While the soldiers on the ground were dealing with the existential fallout of a god's visit, the political gears in the capital were turning with ruthless efficiency.
The official story of the "Project Cerberus" defense grid repelling the attack was a resounding success. It was the perfect narrative: a triumph of human ingenuity and preparedness, a sign that the Defense Force was more capable than ever. It was also a complete fabrication, and at the heart of that fabrication stood Captain Mina Ashiro.
A week after the siege, Mina found herself in a lavish office in the Prime Minister's residence, the scent of expensive leather and old wood a suffocating contrast to the ozone and grit of the battlefield. Across a polished mahogany desk, a man named Councillor Eiji Tsuburaya smiled at her. He was a senior government advisor, a man who had never seen a Kaiju outside of a monitor, but whose political maneuvering had won more battles than any soldier.
"Captain Ashiro," he said, his voice smooth as silk. "The nation owes you its gratitude. Again. First 'Heaven's Hammer,' now 'Cerberus.' Your name has become synonymous with victory."
Mina inclined her head, the words feeling like ash in her mouth. "I am merely a soldier, Councillor. I serve at the discretion of the Defense Force."
"A humble answer. Excellent," Tsuburaya said, tapping a pen on a file. Inside, Mina caught a glimpse of a heavily pixelated image of Saitama. The government knew. At the highest levels, they knew the truth.
"Let us be frank, Captain," Tsuburaya continued, his smile never wavering. "The 'Cerberus' project has been, shall we say, a massive expenditure with... disappointing results. The public, however, doesn't need to know that. They need a hero. They need a symbol. And you are the perfect symbol."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping. "This... 'Silent God,' as the conspiracy theorists call him, is an unacceptable variable. We cannot control him. We cannot predict him. His existence, if made public, would shatter the public's faith in the very institutions meant to protect them. Why trust in the Defense Force when an arbitrary god might or might not save you based on his mood?"
He was right. Mina knew he was right. The logic was cold, brutal, and unassailable.
"And so," Tsuburaya concluded, "we have a simple, mutually beneficial arrangement. He performs his... pest control... and you take the credit. He remains a ghost. You become a legend. Public morale soars. Defense Force funding increases. Everyone wins."
"He might not always be there," Mina countered, her voice tight. "He might decide to leave. Or worse, he might decide he doesn't like us. What then? Our legend will be built on a foundation of sand."
Tsuburaya's smile finally faltered, replaced by a look of cold, hard pragmatism. "Then we pray he doesn't, Captain. But in the meantime, we use the assets we have. He is the force. You are the face. It is your patriotic duty to wear the mask we have given you."
The meeting ended, leaving Mina with a choice that was no choice at all. She could expose the truth and risk societal collapse, or she could live a lie for the "greater career" and greater good. She was no longer just a soldier; she had become an unwilling political weapon, a beautifully crafted lie designed to obscure a terrifyingly powerful truth.
Her guilt was a constant companion. It was at its worst when she thought of Kafka.
She found him in the base's mess hall late one evening. He was sitting alone, picking at a bowl of rice, looking smaller and more tired than she had ever seen him. Hoshina's "special training" was clearly taking its toll.
She hesitated, then walked over and sat down opposite him. "Kafka."
He looked up, startled. His eyes were wary. They were no longer the easy, childhood friends they had once been. They were a famous, lying hero and a secret, terrified monster.
"Mina," he said, his voice quiet. "Congratulations on the successful test of Project Cerberus. It was... impressive." He delivered the line without a hint of sarcasm, his face a perfect mask of cadet-like deference.
The sincerity of his lie stung her more than any accusation could have. He was protecting her. He knew the truth of what happened that night—he had been there, on the front lines—and he was playing along with her fabricated story.
"Thank you, Cadet," she replied, her voice stiffly formal. "The system performed within expected parameters."
They sat in an awkward silence, the chasm between them filled with unspoken secrets.
"Hoshina is pushing you hard," she said finally, trying to find some neutral ground.
"The Vice-Captain has high expectations," Kafka replied, his answer carefully neutral.
Mina felt a surge of frustration. "Why are you doing this, Kafka?" she asked, her voice dropping to a whisper. "The recruitment. Pushing yourself like this. You could get killed."
Kafka looked down at his bowl of rice. "You and I... we made a promise, a long time ago. That we'd stand side by side."
He looked up, and for a fleeting moment, she saw the determined, foolish boy she had grown up with. "I'm a little late," he said, a sad, self-deprecating smile on his lips. "But I'm trying to keep that promise."
His simple, honest words were a dagger in her heart. He was here, risking his life, fighting for an honest dream, while she sat on a throne built of lies. His integrity threw her own compromises into sharp, painful relief.
"Be careful, Kafka," she said, her voice soft with a genuine, desperate concern. "Hoshina... he's not just training you. He's watching you. You've drawn the attention of some very powerful, very... analytical people. They don't see people. They see assets and variables."
She was trying to warn him, trying to tell him that he was now a piece in a game whose rules he didn't understand.
Kafka just nodded. "I'll be careful."
She stood up to leave, the conversation feeling unfinished, a failure. As she turned, Kafka spoke again, his voice quiet.
"The lie," he said. "It must be heavy."
Mina froze, her back to him.
"You're doing what you have to do," he continued, his voice devoid of judgment. "To protect people. That's what heroes do. I get it."
He didn't just know her secret; he understood it. He understood the burden. In that moment, he, the monster hiding among soldiers, was the only person in the world who saw her not as a living legend, but as a person trapped in a lie for the greater good.
She walked out of the mess hall without looking back, but for the first time in weeks, the crushing weight of her stolen halo felt just a little bit lighter. She was not alone in her secret. And that shared, unspoken understanding was both a comfort and a terrifying complication to their already impossible relationship.