Why would he listen to me?

 

I can almost feel Kenn’s frustration as he answers.

 

I can count on one hand the number of people he fully trusts. But he talks to you frequently. He takes you to dinner, unannounced.

I’m not his bodyguard. I can’t force him to protect himself.

 

You’re his hunter. He has hired you to tell him what he needs to know. You have a right to insist on his safety. He won’t shut his door on you.

 

I glance up from our conversation as my teammates roar with laughter about something. Tonight’s our celebration night, and they’ll expect me to be just as excited about our win. If I leave too soon, they’ll be poking and prying in no time, and Ren will suspect something’s up.

 

“Hey,” Hammie says to me, and I look up to see her curious expression, her cheeks still flushed from victory. “You okay?”

 

It’s strange to me that no one else in the stadium knows what happened, that they must really think the two sparks of light in the balcony seating were blown transistors instead of gunfire. I must be wearing all of my anxiety on my face right now. I give her a brilliant smile that I hope looks convincing, and then shake my head. “I’m fantastic. Just still in shock.”

Hammie grins and pumps a fist in the air. It nearly hits the limo’s ceiling. “Karaoke, baby!” she shouts, and the others all shout along with her. I do as well, cheering as loudly as I can in order to drown out the storm of thoughts brewing in my head. I do it so forcefully that I almost believe it.

 

Soon, we’ve settled in a karaoke bar in the heart of the Roppongi district, with men in black suits guarding every entrance and exit. The halls are lined with floor-to-ceiling mirrors, reflecting the light of chandeliers adorning the ceilings, while the doorways to each private karaoke room are painted in glittering gold. Outside each doorway stand virtual figures of smiling supermodels, congratulating each of us by name as we walk past. I stare down the hallway, memorizing a path out, before we enter our own private room.

 

In here, the music has already been turned up to deafening levels. Ren laughs as he scrolls through the song list with Roshan. Every time they rotate onto a new track, our room transforms to match it—“My Heart Will Go On” changes the room into the bow of the Titanic, while “Thriller” surrounds us with dancing, leather-clad zombies on a dark street. Roshan, usually reserved, can’t help laughing as Ren says something in French while mimicking the “Thriller” shuffle.

I watch Ren from the corner of my eyes as I sit sandwiched between Hammie and Asher. Had no one else noticed his expression as the game ended? Even now, there is something tense about his posture, as if things tonight hadn’t gone as well for him as they had for the rest of our team.

 

“To Roshan!” Hammie yells, startling me from my thoughts. “Most Valuable Kicking-Tremaine’s-Ass Player!”

 

Roshan sobers a little at the mention of Tremaine, but he hides it behind a smile. “To Hams,” he calls back. “Thief of a Thousand Power-Ups.”

“To Emika!” Asher exclaims. His cheeks are flushed, pushed up by a huge grin. He shakes his head. “Girl, you put the wild in wild card.”

“To Emika!”

“To Emika!”

 

The cheers flow fast. I need to sneak out, I think as I laugh along. It might be my overactive imagination, but Ren’s smile seems tighter than everyone else’s, his happiness for me strained.

 

It doesn’t take long for the chaos in the room to reach a peak. Asher leans heavily against Hammie, repeatedly telling her that he loves her. She’s whispering into his ear in return. The karaoke microphone squeals in protest as Ren yells an off-key note into it. Roshan winces at the sound. As everyone bursts into another storm of laughter, I grab my phone and text Hideo.

Where are you now?

A few seconds pass with no response. Maybe Kenn put too much faith in me, or too little faith in Hideo’s stubbornness. I bite my lip, then send a second message.

I have more info for you. Best to talk in person. It’s an emergency.

Info from his hunter—it’s the only thing I can think of to say that might get him to see me.

 

More time drags on. Just when I’m starting to think Kenn has gotten it all wrong about me, an encrypted message appears. I confirm my identity to unlock it, and in return, an address pops up in my view. Hideo’s address. I almost sag in relief. Then I store the location in my GPS and delete the message.

 

Beside me, Asher raises his voice. “Anyone want to play a shots game? We need the waiter to come back.”

 

I hop to my feet. “I’ll go find him!” I say, then make a beeline for the door. Perfect. By the time the waiter gets to them, they’ll be so busy having fun that none of them will notice I’ve left. Plenty of time for me to come up with a good excuse. I exit the room and hurry down the hall. As I go, I bring up my map with Hideo’s current location.

 

His gold dot pops up somewhere in the northern area of the city. I hurry

down a side corridor. Moments later, the hall leads me out into the narrow back alley behind the building and near its garbage bins.

 

A cold drizzle has dampened the sidewalk, and as I step outside, I’m hit with a blast of chilly night air. Neon lights reflect against the wetness, painting the ground a menagerie of smeared gold, green, and blue. The city block’s number—16—hovers in bright yellow letters over the pavement, while a gold dotted line leads from where I stand to the corner of the block, where it turns right and disappears from view. A cheerful Start! message and an estimated arrival time hover in the center of my vision, waiting for me to follow the map. Thirty minutes.

 

I shiver, draw my hoodie tightly up so that it covers all of my hair, and pull on a black face mask. I also download a virtual face to disguise myself. Anyone on the street who’s logged in to the NeuroLink should now see me as a complete stranger instead of a face they recognize from the news. Better than no disguise. Then I throw my electric skateboard down and jump on it. It shoots me forward as I follow the gold line.

 

Half an hour later, I emerge in a quiet, upper-class neighborhood on a hill overlooking the city. The travel time shifts in my view as I go, counting down the minutes that it will take for me to arrive. The drizzle has turned into a steady rain now, soaking through my hoodie and drenching my hair. I try to stop myself from trembling.

 

Finally, I’m here. The gold dotted line stops in front of the gates of a warm, well-lit estate with a curved wall and carved lions outside its doorway. I don’t know how much security Hideo usually has at his residences—but tonight, at least five cars are sitting here, and two bodyguards are at the front gate, waiting to greet me. Others look like they’re scattered around the estate.

One of them approaches me now, then tells me to hold out my arms. I turn off my virtual face and do as he says. He pats me down thoroughly, pausing to inspect my board. When he’s satisfied, he holds out an umbrella for me as I hurry to the entrance.

 

“It’s okay, I don’t need the umbrella anymore,” I tell the man. When he eyes me sideways, as if he never gets this order, I gesture to my soaking clothes. “Seriously.”

 

He reluctantly puts it down, and we walk in silence for a moment before reaching the front entrance. Inside the house, I hear a dog barking.

 

Hideo answers the door. His bodyguard blinks in surprise, as if this is not something Hideo does often. He’s still dressed in his clothes from earlier, but one sleeve of his shirt is pushed up to his elbows, while he’s undoing the cuff link on his other sleeve. His collar is flipped up, the top buttons open, and his

black tie is draped loosely over his shoulders. His hair is damp with a few drops of rain, the silver streak shining white. He looks concerned and bewildered, a sudden, startling reminder to me of just how young he is. It’s so easy to forget.

“You’re soaking wet,” he says.

“And you’re alive,” I reply. “That’s good.”

 

The bodyguard leaves us alone. Hideo opens the door wide and ushers me inside. Beside him trots a fat orange-and-white dog with short legs and enormous fox ears. It stops in front of me, wags its stubby tail, and looks up at me with a panting smile. I pet it vigorously, then remove my wet shoes near the doorway and step inside.

 

The home is impeccably clean, with soaring ceilings and beautiful, modern furniture. Soft music plays from some sort of built-in sound system. To my surprise, I see no virtual letters, colors, or numbers anywhere in the house. Everything is real. How much does a house as gorgeous as this cost in a city as expensive as Tokyo?

“You’re trembling,” he says now.

I shrug it off. “Just get me out of these clothes.” Then I realize what I’ve said, and heat rushes to my cheeks. “I mean, well, not that—”

 

The edges of Hideo’s lips twitch with a smile, a brief respite from his grave look, and he nods for me to follow him. “I’ll bring some dry clothes for you.”

 

“I got a glimpse of a single file from Ren,” I tell Hideo as we head down the hall. Then I mention its name. “It’s obvious that Zero wanted to, well . . . try an assassination today. How’s your bodyguard doing?”

 

“He’ll live. There have been worse attacks than today.” Worse attacks. “Any word on the culprit?”

 

Hideo shakes his head as he pushes his second sleeve up to his elbow. He’s weary, his dark mood still not lifted. “Kenn says the power had been thoroughly cut. In all the confusion, whomever it was managed to get away and blend in with the crowds. We’ll be studying every nook and cranny of the dome for evidence, but I won’t lie. They were ready.”

 

The culprit is still out there. I try to swallow my fear. “Just because nothing happened today doesn’t mean Zero’s not waiting in the wings to act. It could be one part of his grand plan.” I take a deep breath. “They’re going to try again. They could have been trying even before this. And there will be plenty of times when you won’t be as guarded as you were in the dome.”

Hideo’s lips tighten slightly, but it’s the only response he gives about his safety. He stops for a moment to look at me. “Did it report any data back about you?”

 

I hesitate. I hadn’t thought about the possibility of Zero grabbing info of me

from the object—and the idea sends a shiver through me, even as I warm at Hideo’s obvious concern. “Shouldn’t be possible,” I reply. “I’m fine. Besides, it’s not me that we should be worried about. The more pieces of this that I find, the more ominous it sounds.”

 

“My security detail is used to being careful. After your warning, we did a full sweep of my home. They’ll be watchful.”

 

“That’s not what I mean. Hideo, you almost died tonight. You realize that, don’t you?”

 

“I’m well protected here. There are eight bodyguards on my premises alone.” He nods toward the rest of the house. “It sounds like you’re edging closer and closer to finishing this, at any rate.”

 

“I don’t understand how you can be so calm about this,” I say, my frustration rising. No wonder Kenn sounded so exasperated. “You need to get out of Tokyo. It isn’t safe for you here. Every moment you stay puts you in danger.” Hideo casts a serious look my way. “I’m not going to be chased out of my city by a vague threat,” he replies. For the first time since I’ve known him, a note of anger creeps into his voice. “This isn’t the first time someone has

targeted me, and it won’t be the last.”

 

I’m about to raise my voice, but then I sneeze. The cool air in the house is seeping straight into my soaked clothes, and I realize that my teeth are chattering.

 

Hideo tightens his lips. “We’ll continue this after you warm up. Come with

 

me.”

We reach a spacious bedroom, its glass walls leading out into a serene Zen garden adorned with golden dangling lights. A large bathroom suite branches off from one side of the room.

 

“Take your time,” Hideo says, nodding toward the suite. “When you’re ready, we’ll talk further. Would you like tea?”

 

A nice cup of tea after your assassination attempt. Sure. I nod, too cold to argue. “I’d love some.”

 

Hideo closes the bedroom door and leaves me alone. I let out a long, slow breath. So far, I’m not doing a very good job of convincing him of the real danger he’s in. I sigh and strip off my hoodie, jeans, and undergarments, laying all the clothes out carefully along the bathtub to dry. My reflection in the mirror catches my eye; my makeup from the tournament earlier now looks smeared and smoky, dampened by the rain, and my hair hangs in wet strands of color. No wonder Hideo isn’t listening to my advice—I look half crazy. My gaze wanders from myself to the rest of the bathroom. The shower is enormous, with a rain showerhead installed right into the ceiling. I turn the faucet and let the hot water

steam for a bit, then step inside.

 

The shower washes away some of my jumbled thoughts, and by the time I step out, I feel a little calmer about being here. I towel myself off and weave my wet hair into two messy side braids, then step out of the bathroom.

A set of clean clothes has already been laid out for me. A creamy white sweater. A pair of loose pajama pants. I pull the sweater on; it smells just like Hideo, and is so large on me that it hangs down almost to my knees. The collar slides sideways, baring one of my shoulders. I don’t even try to wear the pajama pants. They’re far too long.

 

I walk over to the bedroom door, open it, and emerge halfway out into the hallway to tell him I need something shorter.

 

But he’s already here, holding a teacup in one hand and ready to knock on the door with his other. “Emi—” he starts to say when he sees me. We both freeze.

 

Hideo blinks. His eyes dart to the loose, white sweater I’m wearing, then quickly away. “I wanted to ask if you had a tea preference,” he says.

 

My shoulder and legs suddenly feel very exposed, and the flush on my cheeks now turns to magma-level red. I start to stumble some words out.

 

“Sorry, I—I was going to ask if you, um, had smaller pants.” Another bad line. “I mean—not that you have small pants that would fit me”—digging a deeper hole for myself—“I mean, the pajama pants keep falling off—” I’m a very good digger. I wince, then shake my head and stop talking, letting my hands wheel in circles as if they can convey my meaning.

 

Hideo laughs a little. Unless my imagination is messing with me, a slight flush colors his cheeks, too.

I snap out of my reverie, then slam the door shut right in his face.

There’s a pause, followed by Hideo’s familiar voice. “Sorry about that,” he says. “I’ll find something better for you.” Then his footsteps echo down the hall.

 

I walk over to the bed, bury my face in the sheets, and let out a groan. Moments later, Hideo opens the door a crack and waves a pair of shorts

blindly at me. I take them. They’re still baggy on me, but at least they stay on.

 

I venture out into the hall and into the living room, where Hideo is reading by a crackling fireplace. His dog lies at his feet, snoring softly. The windows here lead out to the garden, and the bead-like patter of rain can be heard against the glass. The walls are lined with portraits and with shelves of books—pristine early editions—neatly organized and artfully arranged. Then there are shelves displaying vintage video games and consoles, as well as prototypes of what look like the earliest versions of the NeuroLink glasses. Some of them are as large as bricks, but each one gets progressively smaller and lighter, until I finally see the

first edition of the official glasses propped up at the end of the shelves.

 

Hideo looks up from his book when he hears me approach, then notices me studying his shelves. “My mother took good care of my early NeuroLink prototypes,” he says. “She and my father made sure to save them.”

His neuroscientist mother and computer repair shop father. “Mint condition,” I reply, admiring the prototypes.

 

“They believe that objects have souls. The more love you put into one, the more beautiful it becomes.”

 

I smile at the affection in his voice. “They must be very proud of what you created.”

Hideo just shrugs, but he looks pleased at my words.

“You don’t have any augmented reality overlaid in your home,” I say as I

 

sit.

Hideo shakes his head. “I like to keep my home real. It’s too easy to lose yourself in an illusion,” he replies, nodding at his physical book.

 

I’m very aware of our proximity to each other, as if I could feel the ghost of his presence against my skin.

 

I take a deep breath. “Do you have any enemies you can think of? Someone who would want to hurt you like this? Maybe a former employee? An old business partner?”

 

Hideo looks away. After a while, he replies, “There are enough people who dislike Warcross and the NeuroLink. Not everyone appreciates the new. Many fear it.”

 

“It’s ironic that Zero fears it so much, then,” I reply, “but uses his own knowledge of technology to try to stop you.”

“He doesn’t sound like someone who bothers with logic.”

“And what about Ren? You should disqualify him from the games immediately. It’s pretty clear that he’s involved with this plan. He might even be involved with potentially harming you. What if the file I saw today had been meant for him? What if he had somehow sent a signal from within the game to the person who tried to attack you?”

 

Hideo pauses for a moment at that, before finally shaking his head. “He’s been a reliable source of information, and he might lead to more clues. If I remove him now, it’ll be obvious to Zero that we know about him. They might suspect you.”

 

I sigh, wishing I could argue with that reasoning. “Why don’t you want to leave Tokyo? You could have died today.”

 

Hideo looks at me. His eyes reflect the light of the fire. “And signal to Zero that he’s won? No. If his entire plan is just a threat against me, then I’ll be

relieved.”

 

Our conversation fades into silence. I struggle to figure out something to say, but nothing that comes to mind seems appropriate, so I just end up staying quiet, prolonging the awkwardness. My eyes wander back to the shelves, and then to the portraits on the walls. There are photos of Hideo as a child and a teen —helping out in his father’s shop, reading by the window, playing games, posing with a bunch of medals around his neck, smiling for early press photos as he first hit the newswires. Curious. As a child, Hideo didn’t have the silver streak in his hair or the few silver threads sprinkled throughout his dark lashes.

 

Then my eyes stop on one particular photo. There are two boys pictured in

 

it.

“You have a brother?” I say without thinking.

 

Hideo is silent. Immediately, I remember the warning that I’d gotten right before I first met Hideo. Mr. Tanaka never answers questions about his family’s private affairs. I must request that you do not mention anything in that regard. I start to apologize, but my words fade as I realize it’s something even more than that. Hideo’s expression is strange now. He’s afraid. I’ve hit an old wound, a yawning abyss thinly scarred over.

 

After a long moment, Hideo lowers his eyes and looks toward the rain-dotted windows. “I had a brother,” he replies.

 

Mr. Tanaka never answers questions about his family. But he had just now, had opened up to me, however briefly. I can hear how foreign the words sound on his lips, can see the discomfort it brings him just to say them. Does that mean he never invites others to his home, either, where such a vulnerability is hanging right on his wall? I watch him, waiting for him to say more. When he doesn’t, I say the only thing I can. “I’m so sorry.”

 

Hideo spares me by leaning toward the table. “You mentioned you wanted tea,” he says, sidestepping my words the same way he did on the night I’d met him at his headquarters. His moment of weakness that he’d offered me has already vanished, gone behind the shield.

 

This is the piece of his history that haunts him, I think, recalling the beat of grief we’d shared when I’d mentioned my father. Whatever had happened, he hasn’t made peace with it. It might even explain his stubborn refusal to stay safe. I nod in silence, then look on as he pours a cup for me and another for himself. He hands me my cup, and I hold it with both hands, savoring the heat and the clean scent.

 

“Hideo,” I begin softly, trying again. I’m careful to steer clear of whatever mystery shrouds his past. My eyes linger on the faint scars of his knuckles. “I don’t want to see you get hurt. You didn’t stand with me in the Pirate’s Den and

feel the ominous presence of that guy. I don’t know what he’s up to yet, but he’s obviously dangerous. You can’t play with your life like this.”

 

Hideo smiles a little. “You came all the way here tonight just to persuade me to leave Tokyo, didn’t you?”

 

His teasing makes me blush again, which makes me irritated with myself. I put down my cup and shrug. “Well, I didn’t think it was something I could properly discuss with you without being here in person. And I wanted to warn you without somehow being overheard by my teammates.”

 

“Emika,” he says. “You don’t need to give me a reason for coming over. I appreciate you watching out for me. You saved my life today, you know.” Whatever I was going to say next fades away at the look in his eyes. He puts his cup down, too, and leans closer to me. The movement sends a jolt up my spine. “I’m glad you’re here.”

 

I search his eyes, trying my best to steady my heartbeat. “You are?” “Perhaps I’ve been too subtle.”

 

Up until now, I’ve largely assumed that all of my interpretations of Hideo’s words have been exaggerated on my part, but it’s pretty hard to misunderstand this statement. He talks about you often enough, Kenn had said. I swallow hard, but don’t pull away. “About what?” I whisper.

 

Hideo’s lashes are lowered, and there is something sweet and uncertain in his gaze. He hesitates. Then he waves one hand in a subtle gesture, and a transparent screen appears in my view again.

Link with Hideo? it asks.

“Let me show you something,” he says. “It’s a new communication system I’ve been working on. A secure way for you to contact me.”

 

I look at the hovering window for a moment, then accept it. The edges of my vision flash clear blue. “What does it do?” I ask.

Send a thought to me, Emika.

It is Hideo’s own voice, soft and warm and deep, echoing inside my mind. A tingle of surprise rushes through me. When I look at him, he hasn’t opened his mouth at all, nor has he made any motion to type. It is telepathy through the NeuroLink, the next evolution of messaging, an intimate, secret bond linking us together. I startle at the novelty of it, then hesitantly send a thought back to him.

 

You’re in my mind?

Only if you allow it. You are free to disable our Link whenever you desire.

 

I can’t help smiling, caught between feeling unsettled and excited. It has been almost a decade since Hideo first created something that changed the world, and yet here he is, still doing it, year after year. I shake my head in disbelief.

This is incredible.

 

Hideo smiles, his dark mood lifting for a moment. I don’t think you realize how much I enjoy your company. So I want to let you in on a secret.

 

Suddenly, I realize that not only can I hear his words in my mind through our new Link . . . I can sense something. I can feel a hint of his emotions through the connection. Oh, I think back without even realizing it, my breath catching.

 

I can sense desire in him, a dense, smoldering heat. For me.

I’ve wanted to kiss you, Hideo thinks to me, leaning closer, since the night I saw you in that white dress.

 

Since the party at Sound Museum Vision. I’m suddenly very aware of my bare shoulder. The steady undercurrent of his emotions through our Link makes me light-headed, and I wonder if he can sense the same coming from me, the rapid, fluttering beat of my heart, the heat rushing through my veins. He must, because one side of his smile tilts higher.

 

I suddenly feel bold in this dim light and new bond, this space that has become all too warm. Well? I ask him.

 

Well. His gaze falls on my lips. Perhaps we should do something about that. All I can think about is his nearness, his dark eyes, his breath stirring against my skin. There is a spark in his gaze now, that darkening of his eyes, something fiery and hungry, something that wants. He hesitates for an agonizing second. Then, his head tilts down toward me. The soft skin of his lips presses

 

against mine, and before I can even register it, he’s kissing me.

My eyes flutter closed. He’s gentle at first, his emotions restrained and searching, one of his hands coming up to carefully cup my face. I lean into his touch, signaling to him that I want more, fantasizing about what he might do next. Can you sense what I want? As if in answer, a low groan of pleasure rumbles deep in his throat. Then he draws closer, pins me against the couch, and kisses me harder. The Link between us magnifies our emotions tenfold, and I fight for air, overwhelmed at the heat of his desire coursing through us—and my own responding passion rushing back to him. I can sense his thoughts, glimpses and glimmers of his hands against my skin, running along bare thighs. My entire body tingles. His hand buries in my hair, tilting my head up toward him. Through the fog of my thoughts, I realize that I’ve wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him close, until every inch of my body is pressed against him. He feels so warm, the muscles of his arms and chest firm underneath his clothes. The sound of rain against glass continues quietly in the background.

 

Hideo pulls away for a brief second, his lips hovering right over mine. His breathing is soft and labored, his brows furrowed, the fire still alight in his gaze. His emotions crash against mine, roiling into one, and he is undone in this

moment, the reserved, distant, proper version of him stripped away to reveal the part that is unthinking and savage. I am trembling from a storm of sensations, unsure what to focus on, wanting to drink it all in at the same time, struggling for the perfect words.

 

Okay, I end up gasping. You were definitely too subtle.

His secret smile returns. “I’ll make up for it,” he murmurs against my ear, and then he kisses me again. My teeth tug once, teasingly, on his lower lip. Hideo growls in surprise, and he pulls away from my mouth to kiss the line of my jaw. His lips work their way along my neck, sending shivers up and down my back. His warm hand has found its way inside my sweater, running up along my bare back, tracing the valley of my spine. I can feel the calluses at the base of his fingers, rough against my skin. A million thoughts flash through my mind. I arch toward him. Vaguely, I realize that I’ve slid down along the length of the couch, my head now on the armrest, and Hideo’s body is heavy against mine, pushing me down. His lips go from my neck to my collarbone, kissing along the line of my tattoo, to my bare shoulder.

Then, abruptly, a needle of a foreign emotion slices through our raging tempest, a thread of worry from him. To my disappointment, Hideo leaves one last kiss against my skin. He sighs, murmuring a faint swear against my ear, and pulls away. I’m left feeling suddenly cold, still reeling from what just happened. Slowly, I prop myself up on my elbows and stare at him. He helps me up, then lets his hands linger on mine for a moment. The Link between us settles into place, quivering, until it is calm and quiet again.

 

“I’m getting you into more than you bargained for,” he finally says.

I frown at him, my own breath still short. “Well, I’m not complaining.” I lean closer to him. “I will find Zero. I’m going to finish the job you hired me for.”

 

He looks at me for another moment, then shakes his head and smiles. The careful shield he always keeps around him has fallen away, leaving an inner layer of him exposed. There’s something he wants to tell me. I can see the war on his face. “I won’t keep you any longer tonight,” he says. His heart retreats behind the shield again. “Your teammates probably want to celebrate with you.” And with that, he reaches up and disconnects our Link. The sudden absence of his subtle undercurrent of emotions and the echo of his voice in my mind makes me feel emptier. A tiny button lingers in the corner of my vision, something I can tap to reconnect us.

 

I try to nod along so that he can’t see the disappointment on my face. “Right,” I mutter. “Celebrate. I’d better head back.”

 

He kisses my cheek. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” he says. But even as he

pulls away, I know that the space between us has changed permanently. I nod, as if in a dream, as if I can’t stop taking this drug. “Yes.”

 

 

22

 

In the following days, the other official teams have their first round of games. The Andromedans defeat the Bloodhounds in record time, their world set in a maze of fiery catacombs. The Winter Dragons beat the Titans in a trap-filled jungle. The Stormchasers beat the Royal Bastards in the neon streets of a futuristic spaceport. The Gyrfalcons advance against the Phantoms, the Castle Raiders beat the Windwalkers, the Cloud Knights destroy the Sorcerers, and, much to everyone’s surprise, the Zombie Vikings defeat the Sharpshooters.

 

I watch and analyze each of the games along with my teammates. I train with them as the second round of games begins. We beat the Stormchasers in a blitz of a second round, where Asher and the Stormchasers’ captain, Malakai, faced off one-on-one at the top of an isolated tower while the rest of us fought our way up the tower’s sides.

 

Every day, I pore through a bunch of data on the other players. I look for more signs from Ren as he moves around the dorms. He doesn’t make eye contact with me. I wonder if he knows.

 

At night, I dream I’m in Hideo’s bed, tangled in his sheets, my hands running along his bare back, his hands gripping my hips. I dream that someone breaks into his home as we sleep, that I stir beside him to see a faceless figure in dark armor standing over his bed. I picture the news the next morning, broadcasting Hideo’s death. I jerk awake, gasping.

 

• • • • •

 

Good morning, beautiful.

I wake up to a dark, stormy day outside and Hideo’s message on my phone. The light in my room is blue-gray, and my heart is pounding from another night of restless dreams. I read his message several more times before I’m sure that he’s alive and well, and then I flop my head back against my pillow and sigh, weak with relief. A small smile lingers at the corners of my lips at his words.

Morning      .

 

Then I sit up, pull on my shirt, and head to the bathroom to put in my lenses. When I return, a request is blinking in my view, asking if I want to Link

with Hideo. I agree, and a moment later, a virtual Hideo is in my room, still bare-chested and in the middle of pulling on his own shirt. I grin, tempted to tell him to just leave it off. He pours himself a cup of coffee while his dog waddles around his legs in a happy circle. It’s pleasantly strange to see Hideo in a way no one else does—boyish, relaxed, wholly vulnerable, hair rumpled and wet from a shower, his sweatpants hanging low on his hips. The pale light coming in through his windows highlights the edges of his hair and face.

He smiles when he sees me. “Before you ask,” he says, nodding off to the side where I can’t see, “my bodyguard is standing right by the door.”

 

I smile back and shake my head. “Glad you’re finally taking your safety seriously.” Then I sober. “I don’t suppose you’ve thought more about leaving Tokyo?”

 

Hideo sips his coffee. “Second rounds start this week. If I’m not there, people will start to ask questions.”

I sigh. “Just . . . think about it. Please?”

A bodyguard calls to him. Hideo turns his head slightly. “Mr. Tanaka,” reads my translation. “Reporters are ready for your interview.”

 

Hideo gives his bodyguard a subtle nod of his head. “In a moment,” he says. He walks toward me until we’re separated by inches, and then leans down toward me. If he were standing in my room right now, I could probably feel his breath stir against my neck. “I promise I’ll think about it,” he murmurs. “But you have to understand how hard it is when you are still here in the city.”

My toes curl, and I shiver with pleasure. Through our Link, I can tell that my emotions are reaching him in ripples. You’re hopeless, I think to him.

Only in the morning.

I remember you being pretty hopeless that night, too.

 

He turns his eyes down, and his lashes catch the light. A smile lingers on his lips. I’d like to kiss you right now.

What if I didn’t let you? I tease.

You wound me, Emika.

I laugh. Maybe I want to kiss someone else.

 

Jealousy flashes across his face, and his eyes darken to cinder. Even through the physical distance between us, I can sense his emotions through our Link, that deliciously warm desire. Come over. Tonight.

 

My stomach flutters. But, my teammates . . .

I’ll make it worth your time.

 

The flutters turn into somersaults. “To your home?” I whisper, unable to hide my own smile.

 

He hesitates. The uncertainty returns to his face, and for a moment, I think

he’s going to shake his head and change his mind again. After a pause, though, he surprises me with a nod. Come with me tonight. I’ll show you my old home.

 

My heartbeat quickens. This is another secret from his past; I can hear it in his voice, feel it through our Link. I find myself nodding. Okay, I reply.

 

We both log out of our Link, and I exhale, then get up and head out of my room.

 

By the time I make my way downstairs, it’s raining hard outside. Hammie and Asher are on the living room couches, engrossed in a quiet debate about how best to mess up the Cloud Knights’ defense. Asher’s arm is draped over the back of the couch, his hand idly touching Hammie’s shoulder, and she doesn’t move away. Roshan is playing a game and streaming himself live on his social channels. Ren is nowhere to be seen. The dorms are quiet, save for the pounding of rain against our atrium’s glass ceiling.

“Emika.”

 

I nearly jump out of my skin at Ren’s voice. My fist goes up instinctively, and I whirl around to see him standing behind me in the hallway, turned as if headed to his room. Then I let out my breath and lower my fist. I should have sensed him there—I’m supposed to be so good at reading a room. “You scared the crap out of me,” I blurt out.

 

He just raises an eyebrow at my reaction, then replies in French. Transparent white text appears in my view as it translates. “Are you always ready to punch people that surprise you?”

 

All of my suspicions about Ren after tracking him over the past couple of weeks must have made me jumpy when I’m around him. “Just the ones that lurk in dark hallways.”

 

“Do you have a minute?” he says, nodding me over. “I want to ask you something.”

“About what?”

Ren stares quietly at me. “About Hideo.”

 

I blink, momentarily stumped for an answer, and my eyes dart quickly to Ren’s. He’s watching me carefully. What had he noticed in my expression? Had he purposely tried to catch me off guard to see what my reaction would be? Quickly, I compose myself and give him a confused laugh instead. “Why—have I finally shown up on some tabloid?” I say, exaggerating my teasing voice.

 

Ren grins in return. “Something like that,” he replies. His words send a shiver down my spine. “Come on. We can chat in my room.”

 

If I don’t go with him, it’ll look suspicious. So I find myself following him down the hall that leads to his quarters. It’s nothing, I tell myself. Besides, it might give me an opportunity to do some hunting that I don’t normally get to do:

talk directly to one of my potential targets.

 

I’ve never been down here before, but it’s impossible to mistake which room is his—from the hallway, I can hear the muffled, deep, steady sound of a beat, just barely loud enough to be heard. The door slides open as Ren stands in front of it and reveals a large suite lit with a dim neon-blue glow. He steps inside. I hesitate for a moment before I join him.

 

Ren’s room looks completely different from mine, like he had it customized to his satisfaction. Padded foam squares line the walls, while the center of his room has a table shaped like an arc above which hovers a system of floating screens, some displaying what look like sound meters, others displaying metrics and bars that I can’t begin to decipher. A musical keyboard and a panel of sliding buttons are also attached to the arced table. Ren’s pair of gold winged headphones are lying on the desk. The room pulses with a deep, rhythmic beat that makes the ground vibrate and my heart beat in time. My eyes wander around his room in awe, even as I hunt for clues. I quietly bring up Ren’s hacked profile, and his information lights up in transparent text around him.

 

“You wanted to talk about Hideo?” I ask.

He nods, then sits down and spins around once in his chair. He loops his gold headphones around his neck. “Yeah. When we first met, you mentioned that you’ve listened to my music before, right?”

 

I nod. “I was a fan of your music when you first came on the scene in France.”

 

“Wow.” He gives me a smile that I can’t quite tell is genuine, and then plays with a few of the bars on his board. “I didn’t know you knew about me that early on.”

 

I didn’t know you knew about me that early on. Immediately, a warning bell goes off in my head. “You kept yourself pretty niche,” I answer, carefully now. “Like you didn’t want to be discovered yet.”

 

Ren leans back in his chair and props his feet up on the desk. “All of my early work was in French. I didn’t know you spoke my language.”

 

I watch him as he pulls his headphones on, my heart beginning to beat faster. I didn’t know you spoke my language. Is he talking about French, or is he talking about the language of hacking? “What does this have to do with Hideo?” I ask, trying to bring it back to his original topic. “Is he a fan of yours, too?”

 

“I’ve been composing a track for him as a gift, after everything’s over,” Ren goes on, his voice lighthearted. “To thank him for entering me in the Wardraft. I wanted to get some feedback on it from someone who knows Hideo well and also knows my music. You know, to see if it’s something he’d like.” And at that, he looks expectantly at me. “You seem pretty friendly with him.”

He knows. Does he know? I force my smile to stay intact as I give him a shrug. “Do I?” I say, just as lighthearted.

“At least, that’s what the tabloids are all whispering about.”

“Well,” I reply, keeping my eyes level with his. “We all have friends in high places, don’t we?”

 

Ren returns the look for a moment, unrelenting, and then finally glances away. “Here. Have a listen. I could use the help.”

 

Ren had once said in an interview that he doesn’t appreciate outside input on his work. Now here he is, offering me his headphones, and I don’t know what to make of it. When he gives me an encouraging smile, I reach out and accept the headphones, then slip them on.

 

It’s a deep bass, all alone with a smooth, beautiful violin above it and something that sounds like chimes. A female vocal starts on the track. “Let’s tear through Tokyo from zero to sixty / yeah, like we’re running out of time in this city,” she croons. As I listen, I glance at Ren. A track about Tokyo.

Then, I hear a line that sends a jolt through me. “Let’s go out with a bang / yeah, it’s time to go out with a bang.”

It’s the same track that had played for a second in the Pirate’s Den.

He’s setting me up. I look quickly at Ren and notice him watching my face with a thoughtful expression. He composed the track that had played during the Darkcross game—and now he’s making me listen to it to see if I find it familiar. Judging from the way he’s looking at me right now, he can tell that I’ve heard this song before. And that means he knows I must have been there at the Pirate’s Den at the same time he was.

 

He knows I’m following him. He knows I’m watching Zero.

Ren takes his headphones back. His eyes never leave me. “Do you think Hideo will like it?”

 

His words are ominous to me now, and I fight to look unaffected. “It’s good. Maybe he’ll even add it to the tournaments next year.”

 

“Maybe he’ll even add it to the final tournament this year,” Ren says, giving me a smile. He leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees, and traps me with an unblinking stare. “We have to go out with a bang, right?”

 

I smile and nod along with his statement, but it sounds like a thinly veiled threat. My heart beats faster. Let’s go out with a bang. Now Ren has repeated the same line from the Pirate’s Den—and even though it could still mean nothing at all, my mind jumps to a different conclusion. Whatever it is that Zero’s group is trying to do—involving so many international cities, involving Hideo’s life—it’s going to happen on the day of the final tournament.

And now he knows I’m involved.

 

 

23

 

A couple of hours later, as I meet Hideo in a private car, I still haven’t shaken off my conversation with Ren. He could’ve been speaking literally. But that music track was no accident. He knows I was in the Dark World tracking him— or, at the very least, he knows I was also there in the Pirate’s Den during the same time.

 

If Hideo notices my troubled thoughts, he doesn’t mention it. He seems distracted, too. Even without our Links connected, I sense a certain unease in him, something that turns his eyes distant, the same thing that made him break away from me that night at his home. I debate telling him about my conversation with Ren, but then decide against it. It’s too vague. I need to dig deeper.

 

It’s a slow drive through the rain. A couple of hours later, we arrive in the wooded outskirts of Tokyo, where the city gives way to gently rolling hills and narrow streets of neat, three-story buildings, their elegantly curved roofs painted black and red. Pines line both sides of the road. A single pedestrian wanders down the sidewalk, and a gardener is carefully trimming a nearby hedge—but aside from the faint clip-clip-clip sound of his shears, it’s quiet. The car finally pulls up to a house at the end of a street, where round bushes and rocks adorn the front path. Pots of flowers line the pathway in neat rows. The porch light is on, even though it’s still late afternoon.

Hideo rings the doorbell. Someone’s voice comes from the other side, muffled and female. A moment later, the door opens to reveal a woman dressed in a tidy sweater, pants, and slippers. She blinks up at us through glasses that magnify her eyes. Then her face crinkles in delight at the sight of Hideo—she utters a small laugh, calls out to someone over her shoulder in Japanese, and then holds her arms out at him.

 

Hideo bows, lower than I’ve seen him bow to anyone. “Oka-san,” he says, before wrapping her in a warm hug. He gives me a sheepish smile as she stretches up to pat both his cheeks like he’s a small boy. “This is my mother.”

 

His mother! A warm feeling overwhelms me, bringing with it a flutter of emotions. I blush and follow Hideo’s example, bowing as low as I can. Hideo nods at me. “Oka-san,” he says to his mother. “Kochira wa Emika-san desu.”

“This is Emika,” my translation reads.

I murmur a bashful hello and bob my head respectfully. She smiles warmly at me, pats my cheeks, too, and exclaims something about my hair. Then she ushers us both inside, away from the world.

We remove our shoes by the door and put on slippers that Hideo’s mother offers us. Inside, the home is sunny, cozy, and absolutely immaculate, lined with framed photos and green potted plants, clay pots, and odd, metallic sculptures. A bamboo mat and rug cover the living room’s floor, cushioning a low table with a teapot and teacups. An open sliding door reveals a lush Zen garden. Now I see why Hideo designed his house in Tokyo the way he did; it must remind him of here, his true home. I’m about to comment on how lovely their home is when an automated voice comes on over speakers somewhere in the ceiling.

 

“Welcome home, Hideo-san,” the voice says. In the kitchen, the stove turns on under a teakettle without anyone touching it.

 

His father comes out to greet us moments later. I look on, fighting down a tide of envy, as the couple fusses over their son with all the enthusiasm of parents who don’t get to see their children nearly as often as they would like.

Hideo’s mother exclaims something about making us a snack and bustles off, leaving her glasses on the table. Without missing a beat, Hideo picks up the glasses, follows his mother into the kitchen, and gently reminds her to put them on. Then he opens the refrigerator door to see that there aren’t any groceries in the fridge to make a snack with, either. Hideo’s mother frowns in confusion, telling him that she was sure there was something. Hideo talks to her in a low, affectionate voice, his hands on her shoulders, reassuring her that he will send for groceries right away. His father looks on from the hallway, coughing a little, the sound indicative of something chronic. I shift at the sound. Neither of his parents is old, but they seem frailer than they should be at their age. It stirs unpleasant memories of my own.

When Hideo returns to my side and sees me watching him, he just shrugs. “If I don’t remind her, the house system will,” he says. “It watches out for them when I’m not here. They refuse to accept a servant.” His voice is light, but I’ve heard him enough times now to detect a deep sadness running underneath it.

 

“Have your parents always lived here?” I decide to ask.

“Ever since we moved back from London.” Hideo points out the decorations on the side tables. “My mother has been learning how to make clay pots since she retired from her neuroscience work. The metallic sculptures are my father’s, welded together with leftover computer parts from his repair shop.” I pause to admire a sculpture. Only now do I see that each piece, although geometric and abstract, seems representative of their personal lives. A couple walking arm in arm. Family scenes. Some of the sculptures depict his parents

with two boys. I think back to the portrait I’d seen in Hideo’s own home. “They’re beautiful.”

 

Hideo looks pleased, but I can sense the quiet, dark side of him returning the longer we stand here, as if coming home had given that side of him the fuel it needs to exist. He stares out the window for a moment. Then he nods at me. “So, Emika,” he says, giving me a small smile. “Have you tried an onsen yet since you’ve been in Japan?”

“An onsen?”

“A hot spring.”

 

“Oh.” I clear my throat, my cheeks turning pink. “Not yet.” Hideo nods toward the door. “Want to?”

 

• • • • •

 

AS THE SUN starts to set, Hideo takes me to a place overlooking a set of mountains, where a bathhouse sits encircled by cherry trees in full bloom. I watch him carefully. His mood has improved since our arrival, but it hasn’t rebounded completely back to his usual self. Now I walk quietly beside him as we approach the entrance to the bathhouse, wondering how I can cheer him up.

 

“You come here often?” I say as we approach the entrance to the bathhouse. Hideo nods. “This is my private onsen.”

 

The waters of the hot spring are still and calm, a cloud of steam hovering over it. Smooth rocks encircle the edge of the spring, while cherry blossoms drift down from the trees, coming to rest on the water’s surface. One side of the spring overlooks a mountain range, where the ridges are just now catching the last rays of the sun. The other side overlooks a river.

 

By the time I step toward the spring in a robe, Hideo is already in the water. I’m glad for the heat; maybe it can cover some of my blush, which is already threatening to burn up my face as I study his damp hair and bared muscles. I clear my throat, and Hideo looks politely away, giving me time to remove my robe and sink into the hot water. I close my eyes and let out a small moan of relief.

 

“I’m never leaving,” I murmur as Hideo comes to join me.

He brushes damp locks of my hair behind my shoulders, then pushes us to a corner, where his hands grip the edge of the spring on either side of me. My face feels as hot as the water now, and I become keenly aware of our bare skin brushing together.

 

“What do these mean?” Hideo murmurs, running one of his hands along the length of my tattooed arm. His fingers trace wet lines along my skin.

In a contented daze, I look down and straighten my arm so that we can see the full length of my tattoos. “Well,” I whisper, “the flower is a peony, my father’s favorite.” My fingers drift away from my wrist, and Hideo’s fingers follow. “The ocean wave reminds me of California, because I was born in San Francisco.”

 

Hideo’s hand stops near my elbow, on an elaborate, geometric sculpture rising out of the waves. “And?”

 

“An Escher structure,” I reply. “I’m a fan.” Hideo smiles. “Good choice.”

 

I smile, too, keenly aware of his warm touch against my arm. My hand travels higher along my tattoo, pausing briefly on a series of stylized feathers floating up into the sky, then on that sky transitioning into a field of planets, their rings tilted like a vintage vinyl record, which then transform into stripes of sheet music, upon which a melody is written.

 

“Mozart’s ‘Queen of the Night’ aria,” I finish. “Because, well, I fancied myself as one.”

 

“Mmm.” Hideo leans in to plant kisses along my neck, and I shiver. “A bounty hunter wandering the Dark World,” he murmurs. “Very appropriate.”

 

I close my eyes, my lips parted, and soak in the warmth of his arms wrapped around me, his kisses trailing along my damp skin. The rough scars of his knuckles brush past my waist as his hands pull me close. There is a shyness in his eyes now that makes him look so young, an expression that tugs my heart closer to him. I can’t remember when we start kissing or when we stop, or when he leans against me, made weak, whispering my name. We seem to exist in a fog of heat and dusk, and I don’t know where the time goes, but it seems that night falls in the blink of an eye, and soon the evening has swallowed us. We’re quiet now, leaning our heads against the stones lining the spring and watching the hanging lanterns illuminate the water with gold. Overhead, stars are winking one by one into existence—real stars, not a virtual simulation. It’s barely after dusk, but already I can see more stars than I’ve ever seen in my life, blanketing the sky in a sheet of light.

Hideo has his face turned up to the stars, too. “Sasuke was playing in the park,” he finally says, his words quiet in the empty space. I shift my head against the stones to hear him better. He seems thoughtful now, his mind somewhere far from here.

 

This is why we came here. This is the secret that weighs on him. I turn my head slightly toward him, waiting for him to continue. He seems to struggle in silence, wondering whether letting me into his world will be a huge mistake.

“What happened?” I whisper.

He sighs, closes his eyes for a moment, and then makes a subtle motion with one hand. A screen appears between us. Hideo is sharing one of his Memories with me.

I accept it without a word. In the next instant, the onsen and nightfall and view around us vanish, and both Hideo and I find ourselves standing at the edge of a park, surrounded by a golden, autumn afternoon, where the sun outlines the trees in a haze of light. A few auto-cars are parked along the sidewalk. Red and orange leaves drift lazily to the ground, dotting the green grass with warm color. A short distance from us, two young boys are heading into the park. I immediately recognize one of them as a young Hideo; the other must be his brother.

 

“You hadn’t invented the NeuroLink yet when this happened, did you?” I say as we watch the boys enter the park. “How did you create this Memory?”

“I remember every last detail about that day,” Hideo replies. “I was nine. Sasuke was seven.” He nods at the image of the brothers. “The park’s layout, the placement of every tree, the golden leaves, the temperature, the angle of the light . . . I remember it all as if it had happened only minutes ago. So I reconstructed this moment for myself as a Memory, in its entirety, adding new details to it every year.”

 

We now follow the point of view of young Hideo as he walks calmly, leaves crunching under his boots, his coat’s collar pulled up high against the chilly day. He’s yanking a bright blue scarf out of his backpack. Running a few feet in front of him is Sasuke—clearly the younger of the two—all grins and laughs, his boots crunching in the leaves as he sprints forward. When the boys speak, it is in Japanese.

 

“Yukkuri, Sasuke-kun!” the young Hideo shouts at his brother, waving the blue scarf in the air. I read the English translations in my view as he continues. “Slow down, Sasuke! Put on your scarf. Mom’s going to kill me if you don’t wear it.”

 

Sasuke ignores him. He’s carrying a basket full of plastic eggs, all colored blue. “Okay, this time you’re red,” he calls back at Hideo over his shoulder. “I’m blue. If I snatch all of yours before the sun hits that tree over there”—he pauses to point—“I get to have your favorite model car.”

 

Hideo rolls his eyes and lets out an annoyed sigh as they reached the park’s central clearing. “But it’s part of a set!” he argues, even though he doesn’t say no. He finally catches up to his brother. Despite Sasuke’s protests, Hideo forces him to stand still while he wraps the blue scarf around his brother’s neck and tugs his collar up higher. “We can’t stay out for long. Dad needs our help at the shop before dinner, and Mom needs to be at the lab until late.”

Sasuke pouts like a little brother would. “Fine,” he mutters.

 

The boys separate and head off to opposite ends of the park. As they go, Hideo pulls out a bag of plastic red eggs from his backpack. They both start tossing them all over the place, each one taking great pains to hide them properly from the other.

 

A blue egg comes tumbling into view, and Hideo looks up to see Sasuke wearing a goofy grin. “Threw it too hard!” he shouts. “Can you toss it back?”

Hideo grabs the egg and flings it back at his brother. The egg flies far past the clearing and disappears into the thick of the park’s trees, where they line the banks of a tiny stream overgrown with bamboo. He laughs as Sasuke’s grin changes into an exasperated frown. “Wait for me, Hideo,” he calls over his shoulder, and then he stomps off into the trees to fetch the egg. Hideo turns his back and keeps setting out the other eggs. A few minutes later, he glances over his shoulder.

 

“Are you done yet?” he calls out.

No answer.

 

Hideo stands up straight and stretches, savoring the warm glow of the afternoon sun. “Sasuke!” he calls again at the thicket of trees. The only sounds that answer him are the faint trickle of the stream’s water and the hush of golden leaves drifting in the air. The breeze whispers through the swaying bamboo stalks.

 

A few seconds pass before Hideo lets out a sigh and starts trudging over to his brother’s end of the park. “Come on. We don’t have all day,” he says. “Sasuke! Hurry up!” I look on as we follow him through the trees and into the overgrown grasses, slowing occasionally whenever the foliage turns too thick.

“Sasuke?” Hideo calls again. His voice sounds different now—the exasperation gone, replaced with a twinge of confusion. He stops in the middle of the trees, looking all around him as if unable to believe that there was another person who had just been here. Long minutes drag by as he does an exhaustive hunt of the small thicket. He calls again. Now there is a note of concern. Then, fear. No sign of another boy. It’s as if he had simply ceased to exist.

 

“Sasuke?” Hideo’s voice becomes urgent, frantic. His steps quicken into a run. He hurries out of the thicket and back into the clearing, hoping that his brother had somehow wandered back there without hearing him. But the rest of the park stays empty, the boys’ blue and red plastic eggs still scattered all over the grass, waiting for the game to start.

 

Hideo halts in the middle of the clearing. The Memory turns panicked now, the world blurring around us as Hideo spins in place, looking one way, then the other, then running to another section of the park. The view shakes wildly as he

goes. His breaths come in short gasps, sending clouds of mist up in the chilly air. When I catch a glimpse of his face reflected against the metal of a parked car, his eyes are wide and dark, the pupils dilated with terror. “Sasuke! Sasuke!” Each shout sounds more like a scream than the last. Hideo calls and calls until his voice begins to crack.

 

He stops abruptly, gasping for air, and clutches his head with his hands. “Calm down. Sasuke went home,” he whispers. He nods to himself, believing it. “He went home early without telling me. That’s where he is.” Without another hesitation, he starts running home, scanning the sidewalks wildly, looking for the back of a small boy wearing a bright blue scarf. “Please, please,” I realize he’s whispering to himself as he goes. The word trails out in a repeated line, thin as a ghost.

 

He doesn’t stop running until he reaches his home, a house I now recognize. He pounds on the door until his father opens it, his face bewildered. “Hideo— what are you doing here?” He cranes his neck and looks behind Hideo at the sidewalk. “Where’s your brother?”

 

At the question, Hideo seems to waver in place, and I can see that, in this instant, he knows his brother never came home, he knows something terrible has happened. Behind him, the sun has already started to set, washing the landscape from gold into pink.

All I can think is that it is far too beautiful of a day.

The Memory ends. I’m startled as the onsen reappears around me and Hideo, the peaceful fog of hot water and the glisten of early lamplight on the rocks. I look at him. He doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t even seem to be here anymore, for the look on his face is distant and grim. Afraid. After a pause, he brings up another Memory. It is the same sequence we just watched—except he has altered the park’s landscape, shifting the stream a little this way, a little that. He brings up a third Memory. Same sequence, but with the brothers in slightly different positions.

“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gone over this scene in my head,” he finally says to me in a soft voice. He flips to another, and yet another, each with subtle details changed. This time, the scene shows Hideo turning around a few seconds sooner and calling Sasuke back before he can go into the trees. Another one shows Hideo steering Sasuke out of the park and back home before they can start playing their game. Yet another shows Hideo going with Sasuke to retrieve the plastic egg instead of leaving him to do it himself. My heart cracks a little with each new variation. This is his endless hell. “I can remember every single detail about that day . . . except the details that matter. Where he went. When I stopped hearing his footsteps in the leaves. Who took him. I think about what

might have happened if I’d done this. Or that. If things had shifted even a little.” He shakes his head. His jaw is so tight that I’m afraid he might break it. “I don’t know. So I keep building.”

He’s torturing himself. I watch with a lump in my throat as he brings up another constructed Memory—this time of the same night, with flashlights dancing through the park. His mother’s and father’s voices are high and frantic, breaking. Then the scene switches to a young Hideo on his knees before his parents, sobbing, begging forgiveness, hysterical, inconsolable, even as they try to make him get up. The scene switches yet again to Hideo lying in bed, curled up, silent, listening to the faint crying of his mother coming from his parents’ bedroom. It switches to him waking every morning and looking in the mirror . . .

 

and seeing a thin, silver streak grow steadily into his black hair. I wince. The trauma was what had slashed him in white. And even though I am not him, I understand, and even without the Link connecting our emotions right now, I can feel the vicious, unending shame that clouds his heart.

 

I try to imagine my father disappearing one day and never coming back, what it must be like to grieve with no closure at all, to live with an open-ended mystery twisting a knife forever in my heart. I think of the porch light at the entrance of his parents’ home, turned on even in the afternoon. I imagine that pain and, even in my imagination, I can feel my heart bleed.

 

A long moment passes after the Memories end, filled with nothing but the sound of water rippling against the rock. When Hideo speaks again, his voice is low, weighed down with a haunting, all-consuming guilt. “They never talked about Sasuke again after his disappearance. They blamed themselves, put the shame on their own shoulders, and bore it silently. Our neighbors and the police stopped talking about Sasuke, too, out of respect for my parents. They can’t look at photos of him; I could only save what I had. He exists now solely in their sculptures. My mother aged overnight. She used to remember everything; she led her neurology team. Now she misplaces things and forgets what she was doing. My father developed a cough that never went away. He gets sick frequently.” Hideo’s eyes follow the path of the Gemini constellation, the stars that form the shape of twins. “As for me . . . well, Sasuke loved games. We played every day, made up all kinds of games together. He was cleverer than me—had aced every exam he ever took, tested effortlessly into every elite academy you could think of.”

I understand now. “You invented the NeuroLink because of your brother.

 

Warcross was inspired by that game Sasuke played in the park. You created

 

Warcross for him.”

He pauses, and the water ripples as he turns to me. “Everything I do is for

him.”

 

I brush his arm with my hand. Nothing I say can possibly be right in this moment, so instead, I say nothing at all. I only listen.

 

“I don’t talk about him, Emika,” Hideo says after another silence. He looks away again. “I haven’t talked about him in years.”

 

This is Hideo stripped of his fortune and fame and genius. This is him as a boy, waiting every day for his brother to come back, falling asleep every night to the same nightmare, trapped forever wondering if he had only done one thing, anything, differently. It is hard to describe loss to someone who has never experienced it, impossible to explain all the ways it changes you. But for those who have, not a single word is needed.

 

Hideo pushes away from the edge of the spring and nods toward the steps leading back up to the bathhouse. He offers me his hand. I take it, my eyes flickering as always to the scars on his knuckles. “It’s getting late,” he says gently.

 

 

24

 

We have dinner that night with Hideo’s parents. I look on at how carefully Hideo fries meat, chops vegetables, and sets rice in the steamer. While he does, his mother fusses over my complexion. “This tiny child,” she scolds gently, beaming up at me. “Hideo, why haven’t you been feeding her? Make sure you give her a big bowl. It will add some pink to her cheeks.”

 

“Oka-san,” he says with a sigh. “Please.”

She shrugs. “I am telling you, she needs nutrition if her mind is to perform at its best. You remember what I told you about how neurons use the energy delivered by your blood?” I exchange a wry smile with Hideo as she launches into an explanation about blood.

 

Hideo is the one who sets the table, who lays the food out for us, and who pours everyone tea. Dinner is so delicious that I wish it could last forever—juicy, tender cuts of chicken fried to perfection; gleaming rice topped with a fried egg; lightly pickled vegetables for garnish; soft mochi cakes made of sticky rice flour for dessert, each stuffed with strawberry and sweet red bean; soothing cups of hot green tea. As we eat, Hideo’s parents speak Japanese to each other in low voices, sneaking occasional smiles at me as if they think their movements are too stealthy for me to notice.

 

I nudge Hideo sitting beside me. “What are they saying?” I whisper. “Nothing,” he replies, even though I see a faint blush on his cheeks. “I don’t

 

usually have time to cook, that’s all. So they’re commenting on it.” I grin. “But you cooked dinner for me?”

 

The smile I get in return from the creator of Warcross is, of all things, bashful. “Well,” he says, “I wanted to do something for you, for a change.” He looks expectantly at me. “Do you like it?”

 

Suede gift boxes holding fifteen-thousand-dollar electric skateboards. Flights on private jets. Closets full of expensive clothes. Dinners at restaurants he owns. And yet, none of that has made my heart skip like this earnest, hopeful look on his face as he waits to hear if I enjoyed the food he made for me.

 

I lean my shoulder into him as I hold my bowl. “Decent,” I reply. He blinks in surprise, then seems to remember what he’d once said to me during our first meeting. A laugh escapes him.

“I’ll take it,” he says, leaning back.

 

Still. Even as he talks easily with both his mother and father, I can’t help thinking about his words from earlier, that Sasuke is a topic never discussed with them, that their grief and shame run so deep that they can’t even bear to have their second son’s portrait in the house. No wonder I never heard about this in all the documentaries I watched about Hideo. No wonder he has such a strict company policy of not talking about his family.

 

“They don’t want to move,” Hideo tells me on our ride back into Tokyo. “I’ve tried convincing them a thousand times, but they don’t want to leave our old home. So I do my best to keep them safe here.”

“Safe?” I ask.

“There are bodyguards watching their home at all times.”

 

Of course there would be. I hadn’t even noticed them, but now I think about the random passerby on the sidewalk, the gardener working on the hedge.

 

By the time his car pulls up in the back of the Phoenix Riders’ dorm, it’s nearly midnight. I stare at the overlays on the tinted windows, currently showing an empty car interior so that no one will be able to see us both inside.

 

“I’ll see you soon,” I whisper to him, reluctant to leave.

He draws closer, touches my chin with one hand, and guides me into a kiss.

 

I close my eyes and lean into it.

Finally, too soon, he pulls away. “Good night,” he murmurs.

 

I have to force myself not to look back as I get out of the car and head toward the dorm. But even long after his car has pulled away and left me alone, his presence lingers. There was a new expression in his eyes tonight, the kind open only to a few . . . but there are still secrets behind it. I wonder what it will take to uncover another of them.

 

• • • • •

 

THE REST OF the week flies by. On Friday morning, the familiar sound of Asher ramming his wheelchair into my door stirs me out of my restless sleep in my dorm room. “Game three!” he shouts, the excitement obvious in his voice as it fades down the hall. “Let’s go! We’re gonna knock out the Cloud Knights in record time!”

 

I rub a hand across my face. I feel groggy today, my mind stifled and my heart still pounding from another round of nightmares, and my limbs are weighed down as I drag myself out of bed. While I dress, a message pops into my view from Hideo.

Good luck today. I’ll be watching from the balconies.

I shake my head. Now he’s just thumbing his nose at his attackers.

I thought you were going to stay away from the upper decks.

We’ve redone the security cams, rewired the stadium, and security detail has been doubled.

 

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