Takeomi Akashi was the first to regain consciousness.

Awareness returned to him not in a flash, but in a cold, viscous wave. He didn't open his eyes immediately. He listened. Silence. Not the kind that follows a fight—echoing, filled with groans and rattling breaths. This was a dead, absolute silence, pressing on the eardrums. Smell. Sterile, metallic, with a hint of dust and something elusive, technical.

He was lying on a cold, perfectly even floor. Slowly, without changing his breathing rhythm, he cracked his eyelids open. A featureless white ceiling, bathed in even, non-flickering light. No shadows, no windows. His fingers found a pack of cigarettes and a lighter in his coat pocket. With a mechanical, practiced motion, he lit one. The first drag became an anchor, a point of reference in this absurdity. The smoke, slowly rising to the ceiling, was the only movement in the frozen world.

A trap, he stated soundlessly to himself. But his mind, accustomed to seeking advantage, had already reframed it: An operational base. Temporary.

Somewhere on a level above, in a room resembling an empty cafeteria with rows of metal tables, Senju Kawaragi woke up.

Her awakening was abrupt—she sat up, clutching her head, a throbbing in her temples. Where am I? Brother? Sanzu? swirled through her mind like a whirlwind. Responsibility crashed down with a weight that overshadowed personal fear. She stood up, swaying, and ran to the massive metal door. Locked. The control panel beside it was silent.

If only I had been more careful… This thought, like a broken record, started playing in her head. She pressed her palms against the cold steel of the door, feeling panic rise in her throat. But then she took a deep breath. No. She had to hold it together. They had to be alive. She began methodically feeling the walls, searching for any hint of an exit or communications. Her duty was to take control of the situation, to ensure survival. Someone's survival. At least her own.

Even lower, in some technical bay cluttered with unfamiliar units sporting blinking LEDs, Sanzu Haruchiyo jerked violently to his feet.

His awakening was an explosion of rage. His hand reflexively flew to the sheath on his thigh. The katana was there. The cold of the hilt calmed him for a fraction of a second, but only to give his fury a clear direction. He looked around with a wild, furious gaze.

The King isn't here.

That thought burned hotter than white-hot iron. He, the loyal dog, had been cut off from his master. Thrown into this tin can. Someone had dared. He snarled, violently striking the nearest metal panel with his sheath. A deafening clang echoed down the corridor. He didn't care who heard. Let them come. Let them try. He drew the katana a few centimeters, and the steel gleamed ominously in the artificial light. He wouldn't look for a way out. He would look for someone to cut down for this betrayal.

And in a quiet corner on the same level as Sanju, in a room like an infirmary with neatly made beds, lay another figure. But her consciousness still floated in a deep fog, and her story in this steel dungeon was only waiting to begin.