Kai took another slow, deliberate sip of wine, his gaze never leaving the crowd of elegantly dressed predators around them.
"Well, you see this Tsar Nochi..." he began, his voice casual but cutting, like a scalpel slipping under skin. "When it comes to those involved in Russia's underground—the ones neck-deep in the arms trade—practically everyone knows about him."
His voice lowered slightly, more intimate now. But Rin could feel the smirk behind the words.
"He's not just some rabid dog they keep around for messier jobs. He's infamous. A name that gets whispered in secure meeting rooms and black-market auctions like a bedtime story you don't tell your kids."
Rin felt a pulse in his temple. The air around him seemed to thicken, the warmth of the ballroom now feeling suffocating.
Kai went on, like a man telling a myth he knew by heart.
"The underground is ruled by the mafia, of course. That's old news. What's newer is how deeply they've wormed their way into the actual economy. The days of back-alley deals and black bags of cash are over. Now? They've got portfolios. Stocks. Influence. And the Romanovs?" He tipped the glass in the direction of the stairway where Vseslav Romanov had disappeared behind a curtain of well-dressed sycophants.
"They're the bridge between the old blood and the new money. The crown jewel of the symbiotic rot."
Rin stared straight ahead, not trusting himself to speak. But his thoughts were loud. Deafening.
'The mafia doesn't just operate in the shadows anymore. They've gone corporate. They've traded their leather jackets for silk ties and bought their way into Russia's GDP. And no one stopped them… because no one wanted to.'
Kai chuckled darkly, spinning the stem of his wineglass between two fingers.
"Back in the early '80s, the mafia still thrived off old-school crime. Smuggling, extortion, human trafficking, whatever paid. But then... someone had a brilliant idea. Why sell street-level weapons to low-level crooks—when you can sell precision-engineered military tech to warlords and private armies for ten times the price?"
Rin's stomach twisted.
'And they had the factories. The infrastructure. The resources. Of course they did. Of course they used national funds. Of course they manufactured high-level weapons under the radar and funneled them straight into the hands of criminals overseas.'
Kai exhaled slowly. Like he was enjoying the smell of a long game playing out exactly as expected.
"By the time the government caught on, the mafia already was the economy. They weren't just parasites anymore—they'd become one of the vital organs. And when a country's lifeline becomes built on guns and gas... who do you think it listens to?"
He didn't need to say it.
Rin already knew.
'The mafia became too profitable to kill. Too useful to betray. So the government stopped treating them like enemies. Started calling them brothers. Business partners. 'Private-sector allies.'
'All they had to do was keep the money flowing, and in return, they got legal silence. No investigations. No leaks. No accountability. Just black budgets and blank contracts.'
And in the middle of it all?
The Romanov family.
'Living proof that you can wear a suit, build an empire on state-funded murder, and still get invited to balls like this one.'
Rin swallowed back the bitterness rising in his throat. The kind of bile that didn't come from nerves—but from understanding. From realizing how deep this rot went. How much of the system was a facade, a marble-wrapped stage built on bones.
Kai, still smiling, tapped his finger lightly against his wine glass.
"It's beautiful, in a sick way. The Romanovs profit off both the energy that powers the country... and the weapons that keep it scared. It's an empire built on fire and fear."
"And Tsar Nochi?" he added with a crooked grin. "He's just the tip of the spear. The enforcer. The walking reminder that this empire doesn't need a crown. It already rules everything."
Rin didn't speak. He couldn't.
Because deep down, beneath the tactical calm and spy instincts, he felt it creeping in:
That cold, sinking realization—
'I'm not just surrounded by enemies. I'm in the belly of a monster that thinks it's civilized. And I'm walking on its tongue.'
Kai, as if sensing the storm in Rin's thoughts, turned to him with a sly look.
"Scared yet?"
Rin didn't answer.
But his silence was answer enough.
Kai held up his glass, tilted it slightly, and peered through it like he was examining a gemstone.
"Oops. My glass is empty," he muttered, almost absently. His lips curled into that same amused, half-mocking smile he always wore—like the whole world was a theatre show and he was the only one who'd read the script.
Rin's hands tightened on the tray.
'I wasted too much time.'
His eyes flicked toward the far side of the ballroom—the sea of suits and sequins parting as servers drifted between clusters of wealthy elites. The soft hum of music vibrated through the floor beneath his shoes. Every second he stayed here, someone could catch on. Someone could notice the faint glue line where his wig had been. Someone could see through the perfect posture and realize he wasn't a server at all.
'I'd better go back.'
He turned.
But Kai's voice caught him mid-step. Smooth, quiet, like silk wrapping around a blade.
"I saw Tsar Nochi go upstairs just earlier."
Rin froze.
"The General of the Armed Forces and the Foreign Affairs Director slipped away behind him. Quietly. No security. No cameras. Just... shadows."
Rin's heart skipped.
'A secret meeting. Between those three people? At this point in time?'
He didn't need to be a strategist to see the implications. A brutal civil enforcer. A military powerhouse. And the man who spoke for Russia to the rest of the world. That wasn't coincidence. That was calculation.
'This can't just be another cocktail hour. They're planning something. Something dangerous. And I need to know what it is before it starts spilling blood.'
His pulse quickened.
Kai stepped closer, lowering his voice to a whisper only Rin could hear.
"I'll be your guide. Turn on your communication device." His smile widened—not friendly. Predatory. "I'll feed you what you need from the outside. If things go wrong, I might even save you."
That last part wasn't reassuring. It was a threat disguised as a favor.
Rin's jaw clenched.
'Can I even trust this guy?'
He didn't know. And that was the worst part.
Because Kai knew everything. Every name. Every secret. Every dirty deal, shady alliance, and closed-door operation. He was the type of person who handed you the key to the room after he'd already set it on fire. He never helped without strings—and the strings were always wrapped around your neck.
Still... if he was offering help, it meant this meeting upstairs mattered more than Kai was letting on. Which made it even more dangerous.
'He's planning something. Watching me. Maybe even using me to get closer to the intel himself. He always has an angle. He never plays clean.'
And yet, Rin walked.
Because he had to know. Because letting this moment slip away could mean missing the chance to stop something catastrophic. Something irreversible.
'I'll keep my comms open. But I'll also keep one eye on you, Kai.'
Rin slipped between the glittering crowd again, posture perfectly composed, steps light but purposeful. His expression was neutral, a mask. But inside? His thoughts were a cyclone of suspicion and urgency.
Somewhere above him, behind velvet curtains and locked doors, Tsar Nochi was meeting with two of the most powerful people in the country.
And Rin?
He was walking straight into their den—with a comm line linked to a snake and only seconds to stay invisible.
The kitchen was a warzone.
Blades clanged. Pans sizzled. Steam erupted from boiling pots like smoke from a battlefield. The air was thick with the scent of garlic, scorched meat, and aggression. Rin slipped in quietly, the tray now discarded, his posture slackening just enough to blend into the chaos.
"CHOP THEM FASTER! WE DON'T HAVE ALL DAY, YOU SNAILS!"
The chef's voice boomed like thunder, his red face dripping sweat, a cleaver in one hand and the soul of a dictator in the other.
Rin kept his head down.
'According to the blueprints Kai showed me... there should be a back door somewhere near the cold storage. The spot where they keep all the bulk ingredients. That's my way out.'
He moved quickly, weaving past prep stations and cursing sous-chefs, eyes scanning every wall, every corner, every set of double doors. The noise helped—no one noticed him moving with purpose. That chef had made sure of it.
"CAN'T YOU EVEN POUR SAUCE RIGHT?! THAT'S A DISGRACE TO THE ENTIRE FRENCH REPUBLIC! THROW IT AWAY! START OVER OR YOU'RE OUT OF HERE!"
'Overkill,' Rin thought flatly. 'But convenient.'
Then—his eyes caught it. A rusty steel handle near the industrial flour sacks. One of the kitchen staff had wedged a trash can in front of it. The can was overflowing with scraps, bottles, and discarded produce. On closer inspection...
'Wheels. Lucky break. There's no way anyone would question me if I just rolled this thing out.'
Rin grabbed the bin and began pushing, keeping his pace deliberately sluggish, his expression twisted into a tired grimace.
'There's always a dumpster near the back for garbage like this. Probably hidden from sight. Perfect cover... and a clean exit point.'
As he reached the door, he braced for alarms, questions—anything.
Click. The steel door creaked open.
A cold gust hit him—fresh air. But standing there, posted like a shadow carved from stone, was a bodyguard. Stocky. Buzz cut. Dressed in black with a radio clipped to his vest. Arms crossed.
His eyes locked onto Rin instantly.
"What are you doing here?" the guard asked, voice low and clipped.
Rin didn't hesitate. He gave an exasperated sigh and slapped the trash bin with mock frustration.
"Aigoo..." he groaned, forcing a sheepish grin. "If I don't empty the trash, that chef is gonna end me. Seriously. He just threw a sauce pan at some poor kid for using too much salt." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "I'm not trying to get pancaked over potatoes, man."
The guard's brow twitched. But before he could speak—
"HEY!!! WOULD YOU HURRY UP WITH THAT, YOU USELESS IDIOT?!"
The chef's voice thundered from inside like a demon unleashed.
The guard flinched.
"...Uhh. Go ahead," he muttered, stepping aside.
Rin gave a quick bow. "Arigatōgozaimasu." His voice was light, but his mind was already five steps ahead.
'Alright. I'm outside. Now for the scan.'
He wheeled the bin a few more feet before abandoning it behind the corner. Then his demeanor shifted immediately. The casual gait disappeared. Shoulders straightened. Eyes sharpened. His hand slid into his coat, activating the small transmitter Kai had passed him earlier.
He took in the mansion now from the outside—detached from the party noise, from the glittering distraction. The structure was tall, imposing, lined with ornamental statues and carefully trimmed hedges. But there was something off.
'If the two ministers and Tsar Nochi are having a meeting, they wouldn't risk staying on the first floor. Too exposed. Too much foot traffic.'
He scanned each window, each wing.
'The second floor has multiple lights on. Normal. Staff housing or overflow guests, maybe. But the third floor...'
There.
The northeast wing. One window—just one—blazing with light.
No curtains. No guards. Too bright to be casual.
'That room is different. It's lit like they want someone to see activity inside. Or maybe they feel too safe to bother hiding it. Either way, I need to know what's happening in there.'
Then, he saw him.
A lone guard patrolling the mansion's exterior—slowly, methodically, moving in a wide circle around the rear gardens. He was armed. Head on a swivel. Not bored. Not distracted.
'Dammit. I can't risk going up with him doing laps around the perimeter. I need a distraction. Or... I take him out.'
Rin narrowed his eyes, assessing the timing of the guard's path. Every few minutes he passed under the trellis—right near the drainage pipe that extended up to the second story balcony. That could be Rin's way up.
'But first I need to remove the variable. That guard has to be out of the picture before I even think about climbing.'
Rin ducked into the shadows near the garbage sheds, scanning the area. No cameras. No other patrols. The stars overhead were swallowed by thick clouds, and the only sound now was the distant hum of music from the ballroom far behind him.
This was his element now.
Dark. Silent. Precision-driven.
And up there, above him? Power was being consolidated. Plans were being whispered. Things were being set in motion that could rewrite the world order.
And Rin?
He was about to interrupt it.
The guard didn't even hear him coming.
Rin moved like a shadow with purpose. Silent feet over gravel. A flicker of motion just as the guard turned to check the southern hedges. In that half-second window, Rin struck from behind—arm coiling around the man's throat in a swift chokehold, locking it in with mechanical precision.
The guard thrashed, hands clawing at Rin's arms, eyes bulging.
But Rin didn't flinch. No wasted energy. No hesitation. He adjusted his grip, leveraging his body weight until the struggle weakened… then stopped entirely.
The guard's body slumped.
Rin eased him down gently onto the lawn, brushing stray leaves off the uniform like dust off an old painting.
He crouched for a moment, breathing slow, focused. Then he reached down and retrieved the man's handgun from the hip holster—lightweight, silenced, fully loaded.
'Lucky... no one saw.'
The weight of the weapon pressed cold against his lower back as he tucked it into the waistband beneath his jacket. Then he glanced up at the towering side of the mansion, eyes narrowing.
'Time for some climbing.'
Cracking his knuckles quietly, Rin reached down and flipped open the false bottom of his belt buckle. Inside were two discs—gecko-glove pads. Experimental grip tech from the Tokyo underground. Each one thin as gauze and nearly invisible when rolled up, but when unsealed and activated, they latched onto surfaces like synthetic skin with microscopic suction.
He peeled the gloves out slowly. They clung to his fingers, merging like a second dermal layer. Then—click—he pressed the activation node on each wrist. A faint hum rippled across the surface of the gloves.
Rin gave a sharp breath.
And leapt.
He caught the stone siding with a slap—then the other hand locked into place. The grip tech kicked in with a satisfying thmp, anchoring him to the wall like a spider. With one smooth movement, he began to climb—boots pushing off the grooves in the ornate brick.
Higher.
Faster.
The ballroom music dimmed below as wind coiled around him, cold and biting. His body stayed pressed to the wall, moving like he was born on vertical surfaces.
But then—
'Fuck... the left glove's getting weak.'
His hand slipped slightly. The glove's suction dimmed, the hum losing its resonance. He adjusted, redistributed his weight.
'Come on. Just a few more—'
Then the right glove flickered.
'Shit. No—no, no, no—'
He was meters from the third floor balcony. He didn't have time. The gloves blinked red.
And then—snap—the tech failed.
He fell.
But not far.
Rin's reflexes kicked in like a bolt of lightning—he flung his hand up and caught the rim of the balcony with the sheer force of desperation. His fingers scraped against the stone, nails bending slightly, but he held.
His body swung—knees hit the brick wall, thudding hard. He gritted his teeth and hauled himself up over the edge like a cat dragging itself out of hell.
His boots hit the flat stone surface of the balcony.
Rin dropped down immediately into a crouch, panting hard.
Sweat dripped down the side of his temple. His gloves dangled uselessly from his wrists, sparks fizzling out of their seams.
'Wow... I managed to make it.'
He sat back slowly on the edge of the balcony, brick biting into the backs of his thighs. The wind up here was sharper. The cold air kissed his damp skin with unforgiving calm.
And then he looked in.
Through the grand, arched window—the room beyond was soaked in gold.
Polished marble floors. Velvet-lined walls. An ornate chandelier hanging like a crystal sun, blazing with artificial light.
But... empty.
No people. No sound. No furniture. Not even a glass of water on a table. It was like the room had never been used, or had just been scrubbed clean by ghosts.
Rin's brows furrowed.
'Huh...? Did I get the wrong room?'
He leaned slightly forward, squinting through the glare of the chandelier.
'If no one's around... why are the lights on?'
He shifted on the balcony ledge, keeping low, fingers brushing the cold brick behind him as if expecting it to open into another secret.
The whole thing felt off. Like someone wanted him to see this room. A decoy? A trap?
'This doesn't feel right... It's too clean. Too obvious. If they were having a top-secret meeting, it wouldn't be in a place lit like a damn theater stage.'
Something deeper stirred in Rin's gut—a tension he couldn't place.
A hum of danger, not from what he saw...
But from what he didn't see.
"Hey, princess, where are you?" Kai's voice crackled to life inside Rin's ear like a mosquito dipped in sarcasm.
Rin jolted, nearly slipping off the edge of the balcony. His hand instinctively flew to his ear before he remembered—the damn comm. He cursed under his breath.
"Tch... forgot I still had this thing in."
He pressed his back tighter to the wall, eyes flicking around the balcony like prey scanning for hawks.
"I dunno… I think I got the wrong room. It's just empty. No one's here but the chandelier's going blind mode." Rin muttered, scanning the pristine golden interior once more. His voice was low, uncertain—but also bracing for something to go wrong.
Kai's reply was a lazy chuckle. Like a cat watching a mouse run in circles.
"If you're done complaining, open your ears and listen." His tone dropped, that casual snark tightening into something more deliberate.
Rin opened his mouth to retort—
"The heck are you even talking abo—"
But he didn't even finish the sentence.
Because voices, real voices, crackled through the comm line. Voices that were not Kai's.
Male. Calm. Russian accents laced with bureaucratic detachment.
"How is Scythe-9 coming along?"
Rin froze. His breath caught in his throat like ice water.
Another voice answered.
"We're waiting for a message from Dragunov. They're still looking for a specialist who can fix the malfunction."
A third joined in.
"They seem very busy with that, considering how they didn't attend tonight's event. But they said they'd contact us soon, so let's wait for now."
Then came the sharp question.
"What did Japan say about this recent defect?"
And the reply...
"They claimed they didn't expect it at all. Said such a problem never came up during their tests."
Silence.
Rin stared through the glass, unblinking. The chandelier's light now felt more like an interrogation lamp. He wasn't even breathing anymore.
'Dragunov...?' The name echoed in his skull like a warning bell underwater.
The Dragunovs.
Not just some gang. Not even just another Slavic mafia outfit.
The Dragunovs were one of the most powerful syndicates in Eastern Europe—old-world mafia, entrenched in everything from arms trafficking to elite private warfare units. Ghosts in the bloodstream of Russia's underbelly.
And the Romanovs? Practically family. Connected by blood, business, or worse.
'If the Dragunovs are involved in this secret meeting—in this manor—then the Romanovs aren't just permitting it. They're orchestrating it.'
His mind started racing. The words from the meeting began stitching together.
Scythe-9.
Dragunov.
Japan.
And then—
Like thunder cracking a dry forest—
'Wait... no way. Could this be... Persephone?'