The Kanashii

The blades bore an ancient style. James obtained the forensic reports from external experts. Security forces throughout the East Bay and the Shipping lanes of Marin had been meticulously dismantled, with each cut performed with surgical precision. The Spectre studied the forensics displayed on his screen, cross-referencing the findings with emergency rooms and whispers of a specter.

The morgue held dozens of bodies, but gunshot wounds and blunt force trauma had more obvious connections to potential culprits. These victims had seemingly met their end at the hands of a ghost—a wrathful specter from times of war, a Goryō.

Slashes and stabs on critical body parts marked the remains of Japanese enforcers hailing from diverse clans. Were they victims of an imitation samurai or targeted by genuine forces? 

A message from Kelly and a confidential chat request from Briana flashed on the screen. Both women were James' intermittent lovers, their relationships as uncertain as their indecisive natures. "Do they sense competition?"

he wondered.

James had always struggled to comprehend the world of romance, as well as other social cues. Recently a woman rolled in like the cold fog of summer.  James grew closer to Sakura, a flame from the past, he felt the connection with those who once played him like a puppet begins to unravel.

Brittany: “I apologize for being so lame. Family and work issues overwhelmed me. I should have called you earlier.”

Kelly: “I can't believe I miss you. He messed up again! Please, just give me a call.”

It was immature mate-guarding – a phenomenon where lovers would reach out in response to sensing competition. With a bemused smile, James thought it was just another way to say they didn't want anyone else playing with their belongings. But these flirtations and trinkets only distracted him from the factual matter at hand: Sakura.

He couldn't shake the memory of last week's night of carnal connection; expecting disaster, they had unexpectedly shared a magical evening. The warmth she exuded pierced through his barriers; her laughter elicited an intoxicating chemical high within him. He craved to break out of his shell and possess her completely right then and there on the table.  They owned the dance floor, neither side could fully take the lead but neither would choose to surrender.

“Are you going to send a message before she leaves again?” the intrusive voice inquired cautiously. His nose still had her scent locked into his recent memories.

“She told me she'd call me,” He was deflecting but the system knew James better than he knew himself.  If she pushed he would double down, and it would leak out in toxic ways.  She hadn’t seen him this happy outside of the suit in ages.

There were mixed feelings as well, maybe jealousy as well for a program. 

Sakura was always addicted to danger, in a way they both enabled each other. If anyone could look at him and his secret, she could. She would probably wash the blood out of the protective threads.

Women like Brittany and Kelly wanted danger with training wheels. Middle class and looking for more but always settling for the same. A broken heart mended slower Than broken bones.

James pushed his personal life out of his mind as he poured over files of a dying empire.  The Shinigami syndicate like many others had fallen on hard times as Japan's war on crime had pushed organized crime out of mainland Japan and into the heart of the West Coast's urban sprawl.  The blades were a calling card, new players in town.

This was not his circus and not his monkeys.  The blood feuds of rival organizations on the same coin did not concern him unless the blood of civilians was spilled. The old guard was being fenced in by the cops and young blood, a cornered predator was very dangerous. The cloaked figure approached from the bay cliffs as the fog created a wall to cloud his arrival.  

The screen went black as the paraglider held up against the endless winds and foamy sprays of the black water below. The coldest winter a man could endure was a summer on the peninsula. If only there were a cape that could do that.  The scarlet trail lead to a hulk on the sea.

 The raven released the hatch and watched the black current engulf him as his body entered the liquid pitch.

The human brain conjured an assortment of beasts and nightmares that awaited him as he dove toward the ship. Mankind killed thousands of sharks and barracudas, but they still feared being a part of the food chain.

The lenses revealed a black mass floating above the waters. The specter fired a grappling cable towards the railing.  Some powerful people wanted San Francisco to be the next Vegas.  They lobbied hard against federal statutes that once outlawed maritime gambling and other dens of vice.

The security guard popped another pill against sickness as the ghost approached the side. The security was run by ghost dragons. Ghost Dragons had clean backgrounds and taxpayer-funded training. A brawl and bullets would be the fastest way into an early grave.  This felt safer than letting someone from the past come back in. 

The Hulk was more akin to a house of horrors than a place of amusement. Countless unfathomable scars and injuries had been inflicted within its walls. Gambling debts were discreetly settled in secluded backrooms, hidden from unsuspecting guests. Loyal goons who had loose lips were disposed of over the port under the cover of the densest fog.

The portable black box scanned the boat for explosives and gunpowder residue, he would have to return it to Homeland Security one of these days.

Boss Shinigami transformed the once jovial cruise into an impenetrable fortress. It was said to be his sanctuary in the west, where he would bask in the sun's waning light, free from the constant struggle for dominance in Tokyo's red light district.

Those misguided individuals could desperately hold onto their crumbling code while they scrambled to make bail behind bars. Limitless wealth awaited them in cyberspace.

Why bother with the bloody mess when cybercrimes offer twice the profits at half the risk? Secrets became the new currency, and with ease, he laundered funds from legitimate sources into clandestine investments. The digital realm became his hunting ground; just as easily as peeling back an oyster shell, his masked minions extracted invaluable information.

The swordsmen ruthlessly carved through the expendable boat crew, repeating their previous conquests at cargo containers and illicit gambling dens. Deep down, Shinigami couldn’t suppress a longing for the blood-splattered glory days of his empire.

As steel pressed against his throat, he knew that more crimson would soon paint this deck for the sharks to feast on.

“You think so small for your insatiable hunger.”

 Shinigami locked eyes on the sinister Oni mask's dark features – a reminder of old tales his grandmother would pass down to him.

Each sin came with an unseen terror lurking behind it. The Boss had encountered heartbreak and devastation personified: merciless spirits that returned to the world after suffering unspeakable ends. Shinigami watched in horror as these apparitions brandished a tablet, capturing his trembling hand on its surface.

“Secrets are now the most valuable currency, and many would kill to protect them.”

High above the unholy gathering, the Specter observed the desolate scene in its hauntingly green-tinted vision. It stumbled upon a lifeless body draped in crimson lacerations; evidence of sharp force injuries – wounds inflicted with pointed implements or objects boasting keen edges.

Three distinct categories of sharp force trauma existed: stab wounds, incisions, and chop injuries, all coalescing before the eyes of the phantom. Two cartridge casings from a missing gun lay next to the body.

The grayish burns left the smell of sulfur and shame next to the underling, even enforcers had mothers. It's easy to cheer on their deaths. 

These men broke bones and stole the flesh of the desperate and downtrodden.  They still deserved an open casket and their loved ones deserve closure.

“The devastation by our hand was more delicate than the people that suffered under his.” The face plate held back a simmering flame that only needed enough oxygen to combust.

 “The mayhem caused by the Yakuza is more of a means of last resort. It moves like dust in the wind you can’t feel it until it settles.”

It's said our lives flash before our eyes before we die. Shinigami believed he had lived many so what was one more in the cycle?  He wondered who he would come back as.

This wasn’t a simple hostile takeover, this was a blood oath. Boss Shinigami felt the vibrations of his bones. These people could have sent him into the next life with a bomb or a bullet.  The Bushido code was a lie. 

It was written by a pretender for daydreamers.  The crime lord didn’t sleep much in his old age, every night the ghosts of his greed visited him at a pond and enticed him to join them.  Their sickly white arms stretched out from the murky waters below.  He pondered what wrongs were done to earn such an audience.

The confusion and fear that leaked from his pores tasted like sweets in the summer. The assailant wished the moment would last forever.

“The police told a small child that there was a break-in gone wrong, but the blade marks in the medical reports told a different story. The dragon's disciple let a tide of blood fill in the hole that time could not. -

The Ghost from the mountains removed the black sleeve and allowed the crime boss to witness the hardened patterns on the body, and burn scars.  “Our fathers and mothers did not partake in the underworld of vice and vultures. All they wanted was a world that benefited the oppressed.”

The assassin remembered how foreign interests could not be bothered to negotiate with little people who needed to feed their families.  They would not suffer fools who could not keep whispers of strikes from igniting across the assembly lines.  That was the actual domino effect the ruling class feared.

The boss looked away from the scars but the dragon grabbed the broken man and rubbed his face in the deviation. 

“You will help others feel the fire I felt that night.” The warlord was haunted by dreams as well. The heat from the house fire would be doused by a cold sweat as they awoke in the dead of night. 

The Yakuza were paid by the real gangsters of the industry to silence the strikes. The specter had heard enough, three razor blades leaped from the hands of the vigilante but as the currents rocked against the dead ship the accuracy was. The curved blades missed the wrist attached to the blade. The blades spoke for many people beyond the grave, they needed their thirst quenched.

Three silver orbs released a haze of gray ash and red flames blocked the assassin's vision as the crime-stopper pounced on the predator. The riot sticks slammed down on the collar of the sword.  The dragon's disciple responded in kind.  Batons seek bones, but blades drink blood.

The vigilante and the swordsman pressed on and locked horns.  Neither one gave a quarter nor expected it. The Yamabushi popped an open hand strike upwards on the crime-stopper. The strike sent a thousand messages to the pain receptors in his brain.

The hot anguish overrode the chemicals in his body that attempted to flush out the pain.  The vanguard was picked up and tossed across the green casino table.  Lady luck picked this night of all nights to show favorites and fury.

“You have lasted longer than most. I am honored by this dance.” The assassin had tasted many delights on this mortal coil, but there were very few save for in bed with a close lover that could compare to vanquishing a foe. 

The man in the mask fed off the stark energy.  There was no bigger drug than solving a case when the jaws of death were biting at his feet.

He felt closer to this stranger than most people in his social circle.  Is there a difference between the watchdog and the predators clawing at the door?  Eventually, their teeth would sink into those they chose to protect.  Letting lovers go was more for their benefit than his.

Now that the swordsman drew closer there was another scent that emitted from the assassin’s cloak, There was another chase and tense exchange he had engaged with. The one with Sakura, and her scent soaked from the assailant.

The mystery man rushed in with violence of action and unleashed a second front on the sword carrier. The masked man deflected the collar of the blade with classical jujitsu, outdated but always useful against pipes and broken bottles. The deflection bounced around as they crashed towards the wall. The assailant was overwhelmed by their opponent's renowned power.

“How many people could you have been helping night while keeping men like them alive for a few moments longer.” The interloper struggled to suck in enough air as the ghost circled him like a wounded creature cut off from the herd. The assassin remembered the red streaks were illuminated by flashes of white lights.  

A Song of Red and Yellow flames escaped with the explosive packages, Eclipse managed to diffuse most of the bombs but not enough to keep the ship afloat.

 The impact knocked the sinners off their feet. The demon mask slipped from the veil of the slayer in the shadow. Long black hair whipped across from the winds of the bay. The fires unlocked deep-seated memories of the hot ashes and oiled bottles that consumed the halls of their childhood, the same fire that consumed the assassin.

They failed to stop him as a child now, they were stopped by a misguided agent of chaos.

There was a second aroma that leaked out as the explosions echoed on the ship. The scent escaped the cloak, the familiarity locked in James' brain. 

The embodiment of sorrow in the shadows fled the crime scene. The specter known as Eclipse needed to find closure for the people killed in the streets and the injured men on the ship. Criminal underworld or not these men were cared for by someone.

There was an uncanny valley of clues locked in the mind of the assailant, if he could catch it he could stop the streets from running red. It was like looking in the mirror, the tactics, mixed the garb and the initiative, it wasn’t unbridled chaos it was focused fury.

“My apologies for not returning your call. Now you see why,” a voice beneath a shattered facade halted the man in his path.

“Your scent, I knew it too.” She drove her blade into the timber, using the coiled rope around the hilt to decelerate her descent into the abyss. Sakura. He lacked the luxury to consider ways to halt or embrace her. T

he wailing of blue and red sirens grew distinct. The sentinel and law enforcement held no conversations; sour partings appeared to be the motif of this dark eve.

A compact flash drive materialized; the sentinel collected it and secured it in a shoulder pouch.  She had trained her whole life to remove him from the earth, she pushed him away that night and so many nights before, if she touched something real the fantasy would no longer taste well.

James knew better than to inquire about her identity would have been futile since she perpetually remained a figure treading life's razor's edge.

Distracted, he shifted his focus to tend to the remaining ruffians.

Misfit young men drawn away from screens and textbooks found solace in these nefarious tasks. He observed a burly man gravitating towards a life raft, blue bruises on his face now a deep violet. Abandoning his men at sea was a possibility that revolted him.

“Those bombs didn't drag these lads down to a wake under the tide just yet, but we can make arrangements for you,” he snarled like a specter while yanking the mob boss away from the railings.

“These boys have security credentials and weapon permits.” The boss consistently prioritized long-term ambitions over immediate profits. “The ship's insured.” The veneer cracked as panic seeped through. “When you get bailed out tonight, ensure these boys reach an emergency room.” Failure to attend their concussions would lead him to their cash-driven establishments, delivering payment for medical expenses himself.

Eclipse fastened him to the railing and sauntered over to the diminutive blade. The steel sipped on blood that mirrored tiny lacerations on Boss Shinigami. The same blade from the report that brought him to the floating casino. James was in love with a killer.  How does something bring that up when the shrink asks about his social life.

 Possessing his life in her grasp and returning it was an affront, not solely to him but to his syndicate too. Mountains of bureaucracy awaited first responders and investigators roused from their slumber in the witching hour.

The press would revel in the sword's tale. Everyone was after Sakura; he needed to reach her first. The scent of the brawl lingered within his mind's recesses. Was this what it took for their true selves to emerge, hidden beneath a facade? For people like them, grappling with explosions and gore was simpler than enduring the biting exposure.

City lights flirted with him as mist swirled over the bay. Streets threatened to flow crimson, and he felt nothing more than a mere plaster. From his wrist shot a cable, propelling him into a starless sky cloaked in darkness and gray. Perhaps there was just enough time for a late-night tryst with Kelly.

Rain showered upon both saint and sinner, but this time, the wicked ceased resting comfortably.