The sirens split the night like blades.
Seigi ran. His boots hammered the asphalt of Shinjuku's backstreets, the cold air burning his lungs. Neon signs flickered above the narrow alleys, their colours bleeding into the rising smoke that smeared across the city's skyline. The call had come barely ten minutes ago—Veil activity at the subway hub. Bomb threat. Panic spreading like wildfire.
Behind him, Hana's footsteps were steady, measured, her coat snapping around her legs as she kept pace. Ahead, Riku blurred into sight and out again, darting across rooftops with cocky bursts of speed, his laughter cutting briefly through the wail of the sirens. Aya trailed quietly behind, her calm expression at odds with the chaos, as though the madness couldn't touch her.
They weren't detectives tonight. Not officers, not people. They were shadows called to bleed.
The subway entrance loomed ahead, lit by strobes of red and blue from emergency lights. Smoke poured from the stairwell, acrid and choking. Crowds of civilians spilled into the street, coughing, shouting, eyes wild with fear. The smell of burnt plastic and sweat clung to the air.
"Riku—push them back, keep the exits clear," Hana snapped, already in command. "Aya, triage. Anyone injured, get them stable. Seigi—on me."
Seigi nodded, forcing the tremor out of his voice. He followed her down the stairwell, into the smoke.
The concourse was a nightmare. Thick smoke blanketed everything, stinging his eyes and throat. Emergency lights flashed red across white tiles, making the world look like it was bleeding. Signs hung crooked, bags and shoes lay abandoned, alarms wailed overhead.
Seigi's heart pounded. He wasn't in uniform. He wasn't even sure who he was right now.
"Bombs?" he asked, coughing into his sleeve.
"Maybe," Hana muttered, scanning the haze. "Or maybe they just want to watch us dance. Either way, we treat it as real."
A child cried somewhere ahead. Seigi lunged toward the sound, tearing aside broken tiles and twisted metal until he found a boy curled against a wall, his leg pinned beneath rubble. His mother clawed desperately at the debris.
Seigi crouched low, voice calm though his pulse roared. "It's okay. You'll be fine."
He gripped the rubble and lifted. Too easily. The slab of stone rose like it weighed nothing. The woman froze, her hands falling still.
Her eyes darted from his glowing veins to his face.
"Go!" Seigi barked, ushering them toward the stairwell.
She snatched her son into her arms and ran—but not before staring one more time. Staring at him.
Threads had flickered faintly at his fingertips. He clenched his fists, forcing them to vanish, but the damage was done.
Gunfire cracked deeper in the tunnels. The sound reverberated through the smoke, sharp and metallic. Seigi spun instinctively, threads itching to leap from his hands.
"Come on," Hana urged, pulling him forward.
The smoke thickened, turning the world into shifting silhouettes. And then the Veil operatives emerged—three of them, faces hidden behind jagged masks.
One hurled a firebomb that shattered against the tiles, flames crawling hungrily across the floor. Another brandished a knife humming faintly with Aether. The third stalked forward empty-handed, confidence radiating off his stride.
Hana moved like water. She kicked the firebomb aside before the flames spread, then swept low, catching the knife with a crack of her baton.
Seigi's breath hitched. His body moved before he could think. Threads lashed from his palms, silver and alive. They caught the knife mid-swing, tore it free, and slammed the wielder against the wall.
The glow was too bright. Too visible.
Civilians near the stairwell gasped, their eyes locking onto him.
"Did you see that—?"
"His hands—threads—"
"He's one of them—"
Seigi faltered.
"Focus!" Hana barked, deflecting another strike.
He forced his fear down and yanked another operative off his feet, slamming him to the tiles. The last one lunged—but a blur of motion ripped past. Riku appeared out of the smoke, his fist connecting with the man's jaw in a blow that cracked like thunder. The operative dropped instantly.
The station fell quiet except for alarms and the crackle of dying fire.
But the civilians weren't looking at the fire. They were staring at Seigi.
At his hands. At the fading threads.
Whispers spread, crawling like insects:
"He looked like a cop…"
"Glowing strings—"
"Not human—"
Seigi yanked his hood higher, turned his face away, but it was too late. He could feel it—the fear, the suspicion. Not at the Veil, but at him.
His chest felt like it was closing in.
Hours later, in the Guild safehouse, the chamber was heavy with silence.
"The mission was contained," Kurogami said softly, his hands clasped behind his back as he paced. "No bombs. Just smoke and knives. A game. The Veil wanted to see how quickly we would scramble."
Riku leaned back against the wall, bruised but grinning. "And we scrambled faster. Dropped 'em in five minutes."
Aya's gaze was steady, sharp. "They weren't trying to win. They wanted attention. To test us. To make us show ourselves."
Kurogami inclined his head. "And perhaps they succeeded." His gaze slid deliberately to Seigi.
Seigi stiffened. "What are you—"
"Civilians saw you," Kurogami interrupted smoothly. "Unmasked. Threads bright as fire. Already, whispers spread. A man with silver strings. A glowing-eyed officer in the smoke."
Seigi's throat tightened. "I didn't—there wasn't time—"
"Time," Kurogami said, his voice cutting like glass, "is what the Veil stole. You made the right choice. And yet…" His lips curved faintly. "Perhaps fortune smiled. Whispers are the beginning of legend."
Hana bristled. "That's not what this is about. He's exposed now. If the wrong person connects him to the precinct—"
"Then the choice becomes his," Kurogami said simply. "Hide forever. Or embrace what the world begins to see."
Seigi's stomach twisted. He wanted to argue, but the words wouldn't come.
That night, in his apartment, he couldn't sit still. He paced the floor, every shadow on the wall twitching like it hid an eye.
He saw again the mother's stare, the civilians whispering, the way fear had shifted from the Veil to him.
He gripped the sink, staring into the mirror. His reflection stared back—tired, pale, veins seeming to glow faintly under his skin.
"If they recognize me…" His voice was a rasp. "If they connect me…"
The image of his father. His mother. His colleagues at the precinct. Hana. His family.
"I need to hide," he whispered.
Not from the Veil. Not from Kurogami.
From everyone.