Six months later, Kenji sat in a quiet office with a nice view. The coffee was excellent. The chair was ergonomic. It was, without a doubt, the most unsettling environment of his entire career.
He was a commander now. The official title, Head of the Division of Unconventional Operations, was printed on business cards he hoped he would never have to use. His days were no longer filled with the thrill of the chase or the quiet satisfaction of a clean infiltration. They were filled with paperwork, budget meetings, and risk assessment matrices. He was a ghost who had been given a desk job, and it was a new and inventive kind of hell.
The Ouroboros case, which the media had dubbed "The Port Authority Incident," was now the stuff of legend within the agency. Director Yamamoto, from his new position as Deputy Director, was reportedly writing the training manual on "Non-Traditional Asset Integration." The modified shipping containers had yielded intelligence that led to arrests on three continents.
His team, his Grounders, were thriving in their new roles. They were the first class of "Special Consultants" in his division, currently working from a converted office building that looked like any other corporate facility. Miyuki had an official title now—Environmental Coordination Specialist—though she still carried a cleaning cart and no one ever questioned her presence anywhere. Haruto was their Logistics and Acquisition Expert, which was a polite way of saying he could get anything, anywhere, with no questions asked.
The door to his office opened. Sato walked in, no longer his field partner but his deputy commander. She looked perfectly at home in her business attire, her posture radiating the same efficiency that had made her legendary in the field.
"Our first official case file, sir," she said, placing a tablet on his desk.
He looked at the tablet, then at his empty coffee cup, then at the stack of budget reports that needed his attention. He thought about the long, quiet years stretching ahead of him, filled with administrative duties and strategic planning sessions.
"Have you eaten?" he asked.
Her eyebrow raised slightly. "No, sir."
"Good." He opened the small lunch box he had brought with him. It was a simple bento, the kind any salaryman might carry, containing rice, vegetables, and a single piece of grilled fish. Nothing elaborate, nothing that made a statement. Just food, prepared with care.
He had been taking cooking classes at a small community center near his apartment. Not for any philosophical reason, not to make a point about simplicity or chaos. Just because he had never learned how, and it seemed like something a person should know.
The fish was slightly overcooked, the rice a bit too sticky. It was, objectively, the meal of an amateur. But it was also real, made by his own hands, seasoned with patience and the kind of quiet satisfaction that came from learning something new.
He offered some to Sato using disposable chopsticks. She accepted it with the same analytical attention she brought to intelligence reports.
"Adequate," she said after a thoughtful bite. "The technique shows improvement. The seasoning is conservative but appropriate."
Kenji smiled. Coming from Sato, it was high praise indeed.
It was in that quiet, perfectly normal moment that her phone buzzed. She glanced at it, and the professional mask snapped back into place.
"Sir," she said, her voice all business again. "The field team has flagged something. It's... unusual."
"Of course it is," Kenji sighed.
"It's a series of statistically impossible victories in the international world of competitive cat grooming," she said, reading from her screen. "The new world champion, a mysterious figure from Belgium known only as 'Le Pinceau,' is said to be able to calm the most aggressive felines with a single, resonant hum. His signature technique is being called 'The Perfect Purr.' There are rumors of a new aromatherapy product involved. The financial backing appears to come from a shell company registered in the Cayman Islands, and..." She paused. "The logo is a snake coiled around a ball of yarn."
Kenji looked at his simple lunch, at Sato's expectant expression, at the tablet containing their new case. He thought about competitive cat grooming and weaponized aromatherapy and the endless, beautiful absurdity of a world where such things could be threats to international security.
He thought about Miyuki's quiet philosophy: someone had to clean up the mess. He thought about his team, his family, scattered across the city but always ready when duty called.
He took another bite of his overcooked fish and smiled. The appetizer had been excellent. It was time for the main course.
"Send word to the team," he said, reaching for the tablet. "Tell them to pack their bags. And somebody find out if any of them have experience with cats."
Outside his window, Tokyo sprawled in all its chaotic, beautiful, utterly unpredictable glory. Somewhere out there, another conspiracy was taking shape, another group of people who thought they could impose their vision of order on the world.
They had no idea what was coming for them.
A janitor, a feed handler, a rigger, an electrician, and a cleaning lady. The most dangerous people in the intelligence community, precisely because no one would ever suspect them of being dangerous at all.
Kenji finished his lunch, straightened his tie, and got back to work. The world wasn't going to save itself.
But then again, it never did.
END OF VOLUME 4.