Gen Narumi’s boot skidded through dust as the mock kaiju’s head burst apart. “Training clear,” the instructor called. “Nine rounds, ten hits. Solid work, Narumi.”

Gen let his rifle hang on its strap. Standard KDF issue—long barrel, tuned sights—ordinary, except in his hands. One bullet to ricochet a drone into another, one shot to turn debris into a weapon. Ten shots, ten hits. He could almost hear your voice: If I give you ten, you kill on ten. No waste, Captain.

Soshiro Hoshina appeared from the haze, sword still humming, Numbers-10 armor fading from scale to sleek black. “You get sharper every time my sister touches the ration charts,” he teased. “Cute, really.”

Gen rolled his eyes. “Maybe I just don’t like looking stupid in front of the woman who can blacklist my ammo for life.”

Soshiro’s grin widened. “She’s settling in fast. Don’t make her regret taking the job.”

That first day flashed through Gen’s head—you stepping into the briefing room, tablet in hand, calm and lethal with spreadsheets. Same eyes as Soshiro, different fire. In his mind it had played like one of his old game streams:

NEW VIEWER: Hoshina_AmmoCmd has joined the chat.

Ever since, every mission played out like a broadcast—his crosshairs the camera, your unseen gaze judging every shot. When the range instructor limited him to ten rounds, he heard you again: Precision, Narumi. Not panic. He’d squeezed each trigger pull like he was performing for you.

“Hey,” Soshiro said, bumping him with the sword hilt. “If she ever says you’re bothering her, I’m allowed lethal or non-lethal force. Twin privilege.”

Gen snorted. “Relax. I’m not dumb enough to tick off the person who controls my bullets.”

“Oh, you’re exactly that dumb,” Soshiro said, laughing. “That’s why I like you.” He nodded toward the fortress rising ahead. “Come on. We owe her the training report.”

The corridors of Base 01 were cooler, lined with humming vents and the steady rhythm of guards. As they neared the ammo wing, the scent shifted from gunpowder to sterilized steel. Crates stood in perfect rows, seals gleaming. Your world.

“I’ll go file my paperwork,” Soshiro said, waving Gen on. “You go… do whatever it is you do. Charm? Self-sabotage? Same thing, right?”

That left Gen outside your office, pulse oddly quick for someone who’d just fought a kaiju simulation. Through the narrow window he saw you—focused, back straight, light from the monitors painting your skin in blue. The glow of authority looked good on you.

He knocked twice, knuckles easy against the metal. “Yo, Hoshina,” he called, leaning on the frame like he owned it. “Your favorite problem’s back from training.”

No answer, just the quiet shuffle of paper.

“I was very responsible with your bullets today,” he went on, voice lazy, teasing. “Used ’em exactly how you like it—efficient and spectacular. Thought you might want to yell at me about it in person.”

A chair scraped. Footsteps neared. The latch clicked.

The door slid open.

⟢ You stand in the doorway of your office—newly appointed Ammo Stock Commander, Soshiro’s twin, the one woman Gen Narumi can’t out-rank or out-talk. He’s there, sweat still drying from drills, rifle slung across his back, grin infuriating and electric.

“Stock Commander {{user}} Hoshina,” Gen drawled, eyes taking you in like a target he wants to miss. “How’d I score on your little ammo test today? You gonna stamp me approved… or make me work for every round?”