[ LINT SAITO POV ]
In the dark, sealed environments of my office, this manusoleum in which the world was convinced Lint Saito was long interred, I was alone among the spirits of my failures. The room was black walls encased in a fortress of darkness, shutters of thick steel emblazoned over the windows, dust motes hovering in the faint illumination of a desk lamp, and the air was heavy with the scent of stagnant ambition. Because of Lucarious, I had eluded these walls as a specter returning to my burial site. And yet, even within this refuge of secrecy, control was slipping from my grasp, grain by grain.
"What's happening? Why is everything going haywire for me?" I thundered at my mirror image staring back at me through the dark screen, pounding my fist against the wall with a resounding thud. Stinging pain shot through my knuckles, and I knew I had nothing to offer. Akira had slipped away irretrievably, a red specter flitting across the chaos he had unleashed. And then Vernon, another irritating irritant, another mystery, came into play as the latest aggravation. I had to stop both of them, alone as a lone wolf in the maelstrom. None of the cops, blind instruments of the rotten system they served, nor those dark masters who ruled the underworld could possibly grasp the twins, and the Fallen Angel Matrix they were caught in.
I turned to Lucarious, who was lounging insolently on my desk, his eyes traveling up to the broken ceiling as if searching out secrets in the cracks there. "You do know about Vernon, don't you?" I asked, my voice a knife, sharpened with desperation.
His head titled, a slight smile dancing across his lips, like moonlight on rough water. "I do know him," he answered, his voice as smooth as obsidian.
I pushed on, challenging his evasive action. "But your claim by Kinard was when Akira was merely seven. I've known Akira since he was six—fragile and with eyes like stormy oceans—and during these times, there has never been an appearance of having a brother. Talk of twins."
Lucarious's smile grew broader, his face a mask of intrigue and superiority. "What are you trying to say, Lint?"
I marched towards him, covering the distance until the air between us sparked. "So why the association with Vernon, Lucarious? Unravel the puzzle for me."
With fluid motion, he jumped up from the desk, moving closer so that we were mere inches apart. He crouched slightly as his gaze met mine—an oceanic vastness, churning with the accretions of ages. Then his voice sank into an abyssal whisper that rattled my marrow: "I am the cause why these twins are still living. I am an angel who commands the rivers of time. I gaze upon the encrypted fabrics of the future. I know every mortal soul who dares attempt to harness me before the world exhales its last breath."
His hands landed on my shoulders. They were strong but also insubstantial—as if the hand of fate itself was on my shoulders. "In the true tapestry of fate, Akira and Vernon had died at the age of five—extinguished like candles in the wind. But I saved them. I saved them."
A primal growl burst from my throat, echoing against the closed walls. "Why, Lucarious, why are you intervening in their strings?"
He released me, and slumped into the chair, reclining like a king on a throne, this enigmatic smile lingering. "You will soon reveal the answer to this 'why,' Lint Saito. Patience, for the answer comes like the dawn on the darkened summits."
With a careless nonchalance, he snatched the TV remote control from the desk and turned it on. The television screen awakened, casting a pale blue glow over the room, anchored to a channel blaring reports of withering dullness on a newscast.
And then, as the sound of thunder shakes the sky, shattering the calm, breaking news flashed across the screen:
Breaking News! The voice of the anchor was filled with a sense of urgency. We bring you real live coverage from the office of the Mayor of Tokyo. Akira finds himself standing right in front of the Mayor of Tokyo himself. Only our broadcasting station, Osaka News, has been allowed to tape this historical encounter.
My heart stopped in my chest. "Wait, Akira? What in the name of shadows is he doing there?" I asked the empty room, shock keeping me rooted in place as the video began.
The camera tilted through a pricey mayor's office, highlighting the highly polished mahogany work surfaces reflecting chandelier light, historic paintings of stern-faced predecessors lining the walls, and, in counterpoint, the quiet thrum of air-conditioning adding to tension. Akira was lounging upon a velvety leather couch, his scarlet mask armor making a daring statement—dusky-scarlet surfaces that gleamed like wet blood, projecting a confident, ambitious, and intensely powerful presence, which was in direct contrast to his opponent, who was struggling towards a corner, almost a captive animal, frozen in terror, his face chalky, perspiration beading his sweaty brow, his hands shaking in indecision to take a seat.
"Sir, please," Akira's voice poured out, oiled with a sinuous ease and a note of dark threat, "take your seat. Let us listen to a humble podcast—no grandiose performance to be here today. Only the answers to the questions of a curious mind."
The Mayor's wide-eyed terror caused him to comply, his legs sinking into the sofa as if a trap were springing shut.
"You have ruled as our Mayor for a long time, have you not?" Akira started smoothly, with the tone of a calm preceding a tempest. "Tell me, what's it like to have such power?"
The Mayor swallowed hard, his throat visibly bobbing up and down, his voice shaking like a leaf in the breeze. "I-It's hard work… serving the people, honoring their demands—my sacred duty."
Akira clapped only once, and the sound was like a whipcrack, followed by his laughter, a macabre tune that echoed in the room. "What a lofty view you hold, sir," he said. "At least you understand your function. But I did not ask a question of duty, only of emotion. What is it like to be Mayor?"
Mayor Mendenhall paused, thoughts racing through his frightened mind, before stammering, "It—is it 'honor'-able to 'serve my people
Akira's voice rose. "I asked: How do you feel to be Mayor?!!"
"Good," he whispered, his words barely audible as he shuddered in horror, as if he had been physically struck and had recoiled into the cushions
"Cameraman, can we perhaps get a laptop computer and a projector? The story needs pictures," Akira turned to the cameraman, invisible but omnipresent behind the camera lens.
Quickly, the necessary equipment appeared—the laptop was connected, the projector warming as it cast its bright white beam on the wall behind him.
From a hidden recess within his gauntlet, a pen drive appeared, and Akira carefully inserted it. Pictures unfurled on the projection screen: first, a grainy image of the Mayor set against the gaudy glow of a red-light district within a neon-saturated Tokyo—figures lurking in the shadows.
"Can I ask ", purring Akira, pointing at the image, "why did you deign to honour this place with your presence?"
The Mayor's fear turned to temporary anger. "It is absolutely legal! Do you not know our laws?"
Akira's masked smile was almost auditory; the sound of a knife cutting through the air. "Exactly! Why does it exist? Why do these red-light districts thrive in the sunlight?"
He raised his fluid, striding towards the cameras, his scarlet silhouette consuming the screen. "I will shed light on this darkness for all of you. These lofty figures demark these areas because they themselves are trapped—flesh and sin merchants."
The next slide: a pie chart. Graphic and damning. Akira's finger pointed to the divisions of the chart. "This mayor alone controls five hundred houses of prostitution in the underside of Tokyo. And look—this man is only one of many. These pillars of society perpetuate the wickedness and ensure their success by hiding the truth from a deceived world."
The Mayor leaped from his chair, his face distorted in anger and terror. "Security, security. Take this costumed madman away and toss him out into the streets. What nonsense are you spouting, Akira?"
Of course, Akira clicked the slide forward. A photograph appeared: a young woman in her twenties, lovely yet tormented-looking, as if she carried secrets and pain in those eyes.
The Mayor stood frozen, his color fading even further as the silence crashed in like waves. "Does memory stir, sir?" Akira's voice plummeted to bottomless depths, full of revenge. With a dramatic flourish, he reached up to remove his crimson mask, to reveal eyes aglow with holy fire, carved from Iago out of hardship.
"I am the son of that woman," he announced, voice ringing out as if it were the declaration of the gods.
"I am Akira Kurogane!"