The boss's jaw tightened as he stared through the glass. The silhouette cut across the night sky with predatory grace, twin rotors turning in perfect, terrifying symmetry. Its frame was thick, armored, every line of its body carved for war.
"I don't know," he said at last, voice low but edged with steel. "But that is no bird from our arsenal."
Yamada swallowed hard. "Sir… you served in the JDSF. You've seen everything we flew. What is it?"
The boss's scar caught the candlelight as he turned his head slightly, eyes never leaving the helicopter. His voice carried the weight of certainty. "I was a major in the Self-Defense Forces. I know the Kawasaki OH-1, the Apaches we borrowed from the Americans, even the UH-60s. That thing—" he jabbed a calloused finger toward the window "—is none of them."
