“One inch into the future is darkness.”
It was an old proverb. Because darkness sounded sinister, people often used it to suggest a foul fate lurking ahead, but originally it meant that the future was unknown—whether good or bad, no one could say. But in this line of work, Kishibe thought, the negative interpretation was the more accurate one.
Being a Public Safety Devil Hunter meant living with the constant possibility of death—sudden and without warning. It didn’t matter if you were a rookie with a future or a hardened veteran; at any moment, you could drop out of the world of the living like stumbling into a hole. It could happen to anyone. Kishibe had spent his years on the front lines of devil extermination dodging such plunges into the abyss. Was his longevity a blessing from God, a run of good fortune? Or did it mean he was so lost even the Grim Reaper had forsaken him?
Kishibe chuckled bleakly to himself. There was no God, and no Reaper either. All Kishibe could count on were his ever-present companions—booze, tobacco, and devils. And his poker-faced partner.
The notes of a jazz piano drifted languorously through a haze of ambient lighting. He was in a bar on the top floor of a high-class hotel. The lights of the city below seemed impossibly distant; before him was a dark sky broken by the cold silhouettes of high-rises.
Kishibe gazed out at the darkness that seemed so close. His reflection showed a clean-shaven face. A jagged scar from an old wound. Hair worn long and unadorned. “How long we been together, Quanxi? Almost nine years already?”
The woman beside him sipped her wine. “Nine years. Is it really?” She was beautiful, after a fashion, but her face was unsettlingly impassive, and she spoke without emotion. A patch covered her right eye.
Kishibe raised his own glass. “How about it? Ready to go out with me yet?”
A flash of motion. “Never.”
“Now, now, don’t hit me. We’re indoors, remember?”
Quanxi gave him a long stare before lowering her fist. Kishibe had been working on her since the day they’d met, but the answer was always never, no way, not in this lifetime, get over yourself—and her rejections were usually accompanied by a flurry of punches.
“Still not giving up after all these years,” she said. “It’s almost impressive.”
“Just goes to show the depths of my feelings for—hey, pay attention!” Quanxi’s gaze had wandered after one of the waitresses.
When Quanxi continued to ignore him, he shrugged and tossed back the rest of his drink. Only then did Quanxi turn back. “The stink of booze on you is worse than usual. How much did you put away before I got here?”
“Not a lot.”
“Oh, really? I know a rookie was killed in the line of duty yesterday. Whenever one of your newbies bites it, you always order an extra round or four.”
Kishibe’s only response was to order another whiskey on the rocks. He studied the amber liquid in the glass, his expression vacant. “Twelve-year-old Macallan. Whiskey takes time to mature, you know. It’s gotta sit in the barrel until it’s good and ready.”
“Do you have a point?”
“At Public Safety, most folks get one year. I’ve had hunters I thought had it in ’em, others I thought didn’t, but within a year they all died or fled back to the civilian sector. That’s why I don’t call myself a teacher. Far as I’m concerned, I’m just training dogs. But even dogs … you get attached to ’em.”
Quanxi said nothing.
“Five hunters were killed last month. One month alone. So I went to the brass and said, don’t give me people, don’t even give me dogs. Just give me toys that won’t break.”
“Toys that won’t break, eh?”
“Yeah. I get fond of a kid, they turn up dead, next thing you know I’m ordering that extra round. I’m better off when I’m working with material I can’t get attached to.” Kishibe let out a sigh of hot breath and brought the whiskey to his lips again. “They told me there’s nobody who can’t break. No guarantees.”
“They’re right.”
“So they ain’t giving me any rookies for a while.”
Quanxi had a response for that. “Sounds like a fair compromise. You drink too much anyway.”
“What, you’re worried about me?”
“I’m worried about having to bail you out the next time you go on a bender.” Quanxi looked into her glass of wine, still mostly full. The reflection of her own face, blood-red and quavering, looked back. “Come to think of it, I’m supposed to be getting a rookie of my own.”
“You?”
“Yeah. Someone asked for me by name. Said they absolutely had to have me as their instructor.”
Kishibe scoffed. “That’s funny. Is it a guy, by any chance?”
“No, a woman. Pretty cute, judging from her file photo.”
“Well, don’t you sound thrilled?”
“Do I?” Quanxi gave him a look of modest confusion.
Kishibe dug into his pocket and pulled out a room key. “You might be interested to know I made reservations at this hotel. What do you say we check out the neighborhood watering holes?”
“I’ll be your drinking partner for one round, Kishibe. Dragging you out from under barstools is above my pay grade.” Quanxi drained her glass in a single long swig, put a bill on the counter, and stood up. They’d faced death together more than once, but she never dropped her curtness.
The corner of Kishibe’s mouth crooked up. “Take a partner … age for nine years. Huh.” He turned the glass contemplatively in his hand, listening to the clink of the shifting ice.
Two days later, Kishibe and Quanxi were side by side again, this time meeting the new devil hunter.