The conference room in the Fuyuki Prefectural Police Headquarters smelled faintly of coffee and ozone from the projector humming at the far end. A wall‑sized screen displayed a still image: black armor, cape caught mid‑whip, eyes glowing gold in the grainy night‑vision capture. The Steel‑Eyed Raven. The man who had humiliated the JSDF, stolen a missile, and turned a residential district into a crater.
Colonel Saitō of the 8th Anti‑Ship Missile Regiment stood at the head of the table, his uniform immaculate, his jaw set. Around him sat a mix of JSDF officers, Public Security Intelligence Agency analysts, and senior police detectives. The air was heavy with the unspoken truth: they had all failed to stop him.
"This," Saitō said, tapping the image with a pointer, "is no longer a local matter. As of this morning, the Ministry of Defense has elevated the Steel‑Eyed Raven to Class‑A National Security Threat. Rules of engagement are unchanged: lethal force is authorized on sight. If captured alive, he is to be transferred immediately to Special Containment."
A PSIA analyst, a woman with sharp eyes and a sharper tone, leaned forward. "We've had no confirmed sightings in Japan since the strike. He could be anywhere."
"Or," Saitō countered, "he could be here, hiding in plain sight. We've seen his ability to alter his appearance. We've seen his infiltration skills. We will assume he can walk past us in broad daylight."
The projector clicked, shifting to a map of Fuyuki overlaid with red circles. "Checkpoints here, here, and here. Facial recognition scanners at every major intersection. Patrols doubled in the Matou and Miyama districts. We've coordinated with the Coast Guard to monitor the harbor."
A detective from the local force raised a hand. "With respect, Colonel, the public is getting restless. We've had three false alarms this week alone. Every time someone in a black coat walks down the street, we get a dozen calls."
"Good," Saitō said flatly. "Fear keeps them alert."
That night, in a cramped operations van parked near the harbor, Sergeant Nakamura of the JSDF's Special Operations Group adjusted his headset. The feed from a drone buzzed in his ear, showing the dark sprawl of shipping containers below. Somewhere in that maze, intel suggested, the Raven might be meeting a contact.
"Team One, move in," Nakamura ordered.
The squad advanced, rifles up, their boots silent on the wet concrete. Rain slicked the metal walls of the containers, turning every shadow into a possible threat. A shape moved ahead — tall, broad‑shouldered, coat flaring in the wind.
"Contact," whispered one of the operators.
They closed in, fanning out to encircle the target. On Nakamura's signal, they surged forward.
The man turned — and froze, hands up. Not the Raven. Just a dockworker, eyes wide with terror. The tension snapped, replaced by the bitter taste of another false lead.
"Clear the area," Nakamura said, his voice tight. "We keep looking."
In Tokyo, the hunt had become a political weapon. In the Diet, opposition lawmakers hammered the Prime Minister's cabinet over the failure to capture the Raven. News programs ran endless loops of the missile strike, intercut with interviews from survivors and security experts. Public opinion was turning. People wanted results.
Behind closed doors, the PSIA director met with senior JSDF brass. "We can't afford another embarrassment," he said. "If he resurfaces here, we hit him with everything we have. No hesitation."
"And if civilians are in the way?" asked one general.
The director's gaze was cold. "Collateral damage is preferable to another Yufuin."
Back in Fuyuki, the net was tightening. Patrol cars rolled through the streets at all hours. Unmarked vans idled at intersections, their occupants watching the flow of pedestrians. Drones buzzed overhead, their cameras sweeping for the telltale glint of gold eyes.
At the harbor, Sergeant Nakamura's team intercepted a smuggler's boat. The crew went down hard, but the Raven wasn't among them. Still, the raid yielded something: a rumor, whispered by one of the prisoners between clenched teeth.
"They say he's coming back," the man said. "Before the year's out."
Nakamura didn't react, but the words lodged in his mind. If it was true, then every checkpoint, every patrol, every sleepless night was just the prelude.
Two days later, a PSIA field agent named Hayashi sat in an unmarked car outside a convenience store in Miyama. He was watching a man who matched one of their "altered appearance" profiles — height, build, gait. The man moved with a certain economy, a certain precision.
Hayashi's radio crackled. "Do you have eyes?"
"Affirmative," Hayashi murmured. "Moving to intercept."
He stepped out of the car, hand on the grip of his sidearm. The man glanced up — and for a split second, Hayashi thought he saw it. A flicker of gold in the eyes. His pulse spiked.
"Steel‑Eyed Raven!" he barked.
The man bolted. Hayashi gave chase, weaving through startled pedestrians. The suspect was fast, too fast, vaulting a low fence and cutting through an alley. Hayashi rounded the corner — and found nothing. Just empty pavement and the echo of footsteps fading into the night.
He stood there, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his hair. Another near miss. Or maybe just another ghost.
In the JSDF command center, Colonel Saitō reviewed the latest reports. False leads. Near misses. Rumors. The Raven was still out there, and every day he remained free was another day their failure grew more public.
He turned to the operations board, where a map of Fuyuki was covered in pins and strings. The net was tight. Tighter than it had ever been. But he knew — and the Raven knew — that no net was perfect.
"When he comes back," Saitō said quietly, "we'll be ready."
Across the city, in a dimly lit apartment, a man in civilian clothes watched the rain streak down the window. His reflection stared back at him — unremarkable, forgettable. Exactly as it should be.
Outside, sirens wailed. The hunt was on. And somewhere, the Steel‑Eyed Raven was smiling.