Fever bites

The Supra carved its way up the mountains, the engine’s low growl vibrating through the chassis like a heartbeat that refused to calm down. We were on Route 143, heading out of Matsumoto toward Ueda.

I glanced over at Ryoji. His grip on the wheel was steady, face unreadable, as always. The kind of unreadable that said: something’s wrong, but we’re not going to talk about it yet.

We sped through the first bends of Aoki Pass, pine trees rushing past in dark streaks, and I finally gave in to the question that had been hammering at my skull since we’d left.

“Ryoji,” I said quietly, “who is this… Krisha?”

He didn’t take his eyes off the road. “Anastasiya Reznikova. Codename Krysha. Former Soviet Spetsnaz.”

My fingers tightened on the seat.

“She’s a tracker. The best they had in the East. Maybe the best in the world.”

The best in the world.

A cold shiver threaded down my spine. “So she’s the one who’s been following us.”

“She doesn’t let go once she locks on.”

I didn’t even know what that meant. But it sounded bad.

“And she’s not here to kill me?”

“Not unless she’s ordered to,” Ryoji said, voice even. “She’s after the location.”

“My father.”

The words came out like a whisper. Ryoji didn’t respond, which was how I knew I was right.

I slumped slightly into my seat, watching the dark, narrowing turns ahead. The Supra surged forward, gliding through each curve like it knew the road by heart.

My mind didn’t feel quite as smooth. Everything inside me felt jumpy and tired—fear, adrenaline, too little food, too little sleep.

My stomach growled audibly. Ryoji gave me a sidelong look.

“I’m fine,” I muttered, already rummaging through the glove compartment.

Somehow, miraculously, there was a protein bar wedged in there. Thank you, Hiro.

I tore it open and took a bite—dry, chewy, vaguely peanut-flavored.

Ryoji raised an eyebrow.

I chewed and glared. “What? I can’t scream if I’m fainting.”

He almost smirked. Almost.

“Besides,” I added with my mouth half full, “now I’m terrified and low blood sugar isn’t helping. This is me taking care of myself.”

The road climbed toward Wada Pass, the forest closing in on both sides. Traffic was sparse—just the occasional headlights streaking past in the opposite lane. Even the trees felt still. Watching.

I forced down another bite of the bar and glanced at the valley twisting below. Somewhere back there, a woman trained to hunt ghosts was on our tail. I wasn’t sure what scared me more—her, or how calm Ryoji seemed about it.

I took another bite, but the bar was turning to sawdust in my mouth.

Ryoji glanced over, just long enough to make it sting. “If you keep eating like that, you’ll need a new leotard for your next demo.”

I gave him a sharp side-eye. “Wow. Real nice. You going to start criticizing my figure while we’re being hunted by a death machine from the Eastern Bloc?”

“She’s East German,” he corrected, deadpan.

“Oh, well pardon me. An East German death machine. That changes everything.”

Ryoji glanced over again, a little slower this time. “Much like you. That blonde hair sure isn’t from your Japanese heritage.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Gee, thanks. Glad we’re keeping the cultural profiling alive and well on this fine escape from imminent death.”

He didn’t reply—just the faintest arch of an eyebrow, like he was waiting for a real answer.

I sighed, watching the winding road ahead. “My mom was German. Munich-born. Tall, blonde, terrifying when angry. You’d have liked her.”

The corner of his mouth twitched—almost a smile. The irritating kind that vanished before you could prove it was there.

I huffed, crumpling the wrapper in my fist. Ahead, the dark road unwound, the Supra humming like it had something to prove.

Inside, the cockpit was stripped-down precision: black dash, red backlit gauges, tach needle dancing with each shift. Manual gear lever, aluminum pedals, deep Recaro seats that gripped your ribs like they expected you to crash and walk away from it. Nothing wasted. Everything with a purpose. Like the man driving.

I tugged the seatbelt higher on my shoulder, then looked at him again. “So… how do you even know her? This Krisha.”

“She trained with me,” he said, eyes fixed ahead.

I blinked. “You trained with her.”

“Yeah.”

“In Russia?!”

He nodded, like that was the most normal answer in the world.

I stared at him. “You say that like it’s a place you go for summer camp.”

“It wasn’t summer.”

Right. Of course it wasn’t.

I shook my head and sat back again, heart thudding a little faster now—and not because of the car.

This man—quiet, irritating, half-insomniac, with a gun in his duffel and a soft spot for broken vending machines—had trained in Russia. With a woman now hunting my father. While we ran like extras in some Cold War reboot.

And here I was, clutching a half-eaten protein bar like a toddler with a juice box.

What kind of life was this?

The warmth crept up on me slowly—first behind my eyes, then heavy in my chest, then sliding down my spine like hot syrup. My limbs dragged. My head stuffed with cotton. Even the seatbelt felt wrong against my collarbone, digging in like it knew something I didn’t. The engine’s steady hum thickened, blurring into the back of my skull until it felt less like sound and more like weight.

I tried to chew the last bite of that miserable protein bar, but even that was too much.

Blink. The road curved and stretched ahead.

Blink. Like watching someone else’s life on TV.

Blink—

I cracked the window latch, needing air, something cool.

“Don’t,” Ryoji said, not even looking over. His voice was calm, but clipped. “It’ll worsen your fever.”

Fever?

I blinked again, confused. My fingers froze on the handle.

“I don’t have—” I started, but my voice didn’t come out right. Too dry, too hoarse.

I touched my forehead.

Burning.

My skin was damp, my breathing shallow and fast. I hadn’t even noticed.

“How did… you—” I tried, but the sentence scattered halfway out of my mouth. I couldn’t finish it. Couldn’t even think it through. The seat seemed to tilt back without moving. The world got heavier.

Somewhere distantly, I heard Ryoji click the radio receiver on.

Static. Then Hiro’s voice, crisp and wide awake.

“Already on it. Sending coordinates now. You’ve got two route options, but only one with cover. Choose the east curve after the viaduct.”

I wanted to ask what was happening. I wanted to ask why the air felt like it was made of soup and whether I was actually sweating or if the world had just started to melt.

But my body wasn’t cooperating anymore.

The protein bar slipped from my hand. The Supra’s engine roared beneath us. And then the world went dim.