The Man With The Red Umbrella

Mist hung low over the Kamo River, turning the world into soft watercolor. Ryunosuke walked along the bank, hands in his jacket pockets, notebook pressed against his ribs. The city around him was barely awake—only a few joggers, the occasional passing cyclist, and the whisper of running water kept him company.

His shoulder still ached faintly from where Mayu had grabbed him in the van last night, but he didn't mind. The silence was welcome. After the shouting, after the old sayings and veiled warnings, he needed this. The cold air bit gently at his skin, sharpening his senses.

He found a low stone wall near the water and sat down. Pulled the notebook from under his jacket. It was the one Kenji had given him—charred around the corners, still faintly smelling of ash. He flipped past the haiku, the family names, the old sketches of swords and insignias.

He stopped on a blank page. Pulled a mechanical pencil from his pocket.

And he started to draw.

It came easily, almost without thought: a woman in a flowing kimono, standing by the water with her back turned. Long black hair swept by the wind. Cherry blossoms falling even though it was autumn. Her silhouette was soft. Gentle. But there was something unnatural about her presence—like she wasn't really there.

He paused and stared at the image.

He didn't know who she was.

But something about her felt… familiar. Like he'd seen her before. In a dream. In another life.

A gust of wind carried the sound of footsteps behind him. Nothing unusual—just someone passing.

Still, he tensed.

He didn't turn around, but his eyes flicked to the river's reflection. A tall man walked past on the trail above. Sharp suit. Black gloves. His face was mostly in shadow beneath a broad red umbrella.

Ryunosuke frowned.

Clear sky.

No rain.

The man didn't stop, didn't look at him. Just walked slowly, casually, like he belonged to the morning.

Still...

Ryunosuke tore the page from his sketchbook and folded it twice before slipping it into his pocket. Then he stood and turned away from the river, heading back through the quiet side streets toward the safehouse. He told himself it was nothing.

But every now and then, as he weaved through alleys and narrow arcades, he caught a glimpse of red just at the corner of his eye.

A splash of color in a world of gray.

The alley was narrow and dim, nestled between a shuttered ramen shop and a recycling center. Ryunosuke stepped through it as a shortcut, his footsteps quiet against the wet stone.

Behind him, something shifted.

A whisper of movement.

He turned his head just in time to see the flash of steel.

The man with the red umbrella was already in motion—umbrella discarded, blade drawn in one smooth arc. Ryunosuke twisted sideways, the tanto still tucked in his jacket throwing off his balance. The assassin's blade sliced clean through the fabric of his coat, grazing the side of his ribs.

Pain bloomed sharp and hot, but Ryunosuke kept his footing.

He stumbled backward and raised his fists instinctively. The assassin advanced, not rushing—precise, like a man who had done this many times.

Ryunosuke reached for the tanto, but the man was faster.

He sheathed the blade and, in one fluid motion, pulled a compact pistol from under his jacket.

There was no expression on his face. No anger. No hatred.

Just duty.

Ryunosuke's body locked up. He knew he couldn't outrun a bullet.

The gun clicked.

Flashbang.

A burst of white exploded beside the assassin's head. The sound cracked like thunder, rattling the alley's tight walls. Ryunosuke dropped to a crouch instinctively, ears ringing.

Three gunshots followed in rapid succession.

CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.

The assassin collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. Blood pooled beneath him, dark and silent. His pistol clattered across the stone and stopped at Ryunosuke's foot.

Figures poured into the alley from both sides—sleek black uniforms, full tactical gear, suppressed rifles, face visors glowing faint blue. No markings. No hesitation.

One of them raised a weapon toward Ryunosuke.

He froze.

Then slowly, arms trembling slightly, he lifted his hands into the air.

"Don't shoot," he said, voice hoarse. "I'm… I'm not with him."

For a moment, nothing moved.

Then a command barked out in Japanese—sharp, practiced: "Weapon safeties. Lower rifles."

The team responded immediately. The rifles dropped. Visors powered down.

A woman stepped forward—slightly older, stern-faced, with a black earpiece and a pistol holstered to her chest rig.

"You're Ryunosuke Hayashi," she said in English, her accent clipped but fluent.

He nodded, arms still raised.

"You're coming with us. Now."

He didn't argue.

Didn't need to.

Whatever this was, it went deeper than he'd ever imagined.

As they escorted him out of the alley, Ryunosuke cast one last glance at the man in the red umbrella. The color of his blood was almost the same.

The inside of the surveillance van was cool and clinical. Fluorescent lights bathed everything in sterile white, and the hum of electronics filled the silence like static. A dozen monitors flickered with grainy CCTV feeds—most of Kyoto's alleys, train stations, and intersections appeared to be under some form of watch.

Ryunosuke sat on a steel bench along the wall, wrapped in a silver thermal blanket. His coat had been cut and discarded. The blood on his shirt was dry now—just a dark smear across his side. One of the agents had disinfected the wound and taped gauze over it with military efficiency. No words exchanged. No eye contact.

Opposite him, a man in a black field jacket and mirrored visor stood silently, arms folded. The team leader, the one who'd spoken earlier, was on a comm headset, whispering in Japanese. Ryunosuke didn't understand most of it—just fragments.

"Kanda… asset compromised… no police involvement."

The masked man finally turned and approached him. His face was completely obscured by a featureless, black mask with a single red stripe running down the center. His voice came through a built-in vocoder, low and mechanical.

"You're lucky," the voice said. "Most people who end up on a list like yours don't get warnings."

Ryunosuke blinked. "A list?"

"You leaked encrypted data from a corrupted Yakuza archive," the man continued. "That archive was seeded with classified information—names, accounts, shell corporations linked to international actors. Some of them are protected. Some of them are Kanda's."

"I didn't know—"

The man cut him off. "Intent doesn't matter anymore. You weren't supposed to survive that alley."

Ryunosuke leaned forward. "So why am I here?"

The mask tilted slightly.

"Because someone tipped us off."

The team leader nodded toward one of the rear doors. It slid open, letting in a rush of night air. In the distance, the skyline shimmered with the last light of day.

The masked man continued, "You've drawn the attention of people who don't officially exist. That's dangerous—for you, and for the ones still tied to you. If you're going to keep moving in this world, you'll need support. Controlled exposure."

Ryunosuke narrowed his eyes. "You mean surveillance."

"We mean survival," the man replied coldly. "You're a witness, a potential liability, and—more interestingly—a descendant of Riku Hayashi. Some people want you erased. Others want to know what you're capable of. We're… undecided."

The van swayed slightly as it stopped.

The team leader returned from the front cabin and looked at Ryunosuke with sharp, assessing eyes.

"We're going to introduce you to someone," she said. "She's the reason you're still breathing."

The door hissed open again.

"Don't make us regret it."

Ryunosuke stood slowly. His ribs still ached, and his legs felt heavy, but his mind was clearing. He wasn't just caught in the storm now.

He was part of it.

The roof of the PSIA safehouse offered a sweeping view of Kyoto—temples nestled between city lights, the mountains in the distance painted in fading indigo. Helicopter blades hummed faintly far off, distant enough to feel unreal.

Ryunosuke leaned against the concrete ledge, the bandage beneath his shirt pulling slightly with every breath. His coat was gone, and his hoodie had been torn during the fight. The dry air bit at his skin, but he didn't care. It was better than being in that van, watched, questioned, measured.

A metallic click of a rooftop door made him glance over his shoulder.

A girl stepped out.

She looked… younger than the agents. His age, maybe a little older. Her hair was shoulder-length and dyed steel-blue at the tips. She wore a black tech jacket with an iridescent sigil pulsing faintly on the shoulder—like a neon circuit tattoo trying to hide in plain sight. Her boots were scuffed. She carried no weapon, at least not visibly.

She walked over without hesitation and leaned on the ledge beside him.

"So," she said, eyes scanning the skyline. "You're the son of the ghost."

Ryunosuke didn't answer right away. He studied her out of the corner of his eye. "You with the PSIA?"

"Not exactly. They outsource some of their jobs. I'm… freelance adjacent." She grinned. "Name's Aiko."

She offered a hand. He hesitated, then took it.

Her grip was firm. Casual. Normal. The first human moment he'd had all day.

"You're the one who tipped them off?" he asked.

"Yeah. You were about to get ventilated by a guy in a red umbrella. I figured I'd rather see what you'd do next." She gave him a sideways glance. "Didn't disappoint."

Ryunosuke gave a dry laugh. "Glad I could entertain."

"Not just that," Aiko said, suddenly more serious. "I watched the leak you sent out. That file dump? That wasn't just rebellion. It was precision. You didn't even know what half of it meant, and you still hit every target that mattered. You rattled Kanda's inner circle."

"I wasn't trying to start a war," he said quietly.

"Too late," she replied, leaning back on the ledge. "War's here. Has been. You're just one of the few people who noticed the smell of smoke before the fire reached the house."

The wind picked up, rustling her jacket. For a moment, Ryunosuke thought he saw something glow under her collar—like circuitry etched into skin—but it vanished too fast to be sure.

She turned to face him directly.

"You don't look like your father."

He blinked.

"…Thanks?"

"That's a compliment," she said with a smirk. "Maybe it means you'll do better than he did."

Before he could respond, the rooftop door opened again.

The masked agent from the van stepped out and gave a small nod to Aiko.

"We're moving," he said. "Keep him close."

Aiko turned to Ryunosuke and flashed a small grin.

"Looks like you're with me now, sketchboy."

And just like that, she walked off into the stairwell, no explanation, no farewell—leaving Ryunosuke to stare at the place where the sky touched the mountains and wonder what kind of storm he'd really stepped into.