"Sheriff, sir, you can take a look at our damaged gate."
Ignis gestured toward the door that had been blown apart by explosives.
"They used bombs to attack our residence. We were forced to retaliate."
He pointed again—this time to the security camera on the wall.
"We have full footage that proves Ironclaw's gang struck first. According to the Stand-Your-Ground Law and the Castle Doctrine, our response was entirely legitimate self-defense."
The brown-haired, middle-aged sheriff looked half-asleep. He yawned, pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and took a long drag.
"Leonard Russo," he said, tapping his chest before exhaling smoke straight at Ignis. "You folks just moved in and already stirred up this kind of mess? Didn't even bother to show up and pay your respects to the locals? Feeling that confident, huh?"
"Pull the surveillance footage. Contact the forensics department for autopsies," Sheriff Leonard ordered his officers. "And someone get me a coffee."
"We at Gentle House are a legitimate staffing company engaged in multiple lines of human resources work." Ignis delivered the lie Nicole had taught him with a straight face. "You're welcome to check our tax records—we've paid in full every year, never evaded a single credit."
"What kind of staffing company keeps firearms?" the sheriff spat on the ground. "I've seen your type before. Ironclaw's front businesses paid their taxes too—and I know damn well what he was running."
"Our operations include a small-scale private security service," Ignis replied, his flame-colored eyes fixed on the man. "We have a weapons permit from the Public Security Bureau. I'm sure you'll find the documents. As for what Ironclaw's company did—that's none of my concern."
"But," the giant's voice rose slightly, "he and his men initiated an armed assault against our premises and employees. That is an undeniable fact. Under law, we were granted—and exercised—our right to unlimited self-defense."
"And that somehow means you burned the guy to ashes—left half a skull behind? What kind of 'self-defense' is that supposed to be?"
Leonard looked frustrated. The giant wasn't wrong; Ironclaw was notorious for bullying other gangs and stirring up chaos, cutting into Leonard's monthly "contributions."
The district chief had wanted him gone for a while, but the arrest was supposed to be their job—a guaranteed merit.
Now these new so-called contractors had ruined it.
He wanted nothing more than to find a flaw and toss them straight into a holding cell.
"Not everyone, just the ones who entered the courtyard," Ignis corrected calmly. "I'm not some bloodthirsty maniac."
Leonard eyed the bald giant in leather and combat gear with suspicion. If that's not a walking medal of valor, I don't know what is.
Just then, a small truck arrived to haul away the corpses. Officers loaded body bags into the vehicle.
"That's over a dozen dead, sir," Leonard said stiffly. "You'd better start cooperating, or we can escalate this to headquarters."
"Let the Criminal Investigation Special Response Team handle it," he added, flicking the cigarette butt onto the grass—making Ignis frown. "And you and your boss better be smart about it. Around here, we collect a public safety maintenance fee every month…"
"Sir! The surveillance footage has been copied!" A patrol officer jogged up, interrupting him. "Bodies cleared, evidence photos taken!"
"Pack it up. Back to the station." Leonard growled, venting his irritation on his men. "You all move like slugs."
"Don't disturb the traces in the yard," he called from the patrol car window. "We'll be back in a few days. Pay for three months in advance. If you miss a payment—deal with the consequences."
This place is crawling with snakes and rats.
Ignis sighed, picked up the discarded cigarette butt, and with a snap of his fingers, flicked it at the back window of Leonard's patrol car. He controlled the force so it didn't shatter the glass—but it hit hard enough to make a sound.
The car paused briefly, then grumbled back to life and drove off.
Nicole and the others, including the Bangboo Amillion, had gone to Fourteenth Street for a big job—something about a big score.
That left Ignis alone to deal with the police. Thankfully, Nicole had prepped him on legal jargon, jurisdiction issues, and—most importantly—the possibility of bribes.
That's the only reason he got rid of them so easily.
As for the surveillance footage—no problem there. He'd made sure to drag Ironclaw into the courtyard for the execution. Brutal, yes, but still within the legal bounds of unlimited self-defense.
And near the Old Capital, violent gangs were everywhere. As long as there were no civilian casualties, the Public Security rarely bothered to intervene.
These outer precincts were chronically underfunded, their officers underpaid and demoralized—barely able to keep the lights on.
To make ends meet, they'd swing the law like a club and "collect" special security fees from local businesses and gangs alike.
You paid, they looked the other way. Simple as that.
Not so different from the Arbitrators of the Adeptus Arbites, honestly.
Watching the patrol car disappear from sight, Ignis turned back inside. The garage now had a bed—custom-made, large enough that even he could stretch out comfortably.
He was about to crash for a nap when he noticed something. His Power Armor and neural fiber muscle suit, resting by the wall, had been tampered with. Likely by one of those patrol officers.
He immediately got up and resecured everything.
Then a chill crept down his spine. Good thing those bastards didn't figure out what this gear actually is. If they'd "found" anything illegal inside, the Cunning Hares would've been in serious trouble.
Clearly, they were trying the old "polite first, pressure later" routine. As long as Nicole was willing to pay, things would stay quiet.
But it was Nicole… She wasn't exactly known for handing out cash easily.
"Um… hello?" came a young voice from the entryway. "The door was open, so… I came in."
Open? It wasn't open—there was no door left to close.
It was Emile Volt—the little artist.
"Hey, come in." Ignis waved him over.
The boy bowed slightly, stepping into the garage—and froze at the sight of the massive mechanical rig above.
"Something wrong?" Ignis asked. "Those punks didn't bother you again, did they?"
"No, it's not that…" Emile stammered. "It's just…"
"No need to be nervous. Just say it."
"I'm sorry. Because you helped me, they caused you trouble…" The boy bowed deeply.
"Kid, this isn't your fault." Ignis patted his shoulder. "Victims don't apologize. Those bastards got what was coming. If we hadn't dealt with them, someone else would've."
"But all of this happened because you helped me," Emile said. "I saw the bullet holes on the walls… the missing gate. How should I repay you?"
"I'll say it again—this isn't your fault." Ignis smiled warmly. "I helped you because I chose to. Their destruction isn't your responsibility."
"But…" Emile started, only to have Ignis press a large finger gently against his lips.
"If you really want to do something in return," Ignis said, walking over to the control panel, "maybe you can paint our company emblem on the new gate."
A mechanical arm came to life, grabbing Ignis's Power Armor's left gauntlet.
"See here? The paint got scraped." He showed it to Emile. "I was thinking of repainting it—with a design. What do you think?"
The boy stared in awe at the massive armor plate, then nodded dumbly.
"I've seen your drawings," Ignis said, crouching down to meet his eyes. "I want you to design something for me. Think you can handle that?"
"M-me?" Emile stammered. His art wasn't anything special—designing something for his benefactor's armor felt way above his skill level.
"Yes, you." Ignis nodded. "Don't worry—it'll be paid work. You'll put in effort and time, and that deserves compensation."
"Yes, sir!" The boy's eyes lit up with excitement. "I'll design a bold and powerful emblem—something worthy of your armor!"
"I'll be looking forward to it." Ignis smiled.
"Hello! Hello!" A voice suddenly called from the entryway. "Is Mr. Ignis home, nya? Nicole sent me to find you, nya!"
It was a female voice, nasal and hurried, ending with a suspiciously feline tone.
"Busy day for guests, huh?" Ignis muttered, standing up to open the door.
At the entrance stood a petite, dark-skinned catgirl—and for a second, Ignis felt his heart skip a beat.
A dark-skinned catgirl…
A mutant?
Then it clicked—she was a Thiren. He'd seen plenty of them on the streets yesterday while shopping, but this was his first time up close.
"Don't just stand there, nya! Nicole sent me for backup, nya!" the catgirl said urgently, her voice sharp with panic.