The reverberation of the loading bay door’s clang had barely faded when the chime on Kenjiro’s wrist-chronometer sounded, a shrill, insistent demand. He checked the display. An urgent summons from Director Matsushita. One he’d expected, yet dreaded. The rain-soaked walk back to his service vehicle dragged on longer than the drive out. Each impact against his collar brought back the glow in the shelving, the voices. It contradicted everything the institution proclaimed about Kyouko Hino.
He arrived at the central offices of the Serenity administration, damp wool stiff against his neck. The sterile, climate-controlled air of the executive floor offered no comfort, only a stark reminder of the cold logic that governed this place. Matsushita’s office overlooked the city's divide: the gleaming central grid below and, past the perimeter ring, the rusted roofs of the outer district.
Matsushita sat behind his polished onyx desk, a predator observing its prey. His silver hair, usually immaculate, seemed even more severe today, framing a face devoid of warmth. Before him lay a collection of high-resolution printouts. Kenjiro’s gaze snagged on them: grainy, zoomed-in photos of himself, standing outside the derelict warehouse, then being escorted out by Sanae Moriguchi. One shot even captured the precise moment Sanae had pulled him, a faint golden glow visible through the gap in the shelving. The sound of those children was missing from the paper.
“Specialist Ishida,” Matsushita began, voice flat, without greeting. “Your unwavering neutrality has been a frequent boast, has it not?”
Kenjiro stayed quiet, his molars pressed together. There was no denying the evidence laid bare before him.
“Yet,” Matsushita continued, turning a printout with one manicured finger, “here you are. In the forgotten district. After hours. Outside the compound tied to Kyouko Hino.” He tapped the image with a manicured finger. “Unauthorized. Unscheduled. Careless.”
“I was conducting field research, Director,” Kenjiro stated, his voice even, though his pulse thrummed against his temples. “To gain a deeper understanding of the subject’s environment, as per the spirit of comprehensive evaluation.”
Matsushita let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Spirit, Specialist? We operate on statutory mandate, not spirit. And your field inquiry placed you within reach of the target. Did the cold heiress offer you hospitality?”
Kenjiro tightened his fists against his thighs. “My adherence to regulations stands firm, Director. This was an isolated attempt to verify data.”
“Isolated? Or a sign of a deeper… curiosity?” Matsushita leaned forward, his eyes piercing. “Your sister, Kenjiro. Her case. You blamed the system then, didn’t you? For pathologizing grief, for misinterpreting emotion. Tell me, Kenjiro, are you projecting your sister's decline onto our current case? Do you see a victim where there is only a sociopathic profiteer?”
The mention of his sister, Mariko, felt like a physical blow. The clinical detachment he so painstakingly cultivated threatened to shatter. “My private history does not alter my clinical judgment.”
“It most certainly does when you begin to circumvent established procedure,” Matsushita countered, his voice rising. “This is an assessment by decree. If your distance cannot be guaranteed, if you cannot detach your memories from the work of this office, I will reassign the file. Today.”
The threat hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Reassignment meant Kyouko Hino would likely fall into the hands of a less scrupulous specialist, one who would rubber-stamp Matsushita’s predetermined verdict. It meant Kenjiro would never find the answers he now desperately sought. It meant Mariko’s ghost would whisper louder.
“My neutrality holds,” Kenjiro said, keeping his tone level. “I will conclude the review by the prescribed manual.”
Matsushita studied him for a long moment, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. “See that it does. The next session begins in ten minutes. Perhaps you can clarify why a state specialist was discovered near a condemned lot in the rain.”
Humiliation burned in Kenjiro’s gut, but it was quickly overshadowed by a cold resolve. He would prove Matsushita wrong. He would uncover the truth, whatever it was.
***
Air in the interview chamber tasted of chilled iron as Kenjiro faced Kyouko Hino across the black composite slab. Her posture was as rigid as ever, her expression a mask of elegant indifference. He slid the datapad across the table, displaying the standardized psychological questionnaire, but his mind was elsewhere.
He watched her, searching for any tell, any crack in the impenetrable facade. Nothing. The sunburst brand on her skin, the voices behind the wall, the charcoal sketch—they led to one demand.
“Ms. Hino,” he began, setting aside the datapad, his voice low and deliberate. “In my… recent observations, I happened upon a particular item. A child’s drawing. A sun.”
For a fraction of a second, the mask faltered. Her eyes, usually glacial, flickered with something akin to alarm, a raw, exposed nerve. Her shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly, and her gaze darted towards the door as if expecting an intruder. It was a miniscule deviation, a blink-and-you-miss-it reaction, but Kenjiro saw it. The 'Ice Queen' had flinched.
“Do you have an inquiry?” Her voice turned flat, an iron plate dropping back into place. The flicker of pain was gone, replaced by an even more profound emptiness.
“A sunburst,” Kenjiro pressed, his voice unwavering. “Much like the pattern of the scar on your wrist, Ms. Hino. A detail not present in your official file.”
Kyouko’s hand instinctively moved to cover her left wrist, a subtle, defensive gesture. “My private history has no bearing on this proceeding. Nor do rumors about a derelict building.”
“A building where small children can be heard singing,” Kenjiro said, holding her gaze. He needed her to break, just a little more. “And where a yellow crayon sun was dropped on concrete. What is kept hidden behind that warehouse wall, Ms. Hino?”
Her eyes narrowed, the chill returning with full force, but he had seen it. The momentary tremor, the ghost of an emotion. He had found a seam in her armor.
Before Kyouko could respond, the door to the interview room hissed open. Director Matsushita strode in, his presence immediately dominating the sterile space. He offered Kyouko a thin, predatory smile.
“Ms. Hino,” Matsushita announced, stepping between them. “Due to your deliberate silence during these proceedings, the administration has shortened your timeline.”
Kyouko’s expression remained unreadable, but Kenjiro felt a surge of icy dread. This wasn’t a mere reprimand; this was a deliberate escalation.
Matsushita looked down at Kenjiro, chin tilted. “Your detachment looks fragile, Specialist. Certify her within forty-eight hours, or the scrub team takes her.”