Chapter I

  We are all made up of scars we don't remember receiving.

  The truth doesn't set us free; it only shows us the shape of the cage we were born into…

  The rain in Osaka shows no sign of letting up. In fact, it's almost as if it were me, or rather my actions, that provoked it, turning it into a furious deluge whose main purpose seems to be to wipe me out of existence.

  You're not the only one, get in line.

  I move across rooftops with the grace of a predator, activating short bursts of Shambles to bridge the gaps between buildings, a shadow that defies the laws of physics.

  Fuck Newton.

  As I run, I cross the range of a closed-circuit security camera. Without slowing down, I activate Mirage. My figure distorts, refracting light and raindrops into a chaotic pattern that turns me into a digital ghost; to the lens, I am nothing more than atmospheric interference, a blip in the void.

  And that's also why they call me Spectre. Because I'm the spectre that doesn't show up on your security cameras, but waits for you under the bed as soon as you turn off the light.

  And it sounds good, too.

  At the same time, I use Dipole to modulate every sound vibration. I land on the concrete with the delicacy of a sigh, but without the sound of breath.

  Yes—I have a fourth quirk. And—I know what you're thinking. Just don't expect me to talk about it yet.

  Project Durga. That fucking name keeps bouncing around in my head like a damn bullet on metal. It pounds at my temples every time my thoughts linger on it.

  What the fuck?

  It is an irritating pain, a sharp twinge that shouldn't exist at all.

  Maybe it's fatigue, maybe it's the air of this city that has crept under my skin. Maybe it's just old age.

  But I don't get tired, I don't let myself be influenced. And above all, I'm not getting old.

  I was trained by the HPSC itself to overcome every human limitation, to be the weapon that never jams, the full stop at the end of an overly long sentence.

  I crouch down on the edge of a roof and let the city move beneath me, observing the human anthill with the detachment of someone who knows they're not part of it. Distant sirens, car alarms, columns of smoke rising upward like black stitches sewing together the earth and the sky. Rumblings of thunder and lightning approaching menacingly.

  Know that I don't fear you either.

  I also see televisions in the windows of buildings that a hero would never enter.

  And yet, something else hangs insistently in the dirty air—something that towers above the rest.

  That air that heralds a cataclysm on the horizon.

  Today I feel more poetic than usual.

  My breathing remains slow, steady, controlled.

  However, my mind is a veritable minefield.

  Seven years ago...

  The corridors of the HPSC had no windows. No visible escape route.

  They were designed that way: no way out except the one they decide. Imagine if you found yourself stuck in there with me.

  I wouldn't envy you at all.

  The air has always been the same for as long as I can remember. It smelled of ozone, pre-printed paper, and espresso.

  I entered the meeting room feeling as if I were walking into a freezer. It wasn't just the air conditioning set to polar temperatures; it was the atmosphere itself, where emotions were filtered through protocols and bureaucracy until they became aseptic. I often wondered if those people had a heartbeat or if, upon opening their chests, I would find only triplicate forms and toner dust.

  The lights were dim, reduced to a strip of white LEDs running along the perimeter of the ceiling. In the center, the shiny table reflected the faces of those present like distorted mirrors.

  I looked at their faces, masks of flesh above expensive suits.

  “Spectre. Finally.”

  Even when they say hello, they seem less human than I do.

  The voice belonged to the President of the HPSC, Shinome Anzen.

  A man in his seventies with a plump face, always with his hair slicked back in a way that bordered on neurosis, and always bundled up in his gray, tailor-made suit that cost as much as four months' salary for a normal Japanese office worker.

  At first glance, you'd call him a complete klutz. He had that awkward gait with his feet turned inward, typical of someone who would trip even over his own shoelaces. And what about those round, oversized glasses that weighed heavily on his nose, enlarging his eyes in the empty, watery gaze of a man who couldn't even form his own opinion, let alone a motive.

  Yet even a cold-blooded killer like me fears him. That bastard doesn't need one or more quirks, all he needs is a simple nod of his head and the train goes boom.

  He didn't even look up from the documents he was inspecting with dedication.

  I stopped a few steps away from the table. My reflection on the dark surface showed me the image of an opaque helmet and the heavy, armored outline of my gloves.

  The reflection of a tireless and relentless hitman.

  I was their most successful work of art and, at the same time, the stain they couldn't wash out.

  “Please, sit down, Spectre,” he said, in that tone that brooked no reply, typical of someone accustomed to treating others like pawns on a chessboard. Typical of someone who holds incalculable secrets and is used to dealing at certain tables.

  “I prefer to stand,” I replied. My voice, filtered through the modulator, sounded like a scratch on glass.

  He raised his head, grimacing, his lips curling slightly as if I had just shattered a precious vase or trampled on an expensive carpet with my muddy boots.

  “And above all, you know how much I am a straight-to-the-point kind of guy,” I continued, enjoying for a moment the annoyance I saw in his eyes. "Did you call me about the Kobe issue? Apparently, ‘The Surgeon’ was smarter than your men and slipped through your fingers once again. Perhaps if they thought more about taking action than polishing those pretty medals, you would have achieved some results by now."

  The other commissioners didn't dare utter a word; just stared at me dumbfounded as if I were a time bomb sitting at their tea table.

  Anzen curled his lips into a smug little smile, an expression that made me want to use Ion just to see if his glasses could withstand the heat. “Always so blunt, yet never overly presumptuous or arrogant. That's why we like you, Spectre, and we like your efficiency even more. You're the dog that barks little but bites to the bone.”

  You're right about that, I really am a doggy, and a good one too.

  He paused dramatically, smoothing his sleeve. “That assassin is just a minor annoyance that we’ll deal with in due course. But you certainly weren’t summoned here for a low-level job.”

  He slid a leather-bound folder toward me. Stamped on the cover was the red seal typical of top-secret files.

  It was also rather obvious.

  “Your target is Fujibayashi Sato, a high-ranking Japanese politician,” he continued, crossing his stubby fingers. “And a prominent member of the Shugiin. I imagine you've heard of him.”

  “Affirmative. He opens orphanages and is engaged in a relentless fight against certain criminal organizations. In his spare time, he prepares meals for the homeless and is skilled at crocheting. In essence, he is a saint with a tie,” I commented with a note of disgust.

  I hate saints. They make my job terribly boring and public storytelling cloying.

  Apparently, nobody liked my joke, judging by the cold stares. The only sound to be heard was the low hum of the ventilation system, which seemed to be mocking me.

  A rather difficult audience, indeed.

  “Sarcasm is a luxury few can afford,” Anzen said, as if quoting a biblical passage. “Yet, in your case, we consider it... functional. A way to release the tension of being who you are.”

  What utter bullshit.

  “But your reconstruction is correct...” continued the President. "And he is a saint who declared that transparency would be a key issue in his campaign. He has got his hands on some sensitive documents concerning this Commission and is determined to discuss them in Parliament on Monday morning. His blind ambition would undermine the stability we have built with so much patience and effort, and I don't want that to happen, nor will I allow it to."

  You've hit the jackpot, Mr. Fujibayashi. You've managed to piss off Shinome Anzen, the man who owns the shadows, and that's not good news for you at all.

  “So you want me to retrieve them?,” I asked flatly, already calculating all the possible variables of the case.

  I admit it relaxes me.

  Anzen chuckled, a dry sound that annoyed me greatly, as if I had just said something funny. "Oh, no. Sato is an incurable idealist, and if there's one thing you should know about idealists, it's that they never give back their toys. They believe in moral redundancy. If a truth is to survive, then they will make sure it multiplies in every way possible. Do you understand what I mean?"

  I nodded in agreement.

  He wasn't wrong. If you want to decapitate a movement, you have to incinerate the body too; otherwise, the headless corpse continues to grope its way forward, thanks to muscle memory. People like to say that ideas are bulletproof, but that's a poet's lie. An idea without a voice, without a hard drive or a package to contain it, is just a ghost. And even ghosts can be exorcised, if you're thorough enough.

  But, obviously, not yours truly.

  Anzen leaned forward, and for a moment I saw the reflection of the LEDs in his glasses: two cold, white lines that completely hid his eyes. At that moment, he didn't look like a klutzy old man. He looked like absolute emptiness.

  “Furthermore, given his character, it’s not certain that he wouldn’t try again if we confiscated everything he owns. No, Sato must become a silent warning. He must learn—or rather, others must learn through him—that every action always has a reaction. But a man in his position is constantly in the spotlight; direct intervention would only make him a martyr, a symbol. And symbols are harder to kill than men. Not to mention commissions of inquiry and sensationalist headlines. Everything must be done in complete silence. And that's why you're the perfect man for this job. Eliminate him without making a sound. We'll take care of the narrative."

  And there it was, he clearly spat it in my face without any effort.

  Anzen leaned back in his chair, clearly satisfied with his rhetoric. “Now, go Spectre, do what you've been trained to do. Prove to me that you're still the Commission's best investment.”

  With a nod, I took my leave, turning my back and walking out of the room without saying another word.

  As I walked down that cold hallway again, I could feel the stares of the junior agents and administrative staff bouncing off my mask like shards of glass. They didn't see me as a colleague. I wasn't one at all.They saw me as one sees a combine harvester parked in a barn: a useful object, but unsettling to have around.

  But it was the voice of that four-eyed fool that kept ringing in my ears like the annoying buzzing of an insect.

  The Commission didn't consider me a normal agent, nor a soldier, nor even a hero.

  For goodness' sake, those jumpsuits would only make me fat.

  I was a logical function in an equation of power. A screwdriver specialized in removing inconvenient screws.

  Anzen wasn't giving me an order, he was just pressing the machine's switch.

  Being a tool... is a realization that empties you. It takes away the burden of choice, but leaves you with the coldness of metal in your veins.

  A good and loyal doggy.

  But now I had to prepare myself properly. I had a life to take.

  And I would never want the client to be disappointed by my lack of punctuality. You know, I care about these things.

  Two hours later, I was in the underground parking garage of the government district. The air was thick, saturated with the smell of damp concrete, burnt rubber, and exhaust fumes.

  The neon lights hissed rhythmically, giving the place a familiar and melancholic atmosphere.

  Sato's four bodyguards didn't even have time to figure out why the garage lights had started flickering.

  I used Mirage to project a couple of shiny copies of myself running in both directions, and while their eyes followed, I quickly slipped behind them.

  People have a really low attention span these days.

  I eliminated the guards in six seconds flat. A clean job: a blade to the base of the skull, a broken neck, two shots to the nerve centers. One of them, perhaps out of instinct, reached for his holster, but unfortunately he never got to pull out his Glock. They had fallen to the ground like sacks of potatoes in absolute silence thanks to Dipole. Not even a drop of blood on the floor.

  See? I'm also careful to comply with health and hygiene regulations.

  Sato was standing there, next to his sedan. The electronic key fell from his hand with a metallic clink. I approached slowly. My boot stepped on a patch of oil, but the sound was swallowed up by my Quirk.

  “You...you're Spectre, aren't you...?” he whispered in a faint voice.

  I looked at him from above my featureless visor. It was strange how people, moments before dying, felt the need to name their killer.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  As if labeling death made it less final.

  “Listen,” he stammered, backing up until his back was pressed against the cold body of his car. His hands trembled as if he were clutching a piece of ice. "I can double... triple whatever amount Shinome promised you! I have accounts abroad, funds that the Commission can't trace. We can make a deal, you can disappear, change your life..."

  Seriously? Do you really think I want to abandon the only lifestyle I've ever known?

  I didn't answer. I kept walking. And even though my quirk was no longer active, only his voice vibrated in the silence. Oh, and his heart was beating so hard that it threatened to burst his veins. He probably peed his pants too.

  I know, I have a strange effect on people. Mea culpa.

  “Please! I beg you!” Sato continued, tears streaming down his flushed face. “I have a family! I have children waiting for me at home, a wife... you can’t do this! I’m an honest man, I just wanted people to know the truth!”

  And I'm supposed to kill a dude like that in cold blood? What a horrible person I am.

  I stopped a step away from him. His breath came out in gasps and his eyes darted around frantically, as if searching not for an escape route—which was impossible in my presence—but for a chance. A single, tiny crack in reality that would allow him to make it to tomorrow.

  No fucking way, buddy.

  He too had now realized how ridiculous it all sounded in an underground parking lot, especially when you have someone in front of you whose KDA ratio is directly proportional to the density of vending machines per square mile in Tokyo.

  In my timeline, the concept of ‘escape’ is a miscalculation I am not permitted to make. If I am in the room, your story is already over; you are merely watching the credits roll.

  “Please...” Sato croaked, and that word was the last thing the air around him was permitted to carry. "You... don't understand... "

  Those who are about to die speak for themselves. Those who believe they can survive try to convince you.

  And you couldn't have made a more colossal miscalculation. Are you sure you're a politician?

  “All those whose lives I took began with ‘I have a family,’ Mr. Fujibayashi,” I said in my synthetic voice, as cold as a death sentence. “And they all offer money when they realize that their ‘truth’ isn't worth as much as their own skin. The problem is that I don't need money. And I don't even know what a family is. As if nature programmed me for empathy.”

  I raised my right hand. My fingertips began to glow with electric discharges the color of sunset, the same sunset that was about to fall on this guy with the chonmage. The smell of burnt plastic filled the air, saturating the tiny space between us.

  “Nothing personal, Fujibayashi Sato. Just following orders.”

  I activated Ion. The shock shot through his chest with surgical precision, instantly short-circuiting his heart. There was no blood, just the hiss of the current claiming its tribute and the thud of his body sliding against the car door and landing on the concrete.

  Mission accomplished.

  Twenty minutes later, I was back in front of Anzen, who was sipping his Darjeeling as if ordering that man's death sentence had made him thirsty.

  The silence was broken by the soft sound of heels on linoleum. One of the commissioners, Yasuda Shuri. A woman in her forties, with blonde hair pulled back into a bun so tight it looked painful. She approached, watching me with a smirk that didn't reach her eyes.

  Don't worry, you're definitely not my type.

  “Reliable as ever, Spectre,” she said, adjusting a file with a carelessness that made me want to break her fingers. “Mr. Fujibayashi has suffered a sudden and unfortunate heart attack, it seems. A real tragedy for the nation.”

  I stood still. At that moment, my instincts suggested at least a dozen creative ways to wipe that smirk off the face of that sack of shit called Shinome Anzen.

  Yasuda leafed through the dossier. “The preliminary autopsy will confirm cardiac arrest due to stress. The subject had a history of blood pressure problems. No signs of trauma. No abnormalities.” She closed it with a sharp snap.

  Clean, instantaneous, and precise.

  As if that man had never spoken those words to me. As if I had never been there.

  It sounds like a spectre, don't you think?

  And if you’re wondering about the bodyguards—because I know you are—don't bother looking for them in the report. In Yasuda's world, if a witness isn't 'medically relevant,' they simply cease to exist. A few heavy-duty trash bags and a generous bribe can turn a triple homicide into a quiet night at the office.

  Anzen put down his cup. “A commendable job. Now go, you have my permission to withdraw.”

  I didn't reply or argue, just nodded briefly before turning and leaving the room.

  I smiled inside, or at least I thought I did.

  Trained. Obedient. Quiet. I was a good doggy.

  And that night, I had brought yet another stick back to my owners.

  ***

  Present day…

  The rain turned into a storm. The sky, covered with clouds, prevented the moon from illuminating the city streets or anything else beneath its gaze; the pale glow of lightning was the only, albeit sinister, source of light.

  I try to banish that memory from my mind. I bet Anzen is in his office right now, sitting there guzzling that disgusting stuff, watching the world slowly burn from his window, convinced that all he has to do is press the right buttons to keep the abyss under control.

  What a shitty life. I don't envy him one bit.

  Everything seems to have changed since those days, although there is something, or rather someone, that hasn't changed at all, that has always remained the same. Do you know who I'm talking about?

  Yeah, because I can't get enough of getting myself into every clusterfuck I come across. I must have some kind of fetish, or maybe I'm just a masochist.

  I slide down the side of a building and land on a fire escape. The metal vibrates under my weight, but Dipole dampens every sound before it can even begin.

  I stand still for a moment, watching the traffic reduced to tiny trails that dissolve in the downpour. It's strange how the world continues to move on indifferently, even though it knows how corroded it is.

  I really don't understand human beings, even though I am one myself.

  I felt a familiar tingling at the base of my skull. It wasn't a headache, nor was it the thoughts accumulating in my mind about what I had snatched from the hands of that sellout bastard.

  No, it was much worse. It was the leash being pulled.

  I pressed the button on the right side of my helmet, effectively accepting the call. “Spectre, do you read me? This is Sentinel.”

  Perfect timing, you bastards.

  His voice croaked in my hearing aid, cold as a tomb. Sentinel was my contact at the HSPC, the guy who translated everything that went through those dandies' minds, and also the one who assigned me the tasks to complete, especially when those same assholes didn't feel like seeing my ugly mug, I might add.

  He didn't consider me a person either, but rather a missile with legs that had to be constantly monitored by nannies before I could do more damage than necessary.

  I'm seriously beginning to think that they don't have blind faith in me. What a shame. And it would hurt me too... if only I had a soul.

  I don't answer right away. I let the blades of water falling from the sky fill the silence between us. It's the only way to remind them that, despite everything, they don't own my every breath.

  “Spectre, do you read me? This is Sentinel.”

  “I read you, Sentinel. Who's stepped on the Commission's tail this time?”

  “You have been assigned a top priority mission. You must go to Amagasaki, east sector. The Commission has located an active cell of the organization known as Kuroba and has decided that it is time to clean up. The rules of engagement are the usual ones: no witnesses, no prisoners.”

  Kuroba. A name that the HPSC often used to justify bloodbaths.

  Always the same old shit.

  “Confirm the order, Spectre?”

  “I confirm the order, Sentinel. Consider the case closed. Over and out.”

  I ended the conversation with a simple gesture of my hand, leaving only the sound of rain and the crash of thunder that split the sky a moment later.

  No witnesses. No prisoners. The usual four words that turn a man into a bullet.

  I knew what it meant: another massacre necessary to maintain the illusion of peace.

  I threw myself into the void, letting the water and wind whip my suit.

  Kuroba.

  A bunch of idiots playing at being revolutionaries, even if today they are called terrorists, or at least that's what the newscasts say.

  Maybe they really were, or maybe they were just people who shouted too loudly against the system. But I had never been asked to distinguish between good and evil, only to distinguish between those who should live and those who should die.

  Armed idealists, and I don't think there's anything more dangerous. Except that fat bastard Anzen when he's in a bad mood.

  Maybe tomorrow someone will call them martyrs, but tonight they are just targets on my shooting range.

  Maybe not tonight. Do you understand? Tonight, the good doggy decided to take a little detour.

  ***

  At the same moment that Spectre's dark silhouette disappeared among the buildings of Tobita Shinchi, three figures in red tunics watched the scene from the roof of a building a few dozen yards away.

  They had remained motionless the entire time, as if they were an integral part of the shadows cast by the Onigawaras and satellite dishes. Their clothes were soaked through, looking like freshly spilled blood.

  One of them tilted his hooded head slightly, following the invisible trail left by the assassin with his gaze. “Visual target confirmed. Contact the Master.”

  Another raised his right hand, bringing the back of his black glove up to his face. A thin blue strip lit up along his forearm, synchronizing with the communicator integrated into the fibers of the glove itself and illuminating for an instant the silver mask that concealed his face and resembled the features of a chubby beast. “Master, we have the subject known as Spectre in our sights. I request authorization to engage.”

  The static crackling lasted a few seconds. Then a calm, almost bored voice came on the line. “Negative. Stay and observe.”

  The third clenched his fist slightly. Around his neck he wore a series of small Tibetan-style brass bells.

  “But Master,” insisted the first. From under the hood, it was possible to glimpse that the mask he wore was rather elaborate. “That heretic is rather vulnerable at the moment. It would be risky not to intervene. We can—”

  “I said no.”

  The rain beat down on their hoods like a cascade of nails. Then, from the other end, the voice resumed with calculated slowness, accompanied by a sound resembling the turning of pages in an old book.

  “You know, my dear Vetala. Risk is the fertilizer of evolution.” His tone seemed clearer, imbued with a cynicism that made Spectre's seem like child's play. "I want to see how far this glimmer of free will will take him. The closer he gets to the truth, the more he will convince himself that he has a choice. And the higher he flies, the more fun it will be to watch his wax wings melt and crash him to the ground. Fear not, his time will come. For now, enjoy the first act."

  The three figures bowed their heads in unison, disappearing into the darkness as quickly as a nightmare dissipates upon awakening. Only the faint sound of bells lingered in the air for a moment before being swallowed up by the roar of thunder.

  ***

  The roar of the torrential rain shook the gutters before crashing violently against the dark cobblestones of the alleys.

  On the tenth floor of an apartment building, a French window slowly opened, revealing a man in his forties with deep, dark circles under his eyes, the result of too many sleepless nights, and a mop of messy black hair.

  The cold slapped his pale face as he put a cigarette between his teeth and searched for his lighter in the pockets of his crumpled coat.

  The man then tried to light it. Once. Only a faint metallic scraping sound.

  Twice. A solitary spark died before it touched the gas.

  On the third attempt, he cursed under his breath, the cigarette dancing nervously between his lips as the wind tried to take away even that meager comfort.

  On the fourth attempt, finally, the flame flared up.

  But it didn't just light up the tip of his cigarette or his tired eyes. The yellowish reflection bounced off the curved, glassy surface of a dull helmet, just a few inches from his nose.

  I was there, perched on the railing like a hawk cloaked in Kevlar and intentions that were anything but innocent.

  The cigarette fell from his mouth, landing in the empty alley like a tiny shooting star destined for the mud. He suddenly backed away, bumping into the wall, trying to swallow even though his throat was tight.

  Dobry vecher, kozel.

  “Spectre...” he stumbled, perhaps in an attempt to compose himself and focus his neurons on what he had just laid eyes on. “...I... I didn't hear you coming.” His hands instinctively reached for the holster under his coat, but stopped halfway.

  Are you serious? This isn't the Wild West, and we're not two cowboys dueling at high noon. Besides, it's already the middle of the night.

  And he also knew that before he could remove the safety catch, I would have sent him to fertilize the daisies.

  “You weren’t supposed to,” I retorted sharply.

  “What are you doing here? Did the Commission send you to finish the job, or is this just your twisted sense of morality?”

  Poor devil. He looked at me as if I were the ghost of his Christmas past.

  “The Commission doesn't even know I'm here,” I said, and he seemed more confused than he was before.

  “So what are you doing here? In my house, no less.”

  Oh, oh, looks like someone's about to bring up the privacy issue. And besides, you call this dump a home?

  It almost seemed as if he wanted to light another cigarette just to have something to do with his hands. It was extremely difficult for me to reconcile the great Shibazaki Kengo, a rather capable homicide detective, with the no-balls casing I had in front of me.

  He must have had a shitty day, even worse than this one.

  “Consider this a courtesy visit. I hadn't seen you in a while and I was seriously worried. Consider yourself honored, it's not something I do often.”

  I could seriously throw up, or rather, tie a noose around my neck and hang myself from a tree.

  Shibazaki stared at me for what seemed like an eternity, letting the rain that was seeping through the balcony wet his shoes and the hem of his pants. He made a sound halfway between a sigh and a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Honored, of course. You have a truly perverse sense of humor. But if you've gone to the trouble of coming all this way and it really has nothing to do with the Commission, which is rather strange, given that I'm in the presence of their most devoted puppet, it means that something is stirring in that rotten brain of yours, assuming you ever had one. You never do anything unless the Commission orders you to. So what is your real goal this time, Spectre? What do you want from me?"

  “Ugh, Shibazaki, you're so boring. You're always the same old incurable killjoy. I was hoping that with age you'd become a little more sentimental, but instead you ruined my performance in less than ten seconds.”

  Damn, man, let me have some more fun before I toss you into the shark tank.

  I took a small leap off the railing, landing on the balcony with an unnatural silence that made him jump again. I approached him, letting the raindrops slide off me. “But I have to admit: your deductive skills are still damn sharp, maybe even better than I remembered.”

  I stopped just a breath away from him, letting the flashes of lightning play on my suit, still stained with the blood of my previous victims. I could hear his rapid breathing and smell a strange odor.

  God, how long has it been since he last took a shower?

  “But you're right about one thing. The scarecrow with a fetish for executions didn't knock on your door by chance. And since you're the only one with the guts to peek into the recesses where even light is afraid to enter... Well, let's just say you've become my trusted advisor. Besides, you owe me one.”

  And you would do well to remember that.

  I activated Ion just for a moment, letting a weak electric arc run between my fingertips, just to intimidate him a little more. "Do you remember what happened five years ago? In Sakai? I was ordered to cut off your head and leave you to rot at the bottom of the sea if you ever got in my way. Instead, I saved your life, I allowed you to kill yourself with your own hands, since thanks to that menthol crap you usually consume, cancer is a sure thing."

  I took out the folder I had recovered after eliminating those traitors, shuffling the pages like a deck of marked cards “The time has finally come to collect, Shibazaki. And I don't accept payments in yen.”

  He brought his right hand to his face, rubbing his tired eyes vigorously, as if trying to erase the reality of that moment or, perhaps, the image of me that had returned to haunt his nightmares. He glanced furtively inside his dark room, then returned to staring at my visor, letting out a sigh that smacked of total defeat. "I was afraid that sooner or later you would ambush me, but I guess it was something I had to deal with. You're certainly not stupid, even if death is always an unwelcome companion whenever you're involved. And as for my vices, they're certainly none of your fucking business.“

  Did this guy suddenly grow balls? Amazing.

  “But tell me, what matter do you have in hand that would require my services?”

  Ah, now you're interested? What the hell, do you have bipolar disorder? And then I'm the insane one.

  I took another step, pressing the dossier against his chest. “I want everything you can find on Project Durga. Dig deep, use your contacts if you need to, but only trust people who can keep their mouths shut and their eyes open. And don't use the usual channels.” I leaned down, the edge of my helmet almost brushing his ear, and let the suit's internal cooling fans exhale a thin stream of metallic-smelling air against his neck “The Commission has eyes and ears everywhere” I whispered. The voice modulator stripped my words of humanity, leaving only an electronic rasp “They're in surveillance cameras, they're in your smart refrigerator... And why not, even your nice 90-year-old neighbor could be their spy. Momoko, right?”

  I moved away just an inch, just long enough to see the sweat glistening on his temple. “I've heard he makes fantastic soups. I should try them sometime.”

  I let the silence linger there, watching the pulse in his neck, before giving the dossier one last mocking tap against his ribs.

  He stared at it as if I had placed a grenade in his hands.

  And he wouldn't be entirely wrong.

  “It’s strange to see how someone like you, who wouldn’t blow his nose without the Commission telling him to, is now acting behind its back.”

  Are you trying to piss me off? Bad choice, hermano.

  “Well, life is full of unexpected surprises. We should know that better than anyone else.” I walked away, leaning against the damp wall, crossing my arms over my chest and deactivating the electricity that was still crackling on my fingers, letting the darkness engulf us again.

  I was already starting to feel stressed, and there was nothing better than the sound of rain to calm my nerves. It seems that Shibazaki knows this too.

  "Let's say that a deep sense of unease took hold of me a few hours ago, when I came into possession of that folder. And although I opened it, I didn't understand much. The information it contains is sparse and, above all, encrypted. Not even someone like me has the authorization, and I didn't say anything to the Commission precisely because I sensed that something was wrong. Call it a sixth sense if you like."

  And above all, according to that snob, I should now be aware of it. But why does everyone speak in riddles?

  “So even a robot like you can be prey to emotions? Interesting.” Kengo leafed through it before tucking it under his arm. “However, you know very well that if I start digging into this stuff and end up opening Pandora's box, the Commission would eliminate me before I could even loosen my tie.”

  “Then hurry up,” I replied coldly.

  Are you worried about the Shula team? Or the Ganda team? You shouldn't be, I'm much more dangerous.

  “The Commission has just assigned me a job in Amagasaki, and it may take me a while to clean up the garbage there. Use this time to find any bits of information you can. But don't abuse it, Shibazaki. I really don't want to find out if you're good at hiding or I'm good at finding you. Am I clear?”

  Shibazaki didn't answer right away. The silence that followed was filled only by the rhythmic drumming of rain on the balcony's metal roof. He clutched his folder to his chest, as if to protect himself from the chill I was giving off, or perhaps to make sure that fragment of truth didn't slip through his fingers.

  “You've made yourself very clear, Spectre,” he murmured with a sigh. “But know that when the time comes, I won't bother reserving a place for you in hell. I'll drag you there myself. The whole world will know how rotten the HPSC is and how much shit it has always swept under the rug. I'll do whatever it takes to make them pay.”

  Not only is he threatening me, but also the Commission. I'm almost tempted to pierce him with one of my energy blades, but I have to admit that the guy has guts.

  If I weren't having so much fun, I could swear that his venomous eyes are the result of something much more personal. As if he wanted to raze the ivory towers of the Commission to the ground.

  You're even crazier than I thought, buddy.

  I said nothing more. It seemed extremely unnecessary to me.

  He went back into the house and the window slid shut on its tracks with a metallic click that sounded like a judge's verdict. I watched him through the fogged-up glass as he sat down at his desk, his curved silhouette illuminated only by the bluish glow of a monitor turning on.

  Even though I never believed in it, I wish you good luck, asshole. You're definitely going to need it.

  I turned toward the gloomy abyss. Thunder exploded right above me, transforming the buildings into silver monoliths. I felt a strange sensation wash over me, as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders.

  He slew the Dragon lying on the mountain: his heavenly bolt of thunder Tva??ar fashioned.

  Like lowing kine in rapid flow descending the waters glided downward to the ocean.

  The sky collapsed around me. One step and I became one with it.