Chapter 3: Afternoon

Blue Ash City moved at its usual weekday rhythm. Footsteps crossed the pavement, vendors called over the thrum of traffic, and neon signs glowed stubbornly against the hard midday sun. Apricot moved with the current down Iwai Street. The air brimmed with food smoke: chicken skewers crackling over open coals, takoyaki batter crisping golden in iron molds. The scents reached back years. Summer stalls at Castor’s street fairs, friends laughing as they dared each other to eat dumplings straight from the pan, mouths full of steam and spice. Her stomach growled, and the present returned. She put a hand over it and kept walking.

Shops crowded close on either side, each throwing its own color. She kicked a pebble down the lane. “Stupid detour,” she muttered. She would have been on time if not for the blocked intersection, the crime scene tape strung across Ginzu’s Market Street like a warning she was too late to heed.

The irritation softened as she slowed before a fashion boutique. Behind the glass, mechanical mannequins posed in bright new outfits, their movements smooth, almost graceful. Apricot remembered standing at department-store windows with her mother, tugging at her sleeve and begging for shoes she would never get. Her mother’s laugh, warm and tired but never unkind, lingered in her ears.

One mannequin turned its head with a quiet servo whine. Its eyes stared flat. Empty. Apricot’s smile dropped. She looked away, searching for friendlier sights down the street.

A discordant burst of chiptune came from the next storefront. She knew that melody: Queen of Dragons, the old hack-and-slash she used to burn quarters on. Her steps picked up as Nebu Arcade came into view, its neon penguin twitching in static light. The doorway exhaled a blast of cold air when she stepped inside.

Darkness wrapped the arcade, broken by strobing screens and LED strips crawling the ceiling. Retro and modern cabinets blared pixel violence, speakers spitting explosions and sword clashes. A handful of gamers bent over the controls, working the buttons with the fury of people feeding a machine.

Apricot took a deep breath. The owners had tried to drown the place in artificial watermelon, but the musk of sweat, cigarette ghosts, and overheated circuitry seeped through. To anyone else it might have stunk. To her, it smelled like childhood afternoons. Half freedom, half escape.

The Queen of Dragons cabinet waited at the back, its screen pulsing with a start menu of pixelated warriors: barbarian, cleric, archer, sorceress, wizard. She fished a coin from her pocket and slid it home. The machine woke in a heroic march of sixteen-bit sound.

Apricot cracked her knuckles. Her hands flew. The barbarian cleaved through mobs in a blur, combos firing as if her fingers remembered on their own. Noise and memory locked into rhythm: button strikes, music, the flicker of sprites. The morning’s weight lifted, then was gone.

Level one cleared. Treasure poured across the screen as the ogre boss collapsed. Apricot laughed, breathless. For the moment, the world outside didn’t matter. Only the dragons.

The overhead lights spasmed like flies in a bug zapper. Her screen dulled. The console faltered, color gutted from the inside. The cheerful music slid into a low moan, then quit.

Apricot hit the cabinet hard enough to sting her palm. She leaned in, expecting the usual glitch.

The room dropped into darkness. Every cabinet snuffed out at once, pixels shrinking to pinpoints before going dark. Only the exit lights remained, sallow halos barely touching the gloom.

Patrons muttered, voices brittle with irritation. A coin tray spilled with a sharp clatter. None of that explained the crawling static needling up Apricot’s arms, lifting every hair on her skin. The muggy summer heat of Okabe should have been stifling. Instead, the air had gone cold. Freezer-burn sharp.

She gasped. Her breath came out white.

The chill tunneled into her bones, slowing the arcade to syrup. Her reflection hung in the black glass of the dead screen. Behind her stood a shape. Too tall, edges smeared, a lean head tilted as if studying her.

Her chest went tight. She spun.

Nothing. Just silhouettes of kids kicking cabinets, faces soured in the weak light.

Then it was gone. The cold, the pressure, as if a door had been slammed on it. Heat rushed back, sticky and loud.

The machines surged back in unison, neon flooding the arcade with color. Apricot slumped against the cabinet and rubbed her arms. Her hands were shaking. She pressed them flat against the machine until they stopped.

An attendant shouted apologies about a building-wide surge. The crowd grumbled about refunds, broken streaks, wasted tokens. Nobody else had noticed anything. They were just annoyed.

Her screen blinked awake, pixel dragons dancing again. She stared at it for a long moment. Her quarter was still in the machine. She could keep playing. Instead, she stepped back and turned for the door.

The feeling stayed with her on the way out, resting between her shoulder blades, patient as surveillance.

~

Apricot shouldered through the arcade door. Daylight slapped her across the face. She blinked hard, lids watering, until the brightness settled. For a moment she thought about going back in, hiding where the light was artificial and predictable. But her feet kept moving.

She walked without aim, thoughts circling back to the dead screen and the shape in the glass. The mist of her own breath. The cold that had no source. She replayed it, tested it against every rational explanation she could assemble, and found none that fit. The loop held her so completely that she didn’t notice the streets changing around her until they already had.

The food carts and their noise were gone. The storefronts had lost their polish, replaced by squat buildings with grime packed between bricks and bars on the windows. Signs dangled on rusted chains, paint peeling, promises of pawned goods and cut-rate electronics looking as tired as the neighborhood itself.

Her pace slowed. The air smelled stale: burnt wires, dust, damp stone. The stillness of a place long neglected.

A failing neon strip hung at the corner of a hardware store. It buzzed faintly, spelling HARDW RE in anemic blue. Places like this did not get fixed. They just rotted slower.

A few people idled on the sidewalks, movements slow, eyes quick. When their gazes slid toward her, they did not look away fast enough.

Two men stood outside a shuttered billiards hall. They barely shifted as she passed, but their eyes moved over her uniform, taking their time. Heat climbed her neck. The uniform felt thin. A sign pinned to her chest: young, alone, not from here.

She walked faster. Next corner. Turn there. Get back where it’s busy.

She rounded the corner with her eyes forward when violent motion down a side street caught her eye.

Four men formed a loose circle. Someone was on the ground in the middle.

One of them kicked the man hard in the gut. The sound hit the walls flat and hard. The victim doubled over with a sharp cry, curling tighter as another blow landed.

Apricot went rigid, pulse loud in her ears.

The attackers laughed, voices harsh and careless in the narrow street.

Her mouth moved before her brain could stop it.

“H-hey! Stop it!”

The cry got away from her, ricocheting off brick. Regret hit her the instant the words left.

The thugs stopped mid-motion, heads turning toward her. She understood, too late, what she looked like: a schoolgirl in uniform, empty-handed, cutting into something she had no right to see.

The moment held. Then the tallest, a black-haired slab with a jagged skull tattoo across his temple, sneered. He drove one last savage kick into the victim’s face. Bone cracked wetly. The man’s groan cut off.

“Yeah, let’s get outta here,” the tattooed man said, gravel grinding through his voice. He spat on the crumpled body. “Remember what we told ya, shithead. Pay the rest, or crawl outta town. Permanently.”

The four men turned and started toward her, shoulder to shoulder, filling the alley. Her legs refused to move.

Her heartbeat thudded high in her throat. Her father’s face came to her. The imagined call. The words your daughter was found in an alley.

They closed in. Faces still hot from the fight, something sharp and eager in their eyes. Flecks of red dotted one man’s boots.

They did not stop. One by one, they pushed past her, eyes moving past her as if she were beneath notice. The man in front met her eyes, unbothered, his shoulder clipping hers as he passed. The stink of sweat and cheap beer followed him.

“Out of the way, girl,” one muttered.

They turned the corner and vanished, leaving only the echo of boots and her own unsteady breathing.

Her knees went loose. Air rushed in, raw and burning. For a moment the street would not hold still.

She squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them again, the alley returned, and with it the broken body sprawled on the concrete.

He stirred, pushing weakly against the filthy ground. His palms slipped. He dropped back with a wet cough.

The sound pulled her forward. She hurried to him, stepping over debris.

“Sir?” Her voice barely carried. “Are you all right?”

He rolled over, blood glistening on his lips. His face was a mess of swelling and split skin, one eye gone beneath purple bruises. A deep cut opened his brow.

She knew him. The guy from the train. His hoodie hung in tatters, his good eye blinking up at her in dazed confusion.

“You,” he rasped. “What… what are you doing here?”

“I was just passing by.” She fumbled for her phone. “I’ll call an ambulance. Or the cops.”

Cortez’s hand shot out and clamped her wrist. “No.” His voice came out sharp, more command than plea.

For a man this torn up, his hold felt unshakable.

“Don’t.” He worked himself upright with a groan, muscles trembling, pushing off the alley wall until he got his back against the brick. He released her wrist, but his eyes stayed hard. “Don’t do something stupid like that. Stay out of it. None of your business, reporter.”

Her temper rose. But his expression warned her off. Blood was crusting along his brow. There was no give in his face.

She thought of the thugs’ muttered talk of payment. Whatever Cortez was tangled in, calling the cops could pull her into it. Or get him killed.

“You should get that looked at,” she murmured, nodding at the gash above his eye.

A rough laugh broke from him, then cut off with a wince. “Yeah. I’ll manage.” He staggered forward, one arm cinched tight around his ribs. His boots scuffed against the grit.

After a few pained steps, he looked back. His guard came down, briefly. “Listen… thanks. For yelling. Could’ve been worse.” The thanks came out like it cost him. Then the wall came back up. “But seriously. Forget you saw this. You don’t want any part of it.”

She nodded. “Just… be careful.”

Something moved across his face. Then he turned. He limped deeper into the shadows until the bend took him from view.

Apricot stayed rooted, watching the empty alley.

She had filed a column about Blue Ash’s rising crime just days ago. Dealers and turf wars simmering under the neon skin of the city. Words on a screen, safe behind a byline. Now she was standing in the middle of it, the smell of blood still sharp in her nose.

She thought of Cortez’s swollen jaw, the bruising spread across his cheek. These were not people who forgave curiosity.

She let out a long breath, wiped her palms against her skirt, and glanced out of the alley. Across the street, the Utopian Theater hunched beneath its retro marquee. She knew this stretch. A few blocks down sat Hot Shots Café, an old haunt from high school. The name alone conjured steam and warmth.

She headed for it.

~

When she pushed through Hot Shots’ door, a bell rang overhead. The air struck her at once, espresso-rich and sugared. Chocolate-brown walls, green trim, soft light. Big band music swung under the conversation.

The city noise died the moment the door closed behind her. Apricot let her shoulders drop.

“Apricot? Hey, girl!”

Her head came up. Bonni Wilox was at the counter, beaming, framed by glass and brass.

The smile that broke across Apricot’s face was instinctive. Bonni. Bandana tied over a tumble of curls, apron cinched against a blouse patterned in fading dots, blue eyes lit the same way they had been since the day they met. Two awkward transfers dropped into the middle of high school, exiles in different ways. Bonni from Estarius, Apricot from Castor. They had found each other fast, drawn together by the shared fact of not belonging. From that first lunch at the wrong table grew years of laughter, pranks, and late nights spent making a strange city feel like home.

“Bonni!” Apricot crossed to the counter and pulled her into a hug. Coffee heat mingled with Bonni’s perfume, citrus and something sweet. Bonni chuckled and squeezed her back, milk pitcher steady in her other hand.

Apricot pulled away. “I didn’t know you worked here.”

“Barista until stardom comes calling.” Bonni presented her apron with a flourish. “Can’t just storm a studio and demand the spotlight.” She struck a pose, chin up, wink sharp. Always the actress.

Bonni rested her elbows on the counter, eyebrow raised. “But what about you? Shouldn’t you be in class?”

Apricot sighed. “Took a wrong turn. By the time I got there, the doors were locked.”

“Ouch.” Bonni’s face softened beneath the exaggerated pout. She busied her hands at the espresso machine, wiping the steamer wand. “City never misses a chance to make things harder. At least you’re free now. And me? I get company.”

Apricot slid onto a stool, her bag coming to rest on the tiled floor. The café ran on around her: the machines, a couple murmuring in the corner, an old man shifting his paper by the window.

Bonni darted a glance around before dropping her voice. “So… did you catch that insanity this morning? The newscast?”

Apricot nodded. “My brother had it on. Some robbery turned standoff downtown. They rolled out the SDP.” The images returned: armored trucks, sirens, anchors repeating words like crossfire and fatality.

“Awful, yes. But juicy.” Bonni lowered her voice further. “Two cops came in earlier for coffee. I may have listened in.”

Apricot smirked despite herself. Working service meant overhearing what people assumed you wouldn’t. Bonni had turned it into an art.

“Go on, then.”

Bonni glanced toward the back, then whispered, “They said their boss was furious the suspect wasn’t taken alive.”

Unease moved through her. Not taken alive. That was not how the news told it. “The robber?” she said. “They usually want them alive to question, right?”

Bonni shook her head. “No. This wasn’t about paperwork. More like… they lost something when she died. Like she was worth more breathing.”

Worth more alive. To whom? The footage had looked like chaos. No room for negotiation. If the officers were disappointed rather than relieved, the shape of the story changed entirely.

“Maybe she had info on her gang?” Apricot said. The guess sounded weak even to her.

Bonni leaned in closer. “One of the officers said, ‘The boss is gonna chew us out. She wasn’t supposed to die.’” She paused, letting the words settle. “Who expects a shooter to survive after mowing down a squad of cops? Unless she wasn’t just a normal criminal.”

Apricot turned that over. A suspect the police wanted alive. Not for questioning. For something else. The phrase had the shape of sealed files and redacted reports, the kind of silence her professors warned about but never fully explained.

She shut it down. Hearsay. Secondhand gossip from a café counter.

Bonni poked her shoulder. “Oh, come on. You’re not even a little intrigued?”

“It’s interesting,” Apricot said. “But not enough to gamble my neck.” She managed a weak smile. “Sounds more like one of your horror novels.”

Bonni laughed. “Fine. I’ll drop it for now.” She plucked up a paper cup. “Want your usual vanilla latte?”

Apricot looked to the window. The street outside had darkened under clouds, light going flat and gray, the kind of sky that made the city’s neon look ill rather than bright.

“You know me too well.”

Bonni fiddled with the espresso machine, all clicks and steam. Apricot’s thoughts unraveled in the quiet.

They wanted her alive.

The words kept coming back. The TV report. The broken glass. The ambulances. If the suspect had died in a firefight, why would officers be disciplined for it? Unless the firefight wasn’t what it appeared to be. Unless the woman wasn’t who the news said she was.

The machine hissed. Bonni slid a mug toward her. Steam rose off it, vanilla-sweet. Apricot cupped the warmth with both hands and took a sip, creamy and just shy of too sweet.

She closed her eyes. Assignments waiting. A test on Friday. Bonni already moving to some new topic about a casting call she’d seen posted in the theater district. Safe, ordinary things.

Apricot held onto them. Let the rest sink. She had school deadlines, essays piling, a shift at Ichigari that wouldn’t wait. Meddling in police business was not just reckless. In a city like this, it was the kind of decision that didn’t announce its consequences until they were already behind you.

But beneath the warmth of the latte, beneath the familiar comfort of Bonni’s voice and the café’s steady hum, something had shifted. The arcade. The alley. The gossip about a dead woman who was supposed to be alive. Each one alone might have been nothing. Together, they made a shape she could not yet see all of.

Apricot opened her eyes and stared into the steam rising from her cup. She forced her thoughts to the surface of things: cream, sugar, the scratch of the old man’s newspaper, Bonni’s laugh.

The rest she folded away, tucked into the part of her mind where stories waited before they became real.