The silence between them had barely settled. Kiyomi stared blankly out the window, Seko seated beside her, eyes cold and unreadable. The kid curled up near the floor, arms wrapped around his knees, his voice having just faded into the quiet:
"You're lucky… you at least had them for a time."
Then—
Crack.
A sharp sound pierced the still night air.
Gunfire.
Seko's eyes narrowed. Kiyomi snapped her head toward the window. The kid didn't flinch—just slowly stood up, dread already weighing in his gut.
Another shot rang out.
Then another.
Screams followed. Real, primal screams—not the ones made for show or drama. These were the screams of people watching everything fall apart in real time.
Seko bolted to the window. What he saw carved itself into his mind like a curse.
Outside, the upper-tier citizens—the rich, dressed in designer war-gear and smug grins—stalked the slums with rifles and blades. They weren't hiding. They weren't attacking out of fear.
They were enjoying it.
A man in a silver mask shot a mother as she shielded her infant with her body. Blood spattered across a makeshift clothesline where rags once dried. The infant cried, left untouched—on purpose. A sick game.
Near the eastern fence, poor women were being dragged out into the open. Laughter erupted from a group of sleekly dressed rich women seated in rows of lounge chairs under canopies. Bets were being placed.
"She won't last ten minutes!"
"Fifty on the redhead dying first!"
"I've seen that one scream before—bet she cracks quick!"
Some of the rich men didn't even participate—they simply watched. Glasses of wine in hand. Smirking. Chatting about the "sport."
It was a massacre dressed up like a holiday.
Seko's fingers dug into the windowsill hard enough to splinter wood. Kiyomi didn't speak. Her sword was already in her hand, eyes wide, trembling—not from fear, but fury barely contained.
The kid looked up at them.
"They're hunting," he said flatly. "Like birds. No different."
And then, finally… Atama's voice crackled over the building's intercom.
His tone wasn't lazy this time. It wasn't sarcastic or amused.
It was furious.
"This is a red alert. All agents prepare for breach. I don't care if you're asleep, naked, or dead—get the hell up. The rich just declared war on the poor. And guess what?"
A pause. Then:
"They're about to learn that gods bleed too."
Before the intercom clicked off, the ground-level doors to the surveillance wing slid open with a metallic hiss.
Heels clicked against tile.
A tall woman entered—elegant red hair cascading over a sculpted shoulder, her tailored crimson coat trimmed with gold embroidery that whispered power and wealth. Her very presence shifted the air—stiffening backs and silencing breath.
Izanami.
A high-ranking Coalition executive. Cold, precise, and dangerously poised.
She didn't flinch at the carnage flickering across the monitors. If anything, her faint smirk deepened as she stepped in.
"Such... passionate speeches, Atama," she said smoothly, each syllable dipped in mockery. "But I believe you're overstepping."
Atama was still staring at the monitors. Crunching a chip between his teeth, he muttered, "You're late."
"I'm right on time," Izanami replied, eyes flicking toward the security feeds showing blood, screaming, and fire. "This purge was authorized by the Outer Board. Population control. Stress relief for the high sectors."
Kiyomi's jaw tightened. Seko's blood boiled, but he said nothing.
"I'm ordering you," she continued, her voice now carrying that edge of Coalition authority, "to pull back all special agents. Now. Or you'll be the next investigation, Acting Commander."
Atama didn't respond right away. He yawned—long and drawn out—before tossing the empty chip bag onto the floor.
Then he turned around.
His usual lazy eyes weren't there.
Instead, a depthless stare bore into her. Not rage. Not defiance. Just... comprehension. The kind that made people feel seen down to their core programming.
He whispered, "You always did talk like you were trying to convince yourself."
Izanami's smile thinned.
Izanami's smile twisted into something sharper. "You need to learn your place, Atama."
She took a slow step forward, heels echoing through the tense silence.
"Without your precious tech, without your mind games and surveillance spiders… you're nothing more than a glitch in protocol. Ranked below sixteen of our field generals." Her eyes narrowed. "And eleven of them believe in the rich dominating the poor as a matter of natural order."
Atama blinked once. Slowly.
Then he tilted his head, genuinely curious. "Only eleven? I expected more. Maybe I'm more inspiring than I thought."
"You're playing with fire," she said coldly.
"No," he replied, brushing dust from his sleeve. "I am the fire."
Kiyomi, still tense, had her hand hovering near her weapon. Seko didn't move, but his fingers were clenched, the veins along his arms subtly flaring red.
The kid, sitting on the window ledge, muttered under his breath. "She talks a lot for someone who's never bled for anything."
Atama cracked his neck, then looked back at the surveillance feed.
"Call back your squads," Izanami snapped. "Or we'll label this as treason."
He didn't turn. Just raised one hand lazily toward the control board—then dropped it.
"Oops," he said flatly. "Signal must've jammed."
The slaughter outside continued.
The chaos outside deepened. Smoke blurred the streets as poor civilians fell one by one—mothers collapsing with their infants, husbands screaming their wives' names into the deafening void. Children cried, their tiny voices hoarse with pleas to adults who could no longer help them. The world had turned into a massacre—and somewhere amidst it, the laughter of the rich echoed louder than the gunfire. Even their children, dressed in polished coats and silk shoes, pointed and laughed at the dying like it was a game.
That's when Seko moved.
Silent, unblinking, and seething. His cuffs snapped—not with effort, but with will. Crimson eyes lit like twin embers under his brow, the bloodlust he had suppressed until now rising like a storm given permission. He stepped past Atama, past Kiyomi, past the flickering screens—toward the door.
The slaughter had called for a monster.
And Seko had finally answered.