The sun broke sluggishly over Yokohama, its pale light falling across twisted buildings and half-collapsed roads. The aftermath of the battle still lingered in the air—ash, smoke, and the faint metallic tang of kaiju blood.
By dawn, the cleanup crews were already at work. Kafka Hibino tugged on the hood of his white protective suit, the mask sealing over his mouth with a hiss. Beside him, Reno Ichikawa snapped on his gloves with unnecessary force, jaw tight. Around them, the company's workers moved with practiced rhythm—saws whirring, hoses hissing, heavy tools clanging against armored hide.
The carcass of the ten-meter kaiju loomed like a grotesque monument in the middle of the district, its body a canvas of violence. Its neck bore a single devastating slash, deep enough to expose bone, while its head was nothing but ruin, pulped under weapon fire. Gashes the size of alleyways ran down its legs, each cut clean, deliberate.
Kafka paused, pressing his electric saw against a stubborn scale. His voice slipped out under his breath. "Such brutal power…"
Reno, usually the cool one, couldn't hold back a low whistle. His eyes trailed the length of the wounds, disbelief clouding his face. "Unreal. That's not just power—that's precision. He carved through this thing like it was paper."
The rookie's tone was caught between awe and unease.
Kafka tightened his grip on the saw. He knew exactly who Reno meant—Akira.
The whispers spread fast among the workers.
"Did you hear? That kid from the cleaning company…"
"They say he took it down himself. Just a sword—no heavy artillery."
"Looks sickly, doesn't he? I always thought he'd collapse carrying a mop bucket. Turns out he can split kaiju like firewood."
Uncle De spat to the side, sweat streaking his brow under the mask. He'd been at this job longer than most, seen monsters gutted open, seen heroes fall, but this… this was different. The thought of a boy he'd watched scrub entrails and patch Kafka's mistakes suddenly standing toe-to-toe with a kaiju? It left him rattled in a way even disaster usually didn't.
"Quit your yapping," he barked at the others, though his hands trembled faintly around his cleaver. "Rumors don't clean guts. Move it."
But the whispers didn't stop. They never did.
Kafka and Reno were assigned to intestine duty—a job nobody wanted. The stench hit them like a wall as they pried open the kaiju's abdomen, steaming rot spilling into the air. Even through the masks, the smell of bile and burnt flesh clung to their throats.
Kafka gagged, pulling his saw through cartilage with jerky motions. "Always the worst job…"
Reno worked faster, sharper, not giving himself time to think. But his thoughts weren't on the guts—they were on Akira. On the way his blade had flashed against impossible odds. On the memory of soldiers aiming rifles at him without hesitation.
Finally, Kafka broke the silence. "Reno… yesterday, during interrogation—you sounded so sure. Do you really think he's dangerous?"
Reno didn't look up. His hands kept moving, slick with blood and bile. "I think anyone who can do this"—he jerked his chin toward the mutilated insides of the kaiju—"is dangerous. Doesn't matter if he smiles at you after work or jokes about lunch breaks. Power like that doesn't exist without consequence."
Kafka bit his lip. "But he saved us. Saved Kikoru. If he wanted to… he could've—"
Reno slammed his blade down, hard enough to splatter blood across Kafka's suit. His eyes flashed, voice low but sharp. "That's exactly it. He could've. Doesn't it bother you that everything depends on what he decides in the moment? No rules. No chain of command. Just… his whim."
Kafka flinched at the words. His chest tightened. He wanted to argue—but he remembered Akira's eyes in the rubble, cold steel even as he claimed to be human. He remembered the rifles, the tension, the way even Mina hadn't fully believed him.
Before Kafka could reply, Uncle De's shout cut across the site. "Heads up!"
The team froze. From the torn belly of the kaiju, something spilled out—something that wasn't just gore.
Bones. Human bones, stripped and splintered, clattering onto the asphalt with a sickening finality. Shreds of clothing clung to them, soaked and chewed. A child's shoe tumbled free, small and crimson.
For a moment, silence crushed the street.
Then the screaming began.
Workers tore off masks, retching into the gutters. Some staggered back, pale, hands shaking. A few fled outright, abandoning tools as bile rose in their throats. Even the veterans froze—Uncle De's face went ashen as he stared at the shoe lying in blood.
Kafka's saw slipped from his hands. His vision swam. "No way…"
Reno's stomach twisted violently, but his grip only tightened. His knuckles turned white around his tool as he forced himself to look. His voice was hoarse when it finally broke the silence. "This thing… it wasn't just rampaging. It was hunting."
News traveled fast. Within minutes, the report was in Defense Force hands.
Soushiro Hoshina's phone buzzed. His grin slipped away as he scanned the message, eyes hardening. Without a word, he pushed off the wall of Akira's hospital room and strode out, boots echoing down the sterile hall.
Inside, Kikoru blinked at his sudden departure. She turned back toward Akira, who reclined against white sheets, bandages wound tight around his torso. His expression hadn't shifted at all—calm, detached, as though none of this touched him.
"Something big must've happened," Kikoru muttered, curiosity curling her lips.
Akira's gaze flicked toward her, indifferent. "There's always something big happening. Doesn't change the fact I'm stuck here."
Kikoru crossed her arms, frustration flashing. "You're infuriating. You almost die, then act like you're above it all. Ugh. Fine—my butler's bringing me soup. I'll share it. Don't get used to it."
Akira gave a faint smirk, but said nothing more.
Meanwhile, Soushiro drove toward the cleanup site, the message still burning in his mind. Human remains inside kaiju stomachs. Not collateral damage—consumption.
His hands tightened on the wheel. For years, kaiju had been disasters—storms of teeth and claws tearing cities apart. But this… this was different. This was evolution. Predation.
Akira—had warned him, hadn't he? That things weren't as simple as they looked. That the future would be worse. Soushiro hated to admit it, but the boy might've been right.
"Damn kid," he muttered, eyes narrowing at the road ahead. "If monsters are changing their game, then so are we."
Back at the site, Kafka stood trembling beside Reno, both staring at the bones piled at their feet.
For once, Reno didn't have a sharp retort. He only muttered, almost to himself, "If Akira hadn't been there yesterday… we'd be in that pile, too."
Kafka looked at him, startled—but before he could reply, soldiers moved in, pushing them back, securing the scene.
The day had begun with whispers about Akira's unbelievable strength. It ended with a truth far darker than any of them wanted to believe.
Humanity wasn't just fighting monsters anymore.
They were being hunted.
This story is inspired from various fanfics i have read from around the world so if you find any similarities please dont mind . Thank you
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T/N :
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