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(POV: Hiroki Mori)
The silence of the early morning was cut only by the low hum of the Suburban's engine as we approached the outskirts of the dissidents' compound. The vehicle coasted into a hidden alley, flanked by crumbling walls and rusting vending machines—remnants of a world that no longer gave a damn about caffeine or convenience.
I gripped the handle of my kukri tightly, the curved blade resting against my armored thigh. To my right, Takashi-kun had his rifle ready, his eyes set dead ahead with that same intensity I'd seen since we burned his father's corpse. Saeko-chan sat between us, eerily calm, her gaze sharp, her mind already in the fight.
This wasn't a rescue. Not yet. It was vengeance with a tactical face.
The mission was simple. Make a shitload of noise. Be the hammer. Be the chaos.
"Positions," I whispered, barely audible under my breath.
Takashi nodded and peeled off to the left, ducking behind a stack of rusted barrels. Saeko moved like a shadow to the right, katana sheathed for now. I crouched behind the back of a delivery truck, fingers brushing the grip of my second kukri. The time for blades would come soon enough.
Through my earpiece, I heard Marco's voice—calm, composed, the strategist behind the madness.
"Phase One is a go. Start the noise, Hiroki."
Time to dance.
I popped a flashbang from my belt, primed it, and lobbed it over the fence. Two seconds later, the compound erupted in a sharp bang of light and sound. Screams followed, then curses, and the guttural shout of men trying to sound brave when their pants were already brown.
Gunfire cracked. Takashi was already in position, letting loose controlled bursts, blowing out kneecaps and dropping anyone dumb enough to rush blindly.
I vaulted over the truck, sprinted up the broken concrete and into the open yard. Two dissidents ran out of a prefab shed, weapons in hand.
Too slow.
I ducked under the first guy's wide swing, slashing up through his ribs with my left kukri. Blood sprayed in a hot arc. The second raised a pistol, but my right kukri met his wrist first—then his neck.
The blades sung in my hands. I felt it again—the primal part of me that clicked into place when violence became necessity. No hesitation.
Saeko entered the fray like a goddamn banshee. Her blade glinted once, then twice, each movement calculated, elegant and deadly. She moved like water laced with venom—graceful and final.
We were the chaos.
"Left wing clear!" Takashi shouted over comms.
"Center almost done!" I barked back, wiping blood from my cheek.
Two more dissidents broke from a shack near the courtyard, these ones better armed, shouting for reinforcements. They didn't expect Saeko. She leapt from the shadows, drove her blade through the first man's stomach, twisted it free, and used the momentum to cut clean through the second's collarbone.
Takashi regrouped with us, breathing hard but steady.
"We got their attention alright," he muttered, reloading.
From the tower, a horn began to wail.
"They're calling for backup," Saeko noted, flipping her hair back behind her shoulder. "Good. Let them come."
"Snipers, you have targets incoming from the west gate," Marco's voice came through again, clipped and calm. "Kohta, Izana—clean up."
Two distant phutt sounds echoed, followed by the telltale thumps of bodies hitting dirt. We didn't need to look to know Kohta and Izana were doing their job.
"Keep the pressure up," Marco continued. "Saya and I are going in while the rats scramble."
"Copy that," I said. Then I looked to Takashi.
"You good?"
He nodded. "I'm ready to bury every last one of these assholes."
Saeko grinned. "Then let's deliver the message."
We pushed deeper into the compound, now half in ruins from the chaos we'd stirred up. We breached a building that looked like an old shipping center—used now as a barracks or some kind of holding cell.
Inside, blood. Chains. The stench of human waste.
"Fuck..." Takashi muttered, bile rising.
We saw a girl chained to the far wall, barely breathing. She wasn't the only one. We didn't have time to clear it now—this would be evac team's job. But the sight steeled our fury.
"Tag it," I said. "Mark this building for Rei and Kanako."
Takashi sprayed a red X on the metal door. His hands shook slightly.
We moved to the rooftop. From here, we could see the entire main yard. Dissidents were scrambling—shouting orders, running in all directions.
We had done our job.
I looked through the scope of a fallen rifle. In the distance, a silent shadow moved toward the central command shack—Marco. Saya followed close, her eyes blazing.
It was all in motion now.
"Alright," I said. "We've opened the gates of hell. Now let the devils do their work."
But deep down, I knew—this wasn't the hardest part.
The hardest part would be surviving what came next.
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(POV: Saya Takagi)
The air was heavy with heat and dust, the taste of war already on my tongue. The roar of Hiroki's team pulling half the fucking compound's attention made it clear—it was now or never. I pulled the zipper of my suit halfway up, feeling it cling to my skin. Damn thing made me look like some comic'sassassin—but if the tightness kept my nerves sharp, I'd deal with it. Besides, Mother said it was designed for tactical mobility. Let's see if it lives up to the hype.
I pressed two fingers to my comm. "Takagi here. Phase One distraction is active. Marco-kun, we're green."
His voice crackled through the earpiece, steady and serious. "Copy, Saya-chan. Move in. I'm with you."
Of course, you are, you smug bastard.
We moved through the side alley, the city ruins around us twisting like jagged teeth. Marco was behind me—silent, focused, with those dual .38s ready in hand. He hadn't said much since we left, just scanned corners and dropped bodies like it was a reflex. Two headshots already from the shadows. Silent. Clean. Efficient.
My eyes scanned the thermal feed on my visor in my glasses. Four guards, north hallway. Light armor, no heat shielding. Idiots. I signaled Marco and pointed with two fingers, then made the slit-throat gesture.
He nodded. Time to get to work.
I slid behind a pillar. One breath. Two.
I burst forward, grabbed the first one by the helmet strap, yanked down, and drove my boot into his face. He collapsed with a pathetic wheeze, gun clattering. The next turned, but Marco was already there. Pffft. Silenced round between the eyes. He dropped like a sack of bricks.
"Two more!" I hissed.
Marco didn't answer. Just moved. Fluid. Lethal.
He took cover behind a desk as the last two turned and opened fire. The rounds sparked against the concrete near his head. I ducked behind an overturned filing cabinet, counting seconds. They were aggressive but sloppy.
I tapped my earpiece again. "Snipers, confirm position. We need clean shots from northeast—window frame corridor."
Kohta's voice buzzed in. "Copy that, Takagi-san. I have visual. One breath. One bullet."
CRACK. One down.
The other panicked, turned—and Marco stepped out from behind him and drove his knife right between the ribs. The guy gagged and dropped to his knees, clutching at his own blood like it could save him.
"One corridor clear," Marco whispered. He looked at me and gave a cocky half-smile. "How's that suit working out for you?"
"Shut up and move, Di Balla-san," I muttered. But my cheeks burned a little.
We moved again. Fast, silent. The base's inner hallways were a maze of reinforced metal and cheap concrete. We stuck close to walls, knifed shadows when we could. When we couldn't? Marco's revolvers whispered death.
They deserved no less. Bastards who preyed on women and children, enslaved them, used them. Fucking monsters. Marco had said it best—"You don't negotiate with animals. You put them down."
A woman's scream echoed from down the corridor. We froze.
Marco's eyes narrowed, jaw tightening. "They're using one of the girls again. Lure. Trap."
"I know," I replied. "We're springing it."
He didn't argue. Of course not. He trusted me. That still surprised me sometimes.
I took point. The hallway opened into a wide cargo room, crates everywhere—cover, death, danger.
Two women were bound in the corner. One was crying. The other looked unconscious.
Four armed men waited behind crates.
"Come on out, sweethearts! We saw you! Come out, or we gut them!" one yelled.
I whispered, "Snipers—mark four targets in cargo bay. Open fire in three... two... one."
CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.
Three heads exploded in synchronized silence.
The last turned just in time for Marco to fire—two taps to the chest, one to the forehead.
The bodies slumped.
We moved in fast. Marco secured the room while I checked the girls. One was alive, weak but breathing. The other… wasn't so lucky.
Marco crouched next to me. "We don't have time to mourn. Grab her. We take her with us."
I nodded. "Copy."
We hoisted the survivor and moved again.
Thirty seconds later, I pressed my comm.
"Marco and Saya—east cargo secured. Two hostiles neutralized. One civilian rescued. Request evac window."
Shizuka's voice came through, softer than usual. "Confirmed. I'm one block out. Ready when you are, Saya-chan."
I felt Marco's hand brush against mine as we moved. Just once. Brief. Silent acknowledgment. This was war. But I wasn't alone.
We moved to the outer wall where the blast team was supposed to breach.
"Hiroki, Takashi, Saeko—what's your status?"
"Almost there," Hiroki answered. Gunfire echoed behind him. "We've stirred the hornet's nest. You'll get your breach in sixty seconds."
I smirked.
"Then let's blow some fucking walls."
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(POV: Saeko Busujima)
The noise hit like a thunderclap—an explosion of chaos from the north wall. My eyes snapped open with the sound, breath caught in my throat.
Takashi-kun grunted beside me, pulling the pin from a flashbang and tossing it over the barricade. It landed with a crisp bounce.
BANG!
Screams erupted from the enemy lines.
I took that as my cue.
"Let's go," I hissed, voice low, eyes sharp.
Hiroki-kun led the charge, moving like a phantom with those twin kukris gleaming under the moonlight. Takashi followed behind him with his rifle ready. I, on the other hand, reached back to unsheathe my favored weapon.
The modified katana, carbon-steel and titanium core, had the balance of a real masterpiece without fragility. My fingers closed around the grip, and with a sharp exhale, I ran into the fray.
Three dissidents stood guard just beyond the blast point—eyes wide from the disorientation, guns still pointed nowhere.
I didn't hesitate.
One spin, one cut.
My blade struck the first man in the collarbone, cracking it with a satisfying crunch. As he dropped, the second raised his pistol—too slow. I stepped forward, swept his legs, and brought the bokken down on his temple.
He went limp instantly.
The third tried to run.
"Coward," I muttered.
I leapt forward, catching up in three strides. He screamed.
"Don't scream," I whispered as I struck him across the back of the head.
Crack.
Silence.
Blood pounded in my ears. Not from fear. Never fear.
It was something else. Something darker. That strange warmth that came when I moved like this—when I danced.
"Saeko!" Takashi called. "We're breaching the south-side barracks now!"
"I'm right behind you!"
We regrouped under the cover of smoke and darkness, using the chaotic breach to move swiftly. Hiroki had already cleared a hallway inside. Bodies were scattered—most of them silent, some groaning in pain.
He didn't spare them a second glance.
Neither did I.
Takashi broke down the inner lock with the butt of his rifle, and we moved into the main hallway. The entire building was low-tech—more concrete and rust than proper military structure—but still deadly. At least a dozen dissidents had made this their home.
They'd barricaded it like rats in a nest.
We moved in a tight triangle—Takashi up front, Hiroki rear guard, and myself on his six. Our comms were open but silent; only the low occasional breath or quiet shuffle echoing in our ears.
Until a girl screamed.
It wasn't one of ours.
Hiroki growled, "Room to the right."
We breached. One shot from Takashi.
One man dropped.
Inside the room, a young woman no older than me sat curled in a corner—barely clothed, bruised, but alive.
"Secure her!" Takashi shouted.
"I've got her," I answered. I wrapped my arms around her trembling body, trying to calm the storm in her eyes.
She looked at me like I was some kind of avenger.
But I wasn't.
I was just the blade.
"Saeko," Hiroki said through gritted teeth, "we need to keep moving. Marco and Saya are still deep inside."
I nodded.
I stood, drawing a blade I didn't know I'd been hiding in my soul.
The girl looked up to me with hope in her eyes, and I gave her the faintest of smiles.
"We'll protect you," I said. "I promise."
20 Minutes Later
The sounds of gunfire and shouting faded behind us. Reinforcements from the Takagi base had secured the hallway, sweeping up stragglers and pulling out survivors. Hiroki stood posted at the rear window, eyes locked on his scope.
"Snipers are clearing the last nests," he reported.
"Any visual on Marco-kun or Saya-chan?" I asked.
"Not yet."
The radio buzzed.
"This is Marco. We've made it to the control room. Saya's planting charges."
A breath I didn't know I was holding released from my lungs.
He was okay.
She was okay.
For now.
"Prepare to fall back to evac point Alpha," I commanded. "Let's help get the survivors out. We're almost done here."
Takashi met my gaze. Something cold burned behind his eyes.
"We'll make them pay for every innocent life they took."
I gave him a single nod.
"Yes," I whispered. "We will."
The scent of gunpowder and blood clung to the air, but so did the bitter scent of resolve.
The mission wasn't over.
But we were getting close.
And if I had to become a devil in the shadows to protect what remained of our world—then so be it.
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(POV: Rei Miyamoto)
The wind shifted over the rooftops like a whisper of old ghosts.
I crouched behind the half-collapsed cinder block wall of what had once been a drug store. My fingers gripped my Uzi tightly, its weight no longer unfamiliar. My knuckles had grown white, not from fear—fear had long since been burned out of me—but from the tension of waiting.
Waiting for the call.
Beside me, Kanako Mori adjusted her comms unit. Her sleek red special bodysuit fit tight, functional, custom-built from Marco's workshop. Her fingers were dancing over the small console, scanning frequencies, checking vitals from the other teams. She was breathing through her nose—measured, even—but I could see the tension in her eyes.
We were the evac team.
The ones who picked up the pieces after everyone else spilled the blood.
But fuck, did I want to spill blood too.
"Rei-chan," Kanako said, not looking up from the console. "They're moving. Hiroki-kun just confirmed breach successful. They've already cleared the southern quadrant."
I nodded. "Marco-kun and Takagi-san?"
"No visuals yet. But they're inside."
I closed my eyes for a second and exhaled. Marco was in. Saya too. If anything happened to either of them, this whole plan would fall apart faster than an overcooked rice ball.
The thought of Marco dead—of Saya gone—twisted my stomach in knots. Not because of love—except for Marco—or whatever the hell was left of it in this world, but because they were the closest thing we had to hope.
And losing hope out here? That meant dying slower.
My comms buzzed.
"Evac team. Be advised. First wave of survivors inbound. Light hostiles on the road. Cover and extract."
It was Marco's voice. Calm, clipped. Focused.
My heart jumped in my chest.
"Copy that," I said, tapping my earpiece. "We're moving."
Kanako adjusted the strap on her dual pistols and stood up beside me.
"Time to be their guardian angels, ne, Miyamoto-san?"
"Let's give these bastards hell."
We moved fast—corner to corner, alley to alley, sweeping for contacts and clearing the path to the extraction point. Shizuka-sensei was already circling with the Hammer a few blocks out. We just had to make it to the opening point near the radio tower.
As we turned a corner, I spotted the first movement—two girls, both in ripped civilian clothing, running full sprint.
Behind them? Three armed dissidents chasing them like dogs after scraps.
"Cover me!" I shouted.
I ducked behind a crumbling vending machine and let the Uzi roar. Short bursts. Controlled.
The first bastard dropped with a bullet between the ribs. The second flinched. The third raised his weapon, but Kanako was already there—one clean shot, right in between the two carotid arteries.
"Clear!" she called.
The girls kept running. I waved them toward us, and they stumbled into the alley with wide, terrified eyes.
"It's okay," I said, kneeling. "You're safe now. We've got a way out."
"Y-You're Miyamoto-san, aren't you?" one asked. Her voice cracked. "The captain's… daughter?"
My chest twisted.
"Yes," I whispered. "And now I fight for what he died trying to protect."
Kanako put a hand on my shoulder. "We need to keep moving."
More survivors were trickling out. Women. Kids. One man missing an arm. They looked like ghosts dragging their chains.
We herded them to the makeshift rally point behind the radio tower. There, under a collapsed bus sign, was the beacon. The IR flare Shizuka would lock onto.
She'd be here soon.
Gunfire echoed from the south again—closer this time.
I raised my weapon.
"Positions. Kanako-san, take high ground on that scaffolding. I'll cover the rear."
"Understood."
As she moved into position, I crouched beside a half-burned trash can. My eyes scanned the alleyway, heart pounding now. The silence between the gunshots was deafening.
A new group came through the smoke. Hiroki. Saeko. Takashi. They were covered in blood, bruised, but breathing.
They had two more girls with them, and what looked like a civilian boy barely old enough to have hair on the eggs.
Takashi grunted, "We need exfil—now. Shizuka-sensei better be flying that damn thing."
"I see her!" Kanako called from above. "She's coming in fast—two blocks east. Bring the evac now!"
I waved everyone forward. "Go! Move! Move!"
We rushed the street, clearing the last corner into the open. Shizuka's Hammer skidded to a stop, doors sliding open.
"Get them in! Now!" I shouted.
One by one, survivors climbed in. Some were crying. Some didn't even know where they were. All of them were alive.
And that made all the difference.
As the last one climbed aboard, I turned to Kanako. She had her pistols up, breathing hard.
"You good?" I asked.
She nodded. "Let's finish this."
As we jumped aboard and Shizuka slammed the doors shut, I looked out the back window at the city we were leaving behind.
At the flames.
At the bodies.
At the world we were trying to save.
And for the first time in days, I felt something burn inside me again.
Not fear.
Not grief.
But purpose.
The kind that doesn't fade with the smoke.
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(POV: Kohta Hirano)
The rifle was warm against my cheek, pressed tight into the padded stock. My breathing was slow. My heartbeat, steady. All the shitstorm down below? Chaos, gunfire, screams? That was background noise now.
Izana-san stood beside me, leaned against the corner of the rooftop with a cigarette between his lips, half-lit and forgotten. His eyes were hidden behind those tinted shades, but I could feel him watching the carnage with an old killer's calm.
"You see that rooftop, Kohta-kun?" he muttered.
"Yeah. Four bodies. Three with AKs. One with a scope. All ours."
He grinned. "The guy with the scope is mine."
I nodded. "Let's time this."
He pulled his pistol—his signature FN Five-Seven—and rested it against the ledge like it was an old friend.
Phutt.
One of the spotters dropped, his forehead splitting open like a cantaloupe.
"Nice," I said, adjusting my elevation.
Through my scope, the world became mathematics. Windage, drop, velocity. The only variable was how fast the bastards could run.
Target one was crouched behind a rusted A/C unit, glassing the street below with binoculars. His buddy next to him was leaning on his rifle like an idiot.
"Kohta-kun," Izana said, blowing out a thin stream of smoke, "think of this as pest control."
"Got it."
Phutt.
The one with the binocs flopped backward like a puppet with its strings cut.
The other tried to duck.
Phutt.
Missed.
"Shit. Adjusting."
Izana pulled out a second mag and reloaded with one hand, casual as hell.
"No rush, Kohta-kun. We got time."
Phutt.
Got him. Throat shot. He twitched for a bit.
"Messy," Izana commented.
"Did the job."
We moved position, keeping low. The rooftop was lined with old solar panels and broken ductwork. Perfect for cover. I kept the drone circling overhead, feeding visuals back to the tablet mounted on my wrist.
"They've got more incoming from the west alley," I whispered.
"How many?"
"Six. Three hostiles. Three hostages."
Izana muttered something in Yakuza slang I didn't catch. Probably a curse. He knelt beside me, pulled a small rangefinder out of his jacket pocket.
"Get me the leader. Black vest, red scarf. That's the scumbag we've been tracking since Chika-chan's rescue."
I zoomed. Saw him. Lean, rat-faced, and shouting commands like he thought he was in charge of something.
"Confirmed. Target marked. Wind's favoring us. Give me a second."
I lined up.
My finger tensed on the trigger.
Phutt.
Half his head disappeared. The rest of him followed, hitting the dirt like a sack of rotten meat.
The others panicked. One fired blindly. Another tried to use a hostage as a shield.
"Not on my watch."
I zeroed in.
Phutt.
Shoulder shot. Didn't kill him but dropped the fucker. Hostage ran.
Izana picked off another with two clean taps.
The last one bolted for cover.
Izana raised his pistol, took a breath, and fired.
The round skipped off the edge of a metal barrel and ricocheted—right into the bastard's spine.
He collapsed mid-scream.
"Showoff," I said, a little impressed.
Izana smirked. "You wound 'em like that, they scream loud enough to spook anyone still hiding. Psychological warfare."
I switched comms back to open.
"Sniper team to Marco-kun. Rooftops are clear. Hostile overwatch is done. You're green to move."
Marco's voice came back instantly.
"Copy that. You two are fucking angels up there. Evac team's already pulling civvies. We're sweeping the control center. Be ready for phase two."
Izana flicked his cigarette into the wind.
"Phase two, huh?"
"Yeah," I muttered. "The part where it always gets worse."
We readjusted, scanning for more movement. It was quieter now. Like the battlefield itself was holding its breath.
But we weren't done.
Not until every last one of those bastards stopped breathing.
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