Chapter 4 - The Fire at Block 9
Tokyo at night has two heartbeats. One is loud—the roar of traffic, the pulse of neon, the endless clatter of lives rushing nowhere. The other is quiet—the one that hides between the cracks, beneath old bridges, behind half-broken vending machines and forgotten tenements. That second heartbeat was Block 9.
It wasn't much to look at. A narrow stretch of apartments and shops caught between two rail lines, their lights flickering every time a train passed. The buildings leaned together like weary neighbors sharing secrets. Old peeople swept their steps each morning, children kicked cans into gutters, cats ruled the rooftops. The ramen shop on the corner was run by a person who remembered every regular's name, and the air always carried the faint perfume of soy, smoke, and rain.
To most of Tokyo, Block 9 didn't exist. And that anonymity was its greatest mercy.
For Akazuchi, it had been a sanctuary.
After the lab. After the fire. After the years of running and wondering if he'd ever breathe freely again—Block 9 had given him silence. A single-room apartment with paper walls thin enough to hear the neighbors' late-night dramas, a leaky faucet that composed its own sad opera at two a.m., and a heater that coughed more than it worked. Yet to him, it was perfect.
In that tiny space, he could forget the sterile smell of the lab, the screaming lights of failed experiments, the metallic taste of fear. He could cook, mend old books, and keep a small plant alive. Every morning he walked to Hukitaske Pharmacy, every evening he came home with a full stomach and stories about the others. The rhythm of it—the ordinary heartbeat of life—was something he'd fought to earn.
And then, one winter night, that heartbeat stopped.
1:30 A.M.
The first explosion was small, almost polite—a hiss, a crack, a cough of fire that blossomed from a gas line behind the corner grocery. Within seconds, it became a roar. Flames leapt from window to window like hungry beasts, swallowing curtains, paint, and dreams.
The sound woke Akazuchi instantly. For a disoriented moment he thought he was back there—in the white rooms, under the red alarms. His lungs seized, his heart sprinted. But when he looked out the window, the night glowed orange.
He stumbled from his chair, feet hitting the cold floorboards, the smell of smoke already crawling through the cracks. Sirens began to wail in the distance. Someone was shouting in the hallway—words swallowed by panic.
He reached for the photo of his sister on the table, but heat licked the back of his hand. He flinched, eyes watering. The wallpaper blistered. The air turned thick. There was no time.
He grabbed only his coat. Not the shoebox under the bed where he'd kept the old lab bracelet. Not the ledger of handwritten prescriptions he'd made during long, sleepless nights. Not even his watch. He bolted barefoot into the hallway, coughing, shoulder slamming into the emergency door that refused to budge.
Then a neighbor—old Mr. Yoshida from 3-B—appeared through the smoke, kicking the latch free. Together they spilled out into the freezing night, into snow that glowed orange from the inferno.
By 2 A.M., the fire had devoured half the block. Two buildings collapsed inward with the groan of dying animals. Gas lines ruptured like gunfire. The streets glittered with broken glass and frozen ash.
The evacuation drills, rehearsed weeks ago after the last city fire, saved everyone. No lives were lost. But when the fire finally died at dawn, there was nothing left of Block 9 except the black skeletons of what had once been home.
Akazuchi sat in the emergency shelter, wrapped in a foil blanket that crinkled every time he moved. His palms were red and raw. His eyes burned, not just from smoke. Around him, volunteers shuffled—offering soup, water, condolences—but their voices were underwater, distant.
He stared at the steam rising from his untouched cup. It reminded him of the smoke.
3 A.M.
Akio arrived.
He'd seen the news flash on Yamataro's late-night monitor—a live drone feed of flames painting the Tokyo skyline. The words "BLOCK 9 FIRE" burned across the bottom of the screen. He hadn't even bothered putting on a coat before running out.
Now he stood on the hill overlooking the smoldering ruin. The city glimmered beyond it, oblivious. Snow fell in thick, quiet flakes, hissing when they met the heat. His phone buzzed in his hand with messages—Raka, Misaki, Hikata—but he couldn't look away from the smoke.
It wasn't random. It wasn't fate. It was too surgical.
They'd targeted Block 9 because it was his.
Because it was theirs.
He clenched his fist until his nails drew blood. The night wind bit his cheeks, but he didn't feel it. Somewhere down there, beneath the smoke, part of their fragile peace was dying.
Ash and Silence
The shelter smelled of disinfectant and wet wool. Families whispered, police took statements, the hum of generators filled the corners. Akazuchi sat alone on a cot near the back, his blanket slipping off his shoulders. His gaze was fixed on his hands—burned, trembling, and useless.
The sliding door opened quietly. Akio stepped inside.
He didn't announce himself. Didn't call out. He simply walked to the cot and sat down beside him, the same way one might sit beside a grave.
Neither spoke. The sound of rain on the shelter roof filled the silence between them.
Minutes passed like hours.
Finally, Akazuchi whispered, voice hoarse, "Everything's gone."
Akio's eyes flickered to him. "Everything?"
"The photo. The books. The letters. The one place that didn't smell like the lab." His throat tightened. "It was home."
Akio nodded slowly. "They took mine once too."
Akazuchi's laugh came out broken. "Then why did we build it again?"
"Because that's what they can't understand," Akio said softly. "They destroy, we rebuild. Every time."
Akazuchi turned his blistered palms upward. "I'll never forget this."
"Neither will I."
The words fell like stones into deep water.
It wasn't just grief that bound them—it was recognition. Both had lost homes before. Both had seen lives reduced to experiments, memories scrubbed clean. The fire wasn't an accident; it was a reminder. You can't escape us.
The Gathering
By morning, the rest of the team had arrived.
Raka came first, limping slightly from an old injury but carrying a thermal bag of rice balls and coffee. Misaki followed with gloves and scarves for everyone, her usually calm face shadowed by worry. Yamataro trailed behind, still in his work uniform, eyes red from exhaustion. Rumane had already been on the phone, arranging temporary housing with that terrifying efficiency she reserved for crises. Hikata—usually loud, unfiltered—was silent, scanning every corner of the shelter, every face.
They didn't need to ask what happened. The ash on Akazuchi's skin, the smell of burnt cloth on his coat, told them everything.
No one mentioned the lab. But the thought hung in the air like smoke.
Raka finally broke the silence. "We rebuild. Again."
Akio's eyes met hers. "Yes. But this time, not as pharmacists."
Her brow furrowed. "Then what are we?"
He looked at the ruin of Block 9 through the shelter window. "Survivors with a plan."
Silent Alarms
Three days passed. Snow fell harder, muffling the city into a strange, heavy quiet. Hukitaske Pharmacy, once a place of warmth and tea and laughter, began to look more like a fortress.
Raka installed motion sensors along the alleyway. Hikata connected old security cameras to an encrypted network that only he could monitor. Rumane coordinated schedules so no one was ever alone at closing.
The smell of disinfectant was replaced by solder, oil, and electricity.
Akio watched it all, a strange mix of pride and dread twisting in his stomach. This wasn't the life he wanted for them. But safety had become strategy.
One night, after midnight, Yamataro returned from a supply run. The streets were empty except for the snow piling against the curbs. He fumbled with the key, muttering to himself, and noticed the back door of the pharmacy slightly ajar.
He froze.
Every muscle in his body went tight. The sensors hadn't gone off.
He stepped inside slowly. The lights were off except for the faint glow of the fridge. His shoes left wet prints on the tile.
Then he saw it.
A syringe. Lying perfectly centered on the break room floor.
Not just any syringe—it glowed faintly blue at its core, like a trapped spark of lightning.
He backed away instantly, calling out, "Akio! Raka! You'd better see this!"
Within minutes, the others were there.
Raka's voice trembled as she crouched down. "It's one of theirs. Just like the one from the pharmacy fire. But this—this looks new."
The liquid shimmered as if alive, shifting with tiny motes of silver light.
Akio knelt beside it, his breath slow. He didn't touch it. His fingers hovered just above the plastic, trembling. His reflection warped in the syringe's glass—haunted eyes, familiar fear.
Misaki closed the blinds. Rumane locked every door. The hum of the fridge became deafening in the silence that followed.
No one moved. No one breathed.
Finally, Akio spoke. "They're here."
Raka swallowed. "Watching us?"
"Yes." His gaze was distant. "Waiting for us to make a move."
"How do you know?" Yamataro asked quietly.
Akio didn't answer right away. He just stared at the syringe, lost somewhere far away. When he finally spoke, his voice was low. "Because that's how they trained me."
The words chilled the room.
No one asked more. They didn't need to. The truth lived in the spaces between his sentences.
Akio knew them—their tactics, their rhythm, their cruelty—because he had once been one of them.
The Edge of War
Later that night, after the others had gone upstairs to rest, Akio sat alone in the break room. The syringe lay sealed inside a reinforced case, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat.
He opened an old file on his laptop—one he'd hidden under layers of encryption. A list of codenames scrolled across the screen: Subjects 1–15. Every one of them marked "Terminated." Except one.
Subject 9: Hukitaske, Akio. Status—Uncontained.
He traced the cursor over his own name. The reflection in the screen made his face look older, harder. "If they want to erase me," he murmured, "they'll have to erase everything I've built."
Behind him, Raka's voice broke the quiet. "Then we don't let them."
He turned. She leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes fierce despite the exhaustion on her face.
Akio gave a faint smile. "You were supposed to be sleeping."
"Yeah, well," she said, stepping closer, "the last time I slept through something, you almost died. Not taking that risk again."
He chuckled softly, but the warmth didn't reach his eyes.
Raka glanced at the case. "What's in that stuff anyway?"
"Memory suppressant. And maybe... worse."
She nodded grimly. "Figures."
Akio looked back at the glowing syringe. "They think fear will stop us."
Raka smirked. "Then let's teach them they picked the wrong pharmacists to mess with."
The two of them stood there, the faint blue light washing over their faces. The snow outside kept falling, soft and endless, burying the city in white silence.
Inside, that silence was a countdown.
By dawn, Hukitaske Pharmacy no longer looked like a place of medicine. It looked like the beginning of a rebellion.
They didn't say it aloud, but everyone felt it—the point of no return.
The lab had declared war with fire and fear. And Akio Hukitaske, once Subject 9, had answered it not with rage, but with resolve.
He turned off the lights, looked out at the empty street, and whispered to himself:
"Block 9 wasn't the end. It was the first spark."
The syringe's faint blue light blinked once, as if in agreement.
The war had begun.
[Next: Chapter 5 — Rebellion in the Waiting Room]