Chapter 8

"Kenji, what is this monstrous sight I see?" Reika's voice rang through the kitchen, sharp and refined, as she stood in front of the kitchen, her silk nightgown flowing behind her like the trailing mist of a storm. She paused mid-step, one perfectly arched brow lifting in sheer horror as she took in the scene. She didn't seriously –

Kenji was one to talk. Flour dusted the air, eggshells littered the countertop, and he stood at the stove, wooden spoon in hand, boldly attempting to teach the children how to cook. On a school morning. Kenji realized the situation looked unfavourable to him.

Kenji adjusted his glasses with an innocent smile. "Ah –" At least he could try to tone down Reika's anger.

"Ah?" Reika's cut him off. She stepped onto the kitchen floor, her slippered feet somehow avoiding every stray crumb. "How does this—" she gestured dramatically to the disaster "—account as an appropriate way to begin the day?"

"It was an opportunity," Kenji replied, calm as ever. "A chance to teach them basic survival."

"They will be late." She pointed a perfectly manicured finger toward the mess. "And this? This is chaos I do not want." She was the one going to be cleaning the mess after all.

A clattering noise made Reika lean forward to look behind her husband. It was Rei. He dropped a bowl of dough. He quickly picked it back, looking anywhere but his parents. 

"I think we will live on takeout for the rest of our lives." Nagi lazily raised a perfectly cut carrot only to drop it. He didn't even look up. It was then Reika noticed Arato tied up lying behind the counter right under Nagi. Reika's eyes twitched.

"Get ready now. All of you. Now."

The kids filed out in silence—Arato even got up and hopped away– while Kenji tried calmly to wipe his hands on a towel.

"Reika," he tried, "they need to learn these things someday."

She straightened her nightgown and glared. "Kenji, if they can break into a fortress without leaving a trace, they can survive a life without food. Plus I think Rei would rather eat money for food."

And with that, she swept out of the kitchen, leaving Kenji alone amidst the wreckage. He sighed, glancing at the destroyed kitchen. "…They weren't that bad."

Ruckus sounded as the kids sped through the door. That was some fast packing.

"Kenji."Reika appeared in the kitchen again. He had already started the utensils. He wasn't going to make Reika wash them. "Kenji." Reika appeared in the kitchen doorway again, now dressed in sleek black slacks and a fitted blazer, her hair pinned into a tight, elegant bun. The silk nightgown from earlier was gone, as was any trace of the morning's chaos. Kenji washed the last of the dishes. 

The kitchen, once loud with the sound of cracking eggs and Rei's exaggerated complaints, now sat in a heavy, quiet calm. The morning sun filtered in through the half-open blinds, catching the last dusting of flour still floating in the air.

Reika's sharp eyes flicked to the clock. "We'll be late. You can finish this later."

Kenji sighed, drying his hands on a towel before tossing it onto the counter. "I know."

She gave him a brief nod, already heading toward the front door. Kenji followed, pausing for just a second to glance up the stairs. He locked the door behind them.

The crisp morning air met them like a slap as they stepped outside. The sky was pale blue, streaked with soft clouds, but the bite in the wind hinted at the colder hours they'd soon face. Their car, black and nondescript, sat quietly in the driveway. Kenji opened the door for Reika before slipping into the driver's seat himself.

The drive out of the suburbs was silent, save for the soft hum of the engine. Immediately he got in the car, Reika handed over his gloves. They were always in the compartment box. 

"Let's go over the details."He said to Reika. She nodded and pulled out a document out of the compartment.

Kenji tapped the steering wheel with his gloved fingers while Reika flipped through the mission file on her lap. Pictures of their target, marked pages, and notes about his schedule—all the details they needed to make this clean.

"Think the kids suspect?" Kenji asked, eyes on the road.

Reika didn't even glance up. "They know. They're just pretending not to."

Kenji smirked, but it faded quickly. "It's better that way."

The city thinned as they drove further out, glass towers replaced by old brick buildings and construction lots. By the time they reached the designated area, the morning sun had climbed higher, glinting off the rooftops and shimmering in puddles left by the night's rain.

They abandoned the car in an alleyway, slipping into the shadows like they'd done countless times before.

Minutes later, they stood atop a neighboring rooftop, overlooking the sprawling city below. The wind tugged at their coats, carrying the faint sounds of traffic, honking horns, and distant chatter. But up here, it was silent.

Beneath them, the target's penthouse gleamed in the sunlight—floor-to-ceiling windows revealing a world of expensive suits, champagne glasses, and the kind of smiles that cost more than most houses. Their mark stood at the center of it all, laughing like a man who thought himself untouchable.

Reika adjusted the scope of her rifle, fingers steady. The rifle was the mounted kind, designed to shoot from miles away, but this one was special. It didn't contain bullets, but only deadly poison on a sharp special needle used only for the Kurozawa Family. 

Their family had only three rules: 無血 Muketsu,無音Muon,無跡Museki. (No blood, No Blood, No Trace.) And for decades the family had done everything to keep that rule.

Kenji crouched beside her, eyes on the target. "Get him good." She was the better sniper.

Reika exhaled softly through her nose, a ghost of a smirk tugging at her lips. "Naturally." As they settled into position, the homey demeanour faded to pave way for the cold and unnaturally focused look they both wore like second skins. The city kept breathing beneath their feet, blissfully unaware.

The target was a high profile government worker, and a pedophile, with countless cases under his name already– just he had never been convicted of any. Their employer—a wealthy businessman with more power than ethics—had tried to take down the man legally after he preyed on his daughter. But influence and money had kept the predator above the law. 

After observing the man through the lens, Reika scoffed. "Pathetic," Reika scoffed. "For someone so careful in covering his tracks, he's sloppy when it comes to his own safety."

Kenji adjusted his sights. "Money makes people arrogant."

The target was alone in his study, swirling a glass of brandy, papers scattered around him—likely filled with dirty secrets.

Reika's finger tightened on the trigger, her breath slowing as if the entire city had taken a pause with her. The wind shifted, just slightly—enough for her to adjust the angle by a fraction.

Pfft.

The needle sliced through the air, nearly invisible even through the high-powered scope. It grazed the target's neck, a mere whisper against his skin, before embedding itself into the back of his leather chair.

The man blinked, his hand rising to touch the faint mark on his neck. He frowned, confused, rubbing the spot as if it had been nothing more than a mosquito bite. Then he swirled his brandy again, completely unaware.

Reika lowered the rifle, her expression flat. "Done. Our client will be pleased." Kenji started unpacking the mounted rifle, watching as the target below still laughed, still breathed, still lived, unaware of the slow, creeping death now coursing through his veins. He would collapse in less than nine hours, sickness masquerading as nothing more than a passing flu until it was too late.

"We have to hurry to the main event of the day, after all," Kenji said,after he was done, adjusting his gloves. He was right. An old friend of the family had requested an in person kill – a bloody one. It went against their policy, but for a friend, they allowed it. Kenji sighed. He particularly hated these types of requests.

They abandoned the rooftop and the poisoned man's fate. For in person kills, the Kurozawas had a ritual.

Back at a discreet, rented property tucked between the city's industrial veins, Kenji stood before a wooden chest—one far older than the building it sat in. Its surface was worn smooth by decades of use, but the iron clasps remained strong.

He opened it slowly.

Inside lay the ceremonial attire: deep, inky-black garments with gray threading woven in intricate, flowing patterns—symbols older than either Reika or Kenji could trace. The outfits were designed for mobility, but they held an unmistakable gravitas. After all the point was to signal prestige and wealth, and to impress clients.

Atop the garments rested the masks. White porcelain, bone-pale, gleaming even in the dim light.

Kenji picked one that had a familiar cracked grin, jagged and unsettling, stretching far too wide for a human face. It was his father's mask, and his grandfather's, and his great grandfather's. His hand trembled a bit while holding it. He could remember all the horrors he went through whilst his father wore this very mask. 

Reika wore a smooth and flawless, save for the single red line trailing down from the eye, like a tear made of blood. It was made for her when she married into the family. 

"This is the first time he's asked for a performance in years," Kenji said, his fingers tightening around the mask's edges.

Reika slipped easily into her robes before helping Kenji with his."He did say that his captive bullied and killed his son." Kenji nodded, fastening the last of the clasps on his attire before lifting the mask to his face. He could understand that.