Chapter Eight – I Must Deceive Him
(Tokito Kaito's Perspective)
"I must deceive him."
The thought was a cold, hard mantra in the center of my mind, a lifeline in the silent, tense room.
I need that. If I can't make him join me, then I won't be able to earn the necessary points to raise my rank in the academy.
The logic was inescapable and grim. Alone, with my power, the grind was impossible. I was a snail trying to climb a greased wall.
And that means I will remain in danger of dying as side characters die in any third-rate story.
The image was vivid and humiliating: a nameless, faceless extra, caught in the background of a splash page, reduced to a smudge of ink and a speech bubble containing a final, truncated scream.
That which I can never accept.
(Tokito) was looking with his red eyes while sitting on the chair that was in front of his desk.
The chair was a simple, hard-backed wooden one, part of the standard-issue dormitory set. I sat in it with as much forced casualness as I could muster, one leg crossed over the other, trying to project an aura of relaxed control I absolutely did not feel.
After sitting, I asked Kanami to do that too and sit in front of me at the table.
I gestured to the other chair, a twin to mine, on the opposite side of the small, utilitarian desk.
Scrape.
The sound of the chair legs dragging on the linoleum floor was loud in the quiet room as Kanami pulled it out and sat, his movements smooth and controlled.
(Tokito) had entered the room before inviting Kanami to it.
I had needed those few seconds alone. To take a breath. To glance around my new cell, to make sure nothing incriminating was out in the open. Not that I owned anything incriminating, unless you counted profound despair as contraband.
This room was suitable for Rank D.
The phrase "suitable" was doing a lot of heavy lifting. It wasn't filled with luxury.
The space was a concrete box, maybe four meters by five. The walls were painted a dull, institutional beige that had faded to a sickly yellow in places. The floor was scuffed gray linoleum. A single, high, narrow window let in a thin blade of afternoon light, illuminating dancing dust motes.
But suitable for living.
It had the bare minimum to prevent death by exposure or starvation, which I supposed was the academy's definition of "suitable."
It contained a bathroom in addition to a side toilet and a bedroom.
I could see the open door to the tiny bathroom from where I sat—a sliver of white tile and a shower curtain with a faint mildew pattern.
In addition to a desk for studying.
The very desk we now sat at. Its surface was scarred with the initials of previous, likely deceased, occupants.
In addition to a dishwasher.
A small, countertop model that looked like it hadn't been used in years, its door slightly ajar.
In addition to a small kitchen where a person can prepare the meals he wants.
A single induction burner and a miniature sink. The "kitchen" was essentially an alcove with a laminate countertop.
Most importantly, in addition to a small refrigerator where a person can put the ingredients he wants in it.
The fridge hummed a low, steady drone, the only constant sound in the room besides our breathing. It was empty except for the bottle of water that came with the room.
Simply, these were the rooms that the academy gives to the students who register in it.
It was a barracks. A holding cell with appliances.
Of course, these rooms will become more luxurious with the rise in rank also.
The manual had teased images: private suites for C-Ranks, apartments for B-Ranks, penthouse-style quarters for A-Ranks. The carrot on the stick, dangling just out of reach.
In addition to the ability to enter special training places and even books about different abilities of the highest level that the student can obtain if he rises in rank.
Access to better resources. Better knowledge. A path to actual power, not just survival.
These were also things that other students might care about.
I could imagine the more ambitious ones salivating over the thought of private training rooms and advanced technique manuals.
At least for (Tokito), he did not care about these matters.
Luxury meant nothing. Advanced training was a fantasy. My power had a hard ceiling—it made clouds. No amount of secret manuals was going to turn that into a tornado.
All he cared about was obtaining enough points to become in the rank that allows him to leave and graduate from this academy and obtain his freedom.
That was the only goal. The only prize. Escape.
Of course, he took a deep breath and began to think about what he should say at this moment.
I inhaled slowly, trying to steady the frantic rhythm of my heart. The air in the room was stale, carrying the faint, clean scent of industrial disinfectant and the underlying, damp concrete smell of the building itself.
Inhale… exhale…
The performance was about to begin.
---
(Kanami Kyoto's Perspective)
"He has been silent."
Kanami was able to think that as he watched the white-haired young man look at him.
The silence had stretched for nearly a full minute after the door clicked shut. It was a heavy, probing silence, not an awkward one. The boy across the desk was just… staring. Those unsettling red eyes were fixed on him, not blinking, absorbing every micro-expression.
His gaze looked like the gaze of a person who thinks about matters precisely and enjoys manipulation.
It was a look Kanami recognized intimately because it was the look he tried to cultivate. The look of the spider at the center of the web, watching the vibrations.
This look, which he wanted to release and not have released upon him.
Being on the receiving end was a novel and deeply unpleasant experience. It felt like being X-rayed by someone with a malicious sense of humor.
But at the same time…
A counter-thought emerged, cool and analytical.
Kanami felt that he should give the other person the chance to speak.
The principle of information gathering: let the mark talk first. They'll often reveal more than they intend.
In the end, he might be able to give him some important information.
Especially since he knows my codename.
"Specter."
The name echoed in the silence of his own mind. It was his deepest secret, his greatest vulnerability, and his most powerful leverage. This boy knew it. How? The question was a screaming siren in Kanami's head, but his face remained a placid mask.
The name he uses to obtain information about the phantom organization.
It was his alter ego, his tool for infiltrating the underworld's information networks in his obsessive quest.
Kanami was preparing to ask, but (Tokito)'s voice cut off his thoughts, where he said while sitting comfortably on his chair:
"You have some interesting questions, don't you? Why do I want to bring you here? And why do I want to give you information? Isn't that right?"
He was saying these words to me with complete cold nerves.
The voice was calm, almost bored, as if discussing the weather. There was no hesitation, no stumble. It was the voice of someone who believed he held all the cards.
Kanami did not pretend ignorance.
Feigning ignorance might have been the standard play, but this felt like a game where such a move would be instantly seen through and punished. Better to engage directly, to probe the boundaries.
He said to (Tokito):
"Yes. I want to know. I don't even know you. Why do you want to talk to me? You even invited me to your room. What is the information you want to give me? And what is the price?"
Of course, Kanami knew that there is no free meal.
It was the first rule of the underworld, of the academy, of life itself. Everything had a cost.
Especially when it comes from a person who does not show the slightest emotion on his face.
He studied the white-haired boy's expression. It was a blank slate, unnervingly so. Most people had tells—a twitch of the lip, a dilation of the pupil, a slight tightening around the eyes. This boy had none. His face was a pale, handsome mask.
And his face bore no expression except indifference and sarcasm.
The sarcasm was in the slight, almost imperceptible curl at the very corner of his mouth. It wasn't a smile; it was a punctuation mark of contempt.
(Tokito) clapped a little in a cheerful way and smiled a smile that looked like the smile of a kind person.
The clap was a single, soft pat of his hands.
Pat.
The smile that followed was wide and seemingly guileless, crinkling the corners of those creepy red eyes.
But for Kanami, it was only the beginning of hearing the answer he was waiting for.
He felt a cold trickle of apprehension. The transition from cold indifference to cheerful camaraderie was too abrupt, too theatrical. It was the sign of a skilled manipulator shifting gears.
"You are a detective. I have some conditions for giving you the information you want about the phantom organization."
Then he stopped and said:
"But before that, I will tell you about the answer that was swirling in your mind."
(Tokito) knew that he couldn't tell Kanami the information directly.
Laying all my cards on the table would make me worthless. I had to establish value, mystery, and above all, leverage.
He needed to make the young man in front of him know that he had information not only about the organization but about Kanami himself.
I had to show that I knew his secrets. That I was inside his head.
(Tokito) must show his overwhelming informational superiority to be able to gain the trust of the young man in front of him.
"Trust" was the wrong word. This wasn't about trust. It was about creating a dependency, a need. He had to make Kanami believe that he, (Tokito), was the only key to the vault of answers he sought.
Without that, everything (Tokito) says will be useless.
It would just be the ramblings of a weird, white-haired kid who got lucky with a guess. I'd be dismissed, or worse, eliminated as a loose end.
---
"What the hell does that mean?!"
A voice of annoyance came from Kanami.
He let it out, a sharp, frustrated exhalation. His brows drew together in a believable show of irritation. It was a calculated release, a pressure valve for the building tension, and a test.
But at the same time, in his mind, a cold, nerve-calming quiet was spreading.
He realized that anger at this moment was useless.
Anger clouded judgment. It made you reactive instead of proactive. This was a chess match, not a brawl.
But at the same time, it was better to show a reaction to test the other party's reaction in case of anger.
If the white-haired boy showed any sign of weakness—flinching, apologizing, backtracking—in the face of his displayed anger, Kanami could seize the initiative. He could use intimidation tactics.
But if he doesn't do or show any fear, then he will engage at a low level until he obtains the information he has, and after that, he can act in the way he wants.
The plan was set: appear agitated to probe, then revert to cool analysis based on the response.
After Kanami's plan, he looked carefully at (Tokito)'s style after hearing this talk.
But (Tokito)'s face was calm. It did not show any emotion.
Not a flicker. The cheerful smile had vanished, replaced by the same bored, indifferent mask. The red eyes just watched him, unblinking, like a reptile's.
On the contrary, he just smiled a smile as if he was expecting that.
The smile was back, but this time it was different—smaller, knowing, tinged with amusement at a private joke. It was the smile of a teacher watching a student try a trick that was in the lesson plan from day one.
But in truth, (Tokito)'s heart was beating.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
It was a frantic, ragged drumbeat against my ribs, so loud I was convinced the vibrations were traveling through the desk. My palms were clammy where they rested on my knees.
In the end, I am still weak and I am just an ordinary person in my previous life.
The impostor syndrome was a physical weight. I was a office worker from another world, playing a role in a life-or-death con game.
While the character Kanami in front of me is a strong person.
Strong not just in power, but in will, in cunning, in survival instinct. He was a product of this brutal world.
Even if he does not possess high destructive power, but even with his current strength, he can defeat (Tokito) very easily.
The thought was humbling and terrifying. In a straight fight, he could probably disarm me before I could form a single, sad puff of cloud. He could have a knife in my throat before I finished saying "wait."
Therefore, (Tokito) reached one thing.
The conclusion was stark, the only path forward.
He must act strong and not show any weakness at this moment, otherwise something will happen that he will not be able to face.
If my mask slipped, if he saw the terrified, clueless man behind the white hair and red eyes, the game was over. He'd either walk away, or he'd decide I was a threat that needed neutralizing. Permanently.
Of course, the calmness was surprising to Kanami.
He had expected a flinch, a defensive posture, something. The complete, unruffled composure was disconcerting. It suggested a level of confidence he hadn't anticipated.
But he soon recovered from the matter and showed a calm expression.
The brief flash of annoyance smoothed away, replaced by his default mask of polite, attentive neutrality. The green eyes were clear pools again.
"Continue your speech. So, what are the things you know about me?"
The question was delivered softly, almost politely. The hook was baited and cast. He was ready to listen, to gather data, to find the flaw in my armor.
---
"Finally."
(Tokito)'s thought contained this word.
Hearing it meant Kanami had chosen dialogue. He'd passed the first test of my bluff—the feigned anger hadn't thrown me. He was now engaging on my chosen battlefield: information.
Therefore, (Tokito) realized he had a chance.
A tiny spark of hope, cold and clinical, ignited in my chest.
So he adjusted his posture and said:
"I know why you are searching for the phantom organization."
I leaned forward slightly, just a few centimeters, enough to create a sense of intimacy, of sharing a secret. My voice dropped to a conspiratorial register.
"It is a secret organization, one of the organizations that appeared ten years ago. It even committed a horrific act where it killed thousands of people across several cities inside Japan."
I recited the facts I remembered from the manga's lore dumps. A shadowy cabal, a mysterious massacre. It was vague enough to be credible, specific enough to show I wasn't making it up.
"In addition, I know that it is also the one that caused you to be an orphan, (Kanami Kyoto)."
I delivered the line with a soft, almost sympathetic finality, while making sure to look at Kanami's reaction.
As I finished saying that, I confirmed that I looked at Kanami's reaction.
His face was still a mask of calm. The polite, listening expression didn't change.
But even with this calm, there was a tremor around the palm of his hand.
It was a tiny, almost imperceptible twitch. The fingers of his left hand, resting on his thigh, clenched for a fraction of a second, the knuckles whitening before relaxing. A tell. A tiny crack in the armor.
Which was sufficient evidence for (Tokito) to continue his speech with a comfortable smile.
I allowed my smile to widen, just a touch. Not triumphant, but satisfied, as if a prediction had been confirmed.
"I know from my source of information that you have been searching for this organization for a long time, to the point that you are linked to several illegal aspects. You yourself are known by the codename Specter."
I was laying it on thick now, piling revelation upon revelation, establishing my "source" as all-knowing.
(Tokito) remembered the information he had obtained from the manga.
The memory was hazy, from chapters I'd skimmed. The character Specter had met the protagonist (Sasuke) several times, where he was linked to several low-level criminal organizations.
A fixer. An information broker who operated in the grey areas.
At the same time, it was known about the character Specter that he was searching for an organization called the Phantom Organization, which is an international organization that carries out very horrible acts like killing and theft.
Standard villainous stuff, but on a global, conspiracy-theory scale.
In addition to biological crimes, although the last charge was something discovered in the end by the protagonist (Sasuke), who had discovered the truth of Specter and that he was just a student named (Kanami Kyoto).
The manga had a whole arc about it. Specter was ultimately a tragic, driven figure, not a pure villain. He was using the criminal underworld to hunt the bigger monster that had destroyed his life.
In the end, of course, being a side character, (Tokito) wasn't given much information from the manga.
The narrative had focused on (Sasuke)'s showdown with the organization. Kanami's backstory was delivered in rushed flashbacks and expository dialogue.
But with his understanding of the manga world from (Sasuke)'s point of view, he had a great understanding of the character Kanami and his great desire to catch the Phantom Organization.
I was extrapolating, filling in the blanks with narrative logic. A side character with a tragic past and a singular obsession? It was a manga staple. It had to be true.
---
Kanami, after hearing this information, seemed calm on the outside.
His breathing remained even. His posture didn't change. He was a statue of composure.
Nevertheless, the sound of his heartbeats was clear; he could hear it very easily.
Lub-dub. Lub-dub. It was a rapid, frantic rhythm, a stark counterpoint to his outward calm. He could feel the pulse hammering in his own temples.
He knows my secret identity. But how? Does he have the power to read memories or know the information I hide?
The thought was a spike of primal fear. A mental power? That would be a nightmare. It would make all his defenses, all his masks, utterly meaningless.
After that, he remembered that this young man had said, as if he knew what I was going to do when I told him what he was thinking about.
The memory of those words—"I will tell you about the answer that was swirling in your mind"—came back with chilling force. It wasn't a guess. It was a statement of fact.
He frowned internally, but he did not show any reaction on the outside.
His internal landscape was a storm of alarm and calculation, but his face might as well have been carved from marble. He had spent years perfecting this. Emotions were weapons to be used, not to be displayed.
Kanami realizes that showing a reaction at this moment means the opponent will get his chance and the upper hand in anything he will do or with the conditions he will give him.
It was a basic principle of negotiation. The first to show need loses.
Of course, Kanami did not realize the physical reaction.
The tiny tremor in his hand had been entirely subconscious, a visceral response to the mention of his orphan status and the organization. He hadn't felt it himself.
Even with his extreme talent for hiding his reactions, he could not hide the contraction of the muscles in his arm.
The clenching of his left fist. A micro-expression of tension that had traveled up his forearm.
And that was sufficient evidence used by the main story's hero (Sasuke) to discover the way to understand the character Specter.
I remembered the panel. (Sasuke), mid-fight with Specter, noticing the subtle twitch in the man's left arm whenever he was cornered or lying. It was his "tell."
Specter had a strange reaction when thinking or getting confused, which is that he tenses the muscles of his left hand.
It was a quirky character detail the author had thrown in to give the hero a way to win through observation. A narrative cheat for the protagonist. And now, it was my cheat.
(Tokito), because he knew this information, understood that Kanami was confused.
The tell had confirmed it. My barrage of secrets had landed. I had shaken him.
And at the same time, he knew that Kanami did not notice the instinctive reaction of his own body.
Of course he didn't. People rarely notice their own unconscious tics. They're as natural as breathing.
And this is normal. In the end, there are some people who possess instinctive reactions that they cannot know unless they are pointed out.
A nervous cough, a foot tap, a specific eye-twitch. They were part of you, invisible to the self.
And like this reaction, which is a simple reaction, only a person who possesses very high attention can pay attention to it.
The manga had played it as a sign of (Sasuke)'s genius-level perception.
And of course, (Tokito) did not have such skills.
I was about as observant as a brick in my previous life. I missed social cues, forgot names, and once walked into a glass door thinking it was open.
In the end, he is an ordinary person before transferring to this body.
But because he had read the manga, he knew of this behavior that Kanami possesses.
That was my power. Not super-strength, not cloud manipulation, but spoilers. The ultimate meta-ability in a world bound by narrative rules.
I knew the hero's cheat code for reading this particular side character. And now, I was using it to fake being a mind-reader, to fake being an all-knowing manipulator.
The deception was layers deep. A fraud using stolen cheat sheets to impersonate a psychic, to recruit a thief, to escape a death school.
It was so absurd, so precarious, that a hysterical laugh threatened to bubble up in my throat.
I swallowed it down, along with my fear, and held Kanami's green-eyed gaze with my own red, lying ones.
The silence stretched again, but this time, the power dynamic in the small, beige room had subtly, irrevocably, shifted.
---
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End of Chapter.
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Author's Note:
Thank you for reading as(Tokito) walks the razor's edge of his deception. Your vigilance is the only thing keeping his bluff from collapsing. ❤️ :)
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