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A soft chime sounded from the laptop in the other room. Yoshimura moved to check it, and his expression brightened. "Hiroshi's en route. He'll be here in five minutes." A collective exhale of anticipation went around. They all wanted to see him safe, and to hear confirmation from his own lips that the mission succeeded.
True to that promise, minutes later the safehouse's coded knock sounded at the door. Aki and Yoshimura exchanged a quick look – Aki already had his hand resting near his holster – but the knock pattern was one of their own. Yoshimura unlatched the heavy door to reveal Hiroshi standing there in a damp overcoat, hair slightly mussed from removing his disguise. He looked tired, drenched in midnight rain and perspiration, but determined. In his hand he held the small recorder device from his watch, already removed and sealed in an evidence bag.
"Welcome back," Yoshimura said quietly, clapping Hiroshi on the shoulder as he ushered him in. The moment Hiroshi stepped inside the safehouse's narrow entry, he was greeted by a round of subdued nods and relieved smiles from his comrades. Kobeni even let out a tiny cheer before stifling it, cheeks flushing. Hiroshi gave a weary grin in return.
"It's done," he reported without preamble, holding up the bagged recorder. "Jackal took the bait completely. We have him on tape confirming everything – their whole network, the foreign backing, all of it." As he spoke, his eyes roamed the room, taking in the maps, the screens, the stacks of legal documents. It struck him powerfully: every system was indeed coming together here in silence – his fieldwork, Yoshimura's surveillance web, Tachibana's legal acumen, Makima's strategy. This is really happening.
Tachibana took the evidence bag from Hiroshi with careful hands, inspecting the device through the plastic and nodding in grim satisfaction. "Well done, son," he said, the gruffness in his voice unable to mask genuine admiration. "I'll attach this to the affidavit package. Judge Wakabayashi won't have a shred of doubt after hearing it."
Hiroshi allowed himself a long exhale and sank into a chair for a moment as the others continued final preparations around him. His body hummed with adrenaline, but also bone-deep fatigue. Three weeks of playing the clueless pawn, of looking traitors in the eyes and feigning ignorance, of sleepless nights anticipating every move… now it was nearly over. The evidence was in hand; the warrants were moments from approval; the strike teams were ready. He ran a hand over his face and felt the slight sting of where the latex mask had pressed into his skin. In the corner, Power offered him a bottle of water – a rare thoughtful gesture from her – and Hiroshi accepted it gratefully, gulping down half in one go. The cold water steadied him, washing away the taste of anxiety that had lingered from the encounter.
Yoshimura knelt by Hiroshi's chair briefly, speaking in a low voice meant only for him. "You did brilliantly. You've given us the last puzzle piece." The older man's eyes shone with pride and relief. For a second, Hiroshi saw not the hardened operative but the mentor who had trained him from the start – the man who had been like an uncle, or even a father, throughout his career. Hiroshi managed a small smile.
"I had a good coach," he whispered back. Then he straightened, pushing aside the moment of sentiment. "When do we move?"
"Soon," Yoshimura replied. He glanced at the clock and then at Tachibana, who was already placing a call via a secure tablet to the judge. "Once the warrants are signed, Makima will give the green light. We're thinking within the next two hours, before any of them stir or catch wind."
Hiroshi nodded. He knew many of the traitors would be at home in bed by now, thinking themselves safe, dreaming of whatever rewards their betrayal would bring. By the time the sun rose, those dreams would have turned to nightmares in a cell. The thought should have brought satisfaction, and it did – but Hiroshi also felt a solemn weight. Some of these targets were people he had worked with for years before the betrayal was known. To have them arrested as enemies of the state… it was necessary, absolutely necessary, but it was also tragic. He saw the same heavy realization in Yoshimura's eyes. They would celebrate later, but for now, the task remained grim and serious.
In the kitchen, Tachibana finished his brief call, speaking in polite, urgent tones to the judge. When he returned to the living area, he announced, "Give him ten minutes. He's reviewing the files now." The lawyer's face softened for a moment as he looked at the assembled team – the young agents wiping sweat from their brows, re-checking gear, and exchanging anxious looks. "Make no mistake," Tachibana said quietly, "we've done everything possible to ensure success. From here, it's in the hands of the judge…and then in our hands to execute without a flaw."
Hiroshi stood again, drawing himself up despite his fatigue. "We will," he said, voice steady. Around him, Aki, Denji, Power, Himeno (just slipping back in after confirming her target hadn't moved), and all the others straightened as well. Weapons were quietly loaded and safeties checked; zip-ties and evidence bags were counted out. A palpable sense of resolve swept through the safehouse. They were exhausted – dark circles under every pair of eyes, adrenaline fighting with weariness – but they were ready.
Yoshimura's phone vibrated in his pocket, and he retrieved it swiftly. A secure message flashed on the screen: a single kanji character – 令 ("order/command") – followed by two words: "Warrants signed." Yoshimura let out a breath, and a ripple passed through the room as he announced, "It's done. Judge has signed the lot." There were faint smiles, a few nods of quiet vindication. Kobeni even closed her eyes for a second in visible relief. Tachibana muttered a soft thank goodness under his breath, then immediately began transmitting the signed digital warrants to the designated law enforcement leads who would officially enact them.
Hiroshi glanced at the clock: 1:57 A.M. The witching hour. Outside, the rain had eased to a mist, and the city was deep in slumber, oblivious to the reckoning about to unfold. He could almost feel the tension coil in the air, ready to snap.
"Alright," Yoshimura said, assuming a commanding tone as all eyes turned to him. "This is it. We move on Makima's go. Everyone knows their assignments. Double-check your comms and kit. We likely won't get a second chance at many of these targets if they slip away." A chorus of quiet "Hai!" went around as final confirmations.
Hiroshi secured a tactical vest over his shirt, even as he double-checked that his sidearm was loaded and set to safe. He wouldn't be kicking down doors personally – his role was largely done – but he was still going out with Yoshimura to coordinate between teams on the ground. He caught a glimpse of himself in a shard of mirror on the wall – tired eyes, determined set of jaw – and felt a surge of resolve. First mission milestone…don't stumble now.
As the team began to file out of the kitchen-turned-command center, the flickering glow of the overhead lights catching on their gear and weary expressions, Tachibana cleared his throat. The gruff veteran's voice, worn thin by fatigue but still sharp with conviction, cut through the hum of motion.
"One last thing," he said, straightening his coat with deliberate care. His gaze swept over the room – over agents hardened by fieldwork and newly christened by this night's trials.
"This purge, these arrests—it isn't just about taking out the trash." He paused. "It's justice. Justice for every innocent life endangered, every secret sold, every line of defense that was quietly corroded by their greed."
The weight in his words hung heavy, grounding the moment. "You're tired. I can see it in your shoulders. But no shortcuts. No improvised detours. We finish this clean and by the book. When the sun rises, and cameras flash and courtrooms stir—we make damn sure no one, not a single soul, can say this wasn't righteous."
He adjusted the collar of his trench coat, a battered briefcase already in hand. "We're not just reclaiming files or turf tonight. We're reclaiming the honor of the PSIA's Kanto branch—and through that, the foundation for this country's future security."
Aki stepped forward, placing a firm hand on the older man's shoulder. "We know. We won't stumble now. Everything's been exact down to the second. We've come too far to make noise at the finish line."
Others gave subtle nods—Kobeni, clutching a satchel of evidence drives; Power, already half out the door but pausing to listen; Angel, unreadable as ever but focused; Denji, quietly energized for the chaos to come.
And Hiroshi, face still half-shrouded in the shadow of his latest mask, stood at the rear of the group. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. The unshakable stillness of his presence was enough. This operation had run on timing, stealth, and precision—but also on the natural gravity that Hiroshi brought to any mission. He simply inclined his head in agreement, quiet steel in his expression.
Yoshimura stepped beside him. "Let's go," he said simply.
The team moved out. The reinforced door creaked open to reveal the narrow alley beyond, its asphalt glistening from recent rain. The air smelled of ozone and tension. Lined up along the curb were a fleet of unmarked vehicles, their engines already running in low idle. Headlights were dimmed. Everything about them screamed discretion.
Agents peeled off in pairs and trios, slipping into their designated rides. Each vehicle was bound for a different node in the web of Tokyo's intelligence infrastructure—apartments, offices, suburban safehouses—where traitors now lay unaware beneath warm blankets or closed folders. They had no idea the blade was on its way.
As the last of the team climbed in, Yoshimura paused, stepping out into the alley and glancing up. The clouds were thinning overhead, and a silver shard of moonlight broke through, casting faint reflections across the puddles at his feet.
He imagined all the pieces now set in motion: the surveillance units adjusting their scopes; the evidence courier teams prepping for chain-of-custody confirmation; the municipal police already parked discreetly near key zones, waiting for the warrants just uploaded to their secure tablets; the JSDF operators in mobile vans, armed and ready in case any door refused to open peacefully.
And above it all, in Nagatachō, the Prime Minister's residence waited with still-lit windows—Makima's silhouette no doubt standing at the ready, watching over everything, waiting for the last green light.
For a moment, Yoshimura and Hiroshi locked eyes through the passenger-side window. No words passed between them. Just a nod. A quiet affirmation of all they had endured and what was left to be done.
Hiroshi let out a slow, silent breath. The kind you take when the blade hovers just before the strike. Then he turned his gaze forward, spine straightening.
Engines hummed. The convoy pulled out, merging with the sleeping city's night roads. Not a siren wailed. Not a light flashed.
Yet, as they scattered—some toward ministries, others toward downtown embassies and remote government compounds—the entire team knew: they were now within striking distance. Every corner of Tokyo had been marked. Every target quietly logged. Every step had been rehearsed. Only one voice could unlock the final sequence.
The entire city was holding its breath, and all eyes—seen or unseen—now turned to the solitary command center atop the hill. The final key was in Makima's hands.