Chapter Text
They once said that the devil knows more from being old than from being the devil. In Reki Kyan’s case this quote was nothing short of false.
During his ultimately short-lived life, he felt as though he had seen enough. More than he needed to at his status, at least. For a street dweller the knowledge of Spanish philosophers would get him merely nowhere. The lower down the financial food chain you went, the more need there was for brawn and the less there was for brains.
However, some situations allowed the slim and silent to make themselves a good living. And his of course, was pick pocketing. Reki definitely didn’t plan this from when he was young of course, only less than a decade ago did he want to make flames shoot from his feet so he could fly to the moon. But the second he hit adulthood did the harsh realities of Earth strike down his dreams in a flash.
With no family left, it was a kill or be killed situation.
High class chortling made Reki’s ears bleed. How dare they find such a life of privilege among those who were suffering a laughing matter.
“And Lord would you never believe what happened next,” guffawed the painfully well groomed man in front of Reki.
“Oh my, do tell!” replied his equally of an eye sore wife.
“The young man then reached- hey, get back here, you jackal!”
Reki bolted through the street with the man’s satchel of coins stuffed in his pocket.
Jackal.
That is the moniker Reki had earned himself with such a lifestyle. Not to be confused with the Scarlett Eye Jackal, the stone cold murderer that roamed the streets of Madrid killing anything in their path. He was nothing of the sort. He stole money and hurt people’s pride, but that was really as much as he could bring himself to do. The man, of course, being one of those high class bastards couldn’t exactly outrun Reki with his tight suit and oiled moustache.
Reki ducked into a narrow alley, his breath steady as he blended into the shadows. He could hear the man’s footsteps falter, followed by a string of curses as he realised the chase was futile. The rich always thought they could outwit the poor, but they never understood how the streets belonged to those who walked them every day.
Reki waited in the darkness, listening as the man’s frustration echoed off the walls before he finally gave up and stormed off. It was always the same: a brief moment of triumph, followed by a bitter reminder that no amount of stolen coins could fill the void left by a life of hardship. He didn’t need to count the coins to know they were more than enough to keep him fed for a few days, maybe even a week if he stretched it. But what would he do after that? Find another mark, another opportunity to survive another day. It was a cycle, endless and suffocating, yet it was the only life he knew.
Emerging from the alley, Reki kept his head down, his hand clutching the stolen satchel inside his jacket. The streets were beginning to quiet down as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows that hid the faces of those who had nowhere else to be. He walked past vendors packing up their wares, past beggars who were a mirror of his future if he ever lost his edge. But something was different tonight. The usual murmur of the city was pierced by whispers of a new horror. A fresh victim, they said, found near the river with a clean slit across the throat. The Scarlett Eye Jackal had struck again.
Reki felt a chill crawl down his spine. The Jackal was a ghost story that parents used to frighten their children into obedience, but Reki had seen the aftermath of one of the killings with his own eyes. The lifeless body, the blood, the eyes wide open in eternal terror — it was an image that had haunted his dreams for years.
But it seemed the Spanish government was finally starting to take notice of how many working class people went missing every month or were found behind pubs with their eyes gouged out. Word had it that an experienced detective all the way from North America had been hired to track the Jackal down after all these years. Despite his good deed and social sacrifice, somehow all people could think about was his wealth. A successful career in putting the worst of the worst behind bars was bound to make you a good fortune, but apparently his legal business put him right up there with the aristocrats.
The detective’s name was Oliver Hasegawa, and even the way it was spoken in hushed tones by those who had crossed paths with him made Reki’s blood run cold. Hasegawa wasn’t just a good detective. He was a relentless one, a bulldog of a man who had made a name for himself in cities where no one else dared to tread. His reputation had preceded him, the way he’d found connections no one else could, the way he had solved cases that seemed impossible. But he was also known for something else — the fact that he would do anything to bring a criminal to their knees, no matter the cost. That kind of obsession was dangerous in Reki’s opinion, what with all of the pride and malice in the modern world.
However, that was none of a concern for someone like Reki. For now, at least.
The stolen bag of coins in his pocket rattled in sync with his steps. It was always a hard decision on what to spend the unfortunate amount of money but it usually depended on what needed the most attending to that week. As of now, Reki realised he hadn’t eaten in two days and should probably get on top of that before he perished in the middle of the street.
Joe’s bar was always a welcoming refuge for people like him: lonely, bitter, and needing to drown a thousand half-thoughts. Reki pushed the door open, the old wood creaking like a complaint from the building itself, before stepping inside. The usual crowd of drunk regulars glanced up for a second, but they all knew better than to say anything. The air reeked of cheap whiskey, stale beer, and the faint scent of something that might have once been food.
Joe, the bartender, gave him a lazy nod from behind the counter. Joe was the kind of man who’d seen everything there was to see but still knew how to laugh about it. He probably had his own demons, but they didn't bother him too much as long as you paid your tab and didn’t get too rowdy. Reki slouched onto one of the stools, laying the small bag of coins on the counter.
“Got anything edible for a guy who’s too proud to beg for handouts?” Reki asked, a smirk twisting at his lips. Joe had looked out for Reki since he was 16, but still knew how to keep him in his place.
“Not stolen, is it?” Joe suggested while cleaning a plate with a raised eyebrow.
Reki groaned. “Well how the hell else am I supposed to provide for myself? It’s not like anyone will hire me.” It sounded like an excuse, but it was true. Nobody in Madrid wanted to have a sleazy orphan who didn’t have anywhere to go working for them.
Joe chuckled dryly, shaking his head as he slid a chipped plate in front of Reki. "You’ve got more excuses than a drunk priest. But as long as you’re paying, I’ll keep feeding you. Just don’t bring trouble through my door."
Reki rolled his eyes but took the plate without argument, wolfing down the meal like it might vanish if he didn’t eat fast enough. Joe watched him with a mixture of pity and amusement, but before he could make another comment, the bar door slammed open with the force of an angry hurricane.
Reki flinched, nearly choking on his food, as every pair of eyes in the bar turned toward the doorway. Standing there, larger than life and brimming with authority, was Oliver Hasegawa. His sharp eyes scanned the room like a hawk searching for prey. Behind him, dragging his feet and looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, was a very tall, younger man with snowy hair that almost shimmered under the dim bar lights. The guy was definitely out of place — too clean cut, too prissy to be caught dead in a place like this. Reki examined him for a moment. He was handsome, but there was no tone of personality shining through him. Maybe he just had a great poker face. He was seemingly ignoring Reki despite his intense stare. In fact it looked like he was ignoring everyone. His hands were buried in his pockets as he pursed his lips awkwardly, eyes darting.
Joe’s face darkened, and he set the glass he’d been cleaning down with a deliberate clink. "We don’t want any trouble, sir," he said, his voice steady but carrying an edge.
Oliver strode in like he owned the place, ignoring Joe’s warning entirely. "Trouble finds its way in whether you want it to or not," he said coolly, his voice deep and authoritative. He stopped in the middle of the room, giving everyone a once-over that made even the drunkest patrons sit up straighter.
Reki tried to shrink into his seat, hoping to blend in with the shadows, but of course, Oliver’s gaze landed on him. It was like being pinned under a magnifying glass.
“Who here saw anything suspicious around Salamanca last night?” Oliver asked, his voice carrying over the quiet hum of the bar. “We’re looking for witnesses to a killing. The Jackal’s work.”
The mention of the Jackal sent a ripple of unease through the room. Conversations hushed to whispers, and a few people made a point of looking anywhere but at the detective. Reki kept his eyes firmly on his plate, trying to ignore the heat rising in his chest. He hadn’t been near Salamanca last night. He made sure to avoid places where the Jackal was rumored to roam, but he didn’t need Hasegawa sniffing around him for any reason.
Oliver’s gaze lingered on Reki for a moment too long, but then the detective turned his attention to the bartender. "You, Joe, isn’t it? Seen anything unusual?"
Joe shrugged with a practiced indifference. "Same as always. People come in, they drink, they leave. Nobody talks about their night, sir. That’s the way it works around here."
Oliver didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push. Instead, he glanced over his shoulder at the man behind him. "Langa," he said sharply, "what do you make of it?"
Langa, who had been examining the bar with the mild disinterest of someone dragged into a bad movie, sighed heavily. "It’s a bar, father. People drink. People lie. Nothing groundbreaking."
Reki smirked at the sarcasm, but Oliver didn’t seem amused. He shot Langa a glare that could’ve melted steel. "You’re here to learn, not to joke. Pay attention."
Reki couldn’t help himself. He leaned over the counter and whispered to Joe, "Looks like even the great Oliver Hasegawa’s not immune to babysitting duty."
Joe snorted quietly, but Oliver’s sharp eyes snapped to them, and Reki immediately sat back, pretending to focus on his empty plate.
"Anyone else?" Oliver barked, his patience clearly thinning. The room remained silent, the patrons collectively deciding that they valued their lives, or at least their peace, more than getting involved with a murder investigation.
After a tense moment, Oliver sighed, muttering something under his breath that sounded like a curse. "Fine. But if anyone here remembers anything, you know where to find me."
He turned on his heel, his coat flaring dramatically as he marched toward the door. Langa trailed after him, giving the room one last look, his expression unreadable. But as he passed by Reki, their eyes met for a split second. Reki wasn’t sure why, but he felt a strange jolt. Like Langa had seen right through him. And then they were gone, the door swinging shut behind them. The bar was quiet for a moment before Joe broke the silence with a low whistle.
"Well," he said, "if that ain’t the storm passing through, I don’t know what is."
Reki leaned back in his seat, his mind racing. He had no idea why, but something told him this wouldn’t be the last time Oliver Hasegawa and his reluctant protege crossed his path. And that thought made his stomach twist in a way he didn’t like.