The briefing room was smaller than Kori expected. A single table, four chairs, a projector that looked like it hadn't been updated since the building was constructed.
Hayashi sat at one end, folder open, reading glasses perched on his nose. Across from him, a woman Kori didn't recognize—older, severe, the kind of face that had stopped accommodating pleasantries decades ago.
"Classification finalized," Hayashi said without preamble. "Kuroshi Kori. Hybrid. Weapon-class. Bonded entity: Scythe Devil."
The words landed in the room like stones. Kori sat in the remaining chair and said nothing.
"Scythe Devil," the severe woman repeated. She hadn't introduced herself. "That's new."
"New but not unprecedented," Hayashi said. "Weapon devils have been manifesting at increased rates over the past three years. Sword, Spear, Rifle—we've documented over a dozen new weapon-class entities in the Tokyo region alone." He flipped a page in his folder. "The Scythe Devil fits the pattern. Blade-type manifestation, combat-oriented abilities, no apparent secondary functions."
Kori thought about the black cat bleeding behind garbage bags. The amber eyes. The wit that had survived even dying.
He kept his face still.
"Shibuya Division is taking careful measures," the severe woman said. "The surge isn't random. Something's changed in the ecosystem—more fear, more manifestations, more hybrids showing up on our doorstep."
She looked at Kori for the first time.
"You align correctly. That's fortunate. Not everyone does."
"Alignment confirmed through contract analysis," Hayashi added. "First condition: kill all devils. That tracks with Public Safety objectives." He closed his folder. "The second condition—name prohibition—is noted but not concerning. Plenty of devils prefer anonymity."
The severe woman stood. "Shibuya will continue monitoring the weapon devil situation. This one"—she gestured at Kori without looking at him—"is your responsibility now, Hayashi. Make sure he's useful."
She left. The door closed with the finality of a period.
Hayashi sighed, removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes. "That was Director Yoshida. Charming woman."
He put his glasses back on.
"Your handler will be here shortly."
The door opened, and Mori walked in.
Hayashi gathered his folders and stood. "Agent Mori will be your supervising handler for the probationary period. Standard protocols apply. Don't make me regret this."
He left. The door closed. The briefing room was suddenly much smaller with just the two of them.
Mori pulled out a chair and sat across from Kori, that smile still in place. She looked like someone about to discuss weekend plans, not operational parameters for a weapon-class hybrid.
"Three rules," she said. Her voice was light, conversational. "Simple enough that even fresh hybrids can remember them."
Kori waited.
"One: my word is absolute. I'm your supervisor, which means when I say stop, you stop. When I say go, you go. When I say stand in the corner and count to a hundred, you stand in the corner and count to a hundred."
The smile didn't waver.
"Defiance is termination. For you, that means solitary confinement until someone decides what to do with you. Or execution, if the paperwork is less complicated that day."
She held up two fingers.
"Two: movement restrictions. You're a hybrid now, which means you don't get to wander wherever you like. Travel is limited to approved districts. Any deviation requires authorization seals from Shibuya HQ." She gestured vaguely at the building around them. "Here. Where you are now. Get used to the paperwork."
Three fingers.
"Three: no weapon manifestation without explicit permission. That scythe of yours stays inside unless I tell you otherwise. If I catch you manifesting without authorization, we have a problem. If someone else catches you, we have a bigger problem."
She lowered her hand. The smile remained.
"Do well," she continued, "and you'll be assigned to a permanent squad. Benefits, housing, the whole package. Fail, and..."
She tilted her head slightly.
"Well. Let's not think about failure."
Kori looked at her. The emerald eyes, the brown hair, the softness that wrapped around something harder. She'd sat in Akane's kitchen and talked about liabilities creating casualties. She'd smiled the same smile while implying that his aunt would suffer if he didn't comply.
Now she was his handler. His leash.
"Questions?" she asked.
"No."
"Good." She stood, smoothed her jacket, and headed for the door. "Come on, little scythe. Let's go hunting."
The district was new—rebuilt after a devil incident three years ago, according to Mori. Clean streets, modern buildings, the kind of planned development that erased whatever had existed before.
They walked side by side, Mori setting the pace, Kori matching it without effort.
"Patrol routes are assigned weekly," Mori said. She wasn't looking at him, her eyes moving across storefronts and alleyways with the automatic efficiency of long practice. "This sector has low incident rates, which makes it perfect for probationary assessments. Nothing too exciting. Nothing that requires..."
She glanced at him.
"Complications."
Kori walked. The afternoon sun cast long shadows between the buildings, and the streets were busy with people who had no idea what walked among them.
"You're quiet," Mori observed. "That's fine. I do most of the talking anyway."
She turned down a side street, narrower, the buildings older here—remnants of whatever had existed before the reconstruction.
"Most handlers hate the quiet ones. They think silence means plotting. I think silence means listening."
They walked for another block before Kori spoke.
"What's your contract?"
Mori's pace didn't change. Her expression didn't shift. But something in her attention sharpened, just slightly, before settling back.
"Direct," she said. "I like that."
She turned another corner, leading them into a small plaza with a fountain that wasn't running.
"Snake Devil. Class B. Contracted six years ago."
"Abilities?"
"Summoning." She stopped at the edge of the plaza, scanning the space with those emerald eyes. "I visualize a location, speak the activation word, and a snake appears there. Big one. Teeth like this."
She held her hands apart, indicating something the size of a car.
"It bites whatever I'm pointing at, then disappears."
She turned to face him, that warm smile still in place.
"Shuu," she said, making a chomping motion with her hand. The sound effect a child might make while playing with toys. "Shuu shuu. Very effective."
Kori looked at her hands.
She reached down, pinching the fingers of her gloves, and stripped both pieces of fabric away.
The cost was immediately visible.
The thumb and index finger of her left hand had no nails at all—just smooth, healed skin where they should have been. The middle finger's nail was half-grown, still reforming. On her right, two more were missing, and a third showed the raw pink of recent loss, the nail bed tender and exposed.
"The cost," Mori said. The smile held, but her voice was clean now, honest. "Every summon takes a fingernail. They grow back eventually. The cartilage takes longer."
She held up her hands, displaying the damage.
"Six years," she said. "That's a lot of snakes. A lot of shuu."
She lowered her hands.
"Some costs are visible. Some aren't. I prefer the visible ones. They're easier to count."
Kori looked at her—the smile, the soft voice, the emerald eyes that held something ancient and patient beneath the warmth. The missing fingernails. The cartilage still forming.
Devil hunter.
"Come on," she said, turning back toward the street. "We still have three blocks to cover."
They walked. The patrol route wound through side streets, past shuttered storefronts and narrow alleys where the afternoon light didn't reach.
Mori moved with the confidence of someone who'd walked these paths a hundred times, pointing out landmarks without breaking stride—a ramen shop that served as a dead drop, a parking garage where a Class B had nested last spring, a pharmacy that kept devil-grade medical supplies under the counter.
Then she turned into an alley that wasn't on the route.
Kori followed. The space was narrow, walls rising on either side, the afternoon light reduced to a strip of sky overhead. No doors. No windows. Just concrete and shadow.
Mori stopped at the far end.
His spine ignited.
Every nerve fired at once, the thing inside him surging awake. The air tasted like rust. Seven meters to Mori. Twelve to the exit. Four stories up, no handholds.
Mori turned.
Her hand was already rising. Fingers extended. Curled inward. The shape of teeth. One eye drifted shut, lazy, almost sleepy. The other stayed open—emerald and bright and fixed on his chest.
Her smile hadn't changed.
She wasn't breathing.
Her fingers locked into position. Pointing at him. Through him. Her head tilted—that gesture, that almost-cute gesture—and something behind her eyes had come unmoored.
Kori's hand jerked. The word clawed up his throat—
Mori's lips parted.
"Shuu."
The air split open.