20th Ward – CCG Substation 8, Morgue | 3:29 A.M.
The quiet in the 20th Ward always felt too clean.
There were no alarms, broken windows, screaming families, or black smoke curling into the sky. There were just warm lights, neat streets, and polite conversation between things that wore skin and things that hunted through it.
Mado never trusted calm.
"You're not even pretending to sleep anymore," Amon said as he stepped into the morgue.
"No," Mado replied.
The overhead lights buzzed softly, pooling in the center of the room. On the steel table beneath them, a sheet had been pulled down to the waist of the corpse. Male, Young, Ghoul, Dead no more than six hours.
Amon stepped closer.
The body had been opened—not ripped or clawed, but Cut the sternum apart, Ribs spread with care, Organs moved aside, Clean, meticulous.
"The kakuhou's missing," Amon said.
"Yes," Mado said. "That's not all."
He nodded toward the boy's face, The eyes were still open, Blood vessels had ruptured in the whites, and the mouth was slightly parted—no damage, but something off.
Amon leaned in. "There's no sign of trauma to the head."
"Because he was sedated," Mado said. "RC levels are low, Almost dormant, He didn't fight."
Amon straightened. "He was alive when they started?"
"Alive and calm." Mado walked to the drawer and pulled a slim black folder from the back. It was old, Dust clung to the corners, The red ink across the front had faded with time.
'DR-0X.'
Amon watched him open it.
"This is supposed to be closed" he said.
"It never was" Mado replied.
Inside were photographs—some in color, most grainy. All similar: ghouls opened with precision, Never fed upon, Always missing a single piece. The oldest was nearly thirteen years ago. The newest was the body on the table.
"No calling card," Amon said. "No message. Not even an escalation."
"No," Mado said. "But it's starting again."
He reached into a manila envelope on the side tray—one that had been slipped under the morgue door earlier that night, No name, No return address.
Inside was a single Polaroid. A body is laid out beneath a park bench. Similar to this one. The chest had been opened, but this one was more elaborate. The lungs were arranged in a spiral. A hand-drawn diagram was etched into the dirt nearby.
On the back of the photo was a single line:
'This one was quiet enough to listen.'
Mado pinned the photo to the board above the body.
"It's not just about studying them," he said. "It's about understanding what they were supposed to be."
Amon's jaw tightened. "You think he's building something."
"No. I think he's trying to fix what nature left unfinished." Mado replied
CCG Substation 8 – Briefing Room | 5:46 A.M.
The 20th Ward was quiet.
Even in the CCG's halls, nothing echoed. The lights flickered once every three seconds. Someone had mentioned weeks ago that it needed changing. No one had fixed it.
Two officials reviewed the autopsy report.
Mado and Amon stood in silence.
"This doesn't look like a threat," the first official said, flipping the page.
"Why here?" the second asked, not looking up. "Why the 20th?"
"Because no one would think to look here," Amon said.
The first man tapped the table twice. "No civilian casualties, No property damage, No panic, This doesn't warrant an escalation."
Mado didn't move. "You're waiting for noise, He doesn't make noise, He never has."
"Then he's not our concern," came the answer.
The meeting ended.
20th Ward – CCG Substation 8, Archives Room | 9:05 P.M.
The briefing room had gone quiet hours ago, but Mado hadn't left. He stood in the building's archive room, the overhead bulbs flickering against rows of locked case drawers. Amon followed him, still tense.
"He never stopped," Mado said, pulling open a narrow cabinet. "He simply learned how to be quiet."
Inside were older files—uncategorized, unmarked. Mado retrieved one wrapped in black string. It was thicker than the DR-0X folder, and older.
"This isn't an official record" Amon said.
"Of course it's not," Mado replied. "This was compiled by the first person to realize these were connected, Investigator Tokudo. She died three years ago. Car accident. Or so they said."
Amon flipped through the pages, Diagrams, Notes and Victim profiles. The Doctor had worked with anatomical consistency but varied detail. Some subjects were simply dissected, Others were altered, One had additional cartilage grown along the rib, Another had ocular RC channels rerouted through the optic nerve.
"He doesn't try," Mado said. "He learns. Each subject is more refined than the last."
Amon's brows drew together. "So what's the goal?"
Mado looked at him.
"To make ghouls better," Mado said
He paused, fingers resting lightly on the folder.
"I saw him once," Mado said.
Amon looked up sharply.
"I was in the 9th Ward. A routine operation turned into something else. Ghouls had been vanishing. We thought it was internal fighting. I tracked a blood trail to a sewer, and I went in alone."
He paused, remembering.
"I saw him standing there. Still, Watching. I didn't hesitate. I struck with my quinque."
Amon leaned forward. "And?"
Mado's eyes darkened.
"He moved like he'd seen it before. Caught the blade with one of those hook-shaped kagune. Then he tilted his head like he was curious. He said something. I remember every word."
Mado's voice dropped.
'Quinque Type 16, Heavy, Efficient, but crude. Your stance favors shoulder strength—compensating for speed. Curious.'
Amon's brow furrowed in understanding.
"I tried again, He dodged, Slashed my arm and then pinned me. Not to kill, but to study how I'd react under pressure." Mado said
'You flinch when the pain hits the nerve cluster. Natural. But you recover quickly. Still… A limited reflex.'
"I freed myself, Barely managed to land a blow that tore his coat."
'Hm. Sharp, but not enough to penetrate the second layer. I'll adjust.'
Mado's eyes were far off now.
"Then he left. No rush, No fear, Just disappeared into the dark. Like he'd taken all the notes he needed."
He looked at Amon.
"I was furious—because he looked at me like a puzzle already solved, and spoke like I wasn't even worth his curiosity. He cut into me like a cadaver and then walked away before I could return the favor.
I wasn't prey, I was something he dismissed.
And that," Mado said, jaw clenched, "is why I've been hunting him ever since."
Amon didn't speak. He could tell Mado wasn't done.
"I never reported the encounter," Mado said after a long pause. "Not because I was unsure. But because I was certain."
He turned and pulled another file from the bottom drawer—a private one, unlabeled. Inside were old records. Ink-faded, dated by hand. Some looked like medical notes. Others were scraps. All tied together by patterns too subtle for most to see.
"I found surgical victims going back decades. Not just in Tokyo, but Nagasaki, Kyoto, and even some traced back to Korea during the occupation."
"That's not possible," Amon muttered.
"No," Mado said, eyes sharp. "It's not supposed to be but every few years, another case, Same cuts. Same missing organ. Same silence. And always… the same precision."
He tapped one faded photograph—a body opened cleanly, dated 1932.
"Different faces. Different clothes. But the same mask has been seen by survivors. Always the beak. Always the coat."
Amon's mouth was dry. "You think it's the same ghoul."
"I don't think," Mado said. "I Know."
He looked at the photograph one last time.
"I believe he's been studying us for over a century. And no one noticed because he never wanted them to."
CCG First Ward Headquarters – Chairman's Office | 9:34 P.M.
The room was quiet and cold, its walls lined with documents no one dared touch without permission. Chairman Tsuneyoshi Washuu sat behind a polished desk, posture rigid, eyes sharp. Across from him stood Special Class Investigator Kishou Arima, hands behind his back, still as stone.
A knock interrupted the silence.
An aide entered, careful and composed. He held a sealed black case.
"Sir. Urgent report from Substation 8. Flagged by First-Class Investigator Mado."
Washuu didn't move. "Open it."
The aide placed the case on the desk and stepped back. Washuu opened it and reviewed the contents in seconds—autopsy images, annotations, and one name on the cover: DR-0X.
His expression didn't change.
"It's been years," he said. "I hoped this file would stay buried."
Arima remained silent.
"He's certain?"
The aide nodded. "Yes, sir. Mado included personal records. He believes it's the same individual, possibly active for decades."
Washuu closed the folder with a calm but fluid motion.
"Do not contact the press. Do not issue alerts. No field adjustments."
The aide shifted. "Sir, if it's really—"
"If it's him," Washuu cut in, voice like steel, "we do not act in haste. We observe. We confirm. And we do not make the mistake of believing he is like the others."
He turned to Arima.
"You've read the file. Thoughts?"
Arima's voice was quiet but firm. "He's not hunting. He's studying."
"Correct." Washuu stood. "If the Doctor is active, it means we've entered a phase where silence is more dangerous than action. But the wrong move will cost us more than lives. It will cost us knowledge."
He looked at the aide.
"You will monitor Mado's investigation. Quietly. If The Doctor escalates, I will handle it personally. Until then, nothing leaves this room."
The aide bowed and exited.
Washuu turned to Arima one last time.
"Pray that Mado is wrong, But prepare in case he isn't."
20th Ward – Behind the Market District | 10:12 P.M.
Rain tapped across the alley like fingertips on glass. The 20th Ward laid quiet—its streets calm, shop lights dimmed, and nothing out of place.
Except for the blood.
A thin line ran down the side of a concrete wall—drying slowly, Barely visible, Not a spill, Not a smear, But a trail.
The boy followed it with slow steps, Young, Half-starved, His cheeks had hollowed, and the veins around his eyes darkened. He hadn't eaten in too long.
He crouched and touched the edge of the stain with two fingers.
Fresh, Human.
His stomach coiled with instinct.
The trail led around the corner, beneath the overhang of a shuttered café, then further—toward the rear access lot of a shuttered clinic. The scent was stronger now.
He moved faster. He didn't notice the shifting shadows. Didn't hear the soft grind of steel along concrete. All he could smell was meat.
He turned the final corner—
And saw him.
The figure stood alone, Coat draped in heavy folds, Mask long and bone-white like a plague effigy, Motionless.
Four white kagune unfurled behind him—each jointed like surgical arms, each tipped in a curve meant not for killing but for cutting.
The boy hesitated,
Then turned and ran.
He didn't make it far. A hook lashed out and caught his ankle. He collapsed. Another pinned his wrist to the pavement. The last hovered above his throat—waiting.
He tried to scream, but only managed a choke.
Then silence.
Unknown Location – Basement Lab | Midnight
The Doctor moved like clockwork.
The room was dim, not from lack of light but by choice. There was no sound but the whisper of machinery circulating oxygen through the containment tanks.
The boy—strapped to the surgical table—twitched. Not from pain, but From fading awareness.
The incision began just beneath the collarbone extending down to the abdomen. One tendril parted the skin, Another spread the ribcage.
His third tendril hovered, cradling the preserved kakuhou—salvaged, reinforced, stabilized.
With uncanny precision, he planted it just behind the liver, along the spine. The tissues shuddered, resisted, and then fused.
The boy jerked once.
The Doctor steadied him with one hand.
"Breathe," he whispered. "Even if it's the last thing you do."
He stitched the cavity shut with a line of RC-threaded filament—living suture. Colorless, Unseen.
When he stepped back, the subject was still.
Eyes open, Not vacant, Not alive,
But something in between.
He recorded the vitals. Pulse, RC activity, Brainwave resistance.
'Twin-kakuhou tolerance is improving, No external rupture, Memory lock engaged.'
He turned toward the wall.
Diagrams in the Dozens, Some failed, Some revised.
Tonight's was still pinned, the ink still drying.
CORRECTION – PHASE II
And beneath it, a single line scribbled in red:
"If nature won't do it, I will."