SLAM SLAM SLAM
"OPEN THE DOOR AND PAY THE PROTECTION FEE, YOU LITTLE SH—"
The door exploded outward with a thunderous crack, hinges screaming in protest. The man outside barely had time to blink before a sheathed katana cracked him straight across the bridge of his nose, courtesy of a flying red comet of rage and indignation.
"WHO THE HELL KNOCKS LIKE THAT THIS EARLY IN THE DAMN MORNING!?" Kamina roared, shades already on his face, hair wilder than a solar flare, and only half-awake in the most dangerous way possible. "I SWEAR I JUST STARTED DREAMIN' OF RIDIN' A DRILL-LION INTO THE SUN! You got any idea what that means!?"
The man reeled back, nose bleeding, slamming against the opposite wall of the hallway as two other thugs behind him reached for their weapons. They paused when Kamina tilted his katana forward—still sheathed, but aimed dead-center between the bloody man's eyes.
"Who the hell even are you?" Kamina growled.
The man, blinking through the blood and the impact, straightened and snapped, "Who the HELL am I?! I'm from the Izan, YOU HEARD ME?!"
Kamina didn't budge.
He leaned in, voice low and molten with amusement. "I'm not askin' who you think you are."
Then louder—"I'm askin' WHO. THE. HELL. ARE. YOU."
With every word, the katana tapped against the man's forehead like a drumbeat of impending violence.
"Kurt Kotler!" the man barked, more reflex than pride.
Kamina grinned—too big, too wide, and too full of disrespect.
"'Kurt Kotler,' huh?" he echoed, sounding out the name like it was gum stuck to his boot. "That supposed to scare me? Sounds like the name of a brat who got kicked outta mine school for cryin' too hard."
Behind Kurt, the two other Izan enforcers stiffened. One reached under his coat.
Kamina didn't move.
"Go ahead," he said. "Try it. I've punched through bigger things than your ribs before breakfast. One of 'em was a goddamn mountain."
Kurt gritted his teeth, but his bravado had cracked. That sheer nerve-radiating off this guy was wrong. No fear. No structure. Just raw defiance wrapped in screaming muscles and sunglasses.
"Listen here, freak," Kurt snapped, wiping his nose, "This is District 12. If you're squatting with that little Fixer kid, you're under our protection racket. That means you pay, or—"
"Racket, huh?" Kamina interrupted, stepping forward. "Funny, where I come from, when people start tossin' around words like protection, they actually do some damn protectin'. Not bleedin' teenagers dry so they can afford half a sandwich and not get gutted on their walk home."
He raised the sword again—still sheathed, still untouched, but somehow more threatening than any drawn weapon. "You wanna try and collect somethin' from me, Kotler? You better bring the whole damn mountain you're standing on. And then pray I don't climb it."
Silence.
Even the hallway seemed to hold its breath.
Shmuel finally peeked down from the top of the stairwell, eyes wide. "Kamina…?"
Kamina glanced over his shoulder. "Yo, kid. You were low on rent money, right?"
"Uh. Yeah?"
Kamina turned back to Kurt with that same maddening grin.
"Well, good news. We're not payin'. Ever."
The tension in the hallway snapped like a frayed wire.
The two Izan enforcers flanking Kurt didn't wait for a command-they surged forward, one on the left swinging a short, blunt baton aimed square at Kamina's head, the other lunging low, aiming to knock him off balance with a sweeping blow to the knees.
Kamina's shades gleamed under the hallway's flickering light.
"Too slow."
He dropped low, a flash of movement faster than they expected-not augmented fast, but fast in a feral, unfiltered way. The baton whistled through the air where his head had been a second before.
With a wild yell, Kamina twisted his hips and drove his sheathed katana up into the gut of the first attacker like he was trying to break a door down with it. The man choked out a gasp, air exploding from his lungs as he crumpled into the wall, eyes wide, his baton falling from limp fingers.
Before the second could recover from his charge, Kamina planted his slipper right into the man's chest. It wasn't clean or elegant-it was raw force, like a battering ram wrapped in bare resolve. The enforcer flew backward, slamming into the hallway's far wall with a dull thud and a gasp of pain, armor plates sparking as they scraped concrete.
"Man, you guys are way weaker than that Viral guy I fought!" Kamina barked, standing tall, one foot forward, his sheathed sword slung over his shoulder like a baseball bat. "He at least had claws and crazy eyes! What do you have? Plastic clubs and bad breath?"
The first man tried to stand—tried.
Kamina took one long stride forward and stomped on the guy's baton, breaking it clean in two. Then he leaned down and said with a wild grin, "I'm not from your world, jackass—but I'll say this loud enough for your boss to hear through the sewer you all crawled out of. You threaten my crew-even if it's just a kid-you better be ready to see the sky fall."
Kurt, still cradling his nose, spat blood onto the floor. "You're insane."
"Damn right I am." Kamina tilted his sunglasses, letting the fluorescent light catch his eyes-blazing like fire even in the half-dark. "But I'm also the guy who punches up. All the way up. So you better make sure your ladder's tall enough when you come back."
The Izan enforcers groaned, dragging themselves upright, and Kurt-trembling more from confusion than pain-gave Kamina one last glare before turning away.
"This ain't over," he hissed.
Kamina leaned on his sword like a walking stick. "That's the spirit! I'm always down for round two!"
As the gang limped away down the cracked concrete stairwell, Shmuel finally stepped into view, still barefoot, holding his diary like a shield.
"You… you fought off three guys by yourself," he said slowly.
Kamina cracked his neck and turned to him, grinning. "Nah. That wasn't a fight. That was me stretchin'."
The hallway had finally settled into silence after the chaos. Kamina leaned against the busted doorframe, arms crossed, sheathed katana still resting on his shoulder like a casual warning. Shmuel stood a few steps behind, visibly shaken but unharmed.
"So," Kamina began, shooting a sideways glance at the cracked plaster wall where one of the enforcers had bounced. "Who were those jokers supposed to be? Sounded like they thought they owned the place."
Shmuel scratched the back of his neck, then gestured Kamina to come inside again. "They're from the Izan."
"Izan, huh?" Kamina stepped inside, glancing around as if checking for more surprise guests. "What, like a club or something?"
Shmuel sighed and sat down on the edge of the kitchen table. "They're a Syndicate."
Kamina squinted. "Syndi-what?"
"Syndicate," Shmuel repeated, slowly. "A kind of group. Organized, but… not regulated. They act like they're running a business, but they don't follow any rules except their own."
Kamina blinked, then let out a loud snort. "So, a gang with delusions of grandeur."
Shmuel tilted his head slightly. "Some are small. A few streets wide. Others stretch across the whole City. Izan… well, they're mid-sized. Enough weight to throw around here in this Nest."
"And they protect you?" Kamina asked, jerking a thumb toward the shattered hallway. "That's how they protect people? Kicking down doors at the crack of dawn?"
"They only 'protect' if you pay their protection fee." Shmuel's voice was thin, almost bitter. "And I haven't. Not once. Not since my grandparents died. They were the ones who dealt with them."
Kamina slammed a fist into his palm. "So they show up, swinging clubs and yelling like drunks at a parade, just because you didn't cough up some hush money? That's pathetic! Back where I'm from, you protect your people because it's the right thing to do—not 'cause you're paid to play pretend hero."
Shmuel gave a small, ironic laugh. "Then you're not from anywhere in the City."
Kamina didn't respond right away. He looked out the window, where the flickering red lights from nearby Offices blinked like dying stars. "So what else do these 'Syndicates' do?"
"They're… all kinds," Shmuel muttered. "Some do extortion like Izan. Others abduct people. Some just kill for fun."
Kamina snapped back to look at him. "Kill for fun? That's not a Syndicate—that's a den of cowards hiding behind big words!"
Shmuel kept going, more matter-of-fact now. "Some of them run tech businesses. They patent weapons, sell illegal augmentations. Even have to pay taxes. So legally… they're treated just like real corporations."
Kamina scratched his head, then laughed—a short, incredulous bark. "So let me get this straight. You can murder someone in the back alley and still get billed? That's… that's so messed up it's almost impressive!"
He turned toward Shmuel again, pointing a finger. "Back home, when you wanted power, you shouted your name to the sky and fought your way through with guts and fists! You didn't hide behind red tape and office chairs!"
Shmuel looked at him, almost curiously. "Some Fixers work with Syndicates. Others hunt them. There's no strict sides. They're like… rivals, but necessary ones. If Syndicates disappeared, half the Fixers would be out of work."
Kamina gave a scoff. "That's like saying you can't live without the mosquitoes because the doctors would have nothing to do."
"They even attack Offices sometimes," Shmuel added. "It's called an Office Raid. They try to wipe out as many Fixers as they can. It's a way to get famous, to show power."
Kamina's face lit up with the kind of grin that only someone completely unhinged or totally sincere could wear. "Ohhh? So they raid Offices to prove how strong they are?"
He cracked his knuckles. "Now that I respect a little more. Still sucks that they do it for fame, but at least they've got the guts to knock on the front door. Not like those thugs who just now tried to swing at a guy on his morning nap."
Shmuel gave him a sidelong look. "You're not... worried? Most people would be terrified. They might come back with more men."
Kamina threw his arms wide open toward the ceiling. "LET THEM! I'm just getting warmed up! If they bring more, I'll knock more heads together! It'll be like a warm-up set before breakfast!"
Then he looked at Shmuel with sudden seriousness. "They're not coming for you anymore. Not while I'm here. You got that?"
Shmuel blinked. "…You're insane."
Kamina smirked. "Hell Yeah! I'm Kamina. The man who believes in the guy who believes in himself. And right now, that guy? Is you. So get ready, Shmuel."
He pointed toward the boy's chest. "'Cause your story's just starting-and you better be ready to burn so bright, the damn Syndicates have to wear shades just to look at you."
Shmuel glanced at the cracked wall clock hanging crookedly above the kitchen sink. His eyes widened in alarm.
"Shit—I'm gonna be late!" he muttered under his breath, already grabbing the worn-out boots by the door. He yanked them on with frantic urgency and started fumbling for his coat.
Kamina turned lazily toward him from the table, still stretching one shoulder, katana resting loosely across his lap. "Late? What, you got some kinda duel or a date?"
"No, work," Shmuel said, slinging on his coat. "I have to report back to the Office. Urban Myth case—nothing came of it, but I still have to file something or they dock my pay."
Kamina raised an eyebrow behind his tinted red shades. "Urban Myth? What, like ghost stories?"
Shmuel gave a quick nod, stuffing a crumpled folder into his coat. "Rumors. Weird stuff that doesn't fit the usual patterns. My Office looks into them, even if most turn out to be nothing."
"Hmph," Kamina grunted, intrigued but not fully understanding.
"There's some food in the fridge," Shmuel called over his shoulder as he opened the door. "Not much, but it's something. I'll be back by—"
He didn't even finish. He was already sprinting down the hallway, coat flapping like a loose flag in the stagnant hallway air.
Kamina scratched his chest and stood up with a yawn. "Let's see what counts as 'food' in this depressing fortress…"
He opened the fridge.
Inside sat half a slice of bread-dry, flakin-and a near-empty plastic bottle of pale orange juice. The bread had a bite already taken out of it. The juice looked like it had been rationed over days.
Kamina stared at it. The light from the fridge reflected off his shades.
"...Tch."
He closed the door quietly.
That kid… barely has anything for himself. And he still offered it without flinching.
He remembered Shmuel's face-tired, hungry, yet still managing to explain the twisted nonsense of this City like it was normal. As if he'd accepted all this cruelty with a shrug and a sigh.
Kamina's jaw clenched. He reached for his katana, slung it back over his shoulder, and cracked his neck.
"Like hell I'm letting that kid keep walking that path alone."
Out in the corridors of the backstreets, Shmuel was already weaving through the crowds of half-augmented wage slaves and tired Fixers gearing up for their morning hunts. The gray smear of the sky overhead never changed, but time still passed, measured by the drudgery of routine.
Suddenly—
THUD. THUD. THUD.
Loud, heavy footsteps caught up to him.
"Yo, kid!"
Shmuel turned—and his eyes widened. "What—?! You ran here?!"
Kamina skidded to a stop beside him, not even out of breath, cape fluttering behind him like a banner declaring war on mediocrity. His grin was wide and unbothered.
"I decided to tag along," Kamina declared proudly, jabbing a thumb to his chest. "I wanna see what your no-name Office looks like. Gotta know what kinda place tosses a guy like you out into the madness chasing ghosts!"
"I wanna see this world with my own eyes. See what kind of battlefield it really is. If I'm gonna fight beside you, I better know what you're up against."
Shmuel stared for a long second.
The walk to the Office didn't take long, though every step took them deeper into the wearied bones of the District. They passed rusting vendor stalls and flickering neon signs offering things like "numb-fast implants" and "memory bleeding for 10,000 Ahn," the scent of ozone and trash-fried noodles clinging to the air.
Eventually, Shmuel pointed to a squat, cracked structure nestled between two tall buildings like a pebble crushed between teeth.
"That's it," he said flatly.
Kamina stopped walking. He tilted his head and frowned.
"…That's your Office?"
Calling it a "building" was generous. A single floor of cement block and grimy panel glass, its walls stained with rain decay and acid mist. The only signage was a corroded plaque overhead that read.
"★Starwatch Investigations★"
-or rather, what was left of it. The paint had peeled so badly, it looked more like "S_ _rwat_h I__est__tions," the faded star icon hanging by one screw.
Shmuel sighed. "Yeah. Don't say it."
"No, no," Kamina replied, folding his arms and eyeing the structure as if it were a dying creature. "I was just wondering if the rest of the Office is underground, or if this is one of those 'minimalist interior' kinda scams."
"…No. This is it."
Kamina nodded solemnly. "Damn. Even Gurren's cockpit was bigger than this. And that thing was made of scrap metal and dreams."
They stepped inside.
It was worse.
The interior of Starwatch Investigations was a single cramped room. The desk for the receptionist sat immediately to the left of the entrance—if one could even call it a desk. More like a repurposed metal crate with a screen and a cracked keyboard on it.
Next to that? Three workstations shoved so close together you'd get elbowed every time someone typed too hard.
A pair of old ventilation fans spun overhead, whining like dying birds. The walls were littered with outdated case files, spare weapon holsters, and a motivational poster that read:
"If You're Bleeding, You're Billing."
Behind the pseudo-reception desk sat Gretel-a young woman in a faded longcoat with silver wiring stitched along the sleeves. She was chewing on something, feet kicked up on the crate-desk while flipping through a beat-up datapad. Her eyes flicked up lazily.
Next to her, leaning against the far wall, was Herr Liszt, arms crossed, trenchcoat sharp and pressed. Despite being the highest-ranking Fixer here, his face looked like he hadn't slept in days. He was calm, composed-but wore an air of "I've seen too much and got paid too little."
"Ah. Shmuel," Liszt said without turning his head. "You're late. Again."
"Yeah. Sorry. Urban myth turned out to be another deranged squatter with a face mod. And I got into a fight with a few Izan enforcers"
That made Liszt look up. Slowly.
"Izan?"
Shmuel hesitated, then gestured to Kamina. "They tried to rough us up, but this guy handled it."
There was a long pause. Liszt looked at Kamina. Then at Shmuel. Then closed his eyes, exhaled deeply through his nose, and without changing tone:
"Get out."
"Wha-"
"Get. Out. You picked a fight with a Syndicate while wearing our badge, and you brought back some sword-swinging lunatic who probably pissed off three other Offices just walking here. You want to freelance suicide? Do it under your own name."
He grabbed a paper slip from the rusted drawer beside him and shoved it into Shmuel's chest. It was a paycheck. Folded in half. Already stamped.
"Here. Your cut. Congratulations. You're fired."
Shmuel stood frozen for a second, mouth agape. "B-but I-"
"Out. Before Izan makes a smear out of us."
Even Gretel looked slightly surprised. "That was fast, even for you."
Liszt ignored her.
Kamina stood behind Shmuel, blinking. "Well that was anticlimactic."
Shmuel turned slowly, half-crushed between panic and disbelief, and stumbled out the door with Kamina casually following behind, hands behind his head.
The two stood in the alleyway in silence for a few seconds before Kamina broke it with a loud "HA!"
"You get kicked out often, kid?"
Shmuel didn't respond. He just stared at the paycheck in his hand. "I liked working there…"
"Didn't look like a place worth liking," Kamina said, leaning against the wall. "But you know what this means, right?"
Shmuel glanced at him.
Kamina's grin widened with the light of a hundred suns.
"We're starting our own Office. No more cheap desks, no more half-melted fans, and definitely no more buzzkill guys in trenchcoats yelling at you for 'disturbing the status quo.'" He struck a pose, finger pointing to the sky. "We're gonna build the most blazing, truth-digging, ass-kicking Office this City's ever seen!"
Shmuel blinked. "We have no clients. No funds. No license."
Kamina leaned in.
"We've got spirit."
"…We're going to die."
"HELL YEAH"