The night skyline of Tokyo is swirling with airborne vehicles, life-size holograms, and, depending on their status, citizens looking down at the world in either disgust or wonder. Content or discontent. Longing or loathing. The most populated city in the world was home to a fine diversity of ideals.

The streets were weathered. The city has certainly seen it’s better days, and, in contrast, it’s seen it’s much worse days too. Blood, pain, and wrath is the story of this city in the last decade.

"Japan is still the greatest country in the world." The words came from a salary-man in his fifties, his neural augments glowing a soft blue beneath his temples – standard corporate issue, marking him as middle management at one of the megacorps.

His drinking companion, younger and sporting the distinctive scarring around his eyes that marked him as someone who'd had their optical implants forcibly removed, scoffed. "Best economy, highest employment rate, blah blah. I know. That's not what I'm talking about, numbnuts. This place is a pit. It's in a terrible shape. We don't even know if those statistics are real."

"Yeah, well, you can peddle your conspiracy theories. I'm comfortable and taken care of." The older man's augments flickered briefly – a tell-tale sign of emotional suppression software at work.

"It's a sad thing your experience isn't indicative of the rest of the country." The younger man's scarred eyes narrowed. "Ask the meta-humans in the underground. Ask the people who lost everything when the corps decided to 'renovate' their neighborhoods."

"Metas are terrorists." The older man said with a scoff, causing the younger one to throw his arms in the air in frustration.

This exchange unfolded in Hiroshi's Lounge, a bar nestled in the heart of downtown Tokyo. The establishment itself was a study in contradictions – traditional paper lanterns hung alongside holographic art installations, while a centuries-old wooden bar hosted an AI bartender whose projected form flickered between various historical figures. The owner, Hiroshi himself, was rumored to be over 150 years old, sustained by first-generation life extension technology that left him looking perpetually 60.

Conversations like this were common in the early hours, but as the night wore on and the drinks flowed – both traditional alcohol and synthetic mood enhancers – patrons often shifted to lighter topics, leaving behind the weighty discussions of socio-economics and meta-human rights. The AI bartender had learned to adjust its form and demeanor based on the general mood, switching from stern historical figures during heated debates to more entertaining personalities as the night progressed.

Amid this verbal sparring, Yuuki Hitomi sat—a study in controlled stillness. Her blue hair cascaded past her shoulders like a midnight waterfall, each strand seemingly electrified with potential energy—a side effect of her temporal manipulation abilities that she'd never quite managed to suppress. At five-foot-five, she wasn't imposing. But something in her posture screamed predator, a presence that made even the bar's security drones give her a wider berth than their programming typically allowed.

Her neural interface displayed the time in the corner of her vision: 23:47. She found herself doing temporal calculations automatically these days. Old habits from harder days. The champagne in her glass—real champagne, not the synthetic stuff—reflected the holographic advertisements that filtered through the windows. She appreciated the anachronism of it, genuine alcohol in a world where most people preferred designer neurotransmitter cocktails. The bubbles rose in perfect sequence, and she found herself unconsciously slowing time around the glass just to watch their ascent.

Three people in the bar had weapons—the bouncer's standard-issue shock baton, a corporate enforcer by the window with a subdermal pulse gun, and the bartender's shotgun that even the AI couldn't access without proper authorisation. Yuuki logged these facts automatically, another habit from years of survival. She'd started doing this long before she discovered her abilities, back on her home planet of Nivius.

She sensed the presence behind her before he spoke, not through any meta-human ability but through decades of cultivated instinct. The slight change in air pressure, the subtle shift in the ambient noise of the bar, the way the corporate enforcer by the window tensed almost imperceptibly.

"Are you Okami?" Soft-spoken. Calculated. The voice carried the distinct accent of someone who'd grown up in the orbital colonies—a slight lilt that came from speaking Japanese in lower gravity.

The name—her code name—brought a flutter of memories. Okami. The wolf. She hadn't chosen it; it had been given to her by her first client, after she'd handled a particularly messy situation involving corporate espionage and a rogue AI. "You move like a wolf," he'd said, "patient until the moment you strike." The name had stuck, becoming something of a brand in certain circles.

With that, she rose from her seat and strode past the man, making her way to a secluded booth tucked away in the corner of the club. Her movement was deliberate, measured—she'd learned long ago that running drew attention, but walking like you owned the place made you practically invisible.

The booth was old-style, with real leather upholstery that had been patched and repatched over the years. More importantly, it was equipped with privacy tech that actually worked—not the cheap scramblers used in most bars, but military-grade isolation fields. She'd verified this personally weeks ago, having frozen time to examine the hardware herself.

"You're a hard person to find," the man, now identified as Kanbe Fuse, stated matter-of-factly as he pulled out a business card and offered it to Yuuki.

Yuuki accepted the card with a hard gaze. “That’s the idea,” she replied, a mask of composure as only her mouth moved to speak.

“Right. Well, allow me to introduce myself.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a business card, presenting it to her with a slight bow. “The name is Kanbe Fuse. I represent Umeji Jurobei, who has ordered me to come and meet you.”

"Why am I not talking to Juro?"

Kanbe cleared his throat. "Well, as you're probably aware, my boss has... a significant amount of heat on him at the moment. He needs to lie low for a while."

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Yuuki arched a perfectly groomed brow. "What's the job?"

"There's a police officer, supposedly, with a mountain of evidence on my boss. Detective Kano Okaku, from Tokyo PD," Kanbe explained, his eyes searching Yuuki's face for any reaction.

Yuuki couldn't help but scoff at the mention of the detective's name. "I've had a few close calls with her. She's good."

Kanbe nodded. He clearly admired the woman before him. "You've quickly made a presence in this city, then."

"Half now, half when the job's done," she stated, brooking no argument.

"Of course," Kanbe replied, producing an envelope from his jacket and handing it to Yuuki. "I'll be in touch."

Yuuki took the envelope, her fingers brushing against Kanbe's as she did so. "I'll call you back here when the job's done."

Kanbe nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips as he watched Yuuki tuck the envelope into the folds of her dress. With that, he rose from the booth and slipped back into obscurity.

The bustling activity outside the club was a stark contrast to the solitude Yuuki craved as she made her way down the barely lit alleyway. The garish holographic billboards that lined the walls seemed to mock her with their generic slogans, and she paid them no heed.

As she walked, a group of disreputable-looking individuals loitered nearby, their cigarette smoke molesting the air. Yuuki could sense their eyes on her, but she refused to acknowledge their presence.

"Yo, little girl," one of the men called out.

Yuuki kept walking.

"I'm talkin' to you. You got some honey?"

Still, Yuuki pressed on, unwilling to engage with these petty thugs. The words felt like a particularly bothersome fly, buzzing around her head, irritating but ultimately harmless. However, her steps were halted when a warning shot rang out, echoing through the alleyway.

"I asked you a question," the man growled, his cohorts now closing in around her. "Cash. Now."

Yuuki turned to face the group. She saw their life stories flash before her eyes - broken homes, failed dreams, and desperate choices. In another life, she might have felt pity for them.

"You need 1120 to get on the airway," she stated calmly, her words catching the man off guard.

"How-?" he stammered, confusion evident.

"Falks Harris. Son of some crummy politician from the North American States. Too bad he doesn't give a damn about you, and when the both of you realised how bad you were for his image, he shipped you off to the opposite end of the world."

As she spoke, Yuuki's mind raced through possible scenarios. There were, of course, several non-lethal takedown methods, but she hesitated. This wasn't part of her mission, and every moment spent here was a moment wasted.

The man, Falks, bristled at her words. "You don't even know me! You know NOTHING ABOUT ME!" he yelled, raising his gun and squeezing the trigger.

But to his dismay, the gun jammed, as did the firearms of his companions when they drew their own weapons. Unfazed, Yuuki turned to leave. She whispered.

"Worry about your friends."

Falks whirled around to see his partners collapsed on the ground, their eyes rolled back and drool pooling from their mouths – a clear sign of a vegetative state. He opened his mouth to question Yuuki, but she had already vanished, leaving him bewildered.

Across town, in the office of private investigator Misaki Tanaka, the only sound that permeated the otherwise quiet space was the chatter of talking heads on the monitor. Upstairs, in Misaki's apartment, a heated discussion was unfolding between her and her brother, Nagase.

"I just don't like it, okay? I don't like having your little private detective agency right under our home. What if you make enemies with the wrong people?" Nagase voiced his concern, voice booming. His eyes, so like their father's, searched hers for understanding, for agreement.

"I'll handle that," Misaki snapped right back, her voice betraying none of the turmoil inside. The truth was, she knew the dangers. She'd seen what happened to those who poked at the underbelly of this new world order. But backing down? That wasn't in her DNA.

"They'll know where we live, Misaki! Is that what you want? To be vulnerable? Exposed?"

"You're basing your fear in hypotheticals."

"Yeah, whatever. You watch too many old movies. The world ain't what it used to be, alright? People aren't friendly, or empathetic, or even decent. Everyone that knocks on your office door has an agenda."

Misaki's eyes tighten. "Father was trusting. Why aren't you?"

Nagase shook his head. "On Nivius. Look what happened to him as soon as we moved to Earth. Dead. Gone."

"You don't know that," Misaki finally gave way to a faint waver in her voice.

"Yes, Misaki. I do. Father is dead. I'm sorry, sis, I know it hurts, but he is dead. He would never abandon us, leaving only one possibility."

Misaki slammed her fist on the kitchen table, the impact shaking it. "YOU DON'T KNOW THAT!" she shouted, emotions finally bursting.

Nagase took a step back, his eyes widening at her outburst.

"I have work to do," Misaki declared, her tone clipped, as she turned and stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door behind her. Entering her office, Misaki practically threw herself into the chair behind her desk, her gaze fixed on the monitor. The news was reporting on a rise in meta-human crimes in Ireland, with calls to outlaw meta-humans. Misaki reached over and shut off the device.

The neon-drenched streets of the city pulsed with their usual nighttime rhythm as Yuuki approached the police station. She stopped in the middle of the road, her slim figure illuminated by the floating advertisements above. She wondered if they were even trying anymore, promoting all this slop. The masses embraced it, of course with the caveat of limited options.

Yuuki came from the small town of Kasuga, back on planet Nivius. Kasuga was a time capsule; a quaint, humble corner locked in the 21st century. Not a paradise, but not this... heavy, either.

A truck barreled toward her, its low beams failing to catch her silhouette in the darkness. The driver, oblivious to her presence, maintained speed—until everything froze. The truck's chrome bumper hung suspended just an inch from Yuuki's right arm, its engine silent. The world around her had transformed into a three-dimensional photograph: pedestrians caught mid-stride, vehicles motionless, even the perpetually rotating holographic billboards locked in place. The normally industrious robot street sweepers stood as rigid as museum pieces.

Yuuki turned away from the frozen tableau and approached the police station's entrance. From above, the scene would have appeared surreal—a single moving figure in a city trapped in amber.

Entering the building, Yuuki walks through the entrance hall like she owns the place. Technically, she does; in complete control of space and time. Graffiti plagues the once honoured walls, indicative of a department that cares less about its image and more about its grip on the community.

Yuuki scoured the building until she came across the detective’s desk. She covered all of her bases. First, she took the physical evidence. Then, she destroyed the hard drive on the detective’s computer - one clean slice of her katana did the trick. Finally, she destroyed any other external hard drives she could find.

Standing beside the detective's desk, Yuuki opened a temporal portal—a shimmering ripple in the fabric of reality. She swept the destroyed hardware into the distortion, sending it to what she thought of as her cosmic junkyard: the end of time itself, where she disposed of anything she needed to disappear completely.

Satisfied with her work, she departed as casually as she had arrived. Once clear of the building, she made her way to a nearby phone booth and dialed Kanbe's number.

"Job's done." Straight to the point.

"Quick work. You match up quite well to your reputation." Kanbe had to clear his throat.

Reputation means frack. Reputation doesn't pay the bills."

"Right, your money," Kanbe caught on fast. Good. "I will wire you the rest of the payout."

Yuuki pulled up the miniature supercomputer on her wrist. As promised, a holographic interface revealed real-time statistics on her bank account; the money was good.

"I will definitely require your services in the future." Kanbe spoke with excitement; promise.

"You should know..." Yuuki put her arm back to her side. "First time's the cheapest."

"No worries." He smiled. "With your quality of work, you can name your price."