The afternoon sun poured down, making the asphalt shimmer faintly as cars barreled past in waves, their noise rattling the air. The three of them—Natalie, Kazou, and Hannah—stood at the side of the road near the docks, a strip of cracked pavement giving way to gravel and weeds. The river smell still clung to them, damp wood and engine oil, a reminder of the boat ride they’d just finished.

  Hannah hugged her arms around herself, her eyes darting toward the passing cars.

  “Are we gonna hitchhike or something?” she asked, her voice cautious, half-curious.

  Natalie squinted, watching the blur of vehicles, then shook her head slowly. “That may not be ideal.”

  Hannah tilted her head, puzzled. “Why not?”

  Natalie didn’t answer right away. Instead, her gaze snagged on a bundle of free newspapers stacked outside a kiosk by the dock. The paper edges fluttered in the breeze like restless fingers. Without a word, she began walking toward them.

  Kazou and Hannah exchanged a glance, then followed. The gravel crunched under their shoes as they trailed behind her.

  Natalie reached down, pulled one paper from the pile, and unfolded it before her. She held it up so that both Kazou and Hannah could see.

  Across the top in stark black letters:

  “CENTRAL EUROPE'S MOST WANTED: DR. KAZOU KURODA”

  And below it, the subheader:

  “Murder suspect believed to be armed, dangerous. Japanese national and former researcher last seen near Otwock.”

  And then—his face.

  Not the Kazou who stood beside them now. No—this was an older picture, taken years before the Zenkai QRI disaster. His hair was shorter then, neatly parted, his face clean-shaven, young, and his lab coat crisp and white. The photograph radiated professionalism and certainty—a man of science.

  But it was him.

  The contrast was jarring—because the man standing here now bore the same eyes, but with shadows in them. His hair was long, unruly. His clothes were worn, travel-stained. He looked nothing like the polished academic in the photo.

  Still, there was no mistaking him.

  Natalie’s lips pressed tight as she read aloud:

  “Dr. Kazou Kuroda, a former Genetic-biomedical researcher from Japan, is currently being sought for questioning in connection with the deaths of an individual linked to the ZQRI research site, multiple individuals at a Tokyo museum, and a private manslaughter in Sendai, and is currently believed to be in Poland. Authorities warn he may attempt to cross borders. Civilians are cautioned not to approach him. He is considered extremely dangerous.”

  The words lingered, cold and heavy in the air.

  Natalie folded up the paper carefully, as if the act itself might keep the world from noticing them. She tucked it into her coat pocket and finally turned to Kazou. Her expression was steady but grim.

  “They’re still on you,” she said softly. “They won’t give up. It’s worse now—this isn’t just Poland. All of Central Europe is looking.”

  Kazou’s throat worked as he swallowed. His gaze lingered on the folded newspaper in her hand, then shifted to her face.

  “Do you think… it's easy to recognize me?” he asked, his voice low.

  Natalie shrugged slightly, tilting her head, her eyes sweeping over him. “You do look different. The longer hair helps. No one would mistake you for the man in that photo at first glance.” She hesitated, then added, “But… your features will always make you stand out here."

  Hannah sighed heavily, her shoulders sagging. “So… what do we do then?”

  Natalie’s hand brushed her coat pocket again, where the newspaper lay folded like a secret. She glanced back toward the road, at the cars still speeding past, indifferent.

  “We can’t hitchhike,” she said firmly. “Too risky. Too many eyes. We’ll rent a car.”

  “Rent… under your name?” Kazou asked.

  Natalie nodded. “Yes. I’ll handle the paperwork. If they track anything, it won’t be tied to you, Kuroda.”

  The sound of another truck rumbling past filled the silence. The three of them stood there, the weight of the newspaper headline hanging invisible between them, while the world sped on as though nothing had changed.

  "Where do we get a car?" Hannah asked.

  "Now that's a good question... I think we need a map..." Natalie muttered to herself.

  Suddenly, a car screeched to a halt in front of them.

  All three froze. Natalie’s hand tightened around the folded newspaper. Hannah instinctively stepped back, her small hand clutching Kazou’s sleeve.

  Kazou’s heart sank, heavy and sick. The sound of the brakes still rang in his ears.

  What if it was undercover police? What if they had already been tracked this far?

  He felt the pistol in his pocket as though it weighed a hundred pounds, as though touching it might betray him.

  The window rolled down.

  An older woman leaned across the passenger seat, her smile wrinkling her face kindly. “Excuse me,” she said, voice bright with a foreign lilt. “Do you speak English?”

  The three stood motionless for a beat, unsure.

  ***

  The seats smelled faintly of leather polish and peppermint. The old couple spoke to them in warm, lilting English, their tone so at odds with the gnawing paranoia still clinging to Kazou.

  “Thank goodness,” the man said from behind the wheel. His voice was gravelly but pleasant. “We were worried we wouldn’t find a speaker…”

  “Yes,” the woman chimed in quickly. “We come from Scotland. We have family in Wroc?aw, but—well, we don’t know where it is. You see? This map is in Polish. Same with the street signs.” She rustled a folded map in her hands, crisp and creased, and held it back toward them.

  Kazou hesitated, but then reached forward, taking it. He studied the names. A faint frown pulled at his face before he smoothed it out. His voice came out calm, practiced, the way it once had when explaining experiments to junior researchers.

  “We’re going to Wroc?aw too,” he said in English.

  The man gave a delighted laugh. “Perfect!!!”

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  Natalie kept her gaze angled toward the window, expression unreadable, but her knee jiggled. Hannah, wedged between them, hugged her backpack like a shield.

  Kazou leaned forward slightly, holding the map open on his lap.

  “Turn left at the next junction,” he instructed. “Stay on this road for about twenty kilometers.”

  The man hummed in satisfaction, nodding as though Kazou had just saved their entire trip. The car rolled forward, smooth again, the countryside blurring past the windows.

  To the couple, they were nothing more than kind strangers sharing a ride.

  To Kazou, every passing road sign, every police car that could appear, was another trigger to the pulse hammering in his throat.

  "Natalie? I thought you said that we shouldn't hitchhike?" Hannah asked innocently, meeting her gaze. "Why did you let us go with them?"

  "Because they are foreigners. They don't know about the newspapers." Natalie replied.

  The couple talked like ordinary travellers for nearly an hour in a half—directions, small talk, the weather sliding past the window. Kazou kept his head bent over the map, tracing the route in a voice that tried to be helpful and calm: “Then you take the A2, keep right past the service—no, not the exit, stay in the middle lane—” He spoke in clipped English.

  “Go straight at the next junction,” he said, watching the driver’s face in the rear-view mirror.

  The man didn’t. He turned the wheel, smooth and deliberate, sliding off the road and onto another carriageway that tunneled away from Kazou’s instructions. The car picked up speed.

  Kazou laughed once, a short, disbelieving sound. “But—” he began.

  The driver broke in, casually. “Shortcut,” he said with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Trust me. We’ll be there quicker.”

  Natalie frowned. “Are you sure—?” she asked in broken English.

  The woman in the passenger seat glanced over her shoulder, her expression tightening. Kazou heard them then—not the words at first, but the cadence: hurried whispers in English.

  “…the man in the newspaper?” the driver asked his wife. "That Japanese guy?"

  “He looks like him,” the woman answered, low. “I’m sure. Look.” She folded the map aside and, with an efficiency that felt abrupt and practiced, she tugged the newspaper from her handbag and spread it open on her lap.

  Kazou’s eyes snagged on it before the paper was fully visible.

  The headline and the photograph flashed like lightning. His heart went cold. The headline burned across the page:

  POLAND’S MOST WANTED: DR. KAZOU KURODA.

  The image was the same older photograph—his face in neat trim, eyes that still matched his—but the certainty of recognition hit him like a stone to the chest.

  Hannah and Natalie were still distracted—Hannah fidgeting with the strap of her bag, Natalie studying the map. He felt as if the car’s interior had constricted to the size of that folded rectangle, and the letters branded themselves across his skin.

  He didn’t let his mouth form English. He switched to Polish and hissed, rapid, urgent to Natalie: “Oni to widzieli. Zobaczyli gazet?. Mówi? o mnie. They saw the paper. They know it’s me.”

  Natalie’s breath caught; she looked up, face blanching. “Shit,” she whispered.

  "Oh no!" Hannah cried.

  Kazou forced a smile that never reached his eyes and tried to steer the conversation back into neutral territory. “Do you want more directions?” he asked in English, voice even, uselessly casual.

  “No,” the man said too quickly. His grin hardened. “We’re fine. Thank you for the help.”

  Kazou kept watching the road. A green sign slid by:

  Posterunek Policji — 2 km. Police station — two kilometers.

  The letters seemed suddenly enormous. His throat closed. Natalie saw it too and cursed under her breath, quietly, two syllables of panic.

  They were going the wrong way. Not merely off-route, but toward danger.

  Kazou’s voice tried neutrality again, but the words came out small. “We’re going away from Wroc?aw.”

  The driver’s answering smile was the wrong kind of easy. “I know,” he said. “Trust me.”

  "Why?" The why jutted out like a bone. Kazou demanded it.

  The woman rolled the paper open so the headline faced them all. Up close, the print felt obscene, a public indictment spread across cheap newsprint.

  “It’s you, isn’t it?” the driver said, eyes flat, hungry for confirmation.

  Kazou’s head shook hard. “No.” His voice was a quiet, stubborn knot. “It’s not—”

  “Deny all you want,” the man interrupted, and there was no longer politeness in it. “We’re going to the police station.”

  Silence pooled inside the car like spilled oil. For a minute, nothing moved. Kazou watched the driver’s hands on the wheel, saw the small, nervous tension there—too practiced to be innocent. He looked at the woman: her jaw clenched, the newspaper flattened on her knees like an accusation.

  Then the world compressed to the seconds of deciding.

  Kazou did not let himself think of the consequences as people do—he did not rehearse them, he did not calculate escape routes in a calm voice. He acted the way someone acts when a person must be pulled from under a crashing beam: immediate, brutal, utterly focused.

  He couldn't let them arrest him and leave Casimir, the real demon, on the run.

  Hastily, he moved.

  "Kuroda!" Natalie let out a yelp as she noticed him hastily reach for what was in his pocket.

  SHWRP!

  There was only the clean, clinical motion of necessity. From under his jacket, Kazou brought the pistol up. The metal was colder than he expected; his palm felt the reassuring, terrible weight, closing the small space between him and the driver in two long, efficient strides.

  The man’s eyes widened—only for the fraction of an instant before Kazou’s gun was at his temple. He pressed the barrel flat against the skin beside the man’s ear. With his free arm, he closed around the man’s neck and shoulder in a hold that left no space. Not enough to hurt him, though. There was a practiced lock at Kazou’s elbow that took the man’s balance and removed his right hand from the wheel.

  “Pull over,” Kazou said in English, low and controlled voice. “Now. Stop the car. Slowly. No sudden moves, or I will kill you. Do you understand?”

  He really wasn't going to kill the driver, no.

  "Whoa! Wait to go, Kuroda!" Hannah cheered innocently.

  The driver’s breath came in frightened rattles.

  "EEK!" The woman had shrieked, a small sound that broke off into a high keening.

  Natalie’s hand had gone to her mouth; she stared at Kazou with a mix of horror and something like fierce approval—an acknowledgment that he had chosen a line and crossed it.

  Outside, the motorway rolled on indifferent. No one in the world beyond the car windows knew what pivot had just occurred.

  The driver’s left hand found the gearstick with a trembling motion and guided the vehicle toward the hard shoulder. He was clearly baffled—part fear, part anger—and tried to say something, but the words came thin and broken. Kazou’s metal made contact with the warm skin of the man’s temple like a promise.

  The car descended from speed to crawl. Past the side window, the scrubby verge unrolled, and Kazou’s eyes searched the line of trees, the small embankment, any gap in the tarmac where this could become worse. He kept the pistol planted, elbow locked, breath measured. His pulse hammered in his ear, but his mouth was dry and patient.

  “Now,” he repeated, in English, the syllables sharp. “Stop.”

  They pulled to the side, engine ticking as it wound down. A beat later, the driver’s hands shook on the wheel. The woman let out an involuntary sob. Hannah made a small sound that might have been a cry but was swallowed by the car’s cramped interior.

  Kazou held their eyes for a long moment. He wanted to see defiance, or panic, or the human flicker of mercy. He saw stuckness—people caught in the slippery net of their own decisions.

  His voice turned quiet, intimate in its menace. “Get out,” he said. “All of you. Now. Natalie, Hannah, you too."

  Natalie’s face was working with a thousand expressions; her jaw had set. She obeyed without hesitation, clambering past him to the door, tiny but sure. Hannah followed, stumbling, her small body trembling. Kazou kept his arm like a bar across the man’s chest until they were all standing on the verge, the car between them all like an island.

  The couple stood together, paper limp in the woman’s hands, the color gone from their faces. Around the motorway held its indifferent rhythm; somewhere down the road, a lorry thundered past, carefree.

  Kazou did not lower the pistol. He kept it leveled, an immovable, impossible fact between them. He turned his head multiple times, making sure no one else was in sight. His voice, when he spoke next, was a precise monotone.

  “You will not call out,” he said. “You will not try to run. You will hold your pagers in the air and hand them to me when I tell you. You will not take a picture. You will not reach for anything. If you move wrong, I will not hesitate.”

  The woman tried to reach for the car door and get back in before Natalie whipped out her gun and held her at point-blank.

  "He told you not to move!" Natalie asserted.

  The woman’s lips trembled. The driver’s eyes slitted with something like calculation—he had a look now as if trying to count the odds. “Please,” he said, voice small. “We just wanted—”

  Kazou’s jaw tightened. He thought of the newspaper headline in the woman’s lap, of the way the man had smiled when he said, “shortcut.” He thought of Hannah’s small hand in his mind, of Natalie’s flat, practiced steadiness, and of the long path they’d walked to be alive for this very moment. For a scientist, there are thresholds you don’t cross until the moment you must.

  He had crossed it.

  “Pagers,” he said. “Now.” His hand did not tremble.

  They obeyed, fumbling, papers dropping to the grass. The couple’s fear had bared them, small and ordinary and human in a way that knotted something inside Kazou he didn’t have language for. He collected one pager, then another, checked each screen as if the simple brightness could betray them. No police numbers dialed, no frantic texts in the outbox—only small, shaky visuals of panic.

  Kazou breathed out, very slowly, and let the gun lower an inch—not to relinquish control but to allow his body a hair of rest. The pistol still lay heavy and final in his palm. He looked at Natalie, at Hannah, at the woman and man trembling on the motor verge, and understood fully that the next minute would decide whether they ran or whether the newsprint’s accusation snapped like a trap around them.

  "Lets move out." Natalie said.