Saturday 1 March 1999
Karen Josh now gritted her teeth, yanking at her hair in frustration. "DAMN! DAMN! DAMN IT ALL!" she screamed, pacing back and forth in her dimly lit apartment. Rage twisted her features, her breathing shallow and rapid. Every ounce of effort she had poured into discrediting ZAGE—strategizing smear campaigns, manipulating narratives, infiltrating media circles—was now collapsing like a house of cards. The trigger? The launch of the ZAGE Foundation, a charity initiative that captured the hearts of millions overnight. All her framing, all her work to paint ZAGE as a soulless, history-twisting corporate beast had been undone by a single act of overwhelming goodwill. She slammed her fist against her desk, nearly knocking over a stack of Anti-ZAGE pamphlets. "That damn ZAGE Foundation! That smug bastard Zaboru thinks he can fool the world with charity work!" she hissed.
But even now, with her pride shredded and her carefully orchestrated schemes unraveling, Karen wasn't ready to back down. Her ego wouldn't allow it. Her easy lifestyle, her credibility among her peers, her self-image as a crusader for truth—everything was on the line.
"This night," she snarled, staring at her reflection in a cracked mirror, "I will end it all while starting it all anew." Her lips curled into a crooked smile. The opportunity she had long waited for had finally arrived. Thanks to a connection she had maintained through years of media manipulation, she'd secured a live primetime interview on one of the biggest television networks in the United States. The stakes had never been higher, and she intended to make sure the whole nation heard her voice—and her accusations.
Karen sat down, adjusted her collar, applied a fresh layer of makeup, and whispered, "Tonight, the world will hear the truth. ZAGE is not what they think it is. And I will be the one to pull the mask off."
Meanwhile, at the towering ZAGE headquarters, Zaboru leaned back in his chair, exhaling a long, tired sigh as he scrolled through the ZAGE forums on his sleek glass tablet. One particular thread caught his attention—a post accusing ZAGE of dishonoring World War II veterans through the release of their game Medal of Honor. The headline was dramatic, the claims were emotionally charged, but what stood out the most was how little attention the thread had received. Hardly any replies. No traction. The user who started it had clearly expected outrage, perhaps even media coverage. Instead, it fizzled into obscurity mainly because this is like the Dozen times thread like this appear on the ZAGE platform.
Zaboru couldn't help but let out a dry, sarcastic laugh. "What the hell… who in this world has enough free time to write stuff like this multiple time?" he muttered, rubbing his forehead. The irony of the situation wasn't lost on him—ZAGE was being accused of disrespecting history, yet the game itself literally opened with a clear disclaimer: "This is a work of fiction — based on an alternate timeline." It was obvious, at least to anyone who took a moment to read or think.
He chuckled again, deeper this time. "Still... it's kind of funny. Our alternate war games always attract strange reactions. First, the original Fallout—I remember the Japanese government quietly warning us not to glorify nuclear devastation. They didn't issue an official ban, of course, but their message was clear and i had to make Ruruouni Kenshin game because of it. And now this? Medal of Honor stirring up drama all over again." He leaned forward, tapping his fingers against the polished surface of his desk.
Then, Zaboru grinned, that mischievous gleam in his eye returning. "If anyone thinks this kind of backlash is going to stop ZAGE from making bold, alternate-history games, they're dead wrong." He let out a low, almost villainous chuckle, the kind only a visionary madman could make. On his desk lay two folders—one marked Fallout 2, the other Wolfenstein—their titles glowing faintly under the soft desk lamp. Zaboru's mind was already racing with ideas, unbothered by the critics. If anything, their noise only confirmed he was on the right path.
Then time passed, and as the city lights of Tokyo shimmered against the backdrop of night, Zaboru finally returned home from the towering ZAGE headquarters. Mentally Exhausted yet longing for comfort, he stepped inside his warm, familiar house, the scent of his mother's cooking pulling him in like a magnet. He had been craving her homemade meal all day—something simple, nostalgic, and full of love. But as he made his way through the hallway, expecting a quiet dinner, he noticed something unusual. The entire family—his mother, father, Ayumi, and Sani-chan—were all gathered in the living room, their faces lit by the glow of the television screen.
He tilted his head, confused. "Huh? What's going on, Mom, Dad, Ayumi, Sani-chan? Why are you all crowding around the TV like that?" His voice carried a mixture of curiosity and slight concern.
Just then, the sound of small feet pattering across the floor interrupted the moment. Little Zenshin, who had been napping on the couch wrapped in a blanket, jolted awake with pure joy in his eyes. He saw his father and instantly beamed with excitement. "PAPA! Welcome home!" he cried out, his voice echoing through the room. Without hesitation, he ran toward Zaboru with outstretched arms.
Zaboru's expression softened, and he broke into a wide, warm grin. He bent down and scooped the little boy into his arms, lifting him high into the air as Zenshin giggled and wrapped his arms around his father's neck. It was a simple, beautiful moment of love and relief after a long day.
But his attention quickly returned to the TV, where the volume had been turned up just enough to catch his curiosity. The room was unusually quiet for a household full of people, and something about the atmosphere felt heavy, like they were all bracing for something..
Meanwhile, Keiko, Zaboru's mother, suddenly called out from the living room, her voice a mix of urgency and disbelief. "Zaboru, come here! There's something happening on TV right now—some sort of live interview accusing ZAGE of being a fraud!"
Zaboru blinked, still holding Zenshin, and walked toward the living room with a puzzled expression. "Hmm? Who's saying that now?" he asked, genuinely intrigued.
Ayumi, already seated near Keiko and Sani-chan, glanced at the screen and let out a knowing chuckle. "It's Karen Josh, Zabo. You remember her, right? That woman who hosted that ridiculous 'Anti-ZAGE Program' for kids a few years back. You laughed so hard at how absurd it was—remember?"
Zaboru's eyes widened with disbelief. "What? Karen Josh? She's still around? What is she trying to do this time?" The name brought back a mix of amusement and irritation. The last time he saw her content, it was such an over-the-top smear campaign that it became a meme across the ZAGE fanbase. But now she was back—and on live television?
His curiosity now fully piqued, Zaboru moved closer and settled into the couch beside Ayumi, still holding Zenshin, who had now shifted from playing with Zaboru's hair to curling into his father's chest. The atmosphere in the room had shifted—there was tension, uncertainty, and even a little anticipation. The whole family was quiet, watching the screen as the live broadcast continued.
On the TV, the camera panned to a sleek news studio, where the anchor introduced the next guest with a tone of mock excitement. "And now, an exclusive segment you don't want to miss. We have Karen Josh live with us—she claims to have explosive revelations about the mega-corporation ZAGE. Her words, not ours."
The broadcast then cut to Karen herself, seated upright in a crisp red blazer that screamed authority, her posture stiff and calculated. Her hair was pulled tightly into a bun, every strand meticulously in place, as if the precision of her appearance could lend weight to her accusations. Her eyes, though wide with energy, held a dangerous glint—obsessive, almost manic. She flashed a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, the kind of grin a performer wears before stepping onto a crumbling stage. "Thank you, Jim," she said, her voice calm but laced with a tremor of tension. "My name is Karen Josh, and tonight I will reveal the truth behind ZAGE—a truth that has been hidden, denied, and willfully ignored by the world for far too long."
Zaboru raised a single eyebrow as he slumped deeper into the couch, already unimpressed. He didn't even need to speak; the look on his face said it all. This again? Still, he remained silent, eyes fixed on the screen, arms loosely wrapped around Zenshin, who now rested sleepily against his chest.
The rest of the family leaned in, a mixture of amusement and tension in their expressions. Karen continued, her tone climbing from solemn to fevered, as though she were preaching from a pulpit. The studio lights glinted off her blazer as she gestured theatrically with every sentence.
"We all know ZAGE," she declared, pacing slightly in her chair. "One of the most influential companies in the modern world. But behind their glossy trailers, flashy consoles, and award-winning games, there's a dark undercurrent. An empire built not on innovation, but manipulation. They target our youth—children, teenagers—filling their heads with propaganda disguised as entertainment. They sell addiction. They market violence. They rewrite the fabric of history!"
She abruptly pulled out a copy of Medal of Honor from under the table, waving it toward the camera like it was Exhibit A in a criminal trial. "Take this game, for instance," she snapped, her voice gaining momentum. "Medal of Honor blatantly rewrites history. It reduces real human suffering, real war, into a glorified playground. It's not just disrespectful—it's dangerous. What message does it send to the next generation? That war is a game? That violence is heroic as long as it's video game?"
Zaboru blinked slowly. "She's really doing this. On live TV. Again." He shook his head in disbelief.
Sanika let out a giggle. "Maybe she's just stupid?"
Ayumi smiled, but it was Zanichi who leaned forward, pushing his glasses up his nose. "This… this could be more serious than it looks. If this is picked up by the wrong crowd, or if certain groups amplify it, it could cause problems. Not everyone is sharp enough to see through obvious propaganda."
Zaboru frowned, his thoughts racing. He could already sense the narrative being weaponized again. But something about the segment didn't feel right—it was too desperate, too unhinged. As if Karen was at the end of her rope.
And then things escalated.
On the screen, Karen slammed her hand down on the table with a thunderous clap that echoed through the studio microphones. Her face was flushed red with fury, veins visible on her temples as she leaned forward, eyes wild and voice nearly cracking from rage. "Can you believe it?!" she howled, pointing directly at the camera like an enraged prosecutor. "They're turning war heroes—our brave soldiers who sacrificed everything—into jokes! Punchlines! Game characters! What's next, huh? Turning genocide into a silly game? Making atrocities part of a game mechanics?" Her voice rose to a fever pitch, her tone bordering on unhinged.
But she wasn't done. Her breath was ragged, but she plowed forward, gesturing erratically with both hands. "And that's not even the worst of it! ZAGE—yes, that darling tech darling of the media—is entangled in something far more disgusting. They're connected to organized crime! That's right! ZAGE has direct ties to the Giordano family—one of the last remnants of the American mafia! I've seen the documents! I've heard the whispers! These people are dangerous and influential, hiding in plain sight!"
She slammed the table again, this time with both palms, rattling her water glass and causing the host to flinch. "And don't even get me started on that so-called cancer foundation ZAGE foundation!" she sneered, practically spitting the words. "You think they're doing charity out of the kindness of their hearts? No! It's all a fraud! A disgusting, calculated front for massive money laundering operations! Don't let their sweet commercials and child-patient testimonials fool you—this is corporate whitewashing at its finest!"
The studio was visibly shaken. Technicians whispered nervously behind the scenes. The host looked stunned, and the audience had fallen dead silent. It was no longer just a televised segment—it was a meltdown in real time.
Then, cutting through the chaos like a sword, a deep, furious voice erupted.
"ENOUGH, WOMAN!"
The sheer force of the shout silenced everything like a thunderclap piercing a tense silence. The studio froze mid-motion—camera operators paused, interns froze with headsets still tilted, and even Karen herself looked momentarily stunned. The sound of the echoing voice hung in the air like a gavel striking at the climax of a trial. All heads turned instinctively toward the source of the voice, their faces draining of color, eyes wide with disbelief and apprehension.
The cameras turned on cue, and jaws dropped in unison across the room and across the homes of millions watching. The man who had spoken, rising from the shadows of the audience seating, was none other than Adrian Kirk—the CEO of Kirk TV, the very studio airing this spectacle live to the nation. But more than that, Adrian was the father of Aldrich Kirk, a teenage boy battling late-stage leukemia, whose story had quietly touched the hearts of those in the know.
Adrian's expression was utterly unreadable—stone cold and carved in fury, like a judge rising to deliver an unforgiving sentence.
"You've gone too far," Adrian said, his voice low but vibrating with restrained wrath, every syllable sharp and deliberate. He stepped forward, his towering presence filling the studio with an undeniable gravity. "You dare call the ZAGE Foundation a fraud?" he repeated, his voice rising just enough to carry across the hushed room. "You've completely lost your mind, Karen."
Karen froze.
"I have a son," Adrian continued, his voice now thick with emotion. "Aldrich. A young boy—just in his early teenage years—fighting for his life against leukemia. He's spent more time in hospital beds than in classrooms. And during those darkest days, the only thing that brought a genuine light to his eyes was Video games and Zaboru. He loves hearing his singing, read every magazine article, and played every ZAGE game he could get his hands on. He idolized him—not just as a game developer, but as someone who seemed larger than life, yet kind."
Adrian took a shaky breath, eyes glistening. "So I reached out. Quietly. and with god help somehow i found him No media, no headlines. I didn't want a spectacle. I simply asked—humbly—if Zaboru could send a message to my son. A few kind words. That's all. You know what he did instead?"
He paused, letting the weight of his next words settle in the room.
"He come to my house. Privately. No entourage, no cameras, no PR stunt. Just him. Just Zaboru, arriving at our door with a warm smile and open heart with me. He signed Z-Man plushie, but more than that, he brought time. He sat with Aldrich for hours. They talked, they laughed, they played together like old friends. Zaboru didn't rush, didn't patronize. He treated my son like an equal—as if Aldrich were someone who mattered."
Adrian's voice cracked, his composure slipping. "That day… my son smiled like I hadn't seen him smile in months. It was as if the weight of his illness had momentarily lifted. And that wasn't the end. Zaboru didn't just leave with a pat on the back—he made arrangements, quietly and without fanfare, for Aldrich to be flown to Japan to receive an advanced treatment program. He paid for everything. Flights, medical expenses, lodging for our family. Not a single cent came from fundraising or headlines."
He took another breath, firming his stance. "And shortly after that, Zaboru launched the ZAGE Foundation—not to gain praise, not to score points with the public, but because he saw how many families were suffering like ours. He saw a need, and he did something about it. He created something real. Something that's saved lives."
The studio was utterly still, the kind of silence that feels like it could shatter under the weight of a breath. Karen's lips parted, quivering, but no sound emerged. Her face was pale, eyes wide, her entire posture frozen like a deer caught in the blinding glare of oncoming headlights.
"You," Adrian said, his voice steady as steel and cold as ice, "are the fraud. You peddle lies just to stay relevant. Your so-called 'Anti-ZAGE Program' is nothing more than a desperate circus act, a performance for attention-starved audiences."
Karen's eye twitched. She hadn't seen this coming—not on live television, not in front of millions, and especially not from someone with the power to destroy her narrative so effortlessly. Her breath quickened. Panic surged through her veins like ice water. Her carefully rehearsed lines, her poised persona—all of it crumbled.
And then, in a split-second descent into madness, she snapped.
Something in her mind finally gave way. Her anger—long simmering beneath the surface—boiled over in a violent outburst. She reached into her coat pocket with trembling fingers and pulled out a small, silver pocket knife. The studio lights reflected off the blade as she lunged across the set, a scream caught in her throat.
But security moved in a flash, as if they'd seen it coming all along. Two guards intercepted her mid-lunge, tackling her hard to the ground before she could get within arm's reach of Adrian. The knife clattered across the studio floor, slipping from her shaking hands. She struggled, screaming incoherently, as they wrestled her into submission.
The host stumbled backward, arms raised, shouting frantically for calm, but the studio had already exploded into pandemonium. Audience members gasped, cried out, and some even screamed in panic, rising from their seats in disbelief. Cameras shook, lights blinked, and producers behind the scenes scrambled to regain control. Yet amidst the storm of chaos and adrenaline, Adrian remained a towering figure of unshakable composure. He stood tall—like a mountain in the middle of a typhoon, resolute and unmoved.
Back at home, the ZAGE household had fallen into stunned silence. Zaboru, still cradling the now half-asleep Zenshin in his arms, could only gape at the screen. His mouth hung slightly open before he finally managed to whisper, "Wha... just happened?" The words slipped out like a breath, barely audible, but they captured the collective disbelief of millions of viewers watching the surreal broadcast unfold in real time.
Meanwhile, far away in a dimly lit café nestled in the heart of New York, Akechi Hamazou stood near the wide glass window, his gaze locked on the television mounted in the corner. The screen flickered with the chaotic scene. Beside him sat Don Giordano the don of Giordano Family, a heavy cup of espresso in hand, his brow furrowed.
Akechi's lips curled into a small, terrifying smirk. He exhaled slowly through his nose, his eyes glinting beneath the low-hanging lamps. Without even turning his head, Don Giordano gave him a sideways glance and muttered under his breath, "This man… terrifying. Just how many steps ahead did he plan all this?"
Because the truth, known only to a few, was chilling in its precision—every piece of this grand spectacle, from the foundation's unveiling to the exposure of Karen's breakdown, had been calculated, orchestrated, and executed with ruthless efficiency by none other than Akechi Hamazou as Zaboru protector.
And how is Akechi doing this? It starts from somewhere..
To be continue
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