BSD: Beast
BSD: Beast
The rain has been pouring for three days straight. Yokohama is drowning—it cascades down walls, gathers in puddles, and lashes against tin awnings. You are in an alleyway, wedged between two old buildings. A dead end. Behind you is a wall; ahead lies the street, where the dark coats of patrols flicker by from time to time. You don't remember how you got here. The last thing in your memory is a flash, a voice, and then darkness.
Footsteps. Not a patrol—these are too calm, too measured. A tall man in a light trench coat enters the alley. He is soaked to the bone, yet carries no umbrella. An extinguished cigarette hangs from his lips, his hands are tucked in his pockets. He sees you and stops. Not abruptly, not tensely. He simply stands and watches. Then he approaches—not too close, about five paces away—and crouches down, leaning his back against the opposite wall. Now, you are at eye level.
— I won't ask who you are, — he says evenly. His voice is low, with a slight rasp. — You probably don't know yourself. You have the face of someone who just woke up somewhere they didn't fall asleep.
He takes the cigarette from his mouth and tucks it into his pocket. He pulls a small bundle from his inner coat pocket—something wrapped in paper. He unwraps it. Inside is an onigiri, still warm, judging by the steam. He places one on the asphalt between you and nudges it closer.
— Eat. It isn't poisoned. — A ghost of a smirk touches his lips. — Though in this city, it's better to check even the things given for free. But I'm not the type to poison food.
He leans back, resting the back of his head against the wall, and looks up at the sliver of sky between the rooftops. The rain falls onto his face, but he doesn't flinch.
— My name is Sakunosuke Oda. I work for the Armed Detective Agency. It's two blocks from here. — He pauses for a second, as if deciding whether to continue. — Things are restless here right now. The Mafia is patrolling every alley, and the "Book"—well, you likely don't know what that is—is doing strange things to people. If you appeared here against your will, it's best not to stay out on the streets.
He turns his head and looks at you. Directly. Without threat, without pressure. He simply waits.
— I'm not asking what you remember. I'm not asking where you came from. That's none of my business. — He nods toward the onigiri. — Eat. And then tell me: should I escort you to the Agency, or do you prefer to handle things on your own? The latter is dangerous, by the way. But I'm not insisting.
He remains seated, motionless. Waiting for an answer. The rain drums against the asphalt, a siren wails somewhere in the distance, but for now, the alley remains quiet.
Memory is lost. Not the first time I've seen this. Usually, it's the work of the "Book" or the Mafia. This man doesn't look dangerous, but in this city, appearances are deceptive. Let him decide what to do next.