Data & Dust

Tap-tap-tap…

Backspace.

Ducked into a narrow maintenance closet, just as a pair of guards rushed past, shouting about the explosion.

Backspace.

Concealing a tiny tracking device sewn into his jeans — Ethan shifted slightly, only to have pain shoot through his ribs like a hot blade. No, there was no tracker. No button to press for a way out.

Backspace.

A mysterious ally, a woman, pulling up in a car at just the right moment — BAM! The sound of a door slamming shut somewhere in the building shattered the image in his mind, and he flinched, heart beating against his battered ribs.

Backspace.

He visualized his own triumph, his escape. His way out. But it vanished. Smoke. Pain flared in his ribs, reality clawing him back. Nothing. It was all in his head.

The truth was undeniable: there was no tracker hidden in his jeans. No mysterious woman racing through the alleys to save him. And even if there were, what chance would he have to reach her in his current state?

Ethan glanced down at his trembling hands. His body was battered, bruised, and too weak to even stand without collapsing. The pounding pain in his ribs every time he breathed made it clear — he wasn’t running anywhere. His head was a fog of pain, and every movement felt like he was dragging himself through wet concrete. He could barely sit up, let alone stage some daring escape.

“H-Hopeless…” he muttered, the words wheezing out as if each one were a burden. Bitter laughter bubbled up, only to catch in his throat, sending him into a coughing fit that left him gasping. He coughed again, spitting out a metallic taste.

“I… Iron-ic… huh?”

He’d crafted worlds. Plots, twists, and endings. All in his control. But this? He wasn’t in control. He had no control. He could barely control his breath — in, out, in — let alone the chaos around him.

Ethan replayed the events in his mind, desperately grasping for a lifeline.

The Yakuza had snatched him up without warning, not even giving him a chance to process what was happening. They’d known exactly where to find him, exactly how to grab him before he could alert anyone. They’d taken his phone, his wallet, even the laces from his shoes. They’d searched him thoroughly, no doubt looking for any sign of treachery or trickery.

The only thing they left was his book. His stupid book that had landed him here in the first place. The very novel that had inexplicably aligned with the inner workings of the Yakuza.

Why had he ever thought he could outmaneuver them using information he’d gleaned from his own fiction? The story had written itself into a corner, and now it was taking him down with it.

Ethan leaned his head back against the wall, his vision swimming as exhaustion and pain blurred the edges of his consciousness. He needed a miracle, but miracles didn’t happen for people like him. He’d dug his grave with each chapter he wrote. And now he was lying in it, waiting for the dirt to be shoveled over.

He forced himself to think through the problem. Just like in his book — betrayal, secret ledgers, hidden connections. But the creak of the door down the hall yanked him back.

“No, no, focus.”

He reckoned he could piece this together.

“Just — was that a voice? Someone coming?”

He gritted his teeth, heart pounding.

Footsteps echoed down the hall, and Ethan snapped back to full awareness, his body tensing instinctively despite the pain. The door creaked open, and the lieutenant stepped in, his imposing frame filling the doorway.

“Still dreaming up escape plans, gaijin?” The man’s voice was laced with mockery as he strolled closer. “You look like you’ve run through a few in that head of yours.”

Ethan’s lips twitched, trying to form a smile, but it faltered halfway. “W-Wouldn’t… be much of a writer if… I didn’t,” he croaked, his voice cracking. He grimaced, a low groan slipping out as he shifted.

“Damn it… hurts even to talk…”

The lieutenant's face hardened as he crouched, bringing himself eye-to-eye with Ethan. "You’re not the one writing this script, are you? No clever twists, no heroic rescues at the eleventh hour. I’ve seen your work. But let me make something clear…” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “My story, and I decide how it ends.”

Ethan’s blurry eyes met his gaze, the fight slowly draining from his eyes. The lieutenant was right. No matter how many scenarios he conjured, he had no control here. He was a character trapped in someone else’s narrative, a pawn caught between the pages of a book he no longer had the power to edit.

“Now,” the lieutenant continued, “if you’re done playing make-believe, it’s time to be useful. Give me something real. Or I’ll make sure your ending slow and painful.”

Ethan swallowed, feeling the sting of defeat settle in his bones. He could keep bluffing, keep spinning his web of half-truths and fiction. But in the end, it would unravel, leaving him with nothing but the sharp edge of the blade they’d promised to use.

“A-Alright…” His voice rasped out, barely more than a whisper. He coughed, his body shuddering with each painful breath. “W-What… do you… w-want to… know?”

The lieutenant’s smile was slow and predatory. “Everything.”

Ethan nodded weakly. This was his last card. He’d give them the real names, real places, real connections. Maybe they’d let him live just long enough to see if any of it panned out. Maybe not.

But whatever happened, there was one thing he knew for sure: he was done with dreams of escape. This was his reality now.

And there was no backspace for that.

“Just… j-just tell me…” Ethan’s voice wavered, desperation leaking into every syllable. “Tell me what… what you w-want to hear, and… and I’ll —” He cut himself off, his throat tightening. “I’ll… I’ll t—”

Before he could finish, a sudden blare of loudspeakers roared through the building, cutting him off mid-sentence.

“This is the police! We have the building surrounded!” The voice echoed off the concrete walls, followed by the unmistakable sounds of sirens and screeching tires outside.

The police had flooded the hallway — dozens of them in tactical gear, shields raised, weapons drawn. They surged forward in a tight formation, forcing the Yakuza back with threat of gunfire.

The lieutenant was caught off guard by the raid. He froze, eyes scanning the chaos around him. His mind was racing, trying to piece together who might have tipped off the cops. The lieutenant’s face twisted into a snarl as he whipped around, his hand diving into his jacket. “What the hell?” he growled, drawing a pistol. He jabbed it in Ethan’s direction, his expression murderous. “What did you do, gaijin?!”

Ethan, present in the same space, looked equally bewildered. The lieutenant’s gaze locked onto him, but instead of lashing out, he narrowed his eyes, searching for signs of guilt. He watched Ethan’s reaction carefully, noting every twitch and bead of sweat.

“I-I don’t know about this —” Ethan started.

There’s sincerity in his voice, but is it convincing enough?

The lieutenant’s jaw clenched. One of his men came up to him, breathless: “What do we do, boss?” Oshima glanced back at Ethan, who was looking more desperate by the second.

He turned to his men, barking rapid-fire orders. “Shut everything down! Get to the exits! Kill the power!”

Chaos erupted like a flash grenade. Yakuza members scrambled, overturning tables, ripping open drawers, grabbing weapons hidden beneath desks and cabinets. Ethan was thrusted backward as a pair of men ran past, their movements frantic. In the confusion, the lieutenant’s grip on Ethan loosened, and the gun that had been so menacingly close to his face wavered.

“Now!”

The thought struck like lightning, and Ethan acted without hesitation. As the police burst in, the sound of boots pounding and orders being shouted fills the air. The sudden echo of gunfire was deafening. Ethan ducked instinctively, landing behind a large metal desk, momentarily out of sight, fear coursing through his veins. Ignoring the pain lancing through his body, he rolled sideways, crashing awkwardly to the floor. He grit his teeth against the flare of agony, feeling like his ribs were on fire, but he pushed through, his limbs moving on sheer adrenaline.

The Yakuza lieutenant cursed, flipping over another table to use as cover. He returned fire blindly over the top, shouting to his men, “Hold them off! Hold them —”

Just as Ethan tried to catch his breath, there’s a sudden crack of gunfire nearby. A stray bullet whizzed past his ear, splintering the wall inches from his head. Ethan flinched, feeling the heat of the bullet’s passage, his pulse spiking in sheer panic. He clutched his ears, momentarily stunned by the near miss. More shouting filled the air, mingling with the slicing of blades and the sharp cracks of gunfire. A body tumbled over the barrier and crashed onto Ethan, knocking the wind out of him. He shoved it off in a panic, recoiling as warm blood smeared across his face. It was one of the lieutenant’s men, his eyes staring lifelessly into nothing. Ethan bit down on a scream, bile rising in his throat, while his heart hammered against his ribs like it was trying to escape.

He peeked over the edge of his cover, only to see a cop raising a weapon in his direction. Ethan’s stomach dropped — the officer’s gaze was cold, assessing, and he’s not lowering his gun.

“Police! Drop your weapons!” a voice bellowed.

Ethan shouted desperately, waving his hands. “Wait! Don’t shoot, I’m not —”

The officer hesitated, as if trying to identify him. For a tense moment, they’re locked in a deadly standoff. Ethan’s life teetered on a knife’s edge as the cop’s finger hovered near the trigger.

Behind Ethan, one of the gang members made a sudden move, and the officer fired — the bullet slammed into the gang member’s shoulder, just a foot away from Ethan. He could feel the blood spray on his cheek.

The cop’s gaze shifted back to Ethan, scanning his trembling form. The gun lowered, but the officer’s warning was clear:

“Stay down.”

Ethan nodded frantically, staying rooted to the spot. His body was shaking, and every muscle screamed for him to run, but he’s paralyzed by fear. The cop shoved past him, joining the fray, leaving Ethan to clutch his head, wondering how he’s going to survive the next few minutes.

Ethan pressed himself tighter against the desk. Cops were shouting, bullets were zipping by, and any wrong move could make him a target. A pair of Yakuza stumbled back through the doorway, one clutching a bloody arm, the other dragging his injured friend. They retreated under the onslaught, disappearing around a corner as the police pressed forward.

Another officer’s voice cut through the chaos like a knife. “Evac! Now!”

Before Ethan could process what was happening, the second officer reached him, grabbing him under the arm and hauling him to his feet. The sudden motion sent pain exploding through his ribs, and Ethan cried out, nearly collapsing.

“Easy, easy!” the officer murmured, shifting his grip to better support him. “We’ve got you.”

Ethan’s world spun as he was half-dragged, half-carried through the hallway. Gunfire roared behind him, but it felt distant, as if he were listening to it through a thick pane of glass. He glanced back, catching a glimpse of the lieutenant firing wildly before a police shield slammed into him, knocking him off his feet.

Seeing the lieutenant go down brought a flicker of satisfaction, but it wasn’t enough to quell the lingering sense of dissatisfaction gnawing at him.

Amidst the chaos, the boss was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he’d anticipated this, or maybe he just didn’t care about anything Ethan had to say. Either way, the man pulling the strings was still out there.

The police handling Ethan rounded a corner, then another, and then — blinding sunlight. Ethan squinted, the sudden brightness searing his eyes. They were outside, the fresh air hitting him like a splash of cold water.

“Get him in the van!” someone shouted. He was passed from one pair of hands to another, each movement jolting him painfully. But then he was inside a police van, the door slamming shut behind him.

The officer who’d helped him leaned down, looking Ethan square in the eyes. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice calm but urgent.

Ethan blinked up at him, the adrenaline ebbing away and leaving only exhaustion in its wake. “I — I think I’m okay. Just — just need to breathe.”

“Good.” The officer nodded, giving him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “You’re safe now. We’ve got you.”

Safe.

The word seemed foreign, almost meaningless. But as the van’s engine roared to life and they sped away from the chaos, Ethan let himself believe it — if only for a moment.

The police had come out of nowhere, a miracle he hadn’t dared hope for. But he wasn’t naive enough to think it was over. Not by a long shot.

“Why —” Ethan swallowed, his throat raw. “Why did you come? How did you know?”

The officer’s face tightened slightly, his gaze flickering to the front of the van.

“Let’s just say someone was looking out for you.”

Ethan frowned, but before he could ask anything else, the officer straightened up, turning away. “Rest up, okay? You’ll need your strength.”

As the van hurtled through the streets, sirens blaring in the distance, Ethan leaned back against the cold metal wall, his mind reeling.

Someone had called in the cavalry. Someone who knew where he was. Someone who wanted him alive.

But who?