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“Azami?” There’s something thick in the air and coating the inside of Shiba’s mouth. He clears his throat again—it’s the smoke, probably, that’s clogging his windpipe and pricking heat at the corners of his eyes and wrapping tight around his lungs. The phone creaks in his grip. “Azami!”
“I’m here, I’m—why are you yelling?”
“Azami.” There are more words, other words he needs to say. But first they have to make sense. First they have to make sense, and go in order, and he has to acknowledge that they’re true. It would be easier, really, to stop right where he is. Never go past this moment. It’s a horrible moment to stop in, but it only gets worse from here.
“Shiba, tell me.” Azami’s voice is sure, steady in the way one speaks when they’re trying to keep someone else calm, and that’s what kicks Shiba in the head. He doesn’t get spoken to in that voice, ever. He’s spiraling. He can’t spiral—there’s a bleeding teenager and the corpse of his friend and a hundred other things that demand his best right now.
“They found Rokuhira.”
“Shit.” Someone mumbles on the other side of the line. When he speaks again, Azami sounds like he’s running. “Did you get them out? Are they safe?”
Are they safe? Shiba closes his eyes against the debris and dust. Chihiro’s alive. His head wound is bleeding like a monster and it needs to get checked out—soon. And if that were all that needed to happen, they’d already be gone. But it’s not. Rokuhira kept secrets. He kept one with Shiba and Azami, and that secret was currently insensate against what used to be the wall of his childhood home. It won’t be long until the news breaks and the Kamunabi come to investigate. The Kamunabi, most of whom turned against Rokuhira after the war and would be more than happy to get their hands on everything that’s left of him. And Shiba will be damned if he lets them get their hands on Chihiro or Enten.
His silence goes on too long.
“No. No, don’t tell—”
“I have Chihiro. He’s hurt, I need to get him help.” He doesn’t say anything about Rokuhira, and Azami doesn’t ask. They served in the war together, they know: move forward with what you have.
“Tell me what you need.”
“I need you to come here and—” Do what I can’t do. “Come here and make sure they don’t find anything they shouldn’t.” Erase any evidence that Chihiro was ever here.
“Copy. Get the kid to a doctor, and I’ll do the rest.”
“Thanks.”
Shiba takes Enten in hand, then kneels beside Chihiro. He can’t take him to a hospital—the kid doesn’t have any documents. He doesn’t exist. And the questions it would raise, someone like Shiba dragging a teenager into a hospital, all blood and no answers? It’s not an option. It doesn’t have to be, though. He’s taken enough jobs under the table to know exactly where to go with a problem like this.
Since the barrier’s gone, Shiba doesn’t hesitate. He pulls an unconscious Chihiro to his chest, takes one last look at the friend he can’t save, then makes it all disappear.
Shiba’s had his fair share of injuries that couldn’t—or shouldn’t—go on the record. There are currently three underground doctors and one sorcerer he’d trust with his own life, but trusting them with Chihiro’s is another story. He knows of one other—who’s both doctor and sorcerer—but she’s no guarantee. He doesn’t care. He’s failed once already today, and it won’t happen again.
Dr. Tayama’s outfit is just a shed, far enough outside the city that she doesn’t have to worry about noise even when she’s out of anesthetics. Her house is about half a kilometer south across a field, but she hates blood in the house proper. Shiba sets Chihiro up in the shed, laying him as gently as possible on the single cot and tucking Enten gently underneath. Then he puts himself right at Dr. Tayama’s back door and pounds on the frame with an urgent fist.
When she doesn’t come, he keeps pounding.
“Doc! Doc, open up, it’s me!”
Dr. Tayama looks like she’s been alive for a century, and awake for all of it. Her wiry silver hair hangs in loose curls down to her chin, just about the same color as her threadbare robe. He personally thinks it’s too early in the day for that, but then, he’s not the one who’s retired. She glares at Shiba from deep-set eyes with dark circles beneath, and her eyes narrow further when she takes in his full frame. Shiba looks down.
His shirt isn’t white anymore, clinging to his chest and sopping wet with blood.
“A bit aggressive for your usual approach, Shiba.”
“I’m sorry, doctor.” Shiba rights himself and bows briefly. “I wouldn’t bother you, but it’s urgent.”
“I haven’t made a single exception in the four years I’ve been retired.”
Shiba tamps down a flare of urgency, biting his tongue. She has rules and he knows that if he doesn’t play by them, the doctor will be more than happy to send him away without assistance. Part of him wonders if he’d use force, if it came down to it, in the absolute worst case scenario. What’s worse than the current scenario?
“Please, Dr. Tayama.”
She watches him closely as Shiba fidgets, fighting to restrain himself from bodily grabbing her and putting her in front of Chihiro. The kid needs help, and he needs it now, but Dr. Tayama didn’t become so well-respected by letting people push her around. She believes in no urgency but her own. Shiba once saw her turn down a yakuza member with a gut wound, just because he told her to hurry. When she gave up her license, she used to say, she gave up the oath as well. Only the skills remained.
“Convince me to help you with,” she gestures at his bloodied shirt, “whatever. It’s not your blood, clearly. So who is it?”
“He’s a secret.”
“ He’s a secret? What, do you have a son?”
“No.” Shiba braces himself. He’s been hiding Chihiro for fifteen years, and it’s hard to give him up like this.
“Then what’s the big deal?”
But he has to, doesn’t he?
“Kunishige Rokuhira has a son.”
Dr. Tayama pauses for only a moment, her sharp eyes scanning Shiba’s face for any evidence of truth or lie. She finds what she wants, then looks at his crimson shirt one more time before nodding with finality. “Can he hold out another five minutes for me to get ready?”
“I’d rather not find out.”
Two minutes and thirty-four seconds later, Shiba brings Dr. Tayama to her shed. Chihiro’s conscious again—barely—fighting to sit up in bed and mumbling incoherent phrases under his breath. He doesn’t seem to notice them at all. His head is still bleeding, but it seems to have slowed. Shiba watches the thick, dark blood follow its own rivers down the side of Chihiro’s face and is gripped by a sudden urge to reach out and touch it. He buries his fists in his pockets instead.
He has enough blood on his hands already.
“I see why you brought him here,” Dr. Tayama says. She pulls a pair of nitrile gloves from the pocket of her jacket and leans over Chihiro, checking his pupils with a small pen light and poking tentatively at the wound opening up the left side of his face from temple to cheek. As she works, she speaks.
“Can you tell me your name, young man?”
“Chi… Chihiro. Rokuhira.”
“Okay, Chihiro. What’s the date?”
“August.” That’s right, Shiba realizes. Chihiro’s birthday was only a few days ago. He’s fifteen, now. Fifteen and fully alone. It makes his stomach roll.
“Close enough. Can you tell me why you’re here?”
“My dad—” he starts, but he doesn’t finish. A sob rips out of him with so much force it almost knocks him into the doctor.
“Pupils look fine. Look fine, but I’d be an idiot not to check. Okay, Chihiro, hold still for a minute.”
He looks past her with frightened eyes until he finds Shiba, who does his best to nod in reassurance. How dare he even look the kid in the eye right now? Chihiro has no idea whose fault this really is.
Dr. Tayama tucks the pen light away and places a hand on each side of Chihiro’s head, careful of the wound, then inhales sharply and closes her eyes. For a second Shiba thinks he can see a spark of green at the tips of her fingers, but he can’t be sure if it’s real. After all, the only other time he’s seen the doctor work her sorcery, he was on the receiving end. Dr. Tayama's sorcery made her an excellent doctor and a premium choice in the underground world, her ability to sense changes in the density of whatever she’s holding allowing her to—with fair accuracy—determine if someone had swelling on the brain.
“Fine for now,” she says. “And if you want me to keep working, go sit the hell down over there. Can’t get anything done with you breathing over my shoulder. Okay, kid. I’m going to get you fixed up.”
Shiba apologizes and takes a seat on one of two chairs in the shed, a rickety wooden chair by the front door. It creaks under his weight, but holds. From here, he has to sit up and lean to watch the doctor work, every motion announced by the weak joints of his chair. She senses his eyes and tosses a glare over her shoulder.
“No,” she says, “out. I don’t want that energy in here.”
And the doc’s word is final.
It’s late afternoon when Shiba closes the door of the shed behind him, and the day is plenty warm. He takes a full breath, holding the fresh air in his lungs until he can’t anymore. There’s a text from Azami when he checks his phone, with a simple instruction to call.
“How’s the kid?”
“Okay so far, I’ve got someone working on him.” He paces further away from the shed. It’s unlikely that Dr. Tayama can—or cares to—overhear their conversation, but it’s a matter of principle.
“Someone I know?”
“No, and don’t ask.”
Azami laughs for a second, but there’s no humor. “Of course not.”
“How is it there? Did your cavalry show up?”
“Any minute now.”
“And?”
“As far as the remains of the property are concerned, Kunishige Rokuhira lived alone. No evidence that he ever had a son.”
As much as it’s a relief to know they can still protect Chihiro in this way, there’s a heavy dose of discomfort as well. That was his childhood home—his only home—and with Azami’s interference done it’s like he never existed there at all. There’s nothing for Chihiro to go back to. Fifteen years, all of it destroyed or erased in a single afternoon.
“Thank you.” Shiba rolls his shoulders, looking at the shed behind him for a moment. “Did you, uh…” Did you see him?
“What the hell happened, Shiba?”
“I don’t know.” It’s true enough.
“It looks like they dropped a bomb on this place. What about the barrier? Didn’t you feel it?”
“I did, I—” Shiba bites his tongue. How can he explain that he felt the barrier go down when it happened, but waited? The barrier prevented any sorcery from being performed within it, and Rokuhira needed it down to work on Enten. Shiba had just thought it was that, at first, except Rokuhira always called when he took it down. He waited, and waited, and waited too long.
But he isn’t ready to admit all of that. Because Azami doesn’t know about Enten. Now that Rokuhira is gone, Shiba’s not sure it’s his place to reveal any more secrets.
“I felt it. I thought it was supposed to happen, and by the time I realized it wasn’t—”
“Supposed to happen?” Azami seethes over the line. “What the fuck does that mean? Rokuhira’s not supposed to lower the barrier for anything. Right?”
Shiba breathes. The war ended fifteen years ago, but he remembers how to stay calm when under attack. And this is, despite the distance, undoubtedly an attack.
“Is there some reason you would expect for him to lower the barrier, Shiba?”
“Yes.” Before Azami can ask, Shiba answers his next demand: “But I can’t say more.”
“Is that what you think? Because you were in charge of protecting motherfucking Kunishige Rokuhira and he’s dead , and you just told me that you waited after the barrier went down. How do you think that’ll sound if I explain it to the brass?”
“Well then don’t—Look, it’s not like that.”
“Then tell me what it is like, Shiba.”
“It’s not my secret to share.”
“Oh, of course not. But it was your responsibility to prevent this. So you’re going to tell me the truth, or I’ll make a threat and follow through on it.”
“Azami, I need you to trust me.”
“In my spare time? Sure. But right now? I just saw the body of my friend, I just hid evidence that his son ever existed, and you’re asking me to—” Azami cuts himself off. “Ah, shit, they’re here. This conversation is not over, Shiba.”
“I know.”
Shiba sits in the grass after the call, counting his breaths and relaxing his body limb by limb as best as he can. It’s hard; when he closes his eyes, all Shiba can see is the lifeless body of his friend. A friend who trusted him with his life, right up until the last moment. Did he regret it? Was he waiting? Did he die hating him?
He opens his eyes after that, watching tall blades of grass waver in the breeze. At one point, an insect he doesn’t recognize crawls from the heel of his shoe to the toe before dropping back into the grass. It’s almost enough. The sun has dropped another few degrees—and the temperature with it—by the time Dr. Tayama opens the door.
“Get off your ass, Shiba.” She’s gloveless now, the only evidence of her work found in a few streaks of crimson on the sleeves and front of her jacket. He scans each one like they might tell him more about what’s waiting on the other side of that door. “I’m done.”
“How is he?”
“He won’t be winning any beauty contests,” she says, “but he’ll walk away from it in one piece. His body and brain, at least.”
“Thank you.”
“Whatever. Why don’t you have his dad thank me, instead. It’s his kid, yeah?”
Shiba pauses.
“You’re going to find out soon anyway,” he says. “Kunishige Rokuhira was murdered a few hours ago.”
Dr. Tayama takes that in silence, nodding slowly.
“Well, I suppose I won’t pursue him for payment, then. Besides,” her voice turns dry, “they say Rokuhira was a hero during the war, don’t they?”
Not for the first time today, Shiba finds it best to not answer what he’s asked.
“Thank you, doctor.” He bows again. “Can I see him?”
“Leave,” she says, no niceties. “I’m sure you have plenty to do, and he’s not going anywhere for a few days.” Dr. Tayama reaches for something behind the doorframe and withdraws an object, holding it out to Shiba. “I didn’t realize you picked up swordfighting.”
He takes it from her with a shug, too tired to put energy into the lie. “I’m just holding on to it for a friend.”
“Hm.”
Shiba looks down at himself again, once more realizing that he’s covered in blood and should under no circumstances be seen in public. He has enough spirit energy to travel a little more, so Shiba takes himself to his nearest safehouse and showers until the water runs clear of blood and dust. The shame cakes his skin. He’s cleaned up as much as he can, but his clothes for the day are done for, so he settles for an old tee and a pair of jeans that haven’t seen the outside of his dresser in almost a year. Then it’s just a waiting game.
Azami lets himself in shortly before midnight. He looks as tired as Shiba feels, his hair slightly ruffled and clothes dirty. He pulls his shoes off in the genkan without looking at Shiba once. When he does look up, he finds Shiba at the kitchen table. Then his eyes drop to what’s on the table between them and he freezes.
There’s no point in covering Enten with a stupid sheet or waiting for a dramatic reveal, so he lets the sword speak for itself. Azami stares at it for a long moment. When he looks back at Shiba, there’s doubt in the accusation. Like he thinks he knows what he’s looking at, but he’s not quite sure.
“You dumb son of a bitch!”
Shiba doesn’t defend himself—can’t.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” He crosses the small apartment in three steps and reaches out. Before he can touch Enten, Shiba grabs him by the wrist, holding tight when Azami starts to pull back.
“Do you want to lose your sorcery?”
Azami pulls up short at that and Shiba lets him go. He’d almost done it himself, too, when he first arrived at the scene. But neither one of them wants to give up what they have to contract with an enchanted blade that isn’t supposed to exist, so Azami takes the threat seriously.
“Shit.” He pales when it fully sets in. “Oh, shit. He really..?”
“Enten,” Shiba says in answer. Azami watches it like a dog that might lunge at any moment, even as he slowly lowers himself into the chair across the table. Then he connects the dots.
“He'd take the barrier down to work.” Shiba nods. “You'd worked something out.” Another nod. “Some kind of message? A phone call?” Nod. “And you waited for it.”
Nod.
“Like I said,” Azami says, quiet this time, “you dumb son of a bitch.”
He has no excuses.
The apartment sits quiet and still for a little while. Azami’s face works its way through a number of emotions that Shiba hates being able to read before settling on something carefully blank.
“Where's Chihiro?”
“Safe.”
“That’s not good enough. I need to see him, Shiba.”
“No.” Shiba leans forward, stopping short of Enten. He jabs a finger into the tabletop for emphasis. “He doesn't know who you are, and he doesn’t need the Kamunabi getting mixed up in his life.”
“You can’t be serious. He's an orphan, he needs—What, are you going to take care of him?” Azami scoffs like they both know the answer.
As if Shiba hadn't spent the better part of the last few hours asking himself the same damn question. It's a terrifying prospect. First off: he's not cut out for it. He's a private contractor, but he's practically a mercenary. Sometimes a job takes him out of town for months on end, and sometimes—though not often—it's a question of whether he'll come back from a job at all.
Second, he's not a dad and he's never wanted to be one. Showing up at the Rokuhira's with snacks or taking Chihiro to festivals was something he took the utmost joy in, but not once had Shiba ever found himself wishing for more. He doesn't know the first thing about parenting, let alone raising a teenager who just watched his own father get murdered.
But Chihiro's… Well, he's all that's left of a man Shiba's known and respected for more than half his life. And the thought of sending him to an orphanage—or worse, letting the Kamunabi get their grubby hands on him—is unthinkable. He's failed Rokuhira too much already, and he's not going to let the man's legacy disappear into the background.
He has no other choice. It's not even a question.
“Of course I am. He's known me his whole life, you think now's a great time to set him up with some family he doesn't know from Adam? After what just happened?”
Azami doesn't like it, his face says that much. But he knows their options are limited.
“Besides, he's…” the words safe with me die on Shiba's lips. He tries again. “He's easier to keep track of, under my care. You know exactly who's looking out for him and how to reach me.”
That doesn't make Azami like it any better, but it seems to seal the deal.
“You will introduce me soon and update me regularly.”
“Are you going to tell your bosses?”
“Fuck, no.”
“Then I will introduce you soon, and update you regularly.”
“You will tell me if there's anything concerning.” Vague, but Shiba nods anyway. “And you will not under any circumstances take work that compromises your ability to take care of him.”
“I promise. I'll watch out for him.”
“Okay,” Azami nods. “Well, that's business, then.” He doesn't move to stand. Neither does Shiba.
“How about a drink?”
“Yeah.” Azami drops his posture, leaning back against his chair like it’s strong enough to carry the weight of the world. “A drink would be good.”
Shiba steps away and comes back with an expensive bottle of bourbon he picked up on an out-of-town job, whose owner had no use for it anymore. He sets two short glasses on the table and pours for each of them, then lifts Azami’s glass and sets it on the other side of Enten. They take their first sips in reverent silence, each fixed on the blade between them on the table.
“I’m sorry about Rokuhira,” Azami says.
“Me too.”
“Yeah, I figured you might be.”