Date: October 24, 1951

  The worn, uneven texture brushed against Whiskey’s fingertips as he traced the whitewashed walls of his shiro.

  He closed his eyes, drawing a deep, measured breath. The breeze stirred against his skin, pure and soft, tempering the thick warmth around him.

  Through the slatted windows, the call of a thrush wove through the rhythmic chirping of cicadas, blending with the gentle swoosh of waves breaking against the shore.

  His well was full.

  All was calm.

  Balanced.

  Still.

  But then, as they always did, the moment slipped away.

  He sighed, opened his eyes, and continued toward his most frequented section of the castle.

  He passed rooms filled with weapons and training materials, chambers draped in intricate maps, and others brimming with dazzling treasures. But, as usual, he ignored them, continuing forward without so much as a glance.

  After a few more turns, he entered a hallway. Unlike the rest of his shiro, this passage was wider, more worn. The windows were shut tight, sealing the corridor off from the outside world. Only the dim glow of hanging lanterns remained, casting dreary orange light across bare walls.

  Two identical doors stood at the hall’s end. Both were intricately designed, adorned with gold, silver, and platinum.

  Yet while the door on the right gleamed, polished to near perfection, the one on the left was tarnished. Darkened. Its metal dulled to a grayish-black. Deep gouges marred its engravings, as if it had suffered some ancient wound.

  Whiskey didn’t look at it.

  He never looked at it.

  Instead, he stepped through the door on the right.

  Inside, the room was a masterpiece. Delicate paintings adorned the walls, low tables were carefully arranged, and tatami mats lay with impeccable precision—a perfect replica of a Meiji lord’s sitting room.

  The only oddity stood at the center: a marble well beneath a black pergola. Veins of gold, silver, and black wound through the stone, shimmering under a dim purple glow that pulsed from its depths like a heartbeat.

  Yet for all the well’s enigmatic allure and the room’s restrained elegance, both faded beside the splendor beyond the open windows.

  Moonlight bathed his shiro, a grand Japanese castle in the style of the Sengoku era, perched atop a hill at the heart of a small island where white sand met an endless sea. The water gleamed beneath an oversized silvery moon that ruled a sky scattered with stars. Above it all, an aurora borealis of green, blue, and violet ethereal ribbons wove through the heavens like living silk.

  Whiskey settled at a table, drinking in the sight.

  The soft swish of a sliding door broke the silence, followed by the quiet clink of porcelain.

  He turned to see an older Japanese man enter, dressed in a crisp, western-style butler’s uniform. He carried a silver platter laden with fine china and an assortment of pastries.

  With practiced grace, he set the tray before Whiskey and stepped back, gloved hands clasped behind him.

  Whiskey arched a brow.

  “Tea?” he asked, inhaling the aroma before taking a sip. Smooth, warm, laced with fruit and spice. Perfect. His gaze shifted to the platter. “And what’s this?”

  Smile lines creased the corners of the older man’s sharp eyes.

  “It’s kolache. Traditional Polish pastries”

  Whiskey stiffened, frowning at him.

  The man raised his eyebrows, feigning surprise. “What? After last night, I assumed you’d want something sweet…”

  Whiskey’s frown deepened into a glower, earning an exaggerated eye roll.

  “Oh, come on, Kinichiro. It’s funny.”

  “Being bought and paid for by the Polish ambassador’s wife while her husband watched is not funny, Passenger. And why do you look like that?”

  Passenger sighed and leaned against the window. The pose looked absurd on someone so dignified.

  “All right, first,” he said, “while being used as someone’s plaything may not be funny to you, offering a dessert from said player’s country afterward is. Second, it was a quiet night at the Afterlife, and you did what you could with what was available. You weren’t forced, Kinichiro—you chose. And I, for one, am glad you did. The well’s the fullest it’s been since the Merrow case. Admit it—you feel more whole than you have in weeks.”

  Whiskey opened his mouth to argue, but the truth was he did feel good.

  Great, even.

  Seeing his hesitation, Passenger raised a finger. “And, might I add, it was all above board. Seijō-no-Michi approved.

  He flashed a sunny smile.

  “So buck up, will you? You’re the cat’s meow at the Afterlife. Gregory and Gorax adore you—which is probably the only thing they’ve ever agreed on. And where else are you going to get paid to use your Gifts? Consulting was peanuts compared to what you’re making now. And good luck finding what you need anywhere else—especially now that you’ve been fired.”

  He tilted his head, the smile taking on a predatory edge.

  “Unless, of course, you go hunting.”

  Before Whiskey responded, it raised a forestalling hand.

  “I know, I know,” Passenger said, tone weary. “That is not part of ‘The Pure Way.’ Shame on me for even thinking it.”

  Whiskey shot the seemingly old man a dark look.

  “Suspended pending an investigation isn’t fired,” he said.

  He knew it was a petulant response, but Passenger’s cavalier tone when speaking about The Way rankled him.

  Passenger gave him an infuriatingly patient look, hands clasped in front of its chest.

  “I did nothing wrong,” Whiskey muttered.

  “Truer words have yet to be spoken,” Passenger beamed. “And it’s also true you weren’t the one who leaked to the press that SFPD Inspector Alfred Dunn’s death involved an unknown undercover FBI consultant. But tell me, Kinichiro—since when, in the three years you’ve been the Bureau’s expendable spook, have they ever cared about something as trivial as the truth?”

  Tension buzzed at the edges of Whiskey’s mind—a faint, far-off hum gnawed at his skull. He glanced away, more irritated than before. Exhaling through his nose, he stood, bumping the table enough to rattle the china, and moved toward the window.

  “You look ridiculous,” he said, eyes trained on the peaceful beach.

  Passenger chuckled. “Very true.”

  Shadow coalesced around the old man’s form, swallowing him whole. This wasn’t simply darkness. It was the night sky itself, teeming with stars but devoid of a silvery moon. When the transformation finished, a figure stood before him.

  Its cloak moved like liquid ink, weightless and alive. The shadow of its hood obscured everything except dark lips, a clean-shaven jawline, and two bright purple flames where its eyes should have been.

  “Ah,” it sighed, stretching. Its shadowy mantle rippled, mirroring the movement like a second set of limbs. “Better?”

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Whiskey shook his head and turned to face out the window.

  “All right,” Passenger said. “Want to hear what I think? I think you should run. Get out of town while you still can. You’re worried about your career? You should be worried about a firing squad. In the eyes of the law, they’d just be killing another monster.”

  Anger boiled through Whiskey, percolating like acid in his veins. The buzzing in his head grew louder, closer.

  “I am not a monster!”

  Passenger tilted its head. “Oh? Then what are you?”

  “I—” Whiskey hesitated, taking a slow breath, barely keeping the tremor from his voice. “It doesn’t matter. The Way—”

  “The Way,” Passenger mocked. “I’m so tired of that stupid framework. Can’t we talk about anything else? If I’d known what a hindrance it would be, I’d have never helped you create such a flawed tool.”

  “You had nothing to do with The Seijō-no-Michi.”

  Passenger stiffened, then shrugged, its cloak blurring like an afterimage. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Kinichiro,” it said. “But tell me. Where on this grand Way does it account for what you want? What you feel? As if Nintai and Sewanin were ever capable of understanding what you are. Who you are. A question you can’t answer yourself.”

  “And you can?”

  “Of course I can,” Passenger said, grinning as its voice dropped to a low growl.

  “You are Oni.”

  Whiskey took a deep breath.

  “Kakyū Oni,” he corrected. “Lesser.”

  The glowing purple orbs rolled.

  “Oh, please. You’re still at the top of the food chain. Sure, you can only feed on specific emotions, but at least you get the fun ones: lust, greed, fear, rage. The low-hanging fruit. And you still gain the gifts that come with them. Gifts that put you in a class of your own—when you have the backbone to use them, that is.”

  Frustrated, Whiskey raked his fingers through his hair. He wanted to argue, to fight, but the truth…

  He agreed.

  There was no feeling better than indulging. When he fed, he could lose himself in the euphoria of his power. In those moments, he was free. Free to do what he wanted, when he wanted, how he wanted.

  Which was not The Way.

  “Last time I listened to you,” he said, forcing his will to the surface as he gestured around the room, “this happened.”

  Violet light flared from inside the well, bathing everything in its glow. The world wavered, details warping and shifting. The large windows shrank, thick metal bars weaving across their frames. Once-whitewashed walls faded to dull gray, pockmarked with gouges and scratches. Where gentle waves had lapped at pristine sand, black waters now churned against jagged rocks, thick and tar-like, staining everything they touched.

  Above, where the sky had once been a masterpiece of stars and swirling auroras, half of it was now gone.

  No. Not gone.

  Devoured.

  What filled the sky wasn’t mere darkness—the absence of light. It was more. Something tangible. Whiskey had watched it spread. What began as a single star blinking out had grown into something far worse.

  He called it the Void.

  It pulsed and writhed—a vast, roiling mass devouring the remaining light, stretching across a quarter of the horizon like an oncoming horde.

  Passenger studied the encroaching darkness for a moment before heaving a heavy sigh.

  “I hate it when you do that,” it mused, raising hands now bound in chains of searing purple light, so bright they verged on white.

  Whiskey grimaced.

  An Oni’s greatest strength—the ability to gain anima through emotional manipulation—was also its greatest weakness. Many succumbed to their hunger, unable to resist the urge to feed. They became creatures of unchecked appetite, rampaging until they were struck down, or every last victim had been drained to husks.

  It was why so few remained. And why most countries outlawed their existence altogether.

  Whiskey exhaled, the tension settling deep into his bones. That was not what he was meant to be. His parents had given him to the Brothers so he could find a different path.

  To be better.

  To be good.

  Memories surfaced, unbidden, leaving him adrift in a turbulent sea. But he steadied himself.

  “I will not fail those who gave their lives, so that I was placed on this path.”

  The buzzing grew louder… clear now. It was getting harder to discern what good even looked like anymore.

  Which was why he needed The Way.

  It was impartial. Unyielding. A measure of truth. A guiding light in the dark. A way to know if his Gifts were justified.

  Allowed.

  Good.

  He looked at Passenger, cloak swirling like smoke caught in a storm.

  “Have you ever felt like you’d gone too far?” he asked. “Like there was no turning back?”

  This time, Passenger didn’t laugh. Didn’t mock. Instead, the usual smirk faded into shadow as it looked away.

  “…All the time.”

  It tilted its head, as if catching a distant sound, then sighed.

  “Time to go.”

  Whiskey blinked.

  The buzzing had become substantial, undeniable.

  An alarm?

  No. Something else.

  Maybe it’s a—

  Before he could finish the thought, the room swirled—the world unraveling like sand swept away by the wind, and he had just enough time to see Passenger giving a lazy wave before his awareness wrenched backward.

  Normally, transitioning from his shiro to the real world felt as gradual as a leaf drifting down a quiet stream.

  This time, it hit like a flash flood. His awareness contracted. It felt like free-falling while being sucked through a straw made of infinite blackness.

  The warm, humid air of the shiro turned cool and dry. The scents of wood, paint, and detergent replaced everything else. The coarse hemp of his kimono and hakama softened into the plush weight of a wool robe. The serene sounds of the natural world gave way to the faint hiss of tires on asphalt and the distant wail of sirens.

  Then his consciousness slammed back into his body, and his eyes snapped open.

  He blinked rapidly, his mind scrambling to adjust to its new reality.

  He was home—seated in his meditation room, the small, secluded space accessible only through his bedroom.

  All was as it should be.

  Quiet.

  Still.

  He took a breath and let himself relax, taking in the familiar plain white walls. The only decoration was a roughly painted symbol at eye level: a winged serpent coiled around a sword—and jumped out of his skin when the sudden jangling shattered the room’s relative silence.

  It wasn’t until Passenger burst out laughing that he realized it was the phone ringing.

  Whiskey frowned. “You couldn’t have warned me?”

  “And miss the chance to see you jump like a startled cat? Never.”

  Ignoring the headache blooming at the base of his skull, Whiskey strangled the urge to lash out and checked his wristwatch.

  6:21 a.m.

  “A little early for a phone call, wouldn’t you say?”

  Whiskey grunted in agreement. A call at this hour could only mean one thing. Mopping the sweat from his face, he headed toward his office.

  Since the meditation room was tucked inside a hidden closet space, he had to cross through his bedroom first. Even in the predawn dark, the mess was obvious—balled-up bedding, empty bottles, and various instruments of pleasure scattered so haphazardly he had to watch his step.

  “Remind me to apologize to Lian Lin,” he muttered, stepping over the wreckage.

  “For which part?” Passenger asked. “The mess or the war crimes against her people?”

  Whiskey froze mid-step.

  The phone rang again, and he felt Passenger make the mental equivalent of an eye roll.

  “You’re going to miss the call.”

  Whiskey didn’t move.

  “You really should laugh at yourself more often.”

  His hands clenched into fists.

  “Okay, okay. Sorry. Too soon. Now, will you please answer the phone?”

  The headache spread toward Whiskey’s temples, but he took another steadying breath and moved through the hallway and into his office.

  If not for the worn condition of the books lining the shelves, the room could’ve passed for a museum exhibit of “the perfect office.” Everything was meticulously ordered, every item in its precise place.

  Nascent light painted the space a soft purplish blue as the shadows of night retreated to wherever darkness fled during the day.

  The phone sat on his mahogany desk, still ringing. He hesitated for half a heartbeat, then crossed the room and picked up the receiver.

  “Whiskey Consulting.”

  “Mr. Mononobe,” said a smooth baritone, tinged with a slight Texas twang. “It’s Jordan Crane.”

  Whiskey’s stomach flipped, his suspicions confirmed.

  Jordan Crane, Special Agent in Charge of the San Francisco Regional Branch of the FBI. His handler.

  “Ah,” Passenger intoned. “The time of judgment is nigh. I’ll keep an ear out for trucks rolling up to surround the house, just in case.”

  “Special Agent Crane,” Whiskey said, forcing cordiality into his tone. “You know I’d prefer you call me Whiskey, like everyone else.”

  “And you know that calling you anything else would imply an association that doesn’t reflect your relationship with the Bureau, Mr. Mononobe,” Crane countered.

  Whiskey ground his teeth, but kept the annoyance from his voice. “Of course. What can I do for you, Special Agent Crane?”

  Crane cleared his throat, and Whiskey tensed. At least the man was direct.

  “I have an assignment for you,” Crane continued. “The SFPD has requested an FBI liaison for an ongoing abduction investigation. I’m assigning it to you.”

  Whiskey blinked.

  “Pardon me, Agent Crane, but assigning me to another case means—”

  “You were found innocent of any wrongdoing in the events leading to Inspector Dunn’s death,” Crane said, as if addressing a slow-witted child. “I’d have assumed that was obvious, Mr. Mononobe.”

  Relief surged through Whiskey, and he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

  Then he remembered who he was talking to.

  This couldn’t be that easy.

  Decisions this fast meant someone else was about to take the fall. Yet here was Crane, absolving him of blame and offering him something he wanted: a case close to home. Regular detective work. Work that kept him on The Way.

  It was the closest thing to a gift Crane had offered in three years.

  So what was the catch?

  “Do I need to remind you what will happen if you choose not to work with the FBI, Mr. Mononobe?” Crane said.

  Whiskey blinked. “No, it’s…” He trailed off, trying to assess the situation from every angle.

  Crane sighed.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I wouldn’t normally use you for something like this. But abductions cases are FBI jurisdiction, and between the Franklin case and the Peace Treaty, my people are spread thin. You’re not the best I’ve got, Mr. Mononobe. You’re all I’ve got.”

  Whiskey considered it. San Francisco was hosting a slew of world delegates, which was how he’d met the previous night’s… guests. And with so many people came not just security threats, but prime opportunities for spying. Security and surveillance would stretch the FBI thin. Combined with the media frenzy over the Franklin abduction, Crane’s explanation checked out.

  Still…

  Crane made an impatient noise.

  “Listen, Mr. Mononobe. If you don’t want to take the Baptiste case—”

  Whiskey’s stomach dropped.

  “Baptiste?”

  There was a pause, followed by the sound of papers shuffling.

  “Yes. The victim’s last name is Baptiste. Hallie Baptiste.”

  Whiskey’s grip tightened around the receiver. Hallie was missing? How had he not heard? When was the last time he talked to Felix?

  “Wait a second,” Passenger cut in. “There’s something going on here. They must know your connection to—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Whiskey thought. “It’s the Baptistes. If they’re in trouble, I have to help.”

  “Which Crane obviously knows,” Passenger shot back. “Why else would he do this?”

  Whiskey barely stopped the growl rising in his throat. Passenger was right. He was missing something. Something important.

  Images of a fifteen-year-old girl with mocha-colored skin and bright green eyes flashed through his mind.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he repeated.

  Then, out loud: “I’ll take care of it, Agent Crane.”

  There was a pause on the other end before Crane said, “Very well, Mr. Mononobe. You’re expected to report to Lieutenant Bruno at SFPD Central Headquarters this morning. Keep my office informed on your progress,” and hung up.

  Whiskey set the receiver down and left his office.

  He needed a fresh suit.

  Shout Out: