Gear was fastened in silence. Seven figures emerged from the depths like shadows long forgotten by the world above—Ren, Hajime, Hiroshi, Koji, Mika, Haruto, and Serena. Each one bore the weight of lives they could not save and memories that refused to die. Their names, once uttered with warmth in better times, had become codewords in the silence of war.
Ren adjusted the straps of his faded combat vest. His movements were mechanical, practiced. His eyes were glassy, reflecting a storm only he could feel. The plan was sharp and simple, but it tasted bitter in his mouth.
"First," he said, voice low and dry like wind through ash, "we grab one of them. Alive. We need intel at the curfew time."
They nodded. No questions. They all knew what was at stake. More importantly, they all knew what waiting had already cost.
By 9:03, they slipped into the ghost-veins of Osaka—the shattered remains of a subway line half-swallowed by the argwan's spread. Cracked tunnels breathed spores like sighs, and broken rails glittered like rusted bones under dim emergency lights still flickering from a forgotten era. They moved with practiced quiet through the derailed carcass of an old train, ducking beneath corroded panels, each breath tight against gas filters and dampened adrenaline.
Above them, the city pulsed like a wounded beast. Argwan patrol drones hummed low, cutting paths of violet light through the black fog aboveground. Their scans burned through smog and time alike, seeking heartbeats like hunters seeking prey.
Ren crouched low near a jagged hatch, fingers pressed against his earpiece. "Haruto," he murmured, voice a blade in the dark. "Status."
From his perch atop a collapsed escalator draped in ivy and time, Haruto's voice returned, clipped and precise: "Two targets. East alley. One's marked—lieutenant rank. Left pauldron."
Ren's eyes narrowed.
"Hiroshi," he ordered, his tone barely masking the coiled fear inside him, "take point."
Hiroshi nodded once, eyes cold beneath the edges of his GHU tattoo—an old mark from an old life when things were still black and white. Now they were only gray and bloodstained. He flicked his hand, and Serena moved beside him without a word, clutching a smoke grenade made from scavenged Argwan canisters and desperation.
The snatch happened faster than breath.
The grenade hissed in Serena's hand as it sailed into the alley, erupting into a choking veil of grey. The smoke bled like ink into the air. Hiroshi was in it before it cleared, slamming the lieutenant against the concrete, gagging him with a toxin-laced rag that stank of crushed poppies and broken rules. His partner, a young grunt barely older than Yui, reached for his comm.
Haruto's bullet arrived first.
The grunt's comm exploded into sparks, and then Hajime surged from the mist like a memory too painful to forget, swinging the butt of his rifle into the soldier's temple with a sickening crack. The boy slumped, a puppet with strings cut.
Koji, crouched nearby with wires trailing from his pack, gave a soft, satisfied laugh. "Not bad," he murmured, eyes glinting with mischief and nerves. "Almost professional."
Mika knelt beside the unconscious grunt, brushing soot from his cheek. Her brow furrowed. "This one's just a kid," she said quietly. "3 monthes, maybe?. His uniform still smells like soap."
Ren didn't answer. He was already hauling the lieutenant—barely breathing, teeth bloodied—over his shoulder like old guilt.
"Move," he said. "Drones will be here in ninety seconds."
They vanished into the subway's bowels, leaving only smoke and silence behind.
They returned back to the The safehouse