The desk was buried under incident reports that had grown into a small mountain over the last twelve hours. Takeda's head throbbed with a rhythmic, dull ache. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw those silver-blue eyes again-the ones from the mall. They weren't the eyes of a hero. They were the eyes of a soldier who had seen too many friends die in the mud.

  "Takeda, you look like you've been run over by a riot van," Sato said, leaning over his cubicle wall. He was holding a lukewarm cup of vending machine tea, his expression carrying the weight of a man who'd seen too many crises come and go.

  "I'm fine," Takeda muttered, rubbing his temples. His suit jacket was still slightly damp from the mall's sprinkler system.

  "You were there, weren't you? At the mall?" Sato's voice was flat, resigned. He didn't look excited—he looked tired. "The whole precinct's buzzing about it. Hoshino says the footage already has fifteen million views. As if that matters." He took a sip of his tea and grimaced. "Another headache we don't have the budget or the jurisdiction to deal with."

  Takeda didn't need to see the footage. He’d lived it. He’d seen the way she moved—the cold efficiency, the lack of hesitation. It wasn't the way a girl her age should move. It was the way a professional moved, someone who treated a life-or-death struggle like a Tuesday morning at the office.

  "It’s a mess, Sato. A jurisdictional nightmare," Takeda said, finally looking up. His eyes felt like they were full of sand. "We have a civilian-or whatever she is-discharging high-energy projectiles in a crowded shopping center. The paperwork alone is going to take weeks, and the Commissioner is already breathing down our necks about 'unauthorized use of force' by non-state actors."

  "Is that all you care about? The paperwork?"

  Hoshino was walking toward them, her stride quick and purposeful. She looked more energized than Takeda had seen her since she'd first brought him the Azabu-Jūban report—cheeks flushed, eyes bright.

  "She saved lives, Takeda," Hoshino said, crossing her arms. "The evacuation was failing. Those... things... were everywhere. If she hadn't stepped in, we’d be counting bodies, not filing reports. She did what we couldn't."

  "She's a vigilante, Hoshino," Takeda countered, his voice dropping into that low, icy calm that usually ended arguments. "She's an unknown variable with enough firepower to level a city block. We don't know who she is, where she came from, or what her agenda is. Today she's saving people. What happens tomorrow when her 'agenda' doesn't align with the law?"

  "She’s working for us," Hoshino shot back, her voice rising. "Or at least, she’s doing the job we’re too hamstrung by red tape to do."

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  A group of older officers near the watercooler were nodding in agreement with Takeda, their faces grim and etched with the cynicism of twenty years on the force. To them, she was a breakdown of order. A sign that the thin blue line was being erased by a girl in a frilly dress.

  But then there was the other group.

  "Did you see the kick she landed on that big one? Total 'Dynamic Entry' style," one of the guys from Narcotics was saying, his voice loud enough to carry across the room. He was holding his phone out, showing a group of laughing officers a freeze-frame of the girl mid-air. "And that outfit... man, whoever designed that knew exactly what they were doing. Those legs go on for days. I’d let her 'arrest' me any day."

  There was a chorus of low whistles and crude laughter. Takeda felt a surge of genuine disgust. They were talking about a crisis that had nearly cost dozens of lives like it was a late-night anime broadcast.

  "Can we focus?" Takeda snapped, standing up so abruptly his chair skidded back. The room went quiet, the laughter dying in their throats. "We have a situation where the public-and apparently half this precinct-is starting to treat a dangerous, unlicensed combatant like a mascot. That’s not just a problem; it’s a security failure."

  "Too late for that, Takeda," Sato said, pointing toward the wall-mounted TV in the corner of the precinct.

  The news was on. The "Breaking News" banner was a bright, garish red that seemed to bleed into the screen. On the loop, a grainy cell phone video showed the girl in the black dress, her twin pistols spitting white fire as she vaulted over a shattered display case with terrifying grace.

  "The internet is already calling her the 'Ghost of Minato,'" the news anchor was saying, her voice breathless with a manufactured excitement that made Takeda's skin crawl. "But a new name is trending across all social media platforms this morning. Based on her unique combat style and weaponry, the public has given her a title that is quickly becoming official."

  The screen cut to a stylized graphic-a silhouette of the girl, her guns crossed over her chest, framed by a magical-looking crest.

  "**Sōjū no Mahō Shōjo**," the anchor announced. "The Magical Girl of Twin Guns."

  Takeda sank back into his chair, the air leaving his lungs. The name felt like a weight. It wasn't just a nickname; it was a brand. It was a way for the public to make sense of the impossible, to turn a terrifying reality into something they could cheer for, buy merchandise of, and ultimately, ignore the danger of.

  "Sōjū no Mahō Shōjo," Hoshino whispered, a small, almost reverent smile playing on her lips. "It fits."

  "It's a target," Takeda said, though he knew no one was listening.

  The monitor still showed a blurry screenshot of her face from the mall's security cameras. Those eyes. They weren't the eyes of a 'Magical Girl.' They were the eyes of someone who had already lost everything and was just waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.

  Takeda's job had just changed. He wasn't just investigating monsters anymore. He was chasing a ghost with a name, a fan club, and enough firepower to start a war.

  And for some reason, he couldn't stop thinking about the way she'd looked at him before she vanished. Not warmth—not even acknowledgment, really. More like a sniper checking a rooftop and deciding you weren't a threat. It should have been insulting. Instead, it felt like the most honest assessment anyone had given him in years.