Chapter 43: Bulletproof Night
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Time: 8:00 PM | Location: Akira's Apartment
The sizzle of oil echoed from the kitchen, the rhythmic crackle of frying omelet filling the apartment. A warm aroma—onions, garlic, spices—wafted through the air. Calm. Too calm.
Akira stood in his small kitchen, dressed in a grey tee and sweatpants, looking more like a teenager prepping for midnight snacks than a fugitive high schooler with blood on his hands and a price on his head.
He flipped the omelet smoothly and glanced at the wall clock.
8:00 PM.
Buzz.
His phone lit up on the counter. John.
Akira wiped his hands on a towel and answered with a deadpan tone.
"Yellow."
A pause. "What? Ugh—leave it," John grunted. "Where the hell are you right now?"
Akira smirked and glanced again at the clock, his voice syrupy with sarcasm.
"Where a student should be at 8 PM... home."
John's voice spiked with panic. "Are you dumb?! What the hell are you doing at home?! Didn't you receive the damn letter?!"
"I did." Akira calmly set plates on the table, unfazed. "I'm cooking for some… guests."
John screamed, "I swear to God, I'm going to kill you—"
CRASH.
A bullet tore through the open window and shattered the plate in Akira's hand.
He didn't flinch. Just sighed.
"Sorry. Showtime," Akira muttered and hung up.
Sliding his hand into his pocket, he drew a sleek pistol, checking the magazine. Loaded.
"Sniper," he whispered, scanning the shadows beyond the window.
Knock. Knock.
He turned to the door.
"It's open," he called, voice relaxed, bordering on bored. "You can come in."
Silence.
The door creaked open slowly… revealing nothing but the empty hallway.
Akira raised his hand, motioning toward the window. "He's coming from the—"
Too late.
A giant shadow moved behind him.
A behemoth of a man stepped into view—massive, at least 6'6", muscles bulging beneath tight tactical straps. Tattoos like coiled serpents snaked down both arms. His vest was crammed with gear—syringes, knives, smoke pellets, flashbangs, and twin pistols strapped across his chest like an urban warrior straight from a death squad.
Akira blinked. "Damn. You're quick… and quiet."
The brute didn't reply.
In a split second, the man grabbed Akira's leg and swung him sideways—SLAM!
Akira crashed into the dining table, splinters flying. His back screamed with pain.
Strong and fast, he thought. Terrible combo.
He rolled instinctively as another bullet ripped through the air, exploding the table where his head had just been.
From outside, a cold female voice sighed.
"Missed again. How?"
Sniper girl, Akira realized. Of course.
He didn't hesitate. Gun up, trigger squeezed—
BANG!
The bullet hit the giant's chest—and bounced off.
"Bulletproof jacket?" Akira muttered. "Cute. But against me?"
The brute responded by slamming his chest. With a hiss of hidden springs, two pistols ejected from compartments. He caught them midair and opened fire.
RATATAT.
Bullets shredded the furniture. Wood splinters danced in the air like confetti.
Akira dove behind the overturned sofa, gritting his teeth as a bullet grazed his knee.
"Ah, crap," he hissed, clutching the wound.
The shooting stopped.
He peeked.
Too late. The man was already over him, dagger raised, gleaming.
Akira rolled just in time. The blade stabbed into the floor.
He kicked the brute's face. The man grunted, staggering slightly.
Akira stood, limping. "I get it. You've got weapons, armor… but no damn flexibility."
The giant roared, lunged forward again—
CRACK!
A single sniper round zoomed past Akira's cheek and punched straight through the giant's back.
The man stumbled, gasped, and dropped. His body hit the floor with a heavy thud.
Akira stared. "Huh. Guess the jacket doesn't cover betrayal."
From the door, the sniper girl screamed, "Moonlight?! You—! You let him die!"
Akira didn't waste the moment. He started forward, determined to finish it—but his knee gave out. He collapsed, gritting his teeth.
Across the way, the girl crouched behind her sniper post, frantically reloading.
Akira blinked. Wait… I have a gun.
He raised his pistol, steadied his hand.
"Hey. You."
She looked up.
BANG.
A single shot. A single drop.
She fell backwards, a clean hole between her eyes.
Silence.
Not peace. Just the quiet after violence. His apartment now looked like a warzone—blood, bullet holes, shattered glass, broken chairs. The omelet still hissed faintly on the burner, now burned at the edges.
Akira leaned back against the wall, breathing hard, gun still in hand.
"…Dinner's ruined," he muttered.
His head jerked up. Footsteps. Outside the door.
A shadow.
Friend or foe?
Akira quickly tucked the pistol beneath a cushion and limped toward the doorway.
The shadow stepped inside cautiously—
John.
Eyes wide, breath ragged, he scanned the destroyed room. "What the hell happened here?! Are you okay?!"
Akira shrugged, wincing. "Two guests arrived early. They weren't polite."
John stared at the two bodies. "You killed them both?"
"One of them helped," Akira said, gesturing at the window. "But yeah… mostly me."
John looked at the bodies again. "This is serious, Akira. They have sent powerful people this."
He looked at sniper girl, said" It's Yoru , who never miss ."
"She did today," Akira said, pushing himself to his feet with effort. "But I won't next time."
John's face darkened. "There will be a next time. This was a warning. The real hunters come later."
Akira exhaled. "Then I'll cook something stronger."
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