5:03 PM, shirokami region
The orange glow of the setting sun spilled through the wide windows of the downtown café. Warm light danced on worn wooden tables and the backs of sugar packets half-ripped open.
A man in a black coat sat in the corner booth, stirring a cup of tea without drinking it. His eyes were sharp beneath a tired brow, moustache neat, the rest of his stubble rugged. His hair– ear length, slicked back. He looked like a man who hadn't smiled in years and didn't miss it.
Across from him, a woman lounged with her legs stretched out onto the table, The boots leaned against the window frame.
She leaned back into the booth like it was a throne, sipping from a tall glass of green soda, the ice cubes clinking softly. Pale blue hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, a few loose strands tucked behind one ear.Pierced eyebrow. Prominent Pale blue eyelashes. Expression blank — like she wasn't even really there.
She swirled her soda lazily, condensation dripping down the side of the glass.
"So... is it true then?"
Her voice was casual, like she was asking about the weather.
The man didn't look up.
"Yup. Apparently."
She took a long, loud slurp from her soda. Shifting her boots slightly on the table. "I thought they were all dead. The Boshins."
The man finally looked at her. His eyes were still — unreadable.
" One of them managed to get lucky."
A beat of silence passed.
Then the frame pulled back — wide. Two figures in a dying café.
And at the bottom.
[OPERATIVE DOSSIER: DALTON KURODA]
Age: 36
Affiliation: Nexus Corporation – Internal Cleanup Division
Nero ability: CONFIDENTIAL
Specialization: Close-quarters elimination, infiltration, disposal
[OPERATIVE DOSSIER: MATILDA "M"]
Age: 28
Affiliation: Nexus Corporation – Independent Contractor
Nero ability: CONFIDENTIAL
Specialization: Ranged arms, Marksman and generally all kinds of weapons.
While their operative dossiers are shown, in the background a dusty old radio manages to catch its lost signal, a voice crackled through it— half-lost under the clink of cutlery.
"…following its thirteenth consecutive contract renewal, Nexus Corporation remains the sole official Nero supply partner to the International Bureau of Defense. Stock prices rose another four points this morning…"
The radio fizzled before going silent once again.
Outside, the city pulsed — neon flickers, muffled engines, tired horns in the distance.
A shot of the café's exterior — chipped paint, flickering "OPEN" sign.
The café door swung open with a dull creak.
Dalton stepped out first, lighting a cigarette.
Matilda followed, chewing lazily on a skewer of grilled meat.
They walked side by side on the footpath, blending in with the foot traffic.
"I've always hated them," Matilda said, mouth full, voice low. "The Boshins."
Dalton blew smoke through his nose.
"If it wasn't for Nexus, they'd still be holding the authority over Nero users."
Matilda spat the empty skewer into a bin without looking.
"Looks like they left a little mess behind."
A city bus pulled up with a soft wheeze, headlights flickering. The doors hissed open.
Dalton stepped in first, Matilda behind him, their coats brushing against the handrails as they boarded.
The Bus was mostly empty. The orange light of the setting sun spilled in through the wide windows, painting everything in a warm, dying glow.
The seats in front of the door lined the sides of the bus — facing inward, towards the door.
They took their spots next to each other, facing the closing door.
Matilda leaned back on her seat.Next to her, Dalton rolled the cigarette between his fingers — the last drag long gone.
He glanced toward the slowly closing door.
Without a word, he flicked the butt through the narrow gap — just before the doors sealed shut with a hiss.
Outside, it hit the pavement with a soft tap, spinning once before coming to rest.
A faint curl of smoke still rose from the burnt end.
Back inside
Dalton leaned forward, elbows on knees, legs spread, his fingers laced together.
He looked up. Looking straight at the door, he said.
"Let's go fix it."
—----------------------------------------
5:37 PM, Nakamura block.
A cramped apartment room on the first floor of a two-story building. Dim ceiling light. Plastic folding chairs scraped against the rough wooden floor as men in loose shirts and tucked-in pistols laughed too loudly.
In the middle of the room, a small table. A girl sitting in front of it. Brown haired, wearing a denim jacket and skirt over a white tee.
A birthday cake sat neatly on the table — white frosting.
Written in red icing across the top: Ayame Mizukawa.
She stared at it and let out a small chuckle and thought to herself.
Mizukawa?
She thought.
Can't even use my real surname.
Boshin — that's who I am.
Her gaze moved to: Two crooked candles burned weakly on top.
1 and 3.
The girl stared at them in silence.
Ayame didn't smile.
"Thirteen, huh?" she let out a sigh.
I've always hated birthdays.
How could I not?
My whole family was murdered on mine — the day I was born.
She sat still in the chair, hands folded on her lap, as the men around her clapped and shouted in celebration, plastic cups raised.
Her eyes lifted slowly, moving across the faces that filled the room.
Smiles. Cheers. A few scarred hands patting each other's backs.
And now this is all I have left.
My grandfather...
Her gaze settled on the old man beside her — Hiro Mizukawa.
A hard face lined with age. White hair, short and slicked back, sharp eyes dulled by time but not softened. The sleeves of his suit shirt were rolled up. A Phoenix tattoo peeked out from one arm — faded, but still proud.
He gave her a small nod.
Ayame's eyes moved on.
...and the remnants of the Boshin loyalists — his gang members.
Rika. Gen. Satoshi.Shira.
And... him.
She paused on the last man — younger than the rest, sharp haircut, He stood apart from the others, back leaned casually against the wall, chewing gum, eyes scanning the room like he didn't care much for it.
His name's kuro. He got acquainted with Grandpa recently.
I've never liked him.
As if summoned by her thoughts, Kuro pushed off the wall and casually made his way to the door.
No one stopped him. No one asked.
5:40 PM
Outside the apartment, the street buzzed with late-evening silence. Sun almost went down the horizon, still emitting a clam orange glow. a flickering street lamp clicked on the other side of the road.
Kuro stepped out of the apartment building, descended the steps slowly.
The Mizukawa gang men, around 30 of them posted along the sidewalk, laughed, smoked, and murmured to each other.
Kuro kept his head down, walking past them.
Just as he was about to step off the curb onto the other side of the road, a city bus pulled up with a wheeze, blocking his view.
He stopped. Waited.
The bus took a halt for a beat — Then, with a groan and a hiss, it rolled away.
And behind it — where there had been nothing — now stood two figures beneath the streetlamp.
The flickering bulb stuttered once…
…then stopped.
The light held steady.
The glow of the streetlamp cast a perfect spotlight around them, sharp against the orange dusk.
Dalton — coat unbuttoned, hands in his pockets.
Matilda — casually adjusting a long silencer to the end of her pistol.
Kuro took a slow step forward, lifted his hand, and jabbed a thumb back over his shoulder.
"They're in there."
Dalton looked past him to the building.
"Can't believe it…" He cracked a small smile.
"Her grandpa is the Hiro Mizukawa. Poor old man."
He and Matilda stepped off the curb. Side by side.
Crossing the street.
Kuro stayed behind.
He blinked, then called out:
"Hey—what about my money?"
Dalton didn't even turn. Just reached into his coat, pulled out a slim brown envelope, and tossed it backward.
It hit the ground at Kuro's feet.
Matilda screwed the silencer tight with one hand.
Dalton cracked his neck.
The Mizukawa men standing guard had already noticed the strangers crossing the street.
They drew their katanas with a metallic whisper — fast, practiced.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" one of them barked.
Back in the apartment at the same time.
"Ayame," her grandfather said gently, holding out a plastic knife.
"Go on. Cut the cake and make a wish."
She stared at it — the white frosting, her fake name "Ayame Mizukawa" and candles that read 13.
The least I can wish for is... nothing else goes wrong.
She drew in a quiet breath and reached toward the cake—
KNOCK KNOCK.
Everyone froze.
Satoshi stepped toward the door hesitantly, peering through the peephole—
CRACK!
The shot ripped clean through the socket of his eye — the back of his head bursting in a spray of red that splattered across the cake and Ayame's face. Her eyes widened in shock, a breath caught halfway.