3 bar menu

Hello, New York! – Part 01

“Oh, but, grandmother, what a terrible big mouth you have.”

“The better to eat you with.”

And scarcely had the wolf said this, than with one bound he was out of bed and swallowed up Little Red Riding Hood.

—Brothers Grimm, Little Red Riding Hood

---

Prologue

Nightfall. The man had been having a long dream.

He dreamed of a familiar place from the past—a deep forest in a foreign land, a town abandoned and evacuated due to war, an old mansion on the outskirts. Holding a candle, the man descended a dark staircase leading underground. His black military boots clicked on the cracked stone steps.

Drip, drip. Underground water oozed out of the walls.

Once he made it to the bottom, the man unlocked the heavy iron door, revealing a room filled with darkness from ancient times.

As he proceeded with an otherworldly stride, as though gliding on water, faint cries of children came from all corners, boys and girls alike.

The man started laughing.

He cast the candlelight over the surroundings. Steel torture devices hung on the bare stone walls. Dirty pitchers and plates lay scattered on the floor. In a corner, young boys and girls of Eastern origin huddled together, fear etched in their wide-open eyes. The man released a satisfied sigh.

Now, which toy shall we play with tonight? He chuckled low.

The children began sobbing. Their faces were grimy, their body malnourished. Some of them were missing limbs.

There were no adults to worry about missing children. It was wartime, and everyone was preoccupied. They had been abandoned and forgotten.

“Hahahahaha!”

As the man laughed, the children’s screams crescendoed like a symphony. Dancing to an imaginary tune, he illuminated each child’s face with the candle’s flame.

“You can scream and beg all you want, but no help will come.”

The man callously pulled the arm of a girl. Her arms were unbelievably thin and bony, covered in wounds. The laughter rang higher.

Then, from somewhere beyond the dream—from the ceiling, beyond the wall, or perhaps the outside world—a voice, low and hoarse like that of an old woman, echoed with a hint of childishness.

“In that case, the only option is for the children to help each other. We will band together to emancipate ourselves from this country of bloodshed and violence created by the folly of adults.”

“Some of us will eventually reach a new land and establish ourselves. There is hope in the pits of despair.”

“I am sure of it!”

“Wh-Who’s there?”

The man inspected the surroundings with the candle flame, but besides the pitiful children, there was no one else around. Angry and trembling with rage, he illuminated each face, discovering a particularly emaciated figure in the corner, crouching. The small girl lifted her head and looked at the man.

She was different from the other Asian children. She had silver hair, emerald green eyes, and rose-colored cheeks. Stunning yet ominously alluring, her beauty was sublime. He didn’t recall there being a girl like this.

The man stepped back. “Who are you… coming into my dream and saying stupid things?” he muttered. He grabbed a large riding whip from the wall and whipped it towards the girl’s face.

“Who are you…?”

Suddenly, there was a bang, and a sea of pure red blood rushed in from the basement door. In a panic, the man tried to escape but was quickly engulfed. Gasping for breath, he sought help, but the children and the girl with the mysterious green eyes had vanished.

Alone, the man spun in the center of the blood vortex, writhing in agony as he was consumed. His jaw, lips, nose, wide-open eyes, and finally, his head, disappeared into the depths of the red sea.

The man slowly awakened from the dream. Moaning, he gripped the edge of the pillow in anguish, then opened his eyes.

---

Chapter 1: Hello, New York!

“Again?! Oh, it’s roses this time.”

It was eight in the morning, and New York had just woken up.

In the corner of Little Italy, winter’s breeze stirred as drowsy commuters, clothed in Chester coats over three-piece suits, passed by breakfast stands, while uniformed children dutifully trekked to school.

The vibrant signs of cafes, restaurants, and bars in red, white, and green flapped in the snowy wind.

In one corner of the serene district, police officers in indigo blue uniforms and a jet-black patrol car gathered around something. The atmosphere was unsettling, but passersby seemed unfazed, treating it as if it were just any other day.

Above the heads of the officers, a tall Italian youth with a large camera snapped pictures. Each time the shutter clicked, the officers turned around, waving their arms as if shooing away bothersome flies, but the young man ignored them.

“Hey!” he called, not taking his eyes off the viewfinder. “This morning’s body is pretty wild, huh? Wasn’t it just yesterday morning when they found only a pair of women’s shoes that turned into bright-red high heels? They say gang retaliation killings are getting fancier every year. Those guys must be getting bored of murder, don’t you think?”

There was no response. Twisting his mouth dramatically, he turned away from the gangster’s corpse—it was riddled with bullets from a machine gun, with a red rose in its mouth–and scanned the area.

“Huh? Kujou?”

A police officer pushed him away.

“Kujou?”

“Ahuh, ahuh. So you heard gunshots around dawn rather than midnight. Oh, and what about voices? I see! As a longtime resident of this area, what do you think about the recent gang violence? Hmm…”

An earnest-sounding boy’s voice drifted from somewhere.

In front of a small Italian restaurant across from where the police officers had gathered, a young man was squatting in front of an elderly woman half as tall as he was, listening carefully.

His jet-black hair, bangs slightly grown, swayed gently in the winter wind. He wore a navy blazer, flannel pants, a worn-out pea coat, and an old-fashioned cap. His eyes, darting as he took notes, were as black as the deepest darkness.

He was a young, small, typical East Asian man.

At first glance, he seemed aloof, but his round eyes were clear and bright, touching people’s hearts with their soft, straight gaze.

As the Italian repeatedly called out his name, he lifted his gaze, when a new police car came rushing around the corner. Officers alighted and drove them off. The petite East Asian reporter expressed his gratitude to the elderly woman, while the tall Italian photographer, jokingly balancing the camera on his head, scurried away.

“So Nico, did you manage to get the crime scene photos?”

“Absolutely. Probably. Don’t sweat it!”

“Which is it?”

Bantering back and forth, they walked through the hustle and bustle of Little Italy.

The young East Asian man was Kazuya Kujou.

Having left the war-torn island nation of the East, he immigrated to a new, large country only a few months ago. He had just started as an apprentice reporter at the new newspaper company known as the Daily Road.

Beside him, swinging his long arms in a carefree manner, was his partner, an apprentice photographer named Nicholas Sacco. A purebred New Yorker raised in Little Italy, he was tall with big eyes and a thick beard around his mouth. He wore a lime-green coat.

While Kazuya flipped through his notes, Nico seemed bored.

“Ah! So many gang killings this month, huh? It’s getting annoying doing this every day.”

“Yeah…”

“The seniors are having a great time covering the Miss New York contest, while here we are, stuck with gang warfare as usual.”

“Yeah…”

“Oh, look, the new issue of TIME magazine is out! Kujou, read it for me. I can’t read!”

“Yeah… What? I’m good.”

At the border between Little Italy and Chinatown, the colorful Italian district, bathed in red, green, and white, blended with the chaotic scenery filled with Chinese characters and Eastern art. The mingling aroma of both cuisines tantalized the senses.

Nico pulled out a TIME magazine from a stand on the corner. The cover featured the right profile of an awfully broad-shouldered, middle-aged Italian man. Wearing a fine hat tilted to one side, he had a red cashmere scarf wrapped around his neck. Upon closer inspection, his eyes gleamed ominously like gun barrels.

“Ugh, why is this week’s cover Garbo Boss? A movie star would’ve been better,” Nico muttered discontentedly. “Well, he’s our Godfather figure, I guess. But still, why put the Mafia boss on the cover of a magazine?”

“Hmm, curious thoughts from an Italian.”

“I hate the Mafia! They make the city dangerous and suffocating. Though lately, they seem to be doing charity work.” Nico grimaced.

Kazuya, taking the magazine, flipped through it. “Hmm, there’s an article about that charity work you mentioned. Like serving food in front of the church. Probably just for show. And there’s also mention of his childhood memories. Uh, apparently, he liked unusual animals. Garbo Boss dreamed of having such pets if he wasn’t poor. The article paints him as a regular, good guy from the neighborhood. Hmm, hmm, hmm. Doesn’t it seem like a shady attempt to win over the public?”

“Exactly! And boys, whether good or bad, all like unusual animals,” Nico said, the camera still on his head.

Kazuya paused for a moment, as if reminded of something. “Right. Yeah, you’re right.”

“I am. So, what’s next?”