Finding a Person 1
He caught sight of me wearing an expression like I'd glimpsed something I shouldn't have, shutting down his computer with a "what's the problem?" look on his face.
It must've been middle school when we met at some event in Japan—I'd known ever since that he was a Vtuber. I just hadn't expected him to be hamming it up with aegyo while staring at his phone.
"What?"
"Why?"
"What?"
His sturdy frame, honed for fighting since childhood, rose and approached, but it wasn't much of a threat. Unlike my slight fluster, he acted utterly unfazed, which irked me for no good reason. If he'd shown even a hint of embarrassment, I could've turned it into eternal blackmail material to tease him with forever. But no, he was all brazen confidence.
"The one who came asking a favor should state their business first—not make me play interrogator."
"What a boring guy. I thought I'd snagged some leverage to mess with you."
"I just treat it like earning money. What's there to be ashamed of?"
"Even with your build, pulling off a 'Kyirrat☆' kinda cracks the image, y'know?"
"Suits you when you do it."
"Shut up. Just imitating it is embarrassing. Heh heh heh."
We bickered in our usual familiar way until I cracked first with a laugh. I'd turned down his shy confession back in the day, but the lingering glint of affection was still there plain as day—nothing had changed. He'd once said he hated punching up on regular folks; that seemed to hold true too. Cute, in his way.
"Came 'cause I need your help this time."
"What kinda dirty work? My help ain't cheap."
"Just tracking down one person. If they're tangled up in your world, I need an exit strategy lined up."
"Hmm..."
"To avoid any clashes, I'd like to hire someone clued-in on that scene. Possible?"
His eyes screamed he wanted to tag along himself, but the title of yakuza heir carried weight that could force peaceful resolutions off the table. It was like the difference between a random joe walking into a managed bar versus the boss's son striding in.
"Got one guy in mind, but he's crap at fighting—too busy saving his own skin. That cool?"
"Not like we're heading into a brawl."
"Still worrysome."
Every country had 'em, but gangsters were everywhere you went. Even a rural spot with no young blood could get biker packs rolling in, claiming turf. Get caught in that sweep, and vanishing in a heartbeat was par for the course.
"You worry too much. We'll be in a car—just peel out if shit hits the fan."
Even after my words, he shot me those concerned eyes like a dad fretting over his daughter, narrowing my brow in annoyance. Treating me like a kid didn't sit right.
"Cash or goods?"
"What kinda goods?"
"Gold. Unofficial stuff, so processing might be a hassle?"
"Don't care. Beats leaving bank trails and getting taxed to hell."
"Then I'll grab it from the car right now. Brought it in a bag."
He had his secrets, and I had mine. He'd tilt his head wondering how I'd prepped a gold-stuffed bag fresh off the flight from Korea. Magic storage, obviously—piled high. Gold was always the right call, any world.
Stepping out of the shrine to the car, I spotted an employee fiddling with gear and settings for the shoot.
"You here?"
"Yeah. Grabbing a bag from the trunk. Heading to the temple soon—if you need the bathroom, tag along."
"I'll check it out at the temple. Kinda scary wandering solo here..."
"Fine then."
I pulled the freshly summoned bag and handed it over back at the shrine. He checked the contents, nodding satisfaction at the hefty weight and high purity gleam, promising delivery to our lodging by morning. Just in case, with a pistol escort.
"Thanks. I'll swing by after you're done."
"Yeah. Kyoto bar then. Got some stuff to say."
"OK."
A light farewell with the big guy, then back to the car and firing it up. Hyeon-a's eyes went a bit wide beside me.
"Boss, you speak Japanese too?"
"That's why I took the Japan gig. Study up on the neighbor countries' languages yourself."
"Ah, my humanities chops are seriously lacking..."
"I'll scout academies the second we're back in Korea."
"Ugh."
Her face scrunched at the mere thought of studying, head already throbbing. She was in that phase of debating global subs via paid translators or learning a money-making language herself. Translators were handy, but native-level chit-chat might juice the algorithm faster.
While she mulled it over, we peeled out of the shrine, eyes glued to us from all sides. Young master's surveillance felt pinned on me too.
"We're in Kyoto anyway—wanna tour some local temples before we go?"
"Sounds good. Perfect for a video intro."
No hobby in shopping or identical stores; I preferred scoping cultural relics. Parked in an empty spot and strolled the shrine grounds, noting how the rumors held—clusters of souls on the verge of turning evil spirits, just like you'd expect. Blame the old capital's death toll or cultural vibes, who knew. Plenty to harvest, anyway. Fun times.
"Air's so clean compared to Korea's dust hell. Heat's the problem."
"Wrong timing. Tourists everywhere—hard to tell if it's Japan or China."
"True that."
Japanese on walls and signs, but Chinese and Korean chatter everywhere dizzied the brain. Off-season like this—what the hell was peak like? No curiosity spared.
"Head home. Early sleep—moving again tomorrow."
"Got it."
Light steps descending the bamboo grove, bucking the uphill tourist flow. I ignored the sidelong glances as best I could.
"Got all the client's data?"
"Yeah. Whereabouts and card uses, but mostly guesses outside con store CCTV. Kakao chats to infer 'oh, they were here then' sorta thing?"
"Means if they're lying, all that effort's trash."
"They acted like con store pics and card logs proved everything. Couldn't really counter it."
"Tch."
I got the grief of parents losing a son abroad, but nothing was as narrow or inaccurate as words from someone drowned in rage and sorrow. That truth made their months of "data"—contaminated from the start—a pain to restart from scratch.
"Missing in Wakayama, confirmed?"
"Yep. Japan police verified. Came by boat from Tokushima Island."
"Japan police... not the most reliable."
If public force was trustworthy and competent, would thousands vanish yearly? They snoozed on their own citizens—foreign tourists? Fat chance.
"Can't trust cops, what can you trust?"
"Trust my judgment on this."
"Ooh, gotta caption that as boss's wise words in the video."
"What."
Crowded spot, and not a true god-shrine after all—just pretty views, no satisfying energy. Disappointing. A big god-plot like this should've hid sealed evils or something; national trope. Next time, snag a Kyoto house and leisurely poke the corners.
I drove toward our Osaka lodging with those thoughts.
—
The rental was too cramped for four, so our Japanese friends sent a van to the house. A sharp-featured guy who looked like a total delinquent hopped out driver's side, bowing deep to us on the roadside.
"Hello!"
"Hi. You our ride?"
"Boss sent me, ma'am! Zero scratches on my watch. Call me Tanaka!"
"Nice to meet you, Tanaka-san."
"No need for honorifics. Casual's fine by me."
"Sure. I'll ease into it."
Tanaka bowed again, clasping my hand in a polite shake. "Ma'am" grated a tad, but the pistol snug on his waist caught my eye. For potential trouble, nothing beat a gun.
Hyeon-a, clueless on Japanese, clocked him as our guide-protector and bowed along. He seemed pleased at rolling with two beauties, loading our bags into the trunk.
"We film our work for uploads—to build client trust. Face okay?"
"Fine by me, but go easy on filming folks we'll meet later. Plenty who'd hate going public."
"Got it."
Relayed to Hyeon-a, then I took shotgun in the van.
"Airport first. One more coming from Korea."
"A...?"
"Shrine maiden type—no biggie."
"Onward."