Chapter 6
Down on the first-floor hall, Vodka finished counting the goods and locked the briefcase.
Another evil transaction completed. The Organization continued its steady, stable expansion of its dark, criminal territory, firmly walking the path of growth and power.
Vodka surveyed the desolate, silent distillery and nodded to himself.
Ever since the transaction at the amusement park went awry, Gin-aniki had changed their meeting spots.
(T/N: “Aniki” is a respectful term for an older brother or a senior gang member.)
Vodka used to love making deals at the amusement park. Committing the most illegal acts in the happiest place on earth perfectly showcased the Organization’s unique criminal flair. Plus, he could use “scouting the park” as an excuse to ride the thrilling roller coasters a few times on the company dime. It was awesome.
Until a certain detestable fellow appeared and ruined everything.
Vodka would never forget it. Back then, he had been so engrossed in counting cash that he hadn’t noticed the stalker secretly spying on them from behind. Thankfully, his wise and powerful Aniki had been one step ahead, grabbing a bat and whack-whack-whack, bringing the evil stalker to justice.
High school detective Kudo Shinichi, may you repent for your stalking crimes!
Vodka, still bitter about losing his amusement park annual pass, cursed him internally.
Once bitten, twice shy. Even though they had changed locations, Vodka was still a little paranoid.
No way, right? We’re already making deals in an abandoned distillery in the suburbs. There can’t possibly be an eyewitness, can there?
Gin, a cigarette dangling from his lips, shot Vodka a cold glance.
“Aniki…” Vodka’s eyes, hidden behind his sunglasses, welled up with emotion.
Aniki, my good Aniki. Such a warm-hearted, cold-blooded tough guy. He so keenly sensed his underling’s unease and gave me a comforting look.
Aniki’s eyes could speak. They said: “Kill them all.”
Destroy the evidence, leave no one alive. That was the Black Organization’s way.
“Understood.” Vodka, filled with motivation, clicked off the safety on his gun. “Aniki, I’ll go search the entire distillery right now.”
Gin gave a noncommittal grunt. He exhaled a puff of smoke, his forest-green eyes lifting from beneath the brim of his black hat to gaze at the old skylight high above.
It was dusk. The last magnificent rays of the setting sun were reflected by the glass into a sky full of brilliant, blinding specks of light.
The Top Killer instinctively disliked bright lights. In his eyes, they were all misdirection. If a sniper were present, the glint of their scope could be hidden within, and a bullet could pierce his chest at any moment.
The rising smoke distorted the air, blurring his vision. Faces rewound in Gin’s memory.
Snipers, even in an organization teeming with talent, were a rare commodity. Those with exquisite skill were even rarer.
Gin remembered every face behind a scope. Chianti, Korn, Rye—now he had to call him Akai Shuichi—and… Scotch.
A cold sneer escaped Gin’s lips.
An undercover agent. A traitor. An unforgivable sinner. By a rough count, Scotch had been dead for four years.
Gin didn’t usually remember the dead for so long. He just still remembered Scotch’s marksmanship.
Extreme calm. Precision. Silence. The bullet would silently tear through flesh, and after firing, he would leave without a trace of hesitation.
Gin admired his skill with a rifle, but that was all.
“To die a miserable death in some unknown corner—that is the only fate for the rats who infiltrate the Organization.”
The silver-haired man’s lips curled into a cruel smile.
No exceptions would be allowed.
The brilliance of the afterglow seemed like a final, fleeting burst of life. The bright specks of light gradually faded. The sun would set, and darkness would soon envelop the world.
An inconspicuous glint of light flashed across Gin’s eyes.
His mind didn’t register anything amiss, but his body reacted on pure reflex, throwing itself to the side.
His intuition, honed through a thousand battles, had served him well. A bullet tore through the air, grazing Gin’s side. BANG!
“Aniki?!”
Vodka yelled in alarm. Gin rolled behind cover and raised his head, his eyes locked on the third floor.
The bullet had shattered the floor tile where he had just been standing, kicking up a cloud of grayish-white dust.
A sniper’s bullet is their personal signature. No two signatures in the world are identical.
It had been four years. A signature that had once been brilliant had long since faded with time, but Gin recognized it. And with that recognition came an utterly absurd conclusion.
“This marksmanship…” Gin was in disbelief.
The ghost of Scotch was haunting the distillery!
…
“Almost. A pity.”
High above, a pair of gray-blue eyes lifted from behind a sniper scope.
Hiromitsu Morofushi let out a soft breath, suppressing the tremor in his fingertips as he took aim again.
Standing beside him, the dark-haired girl stared at Hiromitsu and his sniper rifle with a mixture of nervousness and curiosity, hesitantly addressing him, “Scotch… Mentor?”
The girl seemed a little reserved, little knowing that Hiromitsu was ten thousand times more reserved than she was.
He could not comprehend the current situation at all.
In Hiromitsu Morofushi’s mind, he was already dead.
The pain of the bullet tearing through his body still lingered in his nerves. The weight of death pressed down on him. The past had flashed before his eyes like a revolving lantern—it was no illusion.
Death was an ending that could not be faked or redone. Hiromitsu Morofushi’s life was over. It had ended as a Public Security Bureau agent who had unfortunately had his cover blown while infiltrating the Black Organization.
So… why was he suddenly alive again?
Hiromitsu stared blankly at his own hands. He clenched them into fists, feeling the pain and the warmth.
The clothes he was wearing were the same ones he’d worn on December 7th. It had been winter then; now it was summer. He belatedly felt the heat and undid two buttons of his shirt.
There was a hole in the shirt. The edges were singed with gunpowder residue, further proof of his death.
But coming back to life wasn’t the strangest part. There were many other strange things.
For instance, the bass guitar case on his back and the sniper rifle inside it.
They were the exact same models Hiromitsu had used before. Even the scuff marks on the case were identical to his memory, and the rifle was his preferred model.
You get revived and they throw in a free set of starter gear? Does such a good deal actually exist? Hiromitsu couldn’t help but let his mind wander.
The girl staring at him, however, showed no surprise at the sniper rifle. Hiromitsu tried asking her about it and got the reply, “Isn’t this standard equipment for a mentor?”
Hiromitsu was transported back to his English-learning days, where any confusing question could be explained away with “it’s a set phrase.”
Set phrases, the almighty god of explanations.jpg
He reluctantly accepted this explanation and shifted his gaze to the dark-haired, dark-eyed girl beside him.
She was the biggest mystery of all.
Had she revived him? What was her purpose? How did she know his codename in the Organization? And why did she call him “Mentor”?
His training as an undercover agent had taught Hiromitsu to restrain his curiosity. Otherwise, his nickname would change from “Mentor Scotch” to “Mentor Mr. Why.”
Hiromitsu only asked one question.
“What do you need me to do for you?”
She called him Scotch and didn’t question the sniper rifle in the bass case. Her perception of him probably wasn’t “Police Officer Hiromitsu Morofushi.”
As expected, the girl pointed a delicate finger towards the hall on the first floor.
“Can you take care of them?” she asked.
Hiromitsu’s heart sank.
The purpose of his revival was to make him kill people.
During his time undercover in the Organization, he had been forced to stain himself with black. But Scotch was dead. Hiromitsu Morofushi would never live on as a criminal.
He would not harm innocent people. Even if this revived life was taken from him again, it would not change his beliefs.
“I will not fire for you,” the cat-eyed young man said, his tone cold and resolute. He looked down at the figures in the hall below. “Get that idea out of your head right now—”
A man with waist-length silver hair, wearing a black fedora and a black trench coat in the middle of summer, came into Hiromitsu’s line of sight.
Him: “…”
Him: “…………”
“My apologies. I was being too rash,” Hiromitsu immediately apologized to the girl, his attitude one of utmost sincerity.
“I’m terribly sorry. I’ll set up the rifle right now.”