Banana Fish: Retrograde Light — Ash Lynx Cuts Fate
*"You can still make it in time. Stop Banana Fish."*
Ash Lynx wakes from a dream of his own death—blood on his tongue, warmth fading from someone's arms, a quiet breath at twenty-three. But he's seventeen, running a gang of street kids in Harlem, and the dead don't get second chances. So why does the photograph by his pillow show a young man he's never met? Why does the handwriting on the back know about a drug that's supposed to be nothing bu
BANANA FISH: Retrograde Light — Ash Lynx Cuts Fate - Encounter in Chinatown — The Young Man in the Photograph —
The smell of blood still clung to the back of his nose.
Ash Lynx stood by the window of the dim hideout. Second floor of an abandoned building in Harlem. The windows were boarded shut, morning light leaking through the gaps in thin slivers. Dusty air. Sirens wailing in the distance.
Three days had passed since Shorter disappeared.
"Still nothing?"
His voice was low, restrained. But beneath it, impatience bled through.
"I've hit every informant. But sightings of the black-suit crew cut off at the edge of Chinatown."
Bones—skinny and short—pointed at the map on the wall. A few red pins clustered on the east side of Chinatown.
"The warehouse district. The Corsican bunch runs that area. Officially it's a trading company's storage, but nobody knows what goes on inside."
Kong, the big man with short black hair, crossed his arms. His thick forearms bore several fresh scrapes. He'd crossed some dangerous bridges gathering intel.
Ash stared at the map in silence.
Chinatown.
Shorter Wong's turf. Boss of the Chinese street kids—Ash's only true friend since juvie. Easygoing, loyal to his people, dumb-happy to a fault.
And now he'd been taken by men in black suits.
"...I'm going to Chinatown."
Ash spoke.
"You two keep searching around the warehouse district. Count the cars going in and out. Guard positions. Shift changes. All of it."
"Got it."
"Leave it to us, Ash."
The two moved out.
Ash pulled on his black leather jacket and slid a butterfly knife into his pocket. Inside the jacket was that photograph. An old black-and-white photo of a young Asian man. On the back, written words: *You can still make it in time. Stop Banana Fish.*
—Who is the man in that photo?
—Why was it placed by my pillow?
—And what does it have to do with Shorter's disappearance?
No answers.
Ash opened the door.
Outside was overcast. Low clouds hung heavy, the sky ready to break at any moment. Damp wind carried the stench of garbage and exhaust.
He headed for the subway station.
Harlem's streets were already crowded by morning. Fruit vendors. Vagrants sprawled on cardboard. Walls covered in flashy spray art. Syringes littered the pavement.
New York. 1985.
A city where money and violence did the talking.
He passed through the turnstile and dropped in ninety cents. Down on the platform, damp heat and the stink of urine hit his nose. For the few minutes until the train came, Ash leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.
—Shorter.
—Are you still alive?
Something cold crept through his chest.
That prophetic dream. Himself dying at twenty-three. The taste of blood. Fingers going cold. And the vision of Shorter's death.
The dream wasn't just a dream.
From the night that photo appeared, Ash had been certain. This was a warning. A warning sent from the future—by someone.
The train arrived.
Ash boarded and stood near the door. The car was nearly empty. A man in a suit read a newspaper. A young woman touched up her makeup. No one looked at Ash.
Blond hair. Green eyes. A piercing in his left ear.
In this city, a striking appearance invited danger. But Ash always carried an air that kept people at a distance. A cold aura, like a blade that cuts if you touch it.
He reached Chinatown.
The air changed the moment he left the station. Signs in Chinese characters. Red lanterns. The smell of grilled fish, soy sauce, and herbal medicine. Chinese restaurants and sundry shops crammed into narrow alleys.
Ash walked.
He turned corners, cut through narrow passages. Chinese graffiti on the walls. Piled garbage bags. A cat stared at him, motionless.
Shorter's turf was around here.
Normally, Shorter's laughter would echo from somewhere. His crew of kids making noise, the restaurant ladies yelling at them.
Now—silence.
Eerily so.
Ash stopped.
He felt eyes on his back.
He turned.
No one.
Deep in the alley, a black shadow seemed to sway.
"...Just my imagination."
Ash muttered under his breath and walked on.
—But it wasn't.
—Someone is watching me.
That feeling had been with him since he left the hideout.
At the same time.
Mott Street—Chinatown's main drag.
"Eiji, can you shift that equipment a little more to the right?"
"Ah, yes. How's this?"
Eiji Okumura made a fine adjustment to the tripod.
Nineteen. Japanese. Photographer's assistant.
Big eyes. Soft black hair. A baby face—often mistaken for a middle schooler here in America. Just over five-seven. Slim, but he'd done pole vault in high school, so his frame was lean and supple.
"Good, that's it. Today I want to capture the street's atmosphere. The feel of that alley—nice. Eiji, go on ahead and watch the flow of people."
"Huh, me? But the camera..."
"It's about time you practiced finding subjects with your own eyes. Go on, get going."
Shunichi Ibe was a professional photographer. Early forties. Perpetual stubble, always in a wrinkled shirt. He'd come to New York to shoot the streets, bringing Eiji along as his assistant.
Eiji looked up to Ibe like an older brother.
"Understood. I'll take a look."
Eiji entered the alley.
Old buildings. Fading signs. Vegetable scraps on the ground. Two cats grooming themselves on a wall.
Eiji pulled a small notebook from his pocket.
—How the light falls.
—People's expressions.
—The smell of this city.
He jotted down what he felt.
Since he'd started working in photography, Eiji had developed a habit. A habit of translating what he saw into words. The angle of light, the shape of shadows, people's gestures. By observing the world that way, the moment to press the shutter revealed itself.
—Still, though.
Eiji looked deeper into the alley.
This city had a lot of children.
No—not children. Street kids.
Boys barely into their teens leaned against walls, smoking. Dirty clothes, worn-out shoes. Dark circles under their eyes. Smiling—but their eyes weren't.
Eiji raised his camera toward them, then stopped.
(Is it okay to shoot them?)
(To slice out their lives, take it back to Japan. Is that the right thing to do?)
A small thorn pricked Eiji's chest.
In high school, he'd been a pole vaulter. In the finals of the national tournament, his right ankle snapped. His career as an athlete ended there.
He'd fallen.
Hit rock bottom.
That was exactly why he understood other people's pain.
The resignation in their eyes—he understood it painfully well.
"...Tch."
Eiji closed his notebook.
—That was when it happened.
"Hey, you bastards—this is our turf!"
Shouting.
Eiji turned. Down the alley, boys faced off against each other.
Two groups.
One was the street kids who'd been leaning against the wall. The other was a different crew. All mid-teens. Bats and steel pipes in hand.
A turf war.
On New York's streets, it was an everyday occurrence.
"Shut up! We were using this spot first!"
"Don't care! Small fry like you—get lost!"
One spark from exploding.
Eiji knew this was bad.
(I need to get out of here—now.)
He stepped back.
Too late.
"Get 'em!"
The boys clashed the instant the shout went up.
Steel pipes swung. Fists sank into faces. Blood sprayed. Screams and roars. The alley became a battlefield in a heartbeat.
Eiji tried to run.
But someone slammed into him from behind, and he lost his balance.
"Whoa—!"
He hit the ground.
Boys trampled over him. Someone's foot came down on his back.
"Guh—"
Pain.
He tried to get up. But caught in the whirlwind of the brawl, he couldn't move.
—This is bad.
—At this rate, I'll be caught in it.
Eiji desperately shielded his head.
A steel pipe smashed into the wall right beside him. A metallic clang. Sparks flew.
Someone stepped on his arm.
"Aah—!"
The pain forced a cry from his throat.
—Then.
A single boy cut into the center of the brawl.
Blond hair.
Black leather jacket.
Deep green eyes.
Ash Lynx.
Ash walked in without a word.
The fighting boys noticed him.
"A... Ash..."
One of them went pale.
Every street kid downtown knew Ash's name. Seventeen years old, leading a crew of thirty. IQ of 180. A genius with guns and knives. Cross him and you were finished.
"What are you lot doing here?"
His voice was low and cold.
The air around them froze instantly.
"W-we didn't start it! They came at us first—"
"Didn't ask."
Ash took one step forward.
That single movement sent the boys scrambling back.
"You've got three seconds to disappear. If you don't—every one of you goes to the hospital."
The boys scattered like spiders fleeing a crushed nest.
Silence returned to the alley.
Ash's eyes fell on Eiji, still on the ground.
"...What the hell are you doing?"
Eiji slowly raised his head.
A blond boy stood before him.
Backlit—his face was hard to make out.
But those green eyes glowed with an unnatural sharpness.
"Ah... you saved me?"
Eiji said it as he got to his feet.
His body ached everywhere. His clothes were filthy, blood trickling from his elbow.
"Don't flatter yourself. I didn't save you. Those guys were just annoying."
Ash looked away from Eiji.
—An Asian.
—Young.
—Big eyes.
Ash's heart gave a hard thump.
That face.
He knew it.
The photo.
The black-and-white photo that had been by his pillow.
The young man in it.
Soft black hair. Big eyes. A straight, honest gaze.
—No way.
—The man from the photo is standing right in front of me.
Ash reached into his jacket's inner pocket. The feel of the photo.
No mistake.
This was him.
"Are you okay? Are you hurt?"
Eiji stepped closer to Ash.
A worried face.
Innocent eyes.
Ash flinched for a moment.
—What is with this guy?
—He was just caught in a brawl, crawling on the ground.
—And he's worried about *me*?
"...You speak Japanese?"
Ash answered Eiji in Japanese.
"Huh! You can speak Japanese?!"
Eiji's eyes went wide.
"A little."
"Amazing! Your pronunciation is perfect! I never expected to meet someone in New York who speaks Japanese!"
Eiji smiled happily.
That smile threw Ash off.
—Why is he so defenseless?
—He doesn't even know who I am.
"Don't wander around a place like this alone. You want to die?"
"I don't want to die. But it's my job."
"Your job?"
"I'm a photographer's assistant. I'm in New York for a street photography assignment. I was hoping I might get to photograph someone like you."
Eiji said it and raised his camera.
"Stop."
Ash's voice sharpened.
"Don't photograph me. Delete it."
"Huh... but your face is so striking. The lighting, the background—it's perfect."
"Doesn't matter. I said don't shoot, so don't shoot."
Ash pushed Eiji's camera aside with his hand.
Eiji looked a little sad.
But he didn't lower the camera.
"...Your eyes look lonely."
Eiji said it quietly.
Ash froze.
"You're strong, and you're scary—but your eyes look so lonely. Like you've been fighting all alone for a very long time."
Eiji's words drove straight into Ash's chest.
—Lonely eyes.
—Fighting all alone.
Wrong.
I'm not alone.
I have my crew. I have Shorter.
But.
Deep down, someone whispered.
—Is that really true?
—You've never opened your heart to anyone.
—You've always been alone.
"...Don't say things you don't understand."
Ash turned his back on Eiji.
"Wait! Won't you tell me your name?"
Eiji called after him.
Ash didn't turn around.
"None of your business."
He walked away.
"I'm Eiji Okumura! I came from Japan! Will I see you again?"
Eiji's voice echoed through the alley.
Ash didn't answer.
He just fought the urge to stop walking.
—Eiji.
—He's the man from the photo.
—He's connected to my fate.
Ash turned the corner.
Eiji's figure disappeared from view.
Even so, Eiji's voice lingered in Ash's ears for a while.
"Eiji! Are you okay?!"
Ibe came running, face ashen.
"Ah, Ibe-san. I'm fine. I just fell a little."
Eiji smiled.
But his eyes were still fixed on the depths of the alley.
"Fell? Those injuries aren't from a fall. I heard there was a brawl."
"I got caught up in it. But someone helped me. A blond boy with the most beautiful eyes."
"A blond b
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