After the kill—things still weren't over.
Almost the moment Gin fired and the target collapsed, Vodka had already unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped out of the car.
He circled to the front passenger side and crouched next to the body, swiftly rifling through the man's pockets. His eyes lit up when he found the man's phone still intact.
"I got the phone, bro."
"Go," Gin said coldly.
Vodka returned to the driver's seat, started the engine, and pulled away, leaving the corpse behind in the darkness.
But after just a short distance, he stopped in front of an alley and turned his head slightly.
"Hayashi, can you hand me the bag in the back?"
He sounded almost polite.
It made Hayashi Yoshiki smile a little, remembering how Vodka had scoffed at him when they first met. Without a word, he passed over the briefcase.
Inside was a portable computer.
Vodka removed the recently acquired phone from his coat and plugged it into the laptop with a data cable. His fingers flew over the keyboard as lines of green code cascaded across the screen like digital rain—reflected eerily in the black lenses of his sunglasses.
"Brother, this guy deleted a lot of chat logs and messages."
"Recover the texts."
"Already on it."
Hayashi Yoshiki raised an eyebrow in quiet intrigue.
The Organization's tech tree really was something else. Not to mention the experimental drug that started everything—in an age where bulky desktop machines were still the norm, Vodka's portable terminal looked like it came from the future.
"I found two numbers he's been in contact with. I'll send them out for ID tracing."
He tapped away, composing a message and dispatching it.
As they waited for a response, Hayashi Yoshiki glanced at his watch: only five seconds to 22:09.
Vodka restarted the car and pulled forward.
They had barely driven ten meters when headlights lit up the rearview mirror—a motorcycle was approaching fast with high beams on.
"This guy..." Vodka muttered, noticing the bike but not giving it much thought. But then, the motorcyclist surged ahead and braked directly in front of the car.
Vodka stomped the brake reflexively.
"Hey! You trying to die!?" he shouted, rolling down the window in irritation.
The rider—a disheveled man in a windbreaker—staggered toward the car. Without a word, he reached inside his coat.
Gin, watching from the passenger seat, calmly rolled his window down as well. Hayashi Yoshiki noticed his right hand subtly shift beneath his jacket.
"Hand over everything you've got!"
Taku Tsukita, with wide, bloodshot eyes and a knife in his hand, shoved his face into the window. Spit flew as he barked threats, pointing the blade at Gin.
His pupils were dilated. His breathing erratic.
Hayashi Yoshiki immediately diagnosed it—he was high on something.
Gin remained expressionless.
In one fluid motion, he raised his pistol and fired.
Even prepared, Hayashi Yoshiki struggled to follow the motion. The silenced shot cracked through the night—clean and instant. The bullet punched into Tsukita's forehead, leaving a scorched entry wound.
"Ugh...aah...ahh..."
Tsukita's pupils fluttered. His focus slipped. The knife clattered from his fingers, almost falling into the car—but Gin caught it mid-air, plunged the blade into the man's neck, and shoved him aside.
Not a drop of blood touched the car.
Vodka pulled away again.
In the back seat, Hayashi Yoshiki barely glanced at the corpse collapsing outside the window. His expression was calm.
Two people dead in a five-minute span.
This would definitely make the papers tomorrow—or the day after. Taku Tsukita's death and his attempted robbery would be reported, and the exact amount stolen might even match what had been written in the Death Note.
Vodka drove them back into the heart of the city.
When his phone pinged with a new message, he found a quiet spot to park, opened his laptop again, and logged into his encrypted email.
"Got it. Hmph... two more damn rats."
An attachment had arrived—two dossiers, each with identity photos, known hangouts, and daily activity logs.
"Hayashi Yoshiki."
Gin stared at the screen without turning around. "Prove your worth again. Eliminate these two."
"They're peripheral contacts, aren't they?" Hayashi Yoshiki looked at the profiles with interest.
"Yes. Recently, we've had all kinds of fools trying to mess with us," Vodka added. "Even some gang members think they can play spy games. These two are morons—selling intel for pocket change. They clearly don't know what kind of hell they're messing with."
"Alright." Hayashi Yoshiki tapped on his phone screen idly. "And when you say 'as soon as possible,' how soon do you mean?"
"The sooner, the better. But no more than five days." Gin, recognizing Hayashi's unique approach to killing, allowed a generous window.
"Got it. Two days, then. Any specific method?"
"Whatever you want. I only care about results."
Murder was murder. The means were irrelevant to Gin—only the outcome mattered.
Still...
(Are there killers who treat murder as a form of art?)
He cast a glance at Hayashi Yoshiki, who was smiling faintly, completely at ease after receiving the mission.
The aquarium case had shown that Hayashi's methods were built like chain reactions—carefully calculated down to the second. Yet the slightest disruption, like an unplanned body position, visibly irritated him.
Perfectionist to the point of neurosis,Gin thought. Maybe it's obsessive-compulsive disorder. Or maybe it's just arrogance.
He didn't care. As long as someone was useful and loyal, their quirks didn't matter.
If Hayashi Yoshiki succeeded again, Gin wouldn't mind promoting him further.
"Then I'll proceed my way. Please send me the files." Hayashi slipped his phone back into his pocket. "And if there's nothing else, could I trouble you to drop me at Mihua Second Apartment?"
"Brother?" Vodka glanced at Gin.
"Take him."
The car pulled away once more.
Hayashi Yoshiki leaned back in his seat with a small smirk.
Working for the Organization wasn't so bad—if you had the talent and the nerve to ride with Gin, the rest was easy.