The sound reached them first—rubber shrieking against wet asphalt, sharp and desperate, like metal claws dragging over stone.

  Kazou’s head snapped toward the mouth of the alley just in time to see it—A black sedan tearing around the corner, headlights slicing the darkness in two.

  No license plate hesitation. Coming too fast to be an accident. This was all a trap. He was being targetted.

  He shifted his weight to dive clear—but the girl’s palm met his chest. A touch. Barely there. Deceptively gentle.

  It wasn’t force that stopped him—it was the wrongness of it. The cool pressure, the way her fingers spread deliberately over his shirt like she was feeling his heartbeat. By the time he realized she was pushing him—not to save him but to place him—his heel slid backward on the slick cobblestones. Right into the oncoming path of the sedan.

  Her eyes glittered beneath the messy curtain of her hair.

  She was smiling.

  Kazou’s body tensed to leap aside—but the blur was already there.

  BOOM!

  The impact was a single, concussive reality. The sedan’s grill slammed into his hip, folding him sideways before the force flung him upward. The world spun—shards of light, brick walls, the dizzy smear of her watching face—and then the ground came for him.

  His back hit first. A loud, wet thud shot pain down him. The air left him in a choked wheeze. His lungs refused to refill. His leg—wrong angle, no strength.

  Through the ringing in his ears, the girl’s footsteps came. Not frantic. Not fearful. Slow, clicking on the wet stones.

  She crouched beside him, her perfume cutting through the stink of gasoline and rain. Her hand—warm, deliberate—swept his blood-matted hair from his temple. Her nails traced his jawline, lingering in a way that felt more like ownership than care.

  “You didn’t ask my name,” she murmured, her lips so close the words warmed his ear.

  Kazou’s hand twitched toward a loose stone at his side.

  She saw. Her heel crushed it before he could curl his fingers around it, grinding it once against the cobbles.

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  “Marika,” she whispered, with a little tilt of her head, “with a k.” She bit her lip, eyes locked on his. “They told me you’d be smarter. Or quieter. But I like ‘em clueless. It’s funnier.”

  Two shadows detached themselves from the alley wall. The sedan’s driver and passenger—both in black. One bald with a fire tattoo curling up his neck, the other lean, gloved, eyes unreadable. They approached without a word.

  Marika straightened, gesturing lazily with one manicured hand. “Subject verified.”

  Then another set of footsteps.

  He emerged from the darkness like he’d been standing there the whole time—medium height, a little overweight, blonde hair slicked back, pale green eyes that looked at Kazou with the polite interest of a man appraising furniture.

  “Ah,” he said, voice light and unhurried, “you’re not dead. Good. You should have passed out, though.”

  The man smiled, and the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

  “Hello Kazou Kuroda. I’m Mr. Nowak.”

  Mr. Nowak... Kazou remembered.

  ***

  Behind him, Tomasz turned off the lights, then faced Kazou once more. "Go to the Marriott at the city center. Behind it, I know a guy. Tell Mr. Nowak I said hi."

  Kazou looked down the stairwell, where Hannah waited patiently.

  "Right..." Kazou replied.

  ***

  Without warning, the smile stayed on Nowak while his fist came down. Kazou’s vision flared white as the knuckles split his lip, his head snapping sideways.

  “You took care of her, didn’t you? That girl, Natalie,” He whispered. “You’ll learn to stay down when you’re told,” Nowak added casually.

  “She called you father once,” Marika said with mock affection. “You were her doctor. Her protector. You made her what she is.”

  What the hell were they talking about? How did they know Natalie? Was this the same Natalie he had met previously? And why do they think Kazou parented her in the past?

  Kazou tried to speak, but a boot pressed into his shoulder.

  “Casimir remembers,” Mr. Nowak said.

  Then, gently:

  “Welcome back to the experiment.”

  Finally, Kazou fades and loses consciousness.

  Two more figures emerged from deeper in the alley—men in clean suits, faces unreadable in the half-light. They didn’t speak.

  All of the men took hold of Kazou with a casual brutality, each man locking onto one of his arms as though he were nothing more than a stubborn piece of freight. Their grips were practiced, mechanical—the kind that came from years of moving men who didn’t want to be moved. Kazou’s shoes scraped against the pavement as they hauled him upright towards the back seat of the sedan, his shoulders jerking under their force.

  Leaning against the car, Marika let out a slow, almost bored sigh, leaning her weight into the front seat doorframe. The metal clicked faintly under her elbow as she fished a gold lighter from her coat pocket. With a flick, the flame caught, a brief orange halo in the grey light of the alley. She drew it to the cigarette between her lips, the paper hissing softly as it lit.

  Smoke curled from her mouth in thin, lazy ribbons before she tilted her chin toward Nowak.

  “Ay, Mr. Nowak? The money?” Her voice carried an edge—half expectation, half challenge. "Remember? You captured that Japanese scientist because of me."

  “Money?” He gave a sharp laugh. “You dumb bitch. You really think I’d pay you? What the fuck for?" Nowak spat on the ground, muttering under his breath. “Fucking whores. They all think they’re queens until someone reminds them what they are.”

  Her expression soured, the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth betraying her irritation. Without a word, she turned her head away, letting the smoke pour out in a slow exhale. The gesture was deliberate—an artful dismissal, the posture of someone who wanted the world to think they didn’t care, even if the truth was messier.

  "Son of a bitch..." She muttered, without any of the men hearing. Watching as Nowak got into the back of the sedan.

  As Kazou was laid out in the back seat of the sedan, Hannah’s face flickered first in his mind. Then Natalie’s. And behind them both—Ten... No, Casimir.

  Blonde hair. Pale smile. Eyes that didn’t blink.

  Alive. Watching. He was the Devil himself.

  The Devil in Disguise.