoughtful look on her face as she looked at her two companions.

“You know,” Lotte began, a warm smile replacing her sorrowful expression, “it’s chessy, but I’m really starting to feel a real connection between us all.” She looked to Miwa, then to Johan, her enthusiasm returning. “When I first met you both, it was like discovering that opposing sides can truly harmonize.”

Miwa responded with a thankful smile, a quiet acknowledgment of the description.

“And now, seeing you two together…the way you look out for each other, and how easily you seem to understand each other even when you’re not talking…” She paused, her emotion truly demonstrating itself with her eyes. “It’s like you’re already best friends. Or getting there, anyway.”

A faint blush touched Miwa’s cheeks. She looked at Johan, who maintained his composure, but a subtle warmth was evident in his usual empty ocean eyes that confirmed Lotte’s observation. They had grown close in a short time, an alliance built on shared secrets and mutual understanding, forged in the heat of several moments, like a fire. The moment had suddenly been broken, however, by a sudden, theatrical gasp from Lotte. She had been observing Johan from her position in the hot tub, her eyes moving over his still form.

“Johan!” Lotte exclaimed, her voice a mix of playful exasperation. “What are you doing?”

Johan, startled, turned his head to face her, his eyes questioning.

Lotte pointed a finger at him, her expression a mix of mock outrage and amusement. “You’re wearing a t-shirt in the hot tub! That’s against the rules! We’re in a German Therme, my friend, not some American backyard pool!”

Miwa looked at Johan, seeing for the first time that he was indeed wearing a simple, light t-shirt in the hot tub. It was a strange sight, given the general etiquette of the place, where most people were either in swimsuits or wrapped in towels.

Johan glanced down at his shirt, then back at Lotte, a faint smile touching his lips. “It’s a cotton t-shirt. It’s breathable.”

“That’s not the point!” Lotte insisted, laughing. “It’s a violation of the thermal bathhouse code! It’s like you’re trying to hide from the patterns, but you’re just making yourself a bigger, more obvious pattern! It’s like a neon sign that says ‘I am not German and I have a secret!”

Miwa couldn’t help but laugh at Lotte’s playful criticism.

“Some patterns,” Johan began, looking at Miwa, a subtle reference to their conversation, “are necessary. For comfort.”

Lotte groaned playfully. “Oh, no, you’re not getting out of it with one of your cryptic philosophical sayings! You’re breaking the rules, mister!”

“Perhaps,” Johan said smoothly, his eyes twinkling with a hint of genuine humor. “But as you yourself said, Lotte, sometimes a break from the patterns is a very necessary thing.”

Lotte dissolved into laughter, echoing slightly in the quiet corner of the pool area. The friendly banter about the t-shirt had lightened the mood entirely, a welcoming reprieve from the serious conversation that preceded it. She leaned back against the jets, a wide, mischievous grin on her face as she looked at Johan. “Alright, Mr-Rules-Are-For-Everyone-Else,” she said playfully. “If you’re going to break the thermal code, you have to pay the price.”

Before Miwa or Johan could react, Lotte scooped a large handful of water and sent it splashing directly at Johan. The water hit his chest, soaking the front of his t-shirt and splashing lightly on his face. Johan had froze, the sudden slap of water throwing him off. He didn’t look angry, but the composed facade had definitely cracked. The amusement from earlier vanished instantly, replaced by a cool, assessing look. Miwa watched the scene unfold with a mix of surprise and a slight sense of alarm. Lotte’s playful gesture felt like a miscalculation, a step too far in the delicate social dance they were performing.

She, however, seemed oblivious to the shift in atmosphere. “Oops, did I get you? My bad,” she said, though her grin remained firmly in place. “That’s what you get for the t-shirt crime!”

Johan slowly wiped the water from his face, his movements precise and controlled. He looked at Lotte, a silent intensity in his gaze that made even the boisterous girl pause. The playful amusement in her eyes faded, replaced by a flicker of apprehension. “Lotte,” Johan said, his voice calm, “you seem to have forgotten that all actions have consequences.” He sat motionless for a moment, his composure cracking with surprise before hardening into an icy calm. The playful spirit Lotte intended was completely lost in his expression.

Just as the tension became unbearable, a slow smile touched Johan’s lips once more. It had been different from his usual polite, enigmatic smiles; it was a ghost of a real one, tinged with a flicker of genuine, though unsettling, amusement. And then, with no warning, no buildup, he retaliated. He scooped up a handful of water, mirroring Lotte’s movement with a fluid grace. But instead of a playful splash, it was a precise, calculated throw of water, aimed directly at the girl’s face. The water had hit her with a sharp whoosh. She spluttered, her eyes wide with shock, not from the water, but from the sheer audacity of his act.

Miwa, watching the whole exchange, felt a bubble of pure, unadulterated joy rise in her chest. Everything momentarily vanished in the face of this unexpected, childish act. A giggle escaped her, a soft, musical sound that she quickly tried to stifle. But it was no use. The giggle turned a laugh, a full-throated one that echoed around.

Lotte, who had been recovering from the initial shock, heard her laughter and looked at her, betrayal lingering in her eyes. “Miwa! You’re supposed to be on my side here!” She stood up from the hot tub with a sudden, determined splash, shaking the water from her arms. “Alright, that’s it,” she declared playfully, looking from Johan to Miwa with a competitive glint in her eyes. She gestured to the large, rectangular swimming pool located just beyond the hot tub, its calm, blue waters stretching out invitingly under the bright thermal lighting. “A race! From here to the other end. First one there wins bragging rights for the rest of the night!”

Johan, having stood up after her, simply watched her instructions. “A race? Seems simple enough.”

“Simple is good!” Lotte retorted, already toweling off and making her way towards the pool area. “The simpler the better. We’re not using our brains here, remember? We’re using our bodies.”

Miwa followed Lotte to the edge of the large pool, feeling a surge of playful energy. The playful competition was a welcoming distraction, a physical release after the mental and emotional distress of the past few days. She looked over at Johan, who was still casually toweling off, his movements small and deliberate.

“You’re not scared of a little competition, are you, Johan?” Miwa teased, a challenging glint in her eyes.

“Not at all,” Johan replied smoothly, walking over and standing beside her at the edge of the pool, looking at Lotte, who was already in a starting position.

“Ready, set, go!” Lotte announced, and with a small splash, she dove into the water.

Miwa followed with a powerful, clean dive, her dojo training kicking in, her strokes strong and efficient.

Johan, however, simply slid into the water and began to swim with a quiet, graceful ease, his movements fluid and efficient.

Miwa had soon broken the surface of the water, gasping for breath, her arms aching from the powerful strokes. She looked toward the end of the pool, expecting to see Lotte celebrating. But Lotte was only just getting out of the water, a look of shocked disbelief on her face. Miwa turned her head to look at the lane next to her. Johan was already standing at the end, leaning against the side, his hair slicked back and a faint, satisfied smile on his lips.

He had won.

“What?” Lotte shrieked, splashing water with her hand in her shock. “No way! I had a head start! You didn’t even dive in, you just…slid!”
Johan simply chuckled, a low, smooth sound that held warmth. “Efficiency. It’s all in the form. Minimal energy, maximum result.”

Miwa, still breathing heavily, smiled. “He is right. Your form was better.” She pulled herself out of the pool, feeling a mix of exhaustion and amusement.

“My form was better?” Lotte complained as she climbed out of the pool as well. “I was in competitive swimming at some point. You watched him win, Miwa! Traitor!”

Miwa laughed as a result, the sound light. “He’s my friend too, Lotte. It is in my best interest to back the winner.”

“Okay, okay,” Lotte countered, her hands on her hips, a grin still on her face. “You won that one, Mr. Efficiency-Fancy-Talk.”

The trio had moved out of the pool, agreeing to jump in together for the extra action.

“On three?” Miwa asked.

“One,” Lotte started. “Two…”

Just as she said “two,” Lotte gave Johan a quick, hard shove. It was a surprise attack, a playful betrayal of the “on three” rule. Johan, caught off guard, didn’t even have time to react. He stumbled forward and with a loud, satisfying splash, falling into the pool. A moment of shocked silence filled the pool area, replaced by Lotte and Miwa’s erupted laughter. Johan had quickly resurfaced, his hair slicked back, a look of shocked surprise quickly replaced by a wry smile. He looked at the two of them, a subtle hint of mock anger in his eyes that immediately contradicted itself.

Miwa, whose eyes were still sparkling with laughter, watched Lotte’s face break out in mock indignation. “Alright, alright, my bad,” Lotte said, a wide smile on her face. “But you deserved it!”

They had soon regrouped at the edge of the pool, the air still lingering with the hints of giggles.

“Okay, now we’re all going in. This time, no tricks.” Miwa said.

“Promise.” Lotte confirmed.

“One,” Miwa began, tightening her grip on Lotte’s hand. “Two…”
As the words left her lips, Miwa gave Lotte a swift, sharp shove. It was another surprise attack, a get-back at the betrayal the two had committed towards Johan. Lotte, still half-laughing, was completely caught off guard. With a small shriek and a loud splash, she tumbled into the pool. Miwa didn’t wait for her to resurface. With a powerful, clean dive, she followed her friend into the water. She broke the water a moment later, her hair slicked back, a look of pure mischief and unbridled joy on her face. Lotte was already sputtering, pushing water from her face.

“I trusted you!” Lotte shrieked at her playfully, already scooping up water to splash back.

The two girls quickly fell into a playful water fight, splashing each other with loud, joyous enthusiasm. Miwa was surprisingly agile in the water, dodging most of Lotte’s attacks with a series of quick, fluid movements. Lotte, meanwhile, was relentless in her pursuit, her laughter bright and unburdened. After a minute of chaotic splashing, Lotte paused, pointing a wet finger at Johan, who was sitting by the edge of the pool, a picture of dry, composed amusement.

“Hey! You’re not getting away!” Lotte challenged, a renewed determination in her eyes. “Get in here!”

“Yes, Johan, come on in!” Miwa added, a wide smile on her face. “It’s fun!”

Johan watched them, “I believe I have made my contribution to the aquatic festivities. I am quite comfortable here.”

“But it’s not the same!” Lotte insisted, kicking water playful towards him. “You can’t just watch us have all the fun. The observer must become the participant!”

“Some things are better observed from a distance,” Johan replied, his eyes twinkling at Lotte’s humor. “I assure you, your participation is quite fascinating to observe.”

The lively splashing contest continued for a few more minutes, but as the two went on, the energy began to wane. The lights around the pool seemed dimmer, and the area was growing quieter as other patrons began to leave. The fun was slowly winding down.

“I’m getting hungry,” Lotte said, her voice a bit softer now, wiping water from her face. “And it’s getting kind of late.” She looked at her watch, which she had safely tucked away on the pool deck along with her glasses. “It’s almost 9 PM! We should probably head back.” She swam over to the side of the pool where her towel was, and with a final playful splash aimed at Miwa, climbed out. “I’m going to hit the showers first. You two coming?”

Miwa swam to the edge of the pool, feeling the immediate change in temperature as she neared the cool night air. “Be right there in a moment.”

Lotte nodded understandingly, gathering her towel and bag. “Okay, don’t be too long! We can grab some food at the dorm cafeteria or something.” With a final wave, she disappeared into the locker room area.

Miwa was left alone with Johan, who was still sitting by the edge of the pool, as he had been for most of the evening. The playful atmosphere evaporated, replaced by the quiet, comfortable understanding they had established the night before.

“You had fun, didn’t you?” Miwa said, a small smile on her face as she looked up at him from the water.

Johan’s expression had softened at the sight of Miwa. “I must admit, the observations were quite insightful. The dynamics of human play are fascinating.” He paused, then added softly, “And yes, I found it quite enjoyable.”

“Good,” Miwa said, a sense of satisfaction in her voice. “We should do this again sometime. It was a good way to clear our minds. We might even go to the techno club actually.”

Johan nodded, acknowledging her suggestion. Miwa had suddenly leaned her arms on the edge of the pool, resting her chin on her hands, her hair slicked back and her eyes focused on Johan. His feet had still dangled in the water, his eyes analyzing the moving liquid.

“I wanted to say something, Johan. I’m grateful that you trusted us enough to show…that side of you. The playful side, the laughing side.” She paused, the memory of his raw pain from the other night a sharp contrast to the genuine amusement she had witnessed tonight. “It means a lot that you feel comfortable enough with Lotte and I to break composure.”

Johan turned his head to look at her, his expression thoughtful. “You’re very perceptive,” he said softly, his voice matching Miwa’s tender tone. “It is not often that I find myself in a situation where the mask can be…adjusted.” He paused, a flicker of something in his eyes that looked like gratitude. “But you and Lotte, are like a cold wave of a time I’ve visited before.” He reached out and gently rested his hand on hers, a silent gesture of his full attention. “I find that trusting you both benefits everyone, doesn’t it? To see the complex patterns of my life, the light and darkness, and not shy away.”

Miwa’s heart warmed at his words. The gesture was simple, but it spoke volumes about the time they’ve built together in such little time. She decided to get out of the water. With a fluid movement, Miwa pulled herself out of the pool and stood beside him. Without hesitation, as Johan also rose, wrapped her arms around him, resting her head gently on his shoulder. Just like that night, Johan froze, but only for a moment. He didn’t pull away, accepting it, but lacking reciprocation.

“Thank you,” Miwa whispered into his shoulder, her voice full of gratitude. She had soon pulled away from the hug, a quiet moment of connection passing between them. The peace was suddenly and violently shattered by a piercing scream. It was Lotte’s voice, sharp with panic and fear.

“Johan! Miwa! Help! Quick!”

The sound cut through the air like a knife. The quiet calm they had found vanished instantly, replaced by a surge of adrenaline and immediate, sharp urgency.

“Lotte!” Miwa exclaimed, spinning around.

Johan was already moving towards the locker rooms area, Miwa following behind swiftly. The two ran through the corridor toward the main bath area, the calm atmosphere of the bathhouse replaced by a frantic rush. They had burst through the doors into the main thermal bath area. The large room was bright and filled with steam, the air warm and humid. The sound of Lotte’s scream still echoed in the large, cavernous space.

Miwa had seen Lotte near one of the large, circular pools, her back to them. Her hands were covering her mouth, her body trembling violently. She was staring down at the tiled floor, her face pale with horror. She rushed over, her heart pounding in her chest. There, lying in a small, still-spreading pool of water and blood, were an older man and woman. They were wearing robes, their faces slack and pale. They were dead. The scene was stark and horrifying in the soft, warm light of the bathhouse.

Miwa felt a wave of shock wash over her, a cool feeling that followed with the reality of violence that had followed them here, even to their place of respite and serenity. Lotte was frozen and couldn’t speak, tears welling up in her eyes. Miwa knelt beside the bodies, assessing the scene with a cold, detached focus. There were no obvious weapons, no sign of a struggle beyond the bodies themselves. The faces of the victims were unknown to the group.

Miwa didn’t hesitate, demanding action in such a face of crisis. She pulled out her phone and quickly dialed the German emergency number, 112, her hands steady despite the shock.

“Kasumi Miwa,” she said, her voice clear and precise in the hushed environment. “There has been an incident at the thermal bathhouse near the university. Two people are dead.” She calmly relayed their location and the immediate situation, her focus entirely on the practicalities of the moment. The surrounding patrons had begun to whisper nervously, the initial shock wearing off into a tense uncertainty. While on the phone, Johan had gently guided Lotte, who was still trembling, to sit on the edge of the pool nearby.

Once Lotte was relatively stable, Johan turned his attention towards the scene. He did not approach the bodies directly. Instead, he stood a short distance away, his expression returning to that familiar mask of composed detachment, similar to Miwa’s, only darker. He observed the damages with a clinical analysis, his clear blue eyes taking in every detail: the positioning of the victims, the stillness of the water around them, the lack of a visible weapon.

The wail of sirens grew louder, an unsettling sound in the night. Within minutes, the thermal bathhouse was swarming with police. The lights in the main area seemed brighter, harsher now, cutting through the steam. Officers, moving with efficiency, cordoned off the area with yellow tape. Paramedics confirmed what everyone already knew; the couple were dead. The trio was quickly separated for questioning. As a new group of plainclothes detectives entered the bathhouse, assessing the scene with grim faces, one person stood out to Miwa. It was a woman with a weary, almost exhausted look, but with a sharp intelligence in her eyes. She wore a dark, well-tailored suit and a bright, cheerful sunflower pin on her lapel, a strangely optimistic contrast to her demeanor and the grim setting.

The woman had moved through the chaos with a quiet authority, her gaze scanning the scene, taking in every detail with a practiced eye. She was not a uniformed officer, but she clearly held a position of respect. As she swept over the witnesses, her gaze momentarily landed on Miwa. Their looks met directly where a flicker of interest crossed the weary woman’s face before she moved on, heading toward the bodies. She paused to speak to a uniformed officer, her expression focused, her eyes missing nothing. Miwa’s gaze lingered on her face, something about her stirring a distant, dormant memory. A face from her past, a different time, a different country…

Suddenly, the fragmented memory crystallized into sharp clarity. It wasn’t a fellow student or a local resident. It was a face from the courtroom sketches in the Japanese newspapers, the woman who had helped defend her mother years ago. Hiromi Higuruma. Miwa’s breath hitched in her throat, a shock running through her body that had nothing to do with cold water or the gruesome scene. She remembered her mother showing her the newspaper clippings, pointing out the lawyer who had fought so bravely for her. The sunflower pin, the weary eyes—it was the same woman. Here, in Munich, in the thermal bathhouse, leading the investigation into a double murder. The coincidence felt staggering, a thread in the complex tapestry of fate.

Hiromi, who had looked over again, caught Miwa’s intense stare. This time, she didn’t just glance away. She held Miwa’s gaze, a flicker of professional curiosity in her eyes. After finishing with giving instructions to the younger officer, she began to walk toward the trio. Her gaze remained on Miwa, a subtle flicker to her eyes acknowledging the connection that Miwa had successfully recognized. She stopped in front of her, offering a small smile.

“Ms Kasumi Miwa,” Hiromi said, her voice calm and even, a faint accent coloring her perfect Japanese. “It has been a long time.”

Miwa, standing tall and composed, nodded in return. “Ms Higuruma,” Miwa replied, using the formal address of respect back to her. “I did not expect to see you here, in Munich.”

Hiromi turned briefly to Lotte and Johan, “I will need your statements as well. But first, a quick word with Miss Kasumi, if you please.”

She gestured for Miwa to follow her to a quieter corner of the bathhouse, away from the immediate chaos of the crime scene. Once they were out of earshot, Hiromi’s professional mask softened.

“How are you dear?” Hiromi asked softly, a look of genuine concern in her eyes now. “Your mother spoke very highly of your resolve. I’m glad to see you are safe.”

“I’m doing…well, thank you,” Miwa replied, the memory of her mother’s legal battle and the stressful time that followed rushing back to her. “And you? You’re a detective here now?”

“Yes, life has its strange twists and turns. But we can chat more about that later. Right now, I need to know what happened. I have a feeling that this is just another dark thread…” Hiromi’s tone had tightened up once more. “Sit here for a moment,” Hiromi added, leading Miwa to a quiet bench away from the immediate vicinity of the crime scene tape. The lights of the bathhouse seemed dimmer now, the air cooler, the atmosphere less chaotic. Once seated, Hiromi pulled out her notepad and a pen, her expression professional once more.

“Okay,” she began, “start from the beginning. I ask that you don’t leave anything out.”

Miwa took a deep breath, focusing her mind. She started with their arrival at the Therme, explaining how Lotte had suggested it to clear their minds after a stressful few days studying about the dorm shooting and the missing people posters. “We were in the pool,” Miwa said, her gaze steady on Hiromi’s face. “Lotte, Johan, and I. We were laughing and playing. Lotte got out first, then Johan and I stayed behind to talk for a moment.”

Hiromi had made a note, her pen scratching across the page. “And then?”

“And then we heard the scream,” Miwa continued, the sound echoing in her mind. “It was Lotte. We rushed out and found her there, by the pool, covering her mouth, staring down at the couple on the ground.”

“Did you see anyone else?” Hiromi asked, her eyes sharp and focused. “Anyone leaving the area in a hurry? Anyone who didn’t fit the normal pattern?”

Miwa paused, searching her memories. The immediate shock, the rush to Lotte and the bodies—it had been chaos. “No,” she admitted, frustrated. “It was a flurry of people. Everyone was shocked. I didn’t see anyone specific.”

“And your friends?” Hiromi asked. “Did they see anything?”

“Lotte found the bodies,” Miwa said. “She was in shock. Johan was focused on her, making sure she was okay. He was calm, but he was focused on her, not the surroundings.” She paused, then added, “But he is very observant. He might have noticed something, the absence of someone.”

Hiromi nodded, making another note. “We’ll get their statements separately.” She then looked at Miwa, her expression softening slightly. “Thank you, Miwa. That helps. You were a good witness. Calm and precise.” She closed her notepad, the sunflower pin catching the light.
—

The ride back to the dorms was silent. The playful energy of the evening was long ago, replaced by the grim events. The police had taken their statements, and had all been released with instructions to not leave the city. Hiromi had given Miwa a final, knowing look before she had departed. They arrived back at the dorm building, the quiet night wrapped around them. The lobby was empty, the air was still. As they approached the main desk, a woman stepped out of the office area. It was Mrs. Weber, the dorm manager, a severe-looking woman who was clearly waiting for them. Her arms were crossed, her face a mask of disapproval.

“Kasumi Miwa,” Mrs. Weber said, her voice sharp and loud in the quiet lobby. “I need a word with you.”

Miwa stopped, a look of surprise on her face. Lotte had paused, realizing that Johan had already separated for the night, watching the interaction with quiet concern.

“Yes, Mrs. Weber?” Miwa asked, her voice calm and composed, despite the sudden public scolding.

“You and your friends were out of the university for too long, and too late,” Mrs. Weber stated, her voice tight with anger. “The police requested that all students stay on university grounds or return to their dorms by 10 PM. You were out past that time.”

“There was an incident at the bathhouse, Mrs. Weber,” Lotte cut in, her voice defensive. “The police were involved. They took our statements.”

“An incident?” Mrs. Weber sniffed, unimpressed. “That does not excuse your being out of bounds. The rules are in place for a reason, Miss Kasumi and Miss Frank. Especially now, with all the trouble we’ve been having.” She paused, her gaze cold and critical. “Being out of the dorms for so long and so late is unacceptable and irresponsible. I expect more from you both. Consider this a formal warning.”

Miwa felt a surge of frustration. They had been witnessed to a double homicide and had spent hours giving statements to the police, all the while trying to uncover the truth about a string of missing individuals. And she was being scolded for being out past curfew. The sheer lack of understanding was infuriating.

“We understand, Mrs. Weber,” Miwa said, her voice remaining calm, her dojo training helping her to maintain composure in the face of the unjust scolding. “But the circumstances were beyond our control.”
“Circumstances are for those who break the rules,” Mrs. Weber retorted, her voice unforgiving. “The rules were clear. Now, off to your rooms, both of you. It’s late.”

Miwa and Lotte simply nodded, the scolding a harsh end to a long and traumatic day. She walked towards the elevator with Lotte, not realizing that Johan had already walked off on his own. The silence was heavy with lingering doom. They arrived back to their dorm rooms, Lotte still shaken by finding the bodies, and Johan nowhere to be seen. Miwa closed her door, the lock clicking shut.

She walked to her bathroom, the need to wash off the events of the day an immediate, visceral urge. The warm water of the shower hit her skin, a temporary solace, but the weight of what had happened was a heavy, unwanted presence. It was all a blur of violence and complexity she couldn’t properly process.

Under the steady stream of water, the practiced control she maintained began to wane. The despair from the unjust scolding and the fear from the crime scene mixed into a turmoil of emotion. The quiet broke. Silent tears began to flow, mixing with the shower water. A small, choked-off sob escaped her lips, quickly stifled, but the dam had been broken. She leaned against the cool tile wall, her body shaking slightly, the quiet breaking down into profound confusion.

What is happening?

Her mind raced, the images flashing behind her eyes: the men in the lobby, the couple in the bathhouse, the missing posters, the secretive people around her. It was too much, too fast. She had come to Germany for a simple life of study and discipline, yet she’s playing a survival game she's unsure of truly winning. She had found a world of shadows, of violence, of people who hid their true selves behind masks.

What is the truth?

She didn’t know anymore. The simplicity she craved was gone, replaced by a dangerous pattern she was just beginning to see. The tears flowed freely now, a desperate release of the pressure building within her. The shower continued to run, the water washing over her, but it couldn’t wash away the confusion and fear that was settled deep within her heart. Miwa was breaking under the strain.

She eventually turned off the shower, the hot water having done little to soothe her frazzled nerves. She stepped out, toweling off quickly, the silence of her room wrapped around her. She got dressed in comfortable sleepwear, the sense of quiet de spare replaced by a tired, but focused, resolve. She walked into the bedroom and picked up her phone to check the time. It was late, past midnight. As she placed the phone on her desk, it suddenly lit up and began to ring, the bright screen a jolt in the dim light of her room. The caller ID was a German number she didn’t recognize, simply listed as “Unknown Caller.” A sense of apprehension washed over her. Who would be calling her at this hour, on an unknown number? After everything that had happened, her instincts screamed caution, but her desire for answers was stronger. She answered the call, her voice composed.

“Hello?” Miwa said.

A female voice, calm, but carrying a quiet urgency. “Hello, Miss Kasumi. I apologize for calling you so late, but I understand you are acquainted with Detective Higuruma?”

Miwa paused, surprised by the direct question and the late hour call. “Yes, who are you, may I ask?”

“I’m sorry, Kenzo Tenma.”

“We met tonight at the batthouse,” Miwa added.

“I’m aware, I’m calling on her behalf. We’re concerned about some information that has come to light.”

Miwa’s eyebrows raised slightly, “Concerned about what, Ms. Tenma?”

“Hiromi mentioned that you were with two other students tonight,” Tenma said, a pause on the other end of the line, “Lotte Frank and Johan Liebert. She asked me to find out about your connections to them.” A deeper concern entered her voice. “Specifically, in regards to Johan.”

A wave of uneasiness washed over Miaw, a cold, sharp feeling that he had been connected to a plot device within these events. The raw pain she had witnessed in his room, the family photo, the missing sister—it all rushed back to her, a terrifying puzzle fitting into a larger, darker pattern.

“What makes you say that?” Miwa asked, her voice hushed.

“I cannot go into details over the phone,” Tenma said, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. “But we need to know everything you know about Johan.”

—

Miwa woke with a heavy heart. The phone call from Kenzo Tenma the night before had shattered any remaining illusion of normalcy. She dressed quickly, the clothes feeling like a uniform for a war she hadn’t signed up for. She had agreed to meet Kenzo and Hiromi at the police station that morning. A part of her felt a profound betrayal of the trust she had built with Johan, feeling heavy suspicions towards his existence within these cases.

She left her dorm room, the hallway silent as usual. She didn’t see Lotte or Johan. She walked to the U-Bahn station, the city of Munich feeling darker and more mysterious than the vibrant city she had first arrived in. The ride to the station was a blur of faces and sounds she didn’t process. The station was a large, imposing building, a contrast to the historical architecture of the university. A policewoman at the front desk directed her to the main office area. Hiromi and Kenzo were waiting for her in a small, sterile waiting room. Hromi looked even wearier in the harsh office light. Kenzo was a woman with a warm, empathetic gaze, but a clear strength in her posture.

“Thank you for coming, Miss Kasumi,” Tenma spoke, her voice soft but urgent, as Miwa entered the room.

“Please, call me Miwa,” Miwa replied, the formality of her address easing slightly in the presence of the two women who seemed to be on her side.

“We’ve been searching into multiple individuals including Naoya Zenin, son of the Zenin Clan’s Leader, however Mr Liebert is in mild interest as of now,” Hiromi spoke, her expression serious.

Miwa sat down, the weight of her words settling her mind. The pieces of the puzzle were coming together, but the picture they were forming was terrifying. The silent, composed man who had held her the night before was perhaps a prime suspect of disappearances and murders. She looked at the two women, her hands clasped together carefully on her lap.

“Tell me what you need to know.”

Chapter Text

The fluorescent lights of the small, tidy apartment cast a harsh glow on the worn linoleum floor. The air was heavy with the smell of stale coffee and anxiety. Dr. Kenzo Tenma—sharp, weary, and impeccably dressed even in distress—paced the length of her living room, the heels of her practical sensible shoes clicking a nervous rhythm against the floor. She held the latest edition of the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung with a white-kunckle grip. The bold headline screamed up at her: SIX MORE FOUND DEAD IN BADEN-WURTTEMBERG; POLICE BAFFLED BY LACK OF MOTIVE.
She stopped pacing and slapped the newspaper down on her small dining table, where three other local papers lay spread out, each echoing the small chilling news. Süddeutsche Zeitung, Bild, Der Spiegel—all of them reported on the escalating violence sweeping across West Germany. The victims were diverse: a banker in Hamburg, a family in Munich, a retired couple outside of Frankfurt. The only link was the absolute brutality of the murders and the complete absence of a plausible motive. No robbery, no clear personal connections.

Kenzo leaned in close, running a finger over a grainy police sketch of one of the victims—a young man with a wide, eerie smile plastered across his face in the photo they used.

“It’s him,” she whispered, her voice barely a rasp.

A bead of sweat tracked a cold path down her temple. Her mind was a whirlwind of medical records and a horrific childhood memory she had desperately tried to repress for years. She remembered the boy in the hospital, the “monster” who had walked out of her life after she saved his. She grabbed another newspaper, skimming the article for a specific detail she hadn’t noticed before. The dates. The killings started shortly after the anniversary of the Eisler Memorial Hospital massacre. A shiver racked her frame.

A sudden, sharp knock at the door startled her. The newspaper slipped from her grasp and fluttered silently to the floor. Kenzo froze, her heart hammering against her ribs. She stared at the door, the shadows in the room suddenly seeming to lengthen and twist. Was this just a neighbor, or had the past finally caught up with her?

“Dr Tenma?” a muffled voice called from the other side. “It’s Police Inspector Lunge. I just have a few questions regarding some recent…unusual activity.”

Kenzo slowly, deliberately, backed away from the door.

The knocking persisted.

“Dr Tenma? I know you’re in there. We need to speak with you.” Inspector Lunge’s voice was precise, resonant, and utterly humorless, cutting through the thin wood of the door.

Kenzo’s mind raced. If she opened the door, she’d have to lie—or even worse, reveal a truth so bizarre it would end her career and likely land her in a psychiatric ward. If she didn’t, Lunge would likely get a warrant and the situation would escalate anyway. She backed further into the kitchenette, trying to put as much distance between herself and the Inspector as possible.

Clack-swish.
A key turned in the lock, followed by the sound of the door handle turning. Kenzo tensed, ready to fight or flee.

“Kenzo? I’m home, darling. The traffic was abysmal.”

The door swung open, and in stepped Hiromi Higuruma. She was the picture of elegant composure, a stark contrast to Kenzo’s disheveled state. Hiromi slipped off her expensive coat, humming a light tune, her arms laden with a fresh baguette and groceries. She didn’t notice the atmosphere until she’d kicked the door shut behind her.

“Kenzo? Who are you talking to?” Hiromi asked, her smile fading as she took in the scene: the frantic newspapers strewn across the table, Kenzo pale and cornered by the fridge, and the looming figure of Inspector Lunge standing stiffly just inside the entryway.

Lunge turned his analytical, heavy-lidded gaze from Kenzo to Hiromi, “And you would be?”

Hiromi set the groceries down on the counter, her movements precise and deliberate as she assessed the intrusion. “I live here. My name is Higuruma. May I ask why you are letting yourself into our apartment without permission, Inspector?” Her tone was cool, controlled, the voice of a woman used to managing high-stakes negotiations.

Lunge didn’t flinch. “Police Inspector Lunge, BKA. We’re speaking with Dr Tenma here regarding an ongoing serial murder investigation.” He gestured vaguely at the table of newspapers, his eyes never leaving Hiromi’s face, meticulously logging every micro-expression.

Hiromi walked deliberately past Lunge toward Kenzo, placing a reassuring, firm hand on her fiancee’s trembling arm. Kenzo’s panic began to recede slightly under her touch. “Serial murders?” Hiromi said, turning back to the Inspector with a perfected mask of polite concern. “How dreadful. Kenzo is a surgeon, Inspector, a healer. I can’t imagine what relevance she could possibly have to such a violent crime.”

Kenzo managed to find her voice, weak, but present. “Hiromi…I think it’s him.”

Lunge’s eyebrow twitched upward a fraction of a millimeter. He sensed a crack in their composure. “Him?” he repeated, stepping further into the room, his gaze darting between the two women. He picked up the copy of Der Spiegel and tapped the police sketch of the smiling victim. “Dr Tenma, do you recognize this man? Or perhaps the person who killed him?”

Kenzo hesitated, her eyes pleading with Hiromi to understand the gravity of the situation. Hiromi stepped in front of Kenzo, shielding her slightly. “Inspector Lunge, unless you have a search warrant or an arrest warrant, I must ask you to leave our home. You are frightening my fiancee, who has had a very long day at the hospital.”

Lunge paused, his internal monologue clearly calculating the legalities versus the instinctual pull of the suspicious atmosphere. He knew was pushing the boundaries. “Very well, Ms Higuruma. But Dr. Tenma,” he said, fixing Kenzo with an intense stare over Hiromi’s shoulder. “I will be back tomorrow with the appropriate paperwork. Do not leave the city.” Without another word, he turned and walked out the door, closing it softly behind him.

The silence that followed his departure was heavy and suffocating. Hiromi locked the door, engaging the dreadbolt and the chain, before turning to Kenzo, her calm facade crumbling to reveal genuine fear and confusion. “Kenzo, what did he mean, ‘it’s him’?” Hiromi’s voice was low and urgent.

Kenzo looked at the picture of the smiling corpse in the newspaper, a ghost from her past returned to haunt her present. “A boy, Hiromi. A monster I saved twenty years ago.”

—

The warm glow of the sleek, minimalist law office offered little comfort against the cold facts piled high on her expansive desk. It had been three weeks since Inspector Lunge’s visit, and true to his word, he had kept a close, legal watch on Tenma. The two women were hunched over hundreds of pages of documents: police reports, autopsy photos, and disorganized case files Hiromi had managed to acquire through a complex maneuver involving a human rights contact and a sympathetic clerk at the municipal office. The initial shock had given way to a grim determination.

“The BKA is deliberately underreporting the pattern,” Hiromi murmured. She clicked her pen a few times, a nervous habit Kenzo had come to recognize. “Look here. The Frankfurt victim, the banker we discussed? The official report lists ‘cause unknown due to environmental contamination.’ But this leaked autopsy photo clearly shows the same surgical precision around the carotid artery as the Munich victims.”

Kenzo, her face pale under the harsh desk lamp, was sorting through a stack of victim photographs, laying them out in chronological order. The sheer number of innocent faces were a heavy weight on her soul. “He’s operating with extreme care, Hiromi. There’s a deliberate method to his actions,” Kenzo observed, pointing to a document about a retired teacher. “He seems to be sending a message with each incident. The details consistently point to a specific approach each time.”

“He seems to be challenging the authorities,” Hiromi noted, bringing up a detailed spreadsheet on her large monitor that organized the locations and dates of the incidents. “He’s testing the system, Kenzo. He knows the investigation is ongoing.”

Kenzo indicated a concentration of markers on the digital map of Germany. “He’s moving south now, in the direction of the Czech border. It appears he’s focused on something, or someone, in Nuremberg.”

A knock at the door interrupted their intense focus. Kenzo stared, nearly unsettling a pile of files. Hiromi rose from her chair, straightening her attire and resuming her professional demeanor. A young associate entered the office. “Ms. Higuruma, a package arrived for you. It’s labeled ‘Confidential - Police Documentation Division’.”

Hiromi and Kenzo exchanged a look of concern. “Bring it in, Thomas,” Hiromi requested.

The associate placed a plain brown envelope on the edge of the desk and quickly exited. Hiromi waited for the door to close before carefully opening the envelope with a letter opener. She extracted a single file with significant redactions and a cassette tape from the 1980s. Kenzo took the file. The title sent a shiver down her spine: ELSER MEMORIAL HOSPITAL INCIDENT - CHILD PATIENT TRANSFERS (CLASSIFIED).

“It pertains to his twin sister,” Kenzo murmured, her fingers tracing the blacked-out text. “They were transferred to an East German orphanage. He must be searching for her. That explains the focus on Nuremberg.”

Hiromi placed the cassette tape into a small player she kept in her office. A low hiss of static filled the room, followed by a child’s voice, clear and unsettling:

“The monster is coming. The monster inside me is growing.”

Kenzo sat down, covering her face with her hands, tears welling up. The voice was instantly recognizable—the boy she had saved, the man now causing such turmoil across Germany.

“We must intervene, Hiromi,” Kenzo said, looking up with fierce resolve. “Before he finds her, and before there are any more incidents.”

—

The sun had begun its descent over the Frankfurt skyline, painting the concrete apartment blocks in shades of dusky orange and violet. Tenma had parked her car a block away from the apartment building—Hiromi had advised them to keep the primary vehicle out of sight—and began the short walk back, two heavy bags of groceries digging into her palms. She had just rounded the final corner of the quiet residential street when she sensed the change in the atmosphere. It wasn’t a siren or a shout; it was the sudden, heavy silence, the way the ambient noise of the city seemed to instantly drop.

Kenzo stopped walking.

The shadows beneath the nearby trees suddenly separated into human shapes. Dark blue uniforms materialized from every doorway and alley mouth. Within seconds, a semicircle of uniformed officers formed around her, effectively cutting off any path of escape. The street, which had been empty a moment ago, was now bristling with activity.

“Dr. Kenzo Tenma,” a voice boomed over a bullhorn from an unmarked sedan that had rolled up to block her path entirely. Inspector Lunge emerged from the driver’s side, his gaze as unflinching as ever. “You are instructed to put your bags down slowly and place your hands on your head.”

Kenzo’s heart hammered against her ribs. She looked around desperately. At least eight officers, all with hands hovering over their hoisted weapons, had her surrounded. They weren’t just here to talk this time; this was an arrest.

“Inspector Lunge, what is the meaning of this?” Kenzo yelled, keeping her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins. The grocery bags slipped from her numb fingers, the content spilling slightly onto the pavement.

“We have new evidence linking you directly to the recent incidents,” Lunge stated, stepping closer, his face unreadable. “Evidence that came in mere hours ago.”

“That’s absurd! We’ve been cooperating—”

“Quiet!” a younger officer near her shouted, taking a step forward.

Suddenly, a blinding flash of light erupted from the third-floor window of her apartment building, followed immediately by the shattering sound of glass breaking and the sharp crack of a single gunshot. All attention immediately diverted upward, Kenzo instinctively turned toward the sound of the glass. In that brief moment of chaos, the officers guarding her hesitated, looking to Lunge for instruction. But Kenzo was already moving. Driven by instinct and a chilling certainty that the gunshot had something to do with the “monster” and their search for his sister, she sprinted toward the narrow gap between two apartment buildings, leaving the officers shouting behind her as Lunge barked orders for pursuit.

The sudden, high-pitched chirp of Hiromi’s private line sliced through the pristine calm of her office. It was a sound reserved only for her direct associates and highly prioritized clients. She was currently deep in conference with Thomas, her young associate, strategizing their defense if the BKA attempted to seize Kenzo’s medical record without a proper injunction.

Hiromi paused mid-sentence, the sharp noise pulling her attention to the black telephone console. “Excuse me, Thomas,” she said, her expression tight. She picked up the receiver. “Higuruma speaking.”

The voice on the other end wasn’t a client. It was rushed, bordering on panicked—her secretary.

“Ms Higuruma, thank god I reached you,” she whispered, the usual professional calm gone from her voice. “There’s an alert on the police scanner we monitor. And a flash news report just hit the wire.”

A cold knot formed in Hiromi’s stomach. She glanced at Thomas, who immediately stopped taking notes, his pen hovering over his legal pad.

“What alert? Speak clearly.”

“It’s about Dr Tenma, “ the secretary breathed. “The police have surrounded your apartment building. They had her cornered on the street. They are trying to arrest her.”

Hiromi’s blood ran cold. “Arrest? On what grounds?” she demanded, her lawyerly precision kicking in even a moment of sheer terror.

“The scanner mentioned ‘new evidence’ and ‘accessory to the incidents,’ ma’am. But then…there was a gunshot.”

Hiromi slammed her hand on the desk, rattling a stack of case files. Thomas visibly flinched. “A gunshot? Was Kenzo injured?”

“We don’t know, Ms. Higuruma! The reports are chaotic. The police line is saying she got away in the confusion. They’ve initiated a full-scale manhunt in the Frankfurt area.”

A full-scale manhunt. The words echoed in the sterile quiet of the law office. The BKA hadn’t just moved; they had escalated from intimidation to full-blown prosecution, likely driven by Lunge’s relentless suspicion.

Hiromi closed her eyes for a brief second, visualizing Kenzo—gentle, brilliant Kenzo—running down a dark street, bags of groceries abandoned, with armed police chasing her. She opened her eyes, the worry replaced by a fierce, steel-trap focus.

“Thank you. Keep the scanner on and route all calls directly to voicemail. Nobody, nobody, knows where I am or who I’m with.”

She hung up the phone. Thomas was staring at her, his face pale. She walked quickly to her safe and pulled out a go-bag she had prepared weeks ago—cash, burner phones, fake IDS she kept for emergencies related to her international human rights, and a pistol that she cocked with a snap.

“I need you to shred every piece of paper on that desk linking Kenzo’s name to the Nuremberg case files we acquired.”

Thomas sprang into action, grabbing handfuls of documents. Hiromi paused by the door, pulling her coat on.

“Stay silent,” she commanded, grabbing her keys. “I’ll contact you when it’s safe.”

Kenzo ran. The alley was narrow and smelled of damp garbage, offering momentary concealment. Adrenaline burned in her lungs as she scrambled over a low dumpster and pushed through a chain-link fence that led to a darkened industrial yard. Shouts echoed behind her: “Stop! Halt! Polizei!”

She was no sprinter; she was a surgeon, used to the controlled chaos of the operating theatre, not the frantic flight of a fugitive. Her legs ached, her heart hammered, and the vision of Lunge’s unyielding face spurred her on. A sudden flash of blue light illuminated the hard. A police van screeched to a halt at the far exit, cutting off her only path forward. Simultaneously, officers swarmed the entry point she had just used. She was boxed in.

Kenzo looked wildly for an escape route. A stack of empty crates offered insufficient cover. The walls were too high to climb. She was trapped in the open, floodlit now by multiple squad cars pulling onto the adjacent street.

“Dr Tenma! Do not move!” A voice was closer now, amplified without the bullhorn.

She turned slowly, her chest heaving. The night air was sharp and cold. Officers had their weapons drawn, aimed directly at her chest. The laser dots danced on her scrubs. Lunge walked through the ranks of his officers, his expression one of grim confirmation rather than triumph.

“It seems your fiancee made a poor call in advising you to run, Doctor,” he said, stopping a few feet from her.

Kenzo stood her ground, breathing hard, trying to maintain an ounce of dignity in the face of absolute capture. “I didn’t run because I’m guilty, Inspector. I ran because you refuse to see the truth.”

Lunge merely signaled to the nearest officers.

“Hands behind your back,” an officer commanded, stepping forward and roughly pushing Kenzo’s arms into position. The cold bite of steel handcuffs snapped shut around her wrists with a definitive, final click. She winced at the tightness. As the officer pulled her toward a waiting patrol car, Lunge leaned in close to her.

“The truth is exactly what I see, Dr. Tenma,” he whispered, his eyes fixed on hers. “And what I see is a woman so desperate to hide her connection to a monster that she would flee from the law.”

They pushed her into the back of the patrol car. The door slammed shut, the sound of the lock engaging sealing her fate, at least for tonight. She watched the flashing red and blue lights paint the world in desperate colors as the car sped away, leaving the abandoned grocery bags on the pavement as the only evidence of the normal she had now lost.

—

The fluorescent lights of the Frankfurt Police Headquarters booking area hummed a relentless, sterile tune. The air smelled of stale cigarette smoke and institutional floor cleaner. Hiromi, now wearing an impeccably tailored black power suit that seemed designed to cut through red tape, strode toward the main desk with an intimidating calm that caused the desk sergeant to sit up straighter.

“I’m here to see my client, Dr. Kenzo Tenma,” Hiromi stated, her voice clear and carrying enough authority to halt the nearby conversations of several officers. She placed her bar credentials—crisp, official, and international—firmly on the counter.

The desk sergeant, a large man with a world-weary expression, glanced at the credentials and then at Hiromi’s face, an uncomfortable look flickering across his features. “Ma’am, she’s currently being processed and is not permitted visitors yet. She was just brought in on BKA orders. That’s a federal matter.”

“It’s a matter of due process,” Hiromi corrected him sharply, leaning slightly over the counter. “I am her legal counsel. Under German law, she has a right to representation immediately upon arrest. I advise you to check the statutes before you commit a procedural error that could jeopardize your entire case, Sergeant.” She slid a thick, bound document across the counter: an emergency writ of habeas corpus and an order for immediate legal access she’d arranged via a high-level judge she knew owed her a favor.

The sergeant looked at the documents, swallowed hard, and picked up the phone with a sigh, “Inspector Lunge, your…colleague is here. She has paperwork.”

A few minutes later, Inspector Lunge emerged from a door leading to the interrogation rooms. He looked tired but completely unfazed by Hiromi’s presence. “Ms. Higuruma,” he greeted her with a slight nod. “Punctual as always.”

“Inspector Lunge. Your theatrics in the field are only matched by your disregard for civil liberties,” Hiromi replied coolly. “I have an order granting me immediate, private access to Dr. Tenma. You have exactly thirty seconds to comply before I call the Chief Prosecutor and file a complaint about unlawful detention.”

Lunge paused, his analytical eyes scanning her face, acknowledging her resolve. He knew Hiromi operated with surgical precision in the courtroom. He had pushed the limits once more; now he had to retreat to the letter of the law.

“This way,” he said, turning on his heel.

He led through a maze of sterile corridors and locked doors to a small interrogation room. Through the one-way glass, Hiromi could see Kenzo sitting alone at a metal table. She looked exhausted, her posture slumped her wrists cuffed to the table with a new set of restraints. The fear and exhaustion in her fiancee’s eyes tore at Hiromi’s heart, but she didn’t let it show on her face.

Lunge opened the door and ushered Hiromi in. “Five minutes,” he said, ignoring the writ that mandated unlimited time.

“It will be ten,” Hiromi corrected, stepping inside.
The door clicked shut behind her, the lock engaging with that same sickening finality as before. Kenzo looked up, her expression a mix of relief and profound guilt. “Hiromi, you shouldn’t be here,” she whispered hoarsely, trying to straighten up. “They’re going to label you an accessory.”

Hiromi walked to the table and sat opposite her, placing a fresh, hot cup of coffee and a small, wrapped energy bar on the table. “I am where I belong, Kenzo. With you.” She slid a piece of paper and a pen toward her, careful to keep her movements obvious for any surveillance cameras. “We don’t talk about the case here. We talk about procedural matters. Are you hurt?”

Kenzo shook her head, staring at the coffee.

“Good. Now, listen closely. Lunge doesn’t have enough to hold you long-term, not without an official BKA indictment, which I am fighting. They are using this time to pressure you. You say nothing. You sign nothing. You are only allowed to speak to me, your attorney.” Hiromi took a deep breath, reaching across the table and covering Kenzo’s cuffed hands with her own, offering the only comfort she could in the cold, sterile room.

The lock had soon clicked open once more, and the door swung inward. Hiromi stood up, giving Kenzo’s hands one final, firm squeeze before withdrawing her own. Kenzo managed a weak nod, understanding the unspoken promise in her fiancee’s eyes.

Inspector Lunge was waiting just outside the door. He observed the exchange, his gaze impassive. “Ten minutes,” he said, looking at his wristwatch. “Ms. Higuruma, a surprising display of obedience to the rules.”

“I have no interest in making your job easier, Inspector. I just prefer my battles in a venue where the rules of law actually apply,” Hiromi replied, stepping out into the corridor and letting the door shut firmly behind her, sealing Kenzo away once more. She turned to face Lunge, crossing her arms over her chest, the posture radiating professional defiance. “Dr. Tenma has provided me with all the necessary information for her defense,” Hiromi stated, a calculated exaggeration designed to rattle him. “As you currently hold her without an official BKA indictment and only on the basis of localized suspicion, I am filing an immediate motion for an accelerated hearing.”

Lunge’s eyebrow twitched slightly. He didn’t favor being rushed. He was a man who preferred to build an airtight, meticulous cask brick by brick. “An accelerated hearing? Why the hurry, Counsel? Afraid the evidence against her might solidify?”

“I am hurrying, Inspector Lunge, because every minute she sits in your detention center, the actual perpetrator of these horrific incidents is free to continue their work,” Hiromi said, her voice dropping to a low, intense level. “You have tunnel vision, and it is compromising public safety. You are so busy chasing a phantom conspiracy theory that you are ignoring the facts.” She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice further. “We both know the evidence you have is entirely circumstantial and highly political. You need a conviction to save face. I intend to force a public trial immediately and expose the weaknesses in your case before you can manufacture any more convenient ‘new evidence’.”

Lunge stared at her, his expression unchanging, but Hiromi sensed the shift in the power dynamics. She had seized the initiative.

“I will see the Chief Prosecutor first thing in the morning,” she concluded, straightening up and stepping back. “We demand a trial set within the next seventy-two hours. Be prepared, Inspector. When this goes to court, I’m not just defending Kenzo’s innocence; I am putting the BKA’s entire investigation under scrutiny.”

Without waiting for a response, Hiromi turned on her heel and walked briskly down the hallway, her heels clicking a rhythmic, confident beat on the polished institutional floor, leaving the stoic Inspector Lunge to consider the legal storm she has unleashed.

—

Hiromi adjusted the strap of her overloaded briefcase, the cool morning air biting at her cheeks as she approached the imposing courthouse steps. The weight of the world felt particularly heavy today; she wasn’t just defending her client, she was fighting for the life of her fiancee, a woman Hiromi believed was fundamentally good, framed for crimes of chilling depravity. Inside, she would face Johan Liebert, a monster known not just for his flawless win record, but for a disquieting aura that seemed to drain hope from any room he entered.

Pushing through the heavy, revolving doors into the courthouse lobby, the air grew instantly warmer and echoed with the controlled chaos of the legal system. Hiromi paused to catch her breath and mentally steel herself for the day ahead. Just then, her phone buzzed with an incoming text. She glanced at the screen, expecting a last-minute query from her associate, Thomas.

The message was brief, stark, and sent from an unknown number: “Your services are no longer required in the Tenma case. Another lawyer has been assigned by the Chief Prosecutor's office. Details to follow.”

Hiromi froze, the noise of the lobby fading into a distant hum. Her blood ran cold. This wasn’t just a change in strategy; it was an ambush. A last-minute switch on the day of the trial was a blatant attempt to sabotage the defense, ensuring that whoever took over wouldn’t have time to prepare against the meticulous man present.
“Ms. Higuruma?” A young court clerk she recognized from the prosecutor’s office approached her, holding a large, sealed envelope. “Official notice from the Chief Prosecutor. They asked that you receive this immediately.”

Hiromi accepted the envelope with shaking hands, her heart starting to pound in her chest. The clerk gave her a sympathetic, almost pitying look before quickly walking away. Tearing the envelope open, she read the formal documentation confirming her dismissal from the case. The replacement lawyer’s name was blank, the document designed only to remove her. She looked up, catching sight of the elevator doors closing across the lobby. Reflected in the polished metal was her own shocked face. They were a metallic blur as they slid shut. Hiromi didn’t hesitate any longer. She adjusted her grip on her briefcase and broke into a determined stride, heading straight for the other bank of elevators. The formal notice of dismissal still rustled in her hand, a mocking testament to the Chief Prosecutor’s underhanded tactics.

As she jabbed the “up” button with a fierce urgency, she rationalized her actions. She had the right to use the building’s facilities. She needed to attend to something before she left: a simple, believable excuse. The lie felt necessary, a small rebellion against the unseen powers pulling the strings.

The elevator chimed, and the doors opened to an empty car. Hiromi stepped inside, her eyes scanning the panel before pressing the button for the floor that housed the main courtrooms. As the car began its ascent, she reached into the inner pocket of her suit jacket. Her fingers found the familiar, cold steel of her hidden pistol. She gripped the weapon, the weight a stark contrast to the light formality of her courtroom attire. It was a secret she kept close, a last resort in a world where the law was often a broken shield. Her mind raced, a maelstrom of legal strategy and raw, personal betrayal. They had stripped her of her professional weapon—the law—but they couldn’t take her conviction. The ten floors felt like an eternity, each passing number bringing her closer to uncertain confrontation, her hand firmly on the hilt of the small firearm, ready for a fight she never thought she’d have to physically prepare for in a courthouse.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, a sound barely audible above the low, serious hum of the courtroom floor. Hiromi emerged, her suit jacket pulled slightly tighter, her focus singular. She navigated the corridor, a ghost of a lawyer, no longer officially sanctioned, but driven by a force that superseded bureaucratic dismissal.

She reaches the door to the assigned courtroom, pauses briefly to catch her breath, and pushes it open. The air inside was heavy and charged. Every seat in the gallery was filled, a sea of solemn faces fixed on the front of the room. At the plaintiff’s table sat Johan, immaculate and calm, his eyes casually scanning a document as if already assured of victory. At the defense table sat Tenma, looking vulnerable and confused, and beside her, the new lawyer—a woman Hiromi now recognized as a high-ranking official from the Chief Prosecutor’s office, a chilling confirmation of the conspiracy at play.

The judge, a stern older woman, was speaking. “The defense will proceed with its opening statement.”

Hiromi saw the new lawyer rise smoothly, her voice cutting through the tension. “Your Honor, the defense waives its opening statement and is ready for the prosecution to call its first witness.”

A collective gasp swept through the gallery. Waiving an opening statement was a tactical surrender, an admission of no counter-narrative, no fight.

“Objection, Your Honor!” Hiromi’s voice rang out, sharp and clear, startling everyone in the room. She moved quickly down the center aisle, her hand still gripping the pistol concealed in her jacket pocket, her entire posture radiating defiance. “I am lead counsel, and I have not waived anything!”

Johan looked up from his papers, his placid smile turning cold. The new lawyer at the defense table spun around, her face a mask of fury.

“Ms. Higuruma, you are no longer counsel on this case,” the judge said, her voice thunderous with authority. “You are in contempt. Bailiff, remove this woman from my courtroom immediately.”

Hiromi stood firm, her gaze intense as the bailiffs approached. The tension in the courtroom was thick, every eye on her. The judge’s voice, though strained, cut through the silence, urging her to reconsider.

“Ms. Higuruma, please. Let’s resolve this peacefully.”

Hiromi took a deep breath, her hands still visible, not reaching for anything hidden. Her voice, though not a shout, carried through the hushed room. “This isn’t about peace,” she stated, her tone measured but firm. “This is about justice. And what’s happening here isn’t justice.” She looked toward the defense table, then at the jury. “The evidence presented, the handling of this case…there are too many irregularities. Too many unanswered questions.”

A ripple went through the onlookers, whispers started, though quickly silenced by a stern look from the judge.

“I am requesting, formally, a mistrial,” Hiromi declared, her voice rising slightly. “This process has been compromised. The integrity of this court is at stake.” She held the judge’s gaze. “I believe there is new evidence that has not been considered, evidence that could change everything.”

“There will be no mistrial,” the judge declared, her patience clearly gone, the gavel raised high. “Bailiffs, remove her now.”

They resumed their advance, their hands reaching for Hiromi’s arms. The new lawyer at the defense table simply watched, a faint smirk playing on her lips. Johan had returned to studying his papers, utterly dismissive.

As the bailiffs closed in, she made her move. With a speed born of panic and absolute conviction, she ripped the small pistol from her inner jacket pocket. The entire courtroom seemed to draw in one collective, sharp breath. Hiromi didn’t point the gun at anyone. Instead, she raised her hand high above her head and squeezed the trigger three times in rapid succession.

BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

The sound was deafening, echoing off the marble walls and polished wood paneling. Plaster dust and acoustic tile fragments rained down from three fresh, ugly holes in the ceiling. Screamed erupted from the gallery. Spectators dove for cover, scrambling under benches or rushing the exits in a frenzy of panic. The judge slammed her gavel repeatedly, the crack, crack, crack of wood against wood futile against the chaos.

“Order! Order in this court!” she bellowed, her own face pale.

The bailiffs, momentarily stunned by the sheer audacity of the act, froze. Hiromi stood alone in the eye of the storm, the smoking pistol clutched in her hand, her chest heaving. She locked eyes with the judge, her voice piercing through the noise of the panicked crowd.

“I demand a retrial!” she shrieked, the raw emotion of her plea stripping away her professional demeanor. “This is a farce! Dr. Tenma’s life is being decided by a rigged system! I will not allow this injustice to stand!”

Johan slowly, deliberately, put his papers down. He looked up, his expression unreadable as he observed the woman with the smoking gun, the chaos surrounding her, and the silent, terrified Dr. Tenma, who stared at the ceiling shock. The judge, white-faced and trembling, could only stare back at Hiromi, the authority of her courtroom shattered. The chaos deepened over time. The two bailiffs, spurred back into action by the judge’s furious shouting, rushed forward.
“Drop the weapon, ma’am! Put it down now!” one ordered, pulling his own sidearm.

Hiromi ignored him, keeping her eyes fixed on the judge, the pistol a hot, heavy anchor still in her hand. “This trial is a joke! A travesty of justice!”

As the first bailiff reached her, Hiromi spun on her heel. She brought her free hand up, not to attack, but to push the bailiff’s arms away. The movement was a desperate scramble rather than a trained maneuver. The bailiff lost his balance, stumbling backward into his partner. The two men collided, crashing hard into the juror’s box, sending chairs tumbling and one startled juror tumbling to the floor with a yelp. The scuffle escalated the panic. More officers, hearing the shots and the shouting, burst through the courtroom doors from the hallway.

“We have a situation! Armed woman in Courtroom 3-B!”

At the defense table, the new lawyer dove under the table, abandoning her post as a new wave of police swarmed the room, their weapons drawn. Johan remained seated, a picture of unnerving calm, observing the scene with a detached, almost analytical interest. Hiromi saw her opportunity in the confusion. With police focused on cornering her, creating a perimeter, she wasn’t their immediate concern; securing the room was. She bolted, darting around the defense table toward the judge’s bench.

“Kenzo, run!” she shouted, the words swallowed by the cacophony of shouting officers and wailing civilians.

Tenma, paralyzed by fear and confusion, didn’t move.

Hiromi scrambled over the railing separating the bar from the public gallery, knocking over a lectern and papers everywhere. Officers were closing in from both sides now, creating a bottleneck of blue uniforms.

“Stop! Or we fire!”

Hiromi ignored, weaving through the chaos. A court stenographer’s machine was toppled in a crash. A lawyer, trying to flee, was accidentally tackled by an officer. The narrow doors at the back of the room became a chokepoint of sheer panic. People shoved, climbed over benches, and bowled past one another in their desperate rush to escape. A woman in the front row screamed, scrambling on hands and knees as a wave of bodies surged over the seats she had just occupied. A man with a cane was knocked aside, his walking aid clattering noisily onto the floor and immediately being trampled underfoot.

“Move! Get out of the way!” a man bellowed, pushing past a slower group near the door.

Filing cabinets were overturned in the crush. Chairs, once neatly arranged, were now a hazardous obstacle course of splintered wood and metal frames. Papers, case files, and court documents were kicked into the air, swirling like a blizzard of shredding white as the crowd pushed towards the main hallway. The air was thick with the dust of the ceiling and the rising smell of fear.

Amidst the chaos, Johan remained the only still point in a turning world, watching the human stampede with an expressionless face. The judge had abandoned the bench, vanishing through a back door, and the new lawyer was still huddled beneath the defense table, clutching her head.

Hiromi, using the mass of rushing bodies as a moving shield, scrambling toward the railing. The officers, restrained by the very people they were sworn to protect, couldn’t get a clear or a direct line to her. She hit the marble floor of the corridor in a crouch, instantly dropping into a defensive stance rooted in a form of martial arts she had trained in back in Japan. The chaotic stream of fleeing spectators parted around her, leaving her an isolated, defiant figure in the main hallway. Two heavily armored police officers, emerging from the stairwell with tasers drawn, focused on her immediately.

“Last warning! Drop it!” one shouted.

Hiromi didn’t drop the pistol; instead, she holstered the weapon in her waistband and brought her hands up in a fluid, open-palmed guard. The officers hesitated, thrown off balance by the unexpected shift from firearms to hand-to-hand combat.

“What is she doing?” one officer asked on his radio.

Hiromi didn’t wait for an answer. She moved with a sudden burst of speed. The first officer lunged with his taser. She sidestepped the attack with a practiced pivot, using the officer’s own momentum against him, and delivered a sharp, open-handed knife-hand strike to the nerve cluster in his forearm. The officer gasped and dropped his taser, clutching his arm in pain. The second officer, reacting quickly, attempted a tackle. Hiromi met his charge with a low down block that deflected his attempt to grab her waist. She transitioned seamlessly into a power front kick to the officer’s sternum. The blow was solid, the kiai a sharp exclamation in the noisy corridor, sending the large officer stumbling back a few feet, winded.

More officers poured into the hallway from various entry points. Hiromi was now surrounded, the fleeing crowd having mostly dissipated. She was a small, determined figure facing a phalanx of police.

“Use the tasers! Tase her now!” a commanding voice barked from the back of the line.

Tenma stared at the empty defense table, then across the chaos-ridden courtroom to the prosecution side. Johan was gone. One moment he was a picture of unnerving calm, the next he had simply vanished amidst the stampede of fleeing spectators and the ensuing skirmish in the hallway. He hadn’t run; he had evaporated, leaving behind only the air of his eerie absence. The casual indifference he had shown earlier now seemed a calculated exit strategy, timed to perfection.

The silence where the gallery had been was now filled with the shouts of officers struggling to contain Hiromi’s desperate martial arts display. Tenma looked around the abandoned courtroom. Hiding beneath the front benches, she saw the huddled terrified forms of a few other pedestrians who had come to show their support.

“It’s okay,” Tenma whispered, crawling toward them, her voice shaking but gentle. “The immediate danger here in the room is over. We need to go, while they are distracted.” She gently took the hand of a young female doctor, helping her out from under the bench. “Quickly, through the judge’s chambers,” Tenma instructed, pointing to the discreet side door that the judge had used for her own escape.

“Where is she going?” one of the pediatricians whimpered, referring to Hiromi in the hall.

“She’s buying us time,” Tenma said firmly, ushering them toward the exit. She pushed the door open slightly, peering into the corridor where the sounds of the struggle continued. Hiromi was a whirlwind of motion, a determined flicker of grey suit jacket against the blue uniforms, holding her own against the officers through sheer willpower and practiced precision.

“Go, now!” Tenma urged. The group of doctors, their white coats against the courtroom’s dark wood, slipped through the side door and into the maze of back hallways. Tenma followed, taking one last look at the empty courtroom, a silent promise forming in her mind.

The corridor was silent now, save for the low groans of incapacitated officers. Hiromi stood alone amidst the fallen, her chest heaving with exertion. Her suit jacket had been off, her white button up disheveled as two top buttons had been loosened. Sweat dripped from her brow, but her stance remained unwavering. The last officer, struck by a precise knife-hand strike, crumpled to the floor, his taser sliding across the polished marble. She didn’t waste a second. Retrieving her pistol and checking it was secure in her waistband, Hiromi spun around the burst back into the main courtroom. The room was a wreck—overturned furniture, scattered papers, and the lingering smell of gunpowder and fear.

“Kenzo!” she called out, her voice raspy.

Silence. The defense table was empty. The judge’s bench was abandoned. For a heart-stopping moment, Hiromi feared the worst. Then she saw the slightly ajar door leading to the judge’s chambers. Pushing through the door, she found herself in a quiet, wood-paneled office. Tenma was waiting there, her face a mask of nervous tension, wringing her hands by the window.

“Hiromi! I was so scared, I thought…” Tenma stopped, her eyes wide with a mixture of relief and fear as she took in Hiromi’s disheveled state.

“My love, I…” Hiromi breathed out heavily, her tone urgent. “I’m sorry. They’ll be calling in tactical backup any second. The others…the pediatricians?"

“I sent them through the back hallways, through the staff exit,” Tenma explained, her professional calm beginning to return even in this extreme situation. “They should be clear by now.”

“Good,” Hiromi strode to the window, peering down at the street below. Already, the first flashing lights of additional police cruisers were visible blocks away. “We need to move. They're sealing the building.” She turned from the window, grabbing Tenma’s hand and pulling her toward a different, unmarked door leading to a back staircase. “Come on. The main exits are compromised. We can use the service stairs.”

Tenma followed without question, her nervousness shifting into a shaky resolve. Hiromi led the way, taking point, leading the two of them away from the chaos and down the dim service stairwell, leaving the courthouse—and the rigged system it represented—behind them, a desperate new chapter of their fight for justice beginning as fugitives.

Chapter Text

“Thank you, Miwa,” Hiromi said, a subtle acknowledgement of the weight of Miwa’s decision to cooperate. “We appreciate your help.”

Kenzo sat beside Hiromi, her expression mirroring the detective’s quiet intensity. “We can’t be as open with the main police force as we’d like,” Kenzo began, her voice low and careful.

Hiromi picked up the narrative, a weary edge returning to her voice. “Kenzo and I…we’ve been fighting tooth and nail with the BKA—the German Federal Criminal Police Office. They’re the federal boys, and they’ve taken over the major parts of the investigation.” She adjusted her sunflower pin, a flicker of frustration in her eyes.
“Why are you fighting?” Miwa asked, a knot of apprehension forming in her stomach.

“Because they are focused on the surface,” Hiromi explained, leaning forward slightly, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. “The obvious suspects, the easy narratives. They want to pin the dorm shooting on Naoya Zenin and move on. They want to classify the bathhouse incident as an isolated case, a random act of violence.”

“They’re missing the patterns,” Kenzo added, her voice quiet but firm. “Hiromi and I see a connection. The men involved in the dorm shooting had ties to organized crime, which seems linked to the areas where the missing people were last seen. It’s all connected, but the BKA won’t listen. They think we’re chasing ghosts.”

“They’ve blocked our access to key files, they’ve dismissed our theories as ‘unsubstantiated speculation’,” Hiromi sighed, the weariness in her eyes profound. We’re essentially working on this case unofficially, on the margins. We have to be careful.”

“That’s why we need your help,” Kenzo said, her gaze earnest. “You have a unique proximity to Johan. You see those patterns up close. The BKA doesn’t even have him on their radar as anything other than a witness. They don’t see what we see.”

A cold feeling settled over Miwa. The quiet, composed man who saw patterns in human nature was the center of a battle between a determined detective and the federal police.

“We need you to be our eyes and ears,” Hiromi said, her voice serious. “We need to know everything about him. The truth is out there, Miwa, and we believe Johan holds the key. We just need to find the right pattern to unlock it.”

Miwa listened intently as Hiromi and Kenzo detailed their frustrating battle with the BKA. The stakes were high, and their determination was clear. But as Hiromi spoke about the “easy narratives” and “surface-level facts” the BKA was focusing on, Miwa’s mind returned to the events she had personally witnessed, a different suspicion gnawing at her.

“I understand,” Miwa said, her voice quiet but firm. She paused, choosing her words carefully, a sense of quiet uncertainty in her mind. “But I have a question about the dorm shooting.”

Hiromi and Kenzo exchanged a look, then turned their full attention back to Miwa. “What about it?” Hiromi asked.

“You mentioned the BKA wants to pin it on Naoya Zenin as self-defense,” Miwa said. “And that he’s cooperating with them.”
“Yes,” Kenzo confirmed. “That’s the official story they’re pushing. The deceased man had a record, Naoya was the clear victim. It’s clean for them.”

“I was a witness in the aftermath,” Miwa said, her gaze steady, a flicker of doubt entering her voice. “I was in the stairwell. I saw the gun by his feet, and the dead man on the floor. I didn’t see the shots fired, but I heard the argument.” She paused, the memory of Naoya’s panicked face and his swift change to calm composure a stark contrast in her mind. “When I came around the corner,” Miwa continued, her voice lower now, “he was in shock. Pleading with me to believe him, telling me the man shot himself during a struggle.” She took a deep breath, the memory of the sheer panic in his eyes vivid. “But the next day, in the library, he was different. Calm, composed, friendly. He said the police were very understanding, that it was a clear case of self-defense. He was building a narrative, a very careful performance.”

Hiromi and Kenzo listened intently, their expression serious. The weary detective adjusted her sunflower pin, her eyes sharp and focused on Miwa.

“I just…I have a suspicion,” Miwa said, her voice hushed. “Johan talks about patterns. And Naoya’s behavior, the speed with which he shifted from panic to that calm, controlled performance…it felt like a pattern of someone who is hiding something, someone trying to manipulate their surroundings.” She looked at the two women, a quiet uncertainty in her mind turning into a focused suspicion. “I think you should look at Naoya Zenin more closely. His story is too perfect, too clean. I don’t think he’s the simple victim he wants everyone to believe he is.”

“We will look into Mr. Zenin,” Hiromi assured her, her voice serious. “Your observations are valuable, Miwa. They align with our own instincts about the ‘official narrative’ the BKA is pushing.”

A wave of relief washed over Miwa, but it was quickly replaced by a new, more personal urgency. They had accepted her suspicion about Naoya; now it was time to address their suspicion about Johan.

“And Johan?” Miwa asked, her voice quiet but firm, a defensive edge entering her tone. “Ms. Tenma mentioned you suspected him.”

Kenzo and Hiromi exchanged another look, a cautious silence filling the room. Kenzo spoke first, her voice gentle but firm. “Miwa, there are reasons why our patterns point to him. Connections that can’t be ignored.”

“I know what you’re seeing,” Miwa said, her voice rising slightly, a passionate urgency replacing her earlier calm. “The quietness, the ability to observe, the detachment. He’s different, yes, I know he is.” She took a deep breath, the memory of his pain, his trust, the shared moments at the bathhouse all fueling her defense. “But you’re misinterpreting this. His silence isn’t a sign of guilt; it’s a shield.”

She began to recount the events of that night, revealing the night she had kept fiercely private. “The night after the dorm shooting, I heard him. He was breaking down, completely broken. It was like the phantom version of him was gone, and what was left was a man in agony.” She paused, the raw emotion of the memory vivid. “I saw a photo album. His family. His twin sister, Anna. They were separated a long time ago, and he doesn’t know where she is. He thinks she might be dead. He lives with that uncertainty, that pain, every single day.”

Miwa leaned forward, her eyes earnest, pleading with the two women. “His actions aren’t about committing crimes; they’re about surviving his complex trauma. His quiet observations, his ‘detachment’ —it’s a defense mechanism, a way to protect himself from the pain of his past.” She looked at Hiromi and Kenzo, her heart pounding. “He’s an ally, not a suspect.”

Kenzo turned her full attention to Miwa, her empathetic gaze hardening with a serious, almost painted intensity. “Miwa,” she began, her voice low and grave, “what you described…the pain, the photo of his sister…it’s all very compelling. And it paints a picture of a deeply traumatized young man.” She paused, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “But you have to understand that humanity, that pain, doesn’t negate the facts we have.”

Kenzo leaned forward, her eyes mirroring Hiromi’s own in a way. “I know this is difficult to hear, but I have a past with Johan as well. A very dark one.”

Miwa froze, her heart hammering in her chest. The sense of shock returned, the quiet office feeling suddenly very cold. “What do you mean?”

“Years ago, before I came to Munich, before I met Hiromi, I was a young medical student,” Kenzo confessed, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. “I worked at a hospital where a young boy was brought in after a traumatic event. A boy with pale blonde hair and unsettlingly clear blue eyes.” She looked at Miwa, a warning within her eyes that transcended the simple facts of the case. “The boy was a mystery, charming and intelligent, but…empty. He manipulates the emotions of others, sees their weaknesses, and uses them. He had a way of convincing people to do horrible things, to break the rules, to erase evidence.” She took another deep, shaky breath, the memory clearly a heavy burden that weighs upon her shoulders. “He’s destroyed many lives, Miwa, destroyed my career, ruined my future.” She shook her head, the image of Johan’s quiet sadness clashing violently with the woman’s chilling testimony. “I’m afraid I can’t go into more detail, but the boy was Johan. He’s not just a victim of trauma, but a master manipulator, using his pain for the likes of making you trust him, making you defend himself.”

The office was silent. Miwa sat there, the weight of Kenzo’s confession a crushing realization. The quiet, composed man who had held her, who had shared his pain, was a monster from Kenzo’s past. The lines between victim and perpetrator had just blurred into a terrifying, impossible grey, and Miwa was now getting caught in the middle of it.

“I…I need a moment,” Miwa stammered, the practiced composure she usually maintained completely gone, replaced by confusion. “I need some air.”

She pushed herself up from the chair, her movements jerky and uncoordinated. The carefully constructed world she had built around herself in Munich was crumbling around her. Was the pain real? Was the story of his sister a lie? Was she just another pawn in a game she didn’t understand?

“Miwa,” Hiromi began, a genuine concern in her voice, reaching out a hand towards her.

“No,” Miwa said, a sharp edge to her voice, pulling away slightly. “I just…I need a moment. Please.”

She turned and practically fled the small, sterile waiting room, stumbling into the main office area. The hubbub of the police station faded to a dull roar in her ears as she walked, her mind a whirl of conflicting emotions. She found a doorway that led outside and stepped out into the cool Munich air, the sharp chill a welcome jolt of reality after the psychological turmoil of the room. She leaned against the cold brick wall of the police station, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The truth, the clarity she so desperately craved, was further away than ever. She had trusted Johan, had seen the humanity in him, but Kenzo’s warning was a cold, hard fact.

She pushed herself off the wall, a sudden, desperate urge to escape the area, the women inside, and the horrifying truth they held. She turned and ran back into the station, past the startled desk sergeant, ignoring the calls of “Miss! Miss!” from the officers. Tears welled in her eyes, hot and fast that became a blur in her vision. She burst through the main entrance doors, the bright midday sun a painful jolt to her eyes. She ran down the street, not caring where she was going, the tears now flowing freely down her cheeks. The city of Munich, once a place of quiet resolve and simple beauty, now felt like a maze of shadows and lies.

She ran until her lungs burned, the weight of her confusion and the feeling of being utterly overwhelmed by physical pain. She stopped in a small park, leaning against a large oak tree, the rough bark digging into her back. Her head fell forward, her body shaking with silent sobs. After a few moments, the intensity began to wane, replaced by a desperate need for a friendly face, someone who existed outside the complex history Kenzo and Hiromi had laid out. Lotte. Lotte was simple, genuine, and untainted by the shadows of the past.

She pulled her phone from her pocket, her thumb trembling slightly as she found Lotte’s contact information. She hit the call button, the ringing sound a lifeline in the silent park. Lotte answered almost immediately, her voice bright and cheerful.

“Miwa! Where are you? I was looking for you in the dorm, everything okay?” Lotte asked, the concern in her voice clear.

“Lotte,” Miwa choked out, her voice raw, a fresh wave of tears welling in her eyes. “I…I need your help. I’m in the park near the university, the one with the large fountain.”

The cheerfulness in Lotte’s voice vanished instantly, replaced by a sharp, clear urgency. “Are you crying? What’s wrong? I’m coming right now.”

“Please,” Miwa whispered, leaning her head back against the rough bark of the tree. “As soon as possible.”

“I’m on my way,” Lotte said, the sound of movement on the other end of the line clear.

As the call had ended, a figure in the distance caught her eye. A middle-aged man, tall and slender, was walking along the path, a quiet, thoughtful look on his face. He wore a beige sweater that hugged his figure and had carried a duffel bag on his shoulder. As he got closer, his gaze fell on Miwa. He paused, his expression softening with a look of concern as he took in her tear-streaked face and despairing state. He altered his path and began walking towards her, his movements unhurried and calm.

“Excuse me,” the man said, his voice soft and gentle, with a distinct accent. “Are you alright? You seem very distressed.”

Miwa looked at him, surprised by his kindness. “I am fine,” she whispered, quickly wiping her face, a wave of embarrassment washing over her. “Just a bad day.”

“A bad day does not usually elicit such a state of despair,” he continued gently. He stopped a short distance from her, his expression warm and empathetic. “My name is Grimmer. I’m a journalist working nearby.” He gestured vaguely to the street behind him.

“I am Miwa,” Miwa replied, the formality of her introduction automatic, even in her misery.
“Miwa,” Grimmer repeated, a kind smile on his face. “If you need to talk, I am a very good listener. Sometimes, a problem shared is a problem lessened.”

“It’s…a very long story,” Miwa whispered, a fresh wave of emotion welling up in her throat.

“I have time,” Grimmer assured her gently, with a patient smile. He carefully placed his bag on the ground and sat on the grass beneath a nearby tree, an inviting gesture for her to share.

Miwa hesitated for a moment longer, then walked over and sat on the grass a short distance from him, the quiet of the park wrapping around them. She started chatting. She told him everything, from her arrival in Munich and the strange meeting with Naoya Zenin, to her cautious alliance with Johan and the cheerful friendship with Lotte. She spoke of the dorm shooting, the bodies in the bathhouse, the missing posters, and her growing suspicion that it was all connected. She spoke of her meeting with Hiromi, the attorney from her past who was now investigating the events. She spoke of Kenzo’s chilling warning about Johan’s true nature and his destructive past.

Miwa told him about the raw pain she had witnessed in Johan’s room and her confusion about what was real and what was a performance. She spoke of the police bureaucracy fighting against the two women trying to find the truth, and her own despair at being caught in the middle of a conflict where the lines between friend and foe were blurred beyond recognition. As she spoke, Grimmer listened intently, his expression thoughtful and serious. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t offer judgment, just absorbed her words with empathy that was a balm to her soul. She detailed the patterns Johan spoke of, the masks Naoya wore, the fear Lotte felt, and the overwhelming confusion she felt about her own perceptions.

“It sounds like you have found yourself in a very dark and complicated situation,” Grimmer said softly when she finally finished, the silence of the park returning. “It’s a lot for one young woman to bear.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Miwa confessed, looking at him, a flicker of hope in her eyes that this gentle stranger might have an answer. “I don’t know who to trust, what is real. I’m lost.”

“Here,” Grimmer said, offering tissues that he pulled out of his bag. “To clear your face. You’ll feel better when you are clean.”

Miwa accepted the tissues with a grateful murmur, quickly wiping the tears and residue of the day’s stress from her face.

He then produced a small, clean bottle of water from his bag. “And some water. You must be dehydrated after all that crying.”
Miwa took the battle, her fingers brushing his slightly cool hand. “Thank you,” she said, her voice a little steadier now. She took a long, refreshing drink, the water a cool, clean jolt to her system.

Grimmer watched her drink the liquid, his expression remaining. The simple actions were a calming presence. After she finished the water and set the bottle down beside her, he spoke again, his voice gentle but serious, steering the conversation back to the difficult reality of her situation.

“Miwa,” he began, his tone thoughtful, “you mentioned you are studying law here, correct? In Munich?”

Miwa nodded, the calm returning to her posture, grounding herself once more. “Yes. International law and German law.”

“Then you are aware of the legal implications of all of this,” Grimmer said, a subtle shift in his tone from a kind stranger to a man with a focused journalistic mind. “The police investigation, the potential for being a witness, the complexities of the German legal system.”

Miwa paused, considering his question. “I am aware,” she said, her voice steady.

“It is a complex thing, the law,” Grimmer mused, his gaze distant for a moment. “It is a system built on rules and patterns, designed to bring order to chaos. But it is also a very human system, prone to the same biases and manipulations you have been encountering.” He looked at her, his expression serious. “Have you considered the legal awareness of your situations? Your rights, your position as a witness, the potential for your involvement to become something more legally binding?” He adjusted his jacket, a focused intensity in his eyes. “You mentioned the BKA is pushing a certain narrative. That has legal implications, Miwa. For you, for Johan, for Naoya. The truth you seek might be lost in the legal complexities if you are not careful.”

His words were a quiet, powerful reminder of the formal structures that governed the chaos she was experiencing. Grimmer looked at Miwa with a serious, thoughtful expression. He adjusted his sweater, a subtle change in his demeanor that suggested he was moving from a place of empathy to one of journalistic purposes.

“Miwa,” he began, his voice low and deliberate, “you mentioned a young man earlier. Naoya Zenin. And his calm demeanor after the shooting, his attempts to control his environment.” He paused, a weight to his words that made Miwa sit up straighter.

“His name is familiar to me,” Grimmer continued, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “In my work as a journalist, I’ve covered many stories about complex and difficult people, the shadows that exist in this world.” He reached into his bag and produced a single, neatly folded document, a printed article from a Japanese newspaper, the text in Japanese characters. “In the past, I wrote a piece about the Zenin family in Japan. About the internal politics of the clan and some of the more unsavory actions of its members. I did a paper once, based on sources, regarding Naoya Zenin’s past deeds, the horrible things he was involved in when he was living in Japan.”

Miwa froze, a wave of shock washing over her that was as cold as the one from the police station. The innocent, helpful facade Naoya wore, the calm narrative of the “victim” —it all began to crumble around her.

“What kind of deeds?” Miwa whispered, her voice barely a breath.

Grimmer looked at her with understanding, a subtle warning in his eyes. “Things that a quiet park in Munich is not meant for, Miwa. Things that speak to a form of arrogance and a complete lack of empathy. A pattern of behavior that goes far beyond a simple dorm scuffle or a debt problem.”

He handed her the printed article. “You have your legal awareness, your personal training, and your instincts. They’ll be useful. But sometimes, the most powerful tool is information.”

Miwa took the printed article from Grimmer, her hands trembling as she unfolded it. The cool breeze of the park rustled the leaves of the oak tree, but the world around her faded away, replaced by the stark Japanese characters on the page. The headline was a bold, alarming summary of the Zenin heir’s involvement in a brutal, hidden conflict within his clan. She began to read, her eyes scanning the dense text with a focused intensity. The article detailed a series of events she could barely comprehend. It wasn’t about simple debts or scuffles; it was about calculated brutality, about the use of power to crush rivals, and a lack of remorse and respect towards women. The paper detailed his involvement in the systematic removal of family members who didn’t fit his definition of strength, the use of violence to enforce his will, and a string of unsavory connections to the criminal underworld of Japan.

The calm, polite mask he wore completely shattered in her mind as she continued to read the horrifying details of his past. The article painted a picture of a man who saw people as tools, who used fear and intimidation as a means to an end, and who was utterly devoid of empathy. The crimes were a pattern of arrogance, entitlement, and cruelty that was deeply unsettling. More unsettling than whatever Johan had potentially been up to in Miwa’s eyes.
Miwa looked up from the article, her hands still trembling as she held the evidence of Naoya Zenin’s dark past. The image of his polite, composed face in the library and the quiet park now seemed like a chilling facade. The information was a powerful weapon, a new front in the quiet war she was fighting.

Grimmer watched her, his expression serious but empathetic. He reached into the small pocket of his pants and produced a small, simple business card, which he handed to her. “My contact information,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “I am a journalist, but I believe in truth and justice. The story you have found yourself in is a complex and dangerous one, and from what you have told me, you are going to need all the help you can get.”

Miwa accepted the card, the paper cool and crisp in her hand. The simple details: “Wolfgang Grimmer, Investigative Journalist,” a phone number, an email address. A lifeline in the growing darkness.

“I will be of assistance as needed,” Grimmer continued, his gaze steady and reassuring. “I may not be a detective or a kendo master, but I have my own skills, my own resources. I can provide information, context, and perhaps a different perspective on the ‘patterns’ you are encountering.” He offered a gentle smile. “You are not alone in this, Miwa. The truth has a way of revealing itself, with a little help.”

Miwa held Grimmer’s business card, the promise of an unexpected ally, a steadying presence. She had come to the park lost and overwhelmed, but the conversation with the kind journalist, and the horrifying truth about Naoya Zenin, had brought a fierce clarity in her mind. Her focus, however, was drawn back to the other enigmatic person in her life. “Thank you, Grimmer,” Miwa said, her tone calmer now. She paused, a new question forming in her mind, a need for balance in the overwhelming information she had just received. “You had a paper on Naoya. Did you ever do any research on…Johan Liebert?”

Grimmer’s expression became thoughtful, a flicker of professional curiosity in his kind eyes. “Johan Liebert,” he repeated the name, rolling it off his tongue. “No, the name is not familiar to me. He was not part of the Japanese story I covered.” He paused, then added, “But you are concerned about him, aren’t you?”

Miwa nodded slowly, the memory of Kenzo’s warning and the raw pain she had witnessed in Johan’s room warring in her mind. “There’s a lot of suspicion around him. A detective and her fiancee are convinced he’s the one behind the disappearances and the murders.”

“And you?” Grimmer asked gently. “What do you believe?”

“I don’t know,” Miwa admitted, the uncertainty returning, though less intense this time. “I’ve seen a lot of masks and a lot of pain. I’ve seen things that could point to a monster and things that point to a deeply wounded human being.” She looked at Grimmer, a silent plea for perspective in her eyes. “Kenzo Tenma warned me that he’s a manipulator, that he destroyed her life years ago.”

Grimmer listened intently, his expression serious. “A chilling possibility,” he murmured. He reached into his bag again, producing a small, high-tech device that looked like a portable computer. “I may not have a paper on him, but like I said, information is a powerful tool.” He began typing on the small device, his fingers moving quickly and efficiently. “Let me see what I can find. A name like that, a history like that…the patterns of the world have a way of revealing themselves, with a little help of research.” He worked for a few moments, the screen a blur of information and data points. “Nothing obvious,” he said at last, no hint of surprise in his voice. “No criminal record, no official reports. It’s almost as if he doesn’t exist, as if his past has been erased.”

Miwa felt a wave of coldness wash over her. Johan’s story was a blank slate, a vacuum of information. The man who saw patterns left no patterns of his own.

“Miwa!” A voice cut through the quiet, and they both looked towards the path.

Lotte was rushing toward them, her face a mask of concern, her bright clothes a splash of color against the subdued tones of the park. She reached them, slightly out of breath, and stopped short, her eyes moving from the unfamiliar man with the briefcase to Miwa’s tear-streaked, but now composed, face. “Are you okay?” she asked, her voice laced with worry. “You sounded awful on the phone. What happened? And who is this?” She gestured to Grimmer, her eyes filled with a mixture of concern and a healthy dose of anthropological curiosity about the new arrival.

“I’m fine now,” Miwa said softly, a genuine smile touching her lips, grateful for her friend’s simple, honest presence. The complex web of international secrets and erased pasts momentarily faded, replaced by the simple reality of a friend who had rushed to her aid.

“This is Wolfgang Grimmer,” Miwa introduced, a steady calm in her voice now. “He is a journalist, and a new ally of ours.”

Grimmer stood and offered Lotte a polite, reassuring smile. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lotte,” he said, his voice gentle and warm. “Miwa has told me a great deal about your kindness and enthusiasm.”

Lotte blinked, surprised by the formal introduction and the compliment, but her concern quickly returned to Miwa. “Ally? What’s going on, Miwa? Did the police tell you something more about Johan? About Naoya?”

“They did,” Miwa said, her voice serious, the weight of the information returning to her. “But we can talk about it later. I’m okay now, really. Thank you for coming.”

Lotte’s concern didn’t fade so quickly, but she accepted Miwa’s reassurance. “Okay, but we’re getting coffee, and you’re telling me everything.”

“Well, I should be going,” Grimmer said, a professional but warm tone to his voice. He reached for his duffel bag and stood up, adjusting his sweater once more.

“Thank you, Grimmer,” Miwa said sincerely, standing up as well, her voice full of gratitude. “For the tissues, the water, the card…for everything.”

“It was my pleasure,” Grimmer replied, a gentle smile on face. He nodded to Lotte. “Lotte, it was a pleasure to meet you as well. I look forward to hearing about your insights into human nature.”

Lotte smiled back, her curiosity piqued by his mysterious words. “Me, too, Mr. Grimmer. Stay safe out there!”

Grimmer nodded, then looked at Miwa one last time, a serious, meaningful look passing between them, a silent acknowledgment of the quiet war they were both a part of. “Remember what I said, Miwa,” he said softly, a subtle warning in his tone. “The truth has a way of revealing itself, but the patterns can be complex. Be careful.”

Miwa nodded, the weight of his word and the information about Naoya and the absence of information about Johan fresh in her mind. “I will. Thank you again.”

Grimmer nodded once more, turning and walking away with a quiet deliberate grace, disappearing down the path and out of sight.

“Okay,” Miwa said to Lotte, a new resolve in her voice. “Let’s get coffee, I have a lot to tell you.”

They both left the park, with Lotte listening intently as Miwa recounted her conversation with Kenzo and Hiromi, her warning about Johan, and Grimmer’s revelation about Naoya’s dark past. Lotte’s usual cheerful chatter had faded, replaced by a quiet, serious thoughtfulness. They walked back towards the university campus, the sun lower in the sky now, casting long shadows. The casual students milling about, the normal hum of campus life, felt jarringly out of place given the dark reality they now faced.

“A monster,” Lotter whispered, breaking the silence, her voice hushed with disbelief. “Naoya Zenin is a monster? The guy who offered to help us with our homework?”

 

“That’s what the paper said,” Miwa confirmed, her voice low. “A series of brutality and arrogance.”

“And Johan?” Lotte asked, a note of worry in her voice. “Kenzo said he was a manipulator. That he destroyed her life?”

Miwa was silent for a moment, the memory of Johan’s pain and his quiet tenderness battling with Kenzo’s warning. “I don’t know, Lotte,” Miwa admitted, the uncertainty returning. “But we have to be careful. With both of them.”

They reached the main gate of the university and began walking towards their dorm building. The campus felt different now, every shadow a potential hiding place, every friendly face a potential mask. The simple life Miwa had craved felt like a distant, impossible dream.

“So what do we do now?” Lotte asked, as they reached the dorm entrance. “We have two potential monsters living on our floor, and the police are fighting each other.”

Miwa stopped just inside the lobby, looking around at the spot where the man had died just two nights ago. “We be careful,” Miwa said, her voice a quiet resolve. “We keep our eyes open, and we keep working behind the scenes as much as possible. Grimmer is gonna be helping, even if we have to work around the BKA.” She looked at Lotte, a flicker of dojo training grounding her.
She was suddenly silent for a moment, her mind racing. The library, with its vast archives and quiet corners, felt like the only safe and logical place to begin piecing it all together. “I need to go to the library, I have a lot of information I need to cross-reference and process.”

Lotte’s face showed a flicker of disappointment at the separation but quickly understood. “Okay. I’ll head up to my room and see if I can find anything useful on my end—maybe some local news archives or something.”

“Good idea,” Miwa said, a sense of strategy settling over her. “We’ll be more efficient that way.”

“Call me if you find anything,” Lotte said as she began walking toward the stairs.

Miwa managed a faint smile, “I promise.”
She walked out the dorm building, the cool evening air a stark contrast to the intensity of her conversation with Lotte. She was focused, her mind a quiet storm of information, her destination the library. The campus was relatively quiet, students still milling about, but a sense of normalcy felt miles away. As she passed a secluded archway near the European History building, a voice cut through the hum of the campus. It was Naoya Zenin’s voice, low and intense, clearly on a phone call. He was speaking in Japanese, a sharp, almost arrogant edge to his tone that was completely devoid of the calm, polite mask he wore for her and Lotte.

Miwa paused, her dojo training kicking in, blending into the shadows of the archway, her movements silent and fluid. She listened intently, her heart rating quickening.

“Yes, the money is ready,” Naoya was saying, his voice a low, confident murmur. “Tonight is good for me. Around midnight.” He paused, listening. “The club near the river, the techno club? Perfect.”

A cold knot formed in Miwa’s stomach. The techno club Lotte had mentioned as a wild idea for them to clear their minds, the very place Lotte had initially suggested.

“No, I am alone,” Naoya continued, his voice laced with continuing arrogance. “The others are back in the dorm, playing student. They’re not a problem.” He chuckled, a low, dismissive sound that was utterly chilling in its casual disregard of the environment. He paused again, listening to the other side of the conversation. “Don’t worry,” he said, the confidence rafting from him. “The police here are a joke. The BKA has everything under control.”

He said a few more words and then the call ended. Naoya pocketed his phone, a self-satisfied smirk on his face, and walked away in the opposite direction, towards the campus gate. He paused for a brief moment. A flicker of something crossed his face—a subtle, primal instinct, a sense that he was not as alone as he believed. His head turned slightly, and his sharp eyes swept over the archway where Miwa was hidden.

Miwa froze, her breathing shallow, her body pressed against the cool stone. She was utterly still, a silence in the growing night.

Naoya’s gaze lingered for just a second, a vague, distant look that didn’t quite land on her specific spot. He narrowed his eyes slightly, a hint of suspicion on his face, a momentary disruption in his confident demeanor. But the shadows were deep, and Miwa was a ghost in the machine at that moment. The moment passed. He dismissed the feeling as a figment of his imagination, a natural wariness from his life. He shrugged slightly, the smirk returning to his face, and continued his walk towards the campus gates, his footsteps fading into the distance.

Miwa remained perfectly still until Naoya’s footsteps faded entirely and she was certain he was gone. The momentary suspicion in his eyes, the almost-discovery only hardened her resolve. She emerged from the darkness, her composure returning with a quiet, fierce intensity. The library would wait.

She walked quickly back to the dorm building, her mind already racing with the pieces of her own plan. She moved through the lobby and up the stairs, bypassing Lotte’s room for the moment, needing a few minutes of silent strategy in the privacy of her own space. Once inside her room, the door locked, she pulled out a notepad and a pen. The plan began to form, a mix of past combat, her legal knowledge, and the new alliances she had formed.

1. Reconnaissance & Coordination with Grimmer: The journalist had the resources and the discreet nature needed for surveillance. She would contact him first, explaining the situation and asking for his assistance in locating the exact club and planning a surveillance strategy. He could provide professional guidance and potentially journalistic equipment to document the meeting.

2. Involving Allies (Carefully): Lotte’s enthusiasm was a strength, but Miwa needed to protect her from immediate danger. She would inform Lotte of the plan but ask her to stay back, perhaps monitoring communications or providing a safe base. Johan was a wild card, but his silence and observational skills were invaluable. The trust they had built, however fragile, felt real enough to risk. She would have to involve him, using his skills to move in the background, but with extreme caution given Kenzo’s warning.

3. Documentation: Her primary goal was to obtain irrefutable proof. She would need a way to record the conversation discreetly. Her phone’s recorder or, better yet, a device from Grimmer would be essential.

Miwa had soon finished outlining her plan in her notebook, the steps clear and focused. The immediate objective was clear: secure Grimmer’s help for the surveillance operation tonight at the techno club. She picked up her phone, her thumb hovering over his contact information, the business card a reassuring presence on her desk. The darkness of the situation felt less daunting now that she had a concrete plan.

She dialed the number. Grimmer answered almost immediately, his voice calm and professional.

“Wolfgang Grimmer,” he said.

“Mr. Grimmer,” Miwa replied, a quiet urgency in her voice. “It’s Kasumi Miwa. I need your help. I have a lead.”

“A lead?” Grimmer asked, his tone shifting from professional to focused interest. “You sound resolute, Miwa. What have you found?”

“I overheard Naoya on the phone just now,” Miwa explained, her voice low and careful, the memory of his arrogant voice fresh in her mind. “He’s meeting someone tonight, at midnight, at the techno club near the river.”

A pause on the other end of the line, then Grimmer’s voice, serious and measured. “A meeting. At a specific location, at midnight.” He paused again, a thoughtful silence. “And you believe this is related to his past in Japan and the events here?”

“I’m certain of it,” Miwa said, her voice firm with conviction. “He spoke of money, and the police basically being wrapped around his finger. He thinks no one is watching him.”

“He’s wrong,” Grimmer added, “This is a significant lead. You are planning on going there tonight, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Miwa confirmed, her voice steady. “I need evidence. I need to know the truth.”

“Then you’ll need assistance,” Grimmer stated, his tone firm. “A techno club is a chaotic environment, not ideal for amateur surveillance. The light is low, the noise is high. I have the equipment and the experience. We can coordinate.”

“Thank you, Mr. Grimmer,” Miwa said, a wave of relief washing over her. The offer of his professional assistance was a game-changer.

Miwa hung up the phone moments after. She left her room and walked the short distance to room 404. The hallway was silent. She raised her hand and knocked on his door, the sound sharp in the quiet corridor. After a moment, the door opened. Johan stood there, dressed simply, his composure perfectly in place, but with a quiet warmth in his eyes that only she could see.

“Miwa,” he greeted, his voice calm and even. “Is everything alright?”

“No,” Miwa said, her voice low and urgent, a seriousness in her tone that immediately caught his full attention. “I overheard Naoya on the phone just now. He’s meeting someone tonight, at midnight, at the techno club near the river. I’m planning to spy on him.” She paused, then added, “I have a plan with a man I met at the park, but I need your help too.”

Johana listened intently, his expression serious now. He didn’t interrupt, just absorbed her words. “A meeting with Naoya Zenin, tonight at midnight, at a club.” He paused, his gaze thoughtful. “That’s a dangerous proposition.”

“I know,” Miwa said, determined in her voice. “But this is the key, Johan. This is the truth we’ve been looking for. The missing people, the dorm shooting, it’s all connected to this.”

Johan was silent for a moment, considering the request, the risks, the patterns. He looked at Miwa, and in his eyes, she saw a flicker of the friend she had found within his dark heart, not the monster of Kenzo’s past.

“Very well,” Johan replied softly. “I’ll assist you tonight.”

With a wave of relief washing over Miwa, she finished speaking with Johan.

“I need to contact Lotte,” Miwa said to Johan, pulling out her phone. “We’re meeting Grimmer at the park in an hour.” She quickly opened her messaging app and found Lotte’s contact information.

“Lotte, plans have changed.” she typed quickly. “We have a lead. Naoya is meeting someone at a techno club tonight. We need to meet up with Grimmer in the park in an hour. Meet me outside the main college entrance in 15 minutes.”

Miwa and Johan had walked toward the main college entrance, the air crackling with a quiet, focused energy. Lotte burst through the front doors a moment later, a bright, slightly breathless whirlwind of energy. “Okay, a real mission!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide with excitement and a touch of apprehension.

Her sudden appearance drew surprise from Miwa, wondering how she had ended up in the area so quickly. “We meet Grimmer in the park first,” Miwa said, keeping her tone calm. “He has the details and equipment prepared for us.”

“Let’s go,” Lotte insisted, leading the way towards the park, her enthusiasm a strange but welcome contrast to the grim reality of their situation.

They arrived at the park fountain a few minutes later. It was quiet and empty, the moonlight casting long, eerie shadows. Grimmer was already there, standing by the edge of the fountain, his duffel bag in hand, a composed presence in the quiet night.

“Mr. Grimmer,” Miwa greeted him, her voice steady as they approached.
“Good to see you all,” Grimmer greeted them all with a polite smile, his gaze serious and focused. “Thank you for coming. The information you’ve provided so far has given us a significant lead.” He opened his duffel bag, revealing a set of equipment: small earpieces, a compact recorder, and a few sleek, high-tech devices Miwa didn’t exactly recognize. “We have everything we need.”

“Alright,” Miwa began, her voice steady and resolute, taking charge of the strategy. “We can assign everyone a role.” She looked at Lotte, a gentle but firm look in her eyes. “Lotte,” Miwa said, “your role will be crucial, but it’s outside the immediate danger. We need a safe zone, a base of operations near the club where we can communicate and regroup. You have a keen sense of observation and are excellent with people. You can find a nearby cafe, a discreet van, or a quiet side street where you can monitor our communications, keep a look out, and be ready to provide support or call the authorities if things go sideways.” She paused, then added, “You’ll be our lifeline, our connection to the outside world.”

Lotte’s initial excitement softened, a look of thoughtful consideration in her face. “A base of operations,” she murmured, an anthropological light in her eyes. “I like it. I can be our ‘control tower’.” She nodded, an adjustment to her posture. “Alright, I understand.”

Miwa then turned to Johan, “Johan and I can go inside the club. He has an innate ability to blend in, to move through chaos like it’s nothing. I’ve got kendo training and my physical awareness.” She looked at Grimmer, who nodded in agreement.

“We’ll use the earpieces to communicate, yes?” Johan said, his voice calm and even. “Find Naoya, observe his meeting, and document everything.”

“I can be the eyes and ears,” Grimmer added, a serious look on his face. “I will monitor external frequencies, provide any information on the club’s layout or security, and ensure the truth can be documented and protected.”

The plan was set. As Lotte eagerly discussed her strategy for finding the perfect observation spot with Grimmer, Miwa looked at Johan directly. The question that had been gnawing at her since the police station, since Kenzo’s chilling warning, needed to be answered before they walked into a dangerous situation.

“Johan,” Miwa began, her voice low and serious. “Can I talk to you for a moment? Privately?”

Johan paused his conversation with Grimmer about the earpieces, turning his full attention to Miwa. His expression was calm, but a subtle flicker in his clear blue eyes acknowledged the gravity of her request. He nodded and walked with her a short distance away, towards a secluded part of the park, out of earshot of Lotte and Grimmer.

Once they were alone, the moonlight casting long shadows around them, Miwa turned to face him. The quiet understanding they had built over the past few days, the shared vulnerabilities, battled with the cold facts Kenzo had presented.

“Johan,” Miwa began, her voice steady but with a hint of urgency. “I met with Kenzo Tenma today.”

Johan’s face remained impassive, his composure unwavering, but Miwa saw a subtle tension in his posture, a stillness that was all the more revealing.

“She told me about your past,” Miwa continued, her gaze fixed on his, searching for a reaction, a flicker of the truth. “The hospital, the manipulation, the lives you destroyed.” She paused, the weight of her words hanging in the air. “She warned me about you, Johan. She said you used your pain to make people trust you, to manipulate them later.” She looked at him with more intention, a silent plea for honesty in her eyes. “I chose to trust you, to see the good in you. But now…I need to seriously know. Are you hiding anything from me? Are you using me for your own personal take?”

The silence stretched between them, heavy with the weight of her question and the secrets of his past. The moonlight illuminated his face, making his clear blue eyes seem almost luminous in the dark.

“Miwa,” Johan said softly, his voice a low, smooth murmur. “The past is a complex pattern. And the truth is often a matter of perspective.” He paused, a flicker of something in his eyes that could have been sadness, or regret, or something else entirely, something unknowable. “I have no desire to manipulate you. I have no desire to use you. I see you as merely an ally, a friend you may say. But I have my own past. And while I may not be able to share everything, I am here, fighting this battle with you.” He offered a faint, genuine smile, the kind she had seen at the bathhouse, the kind that was reserved only for her. “Do you trust me, Miwa?”

Miwa took a deep breath, grounding herself, focusing on the here and now, the truth of their quiet alliance forged in the darkness of Munich. Trust wasn’t about having all the answers; it was about the present moment, the shared purpose. “Yes,” she said, the uncertainty in her mind replaced by a firm, clear trust. “I trust you, Johan.” She met his gaze directly. “I choose to trust you.”

A subtle warmth entered Johan’s eyes, a genuine softness that transcended his usual composure. “Thank you,” he said softly, a quiet gratitude in his voice. “That means a great deal.”

“Johan,” Miwa began, her voice even softer now, a gentle murmur in the quiet park, “the night we shared together…in your room, and at the bathhouse…it was special to me.” She paused, a light blush touching her cheeks, choosing her words carefully, wanting to convey the depth of her feelings without breaking the delicate balance they had found. “In all this chaos, all the lies,” she continued, “those moments of true humanity, the trust we built…it made me realize how rare and important those connections are, no matter how short.” Her gaze remained earnest and open. “I’d like to keep things special between us, Johan. Not just as allies, but as something more personal, something we protect.”

She wasn’t asking for commitment, or a grand romantic gesture; she was simply acknowledging the unique and profound connection they had formed, a quiet sanctuary in a world full of danger and deceit. She wanted to safeguard that, to ensure it remained untainted by the darkness they were about to face.

Johan listened intently, his expression thoughtful, a subtle softness in his clear blue eyes that only Miwa seemed to be able to elicit. The ghost of a genuine smile touched his lips, a look of understanding. “I agree,” Johan said softly, his voice low and sincere. “The silence between us, the understanding…it is a pattern I wish to preserve.” He paused, then added, “Our moments of quiet truth…they are indeed special. And I will protect them, as I will protect you.”

Miwa and Johan had soon returned to Lotte and Grimmer by the fountain. The plan was being finalized as they approached. Grimmer handed them small, sophisticated earpieces and a tiny, discreet recorder for Miwa. Lotte was given her instructions for the “control tower,” and soon after, they began to split up.

Grimmer drove Lotte in his car to a quiet side street near the club’s location, while Miwa and Johan took a taxi to the general area, wanting to approach the club on foot. The drive was silent, the city lights a blur through the window, the weight of their mission settling over them. The air was cool and crisp as they stepped out of the cab a few blocks from the river, the subtle thumping of a heavy bass already audible in the distance.

“The club is around the next corner,” Johan said, his voice calm and even in the quiet street. He adjusted his simple, dark attire, a subtle nod to the need to blend in. Miwa was dressed simply as well, her movements controlled, grounding herself in the face of the impending operation.

They walked toward the sound, the music growing louder, the beat a physical presence in the air. The club, a nondescript warehouse building near the river, was buzzing with activity. A line of people snaked around the corner, all eager to get inside. The bright lights of the entrance cut through the darkness, illuminating the faces of the young people queuing up.

“Lotte, Mr. Grimmer, we’re at the entrance,” Miwa said into her earpiece, her voice a low murmur.

“Understood,” Grimmer’s calm voice replied instantly in her ear. “We’re in position. The club is called ‘Die Maschine’. Security is tight, expect a pat-down.”

“Die Maschine,” Johan murmured beside her, his gaze scanning the building, the area, looking for the patterns, the quiet anomalies in the crowd.

“We need to find Naoya,” Miwa said, her focus sharp. “He should be meeting his contact around midnight. It’s almost that time.”

They moved into the line, just two more students in the crowd, their movements blending in, their mission hidden beneath the surface of the loud, vibrant Munich nightlife. The loud, pulsating techno music growing louder with every step. The bouncer, a massive man with a shaved head and a stern expression, looked them over.

“IDS,” he grunted, a heavy German accent to his voice.

They both presented their student IDs. The bouncer scanned them, his eyes flicking from the cards to their faces. He handed them back with a grunt of approval and waved them through, patting them down quickly for weapons.

“We’ve made it inside,” Miwa said into her earpiece, the noise of the club already a deafening presence.

“Understood,” Grimmer’s voice replied instantly, calm and steady. “The floor plan suggests a main dance area, a bar area, and a VIP lounge on the second floor. Be cautious.”

They stepped into the main club area, and the sensory overload was immediate. The music was a physical force, the heavy bass vibrating through Miwa’s chest. The lights were a dizzying array of lasers, strobes, and flashing colors, cutting through the haze of smoke and sweat. People were dancing in a frenzy, a mass of moving bodies in the low light.

“It’s chaotic,” Miwa said, leaning close to Johan’s ear to be heard over the noise.

“Ideal for observation,” Johan replied smoothly, his gaze already scanning the crowd, the edges of the room, looking for a pattern, a quiet anomaly. He moved with his usual unhurried grace, his movements blending with the crowd, a phantom in the machine.

They moved to the edges of the dance floor, trying to get their bearings. The bar area was crowded, a sea of faces and flashing lights. The second floor, the VIP area, looked more subdued, a quieter place where conversations could actually be heard.

“He’s not on the main floor,” Johan acknowledged, his voice low, his eyes scanning the second floor balcony. “He would prefer a place with less chaos, a place where he can control his environment.”

“The VIP area it is,” Miwa confirmed, her focus sharp. “But getting in will be a challenge.” She watched the bouncers near the stairs, their imposing figures a clear barrier. A direct approach was out of the question; it would draw too much attention and likely fail. She needed a different strategy, one that utilized their individual strengths. “Johan,” she continued, leaning closer to his ear to be heard over the noise, “stay here, on the first floor. Use the bar area, the shadows. You have an uncanny ability to be everywhere and nowhere at once.” She paused, a determined look on her face. “You can be our eyes down here, monitoring the main entrance and the general flow of people, ready to alert us if things go wrong or if we need a quick exit.”

Johan listened intently, his expression thoughtful. He didn’t argue. “The ground floor provides the best overall visibility,” he confirmed smoothly, his gaze already scanning the bar area for the perfect observation point. “It is the most logical position.”

“I will make my way up to the VIP area,” Miwa continued, the plan forming in her mind. Her kendo training had taught her about swift, subtle movement, about moving with purpose and minimal detection. She wasn’t a phantom like Johan, but she could be quiet and swift. “I can slowly, subtly, work my way through the crowd towards the stairs. I’ll find a way past the bouncers, blend in, and get into position before the meeting begins.”

“Be cautious, dear Miwa,” Johan whispered softly, his breath hitting her ear, a subtle warmth forming around them both. “The VIP area may be calmer, but it is not safer.”

“I will,” Miwa promised. “We have the earpieces. We can communicate in case of anything.”

Miwa began moving into the heart of the dance floor, the pulsating music and chaotic lights a perfect cover for movements. She wasn’t dancing; she was navigating, her body moving with a subtle, controlled grace honed by years of kendo practice. Her focus was sharp, tuned into the movements of the crowd, the flow of people, the hidden paths. “Johan,” Miwa murmured into her ear piece, her voice barely a breath. “I’m moving toward the stairs. Cover is good.”

“Understood,” Johan’s calm voice replied instantly in her ear. “Observing the bouncers from the bar area. They seem focused on the entrance and the main floor. You have a window.”

Miwa reached the edge of the dance floor, the wall near the stairs a momentary sanctuary. The two bouncers were indeed focused on a minor scuffle near the bar area, their attention momentarily diverted.

Now.

She moved swiftly, subtly blending into a small group of people heading in the general direction of the stairs. The ascent was a slow, careful process. She stayed close to the wall, in the shadows, her movements deliberate and silent. The stairs were dimly lit, the light from the main floor barely reaching the upper steps. She reached the top landing, the noise of the main floor a little quieter here, replaced by a more subdued, conversational hum. The VIP area was a lounge, with plush seating areas and small tables, a bar at one end. The lighting was softer, a warm, red glow that provided a stark contrast to the strobing chaos below. A bouncer was positioned at the top, checking for wristbands, his back to her for a moment as he dealt with a group of loud patrons.

Now.

Miwa slipped past him, blending into the quiet conversation of a nearby group. The movement was fluid, almost imperceptible. She had made it.

“I’m in the VIP area,” Miwa whispered into her earpiece, her heart pounding a silent rhythm in her chest. “The area is clear of security for now.”

“Understood,” Johan’s voice replied instantly. “I see a figure moving towards the main seating area on the balcony. It appears to be Naoya Zenin. Proceed with caution.”

Miwa’s eyes scanned the room, her gaze landing on a figure in a sharp, expensive-looking suit, moving towards the secluded corner booth. It was indeed Naoya. She moved through the soft, red glow of the VIP lounge, her eyes fixed on his figure moving. Her movements were subtle, blending into the background of the lounge’s subdued conversations. She found a large potted plant near the booth and slipped behind it, a quiet, effective hiding spot.

“I’m in position,” Miwa whispered.

“Understood,” Johan’s calm voice replied instantly. “Naoya is alone for now. Waiting for the contact.”

Miwa watched as Naoya sat in the booth, a self-satisfied smirk on his face as he looked out over the main dance floor below. He checked his expensive watch, then looked towards the bar area, an expectant look on his face.

A figure approached the booth, a woman with striking features and an air of quiet confidence that matched Naoya’s arrogance. She wore a stylish, dark dress and moved with a fluid grace that suggested strength and control. She carried two glasses, one with a dark liquid, the other with a lighter, amber drink.

“Mr. Grimmer, a woman is approaching Naoya’s booth,” Miwa whispered into her earpiece, her eyes focused on the interaction. “Mid-twenties, dark hair, confident demeanor.”

“Understood,” Grimmer’s voice replied. “See if you can get a name or details.”

The woman reached the booth and slid in opposite Naoya, a knowing smile on his lips. “Naoya,” she greeted him, her voice smooth and confident.

“Mai,” Naoya replied, a flicker of genuine amusement in his eyes as he accepted the darker drink from her. “Right on time, as always. You never disappoint.”

“I try not to,” Mai said, a subtle confident tone to her voice. She took a sip of her own drink, her gaze fixed on his. “The money is ready?”

“It is,” Naoya confirmed, a quiet confidence in his tone. “And the package you promised? The one to ensure the BKA stays on track?”

Miwa leaned in closer behind the large potted plant, the discreet recorder in her hand capturing every word. The conversation between Naoya and the woman, Mai Zenin, was a cold, transactional exchange about money and a mysterious “package.” The calm confident facade Naoya wore earlier was replaced by a sharp, predatory intensity as he spoke to the woman.

Mai took another sip of her drink, a knowing, almost superior smile on her lips. “About that,” she began, her voice casual, a stark contrast to the growing tension in the booth. “I didn’t bring it.”

Naoya froze, the confident smirk vanishing instantly, replaced by a cold, hard anger that sent a chill down Miwa’s spine even from her hiding spot. “You didn’t bring it?” he repeated, his voice low and dangerous, a sharp edge that was utterly devoid of the polite facade he wore for the university crowd. “Mai, we had a deal. A very clear, very simple deal.”

“I know,” Mai said smoothly, a flicker of amusement in her eyes, a dangerous game she was clearly enjoying. “But the package…it’s better where it is. Safe.”

“Safe?” Naoya growled, leaning forward, his voice a guttural growl that was barely a whisper, but carried a potent threat. His hand slammed down on the table, the glasses jumping, the liquid sloshing. The casual conversation of the lounge paused for a brief moment, a few eyes flicking toward the booth, before quickly returning to their own affairs, the inherent rule of the club being to ignore the obvious patterns of conflict. “There is no ‘safe’ in this business, Mai,” Naoya said, his voice laced with venom, the mask completely gone now, revealing the monster Miwa had read about in Grimmer’s paper. “There is only control. And you are out of control.”

He reached across the table, his hand wrapping around Mai’s arm like a vise, his fingers digging in with a brutal force. Mai winced, the smile on her face vanishing, replaced by a look of pain and cold fury.

“Mr, Grimmer, he’s getting violent,” Miwa whispered into her earpiece, her heart pounding in her chest, the violence she had witnessed in the dorm lobby returning with brutal clarity. “He’s hurting her.”

“Understood,” Grimmer’s calm voice replied instantly in her ear. “We have the audio. Be ready, Miwa.”

Naoya pulled Mai closer, the movement rough and brutal, his eyes filled with a terrifying, cold rage. “Where is the package, Mai?” he demanded. “Tell me where it is, or I’ll make you regret your existence around me!”

Mai, in return, was not cowed. The look of pain on her face was quickly replaced by a cold, calculating fury. She was not a victim to be easily intimidated. With a sudden, swift movement, she brought her free hand up, her nails extended into sharp, claw-like points. She raked her hand across Naoya’s face with brutal force.

Naoya roared in pain, his hand flying from her arm to his face, blood welling from three deep scratches across his cheek and temple. The pain momentarily broke his concentration, his gaze shifting to the blood on his fingers.

In that split second, Mai capitalized on her advantage. She shoved her chair back, the moment sharp and loud against the floor, and scrambled out of the booth. She didn’t look back, her movements fluid and determined as she disappeared into the maze of the VIP lounge.

“He’s bleeding, she’s escaping!” Miwa whispered into her earpiece, the small recorder in her hand capturing the sounds of the confrontation and the ensuing chaos in the booth.

“Understood,” Grimmer’s voice replied instantly, calm and steady. “We have the audio. Miwa, follow Mai! We need to know where that package is! Johan, she’s coming your way!”

Naoya, his face contorted in pain and rage, looked up, the blood on his face a stark contrast to his expensive suit. His eyes, filled with a terrifying, cold fury, swept over the lounge, his gaze landing on a few of the patrons who were now openly staring. He cursed under his breath, a sharp Japanese epithet, and scrambled out of the booth, ignoring the blood running down his face. He moved towards, his movements fueled by anger and a desperate need to regain control.

Miwa didn’t hesitate and began moving towards the booth, focused on her task. As she navigated through the crowd, a sudden hand grabbed her from behind, pulling her into the shadows. Naoya, who had been aware of her presence the entire time, had attacked. His fingers wrapped around her neck, pulling her close behind a large pillar. His grip wasn’t tight enough to truly choke her, but it was a clear warning of what he was capable of.

“Sneaky little spy, aren’t you, Kasumi?” he hissed in Japanese, his voice barely cutting through the loud techno music. Dancers nearby continued their movements, completely unaware of the tension. “Hiding behind the plants, recording things you don’t understand.”

Miwa gasped, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and anger.

“Did you really think I didn’t know you were there?” he sneered, his grip tightening slightly. “That little trick in the pool? I saw right through it. I always know when I’m being watched.” A cold, predatory look filled his eyes. “And you thought I would help you?” he continued, a cruel smile on his face. “How naive. You actually believed I would assist with this ‘case.’. You’re just a small-town girl playing detective in a world far too complex for you.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. “This is a world of power and control. You and your friends are children pretending to be adults. You should have stayed out of it, stayed safe.” His eyes glinted in the flashing lights. “Now you know too much, and that knowledge comes with a cost.”

“Johan!” Miwa managed to gasp into her earpiece, a desperate hope that someone could hear her over the music, it was however swallowed by the deafening thud of the bass. Naoya’s eyes narrowed, a cruel smirk remaining on his lips as he realized the extent of her little operation.

“You even brought them with you?” Naoya snarled in Japanese, his voice laced with venom, his grip on her neck tightening for a moment before he switched tactics.

With a powerful, sudden shove, Naoya flung Miwa across the lounge. She stumbled backward, her shoulder slamming into a low glass coffee in the center of the VIP area. The impact was sharp and painful. The table, laden with glasses and bottles, shattered with a loud crash that momentarily cut through the techno music. Shards of glass flew everywhere as Miwa collapsed onto the plush seating area nearby, a sharp pain radiating through her arm and side.

The loud noise and the sight of the shattering glass finally garnered the full attention of the lounge’s patrons. Whispers and gasps filled the aren, the music momentarily fading in importance. The bouncer at the top of the stairs, who had been distracted, now looked over with a start, moving towards the scene with a heavy, purposeful stride.

“Miwa! Miwa, are you okay?” Lotte’s frantic voice pierced through her earpiece, followed by Grimmer’s urgent instructions to move.

Miwa groaned, pushing herself up with a wince, her arm throbbing from the impact. A small cut on her hand was bleeding, a stark red against the soft upholstery. Naoya stood over her, his face a mask of cold fury and satisfaction, the blood from his own injuries mixing with the casual arrogance of his posture. He leaned down and grabbed a handful of her hair, the movement rough and painful, pulling her head up so she was forced to look at him. Miwa winced, the pain a sharp jolt that grounded her focus.

“You’re pathetic,” he snarled, his voice a low, guttural growl that was barely a whisper.

With a sudden, brutal exertion of force, Naoya yanked her up and tossed her across the lounge again, a cold, calculated move. This time, Miwa wasn’t caught by the seating area. Her body slammed into a sturdy, wooden table, the impact radiating pain through her side and legs. Glasses and bottles crashed to the floor, adding to the growing chaos and stares of the now fully-attentive patrons. Miwa groaned, pushing herself up with a wince, her entire body throbbing from the impacts. The bouncer was closer now, pushing his way through the stunned onlookers.

Naoya turned and moved away from the chaos he’d created in the VIP lounge, the sounds of the crowd’s shock and the bouncer’s heavy footsteps fading behind him. He ignored the stares and the blood on his face, his focus shifting entirely to his next objective: finding Miwa’s “partner,” the quiet one, the observer. He reached the top of the stairs and began his descent, his movements shift and determined, blending into the flow of people heading up and down the stairs. The moment he reached the main floor, the full force of the techno music hit him again, the deafening bass vibrating through his chest. The main dance area was a swirling mass of bodies, a perfect place to hide, and a perfect place to observe. His eyes scanned the crowd with a predatory focus, the adrenaline of the confrontation fueling his senses. He moved to the edge of the bar area, his gaze sweeping over the faces, the patterns of movement, looking for a break in the chaos.

And then he saw him. Near the main entrance, standing slightly apart from the crowd, was Johan Liebert. He was a composed, still presence, his clear blue eyes scanning the crowd with a quiet intensity. He was blending in perfectly, but to Naoya’s sharp, discerning eye, he stood out like a beacon. A cold, satisfied smirk touched Naoya’s lips as he reached inside his expensive jacket, his fingers brushing against the cool, familiar metal concealed within a hidden sheath. It was a sleek, formidable combat knife, a tool of his trade. His fingers expertly maneuvered the weapon, the smooth motion hidden by the moving bodies around him.

The casual arrogance that defined him in Japan returned with a vengeance. He began subtly adjusting his grip on the hilt, testing the weight, ensuring the movement would be fluid and efficient when the time came. He was preparing for contact, for the moment he would finally meet the “phantom” face to face.

Johan’s gaze, sharp and analytical, landed on Naoya’s figure moving through the crowd. The blood on his face, the intense focus, the cold fury—it all spoke of a predator stalking his prey. Johan’s eyes tracked his movements, the subtle shifts in his posture, the purposeful path through the dancers. And then he saw it: the almost imperceptible movement of Naoya’s hand inside his jacket, the subtle adjustment of his grip on a hidden weapon. A knife. He didn’t panic. He didn’t warn Miwa or Lotte immediately, not wanting to alert Naoya to their full awareness. Instead, he began to prepare, his movements subtle and efficient. He shifted his weight, his posture subtly altering, getting ready to react with speed and precision.

Naoya had reached the edge of the crowd, just a few feet from Johan, his hand moving to the hilt of his weapon, preparing for the final, decisive movement. Johan was still observing the crowd, his eyes scanning, completely unaware of the danger looming behind him. With a sudden, explosive movement, Naoya lunged forward, the weapon in his hand a blur of motion. The attack was swift, silent, and brutal. He didn’t hesitate, his years of experience in violence guiding his hand. The weapon found its mark with a sickening thud, plunging deep into Johan’s chest. The impact was sharp and visceral. Johan gasped, a look of shocked surprise on his face, his body stiffening as the reality of the brutal attack sunk in.

Naoya, a cold satisfaction in his face, didn’t pull the weapon out, but his grip remained on the hilt, twisting it slightly, a surge of power and control radiating from him. “The quiet one, the ghost,” he hissed in Japanese, his voice laced with venom. “Not so untouchable now, are you?”

The pain was immense, but Johan’s analytical mind, his control, didn’t break. He couldn’t let it. He was a medical student; he understood physiology, the proximity of the heart, the lungs. He knew his time was limited. He had to act. He began to struggle against Naoya, not with raw strength, but with a calculated, desperate efficiency. His hands grabbed Naoya’s wrists, pushing against the hilt of the weapon, a silent effort to stop the further damage, to give himself a moment, a chance. He used his weight, his body, to leverage Naoya, to create a physical battle that would draw attention, create a distraction.

“Johan! Johan, are you okay?” Miwa’s frantic voice pierced through his earpiece, a sharp reality in the chaos.

“He’s been attacked!” Lotte’s voice followed, full of fear and urgency. “Call the people, Grimmer!”

Naoya’s eyes widened slightly in surprise as he heard the voices through the earpiece. He suddenly ripped the earpiece from Johan’s ear, the plastic snapping as he crushed it in his hand. He then leaned in close, his mouth near where the device had been, his voice a low, guttural growl that was barely a whisper, but laced with a chilling menace. He knew they were listening.

“Listen closely, you pathetic little spies,” Naoya hissed in English, his voice cold and venomous. “I have your friend. If I hear one word about the police, one siren, I will end him. Do you understand?”

“Miwa, come in! Johan! Do you read me?” Grimmer’s voice was rising with urgency, his expression growing tense.

Outside the pulsating techno club, in the quiet safe zone of Grimmer’s car, Lotte and the journalist were scrambling. The earpiece had gone silent after Naoya’s chilling threat and the sound of the device being crushed.

“They’re gone,” Lotte said, her voice frantic, her hands trembling. “He broke them! We can’t hear them!”

“Try reconnecting,” Grimmer instructed, his fingers moving quickly over his equipment, a focused intensity in his eyes. “The frequency might be temporary. Lotte, try Miwa’s phone directly. Text her. Anything.”
Lotte fumbled for her phone, her fingers clumsy with fear. “He said he would hurt Johan if we called the police,” she whispered, tears welling in her eyes. “Oh god, Mr. Grimmer, he threatened them! He has them!”

“We have to assume he is listening,” Grimmer said, a serious, contemplative look on his face. “Any direct call or text might trigger him. We must be cautious.” He looked at the earpieces, the silence a heavy, deafening truth. “The direct line of communication is severed. We are flying blind.”

“But we can’t just do nothing!” Lotte cried, her usual energy a frantic, panicked presence in the quiet car. “They’re in danger! Johan is hurt!”

“We can’t act rashly,” Grimmer said, his voice firm. “That is what Naoya wants. He wants us to make a mistake.”

Miwa pushed herself up from the wooden table, her body throbbing with pain from Naoya’s brutal attacks. The noise of the club, the shouts of the bouncers, and the whispers of the patrons momentarily faded to a dull roar. The immediate danger from Naoya had passed, but her earpiece was silent, then filled with Lotte’s frantic voice, cut off by static. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she realized the implications.

She ignored the bouncer, who was now at her side, his heavy voice asking if she was okay. She focused her mind, the pain a distant hum, her dojo training kicking in with a fierce, calm intensity. “Mr. Grimmer, Lotte, I’m okay,” Miwa whispered into her earpiece, a desperate hope they could hear her, but the silence confirmed her fears. The line was dead.

She stumbled slightly, the pain in her side a sharp jolt, but she forced herself to move, her focus a steel trap on the stairs. The red lights of the VIP area seemed dimmer now, the air cooler as she moved through the stunned patrons, ignoring their stares and the shattered glass on the floor. She reached the top of the stairs and began her descent, her movements slow and deliberate, each step a careful calculation. The noise of the main floor grew louder, a wave of sound crashing against her. She pushed through it, her eyes scanning the main floor, the bar area, looking for any sign of Johan or Naoya.

“Johan,” Miwa whispered, a silent plea.

She moved through the edge of the crowd, the dancers a blur of bodies and light. The area where Johan had been standing near the entrance was now a small circle of quiet people backing away from a spot on the floor. Miwa’s heart hammered against her ribs, a cold dread filling her stomach. She pushed her way through the small circle of panic, her eyes landing on the brutal scene: Johan, a sharp weapon embedded in his chest, struggling with Naoya who still held the hilt with a cruel grip. The blood on the floor was a stark reality against the cheap linoleum.

“Johan!” Miwa yelled, a sharp, fierce cry that cut through the noise of the music.

Naoya looked up, his eyes wide with surprise at her sudden presence. The smirk vanished instantly, replaced by a look of cold fury.

Miwa didn’t hesitate, converging her movement into a single calculated, powerful attack. Her arm, throbbing from the earlier impact, was a weapon, her hand a focused point of force. She moved in, her target Naoya’s face, a sharp open-handed strike designed to break his concentration and his grip on the weapon. The move was swift and precise. Naoya, caught off guard by her direct, head-on attack, barely had time to react.

Her strike connected with a sharp thwack against Naoya’s jaw. The impact sent Naoya’s head back, his grip eventually loosening for a split second, his body staggering slightly from the force of her blow.

“Now, Johan! Get free!” Miwa screamed, every muscle in her body focused on the fight, the pain of her earlier injuries a distant hum.

Johan struggled with a surge of desperate energy, leveraging the momentary break in Naoya’s full focus to push back with a surprising force, trying to create distance and a chance to escape.

But Naoya was a seasoned fighter, a predator in his element. The shock of Miwa’s attack quickly faded, replaced by a cold, brutal fury. He regarded his foot in an instant, his eyes narrowing into slits of pure venom. He released his grip on the weapon entirely, a calculated move to free his hands for the next threat. He easily dodged Miwa’s next strike, a precise but telegraphed punch, and retaliated with brutal efficiency. He moved with a speed and ferocity that completely overwhelmed Miwa, grabbing her arm, twisting it sharply, ignoring her gasp of pain. He used her own momentum against her, pulling her off balance and delivering a powerful kick to her already-injured side. The pain was sharp and intense. Miwa stumbled backward, gasping for breath, the force of the blow leaving her winded. She tried to counter, but Naoya was too fast, too violent.

Naoya stood over the doubled-over Miwa, his face a mask of cold satisfaction. “You should have stayed in your little dojo, pathetic girl,” he hissed, his voice laced with venom. “This is my world, and you are nothing in it.”

The main floor of “Die Maschine” was a swirling chaos of panic and confusion. The bouncers were trying to restore order, but the sight of the blood and the confrontation was too much for the revelers. Just as Naoya was about to make his next move, a new, determined figure burst through the entrance, pushing past the bouncers with an authoritative force. It was Wolfgang Grimmer. The mild-mannered journalist was changed. The kind, empathetic expression was replaced by a rage far more terrifying than Naoya’s. He scanned the crowd, his eyes moving past the panicked crowd, the broken glass until he found his targets. His gaze landed on Naoya and Miwa, then shifted to Johan, still struggling on the floor with the weapon in his chest.

Naoya looked up, his eyes widening in surprise as Grimmer’s sharp entrance cut through the crowd. A cold, cruel smirk spread across his face. He began to laugh, a low, guttural chuckle that quickly built into a full arrogant laugh, echoing the disdain he’d shown on the phone earlier. The sound was chilling and utterly devoid of humor. “A gun?” Naoya scoffed in Japanese, his voice laced with venom, the arrogant confidence returning in full force. He looked at Grimmer with utter contempt. “A little like that doesn’t scare me. A journalist playing cowboy.”

Grimmer’s face remained a mask of cold rage. He didn’t dignify Naoya’s taunts with a reply. Instead, he raised his weapon and fired a single bullet into the air. The CRACK of the gunshot was explosive, a deafening sound that instantly severed the techno music’s hold on the crowd. The music stopped abruptly, and a stunned, absolute silence fell over the club, amplifying the heavy beat of the remaining bass. Every eye in the club swiveled towards the sound, the panic and confusion escalating rapidly.

Naoya froze, the sound a sharp jolt to his system, the unexpected display of serious intent overriding his arrogance for a split second. That split second was all Grimmer needed.

Grimmer moved with a sudden, fluid speed that belied his calm demeanor. He closed the distance in a few powerful strides, the gun tucked away with a practiced ease, his movements efficient and precise. He didn’t engage in a prolonged fight. Instead, he lunged forward, tackling Naoya with brutal efficiency. The two men crashed to the floor, the impact sharp and heavy. Grimmer, using his weight and a practiced technique, immediately gained the upper hand. He twisted Naoya’s arm behind his back with a sharp, painful efficiency, pressing his face into the sticky floor. The silence in “Die Maschine” was instantly replaced by screams and chaos as the club’s patrons scrambled for the exits.

Miwa ignored the noise and fleeing crowd, her focus a steel trap on Johan. She stumbled slightly, the pain in her side a sharp jolt, but she forced herself to move, her eyes fixed on his still, pale form on the floor. People were running past her, but she moved through them, a focused resolve in her posture. She reached Johan’s side and dropped to her knees, her hands gently, carefully assessing his state. His clear blue eyes were open, a look of pain and a subtle acknowledgment in them. He couldn’t speak, the shallow breaths a clear indication of his struggle. The weapon was still embedded in his chest. “Johan, stay with me,” she whispered, her voice laced with urgency and fear, but her mind was calm and focused. She knew what to do. The first rule of severe injury: pressure. She quickly shrugged off her jacket, the denim rough and sturdy. Without hesitation, she folded it quickly into a thick pad and placed it firmly over the wound, pressing down with the full weight of her hands.

Johan gasped, a sharp, guttural sound as the pressure intensified the pain, his body tensing in response. But his eyes, filled with pain, also held a flicker of understanding, a silent truth in her actions.

“I know it hurts,” Miwa whispered, her voice remaining urgent while tears well in her eyes, blurring her vision. “The ambulance is coming. I know they are.” She shifted slightly, a new wave of panic rising as she looked at his pale face. The hand she was using for pressure was already soaked in his blood. The sight of the red liquid didn’t make her flinch, only intensified her focus, the need to comfort him overriding all other thoughts.

Carefully, so as not to disrupt the pressure on the wound, she reached out her other hand. It was also covered in his blood from the initial contact with the wound. She gently, softly, placed her bloodied palm on his cheek. “You’re going to be okay,” Miwa murmured, her voice a quiet, desperate mantra against the chaos.

The wail of the sirens grew louder, a sharp, piercing sound that cut through the club’s lingering chaos. Grimmer had Naoya secured, the bouncers and other patrons were a swirl of panicked activity, but Miwa’s world had narrowed to the small circle around Johan.

“They’re here!” Lotte’s frantic voice burst through the working earpiece Grimmer had thrown towards Miwa.

Emergency personnel, moving with urgent efficiency, burst through the entrance. Paramedics in bright uniforms made their way to the scene, pushing through the stunned and fleeing crowd. “Move aside! We need a clear path!” a paramedic yelled in sharp German. They reached Johan and Miwa, assessing the situation in an instant. “Stab wounds to the chest, vital signs weak,” one paramedic announced, his voice clinical and urgent. “Severe blood loss. We need to stabilize him now.”

Miwa was gently but firmly pulled away from Johan’s side.

“Miss, let us work. He needs immediate medical attention.”

“I’m his friend, I can help!” Miwa insisted, resisting slightly, her hands covered in his blood.

“You need medical attention yourself, miss,” the paramedic noted, his eyes scanning her injuries. “Minor cuts, possible internal bruising. You need to come with us.”

They quickly transferred Johan onto a stretcher, an oxygen mask placed over his face. He was pale and still, his clear blue eyes closed now. A wave of fear washed over Miwa, but she forced it down.

“I need to go with him,” Miwa said, her voice steady now, a quiet resolve in her eyes.

“We have two units coming,” another paramedic said, assessing Miwa’s cuts and bruises. “One for the critical patient, one for the secondary injuries.”

“I’m fine,” Miwa insisted. “I can go with him.”

A third paramedic, a woman with a kind but firm expression, assessed Miwa’s state, her injuries, the bloodied hands, the quiet resolve. She made a quick decision. “Get her in the ambulance with the critical patient,” she instructed the others. “She’s stable enough, and her emotional state is a factor.”

They loaded Johan onto a gurney, rushing him out of the club and into the waiting ambulance. The lights were flashing brightly, the scene a surreal blur. Miwa was helped into the back, sitting on a bench opposite Johan. The doors slammed shut, and the ambulance lurched forward, the sirens wailing a desperate song through the Munich streets. Miwa sat on the bench, her hand resting on Johan’s arm, her gaze fixed on his pale, still face.

After what felt like an eternity, the ambulance screeched to a halt. The back doors burst open, revealing the bright, sterile chaos of the hospital emergency entrance. A team of doctors and nurses rushed forward, their voices a flurry of urgent German.

“Guten Abend,” a doctor said, assessing Johan in an instant. “Stab wound to the chest, vital signs dropping. We need him in surgery immediately! Trauma room one!”

They pulled the gurney out of the ambulance and began rushing Johan into the hospital. Miwa was helped out by the kind paramedic who had allowed her in. “I need to go with him!” She insisted, trying to follow the gurney as it disappeared down a long corridor.

“Miss, you need to be treated yourself,” the paramedic said gently, leading her in a different direction. “Your injuries, the blood loss. We need to get you stabilized.”
“But he’s alone,” Miwa insisted, a wave of panic and a profound sense of loss washing over her.

“He’s in the best hands, Miwa,” a familiar, calm voice said from behind.

Miwa turned, surprised, to see Kenzo Tenma standing there in scrubs, a face mask, and gloves being actively placed on her hands.

“Kenzo,” Miwa said, relief washing over her. “Johan…he’s hurt badly.”

“We know,” Kenzo said gently, taking her arm, guiding her toward a waiting nurse. “Hiromi and I have been in contact with the ambulance. They will take good care of him.” She looked over at Miwa, a subtle understanding passing between them. “Let us take care of you.”

Miwa was led away, her gaze lingering on the corridor where Johan had disappeared. The clean, sterile world of the hospital felt miles away from the brutal chaos of the club. She was alone again.