Kazou stepped off the train and into the cold Warsaw air, his hood drawn low, the collar of his coat turned up to obscure his face. The platform was busy—commuters, students, and tourists milling about. He kept his head down, shoulders tight, and walked through the crowd like smoke.

  He found a kiosk inside the terminal. Its shelves were cluttered with guidebooks, postcards, and folded paper maps of the city. He paid in cash for a map of central Warsaw, his gloves trembling slightly as he unfolded it. His eyes scanned the fine print until he found what he was looking for:

  Polish Army Museum (Muzeum Wojska Polskiego).

  Now that he was back in Warsaw, the urgency returned like a sickness. His stomach hurt. Casimir was the ghost of every dark corridor in his mind. And Kazou knew, or rather hoped, that somewhere in that museum’s archives, there might be a hint, a record, a buried reference to something, anything, that could link him to the truth. Who was Sasha in that journal? Could Casimir believe Natalie is the same 'Sasha'? If so, why?

  He folded the map and stepped out into the wind.

  Kazou flagged down a taxi on Jerozolimskie Avenue. The driver, a bald man with thick glasses, glanced back at him briefly, said nothing, and pulled into traffic.

  The drive was short, but Kazou’s hands wouldn’t stop fidgeting in his lap. He looked out the window, trying to absorb the city like he had before, but it felt distant now. Unreachable. The headlines in the newspaper flashed in his mind. Japanese Serial Killer On The Run. Dangerous. Do Not Approach.

  His reflection in the glass didn’t even look like him anymore. Longer hair. Dull eyes.

  When they pulled up beside the museum, Kazou paid the fare in exact zloty. No change. No questions.

  The Polish Army Museum stood tall and weathered, with high columns and stone steps leading to heavy doors. Banners fluttered above the entrance, showing exhibitions about World War II, resistance fighters, and Cold War secrets. Tourists milled about, some snapping photos beside old tanks and helicopters in the courtyard.

  Kazou adjusted his coat and pushed open the door, stepping inside. The air was dry and still, filled with the faint scent of paper, varnish, and time.

  He wasn’t here for the exhibits.

  He needed the archives. The restricted section. The old files. The ones Casimir might’ve touched. Or corrupted.

  His footsteps echoed as he crossed the marble floor. A receptionist looked up from her desk, and Kazou spoke in quiet, rehearsed Polish.

  “I’m a researcher from Tokyo University. I was told your archives hold some World War 2 documents involving the Polish soldiers who fought.”

  The receptionist blinked at him. “You’ll need permission from the archive director. Office is through there, left hallway, second door.”

  Kazou bowed. “Dzi?kuj?.”

  As he walked toward the back, past portraits of generals and shattered pieces of wars long gone, he felt something dark pressing in. Kazou’s boots tapped lightly on the polished floor as he followed the hallway deeper into the museum, his eyes scanning plaques and doors, but his thoughts were distant, tangled in the fog of memory and murder.

  Then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed movement low to the ground. A small figure knelt near the baseboards, scrubbing the tile with an old cloth. She was young, six, maybe seven years old, with warm brown skin and dark hair tied into two tight braids. Her red sweater was oversized, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her hands moved steadily, dipping into a bucket and scrubbing with quiet urgency.

  She looked up when she noticed him. Bright brown eyes met his. For a moment, the world softened.

  Kazou paused, a little surprised. A small, awkward smile tugged at his lips as he gave a slight nod.

  The girl blinked—and then—

  THWACK.

  A woman’s foot knocked lightly, but sharply, against the back of the girl’s head.

  “Hannah!” the woman barked. “I said Hurry up!”

  The girl flinched, dropping the cloth.

  Kazou’s body stiffened. The woman wore a Museum staff uniform, her face weathered by sun and age, and her voice hoarse with smoke. She held a mop in one hand and a bucket in the other. The name tag on her shirt read Beata.

  Hannah didn’t cry, but her eyes burned with frustration. She picked the cloth back up and continued cleaning, jaw clenched, silent.

  Kazou stepped forward, his tone calm but firm. “Excuse me.”

  Beata turned to him with an impatient frown. “What?”

  He glanced at Hannah, then back at her. “Why are you treating her like that?”

  The woman scoffed. “Because she’s slow. You want the floor to stay filthy?”

  “She’s a child,” Kazou said, his voice hardening. “You shouldn’t—”

  “She’s an orphan,” Beata interrupted, as if that explained everything. “She works for her meals. That’s better than starving, no? She should be grateful.”

  Kazou’s jaw tightened. The line between compassion and rage was growing thinner by the day. He crouched beside Hannah, who kept her eyes down but was clearly listening.

  “What’s your name?” he asked softly, even though he’d already heard it.

  “…Hannah,” she whispered.

  “You okay?”

  She gave a small shrug, not quite yes, not quite no.

  Beata rolled her eyes. “Are you her caseworker or something?”

  Kazou slowly stood and looked the woman in the eye. “No. I’m a scientist.”

  Beata tilted her head, unimpressed. “So?”

  He said nothing more. Just stared at her until she shifted uncomfortably and muttered something under her breath, walking off down the hallway with the mop dragging behind her.

  When she was gone, Kazou crouched beside Hannah again. “Don’t let people treat you like that,” he said quietly. “You’re not worthless. You understand?”

  Hannah finally looked up, more directly this time. Her eyes were wide but focused. Curious. She nodded once.

  He smiled gently and stood. “I’ll see you again, okay?”

  And with that, he turned back toward the archive office, fists clenched in his coat pockets.

  This place was full of ghosts. But the living were suffering too.

  

  Kazou knocked gently on the frosted glass door marked ARCHIVE / RESEARCH OFFICE. A muffled voice called from inside,

  "Come in."

  He stepped into the office and was greeted by the musty scent of paper, old leather, and dust. The room was small, cluttered with overstuffed filing cabinets, faded war posters, and books stacked in precarious towers. A thin man in his fifties sat behind a desk, adjusting wire-rimmed glasses that slid down the bridge of his nose. His name tag read Mr. Rakowski.

  “You’re here about World War II records?” the man asked, flipping through a folder.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Kazou nodded. “Yes. Polish involvement. Unclassified documents, testimonies, anything contemporary.”

  The man raised a brow, as if surprised by the specificity, then nodded. “You’re in luck. Not many people ask for that. Most tourists just want to look at tanks.”

  He shuffled over to a small bookshelf, pulled down a few thick binders and two battered books, and placed them into Kazou’s arms. “Read them outside the office, please. And bring them back before we close at Ten.”

  “I will. Thank you,” Kazou said softly.

  The man gave him a curious look but said nothing more.

  Outside, Kazou adjusted the stack in his arms and began searching for a quiet place to read.

  Then he saw her again.

  Hannah, still crouched by the corridor wall, was wiping the floor near an exhibit case of old wartime radios. Her braid had come loose. Her hands were raw. She looked exhausted.

  Kazou slowed, paused, then made a decision. He walked over and sat down on a low wooden bench beside her, carefully placing the books at his side.

  Hannah glanced at him, then looked back at her work.

  Kazou waited a moment before speaking.

  “Do you like reading?” he asked, picking up one of the books and thumbing through the pages.

  She shrugged. “Not really. Books are boring... Plus, it's not like I can read very well anyway...”

  He smiled gently. “They can be. But some of them aren’t. Some books tell stories about people like you. About people who got through hard things.”

  Hannah kept her eyes on the floor. “Why are you sitting here?”

  Kazou thought for a moment, then said honestly, “Because you looked like you needed company.”

  She stopped scrubbing. “Aren’t you busy?”

  “I am. But I can be busy and still care.”

  Hannah glanced up at him, frowning in confusion. “You’re weird.”

  He laughed quietly. “I’ve been told that before.”

  The books in his lap were a thick compilation of wartime testimonies — survivors, soldiers, and civilians all caught in something they didn’t fully understand. His finger hovered over a photo of the destroyed outskirts of Warsaw.

  “You know…” he said softly, “when I was your age, I used to think grown-ups had everything figured out. But they don’t. They just try their best, the same way you are.”

  Hannah didn't respond at first. But she sat down beside him, the rag hanging loosely from her hand. Her voice was quieter now. “Miss Beata says I’ll never be anything. She says I’m too slow.”

  “She’s wrong,” Kazou replied, without hesitation. “You’ve already gotten through more than most people your age ever have to. That’s not weakness. That’s strength.”

  There was a long silence between them. The kind that wasn’t awkward. Just... still.

  Hannah leaned back against the wall. “Are you a teacher or something?”

  Kazou smiled. “I’m a scientist.”

  “Like the kind that uses those things? I don't know what they are called, but it's shown in movies, where you place the thing under the light and lense and look through it?”

  “Ah, a microscope, sometimes. I used to work in genetics and other stuff. Now… I guess I fix different things.”

  She gave him a strange look. “Like what?”

  Kazou looked down at the book in his lap, at the torn photographs and the memories of dead men. “Truths. Broken pieces. Lost names.”

  Hannah didn’t understand, not really. But she nodded like she did.

  Kazou opened a book, slowly turning the pages as Hannah scooted just a bit closer beside him. They sat in silence, the noise of the museum fading away. So far, nothing has mentioned a soldier named Casimir Bielska or anyone who seemed to be linked.

  He didn’t know what would come next. Not yet.

  But for now, he wasn’t alone.

  And neither was she.

  ***

  Kazou sat with his back against the wall, Hannah curled beside him, her arms around her knees. The books Mr. Rakowski had handed him earlier now lay open across his lap, worn pages filled with typed reports, faded photographs, and penciled annotations in the margins.

  He had read through two of them now. Both were grim accounts—meticulously detailed descriptions of troop deployments, testimonies from survivors of Soviet occupation, the early movements of Nazi forces into Eastern Poland, and later resistance operations. Kazou’s eyes scanned the documents for a familiar name, any sign of it:

  Casimir Bielska.

  But nothing.

  Not in the list of soldiers. Not among the resistance fighters. Not in the post-war intelligence summaries. If Casimir had fought in a war, he would have been erased. Forgotten. A ghost in the margins of history. Like the foundations his father had given him. Create a clone of a Forgotten Polish Soldier.

  Kazou exhaled, disappointed. A deep, weighted sigh.

  Hannah looked up at him. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  Kazou shook his head. “No. I thought he might have left a mark. A record. But it’s like he never existed.”

  “Maybe he didn’t want to be found,” Hannah said, her voice soft. “Some people hide for a reason.”

  Kazou smiled faintly at her insight. “You’re probably right.”

  He closed one of the books and set it aside, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His eyes were tired. His body was heavier now than it had been on the train. But Hannah’s small presence next to him kept him grounded. A reminder that kindness could survive the weight of guilt.

  And then—

  “HANNAH!”

  The scream cut through the hallway like a whip.

  They both looked up as Mrs. Beata, the cleaning supervisor, came stomping down the corridor, heels clacking with practiced rage. Her lined face was taut with fury, and her thin hands were balled into fists at her sides.

  “You lazy brat! I told you to clean this floor, and it looks just the same as this morning!” she bellowed, storming toward Hannah.

  Hannah flinched, scrambling to her feet, but it was too late.

  Mrs. Beata grabbed her by the arm and shoved her backward roughly. “You useless little thing—what have you even been doing all day? Ignoring your work?!”

  Hannah stumbled and hit the wall, biting her lip hard.

  Kazou stood slowly, the books falling off his lap with a thud.

  “That’s enough,” he said, his voice low, steady.

  Beata turned on him. “Excuse me?!”

  Kazou stepped between her and Hannah, instinctively protective. “There’s no reason to treat a child like that. She’s exhausted. She’s been working since morning, hasn’t she?”

  Beata’s lip curled. “This is my museum after hours. If you’re not a paying guest or a sponsor, you have no right to sit around here interfering with staff!”

  “She’s not staff,” Kazou said evenly. “She’s a child. You’re exploiting her.”

  Beata’s face reddened. Her voice rose, shrill now. “I hired her because nobody else would take her! She has no papers, no schooling. That girl would be starving in the street if it weren’t for me. And now you—some foreigner—are lecturing me about charity?!”

  Kazou didn’t flinch.

  Behind them, the last stragglers of museum visitors were heading toward the exit. The staff were closing down the galleries. Mr. Rakowski passed briefly, grabbing the books Kazou had borrowed from the floor, then walking off, avoiding any sort of conflict.

  “Charity isn’t slapping children and screaming at them,” Kazou replied, his tone measured but piercing. “She deserves better.”

  Beata took a step forward, her eyes narrowing. “I know who you are. I’ve seen the papers. The manhunt. The Japanese Scientist. The murderer. You're him, aren't you? You're trying to make yourself look kind just to kill, aren't you?”

  The hallway fell silent.

  Even Hannah’s breath caught.

  "I'm no killer. Just a man..." Kazou stared her down. “I suggest you stop hurting that girl.”

  A long pause.

  Then—Beata scoffed, brushing invisible dust from her apron. “You'll get yourself arrested for looking Japanese. And hopefully you do. The police can get you.”

  Kazou bent down and picked up the books. “Then they’ll find me defending a child. I can live with that.”

  Mrs. Beata sneered but didn’t answer. She turned on her heel and stormed off, heels clicking in retreat.

  Kazou turned back to Hannah, who was still frozen against the wall, her small body shaking.

  He knelt in front of her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Are you alright?”

  She nodded once, then threw her arms around his neck.

  “I hate her,” she whispered. “She always does that when no one’s looking.”

  Kazou hugged her gently. “I know. But you’re strong. She won’t hurt you again.”

  “You’re going to get in trouble.”

  “Maybe,” he said quietly. “But sometimes... trouble is the only way to protect someone.”

  Hannah pulled back, looking up at him. “You’re not really a bad man, are you?”

  Kazou’s throat tightened. His voice was quiet when he answered.

  “I try not to be.”

  The museum lights flickered once more.

  Kazou stood, guiding Hannah beside him.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you out of here, these before they lock us in.”

  Hannah clung to his hand still, but her eyes flickered with something distant. Not quite fear. Not quite sadness. Something older.

  Kazou leaned against the wall beside her, his pulse still simmering with anger from the encounter with Mrs. Beata. He looked down at her, forcing himself to soften his expression.

  "You alright?" he asked gently.

  Hannah was quiet for a moment, then nodded. But it wasn’t honest. It wasn’t even close.

  After a long pause, she looked up at him. “Can I tell you something?”

  Kazou lowered to one knee beside her again, his face level with hers. “Anything.”

  She hesitated. Her fingers tightened in the hem of her shirt.

  “I… I don’t want to be here anymore,” she said. “I never wanted to work here.”

  Kazou’s brow furrowed. “Then why don’t you leave?”

  Her eyes flinched at the word leave.

  “They won’t let me. Mrs. Beata says I’m not allowed. Says I owe them… for food. For sleep. That I can’t go until I’ve paid it all back.” Her voice shrank with each sentence, like she was curling inward, apologizing for speaking at all. “She locks the gate at night. I sleep in the supply closet. Even when it’s cold.”

  Kazou’s throat tightened. “You sleep here? Alone?”

  She nodded. “When the museum closes, I still have to mop. And polish the floors. And clean the stairs. Even the bathrooms.”

  He swallowed the rising heat behind his eyes. “Does anyone know? The others?”

  “They think I’m her niece,” she said bitterly. “Or that I want to be here. Some people ask why I never talk much. I used to say I liked the job. But…” she looked away. “That was before it started hurting.”

  “Hannah,” he said, suddenly, “what do you mean by hurting?”

  Her fingers twitched.

  Then slowly — terribly — she lifted her shirt.

  Her stomach was small and thin and scarred with old bruises. Deep purples and sickly yellows bloomed across her skin like rotting flowers. A handprint. A belt mark. Faded, but visible.

  Kazou’s heart dropped into his gut. It was as if the floor beneath him had disappeared. The quiet in the hallway became suffocating.

  His breath caught.

  He reached out gently, stopping just short of touching her bruises. “Who…?” But he didn’t have to ask. He already knew.

  “I didn’t mop fast enough,” she whispered. “I was tired.”

  Kazou looked her in the eyes, and for a second, the anger threatened to boil over. Not the detached, analytical anger of a scientist. Not the kind you learn to file away in journals. This was older. Purer. Human.

  “I’m getting you out of here,” he said, voice flat and calm. “You can’t stay here another night.”

  Hannah stared at him, a flicker of hope breaking through her fear.

  “You mean it?”

  “I mean it,” he said. “I know what it’s like to be trapped by something bigger than you. But I promise, you’re not alone anymore. I won’t leave you here.”

  “But… where will I go?”

  Kazou looked out the window, toward the dark streets of Warsaw beyond. Then back to her.

  “You’ll come with me. I don’t have much, but I know how to run. I’ve been doing it for a while now.”

  She nodded, silent, like she didn’t dare speak it aloud in case the moment shattered.

  Kazou looked at the scars again, and a thought struck him:

  There was something cruel in the world. Something old and patient, and meticulous. A demon that didn’t wear horns or breathe fire, but moved through people — systems — governments — and wore human faces.

  Casimir had shown him that.

  Beata was another shade of it.

  It was all the same ugliness.

  He stood, extending his hand to her.

  “Come on,” he said. “Pack anything you have. We leave when the workers leave. I'll hide somewhere so they don't know I'm here."

  She nodded, and for the first time, really smiled.

  Not a polite smile. Not a forced one.

  A real one.

  Kazou smiled back.

  ***

  The air inside the closet was stale and heavy with the scent of mop water, bleach, and old dust. Kazou crouched low between metal shelves stacked with forgotten exhibition plaques and stacks of brochures. The space was barely large enough to sit in, but Hannah had insisted.

  “Hide here untill she leaves,” she’d whispered, tugging him gently into the dark. “No one ever comes in here. She won’t know.”

  Hannah shuts the door, and now, in the sliver of light leaking in through the cracked door, he listened.

  Footsteps echoed sharply across the polished floors. Click. Click. Click. The staff was beginning to leave, murmuring goodbyes, the sound of keys locking up exhibit doors, the soft whir of an air conditioning unit powering down for the night.

  Kazou’s heart beat steadily. His palms rested on his knees, cold and tense.

  Then he heard the voice.

  “HANNAH!”

  Mrs. Beata. Harsh. Shrieking.

  Kazou flinched instinctively. His fingers gripped the metal shelving. The door of the closet trembled slightly from the force of her voice.

  “You think just because they’ve gone you can slack off?” Beata snapped. “I told you the marble needs to shine. I want to see my reflection in it.”

  “I—I’m sorry,” Hannah’s small voice stammered. “I’ll fix it…”

  There was a loud slap. Flesh on flesh. The sound of a rag dropping. A bucket rolling across the floor and sloshing.

  Kazou’s body jerked. His knuckles turned white on the shelf.

  “You brat!” Beata screamed. “I give you food. Shelter. And you repay me with laziness? You useless little—!”

  Thud.

  Another hit. This one harder.

  “I’ll work faster!” Hannah cried, choking on the words. “I will!”

  “Shut up and clean!” Beata’s voice was breathless now, the frenzy of someone who enjoyed it. “You’ll do this all night if I say so!”

  From behind the cracked door, Kazou could see a smear of water spreading across the hallway — Hannah’s mop had been flung aside.

  A shadow passed across the gap.

  Kazou's breath came shallow and tight. He wanted to burst through the door. To grab Beata by the collar and throw her against the wall. To scream that Hannah was a child. A human being. Not her slave. Not an object.

  Instead, he stayed frozen — waiting. Watching. His jaw clenched so hard it ached.

  He heard a whimper. Then a cry. The sound of Hannah’s knees slipping on the wet floor. Then something else. A dull thud, like her head had hit the floor.

  Kazou’s eyes widened. His body jolted.

  Enough.

  He stood. Slowly. Quietly. Every movement deliberate.

  His hand gripped the doorknob. The cool metal seared his palm.

  He opened it. Just enough to see.

  Hannah was on the ground, face wet with tears, struggling to breathe. One hand clutched her side. The mop lay snapped nearby, the handle cracked.

  Beata towered over her with a belt in hand, her face twisted with rage.

  And then she raised it again.

  “Don’t,” Kazou said coldly.

  The belt froze midair.

  Beata turned — startled — her mouth already forming the word Who?

  But when she saw Kazou, she didn’t finish it.

  He stepped out of the closet, eyes locked on hers, calm and deadly.

  “Touch her again,” he said, voice flat, “and I will make sure you never hurt another child.”

  “You—! You were hiding?!” she shouted, stepping back in fear.

  Kazou didn’t answer. He only moved toward Hannah and knelt beside her.

  She looked up, trembling, tears streaking her cheeks. “You—You saw?”

  He nodded. “Every second.”

  Beata took another step back, belt still in hand. “She’s mine! She works here—!”

  “She’s a child,” Kazou said, rising slowly. “And now… she’s free.”

  His tone wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

  There was something in his eyes — a glint of something relentless. A flicker of the man who had watched death, who had seen the devil himself and lived to carry the truth.

  Beata hesitated. Just long enough.

  Kazou stepped forward. “Go ahead,” he said quietly. “Try it.”

  She hesitated again.

  And then she dropped the belt. It clattered to the floor.

  He picked up Hannah — gently, carefully. She winced but clung to him, burying her face in his coat. Her tiny frame shook against his chest.

  He turned without another word and began walking toward the back entrance.

  Behind them, Beata stood frozen, breathing hard, lips curled in silent fury.

  But she didn’t follow.

  And as Kazou carried Hannah down the darkened hallway, his footsteps steady and unfaltering, he whispered to her in Japanese — quiet and soothing — something his mother used to say when he was scared:

  “Daijoubu. Mou kowakunai.”

  It’s okay. You don’t have to be afraid anymore.