[July 20, 2005 — 10:36 A.M. | Commission of Counter Ghoul, 2nd Ward Office]
The folder lay stamped in red: ACTIVE CASE — PRIORITY.
Senior Investigator Takahashi adjusted his glasses, the light catching the narrow steel rims. He closed the report slowly, the weight of it settling into the silence.
"An A+ confirmed," he muttered. "And if the armor we've documented extends as far as witnesses claim…" His eyes lingered on a photograph of flattened bullets beside jagged kagune shards. "…then potential S."
The word hung heavy. S-rank meant danger that bled outside a single ward. S-rank meant resource allocation, strategy, and funerals.
He turned his gaze on Mori, the junior investigator who stood stiff at attention. "We'll need confirmation. And not from a rookie squad."
Mori hesitated. "Who do you want assigned, sir?"
Takahashi leaned back, fingers tapping the desk. "Send for Investigator Katsuya Hoshino. First-Class. Veteran of the 13th Ward operations, survived three direct kagune encounters. Kōkaku specialist."
Mori blinked. "…Hoshino? He's still recovering from the Narita sweep."
"Then he'll be hungry to prove himself again," Takahashi said flatly. He pulled another folder from the cabinet, flipping through its contents until Hoshino's profile stared up at him: a lean man in his early forties, sharp eyes beneath a fringe of graying hair, his quinque case slung across his back even in the photo. Notes described his expertise: close-quarters engagements, Kōkaku adaptability, multiple confirmed kills in confined spaces.
Mori swallowed. "If Bastion really has a kakuja—"
Takahashi cut him off. "Then Hoshino will confirm it. And if not, he'll put the wall back into the ground where it belongs."
He snapped the profile shut, slid it atop Bastion's file, and pressed the stamp again. The kanji burned red: DEPLOYED.
[July 21, 2005 — 6:12 P.M. | CCG Armory, 2nd Ward]
The armory buzzed with the metallic clicks of locks, racks sliding, cases opened. Investigator Hoshino stood in silence before the reinforced case that housed his quinque. The weapon glimmered faintly beneath the fluorescent lights: a broad-bladed sword forged from a Kōkaku kagune, its edge lined with jagged crystal, heavy but balanced for his build.
He ran a hand along the hilt, expression unreadable.
A young aide hovered nearby, nervous. "Sir, the orders state you're to confirm Bastion's presence only. No direct engagement unless unavoidable."
Hoshino slid the sword from the case with a clean rasp, testing its weight. His movements were practiced, reverent.
"Presence can only be confirmed one way," he said simply.
The aide paled but said nothing.
Hoshino slid the sword into its sheath, locking the case on his back. His coat settled over it like a shadow. He glanced toward the map pinned to the wall — the 19th Ward circled in red.
"They call him Bastion," he murmured. "A wall that doesn't fall. Let's see if he's stone… or if he cracks like everything else."
[Cut — 19th Ward, Same Night]
The ward pulsed under dim streetlamps, alive with the quiet rhythm of survival. Somewhere in its heart, a boy sat cross-legged on a futon, mask beside him, shards faintly glowing beneath his skin.
Hayato tugged absently at the seams of the leather, staring at it in the half-light. His chest still ached from training, but his thoughts burned hotter than pain.
They want me weak. They want me afraid. But I'll sharpen myself until no one can take me. Not the clan. Not the Doves. Not anyone.
He clenched the mask in his small fists, unaware that in a white-walled office across the city, his father's name had been stamped in red, his presence marked, and a man with a sword already moving closer.
[July 24, 2005 — 9:27 P.M. | Outskirts of the 19th Ward]
The streets of the 19th Ward were quieter than most. No neon clutter, no packed nightlife. Just rows of aging apartments, shuttered shops, and alleys that stank of rainwater and rot.
Investigator Katsuya Hoshino moved through them with practiced steps, his long coat brushing against his legs, quinque case strapped across his back. At his side walked his aide — Second-Class Investigator Ayaka Shimizu, barely a year out of the academy, clutching a clipboard and scanning every corner with nervous eyes.
"Sir," she said softly, "the last confirmed attack was three streets over. Witnesses claimed armor — crimson plates."
"Not claimed," Hoshino corrected, voice low, clipped. "Described. Words matter. People exaggerate. Armor becomes scales, scales become a demon. Our job is to cut the lie down until we see the truth."
Shimizu nodded quickly, scribbling notes.
They stopped before a shop whose shutters were bolted tight, graffiti scrawled across the metal. Hoshino crouched, running a gloved finger over a dark stain at the base of the wall. Dried blood. The rain hadn't washed it all away.
"Kōkaku residue," he muttered. He tapped the wall where faint gouges scarred the brick, wide grooves like claws dragging stone. "Armor plating used offensively. Powerful strikes. Consistent with Bastion."
Shimizu frowned. "If he's really A+… why stay in a ward like this? The 19th isn't prime hunting ground."
Hoshino rose, eyes narrowing as he scanned the alley. "Because no one expects fortresses in forgotten places. The Doves chase fireworks in the 11th and 20th. That leaves shadows for men like him to nest."
They continued, questioning scattered locals. Some muttered about "a monster with no face." Others denied ever seeing anything, their eyes shifting nervously, fear written in their silence. Each story added weight to the file Shimizu carried.
By the end of the night, the conclusion was the same.
"Pattern is too consistent," Hoshino said, standing at the edge of the ward's central blocks. "Bastion's here. And if the rumors of a second ghoul are true…" His gaze hardened. "…then we're hunting bloodlines now."
He adjusted the strap of his quinque case and moved deeper into the ward.
[July 24, 2005 — 11:03 P.M. | Seno Family Apartment]
The apartment was dim, the single bulb buzzing overhead. Hayato sat cross-legged on the futon, tracing the seams of his crude mask with absent fingers. His mother folded clothes quietly, humming a faint tune, while his father leaned against the window, cigarette unlit between his teeth.
The knock came soft, almost polite.
Hayato's stomach dropped. His mother froze mid-fold.
His father's eyes narrowed. "…Again."
The door creaked open before they answered. The midwife stepped in, her shawl trailing water from the evening rain. Behind her was a man Hayato had never seen before — tall, slender, with pale eyes and a mask dangling from his belt. Unlike the brutes who had come before, he carried himself with calm, deliberate confidence.
The midwife's voice was cool. "The family grows impatient. They ask again for your return."
Hayato's mother's jaw tightened. "I told you before. I'm done with them."
The pale-eyed man stepped forward, gaze sweeping the small apartment, lingering on Hayato. His lips curled faintly. "You waste strong blood in squalor. The elders see the boy as potential. They would raise him as one of their own, not… like this."
Hayato's fists clenched. Not theirs. Never theirs.
His father stepped between them, crimson light flickering faintly under his skin, armor itching to break free. His voice was low, dangerous. "This is his home. Not yours. Tell your masters to crawl back into whatever pit they rule."
The man's gaze hardened, but he didn't move. He looked once more at Hayato, eyes sharp with unspoken promise. "Blood doesn't forget. And the boy's will call to us, sooner or later."
The midwife drew her shawl tighter. "Think carefully, child," she said to Hayato's mother. "The clan does not wait forever."
They left without another word, their footsteps fading down the hall.
The silence after was heavier than their presence.
Hayato looked at his father, then at his mother. Her hands trembled as she folded the same shirt again and again, eyes unfocused.
He swallowed hard, a thought echoing sharp inside his head: They won't stop. Neither the Doves. Nor the clan. Everyone wants to take us. But I'll never be theirs. I'll sharpen myself until they bleed first.
His shards pulsed faintly under his skin, restless, waiting.
[July 25, 2005 — 1:14 A.M. | 19th Ward — Rooftop Overlooking Central Blocks]
The ward below was still, a patchwork of dark alleys and broken lamps. To most, it looked abandoned. To Investigator Katsuya Hoshino, it was breathing.
He crouched at the edge of the rooftop, coat tugged tight against the night air, cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers. He never smoked, but he liked the ember — a false star in his hand, steady against the dark.
"Sir," said Ayaka Shimizu, the Second-Class investigator trailing him. Her clipboard was already thick with scribbled notes. "Command was clear. Observation only. We're to confirm Bastion's activity, not initiate."
Hoshino rolled the cigarette between his fingers, eyes fixed on the alley below where gouges marked the brick. "Orders are written for investigators who like their pensions more than the truth."
Shimizu stiffened. "…And you don't?"
His mouth curved in something too sharp to be a smile. "Truth keeps me alive. Paperwork doesn't block a kagune when it comes for your throat."
He flicked the ember into the dark, watching it vanish. His eyes narrowed on the gouges, the faint residue glittering under moonlight.
"He's here," he said softly. "Close. Tonight we set the board."
Shimizu shifted uneasily. "And if command finds out—"
"Then they'll thank me when I bring them confirmation instead of speculation." He touched the strap of the quinque case on his back, a quiet rasp of steel shifting inside. "Bastion hides behind armor. Let's see how much of it is wall… and how much can crack."
[July 25, 2005 — 1:32 A.M. | Seno Apartment]
The bulb buzzed faintly overhead, washing the room in tired yellow light. Hayato sat at the low table, mask resting beside him, his fingers tracing the jagged seams. His back still ached from training, but the tension in the room kept him wide awake.
His father stood by the window, broad shoulders framed in the glow of the ward's dim streetlamps. His voice broke the silence.
"We'll hunt tonight."
Hayato looked up quickly. He wasn't surprised — they had hunted together before — but there was weight in his father's tone, a heaviness that told him this night mattered.
His mother turned from the laundry she was folding, her eyes sharp. "Again? You were just out three nights ago. It's too soon."
His father's expression didn't change. "The ward grows restless. Better to choose our ground than be caught on theirs."
Hayato understood without needing it explained: the clan. Not killers in the shadows, but always pressing, always reminding his mother of what she had left behind. Always hinting that her son belonged more to them than to her.
His father stepped away from the window, crouching so his gaze was level with Hayato's. "You know what to do. You know how to move." His voice softened — not much, but enough that Hayato caught it. "Tonight, you walk with me, not behind me."
Hayato's chest tightened. He nodded, pulling the crude mask into his hands. Not just his son. His partner.
His mother's hands trembled where she clutched the laundry. "At least… be careful," she whispered.
Her husband leaned close, pressed his forehead to hers — a brief, fragile moment that made the air ache. Then he straightened, sliding his mask into place.
"Keep the door locked," he said. "If we're not back by dawn, stay low until you hear from me."
Hayato fastened his mask, the leather rough against his skin. When he looked toward the cracked mirror, the boy staring back was gone. His eyes glowed faint red behind jagged seams.
His father held the door open. "Come."
Hayato stepped out beside him. The ward swallowed them both.
[July 25, 2005 — 3:41 A.M. | 19th Ward — Abandoned Courtyard]
The courtyard was dead quiet, hemmed in by half-collapsed apartments and rusted stairwells. The air smelled of mildew and stale smoke.
Hoshino crouched behind a low wall of broken brick, his coat damp with dew. His quinque case rested ready against his knee. The weight of waiting pressed on his shoulders — minutes bleeding into hours, the silence broken only by the occasional drip of water from a gutter above.
Beside him, Shimizu shifted, her nerves fraying. "Sir, it's been two hours. He may not—"
"Quiet," Hoshino murmured, eyes never leaving the shadows of the alley mouth. "Walls don't move unless something leans on them. Bastion's no different. He'll come."
Shimizu swallowed and nodded, gripping her notebook tighter.
The silence stretched. Then — footsteps.
Not hurried, not panicked. Measured.
Two figures emerged from the far side of the alley. One broad, heavy, shoulders squared beneath a simple coat. The other smaller, wiry, crimson eyes faintly visible even at distance.
Hoshino's breath slowed. His fingers tapped once against the case. "There you are."
The father's head tilted slightly, like he felt the weight of eyes in the dark. His hand brushed Hayato's shoulder, firm but subtle.
"Stay sharp," he murmured. "And if I say run… you run. No questions."
Hayato stiffened beneath the mask, shards itching under his skin. Why? What did he sense? His father's tone carried the same gravity he only used in real danger — not training, not clan, but Doves.
Hoshino raised a hand, signaling Shimizu to hold. His eyes narrowed, drinking in every detail: the broad man's slow gait, the faint ripple of plating beneath his coat, and — more importantly — the second figure at his side.
The smaller one walked with an uneven rhythm, shards faintly glinting at his arms whenever light touched him.
Hoshino's jaw set. "Partner confirmed."
Shimizu's pen scratched furiously. "Description matches multiple reports… jagged Ukaku projection, but density suggests Kōkaku hybridization. Sir, that's—"
"A problem," Hoshino finished for her, voice low. His hand hovered near his quinque. "Bastion was A+. With that one…" His eyes gleamed. "…potential S."
The courtyard held its breath.
Hayato's father stopped walking. His head turned slightly, scanning the rooflines, the alleys, the silence too deep to be natural. His hand squeezed Hayato's shoulder once — firm, grounding.
"Go," he said quietly. "Back home. Now."
Hayato's chest tightened under the mask. "Tou-san—"
"Now." His father's tone brooked no argument.
Hayato's fists trembled. He wanted to argue, to prove he wasn't just a child to be hidden away. But something in his father's voice froze him. He stepped back a pace, heart hammering.
Hoshino's fingers tightened around the case latch, the faint rasp of metal carrying in the silence.
The hunt had become confirmation.
Bastion wasn't alone anymore.