My name is Asahina Aki, female, twenty-four years old, officially an engineer but in reality just a programmer, currently working at Tokiwa Group.
Thanks to my outstanding work skills, I earn a decent salary at a young age, and I’m quite satisfied with my life.
Aside from frequently worrying about my hair loss, stocking up on skincare products to start anti-aging early, and feeling like my dark circles are a bit too prominent, I don’t have many complaints.
I’ve also long since planned out my life. I know being a programmer isn’t sustainable forever, so I’ve mapped it out—work until I’m thirty, then quit and retire to the countryside in Hokkaido.
Everything was going perfectly… until a week ago, when some jerk in a Porsche ruined it all. After that, my life took a nosedive, one disaster after another.
I genuinely feel like my time is up.
For a brief moment, I even mentally distributed my belongings—my figurines, Blu-rays, and game cartridges would go to my colleague and best friend Yanagi Hanako; my books and other valuables would go to my high school friends Kuronuma Sayako, Yoshida Chizuru, and Yano Ayane. I trust their personalities enough to know they’d be willing to sort through my things if I met an untimely end.
Beyond that, there isn’t much. I don’t own many valuables, nor do I have that many friends.
But maybe that’s a good thing—fewer people to grieve when I’m gone.
And then there’s my biggest financial regret… no, I mean, my most prized possession—the Blue-Eyes White Dragon collectible…
"Asahina-san?"
Since I’d frozen in place without responding, the person called my name again, their frown deepening.
I took it as impatience, but honestly, I’d already braced myself for this days ago.
I sniffled, forcing myself to stay calm, and asked, "Are you the one handling the cleanup?"
The person’s frown eased slightly when I spoke. "For tonight, yes. Do you have any special requests?"
…Wow, they’re being surprisingly considerate! Giving me time for last words?
Though maybe it’s just because I’m so weak, not even worth being cautious around.
Maybe it’s because I’ve already had a gun pointed at me after just two questions, but when they asked if I had any final words, I weirdly thought, This person’s not so bad.
I suspect I’m developing Stockholm syndrome, but given that I’ve only got minutes left to live, I don’t need to worry about my mental state anymore.
Hugging my bag, I dug inside and pulled out a notepad and pen.
I scribbled down a string of numbers.
"My will is in my computer—the third compressed file in the first folder on the D drive, right next to the half-finished program I’ve been working on. This is the password… Your organization sounds pretty big, so you wouldn’t stoop to stealing my meager belongings, right?" I handed over the note and, emboldened by their silence, added, "Oh, and can my Blue-Eyes White Dragon be buried with me?"
Instead of taking the note, they shifted their gaze from the paper to my face, sounding uncertain.
"…What?"
I know it’s hard for outsiders to understand, but I really don’t have the energy to explain Yu-Gi-Oh! right now.
So, I simply replied, "Blue-Eyes White Dragon is just a game card... You can look it up online if you want."
Seeing the slight look of surprise on his face, I thought for a moment and then asked seriously, "Since you're a sniper, you must be pretty quick, right? I won’t feel much pain, will I?"
His brow furrowed again.
I tightened my grip on my bag and hesitantly amended my condition, "Then... never mind the Blue-Eyes White Dragon?"
This time, the dark-haired young man’s expression turned somewhat peculiar.
That look felt oddly familiar, as if someone had given me the same stare a long time ago, probably while muttering something like, "I really don’t get you otaku types."
He didn’t say anything else and simply walked past me, heading in the direction of my apartment.
For a split second, I thought, This is my chance to run!—but then I remembered that this guy was a sniper who could easily pick me off from a distance, and there were probably other members of his organization watching my building. My fleeting urge to bolt instantly fizzled out.
After all, I’d failed every sprint and endurance test since elementary school. The only time I’d ever surpassed my personal record was in high school during a test of courage when my friend Kuronuma Sayako scared me so badly I actually ran fast enough to pass.
I cautiously trailed behind him, keeping a safe distance.
When we reached my apartment door, I noticed him glance at me, so I shakily held out my keys. I tried to hold back but couldn’t resist asking in a small voice as he took them to unlock the door, "Is this your way of giving me the dignity of dying in my own home?"
His movements paused. After a silence that lasted about ten seconds—broken only by a faint, barely-there cough—he finally spoke.
"Relax, Asahina. You’re still useful to the organization. As long as you don’t do anything reckless, my job is to protect you, not eliminate you." He turned to me with a gentle smile. "There’s no need to be so tense."
...That just made me even more nervous!
So that earlier moment when he ignored me—was that a test? To see if I’d try something stupid?
Even though my life was temporarily spared, I couldn’t help feeling even more on edge.
Because… honestly, this situation had way too many clichés.
Right now, I perfectly fit the description of a doomed side character in some dramatic story!
Young, single, smart but socially awkward, with a specialized skill that ends up putting a target on my back… Judging by how things were going, I’d probably be killed off after completing whatever task this organization wanted from me, my death disguised as an accident. Then, months or even years later, when the consequences of my work finally surfaced, some detective or cop would start investigating and uncover the truth—including my role as a key victim.
In most stories like this, I’d also leave behind some cryptic dying message… except right now, I knew absolutely nothing about this organization.
I didn’t even dare step inside my own home, lingering by the doorway as he smoothly drew his gun and entered, taking down the burglar who’d broken in—Seriously, if you could handle things this easily, why not just stop him before he robbed me?!
…Wait. Was this another warning?
Because the other party appeared calm and composed throughout, when they asked why I wasn’t coming inside, I didn’t dare linger at the doorway any longer and obediently stepped in—though I still kept a meter’s distance between us.
However, the sniper didn’t seem to mind this at all. Instead, they even helped clean up the remaining traces of blood on the floor.
The entire time, I just stood there watching awkwardly, even fumbling over my words when asked where the cleaning supplies were. But it wasn’t my fault—I usually don’t do the cleaning myself.
Honestly, though I knew I shouldn’t, I couldn’t help feeling a little touched. At the very least, I wouldn’t have known how to handle it myself, and calling a cleaning service for bloodstains was out of the question.
Even if this mess was their doing in the first place.
Perhaps because of this gesture, the fear I’d felt toward them earlier lessened slightly. Gathering my courage, I called out as they were about to leave, “W-wait! How should I address you?”
“Scotch.” Without pausing, they left behind this obvious codename and walked away.
“Asahina Aki, 24 years old, engineer at Tokiwa Group. Previously worked for two years at the studio of renowned CG effects artist Itakura Suguru before resigning a year ago to join Tokiwa Group…”
In a dimly lit bar, at a corner of the counter, a black-haired young man in a hoodie and cap skimmed through the documents, his gaze finally settling on the ID photo.
The brown-haired girl in the picture had slightly curly hair, wore glasses, and wore a stern expression, almost as if she were glaring at the camera. Despite her naturally cute features, her rigid demeanor dulled her charm.
The attached collection of candid photos revealed her daily habits—someone who kept to herself, uncomfortable with socializing.
Of course, this wasn’t the work of a stalker… though for her, a stalker might have been preferable.
Because the person who handed over the files spoke up: “This is your target for the mission. If she shows any suspicious movements… eliminate her. It’s a straightforward sniping job—you can handle it alone, right, Scotch?”
The young man, who had been looking down, lifted his head, revealing upturned, cat-like eyes.
He tucked the photo away, a faint smile playing on his lips.
“Yeah, of course.”
