The next day, Yekase slept until three in the afternoon, drifting like a leaf on warm syrup.

In that half-dream muddle before her body fully woke, she remembered yesterday’s last‑minute act at parting. Shame hit like a bucket of hot coals; she covered her face and nearly rolled off the bed.

“Start by getting to know me first?” The line hung like frost on a blade.

What kind of anime ice‑queen script was that, cold as winter glass?

Was she begging people to dig into her past, or fooled by quiet weeks, still as a pond, into thinking she was safe?

“Ugh—ah.” She sat up, clutching her head like it was a storm lantern.

Her joints crackled like dry twigs, announcing years that hid under a smooth shell.

It was a plain afternoon, five months after she became “Yekase,” like a new mask pressed onto old bones. Some things had shifted, but the fruit hadn’t ripened yet; summer still baked the city like an oven.

She picked up the remote and let the TV murmur like distant rain.

“In recent days, recovery of the Reaper Model‑2 wreckage nears its end, yet Dr Ika’s body remains unfound. If citizens spot suspicious persons nearby, please contact the police.”

Beside the host, a hand‑drawn bust flashed: a snarling old man with red eyes, glowing like embers.

Half dressed, Yekase stared at the sketch; her temples thumped like war drums.

So the public sees me as a monster even without a face shown? I just tinkered with robots, drones, personal armor, and new explosives, stacked like fireworks.

…Uh, fine.

At least draw me younger, okay? Where did this cranky grandpa look come from, moss on a stone?

When Lin Mei—Ling Yi’s mom—told her to pick a codename, she was chewing takeout grilled squid. She blurted “Ika,” the Japanese for squid, ink dissolving in water.

Colleagues read it as short for Icarus. Then some story spread like wildfire: she yearned for the sky, so she took up aircraft. They called her Dr Ika with real respect for years, candles lit in a long hallway.

The media probably read that respect and guessed Dr Ika’s high status inside Unrecognized Consortium X, like a banner at the center of camp. No kidding: that scrappy outfit climbed the tech tree like a vine because she led. The boss squeezed hard, but every department still had to keep her supplied, like priests feeding a shrine.

And I end up a mad old scientist, a scarecrow in a lab coat?

Actually, good. When the public image and reality are worlds apart, no one can connect the dots, even without surgery. Now the trail is fog, miles deep.

She finished washing up; her scheduled delivery landed like a warm comet at the door. She threw on a white lab coat, opened up, and carried the box to the room’s lone tea table, an island in a bare sea.

“Okay—up to now, no reports of knife robberies at convenience stores—Safe!”

She exhaled like steam from a kettle, pressed her palms together with chopsticks in hand. She wasn’t sure if she thanked the quiet robbers and bystanders, or the punctual, steaming lunch.

She lifted a slice of meat, let it sail into her mouth like a little boat, and drifted through her afternoon plans.

Ling Yi should come play today, like a sparrow tapping the window. But it’s about time for that routine errand; if she shows after school, she’ll just stare at the door, a moth at glass. It felt a bit unfair to her, sour as unripe fruit.

Yekase glanced at the apartment’s corner, at a nondescript box asleep under newspapers like a crocodile under reeds.

A box of black‑tech trinkets, her only income as a former sinister doctor in hiding, bound for the south‑side market, dark as river water at night.

Dozens of odd tools lay inside, cobbled together in spare hours. Functions ranged from explosions to encrypted calls, covert cams, idiot‑proof IP lookup, and mental nudges—things made for shadowed alleys, not sunlight.

Materials were the only hard part. That problem melted after she linked with an e‑waste plant; now it’s a low‑cost sunrise business, steady as dawn.

With Ling Yi’s energy, one more visit might spot those disguise papers, fluttering like moth wings. If she saw Yekase making this stuff, disillusion would pop like a soap bubble.

So sell them fast; no waiting till night. Also, Ling Yi’s look last night—when she asked, “Can I take that promise seriously?”—felt odd, misty as rain. What did she even promise? That ten‑year gap thundered; a day apart would cool things down.

Good. Settled.

She shoveled the last bite, then pulled from the TV stand the cloak and mask required for the Twin Towers City underground market, black as a crow’s wing.

The set looked suspicious as midnight. The mask bore the number [3614] and simple lines. Styles varied by outlet; collectors once ran across the whole city chasing them like stamp hunters.

Under the rough look hid craft. The cloak could tweak height and build within limits. The mask came with a voice‑changer and reverb, a blade wrapped in burlap.

She slid both into a backpack, stacked the empty lunch boxes, killed the TV, and headed out like a shadow slipping through heat.

The south‑side market sat half an hour by bus from her place; the bus hummed like a beetle. She hopped off, ducked into familiar lane‑alleys, and stopped at a big iron gate, dull as a bunker hatch.

The entrance sat in a perfect blind spot: roads crisscrossed, yet every window missed it, like eyes closed. Check for no one, and privacy held. Yekase swiped her market card on the bell and pushed through.

The first room was a cramped airlock, sterile as a lab. Everyone, buyer or seller, had to suit up with cloak and mask here, so street life wouldn’t snag on what lay below.

Ten minutes later, the far door eased open like a curtain. Stairs and corridors crisscrossed into a giant maze, a Rubik’s cube unfolded.

It was hard to imagine space like this inside a residential block. If they could bend space like silk, why keep so few fixed entrances?

“Yo! Long time no see, [3614]. Been a week, right? I missed you like drought misses rain.”

“You been camping here for me?”

Number [3333] popped out from a corner like a jack‑in‑the‑box. He was one of the few Yekase knew here. A chatterbox; everything about him spilled like an open faucet, except the name.

He worked for a mid‑tier Sinister Organization as their top enforcer. He seemed like a power‑user who channeled strength through gear. So he felt a natural kinship to Yekase’s toolmaking, or so he said.

“Don’t make it sound so harsh. Since I bought your massage pillow last week, my sleep’s been better every day. I’m just waiting for your next masterpiece, like a kid for fireworks.”

That pillow… it had actual hypnosis. You used it literally? Amazing and a little scary, like a lullaby with teeth.

3333 tried to throw an arm over her shoulder. She slipped aside like a fish.

“Safe social distance.”

“Got it~”

He backed away a meter, rubbing his hands like he was warming them at a campfire. “So, what goodies today? Big box—been working long?”

“Not that long. Bits and pieces, like stitching clouds.”

They stepped onto the stairs and walked side by side, deeper into the market’s veins.

Yes, this distance felt right. This was Yekase’s comfort with natural extroverts. Both kept basic restraint; a no meant no, unlike Ling Yi, who went hands‑on like a cat pouncing.

“No one’s taken this stall. Let’s use it.”

Yekase set the box on the corner counter, swiped her card on the reader, stepped inside, then opened the box at her feet, slow as a tide.

“Oh—unboxing time! This is the most exciting moment, sparks and drums!”

Yekase felt zero excitement. She laid out today’s goods one by one, steady as placing tiles.

“First item, B‑355, Voltage Roller. A bulletproof remote car with a camera and shocker, quick as a beetle.”

“Feels perfect for tight terrain and indoor fights, like a rat in walls.”

“Second item, B‑356, Bee Sting. A dagger whose fuller can flow poison and spread it evenly. Folded up, it looks like nail clippers, neat as a toy.”

“Assassins’ must‑have, sharp as winter wind.”

“Third item, N‑357, Dignity Defender. It auto‑links to the camera web. If it detects the owner dying by accident, the drive auto‑destructs all data. Civilian model, with a wild 1000 TB.”

“Now you won’t worry about your XP leaking at the last breath, like trash spilling from a bin.”

“These three are the headliners. The rest are old models reissued. You’ve known me long; I won’t intro them.”

While she hyped the headliners to 3333, other customers crowded in, buzzing like bees around nectar.

Yekase’s gadgets weren’t top‑tier in raw tech. But they brimmed with odd usefulness. Fresh combos tickled curiosity, then went home to gather dust like snow on shelves. Over time, the code [3614] earned a name in the south‑side market.

Thanks to cloak and mask, even in her current body, she moved freely through business, like wind under a door.

“I want those nail clippers!”

“Got it!”

“Can I test the remote car?”

“Here’s the controller. It’s simple and clear as a map. Anyone interested, come try beside us!”

“Give me two drives!”

“Only one in stock! Pay a deposit; next week’s delivery. This way, please. 3333, hand him the slip.”

“Why am I doing free labor for you?”

3333 grumbled with his mouth, but his hands flew like sparrows. He took cash and wrote notes. He knew Yekase’s style. The cut was coming like rain after thunder.

“No way I’d make you work free. Pick any unsold item today; it’s yours, like fruit from the tree.”

“Deal!”

He realized a beat too late that leftovers wouldn’t be great. By the time it clicked, the box was bare as a beach after tide.

“Huh???”

“All right, this week’s stock is sold out! I’ll be developing for a while. I won’t be back for a few weeks. Please look forward to next month’s new products, bright as lanterns.”

The crowd whooped and jeered, then thinned like smoke.

“3614! That’s dirty pool!”

Yekase handed him the empty box. “Here, hold it.”

“Ugh, damn! Using me like a mule—”

“This is your pay.”

She turned the box to the other side, picked up her market card from the table, flashed it to 3333, slid it inside, and closed the lid, soft as a wink.

Then she pulled the card from her cloak, crisp as a magic trick.

“Huh?”

“Item N‑404, Schrodinger’s Inventory. With the lid closed, it can teleport specified contents up to 1000 meters to its paired beacon, like a swallow to its nest.”

“Whoa—”

That single line widened 3333’s eyes behind the mask, round as moons. If the effect didn’t shrink, any underworld regular would know how terrifying this plain plastic box was.

“Here’s the beacon.” Yekase took out a metal bracelet from her cloak, set it on the lid, and handed both to 3333.

3333 received the gift as if it were porcelain, set it on the counter, stayed silent for a long beat, then lunged at Yekase like a bear. “My good brother! Gimme a kiss!”

“Crawl away.”

A day ago, Yekase might’ve gone down under his pounce, a sapling snapped by a sudden gust.

Now, after Ling Yi’s drills, she was steel from the quench—a Super Yekase.

Her nerves flared like lanterns at dusk; half a heartbeat after 3333’s feet left the floor, she moved.

She hugged her knees and dropped in place, curling like a hedgehog.

“Whoa—!”

His chest lost its target like a hawk missing the strike; his shins caught the compact ball that was Yekase.

3333 pitched forward, a kite with its string cut.

But 3333 was an elite enforcer of the Sinister Organization, a knife honed on shadow; this wobble was nothing.

He slapped both hands down, whipped through a full 360 like a windmill, and landed steady as a boulder.

“Nice! Full marks on that technical move. We drop the highest score. Final score: zero.”

“There’s only one score—how can you drop anything?!”

Snark delivered, 3333 finger-checked every seam, a spider testing its web, and made sure his cloak hadn’t slipped.

One of the market’s rules: expose your identity to anyone inside, and the guards toss you out on the spot—banished from every outlet forever.

For someone who fights with a satchel of gadgets, that’s a death sentence, wings clipped mid-flight.

“That was close, that was close. We’ve known each other this long—what’s wrong with a hug? Frost on a brother’s heart.”

Her chest fluttered first; then action—Ling Yi’s face surfaced like moonlight in a well. She coughed and switched tracks.

“Blame yourself for not being a beautiful girl.”

“So cruel!” 3333 fake-sobbed twice, cradled his new treasure of a box, and backed off like a magpie with loot.

“When I use this box to take out the target, I’ll whisper your name.”

“What is that, putting a hex on me? Beat it.”

To cut off further tangles, Yekase closed shop like a tide pulling back. She warned him to stay put, pocketed her membership card, and bolted.

Her figure slipped around the corner she’d come from, a fish vanishing into reeds.

3333 leaned on the counter and watched her go, a statue with a heartbeat.

Behind the mask, his eyes narrowed to knife slits.

“A girl’s touch…? 3614, what are you really…”