[Seno Estate — Council Chamber | Midnight]
The torches hissed low, smoke curling up the vaulted ceiling as the Jacks filed in. Twelve masks, twelve shadows. The smell of rain still clung to their coats, mixed with the copper tang of the fight that hadn't gone to plan.
Iron-mask stepped forward and ripped his mask free. Beneath it was a square, scar-scored face, shaved scalp glistening with sweat. His voice was a rasp, gravel dragged across stone.
"Jack One reporting. The rogue is gone."
A ripple ran through the chamber. Elders leaned forward in their carved seats, lacquer gleaming red in firelight.
From the back, a sharp laugh cracked. Bone-mask tipped his mask aside to show a pale grin cut through with old scars. His real name, whispered like an insult, was Renji Seno — Jack Four. "Not gone. Stolen. That pack didn't want him; they wanted us."
Hayato stood among them, the twelfth in the circle. His cracked jaw mask hid his face, but his body still hummed with the ache of the fight. This wasn't about the rogue, he thought. It was about us.
Elders murmured. One hissed, "You failed." Another said, "You should have bled them dry."
Iron-mask — Daichi, Jack One — didn't flinch. "It wasn't a rescue. It was a show of force. A rival clan made certain we watched them take what we reached for. They want us to know their hands can touch our prey and leave alive."
Jack Three spoke next — a woman with a porcelain mask painted with long black lashes. Her name was Aya Seno, voice calm and even. "They don't want rogues. They want us to bleed every time we move outside the walls."
The chamber simmered.
Renji chuckled again, spreading scarred hands. "They think we're soft."
One of the elders leaned forward. "Are you?"
Daichi's voice was iron. "No."
Silence fell. Every mask turned forward. Even Hayato, ribs still aching from the Bikaku's blows, forced himself to straighten.
The clan head finally rose, mask catching the torchlight. His voice was calm, cold. "Then you remind them what the Jacks are. You remind them why other clans whisper our name like a curse."
The Jacks bowed as one. Twelve shadows folding into the stone.
But Hayato lifted his head last, and when he did, the thought cut sharper than hunger: The fight wasn't about rogues anymore. It was about us. And sooner or later, it will be about me.
The projector hummed. On the wall, a blurry shot froze twelve figures in formation. Heights staggered, masks different, but their steps were uniform.
No one said the word "Jacks." Not yet. But the weight of it pressed in anyway.
[Council Chamber — Later That Night]
When the Jacks were dismissed, they filed out by rank. Daichi at the front, iron mask under his arm. Renji swaggered behind him, scars splitting his grin. Aya walked silent, lashes painted sharp. Others followed — Jack Two, Kazuo with his heavy koukaku shield, Jack Five, Isamu with his quick Bikaku twitch, and the rest like wolves in shadow.
Hayato came last. Jack Twelve.
He felt their weight pressing ahead of him like a wall. Names. Ranks. Masks that had meaning. He was just the number that filled the gap.
But he carried the crack in his mask like a scar, and he carried his hunger like a fire.
And he told himself as the torches guttered low: They can call me Twelve. But one day, the city will remember the Black Dragon first.
[CCG Headquarters — Records Annex | Late Morning]
The table was littered with photos, half-burned crime scene reports, and pushpins stabbed into a map of Tokyo. Red dots bloomed across the Fifteenth Ward, but others scattered wider — the Fourteenth, even the edges of the Thirteenth.
Shimizu tapped the stack she'd pulled from archives. "Look. Six different descriptors, three different years, all assigned separately. They're not rogues. They're part of something larger."
Hoshino leaned over her shoulder, scanning.
File A-2481: Kouka-type, massive forearm plating. Suspect six feet, built heavy. Alias scrawled by patrol: "Iron Ogre." Current rating: A-rank.
File A-2499: Rinkaku-user, scar visible under mask, four tendrils. Witness noted "laughing during fight." Alias: "Hyena." A-rank (pending S).
File A-2512: Female, Kouka hand weapon, precision strikes. Witnesses describe "eyelash mask." Alias: "Doll." High B → A-candidate.
File A-2557: Bikaku carrier, whip-fast tail, documented ambush of two patrols in the 14th. Alias: "Cudgel." A-rank.
Shimizu slid another folder forward, its photo grainy but unmistakable: cracked jaw mask, crimson shards blurred mid-motion. Black Dragon.
"He's the outlier," she said quietly. "Younger. Messier. But he's showing up alongside them."
Hoshino's jaw flexed. "So we've been treating six cases as separate A-ranks."
"And in truth," Shimizu finished, "we're looking at a coordinated unit. A clan detachment."
The room was silent except for the hum of fluorescent lights.
"Give them a working classification," Hoshino ordered.
Shimizu wrote on the board in clean block letters:
'The Masked Twelve' — Composite Threat Assessment: A++ pending confirmation.
The junior investigators exchanged uneasy glances.
Hoshino capped the marker and set it down. "If we're right, we're not hunting rogues anymore. We're hunting soldiers."