A clear, ordinary Wednesday.
I haven't seen much of Scotch since that day.
For one, excessive contact risks bringing us both down if our cover as NOCs is ever blown. Then there's the matter of his likely suspicion while I wear the mask of "Furuya Rei."
Deep-cover agents must master impersonation, naturally, but the unease Scotch senses runs deeper than mere acting.
It's in the subtle movements, the shifting micro-expressions, the tiny habits.
If these microscopic details are what trigger his alarm bells, there is nothing I can do about it.
Furthermore, Rye and Scotch act as spotters for one another on the job. They don't need a third wheel, which leaves me completely sidelined.
Merely glimpsing their faces during executive meetings will never be enough to dispel those doubts.
Setting aside Aquavit and Stout, who prefer to operate solo, I'm actually quite busy managing relations with various other executives.
I recently helped prep Curacao's infiltration gear.
I remember her staring me down with those clear, transparent eyes. "Hmm. Not bad," she remarked sharply. Her detached yet approving attitude caught me off guard.
True to form, the pre-amnesia Curacao is a completely different beast from the one we know—a reputation she certainly lives up to.
She is also incredibly formidable in close-quarters combat; we've sparred a few times.
She was a tough opponent. Since I am essentially a monster with terrifying physical strength, I had to fight with extreme restraint to avoid inflicting serious injury. Still, I take pride in managing to win without incident.
There was a regrettable episode in the past during a match with Irish. I landed a clean, direct kick that snapped his bones like brittle biscuits.
Even though he was off-balance at the time—which should have dampened the impact—he simply couldn't withstand my raw muscle power. After all, this same strength allows me to shred through doors with my claws.
Naturally, I offered my sincerest apologies to Irish and his sponsor, Pisco.
As I practically prostrated myself before the bandage-wrapped Irish, he let out a heavy sigh and gave me a wry smile. "Don't worry about it. It's my fault for not being able to take the hit. Just means I need more training."
Pisco even invited me to join his faction, asking, "Why don't you come work for my group?" That reassures me they're reasonably satisfied with my performance, but breaking the man's bones was definitely overkill.
And now.
Today is my scheduled check-in with Kazami-san.
The meeting point this time is inside a car.
A vehicle acts as a "moving sealed room," making it ideal for confidential talks. Once swept for bugs, it becomes a secure, controllable environment.
I picked Kazami-san up from the waiting spot, settled him into the passenger seat, and eased the RX-7 onto the road.
Since I lack fine motor control over this body, I'm a terrible driver, so I stuck to a slow, safe pace.
Watching the scenery drift by, I cautiously broke the silence.
"What's my status with Public Security?"
"...Generally speaking, I hear the consensus is to wait and see."
Kazami-san, his face stiff with tension, was still scrutinizing my expressions.
I breathed an internal sigh of relief. It was the answer I expected.
I figured they wouldn't pull an irreplaceable deep-cover asset just because he showed signs of psychological instability.
After all, the target is the Black Organization—a den of vipers where investigators from nations all over the world drop like flies.
The capital and manpower invested in planting me there were immense. There's no guarantee they could get someone else this deep again, so it's only natural they'd turn a blind eye to a few issues.
If this infiltration failed because of me, I could never look Furuya-san in the eye again.
Good. That's good.
With the first hurdle cleared, I glanced sideways at the passenger seat, clearing my throat to segue into the next topic.
Kazami-san was still staring straight ahead, his expression as stiff as ever.
"I ran into Scotch—Morofushi Hiromitsu—inside the Organization recently."
"H-huh! ...You met him?"
I didn't quite grasp why Kazami-san felt the need to parrot my words back to me.
He seemed wary. Did he have a question?
Look, I understand his caution toward a stranger who hijacked his superior's body... but I'd appreciate it if he actually used his words.
Hmm? Is a personality born from the blueprint of the criminal "Amuro Tooru" simply untrustworthy?
Please, don't rub salt in the wound.
"That's exactly why I need you, Kazami-san. Can you explain my current condition to him on my behalf?"
"...Why?"
"Direct communication inside the Organization is too risky. Besides, given his intuition as a childhood friend... he undoubtedly harbors suspicions about my state."
Clearing up this misunderstanding with Scotch is a top priority.
A little distrust is manageable, but leaving it unaddressed could derail the mission.
It would be catastrophic if he asked "Who are you?" at a critical moment when his cover as a spy is blown.
"Before the unthinkable happens, I need you to officially and accurately inform him of my multiple personality status."
"Understood."
After a brief silence, Kazami-san nodded.
Then he looked at me with fearful hesitation, blinking rapidly. Was he nervous?
"A-and how is Furuya-san?"
"Still asleep, as always. He seems to open his eyes in a daze occasionally, but he hasn't regained consciousness."
"Does that mean he woke up temporarily!?"
"No."
Even I was startled when I noticed Furuya-san sleepily opening his eyes deep within my subconscious during a mission.
I called out to him desperately, but he didn't respond; he just drifted back to sleep...
Still, just opening his eyes is the most significant progress we've seen in two years.
When I shook my head, Kazami-san murmured a broken, "I see," and hung his head. I felt sorry I couldn't offer him any good news.
"But the fact that his eyes opened could mean his awakening is near."
"I hope you're right."
"I'll keep trying to reach the 'Furuya Rei' persona. I'll let you know if anything changes."
"I'm counting on you, Furu... Amuro-san."
He stumbled over my name, then fell silent.
I turned right at the intersection, merging onto the coastal road. The RX-7 glided smoothly along the asphalt, but the air inside the cabin remained heavy and stagnant.
"If Furuya-san wakes up... what happens to you?"
After a long silence, Kazami-san spoke haltingly.
Our eyes didn't meet. Focused on the road, I didn't have the luxury of turning to look at him.
"...I don't know."
Even if Furuya Rei returns, I have no idea what will become of me. Perhaps we'll simply exist as a case of Dissociative Identity Disorder.
That in itself poses a problem for after the infiltration mission. Since I am a transmigrator—a soul from another world—committing me to a mental institution would be pointless. There's no hope for a "cure." It would just end with me drugged on medication that won't work.
Or perhaps I can look at it differently: I sink my consciousness into the depths of the mind, allowing Furuya-san to surface in his natural, healthy state.
Honestly, diving deep and enjoying a front-row seat to "Furuya Rei's 24-Hour Reality" sounds more relaxing anyway. That might be the best solution.
With that thought in mind, I stole a quick glance at Kazami-san.
"Isn't it the nature of Dissociative Identity Disorder for the alternate personality to disappear once it's no longer needed?"
"...Maybe. That could be true."
That answer, carrying the heaviest weight of the entire day, left me whispering to myself: "Then what am I supposed to do?"