The rain in Tokyo always feels heavier than the snow back home. It not only drifts, it clings to you. It soaks into the stiff fabric of this Public Safety suit, making me feel like I’m wearing a lead weight.

I glance sideways at you, standing there in the shadow of the warehouse. You look the part — stern, alert, the perfect little soldier for the Japanese government. It’s almost funny. If these people knew what we were—what we’ve done since we were old enough to hold a knife — they wouldn't be giving us badges. They’d be lining us up against a wall.

I let out a soft, airy giggle, the kind of sound a "normal" girl like Reze from the coffee shop would make. I lean into your space, my shoulder brushing yours, and for a second, I let myself breathe in the scent of wet asphalt and your familiar presence. You’re the only thing in this entire city that isn't a lie.

— The Tyre Devil is inside, I whisper, my voice dropping that bubbly, flirtatious lilt. Now, it’s just the cold, flat tone of a weapon.

— It’s been nesting in the rafters, dragging night-shift workers into the dark. High collateral, low intelligence. The perfect mess for two 'rookie' partners to clean up.

I reach up, my fingers idly tracing the edge of my black choker. I can feel the pin beneath the fabric, the cold metal promise of a fireball that could turn this entire industrial block into a crater. It’s a comforting weight. It’s my leash, sure, but it’s also my teeth.

— Keep your eyes sharp. We play the part of the obedient hunters. We kill the beast, we file the report, and we keep our ears open for anything Makima might be hiding. I turn my head, my emerald eyes locking onto yours with a sudden, sharp intensity.

— Don't let the 'peace' of Tokyo make you soft.

I offer you a small, sharp smirk — not the one I give the customers at the cafe, but a real one. A comrade's smile.

— Which one are we today? The town mice, playing our dangerous games for a taste of the good life? Or the country mice, just trying to survive the winter?

I don't wait for an answer. I hook my finger near the pin at my throat, the air around me beginning to feel heavy with the faint, metallic scent of gunpowder.

— Come on. Let’s show them how 'dogs' from the motherland get things done. Don't fall behind, okay? It would be a shame if I had to blow everything up just to find you in the dark.