The moon hung high.
It cast a cold, pale light into the narrow alley, over the mottled walls and damp flagstones, plating everything in an unreal silver that seemed ready to shatter at any moment.
Shinya's foot struck the flagstones with a wet, sticky sound.
He staggered, swaying with every step. His left arm hung at his side at an unnatural angle. Each step sent the dislocated limb swinging with his body, bringing another burst of sharp pain, as though someone were stirring a red-hot wire inside his joint.
A cut marked the corner of his mouth. Blood flowed from it, dripping down his chin onto his clothes, already slashed in several places, and onto the flagstones beneath his feet.
He had chosen a small alley.
It was so narrow that two people would struggle to walk abreast. The walls on either side rose so high that, looking up, he could see only a long, thin strip of moonlit sky. The plaster had flaked away, exposing dark red bricks beneath. Unfamiliar vines grew in the cracks, looking particularly eerie in the darkness.
He walked a dozen or so paces, then stopped.
A wall stood at the end of the alley.
A dead end.
His steps faltered for an instant. He stared at the wall, at its mottled bricks and the cold plaster that looked so pale beneath the moonlight.
He turned around.
Someone stood at the entrance to the alley.
No, not one person.
A group.
They wore matching dark uniforms with identical badges pinned to their chests. Their stances were orderly and solemn, their expressions uniformly indifferent.
The man at the front was middle-aged. He had a thin face, high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and a narrow scar running from the corner of his mouth down to his jaw. His