Masaru didn't process the "Yo." He didn't process the pink hair or the stunning face.
All he saw was the empty grease-stained cardboard and the smudge of tomato sauce on the woman's lip.
His hand moved faster than his brain.
One second he was holding a towel, the next, his Beretta 92FS was leveled right between the woman's eyes.
"Don't move," Masaru snarled, his voice vibrating with a week's worth of suppressed rage. "Hands where I can see them. Now!"
The woman didn't flinch. She didn't even drop the crust of the last slice.
She just tilted her head, her brown eyes tracking the barrel of the gun with mild curiosity.
"Masaru! What the hell are you doing?"
Alex came sprinting into the kitchen, his game controller still clutched in his left hand.
Yuki was right behind him, her face turning a ghostly shade of white as she saw the standoff.
"She's in our house!" Masaru yelled, not taking his eyes off the intruder. "She broke in! She's eating my pizza, Alex! Three boxes! Gone!"
"Whoa, whoa, put the gun down, mate!" Alex shouted, stepping between Masaru and the sofa, though he made sure to stay out of the line of fire. "You can't just go shooting guests!"
"She's not a guest, she's a burglar!" Masaru's finger tightened on the trigger. "How did you get past the concierge? How did you get through the door?"
The pink-haired woman let out a long, bored sigh. She slowly raised her hands, though she kept the pizza crust in her right fingers.
"Could you lower the popgun? It's distracting," she said.
Her voice was smooth, confident, and entirely too calm for someone staring down a 9mm barrel. "I didn't break in. The door was unlocked because 'Hair-tie' over there went out to get mail and didn't check the latch. And for the record, your taste in toppings is basic."
"Unlocked?" Masaru glanced at Alex, who looked suddenly very interested in the floor tiles.
"I was expecting a delivery!" Alex stammered.
"I don't care!" Masaru turned back to the girl. "Get out. Now. Before I put a sigil-round through your forehead."
"You really should calm down," the girl said, leaning back further into the expensive cushions. "Sakura hired me. She told me to meet the team here at four. I was busy with a contract in Shibuya, so I couldn't make the formal intro. I figured I'd just drop by and wait. I got hungry. You had pizza. It's a math problem, really."
Masaru's arm wavered. He looked at Yuki. She was nodding slowly, though she still looked terrified.
"Sakura... mentioned a new recruit," Yuki whispered. "She said someone was coming today."
Masaru let out a sharp, jagged breath. He slowly lowered the pistol, clicking the safety back on, but he didn't holster it. He kept it gripped tight at his side.
"Name," Masaru demanded.
"Kuzushi Yasha," she said. She stood up, brushing crumbs off her cargo pants.
She wasn't tall, but she had an athletic, coiled energy about her that made the room feel smaller.
"Eighteen years old. 5th Deviation Hunter. Specialty: Kinetic redirection and close-quarters demolition."
"Eighteen? And a 5th?" Alex whistled, his irritation momentarily replaced by awe. "Bloody hell. You're a prodigy, then."
"I'm a professional," Kuzushi corrected.
"I want proof," Masaru said, his eyes narrowed. "I don't care if you're the Queen of England. Show me a license or a contract, or you're leaving through the window."
Kuzushi rolled her eyes. She reached into the side pocket of her cargo pants and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
She flicked her wrist, tossing it at Masaru. It sailed through the air with unnatural precision, hitting him square in the chest.
Masaru caught it. He unfolded the paper. It was a high-resolution scan of a DHC private contractor agreement.
It had Sakura's elegant, sharp signature at the bottom and Kuzushi's name in bold letters at the top.
Masaru stared at the document. "Wait. How do you have a copy of the contract?"
Kuzushi blinked, looking at him like he was a particularly slow child. "You just... ask for a copy? They have to give you one. It's the law."
Masaru felt a dull heat crawl up his neck.
He thought about his own signing day—how he'd just scribbled his name and walked away, too blinded by the 600k to ask for a receipt. He felt like an idiot.
He shoved the paper back at her, finally tucking his pistol into the waistband of his sweats. "Fine. Whatever. You're on the team."
Then his gaze shifted back to the empty boxes. The anger, which had been cooled by logic, flared back up instantly.
"But you ate my pizza!" he roared. "I just got paid! That was my first real meal in three weeks! I paid off my debts, I went to the store, I waited in line—and you just sat here and inhaled it?"
"It was getting cold," Kuzushi said, shrugging.
"Don't be so aggressive, Masaru," Alex said, patting him on the shoulder. "She's a teammate now. First impressions and all that. We should be welcoming."
"Welcoming? She ate fifty thousand yen worth of stuffed crust!" Masaru shoved Alex's hand off. "I don't care if she can redirect kinetic energy. I want my pepperoni back."
Kuzushi looked at him, her brown eyes softening just a fraction, though the smirk remained. "Look, relax. You're the 2nd Deviation, right? The 'survivor' everyone's talking about? I'll buy you more pizza. I'll buy you ten boxes. Just stop yelling. You're giving me a headache."
"I don't need pizza from the likes of you," Masaru spat. He felt the old Shinjuku pride prickly and sharp in his chest. "I don't need charity. I worked for that food. Just stay out of my way and stay out of my fridge."
He turned on his heel and marched toward his room, slamming the door so hard the framed art in the hallway rattled.
Kuzushi watched him go, then looked at Alex. "Is he always like that?""Only on days ending in 'y'," Alex sighed. "Don't mind him. He's had a bit of a rough run lately. Almost got turned into a kebab in a subway station."
"I heard," Kuzushi said, her expression turning uncharacteristically serious for a split second. "The Roppongi mess. I saw the casualty report. He's lucky to be breathing."
---
---
While the apartment was buzzing with the tension of the new arrival, the atmosphere in the administrative district of the Hunter's Liaison Office was dead silent.
Kenji, the Supervisor, was staring at a stack of digital forms on his desk. His hand was shaking slightly as he reached for a lukewarm cup of tea.
Mai, his stepdaughter and intern, stood by the window, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She looked like she wanted to be anywhere else.
The door didn't open. It simply ceased to be a barrier as Sakura Watanabe stepped through.
She was back in her ivory-white suit, the fabric crisp and terrifyingly clean. The scratch on her face from the subway incident was gone, replaced by smooth, flawless skin.
She sat down in the chair opposite Kenji without waiting for an invitation.
She reached down and lifted a large, heavy leather duffel bag onto the mahogany desk. It landed with a dull, meaty thud.
"Sakura," Kenji gasped, his voice thin. "I wasn't expecting you. I thought you were preparing for the Roppongi follow-up."
"The follow-up is handled," Sakura said. Her voice was a calm, steady blade. "I'm here to inform you of a change in my schedule. I'm leaving for India tonight."
Kenji blinked, his glasses sliding down his nose. "India? Why on earth are you going to India?"
"I have a private meeting with the Prime Minister," Sakura replied.
Kenji let out a strangled laugh. "The Prime Minister? Of India? Sakura, don't be ridiculous. You're a high-tier contractor, but you don't just get an audience with a world leader. How the hell would you even have a connection like that?"
Sakura leaned forward. The light from the ceiling caught the violet in her eyes, making them look like deep, bottomless pools of shadow.
"How I have the connection doesn't matter, Kenji," she said softly. "What matters is that I will be out of the country for at least a week. While I am gone, you will be responsible for the logistical oversight of my team. You will provide the leads, you will verify the kills, and you will ensure their payouts are processed without delay."
"But—"
Sakura unzipped the leather bag.
Kenji's words died in his throat. The bag was packed to the brim with neatly banded stacks of ten-thousand-yen notes. It was a sea of beige and ink.
"There is twenty million yen in that bag," Sakura said.
Mai let out a small, muffled gasp from the corner of the room. Kenji's eyes were fixed on the money, his mouth hanging slightly open.
"This is for the 'administrative overhead' of my absence," Sakura continued. She stood up, smoothing the front of her blazer. She didn't look at the money again. It was a chore she had completed.
"Take care of the team, Kenji," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to vibrate in the very walls of the office. "And while I am away, I need you to do something for me. Log into the DHC data cloud. Access my unit's performance metrics."Kenji looked up at her, his face pale. "What... what do you want me to do?"
"Erase my mortality quota," Sakura said. "Every death, every 'accidental' casualty, every failed recruit from the last six months. I want the data cloud wiped clean. When I return, I want my record to be as spotless as this suit."
She turned and walked out of the office, the sound of her heels clicking rhythmically on the linoleum until it faded into nothing.