BOOM!!!

  A deafening blast rips through the heavy, blood-scented air, turning the concrete wall of the torture chamber into shrapnel that sprays in every direction. Grey dust curls up like angry smoke-wyrms, choking all visibility in a split second.

  "HANDS IN THE AIR! POLICE! YOU ARE SURROUNDED!"

  The command cuts through the ringing ears, syncing with the heavy, rhythmic thud of tactical boots storming the floor. Beams from gun-mounted flashlights slice frantically through the smoke. A special ops team, armed to the teeth and clad in jet-black body armor with "POLICE" emblazoned in reflective white, floods through the breach like a tactical hurricane.

  Of course, there is not a single real Japanese police officer or special forces operator here. This is the "Amateur" Ops Team... a squad of Sensitives under our command, currently cosplaying as heroes of justice. I have to admit, this bunch invests in props and method acting more professionally than most Hollywood sets.

  I lean back against the balcony railing, my eyes glued to the Solak screen, which is livestreaming the entire raid from the body-cam perspective of an "operative."

  "Cut! Great performance, everyone," I mutter, taking a sip of stone-cold tea. "The pyrotechnics were a bit overkill, but mortals eat up that kind of high-octane drama."

  The hitman, the poor bastard who nearly lost his molars to The Doctor's rusty pliers, looks utterly pathetic. He cowers in the chair, eyes swimming with tears as he looks at the uniformed "saviors" as if they are angels descending from the heavens.

  The play continues without a hitch. The Sensitives quickly "neutralize" the clowns (who are also on our payroll), then haul the hitman out to an armored transport vehicle, sirens wailing as they tear off toward the local precinct.

  En route, the deities of the Diplomatic Team hiding in the shadows work their magic. They gently infiltrate the minds of the real officers on duty, skillfully splicing, editing, and implanting a heroic memory of a raid to dismantle an international terrorist cell that never existed.

  Fifteen minutes later, the hitman is shoved into an isolated interrogation room. It is a small, sterile box with a metal table and a single harsh lamp shining directly into the suspect's face.

  At this moment, his detailed profile pops up on my screen:

  [Subject Profile]

  Name: Kenji Sato.

  Age: 28.

  Record: Freelance hitman, specializes in Dark Web contracts.

  Sitting opposite him is a stone-faced inspector... in reality, a veteran Sensitive from Department 1031 who was planted deep within the human bureaucracy years ago.

  Kenji Sato is still shivering, gasping for air. He looks at the inspector, his voice trembling. "You guys... you will protect me, right? Those freaks... they are demons... they were going to butcher me!"

  "Relax, Sato," the inspector slides a glass of water across the table. "It is secure here. The National Police Agency will ensure that no one, not even your 'Boss', can touch you. But in return..."

  The inspector narrows his eyes, leaning in close. "You give me everything. Who hired you? How did he make contact? And what is the true objective behind the Ueno Park hit?"

  Caught between the primal terror of the "clowns" and the fragile hope of legal protection, Kenji Sato crumbles. He grabs the water, downing it in one desperate gulp, and begins to spill his guts.

  "I don't know his face... he uses a handle on a private forum... 'The Architect'... He told me just to flatline anyone wearing that blue wristband... Money is wired to an anonymous offshore account after each job... He also said... he said this is just the opening move..."

  Out on the balcony, I smirk, a dark satisfaction curling my lips.

  [BREAKING NEWS: NATIONAL SECURITY ALERT – TERRORIST ORGANIZATION "THE ARCHITECT"]

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, we interrupt your scheduled programming for a critical announcement from the National Public Safety Commission and the Tokyo Metropolitan Police. A massive coordinated investigation has just unmasked a highly dangerous transnational criminal syndicate identified as 'The Architect'."

  "According to the latest intelligence, this organization is directly targeting Japanese citizens through sophisticated recruitment schemes on social media and the Dark Web. Their modus operandi involves depositing large sums into victims' accounts, accompanied by vague, ominous instructions. However, behind that financial bait lies a lethal trap."

  "Authorities have issued an urgent advisory: Any individual who receives unauthorized transfers or unsolicited demands from strangers must report to the nearest police station immediately. Do not engage. Do not follow instructions. Silence or compromise will lead to catastrophic and irreversible consequences."

  (The feed cuts to an exclusive report. In the dim interrogation room, Kenji Sato appears in a prisoner's jumpsuit, his face gaunt, eyes sunken from exhaustion and sheer panic.)

  Kenji Sato (Voice cracking, body shaking uncontrollably):

  "I... I just thought it was easy money... They promised a fortune... but when I tried to back out... they... they aren't human... Don't listen to them... please... don't be an idiot like me..."

  (He buries his face in his hands, heaving with violent, ugly sobs, making the atmosphere in the room suffocatingly heavy. Immediately after, the network airs a short clip allegedly recovered from 'The Architect's' server by cyber-security forces.)

  News Anchor:

  "Viewer discretion is advised. The following footage is disturbing. We have blurred portions to comply with broadcast standards."

  (The video plays: A damp, dungeon-like room, a ghostly swaying bulb. In the center, men in clown masks cackle maniacally around a bound victim. A man in a white lab coat slowly brings a pair of gleaming steel pliers toward the camera... The victim's scream, though distorted by audio software, sounds like something ripped from the bottom of hell.)

  News Anchor:

  "This is the price this syndicate exacts from its 'puppets' for betrayal or failure. The police have raised the terror alert level to maximum. We will provide continuous updates on the hunt for 'The Architect'..."

  I slide my finger across the spirit-phone screen, unable to suppress a grin. The "smear campaign" has succeeded beyond my wildest dreams.

  Kaito is not handling it quite as coolly. The boy is glued to the Solak feed, his jaw hanging open wide enough to catch flies.

  "Woah..." Kaito gasps, his voice breaking. "Itsuki-sama, look at this! The Tokyo Police just released the live stats. Nearly a thousand people have already stormed local precincts to surrender the money they received from 'The Architect'. They are so terrified of being tortured that they are confessing to other petty crimes just to be safe."

  "Terrorist organization, yeah right," I snort, flicking my fox tail which is draped lazily over the armrest. "It is Gakai. He uses cash to hire greedy mortals to kill their own kind and sabotage our event. We just... 'spun the narrative' a bit to improve public safety awareness."

  Kaito whips his head around, his eyes wide with shock.

  "What? You mean... you manipulated the Japanese government? And the national media?"

  "Yeah, pretty simple stuff," I shrug. "Technically, standard procedure requires a permit and a stamped approval from Takama-ga-hara to intervene this deep into the nation's administration. But this was an emergency, so I did it 'off the books'. I can file the paperwork later. No harm done. It is just a fake terror warning to save real lives. Those old geezers will probably turn a blind eye."

  Kaito looks shell-shocked. He lets his hands drop, slumping onto the bed, staring blankly into the void.

  "So..." he mutters, his voice trembling. "So the government... everything I believed in... they are just chess pieces for the gods?"

  Seeing the boy spiraling into a severe existential crisis, I burst out laughing, the sound echoing in the small room.

  "Hahaha! Kid, don't be so dramatic. The Japanese government is actually quite 'tame'. It is orderly here, with Takama-ga-hara running the show. Occasionally, the Jade Palace Conglomerate dips a toe in for a bit of cultural exchange."

  I float over to Kaito, bringing my muzzle close to his face, whispering conspiratorially.

  "You should look at the absolute dumpster fire on the other side of the planet. The US government? Or rather, the circus run by Olympus Corp and Heaven Inc."

  I draw a chaotic circle in the air. "Those two corporations fight every second to snatch control of Congress. Why do you think senators over there get into screaming matches like rabid dogs right on the floor? It is all because the bosses upstairs are pulling the strings. The memories of American politicians are overwritten, erased, and rewritten constantly, no different from a chalkboard. Today they support a bill because the Nymphs like it, tomorrow they kill it because the Angels are moody. Compared to that, your Japan is a paradise of free will."

  Kaito swallows hard, his face pale. It seems my dose of "comfort" was a bit too potent, painting the world in a shade of black the boy wasn't ready for.

  "Alright, don't sweat the small stuff," I pat the boy on the shoulder, dropping the serious act. "Leave the geopolitics to the adults. For now, just relax. Gakai's human resources have been severed. He will have to lay low and lick his wounds."

  I look out the window, where the lights of Tokyo still shine brilliantly, indifferent to the shadow war beneath.

  "Enjoy the calm while it lasts, Kaito. When the first screening phase ends... that is when the real headache begins."