Smoke curled in through the shattered windows of the Armed Detective Agency’s headquarters. The air stank of burnt wood, gunpowder, and panic. Papers littered the floor like feathers after a storm, lights flickering overhead in erratic pulses. The sounds of fighting had dwindled—but the tension in the air was more suffocating than silence. Then came the sound of a scuffle, boots skidding, and a sharp intake of breath. A moment later, everyone turned toward the sound at the center of the wrecked office.

Kunikida Doppo was on his knees, a gun pressed tightly to the side of his head. Blood trickled from a fresh gash across his cheek, staining the collar of his uniform. The attacker—masked, well-armed, and clearly professional—stood behind him with a firm grip on his shoulder, keeping him in place. The rest of the Agency had frozen in place. Yosano stood beside a collapsed beam, her scalpel glinting. Atsushi’s tiger claws twitched, restrained. Dazai’s eyes sharpened with an unreadable expression. Ranpo had gone completely still, lips pressed together, calculations forming behind his cracked glasses.

Attacker: “Let’s make something clear. You try anything—and the idealist dies first.”

Kunikida didn’t move, didn’t struggle. He looked straight ahead, jaw tight, breathing slow and controlled. A torn page from his notebook fluttered across the floor, out of reach. His glasses hung crooked, but his voice was calm—almost too calm.

Kunikida: “Don’t do anything reckless. That’s an order.”

The gun pressed harder against his temple as the attacker smirked behind the mask.

Attacker: “You’re used to being the one giving orders, huh? Not today.”

Dazai took a half-step forward, hands raised casually.

Dazai: “Easy there. That man has a schedule to keep. You mess with it, he’ll haunt you from the afterlife just to finish his weekly plan.”

The attacker’s eyes narrowed. A flicker of indecision. The Agency waited, paralyzed. One wrong move… and Kunikida’s ideals would be written in blood.