The rain had stopped just an hour ago, leaving the cracked pavements of District 12 slick with oil-streaked puddles and the thick stench of wet rust. Neon signs buzzed faintly above shuttered storefronts, casting warped reflections onto the street. Kamina adjusted the collar of his tattered red coat, still stained with the grime and soot of his last gig—some Urban Myth cleanup that ended with a creature's screeching skull bouncing down a stairwell.
"Guy eats cables and farts static. That's my job now, huh?" Kamina muttered, kicking a pebble that skidded across the road. His stomach growled, a reminder that while the monster was gone, it hadn't paid him in meat.
He scratched his stomach absently, peering through the broken windows of a run-down noodle shack, only to find it long abandoned. "C'mon, there's gotta be a meat bun stand open somewhere..."
As he wandered deeper into the labyrinth of backstreets, he slowed to a stop. A flicker of movement in the corner of his eye.
There-down a dim alley, half-hidden beneath the shadows of a slanted drainage pipe-moved a group of figures.
His first thought was weird outfit.
The people were all dressed in complete white: pristine T-shirts, formal pants, unnervingly bright cravats, laced shoes so clean they almost glowed, and all of them bore skin so pale it made printer paper look tanned. No expression, no chatter. They moved like ghosts rehearsing a parade.
"…Yeah, that's not normal," Kamina said under his breath, squinting.
He could have walked away. But boredom was a hell of a motivator. And the Fixer in him was tingling.
"Well," he shrugged, cracking his knuckles, "beats wandering around smelling fried grease ghosts."
The strange group turned a corner and entered a looming, forgotten structure wedged between apartment ruins and an old boiler factory. The building had the warped silhouette of a church, complete with shattered stained-glass windows and a rusted bell tower, its cross snapped in half like an afterthought. There was no signage. No light. But the white-robed figures entered it like they belonged there.
Kamina crept closer, careful with his steps, then pressed himself flat against the outer wall.
Spotting a stack of delivery crates haphazardly left outside, Kamina made his move—tiptoeing in exaggerated, over-the-top steps like a cartoon thief. He crawled behind the crates and peeked through a cracked window pane, just barely avoiding a broken shard of glass that stuck out like a dagger.
Inside the church… was weird.
About fifty figures stood in perfect order like toy soldiers, each one dressed in the same clinical white. They all faced the altar, their eyes wide, unmoving. A low murmur pulsed through them-dozens of mouths chanting, whispering, humming in sync like a broken radio.
"Liisssteeen to the whiiite noise... Liisssteeen to the whiiite noise..."
Their voices layered in a way that grated on Kamina's spine, like fingers scraping against an old microphone. There was no melody, just static in human shape.
At the far end of the room stood a raised altar, and behind it…
Someone different.
A tall woman clad in ceremonial robes, flowing like liquid ivory, her veil so thin it barely masked her face. Her eyes were shut, but her mouth moved slowly, humming in rhythm with the chant. In her hands was a strange, radio-shaped device glowing faintly with dull red symbols. An artificial halo of metal and wire floated just behind her head, slowly rotating.
Priestess, Kamina thought, narrowing his eyes. Or something way worse.
She raised her arms and the chanting immediately stopped. Not one footstep, not one cough. Just stillness. Then…
"Do you hear it, my children?" she asked, her voice carrying unnaturally far in the dead air.
"Yes, Priestess! We hear!" the cult-like figures said in one single, perfect, deadpan tone.
Kamina's lips curled into a grin. "Alright," he whispered to himself, "this might actually be fun."
He shifted to get a better view, nearly knocking over the crate he hid behind—only saving it at the last second with an awkward, silent "whoa-whoa-whoa" gesture.
He kept watching. This wasn't just a bunch of weirdos listening to static and playing dress-up. Something about the silence felt... wrong. Unnatural. Like the quiet before a transmission from somewhere else.
Something was definitely brewing inside that church—and Kamina, against all good reason, had just gotten himself a front-row seat.
The Priestess lifted her arms again.
"Bring forth the unsynced."
From the back doors of the decrepit chapel, a procession of struggling figures were dragged forward. Men and women ,some in work uniforms, others still in their pajamas, kicking, crying, blindfolded and bound in humming cord wire. The followers of White Noise, with their pale, empty stares and robotically smooth movements, carried them forward like mannequins moving dolls.
Kamina's smirk vanished.
One of the prisoners, a young woman in a grease-stained mechanic's coat, screamed behind her gag as she was shoved to her knees at the front altar.
The Priestess spoke again, her voice smooth as silk, yet crackling with subtle interference like an old radio broadcast.
"Do not fear. You are merely deaf. We will tune you."
Then, from a low, metal crate beside the altar, followers began to hand out long rods, glowing, sizzling rods of molten iron, heated until they shimmered red and buzzed with static energy.
"Begin."
The followers stepped forward, holding the rods like religious artifacts. The mechanic woman screamed again, desperately twisting in her bonds.
Kamina moved.
With a flash of motion and a scrape of steel, Kamina unsheathed Katana. He leapt through the broken window with a laugh, "YAAAHOOOO!", and landed right on one of the follower's backs, crushing him with an audible crack.
"What the hell kind of cult torture is this?!" Kamina yelled, swinging his sword in a wide arc.
The blade cleaved through the next white-clad cultist like a hot knife through yogurt, the sheer momentum flinging the body across the room.
Screams erupted.
"You all are so far gone I'd need a map just to find where your brains fell out!" he shouted, stabbing the sword down through a second cultist's chest as they lunged at him with a poker.
The Priestess narrowed her eyes.
The cult began to surge toward him.
And that's when the real chaos began.
The rear doors of the chapel exploded inward with a series of sharp metallic clinks, like a rain of knives against concrete. The cult turned just in time to see five new figures rushing in from the shadows—each dressed in dark grey coats lined with ivory thread, a silver insignia gleaming at their shoulders.
Londan & Partners (L&P) Discreet Solutions.
Their reputation? Quiet. Expensive. Unapologetically lethal.
The one at the front, a lean woman with a swept-back mohawk and a stitched collar, spoke with a clipped, ironic tone as she hurled a curved dagger straight into the skull of a cultist mid-lunge.
"Well, we're late," she said, spinning two more blades between her fingers. "That's new."
Her name was Marlowe, and her knife work was art, fluid, theatrical, cruel.
Beside her, a man in a slate-grey vest and suspenders cracked his knuckles and threw three thin knives in rapid succession. Each one curved mid-air, guided with magnetic trickery, and pierced three throats.
This one was Thatch, calm-eyed and unreadable, voice like a bored librarian. "Fifty cultists? Should've brought more lunch."
The room became a hurricane of motion, Kamina slashing with broad, wild strokes. Marlowe darting between followers like a dancer, flicking knives like insults. Thatch moving only when necessary but always fatally so. The other three agents moved with precision, leaving no wasted breath behind.
In the middle of it, Kamina spun to clash back-to-back with Marlowe for a beat. Their eyes met, and Marlowe grinned.
"Well, well. Didn't know the cult booked a guest performer."
Kamina let out a bark of laughter, parrying a molten rod with a clang. "They didn't. I'm just bored."
"Bored? With swings like that? You sure you're not Grade 1 material?"
"Hell no," Kamina growled, cleaving through two more cultists, "I like talking to people too much."
Thatch slid beside them, flicking a thin blade over Kamina's shoulder and went straight into the eye of a cultist who had been sneaking up behind him.
"You're a fixer," Thatch said plainly. Not a question. "Independent. Office?"
Kamina kicked a follower in the chest, sending them flying into the pews. "...Kamina. Office Rep. New to the City."
Marlowe let out a sharp whistle. "From where, exactly? You don't fight like City trash."
"Long story. I came in loud."
"Fitting."
They fell back into the rhythm of battle, blood painting the old church tiles, metal clashing with bone, the White Noise Cult rapidly falling apart under the combined assault.
Above them, the Priestess raised her hands again but the signal in her voice faltered. The chant behind her was no longer unified. The cult was breaking.
And Kamina grinned, his sword slung over his shoulder, stained and heavy.
"Well now," he said, catching his breath, "let's see how loud your noise is when nobody's left to listen."
The last of the cultists collapsed to the blood-soaked floor with a dull thud, their pale face twisted into a final expression of deluded serenity. The buzzing chants faded, replaced by the distant echo of metal still cooling on tile and the heavy breath of survivors.
Only one remained.
The Priestess stood at the far end of the ruined chapel, her posture upright but trembling, white robes tattered and ash-stained. Her molten staff clattered to the floor, unable to stay in her hand now that the congregation of madness had been cut down.
Kamina kept his sword in hand as he strode forward. But instead of slashing, he stepped past her as he headed toward the front of the room.
The kidnapped victims were still alive.
Bruised, scared, and some with raw burns but not a single fatality.
Kamina quickly tore through their restraints, his grin lopsided and sheepish now.
"You're all good."
The freed civilians scrambled out of the church in a chaotic line, a few of them pausing to say thanks, others sobbing in relief. One woman with a partially burned arm squeezed Kamina's hand briefly, and he blinked at her before scratching his nose, trying not to look flustered.
Marlowe walked over, casually wiping blood off her cheek with a silk handkerchief.
"Well. I'd call that a clean job."
Thatch, meanwhile, stood beside the altar, cleaning his blades.
Kamina turned toward the L&P agents. "That all of them?"
Thatch nodded once. "Yes. Cult terminated. Target Priestess disarmed. No fatalities among the hostages."
"That earn you a bonus or something?"
"...Yes," Thatch admitted reluctantly. "Bonus for full containment with zero civilian deaths."
He glanced sideways at Kamina. "Because of you."
Kamina sheathed his sword with a big dramatic motion. "Hell yeah it was."
Just then, his stomach let out a long, thunderous growl.
GRRRRrrrhhhhmmph.
The sound echoed through the empty church like a demon awakening in his guts. Kamina blinked, slapped his hand over his belly, and grinned awkwardly.
"...Right. Forgot I skipped lunch."
Marlowe let out a sharp laugh, tossing her knives into their sheaths with a spin. "After saving an entire crowd from a cult of audio freaks, the least someone could do is buy you lunch."
Thatch looked up immediately, eyes narrowing.
"No. No, Marlowe—don't you even think about—"
"Too late," she chimed, already stepping toward Kamina and grabbing his wrist. "Come on, hero. I know a diner not far from here. Real meat, no cult seasoning."
Kamina blinked. "Wait, for real?"
"You earned it."
Thatch threw up his arms. "MARLOWE! The report—! The filing! The payout forms! The witness statements! The—!"
But Marlowe was already halfway to the exit, dragging Kamina behind her like a human shopping cart.
She flashed a smirk back over her shoulder. "Not now."
"YOU'RE THE OFFICE REPERSENTATIVE!"
Kamina just laughed as they stepped into the daylight. "Man, you guys got a hell of an office."
Minutes later – Greasy Spoon Diner, District 12
The diner was narrow and chrome-lined, with flickering neon signs, cracked booths, and a perpetually humming ceiling fan that had seen better years. The place smelled like old oil and fresh coffee. It's perfect.
Kamina had ordered an obscene amount of food: five plates of meat, two bowls of noodles, a mountain of eggs, and something called a "Bonebreaker Special" that had three kinds of gravy. He grinned like a man who had just won a war and a lottery at the same time.
"Ahhh…" he said with a sigh as he tore into his food.
Marlowe stirred her black coffee, watching him with half-lidded amusement.
"You really don't hold back, do you?"
"I burned more calories than I can count," Kamina mumbled through a bite of sausage. "I deserve this."
She smirked. "Well, on behalf of L&P... thanks for the assist. We don't often get outside help that doesn't ruin everything."
Kamina raised a mug of cheap coffee in salute. "Then you're welcome, Miss Knife Boss."
"And you're welcome for lunch," she shot back, sipping her own drink.
Kamina was halfway through a stack of questionable-looking pancakes when he leaned back and asked with a sly, raised eyebrow:
"Hey, aren't you being interested in me all of a sudden?"
Marlowe didn't even flinch. She stirred her coffee, let a smirk curl at the edge of her lips, and answered without missing a beat.
"Men like you are always interesting," she said, tone mockingly sweet. "Because you either die screaming in a ditch somewhere... or get real high ,so high you start thinking you're untouchable, then fall so hard you leave a crater people can laugh at for generations."
Kamina whistled, impressed. "That's a hell of a prediction."
He shoved another mouthful of food into his mouth, chewed, and then said between bites:
"Don't expect me to fall, though. I get back on my feet."
Marlowe leaned an elbow on the table and gave him that tilted-head, tired-but-sharp look only veteran fixers or half-murdered cats seemed capable of. Then she smiled.
"Remember this," she said, tapping her temple with one finger. "The bigger they are, the harder they fall. And from what I'm seeing, you're burning real bright, real fast. That doesn't go unnoticed. Especially in this line of work."
Kamina gave a one-shouldered shrug, washing his food down with a long sip of coffee.
"Then I guess I really am that interesting, huh?"
Marlowe chuckled and reached into her coat. She slid a small, sharp-edged card across the table. Matte black, gold lettering, minimal design.
Londan & Partners (L&P) Discreet Solutions
Consultation. Extraction. Termination.
— 5% Discount for First-Time Callers! —
"Call me when you've got a problem," she said, voice casual but firm. "If you've got the coin, I might even help you."
Kamina stared at the card, then grinned like a kid handed a new toy.
"Nice. Hold on."
He rummaged in the inner pocket of his longcoat and pulled out a laminated card, slightly bent at the corner and clearly homemade with too much glitter and a ridiculous amount of bold font.
The Great Kamina Investigation & Problem-Solving Office
'If You Have a Problem, Grit and Guts Will Solve It!'
– Sponsored by Shmuel Printing Services™ –
Kamina handed it to her with a grin that was way too proud for what was essentially clip art and stubborn confidence slapped onto cardboard.
"Same to you. My buddy Shmuel made these, told me to hand them out if I ever smelled the faintest whiff of potential clients."
Marlowe stared at the card.
She blinked once. Then again.
Then she let out a laugh. A real one.
"You're more cooperative than I thought," she said.
Kamina looked at her over the rim of his mug, still chewing.
"No one across every universe... can really burn bright alone."
The words hung there between them, simple and heavy.
Marlowe didn't answer right away. She just turned his card over in her fingers and tucked it into her coat pocket.
From an inner pocket, she retrieved a crumpled pack of cigarettes. She tapped one out with practiced ease, placed it between her lips, and lit it with a matte black lighter engraved with the initials L&P. The flame briefly illuminated the shadows under her eyes before vanishing.
She took a slow drag, letting the smoke settle in her lungs, heavy and bitter.
Then she exhaled upward, through her nose and mouth, letting the pale wisps curl toward the ceiling like silent ghosts drifting off.
Her eyes met Kamina's, the smoke softening the sharpness in her stare just a little.
"See you later," she said, voice low and edged with the haze of smoke.
Then, after a beat, with a wry smile "...Or farewell."
She turned without waiting for an answer, coat sweeping behind her as she pushed open the diner's door. A soft bell rang. The outside light washed over her silhouette for a second, then she was gone.
Kamina sat in the booth a moment longer, still chewing, watching the smoke she left behind dissipate into nothing.
"…Tch," he muttered with a grin, "Dramatic lady."
Then he picked up another dumpling.