Miko Yotsuya Novels & Stories

The woman smiled and patted Ejima's shoulders. They had stopped in the middle and as they waited, the door by the far side opened, and people that were clothed with leaves started toward their direction. There were men and women, but the population seemed to be paired. “Is this?” “Yes,” The woman nodded, “Twice they say is a coincidence. But thrice is definitely a sign. So tell me…” the woman's brow folded inwards. “Ejima, my name is, Ejima” “Ejima” The woman nodded, “Tell me, Ejima, does this look like a coincidence?”

She looked outside of the window as the car drove into their hideout. Mariko Saito, a 22-year-old lady. The youngest among the agents, who got the title of being the youngest skilled assassin in their batch. She's an undefeatable woman fighter in their league and in the right hand of Itsuki Watanabe, who owns the Moon Castle Agency, where Mariko is working.

She would regret it tomorrow, and Kenji would make her regret it even more by pulling her closer, deepening the kiss. The cheers grew louder, accompanied by playful whistles. For a moment, the elderly villagers seemed young again, their laughter and teasing filling the air. *Miko, shrine maiden, is a young priestess who works at a Shinto shrine.

Locked down, deadbolts triple-checked, I fled to O'Hare, city blurring past like a threat. NY welcomed with steel skies, cab slicing to Club Kyoto—hidden in Meatpacking shadows, facade unassuming as lies. Eiko waited in a private alcove, silver-streaked chignon gleaming under rice-paper lanterns, silk kimono jacket whispering over Chanel. Jade rings clinked like judgments as she gestured to tatami cushions, dark eyes dissecting me mid-stride. "Ms. Whitaker," she said, voice clipped Tokyo steel laced with proverbs, "you move like prey who learned to hunt. Sit. Tea?"

They stepped out of the car and made their way inside, the cozy ambiance of the café offering a gentle contrast to the whirlwind of emotions she was experiencing. As Akira entered the coffee shop, she was immediately struck by its novelty, a bright smile spreading across her face. Mr. Ito guided her to a table and placed their order. She picks a coffee and a slice of vanilla cake with a subtle hint of milk flavor. Their discussion lingered in her mind as she waited. When Mr. Ito returned with the drinks and dessert, Akira felt a surge of curiosity wash over her. They settled into their seats, and the conversation began. Mr. Ito's mention of Inei Mizuki sent a jolt of surprise through her.

Ayame flinched towards me. My arm rose across her before thought caught up. The bird struck again. Red eyes glared through the glass. Ayame’s hand gripped my wrist. Warmth moved through the cuts left by the dream. She felt it too. Her fingers loosened, but did not leave. The car turned sharply. Tsukiko’s house appeared at the end of a narrow lane near the old cliff district. Stone walls surrounded it. White symbols had been painted across the gate. The birds broke formation.