Two days passed by rather fast, though for those waiting beneath the factory, it didn't feel fast at all. Time in the bunker moved strangely. There were no windows, no sun to track, no natural rhythm to anchor the hours, only the soft hum of the lights and the quiet, restless shifting of people who weren't used to sitting still.
The women from the brothel had settled in as best they could, some finding corners to rest in, others sticking close together in small groups, speaking in hushed tones or simply sitting in silence, letting the unfamiliar feeling of safety sink in little by little. It wasn't comfort, not yet, but it was something close enough that none of them wanted to disturb it.
On the other side of the room, the atmosphere was far less calm.
Hemlock stood near the center of the bunker, arms folded, his posture relaxed on the surface but his eyes constantly moving, watching, measuring. Around him were the men he'd gathered over the past two days, twelve in total, each one pulled from different corners of the Syndicate, each one carrying their own reason for being here.
Some stood quietly, keeping to themselves; others leaned against walls or crates, exchanging low conversations, while a few lingered closer to Hemlock as if proximity alone might give them more certainty in what they'd chosen. Not all of them looked convinced. One in particular made that obvious.
The man paced back and forth like a caged animal, boots striking the ground with uneven rhythm as his hands dragged through his short red hair. Stubble lined his jaw; his build was average, nothing about him particularly imposing, but the tension in his movements made him stand out more than any size could. His name was Oba.
Hemlock watched him for a moment before finally stepping forward.
"You're going to wear a hole in the floor," he said calmly as he approached.
Oba's didn't stop pacing.
"What's got you so bothered?" Hemlock asked.
That did it. Oba turned sharply, irritation already written across his face.
"Don't," he snapped, swatting Hemlock's hand away when he tried to gesture. "Just don't."
Hemlock raised an eyebrow slightly but didn't react beyond that.
"Alright."
Oba exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face before glaring back at him.
"Where the hell is your guy?" he demanded.
His voice carried just enough to draw a few glances from the others.
"You said," he continued, his tone rising slightly, "the man who took down Hanko would be here after two days."
He gestured vaguely around the bunker.
"Well, guess what? Two days are up and he's not here."
Hemlock sighed quietly, already knowing where this was going.
"Did he give you a time?" Oba pressed. "Anything? Morning? Night? A signal? Something?"
Hemlock shook his head.
"He was... vague."
Oba's expression darkened.
"He told me he'd be back in two days," Hemlock continued, unfazed by the reaction. "And that I had that much time to recruit as many willing fighters as possible."
He gestured lightly toward the group.
"That's exactly what I did."
Oba stared at him for a second. Then laughed sharply.
"That's it?" he said. "That's all you got from him?"
Hemlock didn't respond.
Oba shook his head, turning away as he dragged both hands through his hair again.
"Unbelievable..."
He paced once more, faster this time, the frustration clearly building until it finally snapped. He grabbed the nearest glass from a crate without even looking and hurled it across the room. It shattered against the wall with a loud crack, fragments scattering across the floor.
The noise drew attention immediately. The women looked up. The other men paused. Then, just as quickly, most of them looked away again, not wanting to get involved. Oba didn't care.
"I should've known better," he muttered, his voice low but tense. "Should've never trusted this."
He turned back toward Hemlock, eyes sharp.
"I'm risking my life here," he said, tapping his chest with a finger. "For what? A chance? Not even a good one. The smallest, shittiest chance of maybe taking down the organization that's been running us, this city, into the ground."
He let out a bitter laugh.
"And I'm doing it based on the word of a guy who isn't even here."
Hemlock watched him quietly.
"You done?" he asked.
Oba scoffed.
"Not even close—"
Thunk. Something small struck the back of his head. Not hard. But enough to draw his attention. He froze before slowly turning.
"Who the hell—"
His eyes landed on the source.
A man stood a few steps away, lowering his hand after tossing the pebble. He wore a yellow and black robe, simple but clean, and his long black hair was tied into a bun, with loose strands falling forward to partially cover one eye. His build was lean but defined, the kind that spoke of consistent training rather than brute strength, and a thin scar stretched across his mouth, giving his otherwise neutral expression a permanent edge. Avant Ozai. He didn't look impressed.
"Calm down," Avant said simply.
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried weight. Oba's expression twisted immediately.
"Don't start," he shot back. "I don't want to hear it from you."
Avant didn't move.
"You and him," Oba continued, pointing between Avant and Hemlock, "you both have it easy."
That earned a few looks.
"You were lieutenants," Oba went on, his frustration spilling over. "You got trained. You know proper techniques and magic."
He spread his arms slightly.
"The rest of us?" he scoffed. "We're scraps. Half-trained. Barely useful in the grand scheme."
His hands clenched.
"Some of these guys can barely make sparks show up when they try to use mana."
A few of the men shifted uncomfortably.
"And now you're asking us to go up against captains?" Oba said, his voice rising again. "Against the Syndicate?"
He shook his head.
"Yeah, I've got every reason to be anxious," he snapped. "Every reason to be pissed."
Avant's eyes narrowed slightly, the calm in his expression tightening into something sharper.
"You think we're not at risk?" he said, his tone dipping just enough to show irritation creeping in. "You think being trained changes the fact that we're turning on the same people we used to work for?"
Oba stepped forward.
"Don't twist it—"
Avant took a step as well, his posture straightening.
"I'm not twisting anything," he said. "I'm telling you to stop acting like—"
Hemlock moved between them before the tension could snap further.
"That's enough," he said, his voice firm but not raised.
Neither of them backed off immediately. For a moment, it looked like things might escalate anyway.
Then, the sound of the hatch opening cut through the room. Every head turned. The creak of metal echoed as the door above shifted, light from the factory floor spilling down into the bunker stairwell. Unhurried and slow footsteps followed.
Then, he appeared. Kenta descended the stairs like he had all the time in the world, one hand resting lightly against the railing as he stepped down into the bunker. His expression was calm, almost relaxed, like he hadn't just been gone for two days while everyone here waited on his word.
The lazy looseness he carried before hadn't disappeared, but it sat differently now, like it was resting on top of something far more solid beneath. His eyes swept the room once. Taking everything in. The broken glass. The tension. The gathered men. Then he stepped off the final stair.
"Looks like you've been busy," he said casually, his gaze landing on Hemlock.
Silence filled the bunker. Oba stared at him. Avant's posture eased slightly, though his eyes stayed sharp. The other men watched carefully. Even the women, off to the side, looked up again, drawn by the shift in the room. Hemlock exhaled once.
"Took you long enough."
Kenta shrugged lightly.
"Had some things to take care of."