Kenta walked forward without urgency, like the entire bunker's tension was something happening far above his concern rather than something built around him.
The hum of the lights filled the silence that followed his entrance, and it was only when his boots met the concrete that the room seemed to remember how to breathe again.
Oba pushed forward immediately, cutting through the space between them with a hard stare that dragged from Kenta's boots to his face, lingering there like he was trying to find something that justified the reputation Hemlock had been whispering about for two days.
Then Oba scoffed.
He didn't even look at Kenta when he spoke, turning his head slightly toward Hemlock instead like Kenta was background noise that needed explaining away.
"This can't be him," he said flatly, his voice carrying just enough to pull attention across the bunker again.
A few of the gathered men shifted, unsure whether to watch or pretend they weren't listening. Oba kept going anyway, his disgust sharpening as he finally gestured at Kenta like he was pointing out a flaw in bad equipment.
"You're telling me this is the guy? He looks like some middle-aged drunk dragged out of an alley and dressed in tattered robes."
His lip curled. "There's no way a man like that brought down Hanko Demitri."
Hemlock didn't respond immediately, but his eyes tracked Kenta carefully, already anticipating the reaction. Oba let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head as if he'd just confirmed his own worst suspicion.
"I've hitchhiked my fate to the most shifty-looking man imaginable," he muttered, louder now, letting the insult sit in the air like it belonged there.
Kenta blinked once. Then he stepped forward.
It wasn't fast. It wasn't aggressive. It was just decisive, like he had already decided this conversation would happen at a closer distance.
Oba barely had time to register the movement before Kenta was in front of him, hand lifting and resting casually on Oba's shoulder like they were acquaintances in a tavern rather than strangers in a bunker filled with volatile, armed defectors.
Oba froze. Slowly, he turned his head. Kenta was smiling. It wasn't a friendly smile. It sat somewhere between amused and tired, but there was something underneath it that didn't belong in casual conversation.
Pure, compressed irritation sat in his eyes like heat behind glass, sharp enough that Oba's confidence stuttered mid-breath.
A thin bead of sweat formed at the side of Oba's temple before he even realized it, and his shoulders tightened under Kenta's grip like his body had suddenly remembered it was not the stronger one in this interaction.
Kenta leaned in just slightly.
"If you're going to openly talk shit about my appearance," he said quietly, voice calm in a way that made it worse, "at least have the decency to do it to my face. Eye contact preferred."
The pressure in the room shifted. A couple of the men straightened without meaning to. Hemlock didn't move, but his gaze sharpened.
Oba's throat bobbed as he swallowed, his mouth opening slightly like he wanted to respond but couldn't immediately find the words that wouldn't make things worse.
Then the tension in Kenta's eyes faded. Just like that.
He sighed, letting his hand fall away from Oba's shoulder as if the entire moment had already become annoying paperwork he didn't want to deal with.
"Also," he added, scratching the back of his head, "I'm twenty-eight."
Oba blinked.
Kenta glanced at him sideways, his expression flattening into something almost offended on principle.
"I'm getting really pissed at people calling me middle-aged. I don't know what kind of standards you all have for aging, but my complexion cannot be that bad. It's everyone else who's wrong."
Silence followed for a moment before one of the men near the back coughed like he was trying not to laugh and failing. Oba's brows knit together in confusion, irritation and slight fear still present but now tangled with disbelief at Kenta's words and almost casual demeanor.
Kenta continued, glancing down at himself with mild annoyance.
"And before you start again," he said, waving a hand lazily at his robe, "it's not my fault they look like this. That bastard Hanko burned them to shit during our fight."
That finally got full attention. Kenta shrugged like he was recalling a minor inconvenience.
"Speaking of which," he added, tone flattening slightly, "yeah. I did kill Hanko, for your information. Took a while too. Was my first real fight in years, and honestly?"
He exhaled through his nose. "It was a total pain in the ass."
The bunker went still in a different way now. Not tension exactly, but recalibration. The men who had only heard rumors now looked at him differently, like the words had weight they hadn't fully accounted for until they were spoken directly.
Oba opened his mouth again, likely to argue, question, or challenge, but Kenta didn't let him get there. His hand came up and gently covered Oba's mouth. Not forceful. Not violent. Just final.
"Shh," Kenta said softly.
Oba froze completely, eyes widening slightly as if his brain had to restart to process what was happening. Kenta held the silence for half a second longer, then let his hand drop again like nothing had happened. He turned his head toward Hemlock.
"So," Kenta said, voice returning to its usual lazy cadence, "are these all the guys?"
Hemlock exhaled once, arms still folded. "Yes."
Kenta nodded slowly, eyes sweeping across the bunker. He took in every face, every stance, every flicker of doubt or readiness.
"Huh," he muttered. "Didn't expect even this much of a turnout, to be honest."
His gaze returned to Hemlock briefly. "But a dozen new allies is nothing to scoff at."
A few of the men shifted at that word. Allies. Not recruits. Not assets. Allies.
Kenta walked further into the center of the group now, not avoiding space but owning it in a way that made everyone subtly adjust their positions without realizing it. Even Oba, still recovering from the interaction, found himself half a step back before he noticed. Kenta stopped.
"Yeah," he said, his voice carrying just enough to reach everyone. "I do plan on taking the fight to the Syndicate."
That alone made the room tighten again, but he didn't pause for reaction. He just kept going like he was talking about weather.
"And before anyone starts thinking about backing out," he added casually, glancing around, "I'm not expecting miracles from you all. Most of you are clearly half-trained, if even that. Just merely the way some of you are standing shows that."
A couple of offended looks flickered in the crowd.
Kenta shrugged. "That's fine."
He raised a hand slightly, counting off without actually counting.
"What I do need is cohesion. Timing. Basic survivability. If you can breathe and move under pressure, I can work with that."
His eyes narrowed just slightly, not in anger but in focus now. The lazy mask didn't fully disappear, but something underneath it sharpened.
"To get a greater edge in this fight," he continued, "I'm going to train all twelve of you."
Silence settled in again, but it was different this time. Less uncertainty, more calculation. The idea wasn't rejected immediately because of disbelief anymore. It was being weighed.
Kenta tilted his head slightly. "Over the next five or so days."
Kenta stuffed his hands into his sleeves, rocking back on his heels slightly as if the announcement he'd just made were the end of his responsibility for the moment.
"Do try not to die," he added casually.