Makima resumed pacing. She was a graceful metronome of menace, her heels clicking softly across the tatami as she ticked off enemies and obstacles with mechanical precision.
"Minister Fujimura," she began, her tone devoid of warmth. "Oversees the PSIA's discretionary funding, including equipment and field operation budgets. Rumored to be the Shinomiya Group's man for the past seven years. Likes to appear clean. Travels often. Offshore accounts in Hong Kong, Dubai, and Baku."
"Dirty?" the PM asked, though he already knew.
Makima lifted a slim dossier and set it on the table before him. "Photos of him accepting briefcases from an unregistered diplomatic vehicle, just last month. Accompanied by falsified travel logs and an anonymous tip—courtesy of our 'allies' in the press. Tomorrow morning, this package is being delivered to a senior reporter at Nikkei."
She said it like she was ordering groceries.
"He'll be too busy defending himself in a PR inferno to protect anyone. By noon, he'll have resigned from the Diet's Intelligence Budget Committee. By dusk, he'll be testifying for the prosecution, whether he knows it or not."
Itō blinked slowly. "...We're burning him completely."
Makima didn't answer.
She pulled out another folder. "Tanaka."
General Secretary Tanaka—an ancient pillar of the party's backroom politics. Not guilty of conspiracy, but too influential, too stubborn, too unpredictable.
"Tanaka's old habits," she said. "Photographs. Dated receipts. Two bank transfers to a certain mistress's account in Okinawa." She placed the folder down.
"I handed them to him this morning in a tea house in Akasaka," she said. "He didn't finish his tea."
"And he agreed?" the PM asked.
Makima's smile was slow, cold. "He asked if I needed help drafting the announcement of our arrests. Said he would be honored to 'restore public trust' in the agency by being the one to announce the purge. And that we could count on his vote in the committee."
Itō rubbed his temples again. "Gods help us, we're building a machine made of blackmail."
Makima ignored the lament. "It will hold long enough to cleanse Kanto."
She set down the final folder. "Funai."
Judge Funai. High Court. Known Shijō loyalist.
"His wife received a phone call tonight," Makima said softly. "It wasn't traced. A female voice warned that their two daughters in Geneva would be subject to... scrutiny. One visa has already been flagged. The Swiss are eager to cooperate if we use the correct language."
She waited for Itō's reaction. He looked shaken.
"That's crossing into foreign territory."
"Not if no one proves we made the call," Makima said flatly, her voice cool and without ornament. "Funai's wife cried for twenty minutes on the phone. Then she begged him to step down. He's resigning 'for stress-related health reasons' and catching a private morning flight to Switzerland."
She glanced out the tall windows of the Prime Minister's private residence. Beyond the drawn curtains, Tokyo's skyline glimmered faintly in the pre-dawn haze.
"His seat," she continued, "is booked under a fabricated identity. His medical leave forms were filed by 3 a.m., and the court calendar for Thursday has already been quietly restructured. By the time we serve our warrants, the bench will be clean. Surgical."
Itō sat in silence across from her, fingertips steepled, his half-drunk glass of whiskey untouched for the last hour. The tension in the room was quiet but electric, like the breath before a storm.
Makima's gaze returned to the room's dim interior. The dossier folders, the shredded notes in the bin, the half-burned incense meant to mask fatigue and power-brokering. All symbols of a war not waged with guns, but leverage.
Blackmail. Bribery. Intimidation. Framing. Lies.
She wielded them like a scalpel, carving out infection from the nation's bones.
As she mentally reviewed the past 48 hours—the smothered scandals, the bribed journalists, the broken men who begged for silence—Makima felt no remorse. Only a grim satisfaction. This was the war that had to be fought to make the real one possible. If we fail, she thought briefly, we will never get another chance.
Then, coldly, she pushed the thought aside. Failure was not a variable. The price of hesitation was too high. The cost would not just be political—it would be generational collapse, the kind that buried nations in rot. And Hiroshi… her Hiroshi… had already seen too much to ever allow that.
Itō cleared his throat. "That agent of yours… Hiroshi. He's done well."
Makima's gaze sharpened.
"He's thoroughly embedded himself in the Kanto branch," Itō continued. "Your appointment of him raised eyebrows, especially so suddenly—"
"They called him my pet behind closed doors," Makima cut in, a dry edge to her voice.
Itō smirked faintly. "Exactly. They suspected you appointed him to paper-push your reform agendas behind Takeda's back. The rumor mill is humming. 'The naïve silver-haired dog who only barks when Makima whistles.' That's the image they've embraced."
Makima's smile was faint, but it curled with satisfaction. "Good. Let them think that."
She crossed to the edge of the table and gently placed a tablet screen before the Prime Minister. It flickered to life, showing Hiroshi in the Kanto PSIA main corridor—head slightly lowered, expression wide-eyed, exchanging awkward pleasantries with a grinning section chief.
"Every time they underestimate him," Makima said softly, "he grows sharper. Deeper. More invisible."
She tapped the side of the tablet. The image shifted—now showing a timestamped surveillance feed from another corridor. Hiroshi, dressed as a completely different man, wearing one of his latex masks, slipping into a restricted office under the pretense of being a janitor.
"In just three years," she continued, "Hiroshi has completed forty-six operations. Every one of them classified. Every one rated S-rank. No leaks. No compromise. He has impersonated everything from foreign diplomats to internal auditors, and yet there's not a single agent inside the branch who can confidently describe what he truly looks like beneath his polite expression."
Itō exhaled. "And now he's embedded among the rot."
"Like a scalpel inside a tumor," Makima said. "No one sees him as a threat, which makes him the most dangerous person in the building."
"Takeda and his circle think they're using him," Itō murmured. "Feeding him documents, controlling what he sees. Trying to steer him."
Makima nodded. "They're digging their own graves with every conversation."
A beat of silence passed.
"If we win," she said, voice dropping half a register, "we'll answer for it. However we must. History will judge us. Law will catch up. Maybe even the people, one day." Her amber eyes did not blink. "But if we lose…"
She looked back out the window at Tokyo.
"…there won't be a country left to answer to."
Her voice, so flat and mechanical a moment ago, now cracked slightly—almost imperceptibly—with certainty, not fear. "If we lose, Takeda and his masters will metastasize. They'll purge the reformists. Flood the government with sellouts. Reinstate the underworld as a shadow ministry. Pokémon trafficking will go global. And the Ringmaster's legacy—the dream of artificial gods sold to the highest bidder—will never die."
A knock at the door interrupted them. Makima's aide – a normally implacable woman – entered and bowed, her face slightly pale. "Pardon the intrusion. Director Makima, the um… the package has arrived. In the garage."
Makima's eyebrows rose a fraction. That was quick. She exchanged a glance with Itō. "Excuse me a moment, Prime Minister." She followed the aide out, down a side stairwell into the residence's underground garage.
There, two heavy-set men in dark civilian clothes stood guard by a black unmarked van. They straightened and saluted Makima as she approached. "Director. We brought him," one reported.
Makima stepped to the rear of the van. One of the men opened the doors. Inside, slumped on the floor with hands zip-tied, was a disheveled middle-aged man – one of the PSIA traitors from the branch, a tech specialist they had quietly nabbed off the street an hour ago. His face was bloodied; clearly he had resisted. He looked up at Makima with a mixture of anger and fear. "You… you can't do this," he rasped. "I'm a government officer—"
"You were," Makima corrected coldly. She climbed into the van, crouching so that her immaculate suit remained out of the dirt pooling on the floor. In the dim light, her eyes almost seemed to glow as she regarded the captive. "Mr. Sasaki, is it? Section Four's network supervisor."
He recoiled that she knew his name. "Wh-what do you want? I haven't done anything wrong!" It was almost convincing, said with a desperate earnestness. But Makima had heard better performances. She also had a Manila folder full of proof that this man had systematically erased records and planted malware for Jackal's spy network.
Makima held up a single hand, and one of the men outside the van slid the door half-shut, giving them muffled privacy. "Mr. Sasaki," she began softly, "I have evidence that could see you tried for high treason. That's a death sentence." She said it almost gently, as if discussing the weather. Sasaki's eyes widened, his breath coming in frantic gasps.
"I… I don't… You have the wrong—" he spluttered, but Makima continued without inflection, "…However, I'm prepared to offer you a chance." She tilted her head slightly. "You will record a statement, right here, right now, detailing every illegal order you followed and which superiors gave them. Do that, and you will be charged with a lesser crime and merely disappear quietly to prison. Refuse…" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "And I hand you to him."
She didn't point, but Sasaki knew whom she meant. One of the "guards" leaned into the light just enough for his heavily scarred face to be visible – Kishibe, who had come personally for this pickup. The older man's single eye bore into the prisoner with an unmistakable promise of violence. It was no secret in certain circles that Kishibe had "methods" that never saw the inside of a courtroom.
Sasaki began to tremble. "Th-this isn't legal," he whimpered.
Makima's expression didn't waver. "Neither is selling state secrets to foreign agents, yet here we are." Her tone was almost bored. "Decide quickly. My colleague here is eager to… chat with you if you're uncooperative." Kishibe cracked his knuckles, the sound like gunshots in the silence.
Tears of rage and terror leaked down Sasaki's face. He opened his mouth, closed it, then hung his head. "Fine," he choked out. "I'll… I'll talk."
Within minutes, a small recorder was placed in front of the captive and he began haltingly speaking – confessing details of encrypted drives, namedropping Takeda and others as having given him directives to sabotage systems. Makima listened impassively, arms folded. The man's sobbing excuses and apologies rolled off her like rain on glass. All she cared about were the facts he provided, each corroborating what Hiroshi's team had already gathered – more nails in the conspirators' coffins.
When Sasaki finished, Makima signaled to the men. "Gag him and take him to the site." The site was a black location where he'd be stashed with a guard for a few days. After the operation, he'd be officially "discovered" and arrested, to make his confession legitimate in court. Until then, he was just another pawn to be kept in play.
As the van doors shut, muffling the renewed sobbing inside, Makima allowed herself a slow exhale. She despised letting even a minor traitor think they might escape true justice with a plea deal – but she needed him as a witness. She reminded herself: ends and means. A necessary trade.
Kishibe approached her, wiping Sasaki's blood from his knuckles with a handkerchief. "He spilled plenty. Fear'll do that," he remarked in a gravelly voice. His gaze searched Makima's. "You alright, Director?"
Makima gave a curt nod. "I'm fine. Thank you for… expediting this."
Kishibe shrugged. "It'll get uglier before dawn, I reckon. But you knew that." He didn't wait for a response, slinging into the passenger seat of the van as the team prepared to depart. Before closing the door, he added, "Hiroshi and the others – they're holding up. Ready to finish this." There was a hint of pride in the veteran's voice.
"I know," Makima replied. They'd better be, she thought but did not say. "Drive safe." With that, she turned on her heel and walked back toward the residence, her heels clicking sharply on the concrete.
Returning to the Prime Minister's private study, Makima stepped through the half-open shoji door with her usual composed stride. The scent of sandalwood incense lingered faintly in the air, blending with the crisp night breeze that crept in from the open veranda.
Prime Minister Itō stood there in silence, back to her, his silhouette outlined by the moonlight filtering over the stone garden beyond. A koi pond shimmered in stillness below, undisturbed by wind or fish. It was the kind of view meant to soothe the mind—but there was no peace tonight.
He didn't turn. "All handled?" he asked, his voice low, fatigued.
Makima stepped beside him, hands still behind her back. "Yes," she replied curtly. "The recording has been secured. He confessed to everything. Delivery teams are en route to contain him."
A moment passed in quiet. The only sound was the faint rustling of the PM's papers on his desk behind them and the rhythmic chirping of summer insects outside. The moon hovered above the trees like an eye watching from afar.
Itō finally looked at her. "You didn't hesitate," he said, his voice thoughtful. "You've always been good at that. But I wonder—how much does it cost you?"
Makima's gaze didn't waver from the garden. "That's not a luxury I calculate, Prime Minister."
He nodded slowly, then glanced sideways. "When was the last time you slept, Makima?"
She blinked, faintly surprised by the personal nature of the question. For a second, the iron mask cracked—not with vulnerability, but with weariness she didn't bother hiding. "I… don't recall," she admitted. "It doesn't matter."
Itō's brows furrowed slightly. "It does to me." But Makima said nothing. There was nothing to say.
Just then, her phone vibrated. Not the primary one—the secured device Hiroshi had configured for only two users. She retrieved it from her inner coat pocket, her movements swift and efficient. A pale blue screen lit up with a single blinking identifier: "K-FOX – PRIORITY LINK".
She answered without a word.
"Hiroshi," she said calmly.
"Reporting in," his voice came through the line. Slightly filtered, but still distinctly his—low, steady, precise. "No exposure. Phase Two surveillance continues. Agents are in place. Evidence volumes increasing. Morale's stable."
She said nothing, letting him continue.
"Takeda hasn't made any overt moves. But he's testing me—more directly today. He suspects Makima's favor shields me, but not how deep we've dug. We'll continue the naïve act. It's working. Everyone still thinks I'm a soft pawn. They'll slip soon."
Makima allowed a small exhale through her nose. Her gaze remained on the koi pond.
"And the team?" she asked.
"Focused. Denji's restless. Power is frustrated. Aki's holding the line. Kobeni's nervous but reliable. Kishibe is… Kishibe. We're prepared."
Silence again. This time a longer one. Both knew what lay beneath the status updates: the risk of exposure, of failure. The sheer weight of lives at stake if even one part of this orchestration faltered.
Makima closed her eyes.
She could imagine him at that moment—leaning against the edge of a control desk, sleeves rolled up, maybe sipping lukewarm coffee while Alakazam floated behind him, scanning reports faster than any analyst. His silver hair catching dim light, face unreadable, hiding exhaustion behind a half-smile. The man who had carried burdens that would've crushed lesser men. She had seen him shattered once before—and rebuilt himself stronger.
When she spoke, her voice was softer. Almost—almost—human.
"Hiroshi. Five days."
On the line, Hiroshi didn't answer immediately. She could feel the weight of that silence. A pause filled with acceptance.
In the far corner of the study, the antique wall clock ticked quietly past midnight.
Tuesday had begun.
"You have five days left," Makima repeated, her voice firmer now. "Use them well."
There was no room for misunderstanding. The deadline was fixed. When the time came, she would unleash the full machinery of state—raids, arrests, media blackouts, and political sacrifices. Every traitor they had marked would be eliminated or exposed. And if any threads still dangled? She'd burn them. They could not afford mercy. Not now.
Finally, Hiroshi responded, voice as calm as ever.
"Understood."
"See you on the other side."