Star Pair

The Supra roared up the final incline, wind whipping off the highway as Hachinohe loomed. Mountains faded behind us, replaced by low concrete buildings and flickering signs. The sea lingered in the air—salt, oil, something sharp. Civilization again. Too loud, too close.

Ryoji said little, only murmuring to Hiro over the ground line before we left. Coded phrases I stopped trying to parse hours ago. But I knew—next step. Crossing.

I gripped the seatbelt a little tighter as the city swallowed us.

My nerves prickled. Here, in the open, with real people and bus stops and vending machines—it felt like we were suddenly visible again.

Exposed. Every pedestrian was a watcher. Every window, a scope.

He must’ve noticed the way my breath slowed, the way I kept glancing over my shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” he said quietly. “We won’t be tailed.”

I nodded, trying to believe him.

The road curved along the bay, the skyline giving way to cranes and containers, salt-stained buildings and peeling paint. Seagulls wheeled low, their calls lost in the industrial hum. The port loomed ahead, a fractured maze of docks and storage lots, riddled with chain-link fences and warning signs.

He turned into an underground garage beneath a squat customs office. The Supra coasted down the ramp like a ghost. At the far end, near a dim flickering light, he parked her neatly between two faded yellow lines.

And then, like a ritual, he checked it.

Every door. Every latch. A glance beneath. A press on the tires. He moved with the reverence of someone saying goodbye to a friend.

Then he closed the driver’s side door, gently—too gently for someone who’d just raced downhill like a man possessed. He stood there for a moment, hand resting on the roof, fingers splayed like he was trying to memorize the curve of the metal.

And then he patted it. Not once, but twice—slow, deliberate.

Like he meant it. Like it mattered.

I watched in silence, caught off guard by the way his expression softened. It wasn’t the usual mask he wore. It was quieter. Sadder. Almost affectionate.

He wasn’t just leaving a car behind.

He was leaving a part of himself.

Then he turned to me, wordless, and handed me my duffel.

We climbed out—him first, me following—and the Supra sat behind us, still and waiting, like it understood.

At a small portside kiosk, a bored old guard flipped through a racing magazine, the corner of a radio murmuring something about tide schedules.

Ryoji stepped up, slid the car key onto the desk.

“An old man from the Kurosawa will pick it up,” he said flatly.

The guard didn’t look up. Just grunted, thumbed the page, and nodded once.

We left the garage behind and emerged into the sea air.

Above us, the sky had cleared, and the water gleamed in long strokes of orange and blue. The ferry ship was pulling into its berth with impossible grace, churning the bay into whirlpools. Painted letters read Sapporo Star, flanked by anchors and rusted railings. Tourists on the upper deck leaned over the rails, laughing and pointing at the gulls.

It all felt so normal.

And utterly surreal.

We had barely stepped into the open breeze of the port walkway when I saw them—two figures by the loading zone near the edge of the terminal.

Wait… no way.

“Sendo?! Chika?!”

It was them.

Sendo with his forever-slouch and that lazy ponytail, and Chika—leather jacket, crop top, too much eyeliner, and way too much attitude for someone her age. The moment she spotted us, Chika strode over and shoved a small duffel bag into Ryoji’s chest like she was delivering a time bomb.

“Well, that’s unexpected,” I said, eyebrows high.

“Yeah, you and me both,” Ryoji muttered, checking the contents.

I stepped closer, arms folding. “Okay. What are you two doing here?”

But before I could get a real answer, Ryoji gave me the look—a quick side-glance, followed by a subtle shake of his head. Right. Right. Talking too loud. Operational silence or whatever.

He turned toward Sendo. “Where’s Momochi?”

Sendo scratched the back of his head, sheepish as ever. “Ah—Momochi couldn’t make it. Something came up. Reika called in Chika last minute.”

Ryoji exhaled like someone just handed him an extra unpaid shift.

“Not good,” he muttered. “She’s too green.”

“Green?!” Chika snapped, stepping forward like she was about to punch him. “I’ll show you what’s green, you one-and-done burnout!”

He didn’t even blink. Didn’t look at her. Just gestured toward the passenger ramp with one flick of the wrist, already walking.

“Follow us.”

“Unbelievable,” Chika hissed under her breath, stomping after us.

I trotted up beside her. “Sooo… I guess you’re part of the operation now?”

“Guess so,” she said, puffing her cheeks. “They pull me outta Shibuya for this? Man…”

Up ahead, Ryoji was already speaking again, this time to Sendo. “Where is she?”

“On the cruiser!” Chika called out before Sendo could answer—loud, defiant, like she needed us to know she knew the plan.

I exchanged a wide-eyed glance with Sendo and whispered, “How many rules did she break in the last 24 hours?”

He held up three fingers. “That I know of.”

We reached the embarkation walkway, and my heart started beating faster. At first, I thought we were heading toward the Sapporo Star Ferry—some large, impersonal vessel that could take us across unnoticed.

Then we reached the end of the dock, but there was no ferry and no cruise liner.

Just water. And rust. And—

“You’re kidding me,” Chika deadpanned, stopping in her tracks.

There, bobbing gently in the pale morning tide, was a small fishing boat—late-70s to early-80s make by the look of it. Paint chipping, blue hull stained from decades of salt and diesel.

The name Daikichi Maru was stenciled in fading white katakana across the side, and a tangle of nets, crates, and ropes cluttered the deck like a hardware store had exploded.

It smelled like fish. And sea. And… decades of unpaid maintenance.

“That’s not a cruise ship,” I said, eyes wide.

Ryoji didn’t stop walking. “We’re two couples trying to join a cruise line. That’s the story. Stick to it.”

Chika blinked. “This is your idea of a liner?”

Before she could protest further, Sendo threw an arm around her shoulder and pulled her in close with a big dumb grin.

“Come on, babe,” he said, almost too proud of himself. “We’ll make memories. Open sea, close quarters…”

Chika immediately jabbed him in the ribs. “Touch me again and I’m telling your mom.”

“Hoi!” one of the bearded men at the bow called out as we approached. “Are you the ‘honeymoon’ crew?”

Ryoji nodded once, curt and dry. “Yeah. That’s us.”

The bearded man gave a half-shrug and turned back toward the deck. “Get on quick, then. We’re pushing off in five.”

The boat rocked slightly with each step—less a welcome and more a warning.

These three men stood aboard, all in their fifties, all with identical shaggy beards and faces like weathered bark. They wore old oil-stained work pants, mismatched jackets, and one of them had a cigarette dangling permanently from his lip even as he adjusted a rope line with calloused fingers.

“I’m the captain,” the tallest one said, clearly trying to assert some form of authority.

“No, I am,” the one with the cigarette chimed in. “Check the family registry.”

“Both of you shut it,” the third brother said, shorter and wider, arms crossed. “Dad said I get the wheel when we head north. You’re the engine monkey today.”

“Like hell I am!”

Ryoji raised a hand, calm as ever. “It doesn’t matter who’s captain. We just need to leave before the window closes.”

The three brothers grumbled but got to work untying ropes and prepping the deck like they’d done it a hundred times. Which, judging by the sheer harmony of their chaos, they probably had.

Chika eyed the boat like it had personally offended her.

“I’ve seen nicer delivery trucks,” she muttered. “In Shinagawa.”

“Just don’t fall out,” Ryoji said as he stepped onboard and spoke to the tall one in low, clipped terms—clearly arranging the next leg of our escape.

I watched them work, stunned by how natural he looked even here. Like he belonged to this world of salty old men and backdoor crossings just as easily as he did sword duels and dusty temples.

Sendo jumped onboard next, after grabbing Chika’s bag and grinning like this was the best idea he’d had all month.

“I call top bunk!”

“There are no bunks, moron!” Chika barked, stepping carefully onto the boat as if it might bite her. “Gimme back my bag!”

I followed last, holding my bag close, and felt the first sway of the vessel beneath my feet. We weren’t boarding a cruise.

The fishing boat lurched as it pulled away from the dock, the low groan of the motor vibrating up through my spine. It smelled like brine and diesel and at least three decades of fish scales. I tightened my grip on my bag and sat down in the open work area with the others—no benches, just damp crates and coiled ropes still wet from last night’s catch.

I nestled closer to Ryoji, casually looping my arm around his. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t stiffen. Just let me stay there, silent as ever. That was all the permission I needed.

“So…” I said loud enough for Chika to hear, “this is kind of romantic. Just you, me, and the open sea. Reminds me of our shopping mall date, doesn’t it, Darling?”

Still nothing from Ryoji. Not even a glance.

Perfect.

Across from us, Chika turned her head slowly, like someone noticing a card being played. Her eyes narrowed—sharp, amused, maybe even intrigued.

I didn’t meet her gaze, but I held the smile.

She’d get it. It wasn’t a challenge. Not really. Just an invitation to join the game.

“Oh wow,” she said, eyes wide with theatrical disbelief. “That’s what this is? A honeymoon cruise?” She looped her arm around poor Sendo—who blinked like he’d just been slapped with a fish—and purred, “Guess we’re both traveling couples now. Right, baby?”

Sendo’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.

Chika steamrolled over him. “Yeah, we’ve been on the road for weeks. Spontaneous hot springs, matching tattoos, that jazz club in Yokohama. And of course the love hotel. Unforgettable.”

Sendo made a strange choking sound. “Wait—what—”

I smiled, resting my head against Ryoji’s arm. “That sounds… chaotic.” I kept my voice light, just enough edge to bite. “We prefer quiet places. Temple stays. Candlelight. Tea. He likes things slow.”

Chika narrowed her eyes. “Oh, please. You serious types always crack the loudest. I bet he’s wild when the lights go out.”

I blinked at her. “And I bet you talk during the whole thing.”

Sendo audibly gagged, and then coughed to cover it.

Chika leaned forward like a wolf baring her teeth. “Oh, we’re playing that game, huh? Well, I definitely didn’t hear anything from the onsen suite. Nope. Not through two walls.”

Chika opened her mouth again—probably to throw another firebomb—but then…

Ryoji looked at her.

Just turned his head. Calm. Cold. Not angry—worse. Indifferent. Like he’d seen the script already and didn’t care for the ending.

And it worked.

She backed off. Even Sendo stopped fidgeting. The whole boat went quiet.

Well… not the whole boat.

Near the bow, the three bearded brothers were mid-argument again, this time over who was captain.

One of them—a tall one with a bandana and the smell of mackerel—held up a sardine like a sword and declared, “I’m the one with the sardine! That makes me captain today!”

“Captain of the bait bucket!” the short one shot back. “Give me the hat!”

“You lost the hat in Aomori!”

“No, you sat on it!”

Ryoji didn’t even look at them. Apparently, this was normal.

The boat pressed on, cutting through the water with that ancient-sounding motor, the sea dark and endless ahead of us. We were all quiet now, the act dropped, the mission taking back its place.

But I stayed right where I was.

Arm around the man who hadn’t said a word, hadn’t moved, hadn’t flinched.

And maybe that silence was saying everything I needed to hear.