October 18, 2102 — 07:30 Imperial Standard Time
Imperial Capital, Tokyo Bay — Imperial Press Hall
Morning came late to Neo-Japan.
Not because the sun was slow—but because the city had not slept.
Morning light poured through the glass dome of the Imperial Press Hall, pristine and merciless.
Rows of reporters filled the chamber—journalists, analysts, foreign observers—eyes sharp, hands already hovering over recorders. Holographic banners floated overhead, looping the same words again and again:
By the time the Imperial Press Hall opened its gates, the plaza overlooking Tokyo Bay was already sealed by layers of security.
Black-armored troops lined the steps in perfect symmetry, visors reflecting the mass of cameras, drones, and restless civilians held beyond the barriers. Overhead, military tiltcraft hovered in silent formation, their presence less about defense and more about reminder.
Then the convoy arrived.
A column of armored vehicles rolled into view—Imperial Defense transports flanked by escort bikes and aerial overwatch. Their movement was deliberate, ceremonial, unmistakably military.
The message was clear before a single word was spoken.
Takumi Arakawa stepped out of the lead vehicle.
Imperial Secretary of Defense.
He wore a tailored coat that blended formal state attire with restrained military design—clean lines, subdued insignia, authority without excess.
He did not acknowledge the crowd.
He did not slow his pace.
Officers fell into step behind him as he ascended the stairs, cameras flashing relentlessly at his back.
When Arakawa reached the podium beneath the Imperial crest, the hall gradually quieted—not by command, but by instinct.
The Imperial Secretary of Defense stepped onto the platform, flanked by uniformed guards. Calm. Composed. A man practiced in speaking without saying anything at all.
"Good morning," he said evenly. "I will address your questions."
The restraint broke instantly.
Voices overlapped, urgent and sharp, questions stacking over one another as the night's events were dragged into the open.
"Secretary—can you confirm reports of an Imperial operation conducted overnight against the Hayashi bloodline?"
Another voice followed instantly.
"Was lethal force authorized?"
"Were civilians present?"
"Was this sanctioned by the current Emperor?"
The room surged, questions colliding midair.
The Secretary raised a hand—not sharply, not urgently. The gesture alone slowed the room.
"The Empire conducted a security action," he said evenly, "in response to credible threats to national stability."
Murmurs spread.
A reporter stood. "The Hayashi Clan served the previous Emperor with distinction. Many citizens see this as a political purge."
Another voice layered over it.
"Is this retaliation for their loyalty to the former administration?"
"Is the Empire erasing its past?"
The Secretary didn't blink.
"The Empire does not recognize clans," he said smoothly. "Only threats."
The answer landed cold.
A foreign correspondent leaned forward.
"But isn't it true the Hayashi were long-time supporters of the former Imperial court?"
Silence stretched—just long enough to be noticed.
"The Empire moves forward," the Secretary replied. "It does not look backward."
The questions didn't stop. They evolved.
"What about Phoenix Capital?"
"Reports confirm the Shogun, Imperial Minister Arakawa himself appeared during an Imperial operation on Yoshima-controlled territory."
"Was that a raid—or a warning?"
"And yet," another voice pressed, "there were no arrests. No detainees. No charges filed."
The Secretary folded his hands.
"The presence of the Imperial Minister was intended to de-escalate a volatile situation."
A laugh escaped somewhere in the crowd—quickly swallowed by the room.
"So the Empire sends its highest-ranking defense official to de-escalate… with war assets?" someone scoffed.
The Secretary's smile thinned by a fraction.
"The Empire does not conduct displays for effect," Arakawa replied calmly. "The presence of such a high ranking official reflects the seriousness of a situation, not its outcome. "
The questions intensified.
"Are these actions committed by the Empire the beginning of a broader campaign against the Yakuza clans?"
"Is the Empire trying to dismantle protectorate agreements between the Yakuza?"
"The Empire does not recognize criminal organizations," Arakawa said. "We recognize stability. Any group that threatens it places itself under scrutiny."
Minister Arakawa remained unfazed.
"Let me be clear," he said. "The Yoshima remain under Imperial recognition. Any suggestion of hostility toward the legitimized Yakuza clans is misinformation."
Reporters exchanged looks.
"Then why target the Hayashi under Yoshima protection?"
The pause this time was longer.
"The Hayashi," the Secretary said carefully, "are an exceptional case."
The temperature dropped.
The room changed.
That only sharpened the next wave.
Attention narrowed. Voices lowered—not from respect, but from unease.
"Secretary Arakawa—Akira Hayashi. Where is she now?"
The name cut through the hall like a blade. Cameras pivoted instantly. The buzz sharpened.
"She was competing publicly when her clan was attacked," another reporter pressed.
"Under Imperial jurisdiction. Under Imperial protection. How did that happen?"
Arakawa did not flinch.
"Akira Hayashi is currently in a secured Imperial facility," he said evenly. "She is unharmed."
"For her protection?" someone asked.
"For her protection," he confirmed.
The room did not accept that easily.
"Protected from whom?"
"From the public?"
"From political retaliation?"
"From the Empire itself?"
Questions stacked, fast and precise now. Not accusations—yet. Probes.
"The Hayashi were known supporters of the previous Emperor," a correspondent said.
"Since last night, public support for Akira Hayashi has surged dramatically. Is the Empire detaining her to prevent her from being used as a political symbol against the current administration?"
A pause.
"The Empire will not allow any individual," Arakawa said, "to be weaponized against national stability."
That answer landed harder than a denial.
"So she is a liability?"
"So she is being held?"
"So this is preventive detention?"
Arakawa lifted a hand. Silence followed—not complete, but strained.
"She is not a prisoner," he said. "She is a citizen whose lineage places her at risk. There are factions—internal and external—that would exploit her bloodline for their own agendas. The Empire will not permit that."
"Even if she doesn't consent?" someone asked.
Arakawa's eyes did not leave the camera.
"Especially then."
The questions did not stop—but they shifted.
Slowly.
Like a current turning cold.
"Secretary," a reporter said, voice lower now, "the Hayashi attack happened while Akira Hayashi was in full public view. Yet Imperial Special Operations units were deployed elsewhere. Why?"
The room seemed to hold its breath.
Another voice followed.
"Kurogane Span."
The effect was immediate.
The sound dropped—not silence, but something worse. Attention narrowed.
Cameras stopped drifting.
"Kurogane Port," someone said.
"Kurogane Bridge."
"Special Operations casualties."
"Unconfirmed numbers."
Arakawa did not speak at once.
That hesitation was noticed.
"Is it true," a younger reporter asked, carefully choosing every word, "that Imperial elite samurai units suffered catastrophic losses during an overnight operation?"
"There was an engagement," Arakawa said at last. "Details remain classified."
"Classified because they failed?"
"Because they were overwhelmed?"
"Because they were humiliated?"
The word echoed.
Humiliated.
Arakawa's jaw tightened—just slightly.
"The situation escalated beyond projected parameters," he said. "Environmental collapse, structural instability, and intelligence failure contributed."
An alibi.
"So no hostile?"
"No enemy?"
"No individual responsible?"
The pause stretched.
Someone whispered it—almost reverently.
"They're calling it the Nightmare of Kurogane."
The hall froze.
Even the drones seemed to hover more quietly.
Arakawa's gaze swept the room once, slow and assessing.
"There is no such designation," he said. "What occurred was not an act of war, nor the emergence of any anomalous entity. It was a convergence of failures. Nothing more."
"Then why seal the footage?"
"Why redact the casualty logs?"
"Why silence surviving witnesses?"
His answer came immediately this time.
"Because panic spreads faster than truth," Arakawa said. "And panic kills more efficiently than any blade."
The explanation was reasonable.
Too reasonable.
The questions did not retreat. They widened.
"What about the Inoue territory?"
"The deaths reported overnight?"
"Entire households eliminated?"
"No formal statement issued?"
Arakawa exhaled slowly.
"The Inoue incident is under internal review," he said. "Early indicators suggest criminal infighting."
"And the rumors?" another reporter asked. "That government assets were stolen. Experimental materials. Human experimentation programs."
The word experiment rippled through the hall like static.
Arakawa's expression did not change.
"The Empire does not conduct illegal human experimentation," he said flatly.
"Then why are sources claiming an experimental subject was removed from containment?"
"Why do timelines match Kurogane?"
"Why does everything point back to last night?"
For the first time, Arakawa raised his voice—just enough.
"Correlation does not equal causation," he said. "And rumor does not equal truth."
The press did not look convinced.
Behind the cameras, beyond the polished hall and controlled answers, something unspoken lingered.
"Neo-Japan remains secure," Arakawa said. "This session is over."
He stepped back from the podium.
For a fraction of a second, the room seemed unsure whether to accept it.
Then movement broke the stillness.
One of Arakawa's aides—an officer in muted Imperial gray—approached him quickly from the side. He leaned in, close enough that the microphones couldn't reach.
He whispered.
Whatever was said lasted no more than two seconds.
But it was enough.
Arakawa's eyes widened—just slightly.
A ripple passed across his expression before discipline reclaimed it. The shock vanished almost as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the familiar mask of composure.
But the cameras had already caught it.
A reporter shouted, voice cutting through the rising noise.
"Secretary Arakawa—has footage from Kurogane just been leaked?"
The hall exploded.
"What footage?" "Confirmed leak?" "By whom?"
Another voice rose, louder, urgent.
"The Imperial Minister has released a statement!"
That stopped everything.
"He's confirmed casualties," the reporter continued. "And—he's issued a bounty."
A wave of noise crashed through the chamber.
"A bounty on who?" "On the Nightmare?" "How much?" "Is this official?"
Arakawa turned back toward the crowd.
For the first time since stepping onto the stage, his composure strained—not broken, but stretched thin.
"The interview," he said sharply, "is concluded."
He stepped down from the podium.
Reporters surged forward, voices overlapping, shouting questions faster than any answer could catch them.
"Secretary—confirm the bounty!" "Is the Nightmare real?" "Why now?" "Is this fear management?" "Is the Empire hunting a man or a weapon?"
Security closed in as Arakawa moved through the chaos, escorted by his guards, cameras flashing relentlessly as he disappeared behind the secured doors.
The Press Hall dissolved into noise.
Because everyone had heard it.
The Empire had drawn blood in the dark—
And now, in daylight, it had named a price.