The meeting room in New Delhi was buried thirty feet beneath the earth, protected by layers of reinforced concrete and lead shielding.
The air inside was thick with the scent of sandalwood and the heavy, metallic tang of high-grade demonic wards.
Akshay Malhotra, the Prime Minister of India, sat at the head of a long mahogany table. He was an old man with a fringe of white hair around a bald, liver-spotted scalp.
His glasses were thick, magnifying eyes that looked tired but remarkably calm.
Seated around him were several ministers and high-ranking military officials, all of them looking at the woman across the table with varying degrees of hostility.
Sakura Watanabe sat perfectly still. She hadn't touched the tea that had been placed in front of her. Her violet eyes were fixed on Akshay, ignoring the dozens of armed guards stationed along the perimeter of the room.
"You have been having a very successful year, Prime Minister," Sakura said. Her voice was flat, cutting through the low hum of the air conditioning. "Your predictions regarding the border skirmishes in the north were accurate to the minute. Your recent sweep of rival party offices happened exactly three hours before they could launch their smear campaign. Even your economic shifts have been timed with 100 percent accuracy. It is a statistical miracle."
Akshay smiled thinly, his hands folded on the table. "Luck favors the prepared, Ms. Watanabe. Surely a woman of your standing understands the value of good intelligence."
"Intelligence is one thing," Sakura replied. "Omniscience is another. This isn't luck or coincidence. It is a violation of international hunter treaties."
The room grew tense. The officials shifted in their seats, their hands moving closer to the panic buttons beneath the table.
"I am accusing you of holding a private contract with a higher-tier demon," Sakura continued. "One whose specific technique is bound with future sight. You are using a catastrophe-grade entity to manipulate world events and maintain your grip on power. It is an illegal tether."
On Akshay's right, a man who had been silent the entire time finally moved.
Ankit Mehta was forty-two years old, with short black hair and a rugged, brown face.
He stood five feet ten inches tall, but he carried himself with the weight of a mountain.
He was India's top-ranked demon hunter, an 8th Deviation who was rumored to have single-handedly cleared a double-nest in the Himalayas.
"You should think very carefully before you speak further, Sakura Watanabe," Ankit warned. His voice was deep, vibrating in the chests of everyone present. "You are a guest in this country. Accusing our leader of heresy is a quick way to ensure you never leave this bunker."
Sakura didn't look at him. She didn't even blink. "I am not interested in your national pride, Ankit. I am interested in the stability of the Deviation scales. If the Prime Minister does not nullify this contract and release the entity back into the void, I will be forced to move to the next phase of my instructions."
"And what is that?" Akshay asked, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses.
"I will have to terminate everyone present here," Sakura said.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Ankit Mehta stood up so quickly his chair hit the wall behind him. He didn't reach for a holster. He didn't need to.
He slammed his right hand onto the table, and a gout of molten red energy erupted from his palm.
The energy solidified instantly into a jagged, glowing sword that hummed with enough heat to char the wood of the mahogany table.
"You are talking too much for a woman," Ankit hissed, the red glow of his blade reflecting in his dark eyes. "You come into our house and threaten the man I am sworn to protect? You think your corporate backing in Tokyo makes you untouchable?"
One of the younger ministers tried to reach out to Ankit's arm. "Ankit, please, sit down. We can discuss this like civilized men."
Ankit shook him off, his gaze locked on Sakura. "She isn't a civilized man. She's a parasite."
Sakura stood up slowly. She didn't manifest a weapon.
She didn't call for her chains. She just stood there, looking at Ankit like he was an annoying insect.
"If you decide to attack me, Ankit, it won't go down well for anyone in this room," Sakura said. "Your 8th Deviation rank is impressive on paper. But here, in this confined space, you would be dead before the first swing of that sword connects. And so would the man you're protecting."
Ankit's hand tightened on the hilt of his red blade.
The air around him began to distort from the heat, the sandalwood smell turning into the scent of ozone.
He looked into Sakura's violet eyes, searching for a flicker of fear, a hint of hesitation.
He found nothing.
The standoff lasted for ten agonizing seconds.
Ankit's breathing was heavy, his energy spiking in jagged, violent waves.
Finally, he let out a low growl and sat back down.
The red sword dissolved into a shower of dying sparks, leaving a blackened scorch mark on the expensive table.
"This conversation is over for today," Ankit muttered, staring at the floor.
Sakura smoothed her white blazer. "I will give you forty-eight hours, Prime Minister. Make the right choice."
-
Thousands of miles away, in the Minato apartment, the atmosphere was far less dignified.
The heat was oppressive. The high-end air conditioning unit in the living room had developed a faulty motor, and instead of cool air, it was currently emitting a low, pathetic whine and a faint smell of burning plastic.
It was a Tokyo summer afternoon, and the humidity felt like a wet wool blanket draped over everyone's shoulders.
"I'm not doing it," Masaru said. He was slumped in a chair, his shirt unbuttoned and his forehead glistening with sweat. "I am a professional hunter, not a line cook. My pride has its limits, and those limits end at the stove."
"Your pride is going to make us starve to death," Kuzushi replied. She was lying on the floor, her pink hair spread out on the cold tiles. She looked like a discarded doll. "I'm an 18-year-old 5th Deviation. I shouldn't even know where the kitchen is. It's beneath my station to handle raw poultry."
"My mum usually does the cooking," Alex moaned from the sofa. He had a damp towel draped over his face. "She makes a brilliant shepherd's pie. I've tried to look up the recipe, but it requires things like patience and onions. I have neither."
Yuki sat in the corner, staring out the window at the shimmering heat waves rising from the street. Nobody dared to ask her to cook.
After her breakdown in the Setagaya house and the sudden, terrifying display of the Ice Cage, the group had collectively decided that giving Yuki a sharp knife and a hot pan was a recipe for a frozen apartment.
"We're all broke," Masaru muttered, checking his bank account for the fifth time. "I paid the landlady. Alex spent his money on that fancy hair gel and those grenades. Kuzushi, where did your signing bonus go?"
"Clothes. Weapons. And I bought a very expensive bike that I crashed ten minutes later," Kuzushi said, not moving from the floor. "I'm a spender, scavenger. Deal with it."
The stomach of everyone in the room let out a collective, hollow growl. The awkwardness was thick.
They were four of the most dangerous people in the city, capable of shredding demons and breaking reality, but they were currently being defeated by a lack of takeout money.
"Masaru," Kuzushi said, rolling onto her side to look at him. "Cook for us. If you do, I'll give you a gift. Something special from my collection."
Masaru didn't even look at her. "The only gift I want from you is silence. If you ask me again, I will put a bullet in your head."
Kuzushi snorted and turned to Alex. "Hey, Hair-tie. Cook something and I'll tell everyone you're actually a decent hunter."
"I can't!" Alex wailed, his voice muffled by the towel. "I miss my mum! I miss the rain! I miss food that doesn't involve fermented beans!"
The humidity seemed to rise. A fly buzzed around Masaru's head, its drone matching the whine of the broken AC.
He felt greasy, hungry, and incredibly irritable. He missed the days when he could just eat a cup ramen in peace without three other idiots complaining about the quality of the noodles.
Suddenly, a knock came at the door.
It wasn't a loud knock. It was hesitant, light, and polite.
Kuzushi groaned, hauled herself off the floor, and shuffled to the door. She pulled it open, expecting a courier or a confused neighbor.
Mai stood in the hallway. She looked exhausted, her eyes sunken and her skin pale, but she was holding a large, heavy-duty polythene bag.
The smell of fried chicken, warm rice, and miso soup flooded into the apartment instantly.
"Oh," Mai said, blinking at the sight of Kuzushi's disheveled hair. "Um, hello. I... I brought some food. I thought you might be hungry."
Masaru was out of his chair in a second. Alex ripped the towel off his face, and even Yuki turned away from the window.
"Food?" Masaru asked, stepping toward the door. "You brought us dinner?"
Mai stepped inside, placing the heavy bag on the dining table. She started pulling out containers of hot, steaming meals. There was enough to feed a small army. There were bentos, family-sized buckets of chicken, and even some chilled desserts.
"Yeah," Mai said, wiping sweat from her own forehead. "I noticed the mission reports were coming in late, and I figured everyone was probably too tired to deal with the logistics of eating."
Masaru grabbed a container of rice and chicken, the warmth of the plastic feeling like a miracle in his hands. "Thanks, kid. Seriously. But why did you do this? We aren't your responsibility outside of the mission leads."
Mai paused, her hand on a container of miso soup. She looked at Masaru with a tired, honest expression. "It's in the protocol for the Demon Hunter Corporation. The DHC guidelines state that for high-stress units, the liaison officer is responsible for ensuring the team maintains proper nutrient levels to avoid deviation-fatigue. It's just part of the job."
Masaru froze, a piece of chicken halfway to his mouth.
He thought back to the last few months. He thought about the weeks he spent eating nothing but dehydrated noodles in a moldy apartment while working for Sakura.
He thought about the subway mission where they almost died, and how Sakura had just told them to go home and rest without checking if they had a single yen to their names.
Sakura had never brought them food. Sakura had never mentioned a protocol. She had just given them money and expected them to function like machines until they broke.
Masaru looked at the steaming food, then at the exhausted intern who had spent her own time and energy to bring it to them.
Masaru realized Sakura never did that.