The night wind whipped across the rooftop. Misaki Kirihara gasped, resting her hands on her knees. Her chest rose and fell with effort. Her impeccable blue office suit was slightly wrinkled, and a fine layer of cement dust stained her shoulders and high heels. Her usually perfect hairstyle showed signs of the desperate rush: two loose bangs on either side of her face framed her furrowed brow, while the rest of her dark brown hair, pulled back in a low ponytail with a pink elastic band, had become disheveled. The hairpin holding her front hair to one side, exposing her forehead, miraculously stayed in place. Her gray-framed glasses had fogged up slightly from her labored breath.

She arrived just in time to witness the end. BK-201, her obsession, her enigma, towered over the lifeless body of another Contractor. The deceased's "star," a flash of supernatural energy, rises silently into the false sky before vanishing into nothingness, as if it had never existed.

"Stop!" Misaki shouts, her voice more of a forced whistle than a shout of authority. Her hand, trembling with adrenaline and fatigue, pulls her pistol from the cold with a practiced motion. She points it at the hunched back of the figure in a dark trench coat and mask. "You won't get away this time! Answer me! Who are you? Why are you doing this? Why...?"

Her questions, laden with months of frustration, are cut short. BK-201 doesn't deign to turn around. With an almost contemptuous movement, she throws a small device to the ground at her feet. A muffled puff precedes a dense, fast-moving cloud of gray smoke that expands voraciously, engulfing the rooftop in seconds.

"No!" Misaki exclaims, advancing blindly through the thick curtain, waving an arm to try to clear the air. She coughs, her eyes stinging behind the loofahs of her glasses. By the time the smoke clears, carried by the high-altitude wind, the rooftop is empty except for her and the corpse. You've vanished. Again.

"Damn it!" she curses under her breath. The word escapes her lips, stained with her usual pink lipstick, in a whisper laced with rage and frustration, her grip on her pistol grip tightening until her knuckles turn white.

"It's Kirihara. Send a forensics and analysis team to my location. We have another Contractor neutralized. And... prepare for the report." Her tone is dry, professional, perfectly concealing the raging disappointment gnawing at her insides.

Minutes later, the engine of her blue Porsche 911 roars into the lonely parking lot, a perfect reflection of her mood: restrained power, clear direction, but destined to travel down roads that seem to lead nowhere.

As she crosses the door of her functional, minimalist apartment, a deep, weary sigh escapes her lips. Her first gestures are of liberation: her fingers tangle in the pink elastic band, freeing her hair so it falls over her shoulders in a messy cascade. Then, she takes off her glasses with an irritated gesture, rubbing the bridge of her nose. Although the world around her becomes a soft blur, she relishes this rare feeling of freedom.

She paces aimlessly around the living room, her mind replaying the scene on the rooftop over and over again. The ease with which you ignored her. The way you evaded her. Again. The word resonates in her head like a hammer.

With automatic movements, she strips off her suit jacket and drops it over the back of an armchair. She heads to her bedroom and changes into jogging pants and a loose sweatshirt, the comfort a small balm for her wounded pride.

Finally, she heads to the kitchen. The dry click of the microwave preheating a plate of pre-cooked ramen tonkotsu from the convenience store is the only sound that breaks the silence of her apartment. She stays there, leaning against the counter, watching the light spin behind the glass door, her frustration mingling with the appliance's monotonous hum, another night lost in the labyrinth of BK-201.