Kamina stepped out through the warped lab doors and into the cold, grey light outside. The street beyond was as chaotic as ever and Sam was already leaning against a rusted railing, waiting.
"Unregistered inventions aren't new in the City," Sam began, his voice low but steady. "But having only one person come up with that many devices… and one that can cause a phenomenon? That's rare."
Kamina folded his arms, eyes scanning the skyline as if trying to picture the mechanism behind it all. "I still don't understand how this City's technology works."
"Don't even try," Sam said with a short, humorless laugh. "It's not worth the headache. Since this case might involve the Ring, Hana Association might re-evaluate it entirely. If they bump it up to Urban Nightmare class–or worse, Star of the City–it's way out of our league."
Kamina's grin widened, the sort of grin that didn't belong on someone hearing those words. "Interesting."
Sam straightened, his gaze sharpening. "Here's my theory: if J Corp figures out even a single thing about those gold coins, they'll send a raid to capture the researcher who made them. And here's the kicker, it won't be long before the person's identified. That's just how the City works."
Behind them, the muffled murmur of the investigation continued, Shmuel's voice occasionally rising over the rest as he pieced together what scraps he could from the seven fixers. Somewhere in that tangle of leads, half-truths, and silent agreements, the picture of the truth was beginning to form. But like everything in the City, truth had a cost and it was rarely paid in cash alone.
Kamina clapped Shmuel on the shoulder.
"I'll find us a hotel for the night," he said.
Before Shmuel could reply, Sam chimed in.
"There's a good one about a kilometer down the street–right next to a café that serves the best espresso in this sector. You can stay there and still be close enough if something new pops up."
Sam glanced over at the ongoing investigation, then back to Shmuel. He'd been watching the kid all afternoon–quiet, quick on the uptake, and surprisingly adept at reading people.
"You know," Sam said, lowering his voice just enough to make it sound like a genuine offer, "you'd fit right in with the Seven Association. You've got the instincts for this work."
Shmuel gave a polite but firm shake of the head. "Not for me."
Sam smirked, recognizing the kind of refusal that wouldn't change with a second try. "Fair enough."
A couple of the other fixers from Seven Association's South Section 6 walked over, swapping notes. One of them chuckled, jerking a thumb at Shmuel.
"Kid's sharp. He's been helping us narrow down the search way faster than expected."
Sam folded his arms, visibly pleased.
"You've made quite the impression," he said to Shmuel, almost as if he couldn't resist trying again. "What's your office called?"
Shmuel pointed at Kamina. "The Great Kamina's Office. Not a very good name, if you ask me."
Sam's brows rose. "Grade?"
Shmuel slipped his fixer's card from his coat–Grade 8. Kamina followed with his own card–Grade 7.
"Well now," Sam said with a grin, "plenty of potential there. You know, I could get your office affiliated with the Seven Association. The backing alone would–"
Kamina didn't even let him finish. "Not interested."
Sam let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Outright turning down a Section Director. You're right–things really are getting unusual these days."
He adjusted his gloves and leaned in just slightly. "All right, another offer then. Work with us on this case–temporary arrangement. You'll get access to our intel and resources while you give us your man power."
Kamina gave a slow nod. "Fine." He glanced at Shmuel. "You handle the paperwork."
Shmuel sighed but took the forms anyway, the corner of his mouth twitching in faint amusement as he headed toward the admin tent.
After Shmuel finished signing the form in the Seven Association's admin tent, he rejoined Kamina, and the two set off toward the hotel Sam had suggested. The walk was quiet, their boots tapping on the worn cobblestones, and nothing particularly eventful happened along the way–just the faint hum of streetlamps and the occasional hiss of passing steam carts.
The hotel was a squat, three-story building with fading paint and a creaky sign swaying slightly in the night breeze. A warm yellow light spilled from the windows, and the smell of old wood and brewed tea greeted them the moment they stepped inside.
Behind the reception desk sat an old lady in a thick cardigan, her hair tied back in a neat bun. She looked up from the knitting in her lap, adjusting her glasses as she smiled faintly.
"Oh, evening, dears," she said in a voice like worn velvet. "Looking for a room?"
"Two, actually," Shmuel replied politely.
The woman leaned forward, squinting at a ledger. "Let's see… I've got a couple on the second floor. Small, but clean. The water heater's working, though you'll have to wait a few minutes for it to warm up. Breakfast's at six, but I can make it later if you're the sleeping-in type."
"That'll work," Kamina said with a nod.
"Mm-hmm." She pulled a brass key from a hook behind her and slid it across the counter along with a stubby pencil and the sign-in sheet. "Names here, please. Payment's in advance—nothing fancy, just keeping the lights on."
They both signed without fuss, Shmuel handing over the cash. The woman tucked it into a drawer and added, almost as an afterthought, "If you hear creaking at night, it's just the old beams settling. Or the cat. She's friendlier than she looks."
Kamina gave a faint smirk. "Noted."
Key in hand, they climbed the narrow staircase to the second floor, the smell of lavender and old varnish following them up. It was quiet, almost sleepy-a perfect, unremarkable stop for the night.
Kamina stepped into his room, shutting the door with a light thud. The place was small but clean. A modest bed with crisp white sheets, a little desk by the window, and the faint smell of soap lingering in the air. Without wasting much time, he tossed his cloak onto the chair, grabbed a towel from the rack, and headed for the shower.
The hot water hit his skin in a steady stream, washing away the dust and lingering grime from the day. He didn't linger–just a brisk rinse, enough to feel fresh again. When he stepped out, steam clung to the mirror, blurring his reflection. He toweled off, ruffled his still-damp hair, and placed his katana on the bed. For a few minutes, he sat cross-legged, blade in his lap, running a cloth along the edge
Satisfied, he set the weapon carefully by the bedside, slid under the sheets, and lay on his back staring at the ceiling. Within minutes, his breathing deepened into the slow, steady rumble of sleep–punctuated by a snore loud enough to be heard through the thin hotel walls.
Morning came far too quickly. The room was still dim with early light when a sharp knock knock knock rattled the door.
"Kamina, wake up!" Shmuel's voice came from the hallway, urgent but not panicked. "Alexy wants to talk with you through my phone."
Kamina groaned, rubbing his eyes as he sat up, hair sticking out in wild tufts.
Kamina swung the door open, still rubbing sleep from his eyes. Shmuel stood there, phone in hand, looking like he'd been up for hours.
"What's up, kid?" Kamina asked, voice rough from just waking. Without waiting for an answer, he plucked the phone from Shmuel's hand and held it to his ear.
On the other end, Alexy's voice came in low and direct. "J Corp is moving. They're about to launch a raid to capture or eliminate the researcher behind those gold coins. This… is a good time for you and Shmuel to make a name for yourselves."
Kamina leaned against the doorframe, brow raised. "Right… and what exactly do you want your office to do? 'Cause you're not just calling me to drop this info and let me walk away."
There was the faint sound of paper shuffling on Alexy's end before the answer came. "Your job is simple: ensure the researcher stays alive. Bonus pay if you can cause some chaos inside the Ring's South hideout while you're at it. I've already sent Shmuel the contract. Just need your signature."
Kamina grinned faintly, even though Alexy couldn't see it. "Good. We need a job to keep us going." He took the phone from his ear long enough to grab the tablet Shmuel was holding out, scrawled his name across the screen without a second thought, and passed it back.
"Done," he said, bringing the phone back up.
"Then here's the last update," Alexy continued. "The gold coins case has been reclassified. It's officially an Urban Nightmare-class case now. Expect more offices and associations to join J Corp's raid. Competition's going to get ugly."
Shmuel, who had been standing just off to the side, spoke up. "We're already in a joint operation on this case with the Seven Association, South Section Six. That means we're expected to be there when the raid starts."
Kamina smirked at that, handing the phone back. "Guess our morning just got interesting."
Kamina tossed the phone back to Shmuel and stepped inside, reaching for his travel-worn cloak draped over the back of a chair. The fabric was still faintly damp from last night's rain, but he slung it over his shoulders without complaint, fastening the clasp with a practiced flick of his fingers.
The katana's weight at his hip felt reassuring as he adjusted the sheath, letting it rest just right for a quick draw. "Alright, kid," he said, tugging the hood over his head, "let's go see what kind of mess we're walking into."
Shmuel was already ready, coat buttoned, satchel slung at his side with his usual careful neatness. The two of them stepped out into the cool morning air, the streets still carrying the faint smell of brewing coffee and yesterday's rain.
They walked in relative silence, the city waking up around them–vendors setting up stalls, the distant clatter of trams, a few office clerks hurrying past.
At the front of the lab, a man in a dark coat bearing the 7 Association, Section 6 insignia approached. His hair was cropped short, the look of someone who'd been on too many assignments to count, and his tone was brisk but not unfriendly.
"You two–Sam's waiting in the admin tent. Wants a word before things get busy," he said, jerking a thumb toward a cluster of khaki-colored tents pitched along the side of the lab's fence line.
Kamina gave a nod, and he and Shmuel followed the narrow path between stacked supply crates and parked Association vans. The admin tent loomed ahead–larger than the others, its flap pulled back just enough to let in the morning light.
Inside, the air was warmer, thick with the mingled scents of ink, paper, and the faint trace of brewed tea. Folding tables were pushed together in the center, papers stacked in haphazard towers, and in one corner, hunched over a battered clipboard, sat Sam. His jacket was half-slipped off his shoulders, sleeves rolled to his elbows, pen moving in quick, impatient strokes across a form.
Sam glanced up as they entered, his eyes flicking from Kamina to Shmuel.
"Being a Section Director doesn't come with free time, huh?" Kamina said with a lopsided grin.
Sam let out a low chuckle, setting the pen down. "Free time? J Corp decided I should be the leader for this raid. Which means" he gestured at the mountain of forms and stamped folders, "I'm now buried in work I didn't ask for."
Kamina and Shmuel's attention shifted to the far side of the tent. Several rows of folding chairs were neatly arranged facing a long table at the front, where a map of the district had been pinned to a corkboard. A few nameplates sat waiting, paper cups stacked by a thermos in the corner.
"Looks like a meeting setup," Kamina noted.
"It is," Sam replied, leaning back in his chair. "Strategy meeting in a few hours–10 AM sharp. Offices from Grade 9 to Grade 4 will be there. And most of my Section 6 fixers are already on site."
Shmuel gave a quiet whistle. "That's a lot of people for one raid."
"Yeah," Sam said dryly, picking up his pen again. "Which means a lot of ways for this to go wrong."
The hours passed with an almost unnatural steadiness, a hum of conversation and the sound of shuffling papers filling the air as preparations rolled on. Outside, fixers milled about the lab's perimeter–some leaning against crates, others chatting in tense murmurs, most keeping their hands close to their weapons. By the time the clock neared 10 AM, the atmosphere had shifted; it wasn't idle waiting anymore, but the collective inhale before a strike.
Other offices began arriving in staggered waves. Some bore the 7 Association insignia on their cloaks and armguards, moving with a disciplined precision. Others carried themselves with the colors or marks of entirely different Associations, their allegiances more mercenary than unified. A few came without banners at all–lone wolves, who had neither an office nor a consistent crew, only a name and a reputation that either preceded them or was still in the making.
The roster itself looked like a strange literary roll call. There was Pardoner's Contract, an office with a pale, hollow-eyed leader who grinned like he already knew who would die today. La Parure Group, their fixer-rep wearing fine clothes clearly meant to be noticed, though their tailored coats were more for show than practicality. Merchant's Ledger, a crew infamous for calculating the value of every kill and every corpse before the fight even began. Silas Chainers, stooped but not weak, older fixers who had the patient, watchful air of people who'd seen the industry chew through generations. And then Gold-Bug Solutions, whose members spoke in cryptic and carried gold-plated weapons as though they meant to prove something to the coins themselves.
Only the representatives of each office were allowed to sit at the table in the center of the tent–twelve seats in total. Kamina slid into one without hesitation, leaning back with his usual ease, while Shmuel took up his place standing just behind him.
At the far end, Sam rose from his seat, setting down the pen he'd been scratching across a stack of forms. His coat hung open, his ID badge clipped to one lapel.
"I am Sam, Director of 7 Association's South Section Six," he began, voice steady and clear. "For this operation, J Corp has contracted me to serve as leader of the raid." He gestured to the wall-sized map pinned behind him. "We have identified the individual responsible for creating the counterfeit gold coins—subject name José. Nineteen years old. No known family connections. No prior criminal record before her association with the Ring. She has been working under high-level protection within their South Hideout. This is all confirmed."
His tone was professional without a hint of embellishment, every word clipped and intentional. "You all know what this means. If the gold coins keep circulating, the economic destabilization could tip district 10 into collapse. Eliminating the source is imperative."
Shmuel raised his voice from behind Kamina. "How exactly are we breaching the Ring's hideout? And which part are we hitting?"
Sam nodded as though expecting the question. "South sector only. J Corp has collaborated with F Corp for this assault. We will be employing a large-scale use of F Corp's singularity–fairies capable of unlocking anything, including conceptual barriers. Those fairies have already been summoned in the lab behind us. At exactly noon, they will open a corridor into the Ring's domain. That will be our entry point."
The room was quiet except for the faint scratching of someone's pen.
"As you've been briefed already," Sam continued, "the primary condition for mission success is the capture or elimination of José. The reward structure remains the same, with bonuses for bringing her in alive. Secondary objectives–any Ring resources you can destroy or disrupt in the process–are open for claim, but priority is securing the target." His gaze swept the room, weighing each fixer in turn. "Remember: the Ring is unpredictable. We have limited intelligence on what's inside, and less on their response capability. Prepare for the worst-case scenario."
Questions began to flow toward him including tactical ones, logistical ones, even a few personal inquiries about payout. Sam handled all of it.
As Sam concluded his briefing, his tone shifting into the clipped finality of a man who knew there would be no more room for idle chatter, the room stirred with the scraping of chairs and the murmur of shifting bodies.
"Prepare yourselves," he said, his voice carrying the weight of authority even as he gathered his papers into a neat, military-precise stack. "No excuses, no delays. We move at noon."
The fixers dispersed in small knots, their conversations folding back into the low, ever-present hum of the tent camp. Kamina and Shmuel stepped out into the bright, filtered light of the admin area—only to find their path blocked.
A half-circle of La Parure Group fixers lounged against the canvas wall, their expressions smug and theatrical, as if they'd rehearsed this little ambush. Their office's signature finery was impossible to miss—silk cravats, tailored jackets with embroidery as gaudy as gold leaf on rotten wood.
One of them, a tall fixer with a neatly waxed mustache, tilted his head at Kamina's sunglasses and smirked.
"Tell me, are those ridiculous shades a fashion statement," he drawled, "or did you just forget to take off your welding goggles before the meeting?"
Kamina grinned, completely unfazed. "These," he said, tapping the frame with one gloved finger, "are the symbol of my manliness. No shame in wearing them… unlike your ruffles."
The jab rippled through the group, drawing a few muffled laughs and a few sharp inhales. But the mustached fixer's smirk dropped into a thin-lipped glare.
"They make you look like an idiot," he said flatly.
Before Kamina could retort, Shmuel stepped forward. Without a word, he peeled off one glove and let it drop to the ground between them. The soft thump it made was barely audible over the camp noise, but the reveal of his mechanical hand silenced the La Parure fixers instantly.
"I challenge you," Shmuel said evenly, his voice carrying a steel-edged calm. "Level one duel."
The fixers stiffened at the weight of the words. La Parure Group's affiliation with the Cinq Association meant they couldn't simply walk away–duels weren't just personal matters; they were a matter of face and contract. Level one wasn't a duel to the death, but it was serious enough that refusal was not an option unless they wanted to lose standing.
The mustached fixer glanced at his office's representative–a woman who had been watching the exchange with a half-bored, half-amused expression. She was dressed like a peacock in mourning–dark silks and glinting jewelry, with a tailored coat so impractical it screamed look at me more than I can survive a fight.
She stepped forward, ignoring Shmuel entirely to address Kamina. "Who do you think will win?" she asked, smiling faintly, her eyes searching his for an answer she could turn into her next performance piece. "I'm always interested in these little spectacles. My office thrives on attention…"
Kamina tilted his head at her, sizing her up. "You're… kind of a freak."
Her smile widened, entirely unbothered. "Of course."
Kamina glanced over at Shmuel as they stepped into the open, the La Parure fixers already beginning to clear a space for the duel. His voice was low, but the edge in it was unmistakable.
"Do not use any bullets," Kamina said, tugging his sunglasses higher up the bridge of his nose. "I don't want you catching a dead body charge before the raid even starts."
Shmuel smirked, flexing his fingers. The faint creak of steel joints and servo whirrs answered for him before he spoke.
"Of course. I'm not planning on it."
The two duelists stepped forward, boots ringing against the cold stone of the street. The fixers from both sides stood in a loose ring, murmuring under their breath as the formalities began.
Shmuel was the first to speak.
"Shmuel. Grade 8 Fixer, The Great Kamina Office."
The man opposite him gave a sharp bow, his tailored jacket swaying slightly, a long sword hanging with an almost theatrical weight at his side.
"Henri Duval. Grade 6 Fixer, La Parure Group." His voice had a polished edge.
The gleam of Henri's blade caught the overhead light as he loosened it in its scabbard, its length promising elegant. Shmuel simply flexed his mechanical fingers, the faint clink of metal against leather gloves serving as his answer.
From the edge of the impromptu arena, the witnesses stepped forward.
"Kamina," the man himself declared, planting his feet and folding his arms. His sunglasses caught a flicker of lamplight, making his smirk almost glow.
"Valerie," the La Parure office rep said in her lilting voice, her fine coat's lapels gleaming. She smiled faintly–more for the crowd than for either fighter.
Both would serve as witnesses and final deciders.
By now, the unusual sight had begun to draw attention. Passersby slowed, craning their necks. Other fixers from nearby blocks filtered in. Even in a city where blood and steel were routine, a formal duel was something else.
A low, collective murmur rolled through the onlookers as the circle tightened.
The instant the signal was given, both fighters lunged–Henri's long sword flashing in a clean arc, Shmuel's mechanical fists surging forward like pistons. Steel hissed past Shmuel's head as he twisted aside, and Henri slid just out of reach of a hammering punch that would have caved in a lesser man's ribs.
They circled once, boots scraping against the stone, then closed the gap again. Henri's speed was undeniable–his footwork crisp, his blade darting.He slipped past Shmuel's guard and slashed across his leg. The cut was shallow, more of a stinging line than a crippling wound, but it drew a grunt from Shmuel and the faint scent of blood into the air.
That fleeting opening was all Shmuel needed. With a step inside Henri's reach, his left fist slammed into the other man's arm, the augmented weight and force making the impact ring up Henri's bones. The swordsman staggered but didn't retreat, answering with a sharp, slashing riposte that forced Shmuel back a step.
Blow for blow, the exchange quickened–Henri's blade slicing in tight, elegant patterns, Shmuel's fists hammering in brutal arcs meant to shatter whatever they touched. Sparks flew as steel kissed metal, the clang echoing over the murmuring crowd.
Then Henri overcommitted–his sword swinging just a fraction too far. Shmuel's left mechanical hand snapped shut on the blade with a clamp. The crowd gasped. Henri yanked, but the augmented grip was unyielding, locking the weapon in place.
Before Henri could react, Shmuel's right arm cocked back. The hook that followed landed flush against Henri's jaw–a thunderous impact that lifted him off his feet for an instant before he crumpled to the ground, his sword clattering free.
Silence fell over the crowd, save for the faint hum of Shmuel's mechanical joints as he straightened.
Kamina stepped forward before the murmurs in the crowd could swell into words, his voice booming over the square like a war drum.
"THE WINNER IS SHMUEL! FROM THE GREAT KAMINA OFFICE!"
The declaration drew a roar from the onlookers–some clapping, others whistling, a few already gossiping about the duel they'd just witnessed. The energy was electric, rippling through the gathered Fixers and passersby alike.
Off to the side, Sam, arms folded and leaning casually against a lamppost, watched with a faint smirk. He'd come to see if this would be a waste of time, but the clash had been far more entertaining than expected.
Both offices had shown skill, discipline, and ruthlessness–exactly the kind of reputation you wanted going into a dangerous raid.
Of course, Kamina had no idea he'd just pulled off what PR experts would call a perfect promotional stunt. He didn't know what "PR" even meant–just that shouting his follower's victory felt right and made his chest swell with pride.
Valerie, however, understood perfectly. She approached him with a smile that was equal parts genuine and calculating.
"Thank you for that, Kamina," she said smoothly. "You've just handed both of our offices a wave of fame before the raid even starts."
Kamina blinked, then grinned wide. "Fame, huh? Well… guess we'll just have to give 'em more to talk about."