Sniff My Feet or Die

Until that evening, I genuinely believed the worst things about being a courier were rain, broken elevators, and customers who texted “I’m coming down now” only to vanish off the face of the earth for the next fifteen minutes.

As it turned out, I had a severely limited imagination. There were far worse things in this world. Like picking up the wrong briefcase. Specifically, an expensive, suspiciously heavy black briefcase that, for some inexplicable reason, had been left on a restaurant’s pickup counter right beside my order.

And that, strangely enough, was how my new life began. Although it might be more accurate to say that was when my old life decided to run away without so much as leaving a goodbye note.

Tokyo was wet, angry, and glittering that day. Neon signs bled across the asphalt in pools of red and blue. Tires hissed through the rain, while people hurried beneath their umbrellas as though every second they were late would be deducted directly from their souls.

I was riding my battered old scooter with exactly three things on my mind: not getting completely soaked, not ending up beneath the wheels of a taxi, and somehow getting a hot meal into my stomach before midnight.

As it turned out, I wasn’t going to manage any of them.

My phone buzzed inside my jacket pocket. I stopped at a red light, fished it out with one hand, and found a message from dispatch.

URGENT DELIVERY. AKAGI RESTAURANT. COLLECT BRIEFCASE. DELIVER TO SAKURA SECURITY OFFICE. DOUBLE PAY.

Double pay. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how most spectacularly stupid decisions begin.

A sensible person in my position might have stopped to wonder why an ordinary document delivery suddenly paid twice the usual rate. Why the package had to be a briefcase, specifically. Why the recipient was a private security firm instead of some dreary accounting office with a miserable printer gathering dust in the corner.

But I wasn’t a sensible person. I was a person whose bank balance was so pitiful that even an ATM would have sighed upon seeing it.

So I typed a quick “Accepted” and set off.

Akagi Restaurant was tucked away in an alley between an expensive hotel and a glass-fronted building where, judging by the sign, people dealt in investments, consulting, and other fancy words nobody had ever paid me to understand.

From the outside, the restaurant looked quiet and respectable. Dark wood, warm lighting, a red lantern by the entrance, spotless windows. In other words, the sort of place I wasn’t even allowed to enter in my imagination.

I parked my scooter beneath an awning, shook the water off my jacket, and stepped inside. The scent of grilled meat, soy sauce, and money immediately filled my nostrils.

Admittedly, I’d never smelled money in its purest form, but I was reasonably certain this was what it smelled like: expensive, refined, and faintly contemptuous of the poor.

A hostess in a black kimono stood near the entrance. She had a beautiful face, a flawless smile, and eyes that suggested she’d seen plenty of people like me before and knew we were the sort who tracked mud onto expensive carpets.

“Delivery?” she asked.

“Kaito Morikawa,” I replied, holding up my phone with the order number. “I’m here to pick up a briefcase for Sakura Security.”

She glanced at the screen.

“Please wait here.”

I nodded and remained by the counter, doing my best to look like someone who regularly visited establishments where a single napkin probably cost more than my dinner.

Laughter drifted from somewhere deeper inside the restaurant. Not loud or drunken laughter, but the relaxed kind you hear from people who never have to check the prices on a menu.

Behind a partition to my right sat a group of men in suits. They spoke quietly, yet somehow the silences between their words made the back of my neck itch.

I looked away.

None of your business, Kaito. Your job is simple. Pick up the briefcase, deliver the briefcase, collect your money. That’s it. No heroics, no curiosity, and absolutely no starring in tomorrow’s crime report.

An excellent plan, if I do say so myself. Shame it lasted less than a minute.

A young waiter emerged from the back, wearing the expression of a man who’d already been chewed out three times today and was fully expecting a fourth. He carried a black briefcase.

“For Sakura Security?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He placed it on the counter.

At almost the exact same moment, another man stepped out from behind the partition. Tall, dressed in a gray suit, with neatly slicked-back hair. He was carrying a black briefcase too, an almost identical one.

Perhaps his looked a little more expensive, but to be perfectly honest, my knowledge of briefcases was about as extensive as my knowledge of venomous snakes. If you saw one, you were probably better off not touching it.

The man set his briefcase beside the first and turned to speak to someone behind him.

The waiter became distracted by the hostess. The hostess said something to the chef, who shouted something back. Somewhere in the dining room, a glass shattered.

And there, on the counter, sat two identical black briefcases.

My phone buzzed again.

WHERE ARE YOU? HURRY UP. CLIENT’S WAITING.

I muttered a curse, grabbed the nearest briefcase, and hurried toward the exit.

Yes, the nearest one. Congratulations, Kaito Morikawa. You have officially entrusted your entire future to the sophisticated decision-making process of “Whichever briefcase is closest to my hand.”

Outside, the rain had grown heavier. I strapped the briefcase onto the luggage rack, climbed onto my scooter, and headed for the delivery address.

For about five minutes, everything was fine. Then I noticed the black car.

It had been following me for three consecutive turns.

Coincidence.

I turned onto another street, and the car followed.

Tokyo’s a big city. People can drive wherever they want. Stop being paranoid.

I slowed down beside a brightly lit convenience store and pretended to check my phone. The car slowed too, though it stopped a little farther down the street rather than pulling up beside me.

A little too carefully.

A cold sensation settled in the pit of my stomach. I glanced at the briefcase strapped behind me. Black, smooth, heavy. A perfectly ordinary object, except that it apparently attracted the attention of people who didn’t bother leaving bad reviews. They went straight to arranging funerals.

My phone buzzed again. An unfamiliar number appeared on the screen.

I didn’t want to answer. Naturally, I answered.

“Morikawa-san?” a man’s voice asked.

Calm and polite, which somehow made everything worse.

“Yes?”

“You’ve taken something that doesn’t belong to you.”

I swallowed.

“Excuse me?”

“Pull over at the next alley on your right.”

I looked ahead. There was, indeed, an alley on my right.

“And what if I don’t?”

A brief silence followed.

“Then we’ll stop you ourselves.”

At that moment, my brain finally decided to attend the emergency meeting and offered the most brilliant piece of advice I’d received all day.

Floor it.

I twisted the throttle, and the scooter lurched forward. Behind me, the car’s engine roared.

On a rain-soaked road, this was less a high-speed chase and more a suicide attempt with delivery included. I swerved between taxis, a bus, and some idiot on a bicycle who had apparently decided he was immortal. My heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to break free and start a new life without me.

“Oh, come ON!” I yelled as my rear wheel skidded around a corner.

By some miracle, the scooter straightened. For one glorious moment, I almost believed I could escape.

Then a second black car emerged from a side street ahead. It didn’t hit me. It simply pulled across the road, blocking my path with a level of professional calm I found deeply persuasive.

I slammed on the brakes far too hard. The scooter fishtailed, the briefcase struck its restraints, and I nearly went flying over the handlebars. Somehow, through an extraordinarily undignified combination of stumbling and blind luck, I managed to stay on my feet.

The doors of both cars opened, and several men stepped out.

Black suits, black umbrellas, dark eyes without the slightest suggestion of “Let’s talk this through like civilized people.”

One of them approached. He was around forty, with closely cropped hair and a scar near his mouth. He wasn’t particularly huge or muscular, nor did he resemble some cartoonish thug. He simply looked like the kind of man who had once broken someone’s arm and then calmly paid for his parking.

“Kaito Morikawa?” he asked.

I raised both hands.

“Listen, if this is about the briefcase, I’m perfectly happy to give it back. Right now. No complaints. I’ll even apologize. I could leave the restaurant a review explaining that their briefcases look way too similar.”

He stared at me without the faintest trace of amusement. Apparently, he wasn’t impressed. Not even slightly.

“The briefcase.”

“Yes, of course.”

I slowly turned toward my scooter, unfastened the briefcase, and held it out.

The man didn’t take it. Instead, he nodded to someone behind me, and two of his companions stepped closer.

“Hey,” I protested. “I thought we were getting somewhere.”

They seized me by the arms, though not roughly. Almost gently, in fact. You know how someone might carefully pick up an expensive vase just before throwing it off a balcony? It was rather like that.

“Wait! I’m just a delivery guy! Someone placed an order, and I picked it up. I don’t know anything!”

“We’ll determine that,” the scarred man replied.

“Great. Perfect. Let’s do that. I’m all for investigations. Can’t you tell from my face how much I love bureaucratic procedures?”

They started escorting me toward the car.

“Just one request. Could we skip the trunk? I’m claustrophobic. Well, not officially. I’ve never been diagnosed, but I’m pretty sure locking me in a trunk would bring it out.”

The scarred man stopped, and so did I. He regarded me as though weighing whether to punch me immediately or allow me another few seconds to embarrass myself.

“You talk too much.”

“It’s the fear.”

“I can tell.”

“Glad we’ve found some common ground.”

He gave a short nod, and someone punched me in the stomach.

Not particularly hard. By their standards, it was probably the equivalent of a polite warning. Nevertheless, every last scrap of air left my lungs. I doubled over, coughing, as the world dissolved into a blur of rain and neon.

“Now talk less,” the man instructed.

Reasonable request, I thought, desperately trying not to vomit on someone’s expensive shoes.

They shoved me into the back seat, with a man in a suit on either side of me. Up front were the driver and my new friend with the scar. The briefcase was placed beside him, and the car pulled away.

I stared through the window at Tokyo, which continued going about its business as though I hadn’t just been kidnapped in broad daylight. Although, to be fair, it wasn’t exactly broad daylight anymore. More like a damp evening.

“Can I ask something?” I ventured cautiously.

The man to my right turned his head.

I reconsidered.

“Nope. Got it.”

We drove for ten minutes, maybe twenty. Time behaves differently when you’re being taken to an unknown destination by men who look like human tax audits. Every minute stretches on like a particularly unpleasant conversation with your boss.

Finally, the car turned into an underground parking garage.

They dragged me out and led me through a service entrance into some building. From there, we passed through an elevator, one corridor, then another, before stopping at an unmarked door.

Beyond it was a room where they sat me down in a chair.

And that was when I became truly frightened for the first time.

Not during the chase, not when they punched me, and not even when they forced me into the car. No, it was there, in that windowless room with its single table, two lamps, and a man in a gray suit silently pulling on a pair of gloves.

Gloves. Nobody puts on gloves for a friendly chat.

The scarred man placed the briefcase on the table.

“Who sent you?”

“Nobody. I’m a courier.”

“Who’s your client?”

“The app said Sakura Security. I can show you my phone.”

“Why did you take the briefcase?”

“Because I was told to pick up a briefcase.”

“This briefcase?”

“I thought it was the right one.”

“You thought?”

I looked at his face and realized that the word thought wasn’t doing me any favors.

“I made a mistake.”

The man slowly opened the briefcase.

Inside were documents, several USB drives, and a small metal container, each neatly arranged in its own compartment of black foam.

I had no idea what I was looking at, but I knew it couldn’t possibly be anything good.

The man in the gray suit spoke quietly.

“He’s seen the contents.”

“I didn’t understand a thing,” I blurted out. “Seriously. Nothing. I swear. As far as I’m concerned, it looks like a starter kit for a very boring crime.”

Scarface stepped closer.

“Do you have any idea whose briefcase you stole?”

Now, this was the moment when I should have kept my mouth shut. Said no, burst into tears, asked for a lawyer, or perhaps even called for my mother. I could have begged them to just beat me up and let me go.

But people under pressure rarely make the best decisions. They usually grab the first idea that pops into their heads, then spend the rest of their lives—assuming they have any left—wondering what possessed them.

I straightened up as much as my recently assaulted stomach would allow and said:

“Of course I do.”

The room fell silent. A little too silent.

The scarred man narrowed his eyes.

“Oh, really?”

Take it back. Take it back right now. Tell him you’re joking. Tell him you’re panicking. Tell him your brain has stopped working.

Unfortunately, my mouth had already committed an act of outright treason.

“I know your boss personally.”

One second passed, then another, and then a third. The man in the gray suit slowly turned toward Scarface, who was now looking at me differently.

No longer as an idiot courier, but as an idiot courier who might, just possibly, be someone else’s idiot.

And strangely enough, that gave me a chance. A very small chance, admittedly, about the size of a crack in a crematorium door.

“Who, exactly?” he asked.

I had no idea. Of course I had no idea. Until today, I’d been under the impression that the yakuza existed somewhere in movies, news reports, and neighborhoods I couldn’t afford to visit.

“Surely you understand,” I said, attempting to sound mysterious, “that I can’t just go around revealing names.”

The scarred man stepped even closer.

“Yes, you can.”

“Well, technically, yes. My mouth is fully functional. But from a security standpoint—”

He slammed his palm against the table, making me flinch so violently that my chair creaked.

“Name.”

And then the door opened.

Another man entered the room. He was elderly and lean, with a perfectly straight back. His silver hair was combed neatly away from his face, and his suit fit him impeccably.

He didn’t look like a gangster. He looked more like a university professor who could give you a failing grade and then order someone to bury you behind the lecture hall.

Everyone in the room straightened almost imperceptibly.

The scarred man turned toward him.

“Matsunaga-san.”

The elderly man studied me. His gaze was calm and unpleasant, like cold water seeping into your shoe.

“Is this him?”

“Yes. He took the briefcase. Claims to know the boss personally.”

Matsunaga-san let his eyes linger on my face.

I tried to look like someone who genuinely knew important people. Judging by how I felt, I probably resembled a student who hadn’t studied for an exam but was still counting on divine intervention.

“Interesting,” Matsunaga said.

Personally, I couldn’t find a single interesting thing about my predicament.

“Take him to the young mistress.”

The scarred man frowned.

“Are you certain?”

“There are far too many secret dealings going on in this household to start killing every fool before his time.”

Every fool. Thanks, old man. I’m feeling the connection too.

Matsunaga walked over to the table, closed the briefcase, and snapped its locks shut.

“If he’s lying, the young mistress will decide what to do with him.”

I didn’t like that if. It sounded suspiciously as though everyone already knew I was lying but had decided, out of respect for tradition, to let the whole affair proceed to its proper dramatic conclusion.

They hauled me out of the chair again.

“Wait,” I said. “Could I just clarify one little thing?”

Nobody answered.

“This young mistress of yours... is she a reasonable person?”

For the first time, the scarred man smiled.

I really wished he hadn’t.

“You’ll see for yourself.”

And that was when I knew my evening had officially gone beyond saving.

They escorted me out of the room, down the corridor, and into another car. This one was even more expensive. The seats smelled of leather, cool air-conditioning, and people who never bothered checking the price of gasoline.

Tokyo’s streets drifted past the windows as I sat between two silent men, reflecting on just how profoundly unfair life could be.

That morning, I’d been an ordinary guy with debts, an empty refrigerator, and the humble dream of getting at least six hours of sleep.

Now, I was on my way to meet the head of some criminal clan because I’d mixed up two briefcases and, for reasons known only to my malfunctioning brain, claimed to know the boss.

The important thing is to look confident, said one voice in my head.

A second, considerably more honest voice replied, You’re going to die.

A third chimed in, And the worst part is, you’re going to die hungry.

The car turned through a pair of towering gates, revealing a sprawling estate beyond them.

Not a house or even an ordinary mansion, but a proper residence, complete with stone walls, a meticulously tended garden, rain-slicked paths, lanterns casting a warm glow, and guards stationed by the entrance.

Everything looked so peaceful and beautiful that you might have imagined this was a place where people held elegant tea ceremonies, rather than somewhere they discussed which river was best suited for disposing of delivery drivers.

They led me out of the car.

The rain had almost stopped, leaving the air heavy with the scent of damp pine needles and very expensive trouble.

We climbed the steps, and the doors swung open without a sound.

Inside, everything was warm, quiet, and unnervingly clean. You could have eaten off the floors, although, to be honest, at this point I’d have eaten off almost any floor.

Corridor after corridor stretched before us. The walls were decorated with paintings, dark wood, and muted gold accents. Ancient-looking vases stood in recessed alcoves, each one seemingly older than my entire family and worth considerably more than my life.

We stopped before a large door. The scarred man adjusted his jacket and nodded to the guards, who opened it and pushed me inside.

And I saw her.

Well, technically, I noticed the enormous office first. Dark wood dominated the interior, while floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Tokyo at night, its skyline sliced through by the lights of towering skyscrapers.

A long table occupied the center of the room, with men in suits seated on either side and guards standing against the walls. The atmosphere was so thick you could have sliced it with a knife and served it in bite-sized portions.

Then my attention shifted to an armchair by the window and the girl sitting in it.

She was nothing like I’d expected.

I’d imagined an aging boss with a cigar, perhaps some tattoo-covered mountain of muscle, or a silver-haired patriarch who could have a man fitted for concrete boots with a single glance.

Instead, I found myself staring at a girl who looked about eighteen or nineteen.

Long, pale-blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders in soft waves, a delicate golden hairpin glinting among the strands. Her face was almost offensively beautiful, with porcelain skin, composed lips, and amber-colored eyes utterly devoid of warmth.

Her black dress fit so perfectly that it might have been tailored not by dressmakers, but by people whose sole profession was destroying everyone else’s self-esteem. Rings gleamed on her slender fingers, completing an appearance that belonged more to royalty than organized crime.

She looked like a princess, albeit the sort who signed execution orders in her spare time.

The scarred man bowed his head.

“Lady Ayano. We’ve found the man who took the briefcase.”

The girl slowly raised her eyes to me, and the office grew even quieter.

Suddenly, I realized everyone was waiting for her reaction. Not Matsunaga’s, not the scarred man’s, and not even the older men seated around the table.

Hers.

This beautiful blonde girl sitting by the window was the center of the entire room. Not because she shouted or waved a weapon around, but because even the silence here seemed to obey her.

“He claims to know you,” Scarface added.

I swallowed.

Ayano Kujo studied me for several seconds, then tilted her head ever so slightly.

“Never met him.”

Something inside me snapped.

She turned her gaze toward the guards.

“Throw him in the river.”

And you know what? That was the moment I finally understood.

Adulthood had officially begun.