"An event with consequences. Last night, at exactly 11:00 p.m., residents of the 8th district reported an extreme noise disturbance. According to witnesses, the sounds were at first rather intense and reportedly resembled 'fighting noises,' but subsided shortly after the arrival of the APH."
With a dramatic flick, a reporter tosses her dark brown hair away from the camera and the smoldering wreckage of a truck behind her. Her index finger pushes her black glasses back into place, as if she's just said something incredibly profound.
"Information about the suspected perpetrators and their motives remains unknown, much like the whereabouts of the vehicle's contents. However, the extent of the damage has sparked speculation among nearby residents. Some even claim that this may once again be the work of the so-called 'Big Demon,' who has been linked to a number of criminal incidents in recent months. Since anything beyond that would be pure speculation, I'll now hand it back to the studio, where we have an interview lined up with the president of the Democratic Club."
She's clearly made for this job — her fleeting glance says it all and her confidence is infectious, almost dazzling.
But then the screen changes.
The real star takes the stage.
The audience favorite, the one everyone's been waiting for.
A short, round man, barely taller than the legal driving height, sits alone at a table big enough for five. His hair glistens with so much gel it could probably hold a spoon upright. But of course, he's the star, the solo act — and it's lonely at the top. So he sits there proudly, making it easier for the flashing cameras to capture the perfect shot of him: the star, the man of the hour.
"Uh… ahem… well. What we can say for sure is…" The man pauses briefly — an obviously staged pause — as he picks up a few sheets of paper, taps their bottom edge twice against the table, then immediately sets them back down.
"…that the suspects involved can only, and I emphasize only, without exception, be classified as Wunder. However, investigations have shown no clear signs of an organized attack, which is why we are officially labeling the incident as the reckless act of an unruly group. And while the attack itself was entirely directed at the APH, I can therefore assure the residents of the 8th district that there is no reason to fear for their safety — neither civilians nor any locations deemed of public importance are expected to become targets in the future."
That's it. Short and simple, but apparently, that's all that needs to be said, as the image switches once more, cutting to a typical newsroom with its empty walls and painfully dull decor.
"Those were the words of Kuron la Deluna, chairman of the Democratic Club. And now, let's move on to the weather. Today's report will be presented by Mr.…".
Uninteresting. The image fades.
A television has been turned off.
"Do you think they'll bring that up again in the assembly?"
A boy's voice drifts curiously through the room.
"Who knows?"
Another voice joins in, responding.
"Oh no, if they do, it's going to drag on forever again."
It's the first voice complaining, as he sets the remote down on the glass table — one that reflects only the faint outline of his black hair.
"Better that than sweeping it under the rug again."
A monotone play on words, the kind that would normally sound funny, but both of them know it wasn't intentional.
Because he's not the joking type.
Quite the opposite.
"Heh, yeah, maybe you think so."
Stretching, the first voice rises from the brown leather couch.
"But what's the point of knowing the whale breathes, if I don't know how?"
He inhales deeply, then exhales, letting his arms drop, while the golden necklace around his neck sways slightly, holding the image of a smiling young girl between its frame of metal.
"Huh?"
"What, huh?"
"What does a whale have to do with anything?" the second voice fires back. He doesn't get it. Because he just isn't the joking type.
"Ah, Letta, sometimes I feel sorry for you," says the first voice, ruffling his own tangled mess of black hair.
"Really? Well, good thing I don't need your pity, Dyna."
With a quick tug, Letta zips up both sides of his jacket, giving his words the sharp, mechanical zzzip they need. His hands then move upward along the gray fabric, as if to smooth it out, only to pause at the symbols stitched into the sleeve.
They start with a blue circle containing a white star at its center, followed by a yellow square marked with a white Roman numeral II, and finally end with a single blue star.
What they mean, unclear.
Why Letta lingers on them, why he squeezes the sleeve and lets go again, why he sighs — all of it would be incomprehensible to any outsider.
But not to him.
And barely to his friend Dyna, who silently watches him, until a sudden knocking at the door draws both their attention.
In one motion, Letta's hand wraps around the brown leather of a sword hilt strapped to his belt.
In another he strolls casually toward the door — two completely opposite actions at once.
But that's just who he is: overly cautious yet strangely arrogant, and still grounded enough to recognize his own flaws.
Flaws like talking to people.
Or understanding jokes.
Or, perhaps, showing the respect he should, as he opens the door.
Patiently, he peers through the crack, to see nothing.
Nothing, except the white wall of another long hallway.
"Hey!"
A sharp, childish voice suddenly shrieks, and a tiny hand grabs the collar of the blond-haired boy, yanking Letta downward.
"Look at your visitors when they're talking to you, got it!?"
The child's voice shouts, loud, sharp, and forceful enough to leave an intimidating impression… if not for its source: the face of a truly tiny figure. Even for her age.
"Dyna and Letta, Spirit told me to inform you that you're to attend the general assembly," says the small face, soft-cheeked and button-nosed, trying its hardest to look threatening.
But none of it fazes Letta.
Not the glare, not the cute face, not the pale, cheese-white skin or the tiny hand. Not even her attempt at authority can shake his expression in the slightest. It was, after all, one of his great flaws — a lack of respect.
As if he simply didn't care what a superior had to say.
Or maybe he was just too emotionless and cold to bother forcing an expression onto his face.
Perhaps it was all the same to him, indifferent, irrelevant, not worth reacting to, as the little girl lets go of his collar, straightens her back, and leaves the room with her twin white braids swaying stiffly behind her.
"Was that the short one?" Dyna's voice suddenly calls out, loud enough to fill the room, but thankfully, not loud enough to escape it.
"If you enjoy being tortured, go ahead and say that to her face," Letta replies coolly, already stepping out and letting the door close behind him as he enters the corridor.
"HA! As if! That little brat's getting her ass kicked the moment I'm done with her!" Dyna yells even louder, but Letta keeps walking, paying less attention to his friend's words than to the endless, sterile reflection of the white hallway.
Or the identical doors lining both sides, just like the one to their own room.
Or the glass door at the end of the corridor, leading into a matching white staircase.
Or the sign EG|2 on the next glass door one floor below.
Or the sudden hand of his friend, catching the glass door just before it swings shut.
"Got… you…" Dyna pants heavily, his eyes still on the floor before finally meeting Letta's.
"Did you just run a marathon?" Letta asks dryly, glancing over his shoulder.
"Who the hell's running around at illegal speeds here?" Dyna shoots back, straightening his bent posture and planting a foot against the glass door.
"Besides, you could've at least—"
He doesn't finish.
He freezes. His voice catches.
Because in front of them stands an enormous back, easily two meters tall.
Without a word, the figure brushes past them. His white suit looks as empty as the emotionless expression carved into his sharp face.
And yet, he radiates enough authority to silence even a natural chatterbox.
Their eyes never meet. No word is exchanged. Nothing — except that overwhelming aura, the towering frame, and the immaculate white suit that hovers just above the ground.
And all that, just for a single moment.
"Hey… that was… Spirit, right?" Dyna finally manages to speak once the figure is out of sight.
"And he's heading straight to the assembly hall? Spirit himself? Am I—am I dreaming? Hey, pinch me," he adds in a whisper, leaning in close to Letta's ear.
Just, Letta gives him neither attention nor an answer — only silence, a faint tension in his posture, and a fist that clenches ever so slightly.
Immediately, Dyna starts waving his hand in front of his friend's face, snapping his fingers, tapping his shoulder, even shaking him a little. But Letta has better things to do. He pulls away and quietly follows the mysterious figure.
"And he's ignoring me again. Great. I really picked a wonderful friend…" Dyna mutters, rolling his eyes and jogging after him.
Their little chase leads them to a massive set of doors that open into a large, cozy hall — one that feels oddly like a movie theater.
The air is thick and stuffy, the ventilation clearly struggling to keep up with the crowd, while the bright wall lights bathe the windowless room in a kind of artificial daylight.
Opposite to the rows of seats on the right side, stands a simple wooden platform, plain and almost unimpressive, like it's projection screen hanging above it. It might have felt grand, possibly even important, but the cheap, silvery folding table in front of it and the surrounding seven mismatched chairs, that look straight out of a flea market, diminish that feeling.
Technically coordinated, yes, but hopelessly out of place, as if comfort were forbidden here. As if no one was supposed to feel at ease.
It's not the kind of sight you see every day — yet it leaves little to be impressed by, especially for Letta, who has already lost sight of his target somewhere in the sea of people.
Still, he accepts it without complaint and lets his eyes wander across the hall. One that is, unmistakably, more than just a hall.
It may look like a cinema or a meeting room, but it's neither.
As this is no place for the ordinary soldier.
Here sit personalities — striking, distinct, unforgettable.
A woman wearing a samurai hat.
A man whose "eyes" are nothing but glass lenses.
A boy with no emotion, no expression, his face frozen in apathy.
Another, completely new — bright-eyed, nervous, fragile in his resolve.
They radiate individuality, bringing the room to life, leaving only one question echoing in every mind:
Why?
Why are all these famous faces — all these problem children — gathered here?
But no answer comes to mind.
Not to that question, and not to Dyna's, who finally catches up to Letta, breathing heavily.
Again.
Letta doesn't even look at him. Instead, he claims a cushioned red seat in the front row, right among all these remarkable figures and slinks down the steps without hesitation.
Once in the middle, he drops into the chair with the kind of ease that suggests ownership, glancing sideways at his friend with a half-smirk that lands somewhere between indifference and mockery.
Dyna glares back, offended, and flops into the seat beside him with a loud sigh.
But then, silence hits them.
They both sit there, waiting with their legs crossed, feet tapping and eyes drifting aimlessly through the dimming room.
Whispers ripple around them: conversations, murmurs, fleeting exchanges — stacking like waves, filling the space with restless life.
But even that starts to fade.
Like the feeling of time within theses windowless halls, until both quiet down fully, leaving only dimming lights and the projection getting cast onto the screen and its platform in front of them.
"Yup, now this is what I call a home theater," Dyna says in awe, admiring the setup.
"I swear, that's the first thing I'm buying once I finally become a demon. Or maybe I'll skip straight to being a commander, like that Del'Iobori guy, and just bathe in money!" he adds dreamily.
"Although then I'd just have even more paperwork to deal with," Dyna sighed dramatically. "And probably no time to actually use my theater. But leaving it empty would be stupid too. Ugh… what a cruel fate I've been dealt. Got any bright ideas?" he asked his seatmate, right as three figures stepped onto the platform, drawing every eye in the room.
Three people — three far more important personalities — instantly commanded the hall's attention.
On the left, a woman with long black hair took her seat, dressed sharply in a black suit and red tie.
On the far right, an older man with gray hair, a white beard, and a shrewd, weathered face leaned back comfortably in his chair.
And between them, the final figure emerged — the tall man in the white suit, the broad back they had just lost sight of in the hallway: Spirit.
A man who seemed worthy of a bow simply by standing there.
The moment he arrived, silence fell, deep and heavy as absolute.
Just like the chatterbox from before had gone quiet, every person in the hall now instinctively understood the weight this man carried.
Without questioning why or how. They simply knew.
Maybe, because it had always been this way, since they could think, or even been born.
He was a fact of existence, a force of nature like gravity itself, with a comparable impact on this world.
A physical law, necessary for this worlds continuation.
He was, quite literally, God.
At least, for these people of personality — for those who accepted him as such.
And for those who followed him blindly.
As he stood up. And started speaking:
"With this, I hereby open the Elite Assembly of the Third Central District, on September 6th, Year 51, at 10:00 a.m. local time,"
Spirit's voice resonated, calm and perfectly measured.
"And I remind each of you of your obligation to confidentiality under Paragraph Three of the Covert Elite Law regarding mandatory attendance."
Standing straight as a blade, hands clasped behind his back, he was the embodiment of precision, with a voice carried effortlessly — not too loud, not too soft, not harsh, not gentle.
It was a voice people wanted to listen to.
To fall asleep to.
To work to.
To breathe in.
At least, that's how they heard it.
That's how they had learned to accept it.
"Next, I would like to acknowledge the presence of Laasfin la Bizarre, one of the heads of the Bizarre family, and my secretary, Lesla la Deluna.
Both will quietly observe the proceedings, though their names will appear in the official report.
Additionally, Lesla la Deluna will be responsible for today's protocol."
A brief pause.
"Good. Now that that's out of the way—"
Without a single change in expression, Spirit extended his hand toward the table, his fingers brushing the gray buttons of a small remote.
And with the following click, the image on the screen behind him shifted.
"Let's get to the point. I'm here — and I'm sure you're all wondering why.
Why I've chosen to attend your modest assembly when the situation in Central City currently stands on the brink of a critical shift."
He paused again.
"Though, some of you might already have an idea. After all, you're part of this city's elite.
Perhaps even the part I'd miss the most."
Spirit's gaze seemed to drift across the crowd — or at least Letta imagined it did. From where he sat, all he could truly see was the massive screen, glowing brightly with the image of a circular city: the APH and its 21 districts.
"You are the reason," Spirit continued. "Or rather, the events surrounding you."
A low murmur rippled through the rows of elite soldiers — but that was all. No defiance, no backtalk. Just restrained tension and obedient silence.
"The numbers speak for themselves," he went on. "The activity of Wunder's here has increased — and it's no longer the work of desperate small groups acting at random.
We're now facing coordinated large-scale assaults, executed with a level of organization that only one of the three major Wunder Coalitions could achieve.
And most concerning of all: these operations are fueled by information that could only have originated from within the APH itself.
Confidential data — the kind restricted exclusively to Commanders… or to you, the Elite Soldiers."
He spoke the words flatly.
As if he didn't care.
Indifferent.
Unbothered.
Irrelevant.
And yet, he was talking about a traitor.
And indirectly, he was pointing at them — the ones seated before him, these extraordinary personalities.
Any other leader would have shouted, puffed up their chest, made a show of authority.
But not Spirit.
Maybe because he saw things differently.
Or maybe because he simply didn't need to.
Not in front of this crowd.
As if he knew they already believed him, simply because that was the natural order of things.
"A politician was to be stationed in the Eighth District. An Elite Soldier and a Commander were assigned as bodyguards.
The politician died last night, in the middle of a planned assassination attempt. From an anonymous source, we received location data revealing the hideout of several small-time criminals in the Tenth District.
They were allegedly involved in the drug trade — specifically with Voidicide, possession of which alone carries the death penalty.
An Elite Soldier was tasked with their capture.
However, the warehouse burned down before the raid could take place.
The Elite Soldier has not been seen since. In the Ninth District, there were multiple emergency calls reporting a clash between two Wunder.
The Elite Soldiers assigned to that district intervened to assess the situation.
Contact was lost after ten minutes.
Their bodies were discovered two hours later. And lastly — the hijacking of a transport vehicle in the Eighth District, in which cargo of the highest importance was stolen.
The event has already reached the public eye and continues to spread across media channels.
That, too, occurred last night."
Spirit paused again.
And again, the silence deepened.
Uncomfortably so.
Suspiciously so.
But in truth, no one dared to make a sound.
No one wanted to draw attention.
Or perhaps… they were all certain — sure that it wasn't them.
"Now then," Spirit continued evenly. "Three of the four incidents, despite appearing unrelated, share a single common denominator — traces leading back to one and the same cause.
A culprit that has toyed with us for far too long.
The Wunder Coalition: Big Demon."
He let the name hang in the air, his tone sharp with deliberate emphasis, followed by an eloquent pause that seemed crafted to provoke reaction.
But the crowd barely stirred.
For them, this was nothing new.
If anything, it came as a relief.
"Very well," he said, his voice cutting clean through the silence. "So what does this mean for you and for all Elite members of the Third District Zone?
First, there will be restructuring, along with heightened security and additional monitoring of your private surroundings.
We will be stationing more Elite Soldiers across the districts and redistributing command authority accordingly."
Finally — a reaction.
A faint rustle.
Followed by someone standing up.
A boy, wearing the same gray uniform as Letta and Dyna.
With his sharp, steely gaze practically piercing through Spirit as the projector light glinted across his pale blue hair.
"Ridiculous," he said coldly. "Don't you think?"
He spoke loudly and clear enough for everyone to hear.
The boy who dared to talk back.
And it made the eyes of the note-taker practically flare up with fury.
"How dare you! Show some respect!"
Her deep voice roared through the hall, but before the situation could escalate further, Spirit calmly raised his hand — a silent gesture that instantly subdued his agitated assistant.
Hissing under her breath, she dropped back into her chair.
But the disrespectful boy didn't stop.
No — he had just been given the perfect stage.
"You want to strip us of our command authority? Which authority exactly?
The kind that doesn't even grant us the right to be briefed on operations happening in our own district?
Sure, fine! I'll take countermeasures against something that happens behind my back!
Of course I'll protect the cargo — no problem!
Just don't bother telling me when, or where, or even why — because apparently, I'm a goddamn psychic!"
Anger rippled through the room.
It was unprofessional, emotional, and absolutely the wrong moment for such outburst.
And yet some things just couldn't be left unsaid.
Or at least shouldn't have been.
Still, his words crashed against a wall.
A wall of nothing.
A wall called their leader.
"Ah, silence. That's all, huh?
You stay quiet and hope I'll just blindly follow along — as always!
Just like you're doing now, while accusing me!
Ha! But you know what? I've got a fantastic idea!
Let's just skip these time-wasting assemblies altogether, and you can keep barking orders at us to follow blindly, like machines!
Or better yet — why not go a step further? Replace us with actual machines! Then you won't have to rely on your obsessive security paranoia anymore.
And I'll finally be spared this bullshit.
Iri — we're leaving!"
The boy ended his speech, turning his back on the stage, the seats, the hall — everything.
Following him, a blonde girl leapt up, her grin stretching even wider than the length of her shoulder-long hair.
Humming a little tune, she skipped along beside her partner as the two exited together, leaving the room in dead silence once again.
It was unusual.
This kind of criticism — this kind of disrespect — especially among these kinds of people.
Among the elite.
And directed at their leader.
At Spirit.
Still, he dismissed the outburst wordlessly, almost as if it didn't concern him at all.
Then again, it was hard to tell, as Spirit had never once shown an ounce of emotion.
No expression, no reaction, nothing that hinted at what mattered to him, or whether anything did.
Well — this meeting clearly wasn't one of those things.
Otherwise, he might have acted like his secretary, who was practically grinding her teeth and clenching her fists in barely contained rage.
But instead, he simply continued.
"Good. Let's move on to the planned operations.
As I mentioned earlier, "The Big Demon" has been playing games with us for quite some time.
Fortunately for us, they've left traces, and obvious ones at that, which led us to a subsidiary base.
Located right in the 3rd main district."
With a press of a button, the projector's light shifted, and the image of a building complex appeared on the screen — plain white walls, a decorative garden in front.
"Accessories for Demonically Good Nights — PDN," Spirit read the bright orange sign above the double doors aloud.
"A supplier of bedroom accessories. They act as a direct contact point between customers and merchants alike, and thus maintain a healthy flow of information. The raid will take place on September 13th, 0051, at 11:30 local time.
That leaves one week for preparation. All Elite members participating in the raid will be notified within the next three hours and are to report directly to Commander Ivelisse for coordination.
Throughout the entire operation, you will act under her command."
Once again, Spirit pressed a button on the remote.
Once again, the image on the screen changed — this time to a blurred photograph of a dark, unlit alley under a moonless sky.
"Additionally, we've selected several of you to assist in identifying the Wunder shown here."
A question mark flashes through everyone's minds.
Not because hunting a Wunder is unusual — far from it — but because the image Spirit just displayed shows everything but a person.
Even if it weren't so blurry, it would still be impossible to make out anything beyond the overflowing trash bins lining a dark alleyway.
"This Wunder has been linked to multiple murder cases over the past thirty years — all of which remain unsolved to this day. While we can reasonably assume we're dealing with a Wunder, its identity remains as vague as this image itself. For now, its existence is nothing more than an unresolved mystery. One with a steadily increasing bounty on its head.
Further details will be provided to the assigned participants in the coming days. And finally…"
The light shifts one last time for the final image of the session.
A street appears.
A narrow road framed by green slopes and a flowing river, divided into sections by wide stone bridges spanning the cool water.
Stone bridges — or more precisely, one particular bridge.
The one in front of which the charred remains of a truck still smolder.
A truck, no that truck, the one that likely triggered this entire meeting.
And next to it — a figure.
A shadow.
But not just any shadow, nor an indistinct blur.
No, right there, beside that burning truck, he stands:
the boy, about my age, with black hair and the dark aura curling around his body.
Laughing.
Grinning.
He's smiling right at the camera, giving two thumbs up and sticking out his tongue as far as it'll go, as far as a normal tongue could stretch.
And as mocking, as provocative, as taunting as possible.
As if daring them.
As if all of this were just a simple game.
As if he were playing tag with a few old friends.
"The truck that was attacked last night in the Eighth District.
The person next to it is the extremely dangerous cargo that was stolen from us.
His current whereabouts remain unknown.
However, his capture will be rewarded with an immediate promotion to the second-highest rank." "Did you— did you hear that!?"
Dyna can't believe it.
Eyes wide open, he turns to Letta, whispering — though far too loudly — his excitement echoing through the hall, almost letting everyone in on his thrill. "This is it. My chance, Letta! If I get my hands on that boy, then I can finally—"
Dyna stops.
Not because he's finished but because of the stares now turning toward him.
After all, he was a living chatterbox, one who never really mastered the art of whispering.
"Ahem…"
Spirit clears his throat, calmly continuing his address.
"Should you happen to encounter this boy, you are authorized to disregard all other assignments and treat any obstacles as collateral damage.
The most important objective is to capture this boy — alive.
I repeat: this boy has absolute priority.
His capture takes precedence over any command, over any life — even over mine."
A wave of tension rolls through the hall.
Uneasy glances ripple across the crowd, shattering the silence.
Understandable, perhaps, as the order sounded extreme, almost excessive, especially for someone who smiled right into the camera.
For a boy who treated the entire thing like a game.
Who made himself the target.
Almost as if he wanted to be caught.
As if he wanted to lose.
"That concludes today's assembly. You may now leave the room.
I remind you one last time of your duty of secrecy.
For the APH.
For humanity."
Spirit turns away from the crowd, it's podium and that lifeless screen.
He's the first to leave the room.
Behind him follow his secretary, Lesla, and the grim-faced man, Laasfinn, before soon after, the audience begins to stir as well.
"Ohhhhh, Letta! Did you hear that?! There it is! My long-awaited chance! Finally! Finally, I can rise! I'll be rich! I'll be swimming in money! Letta, you have no idea how much— HAH!"
Dyna leaps from his seat, stretching his arms, clapping his hands, his face glowing with excitement as he turns toward his partner.
"Letta!! I'll be rich! We'll be rich!"
But Letta doesn't seem to share even a fraction of his enthusiasm.
Quite the opposite, he simply stands up and walks silently past his partner.
"H-hey! W-wait a sec!"
But Letta doesn't wait.
He slips wordlessly through the mass of personalities, all of them trying to squeeze through the same narrow exit at once.
A chaotic, tangled shuffle especially for those who usually took pride in their size.
"H-hey, Letta! W-wait, wait!"
Dyna yells, chasing after his far too agile friend but he can't catch him.
Same as always.
Same as every time.
That's just how they were — the two of them, divided by the ever-growing gap in their abilities.
A gap that had only widened since the day they first met.
"Letta!!!"
Dyna calls out one last time, losing sight of his friend completely in the crowd, before finally forcing his way through the door…
and stumbling straight into a massive back.
"Ah—ow… why do you guys always have to stand right in the—"
Dyna stops instantly.
His eyes land on the broad, towering figure in front of him, a man practically radiating authority.
"Ah, haha… Del—Iobori! What a… coincidence."
He stammers, taking a nervous step back, though he can't go far, as people are still pressing out of the hall behind him.
For a moment, their eyes meet. Time seems to freeze before the man suddenly turns around, his dark-skinned hand lifting toward the black eyepatch covering his right eye.
And then—he slaps Dyna's shoulder.
"Ahahahaha! Dyna! Long time no see!" His voice booms deep and powerful. The kind of deep that makes you think he smokes three packs a day.
But he doesn't, of course. He's an elite soldier — a commander, even. If anyone should take care of their stamina, it's him. "Ahaha… haha… yeah, it's really… been forever,"
Dyna stammers again, both embarrassed and respectful in the presence of this man, this celebrity.
Though despite that, the way they talk to each other feels oddly familiar.
As if they share a past.
No, because they share one.
"Ah, Dyna! I hope you haven't been slacking off these past few months, have you?"
The man — Del'Iobori — grins, his booming laughter filling the corridor, leaving Dyna no choice but to nod silently.
"Oh, and where's Letta, by the way? Haven't seen him in a while either… He's doing well, I hope? Ah, what am I even asking, of course he's doing well! AHAHAHAHA!"
He has a cheerful nature.
And is a talker, much alike Dyna, just only higher ranked.
And far more experienced, especially when it came to people.
"Ah, right! Letta, exactly!"
Dyna seizes the opportunity, the perfect excuse flashing before his eyes.
"I—I actually have to go tell him something really important, so if you'll excuse me, I—"
He doesn't finish the sentence.
He just bolts — past the commander, through the crowd, and straight to the nearest door leading to the stairwell.
"Send him my regards!"
Del'Iobori shouts after him, waving cheerfully, though Dyna doesn't see it anymore.
"Ha, lively as ever." "You mean reckless."
A flat, emotionless voice cuts through his laughter. words of quiet disapproval, ones Dyna would never have believed anyone dared say to him.
"Perhaps. But let's hope that's just an impression."
Their voices, their words, their reactions, all fade into the sterile corridors of the facility. Together with Dyna's hurried footsteps, with the dispersing crowd after the assembly, and even with the sight of Letta, who's leaning motionless against the pale wall beside his room's door.
Silent.
Wordless.
Until another figure joins him and leans against the wall next to him.
A figure with a deep voice, a massive frame,
and an unreadable face.
Spirit.
"Were you able to find anything?"
His voice echoes monotonously off the walls.
"As you expected. We have a spy among us."
Letta responds just as coldly, their compatibility obvious.
"And?"
Spirit seems impatient, not even waiting for Letta to continue.
"Tell me you know who it is."
Letta looks up, slightly confused. It's not every day that this man loses his usual composure. But everyone has quirks. Exactly. Just a quirk. Nothing more.
"No idea. The rumors have only made everyone more suspicious. And that makes it hard to get anything out of the others."
The answer clearly doesn't satisfy him. He takes his time, thinks, plays with his fingers, swallows, and sighs, finally pushing off from the bare wall.
"Can't be helped."
He relents, takes a few steps past Letta, regaining his usual posture — that habitual calm.
"Your next mission will be your last in this district for now. After that, you'll be assigned to a new task elsewhere. Just so you know. Further information will follow."
Letta receives the words silently, not even nodding or acknowledging them in any way. And Spirit seems about to leave just as silently, at least it appears that way, for a few seconds, until he stops one last time.
"Ah, and Letta. I would appreciate it if you stopped poking around in matters that don't concern you."
Now everything has been said. Spirit can depart, leaving the small elite soldier behind, without noticing the fleeting smile on Letta's lips — a rarity, vanishing as quickly as it appeared.
This smile.
This emotion.
"HEY! Letta!"
Far less rare, Dyna's voice booms through the corridors from the other side. He's finally caught up, breathing heavily, leaning on his partner, hands on his knees, as if he'd just sprinted the hardest race of his life — which might not be entirely off the mark.
"Wh-… what were you… talking about?" he pants, raising his gaze, curious as always. "About how we'd most likely get rid of you," Letta snaps back maliciously. "Hey, that's mean!" Dyna immediately complains, puffing up his cheeks. "Ah, I'm hungry. Let's go eat," Letta ends the conversation, pulling a blue plastic card and holding it to the center of his door to summon it open. "Ah, sure, deflecting the topic. As long as Dyna has no clue again, because why not," Dyna grumbles, crossing his arms in mock offense. "Ahh, I'm too hungry to understand you!" Letta counters disinterestedly, passing through the door into his room. "Ah, shut up!" Dyna yells, once again chasing after his partner.
Because that's what he's always done. And probably what he'll keep doing for a while. Even after the door closes. Perhaps forever.