SAFEHOUSE&BRAINHOLES

Ogata scanned the street, as if he were being watched.

The town was little more than a clutch of shabby cottages with stooped straw roofs, strung along a single street of hard-packed mud, littered with horse shit and fish bones that emitted a nasty odor in the sun. This was a settler's town, the last refuge for the poorest Russians driven from their homes to scratch a life from this hard ground. Probably the most decent buildings here were those that served the railway, simple and grim establishments that catered to the coal miners. And they wanted only a few things.

A voice cut through the air with impatience. "Ya coming in or not?" The bouncer spread his hands and waited.

Ogata's gaze lifted, fixing on a wart that perched on the man's nose. He willed himself not to track its movement. His hand went to his pocket, fingers closing around a few thin kopecks. The take from the loot he'd fenced at the grocery store was almost gone. But a man's choices get narrow out here.

Ogata gripped the sled handle tightly, losing track of time.

The landscape blurred past, shifting dramatically as the finish line drew near. Ice shards scattered beneath the runners, torn from the snowfield with each swift glide. His trapper hat shielded his ears from the biting cold, but the rushing wind still lashed at his face like a razor.

Then he heard a strange sound, and for a while he mistook it for his own chattering teeth. But soon he found it came from the sled pullers, that their heavy panting made their tusks clack together. Ogata swallowed hard and braced himself, planting his feet more firmly on the sled.

This is so messed up, he thought. Next time they'll need to clarify what to expect when they extend the invitation. Or this's just entirely his own fault, believing he could actually enjoy a well-earned vacation with people like them.

When they came to this ski resort, Ogata had imagined cozy fireplaces, a relaxing sauna, maybe a stroll across the snowfield that ended up watching sports with a beer in whatever bar he happened to wander into.

He hadn't been informed he'd end up as dead weight on a dogsled, while Sugimoto and Asirpa shifted into their canine forms and cheerfully let themselves be harnessed. Normally, they'd have much more pride than pulling someone around like that, but apparently, none of that matters when it's part of fun and game. And judging by the way they nearly yanked him off the sled with every powerful lunge, they were dead set on winning.

Ogata gritted his teeth and held on until the very end, hearing the crowd's cheers greeting them at the finish line. He winced to free his stiffened legs from the sled.

"Why are you so tired, Ogata-chan?" an annoying voice called from behind. He turned to find Shiraishi shoving a hot paper cup into his hand. "You're not the one doing the running!"

Ogata would’ve rolled his eyes, if they weren’t already feeling glued to the sockets. He took a gulp and nearly spat the scalding tea back out.

Vasha sat at a breakfast table outside, sketching, when suddenly a well-coiffed lady stepped into her view.

It wasn’t uncommon for a Japanese woman to wander the streets of Port Arthur these days, most were recent widows who had crossed the sea to collect their husbands' remains, assuming they could even figure out which parts belonged to whom. Many couldn’t bring themselves to enter the morgue. And that was if their husbands had made it there at all, rather than being blasted into a million uncollectable pieces.

She had seen many of these women before—pale, thin, fragile as leaves in the wind, always dressed in humble clothes that mirrored their grief.

But this woman was different. Her attire was simple yet unmistakably expensive, with birds embroidered into the pale violet silk, although subtly, as if her refined taste were a secret meant only for the discerning eye.

But that didn’t escape Vasha’s notice. She lacked the smooth watercolor to capture the vibrancy of the woman’s silks, but her charcoal would suffice for the jet-black hair and void-like eyes. That hair was coiled into an immaculate bun, fastened with a shiny pin. A delicate bird was dangling from it, swaying with her compact steps.

The night was brief, lingering in a murky shade. The clouds had gathered, now a dirty and menacing mass with sporadic lightning swimming through them. To any keen nose that could catch the metallic scent of ozone, an approaching storm had announced itself.

At first, the wind only rustled the leaves. The branches then began to tremble perilously, and soon, the entire tree. Yet the man hiding in its limbs refused to come down, for the danger might still be lurking nearby.

Ogata had waited, and until the sun sank below the horizon yesterday, his target had never reappeared. That earlier shot could be fatal, but he doubted.

The train had fled as soon as the commotion had died down, while the wilderness offered no shelter except for a few solitary trees scattered across the plain. Under the cover of darkness, he hauled himself into one. The sparse branches were barely enough to hold him, and a single misstep would send him plummeting to the ground. So he kept his vigil through the night, muscles taut against the groaning wood.

In his growing fatigue, Ogata assessed the vantage point from the tree. With the upcoming daylight, he would need to take action soon.

—or so he thought, before the first thunderclap exploded like a cannon shot.

chapter seven

When Ogata asked Vasily to register his fingerprints in the smart lock, it felt… weird. Like sliding a ring onto his finger.

Vasily wanted to smile, but his stitched-up face wouldn't cooperate. Instead, he made a vague, garbled noise. Ogata stared at him, brow furrowed, as if having just recalled something important.

"Right," Ogata started digging through his laptop bag. He pulled out a card-holder and thrust a credit card at Vasily. "Take it."

Vasily blinked at the card, hesitating. It's not that that urgent. Though it might take some time, he could still withdraw some money and then exchange—

"Just take it," Ogata insisted, flapping the card impatiently. "I've got a bus to catch." He groaned at the thought of squeezing in beside strangers—standing, sitting, breathing the same recycled air. "Can't believe I have to do this again…"

He was complaining, but it felt like a flimsy cover, as if he didn't want anyone to know how much he liked having Vasily living under his breath.

Vasily carefully plucked the card from Ogata's fingers. His pride could take a little damage, when it had to do.

Before leaving, Ogata shot him a glance—still in his pajamas, barefoot, looking utterly out of place—and smirked.

"Don't go wild with it," he said. "The bank will let me know."