The afternoon was thick with the City's usual haze-grey clouds of smog veiling the sky like a shroud no one had the time or will to pull back. Within the crumbling tenement that now hosted a desk, a board, two mismatched chairs, and exactly zero clients, Kamina reclined against the wall. His sword rested nearby, still in its scabbard, the hilt catching the dusty sunlight like it belonged to someone waiting for the next battle... not the next lunch.
He frowned and tapped his foot impatiently.
"Hey, kid."
Shmuel, hunched over a terminal salvaged from some back-alley electronics shop, flinched. "Y-Yeah?"
"Haven't seen a single face come through that door." Kamina jabbed a thumb toward the makeshift entrance where a wooden board still proudly dangled the hand-painted letters: THE GREAT KAMINA OFFICE. "You did sign us up, right? Told 'em we're ready to take on jobs, shake things up, burn bright, all that?"
Shmuel twitched, cheeks already beginning to flush red. "I—I did… I mean, technically, yes, I signed us up."
Kamina tilted his head. "And?"
Shmuel exhaled slowly, as if the memory physically pained him. "They made me put the office name on the registry form. Full title. So now the Hana Association South Branch has a record of an independent agency called…" he muttered the last part, "...The Great Kamina's Office... with bold letters and everything."
Kamina grinned wide, teeth flashing like a man whose ego could knock down buildings. "That's a name that commands respect! A name that shouts to the heavens!"
"It's a name that made the registrar stare at me like I just choked a clerk in front of her…" Shmuel muttered, eyes flicking back to the dusty corner where an empty client chair sat unoccupied for the fifth day in a row.
Kamina walked over and clapped him on the back. "So what's the problem, then? If we're registered, where's the action?"
Shmuel pushed his glasses up, nervously glancing at the terminal. "Well… no one's going to hire a no-name office with no Association affiliation. Especially not an independent office. We're not backed by any of the Wings or even one of the minor collectives."
"So?"
"So… being independent doesn't come with advantages unless you're powerful enough to make them. We don't get job listings from the usual channels. We don't get protection. We don't get materials or funding. We're basically floating in a void hoping someone desperate enough stumbles on us."
Kamina scratched his chin. "...Sounds like my kinda fight."
Shmuel groaned. "That's not a good thing…"
Kamina's stomach suddenly growled, breaking the tension like a drumroll. He leaned his head back. "All this talk of made me hungry. What're we having for lunch?"
Shmuel froze, fingers hovering over the keyboard. "Uh... I, uh..."
Kamina looked at him. "Don't tell me we're broke."
"I… might have enough for one bowl of stew. From a cart. On discount." He avoided Kamina's gaze, instead staring at a cracked tile on the floor. "I was... saving it for the week."
Kamina blinked, then snorted with a smile. "Kid, why didn't you say so? That's nothing to be ashamed of."
"I… I am ashamed of it." Shmuel crossed his arms. "You're the Office Rep, so you should figure out how to earn our first job!"
Kamina laughed, a wild, free sound that echoed too boldly off the bare concrete walls. "Rep or not, we're in this together. And besides—you signed me up as the Rep, didn't you?"
"I only did it because they needed a name for the top field."
Kamina nodded proudly. "Damn right. Forms should fear the ones filling them out."
Shmuel slumped. "We're gonna starve."
"Nah," Kamina said, walking toward the door. "We're gonna fight starvation. And the City's gonna lose."
He pointed a finger toward the air, voice rising in conviction.
"If no jobs are coming to us, we'll carve a path through the street until the world can't ignore The Great Kamina's Office!"
Shmuel sighed, then followed. "...Can we at least pass by the cart for that discount stew?"
"Only if we split it. I'm not letting you starve on your own."
The door creaked open with a rusted whine, and a cold breeze slipped in past the threshold-odd, given the City's stifling heat. Shmuel looked up from his ledgers, blinked, and immediately stiffened. Kamina, who was mid-sentence in describing the finer flavor profile of a half-soggy stew dumpling, turned to face the intruder with curious eyes.
The figure that stepped through the doorway moved with a grace that wasn't quite human. Their presence filled the room like a weightless fog.
"...Hello?" Shmuel said, voice caught somewhere between a question and a gulp. "C-Can I help you?"
The figure paused, tilting their head as if tasting the air. Their face was entirely obscured by a burnished steel wrap-a sheet of segmented metal that followed the contours of a head but lacked any hint of expression. No eyes, no mouth, no features. Just mirrored surface and quiet presence.
"I am called Alexy," the voice came at last, and it wasn't quite one voice at all. A soft soprano wove together with a gentle baritone, threading between each other like a duet sung in perfect harmony. "I was told this is the office of Kamina... and Shmuel."
"That's us!" Kamina said, standing up tall and slapping his chest.
Shmuel added in a quieter tone, "Y-Yes, this is our office. May I ask what you're here for?"
Alexy stepped forward, their boots not quite echoing the way they should have on the tile. "I have a matter that requires unorthodox assistance. The nature of the issue is... speculative. Unsubstantiated by traditional channels. But intriguing."
They reached into their coat and pulled out a small projector disk, placing it on the desk. With a click, a flat white circle flickered into a hovering image. The space around it warped slightly, though no shadows touched its edges.
"This is a capture from District 13. An industrial zone near the outer rim. Recently, several workers from a local factory have gone missing. No signs of struggle. No blood. Just... this."
Shmuel leaned in, adjusting his glasses. "A white circle?"
"The only evidence left," Alexy confirmed. "Perfectly circular. About three meters in diameter. Burned into the floor like a brand. According to preliminary observations, this... anomaly appears within seconds, and anyone within its radius vanishes. The factory reports no consistent pattern—only silence, and then loss."
Kamina frowned, serious now. "The Association didn't send anyone?"
"They did," Alexy said, a shade quieter. "But with no witnesses, no footage, and no known culprit, the case has been officially labeled an Urban Myth. The Association considers it beneath direct scrutiny."
"But not beneath yours," Kamina said, meeting their faceless gaze. "Why?"
Alexy tilted their head again, as if smiling behind the steel. "Because myths are the masks truth wears when it is afraid to be seen. I... have an interest in masks. And truth."
Kamina crossed his arms. "And what do you want from us?"
Alexy gestured lightly. "Investigation. Determine the nature of the phenomenon. Understand it. If possible, identify the cause. I do not demand confrontation. Simply knowledge. Should the threat prove... actionable, however—additional Ahn will be granted for elimination or neutralization."
"Hazard pay, huh?" Kamina grinned. "I like it already."
Shmuel furrowed his brow, adjusting his glasses as he glanced once more at the shimmering projection of the white circle. "Hold on. Why come to us? Why not hire a real office? One with a reputation, with resources. Hell, if this is that serious, why not contact the Seven Association? They're known for handling bizarre cases like this."
Alexy paused mid-turn. The featureless metal mask tilted slightly, catching the room's dim light. Their voice came soft but resonant—still that uncanny blend of tones. "Because I am not someone who can walk into an Association without causing... a ruckus."
Shmuel blinked. "A ruckus?"
"They don't know what I am," Alexy replied, as if that alone was sufficient explanation. "And I would prefer not to explain myself in rooms filled with judgment and surveillance."
Shmuel narrowed his eyes, his curiosity briefly piqued. Just what kind of person-or not-person-are you...? But he bit his tongue. Ahn was on the line. Questions could wait until after they weren't broke.
"Fine," Shmuel muttered, pulling out a thin black contract binder from beneath the desk. "You'll need to put it in writing if you want us to take this job. Standard contract. Sign and detail the terms—scope, reward, clause for hazard pay."
Alexy approached once again with ghostlike steps and took the pen. Their gloved hand moved with steady, almost archaic strokes. As they wrote, Shmuel couldn't help but notice that their handwriting was elegant, old-fashioned, and... eerily symmetrical.
As Alexy set the pen down, Kamina glanced between the two. "So it's official now?"
"It is," Alexy replied, placing the finished document back on the desk. "The circle calls. I await your arrival in District 13."
Without another word, they exited the office-silent as ever, swallowed by the static haze of the City outside.
Shmuel let out a long sigh and leaned back in the creaky chair. "I still don't know who or what that was…"
Kamina grinned, eyes gleaming. "Doesn't matter."
Kamina stretched his arms behind his head, lounging lazily on the beat-up couch that had become his unofficial throne in the office. His sword, still sheathed, leaned against the wall beside him. "Hey, Shmuel," he said, tilting his head back, "how far is it to this creepy vanishing-circle factory you said is in District 13? We're in District 12, right?"
Shmuel, hunched over a wrinkled map sprawled across the cluttered desk, didn't look up as he replied. "Well… technically, yeah, we're in the southern edge of District 12. But the factory's in the rear zone of District 13. The two districts kinda bleed into each other through the backstreets."
Kamina raised an eyebrow. "So it's close?"
"Kinda." Shmuel scratched the back of his head, hesitating. "It's close geographically, but the roads that go that way are winding, broken, and half-forgotten. It's not a straight path unless you cut through some pretty unstable areas. Places with old Syndicate turf, crumbling infrastructure, or—uh—things people pretend not to see."
Kamina leaned forward, interest piqued. "Sounds fun."
Shmuel gave him a tired look. "That's one word for it."
"So how long we talkin'? Hour? Two?"
Shmuel sighed. "More like eight. Maybe nine if we run into… issues. Walking."
Kamina blinked. "Eight hours on foot?"
"There's no decent transport into the back-end sectors. Not unless you're affiliated with an Association or have your own vehicle, and we don't exactly have either." He gestured helplessly around the barebones office. "Plus, if we take the safer roads, it'll take longer. We could try to cut time by going through the industrial drains, but there's, uh… rumors."
"Of what?" Kamina grinned.
Shmuel paled slightly. "Just rumors."
Kamina stood up, brushing imaginary dust off his pants. "Then it's settled. We head out first thing tomorrow morning. Bring snacks or whatever."
Shmuel nodded, folding the map back with meticulous care. "We'll meet Alexy at the designated spot around midday, if we keep pace."
Kamina rested his hand on the pommel of his sword, his grin widening. "A walk across cursed ruins and forgotten alleys toward an unsolvable mystery? Now that sounds like the beginning of a real adventure."
Shmuel, already dreading the blisters, muttered under his breath, "Or the end of our budget…"