The backstage staging area, which had been a hive of frantic energy before the judging, was now a pocket universe of quiet, stunned reverence. As Kenji, Reika, and the magnificent Caesar returned to their designated corner, a wide berth was given to them. Exhibitors who had earlier been engrossed in their own preparations now watched the trio with a mixture of awe, confusion, and a healthy dose of fear. They were no longer just another team; they were an enigma, a walking, breathing, lion-sized koan.
Kenji's own mind was a battlefield of conflicting emotions. A small, hysterical part of him wanted to laugh at the sheer, unadulterated absurdity of it all. He had passed a cat show temperament test with a predator that viewed the entire event as a potential smorgasbord. The larger part of him, however, was filled with a cold, creeping dread. The Takahashi Paradox had never been this powerful, this reality-bending. He felt less like an agent manipulating a situation and more like a man strapped to the front of an out-of-control locomotive, powered by the collective delusion of an entire subculture.
"That was… a success, I suppose," he muttered into his turtleneck mic, sinking onto a small, foldable stool that groaned in protest. Caesar, oblivious to the existential crisis of his handler, settled onto the floor with the quiet dignity of a king, his mere presence turning their small corner of the convention center into his personal throne room.
"The judges' preliminary scores have been posted," Sato's voice replied, crisp and clear in his ear. "You received a perfect 10 in 'Temperament' and a 9.8 in 'Breed Standards.' You lost 0.2 points because, and I quote from the judge's notes, 'the subject's stoic nature, while profound, made it difficult to fully assess the glossiness of the undercoat without direct handling, which the subject's aura did not seem to invite.'"
Kenji dropped his head into his hands. "His aura didn't invite it," he repeated in a hollow monotone. "He's a lion, Sato. His aura was politely suggesting that if she touched his undercoat, she would be withdrawing a bloody stump."
"An effective, if non-traditional, method for establishing personal boundaries," Sato noted. "Now, while you're having your crisis, Reika has a window. The other champions are in their post-judging cool-down phase. Have her conduct her initial analysis."
Kenji looked up. Reika was already gone. She hadn't vanished; she had simply… melded into the background. She was a ghost in her own right, moving with a silent, unobtrusive grace that allowed her to get unnervingly close to the other grooming stations without anyone seeming to notice. She was a cleaner, a stagehand, a shadow—part of the invisible machinery of the event that no one ever paid attention to.
Kenji watched as Reika moved through the backstage chaos, a picture of serene focus. She paused near the grooming station of a magnificent Siberian Forest Cat, a creature whose fur was a wild, beautiful storm of grey and white. The cat's owner was meticulously misting it with a spray bottle, but the animal itself was unnervingly still, its gaze distant and unfocused. Reika didn't look at the cat directly. She simply stood nearby, ostensibly examining a loose thread on her canvas jacket, but Kenji knew she was listening, not with her ears, but with her entire being. She was sensing the silent, invisible currents in the room.
She drifted from station to station, a quiet observer of the post-judging rituals. She saw the same thing everywhere. The champion cats, the ones at the peak of their form, were all in the same state: a calm, beautiful, and deeply unnatural docility. They were no longer animals; they were living sculptures, perfect and empty.
After ten minutes of this silent reconnaissance, she returned to their corner. Her face, usually so placid and unreadable, was clouded with a subtle, yet profound, sense of unease.
"They are not here," she said, her voice a low, troubled whisper.
Kenji frowned. "Not here? Reika-san, the room is full of them."
"Their bodies are here," she clarified, her ancient eyes meeting his. "But their spirits are… quiet. It is not the quiet of peace. It is the quiet of an empty room. They are listening to something. A sound I cannot hear." She paused, a thoughtful frown creasing her brow. "It is a song that tells them to forget they are predators. It tells them to forget they are wild. It tells them only to be beautiful."
This was it. The confirmation. The "Perfected Purr" was not just a rumor; it was a real, active phenomenon. An invisible cage of sound was being lowered over these creatures, stripping them of their essential nature. And Le Pinceau was the zookeeper.
"The frequency," Kenji breathed, the mission parameters snapping into sharp, terrifying focus. "It's active."
"It is strong," Reika confirmed. "And it is wrong. It is a lie told to the soul of the animal."
Kenji looked out at the arena, at the bright lights and the adoring crowds, and saw it for what it was: a laboratory. A beautifully disguised, high-stakes field test for a weapon of mass compliance. The implications were staggering. If they could do this to a hundred prize-winning cats, they could do it to a thousand unsuspecting citizens. He felt the familiar weight of a world-threatening conspiracy settle back onto his shoulders. His brief, terrifying career as a cat show exhibitor had just become deadly serious again. He needed to file a report. He needed to get this information to the Director, to translate the poetic horror of Reika's findings into the cold, hard jargon of an intelligence assessment.
He retreated into the quiet, professional space of his own mind, the only place where he was still just Agent Takahashi, a man trying to make sense of an insane world. He began to compose his official mission report, the words forming in the dry, sterile language of the agency, a stark and almost comical contrast to the reality of his situation.