Inside, the silence was measured—not tense, thoughtful—as each member of Company 8 sat with their own questions, the rhythm of the street outside slipping past their windows without comment, each of them still parsing the confrontation back at the investigation site.
Outside, the city hadn’t slowed. Shinjuku’s late-afternoon light flickered across car hoods, neon signs, and the angled shadows of buildings stacked too close to breathe. Vendors had spilled from their stalls into the street, filling the market lane with sizzle, smoke, and the sharp bark of deals being made.
Burns’ words hadn’t stopped echoing. Nobody said anything, but the cab was thick with thoughts, each one different but none of them drifting far from the man who’d turned the battlefield sideways without using fire once.
They rolled past a curry stand just as three men turned the corner up ahead—two of them supporting the third like he’d lost the argument with something bigger than he’d expected. His feet barely found the pavement, dragging enough to throw off the rhythm of their steps.
The bruises stood out even from a distance, recent and uneven. It wasn’t a scene worth gawking at, not here—but the timing scratched at something unspoken, like a quiet echo of Burns’ warning still hanging in the air, or a ripple in the city’s rhythm that didn’t quite belong.
Nobody on the street gave them a second glance.
And for a moment, neither did anyone in the Matchbox. But the silence inside turned slightly—not tense, not focused. Simply… present. The kind of quiet that noticed something and decided to wait before speaking.
Arthur leaned forward, a lock of blond hair falling into his blue eyes as the line of his brow tightened—not quite a frown. But something close. A phantom curl of smoke passed through his memory, sharp and bitter as the heat-warped air from the crater.
It wasn’t the bruises that stood out. It was the way they gave up the ground beneath them—like they weren’t just injured. They’d surrendered.
“That’s not how knights leave a battlefield,” he muttered. “Not with the fight taken out of their steps.”
There was something in his voice that wasn’t looking for a stage—just space.
Arthur didn’t blink. His fingers curled tighter around Excalibur, knuckles whitening slightly. The way one finger sagged between the others, loose and out of place, sparked a memory that didn’t fit inside a legend.
The heat. The smoke. Shinra slumped against him, blood hot on his gloves.
He blinked once. The street came back into focus.
“That’s what it looks like,” he murmured, “when the story ends and someone else turns the page.” His voice was quiet. Not dramatic. It was memory. Nothing more.
Across the aisle, Maki stirred, a quiet shift running through her muscular frame as her dark ponytail brushed lightly against her collar. Her purple eyes narrowed slightly, not in surprise, but in recognition. The weight of Arthur’s words landed not as a question, but something she’d already known too well.
Obi sat up front, arms folded across his chest, the fabric of his uniform drawn tight across his barrel frame, solid as the seat beneath him.
Obi didn’t respond to Arthur’s words, but something in them lingered. Not the phrasing—just the shape of it. An ending without closure. And too many pieces still didn’t fit.
The weight from the site hadn’t lifted—it had rooted deeper, settling in the space behind his ribs like something unfinished. The kind of unease that didn’t come from what you saw, but from what stayed hidden.
It was the kind of tension Obi had learned to recognize—a prelude to something even worse. Something he didn’t know how to stop.
The damage hadn’t been random. The formation hadn’t been improvised. The Infernal hadn’t been chance. And Rekka hadn’t just snapped. Too many variables had aligned too neatly for coincidence. He didn’t speak, but the line of his brow hadn’t eased since they left—calm on the surface, instinct tight beneath.
Whatever he’d started to see back at the site, it hadn’t stopped forming. Not yet.
Hinawa sat next to him, eyes on the window, posture unreadable. The late light caught on the edge of his glasses, casting a glint off the frame as the clean line of his jaw held steady in profile.
But Obi knew him well enough to catch the flicker of recalculation in his stillness. He could’ve broken it down—but this wasn’t a moment for ballistics. They were both thinking it. This hadn’t ended at the ruins. Something was still moving.
Hinawa didn’t move, lenses catching the glint of sunlight as his gaze tracked outward without blinking.
A scooter zipped past the other lane, its horn chirping once before cutting back into traffic. Someone was arguing over a fish price on the sidewalk. The city hadn’t paused—but something in the silence had.
“That site felt wrong,” Maki said, finally.
The words came out before she could stop them. Maybe it was the way things had unraveled too quickly, or maybe it was the fact that she knew exactly what it felt like when you didn’t have the answers.
Obi didn’t look back. “You felt it too.” Not a question—confirmation.
Arthur settled back into his seat. “Even the air was wrong. Like it didn’t want to settle.” He didn’t sound like he was narrating this time.
Hinawa spoke without turning. “You’re referring to the crater or the distribution of impact zones?”
His tone was flat, but not dismissive.
“Doesn’t matter,” Maki exhaled—then glanced out the window. “Except it kind of does…”
“I don’t know,” she said after a pause. “The whole thing felt... unfinished.”
“Probably nothing,” Maki muttered. “Just didn’t look right.”
Obi’s voice cut through gently. “You’re not wrong.” He didn’t offer more—but the words landed.
Maki didn’t respond—but she didn’t look away either.
Iris shifted in her seat, the soft fall of her silver-blonde bangs brushing her cheek as she looked up. “Arthur said Shinra looked like he’d gone ten rounds before he even got there.” Her voice was quiet, threaded with uncertainty.
Arthur leaned forward. “He didn’t win that fight. He just survived it.” There was no knightly flourish in his voice—just quiet certainty.
No one said anything at first. The air still held the echo of what had happened, like it hadn’t decided whether to settle or shatter.
Maki stirred subtly on her side of the cab. She didn’t shift so much as settle—leaning into the silence like it might give her something to hold onto.
She looked at Arthur, not with pity, and not with surprise, but with the quiet, measured recognition of someone who’d felt the same crack open in themselves and learned not to flinch when they saw it in someone else. There was no comfort in it—only honesty, and maybe the faintest breath of respect for saying it out loud.
“You really think that?” Iris asked, barely above a whisper.
She glanced down at her hands. “It’s not how it’s supposed to feel.”
Obi didn’t say anything at first. Just nodded once—quiet, but deliberate.
“Surviving’s not a failure.” He exhaled slowly. “But survival still cost him more than it should have.”
“He should’ve pulled out,” Maki said. “But he was too deep in it to see how bad it was.” She wasn’t blaming anyone. She was naming it.
Tamaki looked down. “I keep thinking I understood what happened.” Her fingers tightened slightly. “But the more I hear, the less sure I am.”
Hinawa adjusted his gloves without looking back. “Reflection’s useful. Regret isn’t.” His tone wasn’t cold. only final.
Obi straightened slightly. “That fight’s over.”
He looked at them each in turn. “But if we keep missing what matters… the next one won’t be.”
Iris looked down; her voice soft. “Then maybe this is the part where we start seeing it.”
She didn’t know if the world was getting stranger or if they were just catching up to it. Either way, it didn’t feel like something prayer alone could answer.
No one responded immediately. But the silence wasn’t heavy anymore. It hovered—expectant, balanced on the edge of motion.
Arthur blinked slowly. “So... what you’re saying is, I was right.”
Maki groaned. “Don’t ruin it.”
Even Obi’s mouth twitched.
Maki leaned forward between the seats, restless. “You think it’s all connected, Captain? This Ranma guy and whatever Shinra was up against? Or are we chasing shadows that were never really there?”
Obi didn’t answer right away.
The Matchbox turned onto a narrow bridge spanning one of the canal routes. A chain-link fence ran parallel to the road.
Obi leaned forward slightly, catching a flicker of red through the shifting traffic haze—too deliberate to be random.
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“I don’t know,” he said at last. “But I think we just got lucky.”
His eyes narrowed like a hound catching scent.
“Left side. Chain-link fence. Red shirt, black pants.”
Hinawa was already scanning—but Obi’s words locked him in. His gaze snapped to the target like it had been waiting. The others followed his gaze, eyes narrowing as the shape took form through chain-link shadow and street glare.
“He’s there.” Hinawa said, not blinking, eyes tracking through the glass. “Casual as rain.”
Everyone craned subtly. Tamaki leaned forward between the front seats.
Sunlight flickered between the diamond-shaped gaps in the chain-link, casting a net of shifting shadow across the sidewalk.
Her eyes narrowed. “Is that—?”
There was no mistaking him. Ranma Saotome, walking across the top rail of a narrow fence like it was a sidewalk. Balanced. Relaxed. Wrong, in the most dangerous way. Like the street had rearranged itself to let him pass.
The fence vibrated gently under his step, a soft tremor running down the length like the metal wasn’t sure whether to hold him or give way.
He plucked a piece of grilled chicken from a skewer, and every few moments, he tilted his head, offering a piece to the cat perched on his shoulder. The animal took it with the quiet dignity of something used to being fed like royalty. An oddly peaceful contrast to the pulse of the city around them.
He didn’t carry himself like someone avoiding attention. He drifted, oblivious to the world watching—or maybe just unimpressed by it. A man on a bicycle slowed as he passed, staring for a moment before shaking his head and continuing on, as if deciding it was safer not to ask.
Nobody said a word for a second.
“He’s just… strolling,” Maki said as she turned to Tamaki. "That’s him, right?"
Tamaki exhaled through her nose, not quite a sigh. “It’s him.”
Her voice dropped, like saying it louder might draw him in. “How is he even doing that?”
Tamaki’s voice dipped. “And he’s acting like none of this should bother him. Like it never touched him.”
Maki turned to her. “You're sure?”
“I’m sure,” Tamaki said quietly. “No one else would pull that and pretend it’s normal.”
Obi exhaled slowly through his nose. “Alright. Looks like our mystery fighter hasn’t left the area.”
The moment hung, and then Hinawa added, dry as smoke.
“Balanced on a fence, mid-traffic, feeding a cat,” He noted, deadpan. "Should we even be surprised?"
Maki tilted her head, half squinting. “Yeah. Like gravity doesn't apply unless he lets it.”
Iris smiled faintly. “Or like it gave up trying.”
The Matchbox coasted forward another few yards. No one blinked.
“Behold!” Arthur whispered, reverent. “The dragon walks the wind. A beast-tamer. A storm given form.”
“Also—he has snacks.” Arthur said, as if that sealed the legend.
Maki gave him a sideways glance. “You practice that in the mirror, or is it just genetic?”
Tamaki didn’t move at first, only watched. “I hate that I kind of get it.”
“Yeah.” Iris said with a soft smile. “Arthur’s hungry.”
Maki huffed under her breath, and even Arthur cracked a crooked grin like he couldn’t quite argue with it.
Tamaki let out a quiet chuckle, but it died fast. The image stuck. It shouldn’t have made sense—but somehow, it did. That was the part that made her sick.
She shifted back into her seat, eyes flicking briefly to Arthur before settling back on the road. The thought settled in her chest like a stone. They were still chasing someone they couldn’t catch—someone who never planned to be caught.
Hinawa didn’t look away from the road. “He has a unique relationship with the rules.”
Arthur nodded solemnly. “As all dragons do.”
Maki snorted. “He’s not a dragon.”
“You say that like you checked,” Arthur replied, not missing a beat.
He tilted his head skyward. “You don’t know.”
Maki rolled her eyes, then pinched the bridge of her nose like she was about to charge Arthur rent for existing. She turned to him. “One more word and I’m putting you on a leash.”
Obi reached forward and tapped the dashboard twice. “Pull over past the bridge. There’s a lot across from the ramen place.”
“Captain?” Iris asked quietly.
He gave her a brief glance. The corners of his mouth twitched—like he almost didn’t hate the plan.
“If he’s in a good mood, maybe we don’t have to chase him.”
If he really was what he seemed, then doing nothing might be the only way to learn anything at all.
“We sit. We watch,” he added, voice low. “See what he does when no one’s in his way.”
Tamaki frowned. “Sounds like stalking.”
“We’re observing,” Obi said, already turning in his seat. “Big difference.”
Hinawa pulled off quietly, easing the Matchbox down a side lane between two shops. The engine hummed low as they coasted into a gravel lot tucked behind a pharmacy.
Kitchen exhaust drifted from a restaurant vent above the next building. It curled past the windshield, briefly veiling their view—then peeled away like it didn’t dare linger too long.
Obi gestured for quiet as they exited. The team spilled out, quieter than usual, something about the moment keeping even Arthur in check. If this went sideways, it was on him. That was the part he couldn’t shake.
Tamaki hesitated for a moment longer, fingers brushing the fabric. Then she slipped off the oversized jacket and folded it across her seat, movements careful, deliberate. She pulled the rear gate shut behind her with a quiet click.
“Alright,” Obi said as the doors unlocked. “We don’t box him in. No threats. We approach like we want a conversation.”
“What’s the plan if he bolts?” Tamaki asked, tone flat.
“We don’t chase. Not here. Not in front of civilians.” Obi’s voice left no room for debate. “We let him know we want to talk. If he’s reasonable, he’ll hear us out.”
He didn’t say what they’d do if Ranma wasn’t reasonable. Truth was—he wasn’t sure.
He stepped forward first, the gravel crunching beneath his boots. The rest followed. Their steps were measured, the quiet stretched tight between them.
The market didn’t know it was being watched. Life moved like it always did. A pair of teens shared a bench beside a yakisoba yatai, slurping from takeaway bowls while balancing schoolbags between their feet.
Nearby, an elderly man dozed beneath a sun-faded umbrella, half-shaded from the late-afternoon glare. A courier bike rattled over a curb as it swerved to avoid a kid darting between legs with a skewered fishcake in hand.
Tables lined the storefronts, close enough that knees nearly touched passing shoppers. It wasn’t chaos—just the kind of cluttered rhythm Shinjuku wore like a second skin.
Obi scanned the storefront, the curtain, the space between. One breath, then another—until strategy caught up to instinct.
He glanced at the others. "We spread out. Outdoor seating, blend in if possible. Keep it casual."
Maki and Iris nodded. Hinawa straightened his collar. Arthur shoved his hands into his coat like he’d just remembered he was wearing one.
Tamaki hesitated half a second before tightening her ponytails. The band bit tighter against her scalp than expected, grounding her just enough to stop the nerves from rising too far up her throat.
The buzz of a vending compressor behind her rattling through the quiet like a held breath. The air carried a curl of miso and ash. Comfort and confrontation tangled together in the same inhale as she tried not to look like she was overcorrecting. She told herself it was about control. But deep down, she knew better. It was him.
He didn’t make her feel small—only seen.
They moved through the market in pairs, splitting naturally. Maki and Iris slid into a corner bench near the shop’s edge. Arthur hovered near a vending machine, pretending to study the selections. Hinawa took the shade near a window with line of sight through the noren.
Tamaki lingered last, eyes flicking toward Ranma.
Across the street, Ranma had already hopped down. The team watched as he slowed near a ramen shop tucked beneath a second-story awning.
He paused to pat the cat on the head, then stopped in front of the small shop wedged between a pharmacy and a hardware store. “No pets allowed, furball,” he said—but the cat didn’t move, and neither did he.
The air grew thicker near the door, dense with broth and old grease, like the building had been cooking the same memory for years. The signage was old but well-kept, the plastic curtains drawn back just enough to catch a glimpse of steam and stacked bowls inside.
He tilted his head toward the taped-up menu. After a breath, he pushed the curtain aside and stepped inside. Vapor drifted behind the curtain, coiling like breath drawn through the shop’s teeth before sealing shut around him.
Nyx leapt to the shop’s awning, padded across the frame, then launched upward—catching the edge of the pharmacy’s rooftop like she’d mapped it hours ago.
Iris blinked. “Did… did the cat just scale a building?”
Arthur whispered, “His familiar is scouting the rooftops.”
Maki shot him a look, but didn’t argue.
For a second, no one moved. Tamaki’s chest tightened before she could stop it, a flicker of something pulling tight behind her ribs. The wind kicked up, rustling a nearby sign.
Her eyes followed Ranma beneath the awning, something unreadable behind them.
“He really just… strolls into your day like he belongs there,” she muttered.
"Maybe he does," Maki said, a dreamy little smile flickering at the corner of her mouth.
Tamaki snorted. "God, don’t make it sound romantic."
“He’s not exactly hiding,” Iris added, her voice soft.
“No,” Obi agreed, arms folded. “Which makes this the best chance we’ve got.”
“If he meant to blend in, he failed,” Hinawa said without looking up. “No cover. No misdirection. Pure confidence.”
“He didn’t check his surroundings,” Obi added. “Just acted like he already knew them.”
He folded his arms. “That kind of posture doesn’t come from confidence. It comes from certainty.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “If he’s not showing off… that means we haven’t seen what he’s holding back.”
“Even his footsteps are dramatic,” Arthur said solemnly, eyes narrowed like he was trying to track a myth.
Maki scoffed under her breath. “You’re just mad you can’t pull that off.”
Tamaki had been trying not to look too closely—like eye contact might pull her in. But it was too late for distance. Her gaze lingered on the curtain, a breath catching in her chest—one she hadn’t realized she’d been holding as if waiting for something to slip back through it.
The line of her shoulders had shifted—more guarded now, but not defensive. Braced. Like she didn’t trust the stillness. Her arms folded slowly across her chest, fixed on the ramen shop, unmoving.
"He acts like the answer’s always been him,” Tamaki didn’t look away. “That’s what bothers me.”
It made her feel like she’d stepped into a story halfway through—one he already knew the ending to and wasn’t in a rush to explain. She hated that part of her wanted to follow anyway. The part that kept looking at him like it might be true. Like she was trying to catch the story before it slipped away again.
It wasn’t the way he carried himself or how he showed up—it was the way her own thoughts kept circling back, like something had been left unresolved the moment he walked away.
Iris tilted her head, thoughtful. “You think that’s on purpose?”
Tamaki’s gaze dipped for half a second before rising again. “I think… he’s not afraid of being seen. That’s worse.”
A light breeze stirred the noren at the ramen shop’s door—a pressure shift, barely a breath, but enough to make the hairs at the back of her neck lift.
Nyx didn’t twitch. She watched the curtain settle like it was sealing the threshold.
Obi watched him a moment longer, then let out a slow breath. “Alright,” he said quietly.
“Let’s see what you’ve got to say for yourself,” Obi murmured, more to himself than anyone. “And if we’re lucky—maybe we finally get ahead of this thing.”
A truck passed on the nearby street, its rattle distant but steady, like the city had resumed breathing, even if none of them had decided whether to follow.
-o-0-o-O-o-0-o-
Tamaki’s Diary
Private Entry – Not For Review
I don’t know if writing this will help, but I can’t say it out loud. Not to anyone. Not yet.
Not when I’m still trying to figure out what parts of me are even real.
Sometimes I think about what it would be like to walk into a room and not be noticed—not because I disappeared, but because I belonged. Like I wasn’t a punchline. Or a distraction. Or some walking, talking glitch in the system.
That would be nice.
The thing is, I’m not afraid of attention. I’ve had that since before I joined the Academy. What scares me is when people start thinking they know me. Like one moment, I’m just the clumsy girl who trips into awkward poses—and the next, they’ve decided that’s all I’ll ever be. Like I’m a mascot for bad luck, and anything deeper is a waste of time.
But worse than being reduced is being seen—actually seen—and then judged anyway.
Because what if they’re right? What if that’s all I am?
The Lucky Lecher Lure used to feel like a curse I couldn’t shake, like my body was betraying me in front of everyone, every time. And I laughed. I acted like it was annoying, sure, but manageable. Just another part of the job. But it wasn’t. Not really. It was humiliating in a way that didn’t stop when the scene did. It followed me. Colored every conversation. Framed every failure.
I joined the Fire Force to help people. To matter. But the harder I tried to prove I was more than the accident waiting to happen, the more people just leaned back and waited for the punchline.
Do they ever stop to ask how that feels?
I don’t hate myself. Not anymore. But I’m still trying to understand what people are even looking at when they look at me. Is it the girl who can fight? The one who burns for the people she couldn’t save? Or is it just the joke with the cat ears and the fire that won’t behave?
Sometimes I wonder if there’s a version of me they’d accept. A version that gets to be strong and awkward. Protective and afraid. Clumsy and capable. But that version doesn’t sell. That version doesn’t make the cut.
So yeah—I get twitchy when people get close. I get cold when it feels like someone’s trying to figure me out. Because I’ve been figured out before. And I’ve seen what people do when they think they already know what you’re worth.
I want to believe that can change. That I can change. But part of me still flinches when someone looks too close. Like I’m still waiting for the punchline. And I’m still scared of what comes after it.
But today I saw someone walk through this world like it didn’t own him. Like the fire, the weight, the judgment—it didn’t touch him. He just… walked right through it. Balanced. Present. Unbothered.
And something in me cracked.
Because if he can carry all that and still look like he belongs—maybe I can too.
Eventually.
Maybe.
Knight Talk: A Panel of Deep Regret
Episode 1 – "The Dragon Walks the Wind"
As transcribed from a live broadcast originally not meant for public viewing.
Knight Talk! Today, we unravel a moment most sacred—a lone warrior upon a fence, defying gravity and common sense alike."
that greatness? That degenerate fence-hopper is a menace to public decency and school uniforms!"
Knight Talk, a broadcast so dense with delusion it may become mandatory viewing for psychological studies. Or evidence at a tribunal.
hate this timeline."
slightly less judgmental."
Author’s Notes: Fire Affinity and the Absence Thereof
Flame-Free: A User’s Guide to Being Mildly Concerning in a World That Expects You to Combust
- Third-Gen Ignition-Type Pyrokinetic: Flammable. Frequently dramatic. Often under surveillance.
- Second-Gen Adaptives: Fire-retardant personality with the emotional control of a furnace pilot.
- Dead Normal: No fire. No spark. Mostly background characters.
- Confuse standard threat assessments.
- Avoid classification entirely.
- Annoy the Fire Force paperwork division.
- Third-Gen Adjacent (in denial)
- Spiritual Artifact Survivors
- Martial-grade irregulars
- “Just hit me again, sir” (Tactical Registry, 3rd Ward)
Known Behavioral Flags (Cross-Referenced with Anti-Combustion Response Logs):
- Does not announce presence during engagements.
- Refuses standard combat protocol (e.g., “engage, flare, taunt, pose”).
- Demonstrates irrational comfort in close quarters with combusting subjects.
- Initiates physical confrontation without flame signature or power activation.
- Has made multiple Fire Force Captains report “existential unease.”
- Once described by an eyewitness as “a martial arts cryptid in gym clothes.”
Footnote:
Attempts to formally catalog individuals like Ranma Saotome have failed. All assessment interviews were inconclusive, with final reports usually concluding with some variation of:
He is the air that moves after one goes out.
And no one knows how to file that.
Excerpt from Company 8 Internal Comms Log [Redacted]:
– Lt. Takehisa Hinawa (Flagged: Non-standard Behavioral Assessment)