Daisuke Jigen's Melancholy Bet: Seven Days Chasing Fujiko Mine - An Answer Worth One Cigarette

The damp night air seeped into the abandoned warehouse. Only the moonlight filtering through the broken windows showed that this place was still connected to the world. Leaning his back against the wall, Daisuke Jigen exhaled the pain shooting through his right shoulder and flank along with the smoke of his cigarette. Riri, her hands trembling, was wrapping bandages around him. Her dull blonde hair looked silver in the moonlight. The burn scar on her left temple twisted with every movement she made. A sixteen-year-old girl raised as a tool by the organization. Those hands, so unsteady now, seemed to belong to a completely different person than when she was sniping. "...Please tell me if it hurts." Her hands stopped wrapping the bandage. Her large blue eyes searched Jigen's face. "Don't worry about it. Keep going." Jigen answered curtly and repositioned the cigarette in his mouth. *(There's no way it doesn't hurt.)* His right shoulder was the wound from yesterday, shot through during the Löwenstern raid. His flank, too, was injured in the gunfight to let Fujiko escape. His entire body ached and burned with fever. But he had no time to feel the pain. Riri's fingertips trembled every time she tightened the bandage. Her own abdomen was also wrapped in bandages. A gunshot wound from last night's attack on Casa Bianca. By all rights, she was the one in critical condition, in a state where even moving was dangerous. And yet, with those same hands, she was now tending to Jigen's wounds. *(She's reckless, too.)* Jigen felt a sharp, burning sensation deep in his chest. "...It's done." The bandaging was finished. Riri slowly pulled her hands away and let out a deep breath. A faint sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead. Jigen pressed his left arm against his shoulder and slowly stood up. He drew his S&W M19. He opened the cylinder and checked the remaining rounds. Six shots. The moonlight coldly illuminated the cartridges. With a click, he closed the cylinder and cocked the hammer. "I'm going." "...Where?" Riri's voice stiffened slightly. "You know where. D-17." He pulled his Borsalino hat down low. Deep shadows covered his eyes, making his expression unreadable. "I'm... coming too." Riri put a hand against the wall and tried to stand. Perhaps pained by her abdominal wound, her face twisted and her knees trembled. "Impossible. You wait here." "But...!" "Someone who can't move will just be dead weight." Riri bit her lip. Her eyes wavered with frustration and anger. No one knew better than she did that she couldn't move. And precisely because she knew, that feeling of powerlessness was surely crushing her heart. Jigen averted his gaze from her. "...I need someone who can wait for me to come back." Riri's shoulders twitched. "...Jigen-san." Jigen didn't turn around. With his back still to her, he took out a single cigarette and put it in his mouth. The lighter's flame flickered in the darkness, and purple smoke rose. "Leave your rifle here. That'll be proof that you're here." Silence. Then, the clatter of metal scraping. Without a word, Riri placed her rifle at Jigen's feet. It didn't mean "take it with you." It was a declaration of her resolve to wait here. Jigen stopped his feet for just a moment. He pushed up the brim of his Borsalino slightly with his fingertip. "...Good girl." Saying only that, he opened the door of the abandoned warehouse. The cold air outside seeped into his wounds. The door closed. Leaning her back against the wall, clutching her rifle, Riri gently closed her eyes. "...Jigen-san." Her small murmur reached no one, dissolving into the darkness of the night. The moonlight simply shone quietly upon her large rifle case. The harbor warehouse district lay submerged in the dead of night. The sea breeze from the Mediterranean carried the smell of rusted steel and heavy oil. Unmanned forklifts stood silently, wet with night dew. Jigen watched the perimeter of Warehouse D-17 from the shadows. Four guards at the front gate. All equipped with submachine guns and shoulder radios. Twelve surveillance cameras crawled along the warehouse walls, their red lamps blinking. The front was impossible. If a gunfight broke out, Fujiko underground would be the first to be disposed of. *(Circle around to the seaward side.)* Keeping low, Jigen moved, weaving through the shadows of containers. The wound in his right shoulder throbbed with every movement. He could feel blood starting to seep under the bandages. But he pushed the pain to the back of his mind. A ventilation duct jutting out near the water's edge. Its metal grille, rusted by the sea breeze, dully reflected the moonlight. The plan had been to infiltrate from here. This was the place Fujiko's information had indicated. Jigen took out the knife at his hip. He pried at the grille's hinges. The rusted metal groaned, *screech*. When he put his strength into it, it came off with a loud *crack*. Inside was a pitch-black vertical shaft. Cold air crawled up from the bottomless darkness. Jigen dropped his cigarette at his feet and crushed it with the toe of his shoe. Then, pulling his Borsalino down low again, he placed both hands on the edge of the vent. *(From here on, it's not about a 0.3-second quick draw.)* His left ring finger throbbed sharply. Beneath the silver ring, a scar from over fifteen years ago burned with heat. A wound inflicted by the man he once called his partner. The fighting style that man had taught him. Approach without a sound, finish them before they notice you—the movements of an assassin. *(Just for tonight, I have no choice but to use it.)* Jigen bit his lip and slipped his body into the dark shaft. The underground passage was musty and damp. Only the emergency lights installed at regular intervals on the walls cast a dim, orange glow. Pipes ran vertically and horizontally at his feet. The first guard was at a corner of the passage. Leaning his back against the wall, he was yawning, looking bored. Jigen killed his footsteps and approached from behind. Holding even his breath, he wrapped his left arm around the man's neck. *Crunch.* He knocked him unconscious in an instant and quietly lowered him to the floor. The second guard was standing at a junction up ahead. The moment he noticed Jigen's approach, Jigen covered his mouth with his right hand as he tried to shout and kicked the back of his knee. Supporting the collapsing body, he struck the neck. He took him down without a single sound. The third. The fourth. The wounds all over his body screamed with every move. Blood dripped from his right shoulder, leaving dark spots on the floor. The bandages on his flank were already dyed crimson. His breath grew ragged. The edges of his vision blurred occasionally. *(Not yet.)* The fifth. *(I can still move.)* The sixth. The scar on his left hand burned with pain. The face of his former partner flickered in his mind. That rainy night of betrayal. Looking down at Jigen as he fell, that man had laughed. *(Every time I use this fighting style, I remember.)* The seventh. *(Bastard.)* The eighth. The last guard slowly crumpled to the floor. Silence returned to the passage. Jigen put a hand against the wall and breathed heavily, his shoulders heaving. He desperately fought the urge to put a cigarette in his mouth. If he lit one, the smell would draw enemies. He couldn't even smoke here yet. *(Where is Fujiko?)* At the end of the passage, he saw a heavy iron door. The underground detention cell. That woman was in there. Clenching his teeth, Jigen headed for the door. He broke the lock of the iron door with the tip of his knife. With a heavy groan, the door opened. Inside the dimly lit cell, against the wall, she was there. Mine Fujiko. Her wrists and ankles bound with coarse rope, she was seated on the cold concrete floor. Her lustrous black hair, long enough to reach her waist, was disheveled, and there were faint scratches on her cheek. Her lips were dry, and her usual confident smile was nowhere to be seen. But her large brown eyes alone—the moment she saw Jigen, they widened as if she were seeing something unbelievable. "...Jigen." A hoarse voice. Her lips were trembling. Without a word, Jigen walked up to her and knelt down. He drew the knife from the inside pocket of his jacket and put the blade to the rope on her wrists. Only the sound of fibers being cut, *scrape, scrape*, echoed. Tears spilled from Fujiko's eyes. "Why... did you come?" The rope was cut. Her wrists were free. Jigen saw that her hands were trembling. "You should have just abandoned me!" Fujiko's voice rang through the detention cell. "If you die, who do you think will be to blame?! It's my fault! It's all because of what I did...!" Her face was a mess of tears. Her usual calculating smile, her sweet voice that seduced men—everything had been stripped away. The person here now was just a woman. Lonely, screaming for someone to believe in her—just a... "Shut up." Jigen said it bluntly and cut the rope on her ankles as well. Then he stood up and pulled a single cigarette from his chest pocket. He lit it with his lighter and took a deep drag. The purple smoke spread white in the stagnant air of the cell. Without a word, he offered the cigarette to Fujiko's lips. Fujiko narrowed her tear-wet eyes and accepted it. Her fingers touched Jigen's hand. They were terribly cold fingers. Fujiko inhaled the cigarette deeply and exhaled a thin stream of smoke toward the ceiling. "...This cigarette tastes awful." Her voice was still trembling. But even though she hadn't stopped crying, at the corner of her lips, a trace of the usual Fujiko had returned, just a little. "If you've got complaints, don't smoke it." "...You're right." Fujiko inhaled the smoke once more. A quiet silence flowed between them. Reinforcements might still come. There was no telling when Löwenstern might appear. But now, for this brief moment, everything stood still. Fujiko, staring at the tip of the cigarette, murmured softly. "...Thank you." Jigen didn't answer. He just pulled the brim of his hat down low again and turned his back. "Get up. We're leaving." As the two of them climbed the stairs leading to the surface, the vast floor of the warehouse spread out before them. Under the dim lighting, containers were lined up neatly. The ceiling was high, and their footsteps echoed unpleasantly. In the center stood a single man. A large physique. A black coat. A white scar bisecting his left eye. He stood with his arms folded, as if waiting for an old friend. Wolf. The leader of Löwenstern. A former soldier who commanded the most feared group of hitmen in the European underworld. "You took out all the guards by yourself." Wolf's low voice vibrated through the warehouse air. "Impressive." Jigen positioned himself to shield Fujiko behind his back. "Get outside through the north emergency exit." He said it without turning around. "Jigen..." "Go." Fujiko hesitated for just a moment. Then, for a single second, she stared intently at Jigen's wounded back—the back seeping blood from his right shoulder and flank. Something dwelled in her large brown eyes. And then, she ran. Her footsteps faded toward the north emergency exit. Wolf slowly took off his coat. In his right hand, he held a single combat knife. A seven-inch blade. Not standard military issue. A custom-made model specialized for killing. "I won't use a gun." "Hoh." "If a gunshot rings out, the reinforcements outside will move. The woman won't get away." Wolf held the knife in a reverse grip. "Besides, you probably want to save your remaining bullets, too." Jigen returned his S&W M19 to its holster. Instead, he drew the knife at his hip. With his battered body, he gripped the blade in a forward grip. His right shoulder ached, and the sensation in hi

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Episode 6

Name: Daisuke Jigen's Melancholy Bet: Seven Days Chasing Fujiko Mine
Author: Novelia

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