Chapter 12: Gun Dealing

Evening.

On high velocity, inside an overcrowded express train so packed it was hard to breathe, Tokio, Blade, and Eyepatch stood shoulder to shoulder, clinging to the overhead straps. Each wore a mask; Rabbit, Donkey, and Neko.

“Man, I’m exhausted. What the heck, there are so many people…” Blade’s muffled voice came from behind the Donkey mask, sounding just as worn out as he felt.

“I swear I’m gonna die from lack of oxygen this time… And why the hell am I even here?” Tokio, hidden behind the Rabbit mask, muttered irritably.

“Ah, it’s really hot today,” Eyepatch, disguised as Neko, said quietly, carrying a black suitcase.

“This train is now arriving at City Z. Please make sure you have all your belongings before leaving. The doors will open on the left side.”

The automated voice echoed through the carriage.

The train swayed slightly before gliding to a stop. With a sharp hiss of air from the brakes, the automatic doors slid open with a mechanical hum, letting in a rush of platform noise and the faint echo of another announcement from the next train over.

Earlier that day, at Station Café’s hideout…

“Guns!? Are you serious?” Tokio blurted out.

“Right. We need to restock our weapons. When Abyss makes their next move there’s no certainty. It would be utter foolishness to meet them empty-handed,” Shina replied, matter-of-fact.

“She’s right. It’s for our own safety. They won’t hesitate to shoot twice, so we can’t let our guard down,” Eyepatch added.

“Fine Fine, but why do I have to go with you?” Tokio asked.

“You know the real deal, right? I heard someone went too far engineering with VR guns and fancy swords,” Shina smirked, teasing.

“And, dude, you’re good at dealing with buying and selling,” Blade chimed in, referring to the HDDs Tokio sold to Mr. Brawn, which they’d kept secret from Shina and nearly had exposed.

Tokio, Eyepatch, and Memeko all gave Blade a death stare, but Blade didn’t notice.

“Dealing with buying and selling?” Shina frowned, confused.

“What are you even saying, Blade…?” Tokio said nervously, trying to steer the conversation away.

“You already forgot about Mr. Brawn? You were amazing at selling those HDDs—” Blade began.

Before he could finish, Memeko suddenly jumped over, clamping her hand over his mouth.

“Hehe… why do you always tease my senpai, Blade?” Memeko said with a nervous laugh, her eyes darting toward Shina.

“What?” Shina narrowed her eyes. “And who is Mr. Brawn—?”

A crackle came from the security intercom, cutting across the room. “May I come in, Master?” a voice asked, interrupting Shina’s suspicion.

“Permission granted,” Shina answered, keeping her tone steady.

Then the staff entered, carrying a black suitcase; the same woman who had spoken with Tokio earlier at the reception.

Tokio blinked, a little surprised, watching her stride across the room.

She stopped before Shina, bowing slightly, and said, “What you desired is inside the suitcase, Master.”

Tokio’s eyes stayed on her until she finally noticed and turned with a polite smile.

“Forgivenss. We haven’t been introduced yet, Mr. Yukawa, have we? I am Miorin, sworn butler of the Yatoizawa family. My life is dedicated to serving my Master, Shina Yatoizawa.”

“I told you, Miorin, don’t call me ‘Master.’ It sounds… you know, a little weird,” Shina said, irritation in her voice. “Just call me Shina, okay?”

“My lady, I could never bring such disgrace upon our house. If you permit, shall I switch to ‘Lady Shina’ instead?”

“Ughhh, say whatever you want,” Shina groaned, rubbing her forehead.

Shina’s personal maid? Figures. Nothing less from rich-girl Shina. And what’s with this master-servant play straight out of a period drama? Tokio thought.

“I shall take my leave then,” she said softly, exiting the room.

Now everyone’s eyes turned toward the black suitcase in Shina’s hand.

“What’s inside that case, boss?” Blade asked, leaning forward with a spark of curiosity.

“Snacks–?” Memeko muttered without looking up.

“Shut up!” Blade snapped before she could finish.

Shina set the suitcase on the table, pressed the lock, and with a metallic click it opened. Inside were neatly stacked bundles of cash, packed tight like bricks.

Tokio’s jaw dropped. “Holy–what the actual hell!?”

Blade nearly fell off the sofa. “No way… t-that’s enough to buy a small island!”

Memeko ripped her headphones off, eyes glittering. “Wha–Whaaat!? Is this real? Not monopoly money, right? Can I–can I sniff it?!” She leaned forward, practically drooling.

Only Eyepatch stayed calm, lowering the newspaper slightly. “Hmph. Figures. So, this money’s for purchasing the weapons, right?”

“Bingo!” Shina said with a snap of her fingers.

“I’ve never seen even a quarter of this in my entire life…” Memeko’s eyes were practically sparkling. “It looks so real.”

“Of course it’s real,” Shina replied flatly.

“So… how much is here?” Tokio asked, narrowing his eyes at the suitcase.

Damn… no way it’s counterfeit. I can smell the ink. But how the hell did she even—? Tokio thought.

“Two million in cash,” Shina said smoothly. “Eyepatch will carry it. And you two—” she nodded at Blade and Tokio “—will assist him.”

She then pulled out a folded sheet of paper and handed it to Tokio. “Here. The amounts and the list of weapons we need. Don’t lose it.”

Tokio glanced over it, muttering under his breath. “Six GL17s, six CZ-75s…”

Before he could finish, Shina produced three masks from under the table; a rabbit, a neko, and a donkey. She tossed them one by one to Tokio, Eyepatch, and Blade. “Wear these. Keep your identities anonymous.”

Tokio caught the rabbit mask with a sigh. Eyepatch inspected the neko mask with a neutral look.

Blade just stared at his donkey mask, horrified. “What the hell is this…?”

Shina smirked. “You know the real deal, right? Our mad scientist.”

“I told you not to call me that.”

Back to the present…

“Good thing today’s a cosplay festival,” Tokio muttered from behind his rabbit mask. “No one’s giving us suspicious looks in these disguises.”

“Right, dude… but damn, it’s overcrowded.” Blade groaned under the donkey mask. “Too many cosplay freaks, and I’m getting pissed. Tch.”

“Cosplay freaks, huh? …I’m suddenly getting an image of the boss lady,” Tokio muttered under his breath.

Blade perked up, confused. “What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing.” Tokio turned away quickly.

They walked for a while and stopped in front of a bar with a flickering neon sign that read Damien Espresso.

“What’s with that weird-looking name?” Tokio muttered, staring at the glow. “Hey, are you sure this is the right place?”

“Yeah. Just follow me,” Eyepatch said.

Inside, the air was thick with smoke and a soft jazz bassline curled around the room. It felt a world away from the festival’s chaos; a place for quiet, serious deals.

The three approached the mahogany bar. Behind it, a tall, elegant bartender polished a glass without looking up.

Eyepatch stepped forward. “Three glasses of milk,” he said flatly.

The bartender didn’t look up. “We don’t serve milk.”

“Then we’ll have what the King of Spain is drinking,” Eyepatch replied, finishing the coded phrase.

The bartender’s eyes flickered. He gave a barely perceptible nod, tapped a hidden sequence under the counter, and a large man in an impeccably tailored black suit appeared from the shadows.

“Follow him, gentlemen,” the bartender said.

They trailed the man in black toward the restroom. He opened an abandoned stall door that led to a narrow service passage. The passage let out into an underground showroom. The man stopped before a steel door, nodded them inside, and remained outside to watch.

“After you,” Eyepatch said, and they entered.

The showroom was lit with cold fluorescent lights. Racks lined the walls like a butcher’s display: sleek H&K MP5s, menacing FN SCAR-Ls, and rows of AK-74Ms with their orange-brown furniture. Glass cases held handguns from dummy Glock 19s to heavy Desert Eagles. A reinforced section showcased the heavy stuff — an M249 SAW and even a Barrett M82 anti-material rifle. Crates of fragmentation grenades and phosphorous smoke grenades were stacked like produce.

A man with a spiderweb tattoo crawling up his neck stepped forward. He introduced himself with a smooth smile. “Gentlemen, I’m Viktor. Welcome to the emporium. Neko with the money. Let’s see it.”

Eyepatch unzipped the black suitcase. Bundles of cash gleamed under the showroom lights. Viktor’s pupils narrowed, hungry.

“Two million, exactly, with a little extra,” Tokio said, pulling the paper Shina had given him. He handed the list to Viktor. “Here are the items we need.”

Viktor scanned it out loud, his voice calm but almost reverent.

“…Glock 17. Six pieces.” He let the words linger, a faint smirk curling. “Such an elegant flavor to start with.”

“CZ-75…” Viktor exhaled slowly through his nose, as if tasting the name itself. “Ah, a Czech masterpiece—crisp trigger, steel frame… people underestimate it.”

“M84 stun grenades.” His fingers twitched ever so slightly. “The bang that clears the soul.”

“CTS 7290 flashbangs…” he closed his eyes for half a second. “My personal favorite.”

“M18 smoke…” his voice dropped lower. “And MK2 pineapple grenades… timeless. Ah, the old rust from WWII.”

He chuckled under his breath. “Only the best.”

His gaze finally shifted toward Eyepatch. “…And a single Desert Eagle? That must be for Mr. Neko, yes?”

Eyepatch remained silent, expression unreadable.

“Good. Hope this will be a pleasant transaction,” Viktor said.

He and his men moved with practiced efficiency, gathering the requested goods. It took three thirty-liter bags to pack everything.

“There you are. Everything you ordered, gentlemen,” Viktor announced.

Eyepatch handed the black suitcase to Viktor. They shook hands.

Viktor added a small canvas pouch and pushed it across the counter. “Extra rounds. A little gift.” He smiled. “We will meet again, right?”

“Definitely,” Eyepatch replied.

They left the showroom with three heavy bags and a heavier silence, as if nothing had happened.

“Ah man, this stuff is super heavy, I can’t feel my muscles anymore,” Blade the donkey groaned.

“Just a few miles to go,” Eyepatch mocked, his tone carrying no sympathy.

As they slipped through the bar’s dim interior, Tokio caught a flicker—eyes watching from the shadows. His chest tightened.

“Well, boys… we should hurry,” Tokio murmured.

They pushed out into the night, the neon glow fading as they carried the bags through a narrow alleyway, avoiding the crowded main streets. The place reeked faintly of rot, lined with overflowing garbage bins and the occasional stray cat darting between them. The echo of their footsteps sounded too loud, too exposed.

Tokio’s gaze caught on a stray cat perched atop a garbage bin. It let out a soft meow, its eyes glinting in the dim alley light.

“…Meow,” Tokio replied under his breath.

The cat blinked at him.

Blade slowly turned his head. “Did you just meow?”

Tokio adjusted his glasses, unfazed.

“Establishing diplomatic relations.”

“Hey, man… I’ve had a bad feeling since we left. My instincts are telling me someone’s watching us,” Blade muttered, adjusting the straps digging into his shoulders.

“Right. We’re being followed,” Eyepatch said flatly.

A clatter broke the silence, bottles knocked over. Then, from both ends of the alley, five men emerged, rifles gleaming under the flickering streetlamp. They spread out, guns raised, boxing the trio in.

“Looks like the kiddies brought some toys with their allowance,” the leader sneered, his voice thick with amusement.

“As I predicted,” Eyepatch muttered under his breath.

“Tch. Bitches,” Blade spat, his jaw tight.

“Don’t speak,” Tokio warned sharply.

“Silence! Don’t move a muscle, or I’ll fill you brats with bullets,” another man barked, slamming his rifle into position.

“Now, kids, hand over the souvenirs you grabbed from the bar, won’t you?” the leader said, moving closer to Eyepatch.

Eyepatch didn’t flinch. He didn’t fight back. Instead, with a sigh of utter boredom, he simply unzipped his jacket and let it fall open.

Strapped to his chest was a grid of what looked like C-4 blocks, crisscrossed with red and yellow wires, all leading to a central digital circuit, a beeping red LED.

Everyone froze, even Blade.

“What is that… is that—”

“If this block moves even slightly… and the trigger sensor is synced with my heartbeat—if my heartbeat stops…” Eyepatch said, his voice eerily calm, “the capacitor discharges. Boom. The blast radius is… twenty meters. In the blink of an eye, we’ll all be shredded into blocks of spongy meat.”

The leader staggered back, his face drained of color. “You’re a fucking insane psychopath!”

“This guy’s a psycho! Run!” one of the men screamed.

Without waiting for orders, the entire group bolted. Feet pounded the cracked alleyway, their shouts echoing off the narrow walls. One tripped over a loose stone, sprawling into the garbage with a loud crash, scattering rats in all directions. Another slammed into a tipped-over bin, sending its contents flying.

Even their leader, yelling “Wait for me, traitors!” struggled to keep pace, his boots slipping on wet patches and broken concrete. Panic had drowned out all thought—only raw survival mattered as they scrambled into the night, leaving Eyepatch, Blade, and Tokio standing in grim satisfaction amid the chaos.