The clang of metal tools and the acrid stench of kaiju blood still lingered in the air when silence fell over the cleanup crew.
Every head turned toward the entrance.
A girl stepped into the warehouse—blonde twin-tails swaying like banners, a Defense Force–issue combat case resting at her side. Kikoru Shinomiya. The prodigy whose very name weighed heavy on every rookie's shoulders.
For a moment, the chatter of saws and drills dulled. Even Uncle Daisuke, usually unbothered by high-born airs, stiffened at her presence.
Akira Kurogiri tightened his grip on the kaiju core he'd just finished cataloging. His heightened senses caught Kikoru's stride: sharp, decisive, and brimming with irritation. She wasn't here to observe. She was hunting someone.
Her gaze scanned the crew, and it didn't take long to lock onto Akira.
So, she really came, he thought grimly. Yesterday's clash outside the exam hall hadn't been enough for her pride.
"Kurogiri Akira," Kikoru said coldly, her voice cutting through the warehouse like a blade. "We need to talk."
The younger workers exchanged uneasy glances. Who was reckless enough to call out a Shinomiya directly?
Akira didn't flinch. "About what? Or are you here to throw another punch?"
A sharp gasp rippled across the room.
Kikoru's fists clenched, but she caught herself. Seibuya, her butler, stepped just behind her shoulder. His presence was calm, but Akira noticed the subtle way his hand hovered near the hilt of his cane-sword. The man was ready to intervene if things escalated.
"Yesterday was… a misunderstanding," Kikoru said through gritted teeth, though her eyes betrayed her seething pride. "But don't think for a second I've accepted it. I don't care what kind of… hidden tricks you used, I'll expose you for what you are."
Before Akira could respond, Kafka Hibino stepped between them, his mask pushed up and his hands raised awkwardly.
"H-Hey now, no fighting in the middle of kaiju guts, okay? We've got enough of a mess to clean." His easygoing tone was forced, but it drew a few nervous chuckles from the crew.
Reno Ichikawa, who had been quietly stacking remains into containers, finally spoke. His sharp silver hair glinted under the fluorescent lights as his eyes flicked between Kikoru and Akira.
"Kurogiri," Reno said, his voice cool, "who exactly are you? Yesterday at the exam, you intercepted her punch without even flinching. Now she comes storming in here like she has unfinished business. You're not just another cleaner, are you?"
The room grew heavier. Curious whispers spread among the younger workers.
"Yeah, I saw it too… he stopped her like it was nothing."
"Isn't she the Commander's daughter?"
"Wait, then what's a guy like him doing here with us?"
Kafka's jaw tightened. His colleagues—the rookies, the interns—were starting to murmur about him too.
"Oi, oi," one of them whispered, "isn't that the guy who failed the exam every year? What's he still doing here at his age?"
"Thirty-one, right? And still chasing dreams…" another added, not bothering to lower his voice.
Kafka's face flushed crimson. He laughed weakly, trying to brush it off, but the words stung. He could face kaiju guts every day without complaint, but the disdain of the younger generation cut deeper than any claw.
Reno noticed Kafka's faltering smile. His brows furrowed slightly. To him, Kafka's situation seemed almost pathetic—a man clinging to a dream long past its prime.
Kikoru, from the corner of her eye, caught Kafka's slump and sneered inwardly. This is the man who promised to stand beside Mina Ashiro? This pitiful uncle? How disgusting.
Akira saw it all—the whispers, Kafka's forced grin, Kikoru's silent scorn. His fist clenched.
He stepped forward.
"Enough," Akira's voice rang, sharper than steel. The chatter died instantly. His gaze fixed first on Reno, then on Kikoru. "Don't mock someone else's dreams so lightly."
Reno blinked, taken aback. "I wasn't mocking—"
"You were," Akira cut him off. "Every word you've spoken drips with arrogance. You think you're better because you're young, because you're talented. But you don't know a damn thing about what it costs a man to keep chasing his dream when the whole world tells him to quit."
Reno bristled, fists tightening at his sides. His pride screamed to retort, but something in Akira's eyes—steady, unyielding—held him still.
"And you," Akira turned to Kikoru. "Born into power. Raised in privilege. You sneer because Kafka Hibino is older, because he's failed before. But tell me—have you ever once stood at rock bottom? Have you ever clawed through mud with nothing but your stubborn will to survive?"
Kikoru's lips parted, but no words came. For the first time, someone had spoken to her not with awe, not with fear—but with defiance.
Akira's voice softened, though it carried no less weight. "Dreams aren't fragile things. They only die when the person carrying them gives up. And Kafka hasn't given up. That alone makes him stronger than most of you."
Silence engulfed the warehouse. Even Uncle Daisuke, usually quick with a joke, stayed quiet.
Kafka's eyes widened. For years he had endured laughter, pity, and rejection. Yet here, in this dingy warehouse filled with kaiju stench, Akira Kurogiri had said the words he himself had long forgotten to believe.
"…Akira," Kafka whispered, his throat tight.
Kikoru's face burned, torn between fury and a grudging respect she refused to acknowledge. She snapped her fingers, and Seibuya opened the warehouse door for her.
"This isn't over," she declared coldly, her pride refusing to crumble. "I'll prove exactly where you all stand." With that, she stormed out, twin-tails whipping behind her.
The door slammed.
For a long moment, only the hum of fluorescent lights filled the air.
Then Reno exhaled sharply. "…You talk big for a cleaner." His tone was clipped, but his eyes no longer carried the same disdain. Instead, there was something else. Interest.
Akira met his gaze evenly. "Call it whatever you want. Just remember—mocking someone else's dream says more about you than it does about them."
Unspoken tension lingered between the two. Rivalry, sharp and raw, but not without recognition.
Kafka finally broke the silence, scratching the back of his head with a sheepish grin. "…You guys really don't pull any punches, huh?"
The rookies chuckled nervously. The atmosphere, once tense, slowly eased.
But outside, hidden from their view, a Defense Force surveillance drone buzzed softly as it recorded every word.
From a monitoring room back at base, Soshiro Hoshina leaned back in his chair, a sly grin tugging at his lips.
"Well, well. Things just got interesting."