Yokohama, Kanagawa Prefecture.
Inside the Third Division command room, the hum of machinery blended with the shuffle of papers. Mina Ashiro sat at her desk, uniform crisp, eyes cool and steady as she flipped through an endless stack of reports. Beyond the glass wall, the skyline of Yokohama glittered with neon lights—but Mina didn't spare it a glance.
"It's rare to see you this quiet, Hoshina." Her voice was soft but edged with steel, betraying curiosity without breaking stride.
Across from her, Vice-Captain Soshiro Hoshina leaned over a file, his ever-squinting eyes narrowed even further. For ten minutes he had spoken no words, simply staring, reading, re-reading. His sharklike grin was nowhere to be seen. That, more than anything, made Mina raise her head.
Finally, Hoshina exhaled, shutting the folder with a snap.
"This one's bad news."
"Oh?" Mina arched an eyebrow.
"Akira Kurogiri." Hoshina tapped the cover with a finger. "At first glance, I figured he might be like me—descended from an old martial family. But no. Orphan. Parents killed in a kaiju attack. Grew up in a welfare facility. Now a grunt at a kaiju cleaning company."
The words hung in the air. A background so plain it was suspicious.
"And yet he stopped Kikoru's punch," Mina murmured, recalling the surveillance feed. "Not countered. Stopped."
"Exactly. No combat record. No money for a private suit. And look at this—he's never trained formally in anything. Nothing." Hoshina leaned back, folding his arms. His grin returned, faint and sharp. "So where'd that strength come from? If it ain't bloodline or gear… then maybe kaiju are finally learnin' to walk around in human skin."
For a moment, the air in the office felt heavier. Mina closed the file slowly.
"Don't jump to conclusions. If he were a kaiju, walking straight into our recruitment? That's reckless to the point of stupidity."
"Or confidence."
Mina's eyes narrowed. "Have him watched. Quietly. If there's anything unnatural, I want to know first."
Hoshina tilted his head, shark grin widening. "Heh. Already ahead of you, Captain. I'll handle it personally."
At the Shinomiya residence, the atmosphere was far colder.
Kikoru sat in her study, twin-tails draped over her shoulders, the glow of a desk lamp reflecting off the dossier spread before her. Her butler, Seibuya, waited silently at her side.
Her right wrist still throbbed faintly.
She had been raised to expect perfection. Daughter of Isao Shinomiya, Supreme Commander of the Defense Force. Heiress of a family where even second place was unacceptable. Her mother—Hikaru Shinomiya, once the proud captain of the Second Division—had given her life battling Kaiju No. 6.
And Kikoru? She was meant to surpass them both.
Yet today, she had been humiliated.
"…Akira Kurogiri." She spat the name like poison. "A cleaner. Frail. Malnourished. And he dared—dared—to stop my strike."
Her pride screamed. Logic whispered excuses—that maybe he wore hidden gear, that maybe she had misjudged her own angle. But her pride crushed those excuses beneath its heel.
Unacceptable. Unforgivable.
"I won't forget this disgrace." She clenched her fist until her knuckles blanched. "I'll confront him myself. No matter what, I'll prove who stands above."
Seibuya bowed wordlessly. He did not try to dissuade her.
Back at the kaiju cleanup company, the mood was far lighter.
The night's work had ended, and the crew lingered in the break area. Kafka Hibino slouched in his chair, a half-empty can of coffee in hand, while Reno Ichikawa leaned against the wall, flipping through a Defense Force brochure he'd picked up earlier.
Akira sat at the table, notebook open, jotting down quick sketches of kaiju anatomy.
"Akira, are you really sure you know where to find the nucleus?" Kafka asked for what felt like the sixth time, brow furrowed with concern.
Akira didn't look up. "Kafka-senpai, you've asked me that question every day this week."
Kafka scratched the back of his head, embarrassed. "Well, it's important! You can't just saw randomly. These things may look like dogs or wolves, but inside they're nothing like normal animals. If you cut wrong, you—"
Whack!
A hand smacked down on his head. "Get back to work, idiot!"
"Uncle De!" Kafka yelped, rubbing his scalp. Daisuke-san—known affectionately as Uncle De to the younger workers—glared down at him, afro shaking with the motion.
"You slack off one more time and I'll dock your pay. And you," he added, jabbing a finger at Akira, "don't think just because you're suddenly motivated, you get to act smug. I've been watching."
"Yes, Daisuke-san," Akira replied evenly, hiding the faint amusement in his eyes.
Ah, Kafka, I got so caught up I forgot to mention—Reno will be working directly with you two from now on. Consider this your official squad."
Reno smirked from the wall. "Don't worry, Uncle De. Kafka-senpai just likes repeating himself. He thinks it makes him sound wise."
"Oi!" Kafka protested, but the laughter that followed was warm.
For a brief moment, it felt like any ordinary night.
Then the door slid open.
The room went silent.
Framed in the entrance, clad in her immaculate uniform, twin golden tails glowing under the fluorescent lights—stood Kikoru Shinomiya.
Her eyes, sharp as blades, locked onto Akira.