The plane touched down on Ishigaki at noon.
The sky was impossibly blue — a shade Ren had never seen in Tokyo, deep and endless, dotted with clouds that looked like cotton. The air was warm and thick, heavy with the smell of salt and flowers and something else — something wild.
Hikari stepped off the plane beside him, her face pale but determined. She hadn't slept on the flight. Neither had he. They had sat in silence, holding hands, watching the ocean stretch beneath them.
Takeshi followed behind, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. His eyes were scanning the terminal, the parked cars, the faces of the other passengers. Old habits.
"We need a guide," Takeshi said. "The area your father was spotted in — it's not on any map. Locals only."
"Where do we find one?"
"There's a bar in town. The owner knows everyone. If anyone can find us a guide, he can."
They took a taxi to the town — a small, sleepy place with narrow streets and old buildings, the kind of town that tourists visited for a day and then forgot. The bar was called "The Last Stop," and it looked exactly like its name: weathered wooden sign, cracked windows, a door that had been kicked in and repaired more than once.
Inside, the air was dark and cool. A few old men sat at the counter, nursing beers and ignoring the television in the corner. Behind the bar stood a man in his sixties — bald, tattooed, with arms that looked like they had seen more than their share of fights.
"Takeshi," the man said. "It's been a long time."
"Too long, Yamamoto-san."
The man — Yamamoto — glanced at Ren and Hikari. "You're not here for the beaches."
"No. We're here for a man. Akira Akiyama. He was spotted near the jungle, south of here."
Yamamoto's expression didn't change. But something in his eyes shifted.
"That's dangerous territory," he said. "People go in. They don't always come out."
"We know."
"And you want a guide."
"Yes."
Yamamoto was silent for a moment. Then he reached under the counter and pulled out a phone. He dialed a number, spoke in a low voice, and hung up.
"There's a man. His name is Sato. He knows the jungle better than anyone. But he's not cheap."
"Money isn't a problem."
"It's not money he wants." Yamamoto looked at Ren. "He wants a favor. A personal favor. From you."
Ren's eyes narrowed. "What kind of favor?"
"You'll have to ask him yourself."
---
Sato met them at the edge of the jungle.
He was younger than Ren expected — maybe thirty, with sun-darkened skin and eyes that had seen too much. He wore a faded shirt and worn boots, and he carried a machete in his belt like it was an extension of his arm.
"You're Akiyama's son," Sato said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"I used to work for your father. Three years ago. He hired me to guide a group of men through the jungle. They were carrying something. I didn't ask what."
Ren's heart pounded. "What happened?"
"They didn't come back. Only one of them did. He was bleeding. He said something about a cave. About a woman. About —" Sato stopped. "He died before he could finish."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I've been looking for that cave for three years. I want to know what happened to those men. I want to know what your father was hiding."
"You want to come with us."
"I want to lead you to the place where your father was seen. And if we find something — something that proves what he did — I want to be there."
Ren looked at Takeshi. Takeshi nodded.
"Then let's go," Ren said.
---
The jungle swallowed them whole.
The path was narrow, overgrown, barely visible beneath the thick canopy of trees. Sato walked in front, his machete clearing the way, his eyes scanning the shadows. Ren followed, Hikari close behind him, Takeshi bringing up the rear.
The air was thick and wet. Sweat dripped down Ren's back. His legs ached. His lungs burned. But he didn't stop.
"How much farther?" Hikari asked.
"An hour. Maybe two." Sato didn't look back. "The jungle plays tricks on you. Distances feel longer than they are."
"Is the cave easy to find?"
"No. That's why your father chose it."
They walked in silence. The sounds of the jungle surrounded them — birds, insects, the rustle of leaves. Somewhere in the distance, a monkey screamed.
Hikari stumbled. Ren caught her arm.
"I'm okay," she said. "Just tired."
"We can rest."
"No. Keep moving."
They kept moving.
---
They found the cave at dusk.
The entrance was hidden behind a waterfall — a thin curtain of water that cascaded down the rock face, obscuring the darkness beyond. Sato stepped through first, his machete raised. Ren followed.
The cave was cool and damp, the air heavy with the smell of earth and something else — something metallic. Blood.
Takeshi pulled out a flashlight. The beam cut through the darkness, illuminating walls covered in moss and — further in — something else.
Markings. Carvings. Words.
Ren stepped closer. The words were names. Dates. Messages written in a language he didn't recognize.
"What is this place?" Hikari whispered.
"A grave," Sato said. "Or a prison. I don't know."
They walked deeper. The tunnel narrowed, then opened into a large chamber. In the center of the chamber was a table — metal, rusted, stained. And on the table —
Hikari gasped.
A photograph. Old, faded, curled at the edges. A woman with long black hair, her face gaunt, her eyes closed. Tubes ran from her arms. She was lying in a hospital bed.
Ren's mother.
He picked up the photograph. His hands were shaking.
"Why is this here?" he whispered. "Why would he —"
"Because he wanted to remember," a voice said from the darkness.
Ren turned.
His father stepped out of the shadows.
He looked different — thinner, paler, his expensive clothes replaced by simple khakis and a button-down shirt. But his eyes were the same. Cold. Calculating. Empty.
"Hello, Ren," he said. "I was wondering when you'd find me."