Location: Chiba – Street Food District
Date: Thursday | 12:00 PM
SLURP.
Mirko sucked down a massive mouthful of soba noodles.
She didn't care about manners. She was hungry, and she was eating like she had just finished a ten-mile sprint.
Kaito sat on the wooden stool next to her, slowly eating his own bowl of cold soba.
It had been three days since Mirko kicked the doors of Arisaka Consulting open and demanded a contract.
Today was the day Kaito inspected her agency headquarters to start planning.
But for the last hour, she had been stalling.
First, it was a detour through the shopping district. Then it was a stop at this small street stall for lunch.
CLACK.
Mirko dropped her wooden chopsticks into her empty bowl and let out a loud, satisfied hum.
HUUF.
"Ah! That hits the spot," Mirko said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She looked over at Kaito. "You eat way too slow, Manager."
"I eat normally," Kaito said, taking another bite. "You just eat like someone is trying to steal your food."
Mirko laughed loudly, leaning her elbows on the sticky counter. "It's a habit. If you stop moving on the streets, you lose your rhythm. Gotta eat fast, sleep fast, and hit hard."
Kaito finished his bowl and set his chopsticks down. He pulled a napkin from the dispenser.
"Alright," Kaito said, wiping his mouth. "Lunch is over. Are you going to show me your agency now, or are we going to go look at shoes next?"
"....."
Mirko flinched slightly. Her long rabbit ears twitched.
"I wasn't stalling," Mirko crossed her arms, looking away. "I just wanted to make sure you weren't starving before we got to work. Come on. Follow me."
THUD.
She hopped off the stool and started walking down the street. Kaito paid the stall owner and followed her.
They walked away from the busy commercial district. The buildings started getting older. The streets got narrower.
A few blocks later, Mirko stopped in front of a rundown, four-story apartment building. The paint on the walls was peeling off.
She walked up the concrete stairs to the third floor, pulled a regular brass key out of her pocket, and unlocked a door at the end of the hall.
CREAK.
She pushed the door open and stepped inside. She kicked her heavy boots off into the corner.
"Tadaa," Mirko said, spreading her arms out. "Welcome to the Mirko Agency headquarters."
Kaito stepped inside and looked around.
It wasn't a commercial office space. It was a single-bedroom apartment.
There was a tiny kitchen attached to a small living room. A pile of workout clothes sat in the corner next to a punching bag.
A small, cheap laptop was sitting on a low wooden table covered in instant ramen cups and unopened mail.
"...."
Kaito just stood there for a second.
He didn't look disgusted. He didn't look disappointed. He just nodded softly.
Looking at the cheap wallpaper and the tiny fridge, Kaito felt a sudden wave of nostalgia.
He remembered his very first blue-collar job right after high school.
Long before he became the Golden Manager, he had rented a room exactly like this. Cramped, messy, and quiet.
"What?" Mirko asked, misreading his silence. She put her hands on her hips defensively. "Go ahead and say it. It's a dump. I know. It's not a giant glass tower like Endeavor has."
"It's fine," Kaito said, walking over and taking a seat on the small floor cushion next to the low table. "It reminds me of my old place. But it's not a headquarters, Rumi. It's an apartment."
Mirko sat down across from him, crossing her legs.
"It's all I need," she said stubbornly. "I told you. I'm a solo hero. I absolutely hate teams. I hate cowards who rely on other people to cover their backs. I don't want a dozen sidekicks running around getting in my way when a fight breaks out."
"I get what you're saying," Kaito said. He moved a stack of unopened mail to the side. "And I respect the solo route. But tell me what your actual goal is. Where do you want to be?"
"The top," Mirko said without hesitating. "I want to be in the Top Ten. Top Five, even. I want to show the whole country that you don't need a massive corporation to be the best."
"....."
Kaito looked right at her.
He knew her path. He knew that if she kept doing things her way, it would take her years of brutal, exhausting, bone-breaking grinding to finally crack the Top 5.
She would get there, but she would have to bleed for every single inch.
"You can get there," Kaito said bluntly. "But if you keep doing things the way you are right now, it's going to take four to five years. Minimum."
"What?" Mirko frowned, her ears dropping a bit. "No way. I hit harder than most of the guys in the Top Twenty right now."
"Hitting hard isn't the problem," Kaito said. "The system is the problem. The hero rankings favor big agencies. You want to be a one-man army, but right now, you are just a street brawler doing your own paperwork."
"....."
Mirko blinked. She looked down at the massive pile of unopened mail on her table.
"If you get sued for property damage because you kicked a villain through a store window," Kaito continued, "Endeavor has ten lawyers to handle it while he keeps fighting. You have to stop fighting, come back to this apartment, and fill out paperwork for three days."
"..."
Mirko didn't say anything. She just stared at him.
"You want to stay solo. That's fine," Kaito said, leaning his arms on the table. "But you need to stop thinking like a hero captain, and start thinking like a fighter pilot."
Mirko tilted her head. "A pilot?"
"Yeah," Kaito nodded. "A fighter pilot flies into the warzone completely alone. They are the only one in the cockpit pulling the trigger. But down on the ground? They have mechanics, radar operators, and a logistics crew. People who never fire a single missile, but make sure the pilot only has to worry about hitting the target."
"Wait a minute," Mirko raised her hand, narrowing her eyes. "You just said I don't need sidekicks. Now you're telling me to hire a ground crew? I told you, I don't want a team."
"They aren't your team," Kaito corrected her quickly. "They are your employees. There is a huge difference."
"How?" Mirko asked, crossing her arms.
"Teammates fight with you," Kaito explained. "Teammates get in your way on the street. Employees never step foot on a battlefield. A dispatcher isn't your sidekick, Rumi. A dispatcher is just a living GPS. A lawyer isn't your teammate. A lawyer is just a shield to keep the government off your back. They are tools. You use them so you can fight one hundred percent alone without being bothered by a stack of mail."
Mirko slowly uncrossed her arms. She looked at the mail again.
"So... they just do the boring stuff?" Mirko asked.
"Exactly," Kaito said. "Zero sidekicks. We build a shadow intel team. These are computer guys who sit in an office miles away from you. They hack police scanners, track villain movements, and feed you live coordinates straight to an earpiece."
Mirko's eyes widened slightly.
"You don't have to jump across rooftops hoping to find a mugger anymore," Kaito said.
"The intel team finds the high-level threats, points you in the right direction, and you get the fight. You get the adrenaline, the agency gets the high-profile takedown, and your rank shoots up."
"...."
"Okay," Mirko smirked, leaning forward. "I actually like the sound of that. Just point and punch."
"And the second phase is your brand," Kaito said. He tapped the cheap table. "Even after my contract with you is done, you need a way to stay in the public eye without doing stupid fan events."
"I hate fan events," Mirko grumbled. "Standing around smiling is the worst."
"Then we make the fans come to you," Kaito said. "We don't just put your face on a billboard. We launch a brand. 'M-Usagi' high-impact training gear. Combat boots. Protein supplements. You build a massive public presence just by having people buy your gear. It creates a solo franchise that keeps your rank high forever, even while you're just out kicking ass."
"...."
Mirko looked at Kaito.
Then she looked around her messy, cramped apartment.
She let out a loud laugh, rubbing the back of her neck.
"Hehe.. Man," Mirko grinned, a spark of real, dangerous excitement in her eyes. "You really know how to make a girl feel stupid. An invisible staff that feeds me fights and handles the paper so I can stay solo..."
BAM.
She slammed her hand on the table.
"I love it," Mirko said, showing her teeth in a wild grin. "Alright. Tell me what to do first, Manager."
_-_-_-_-_-_
Location: Hero Public Safety Commission Headquarters – Tokyo
Date: Friday | 09:00 AM
The HPSC building was cold and massive. White walls, white floors. It felt more like a hospital than a government hub.
Inside a high-end briefing room, a nineteen-year-old hero leaned way back in his chair. He was staring at the ceiling.
Hawks. Keigo Takami.
His large red wings were folded neatly behind him. He looked totally relaxed, but his fingers tapped a rapid, restless beat against the armrest.
TAP. TAP. TAP.
CLICK.
The heavy door opened. His handler walked in. The guy wore a stiff grey suit and looked like he hadn't slept in a week. He was holding a tablet.
"Well?" Takami asked. He didn't even look away from the ceiling. "Did the Golden Manager say yes?"
"No," the handler said flatly, stopping at the head of the table. "Arisaka Consulting formally declined the contract."
Takami stopped tapping his fingers. He slowly sat up and looked at the man.
"Declined?" Hawks asked, dropping his lazy tone. "Are you serious? Did you offer him the increased rate like I told you?"
SIGH.
"We offered triple his standard fee," the handler sighed. "He refused. He said his roster is full."
Hawks let out a short breath and ran a hand through his messy blonde hair.
"Who did he pick up instead?" Hawks asked. "Did Yoroi Musha grab him first? Or Edgeshot?"
"Neither," the handler looked down at his screen. "He signed Rumi Usagiyama. Hero name: Mirko."
"..."
Hawks just stared at the handler.
"What... Mirko? That woman?" Hawks repeated. He actually sounded confused. "She's ranked in the lower fifties. She's a street vagabond. She doesn't even have a registered office! Why would he pick her over me? I'm ranked way higher. The public actually likes me."
A real sting of betrayal hit Hawks right in the chest.
He knew Kaito first. Years ago, before Kaito was the famous Golden Manager, he was just a guy checking support gear at the hub.
Kaito was the one who audited Hawks' flight visor and wing harness. He was the one who told him to stop fighting the wind resistance and use his feathers to ride the air currents instead.
Hawks still used that advice every single day. It changed how he flew.
"Why didn't he choose me?" Hawks asked. His voice was tight.
The handler set the tablet down on the table.
"Because you don't have an agency, Hawks," the handler said bluntly. "You operate directly under us. The Comission. And Kaito Arisaka hates our oversight. He refuses to deal with us ever since the Comission falsely flagged him in the past. Since you are a direct government asset, he won't touch you."
"..."
"..."
Hawks sat completely still.
The words sank in. His boss wasn't just telling him who to fight anymore.
They were actively holding him back. They were the reason the best manager in the country refused to help him reach the top.
'The hell! I'm stuck in a cage,' Hawks thought, looking down at his hands. 'A really nice, golden cage.'
He needed the Golden Manager's backing if he wanted to fly higher. But to get Kaito, he had to get out of this building first.
SCRAPE.
Hawks stood up.
"Where are you going?" the handler asked. "We have a patrol review in ten minutes."
"Cancel it," Hawks said. He walked right past the man. "I need to talk to the President."
CREAK.
Five minutes later, Hawks walked straight into the massive, open office of the HPSC President. He didn't knock.
The middle-aged woman with sharp eyes looked up from her paperwork.
"Hawks," the President said. "To what do I owe the visit?"
Hawks didn't sit down. He walked right up to her desk and leaned his hands on the edge.
"I want to start my own agency, President" Hawks said.
The President raised an eyebrow. She put her pen down.
"You know our rules," she said slowly. "You are a Commission-trained asset. We don't let our people run wild. Operating alone is a huge risk."
"It's a benefit for you," Hawks cut her off. He kept his voice smooth and confident.
"How?" she asked.
"Right now, the public knows I'm your guy," Hawks said casually. He flashed his trademark easy smile. "They like me, but they know exactly who holds my leash. If I start the Hawks Agency, I look like a self-made hero. A guy of the people. Public trust goes way up."
"...."
The President narrowed her eyes. She didn't say no.
"Plus," Hawks continued, leaning a bit closer. "It takes the money off your books. I pay for my own sidekicks. I pay for my own building and gear. And the best part?"
Hawks paused, letting the silence hang in the room.
"If I'm an independent agency," Hawks said softly, "The Golden Manager will sign a contract with me."
"...."
The President's eyes widened just a fraction.
"He just rejected our contract again this time," she said.
"He rejected the Commission," Hawks corrected her. "He didn't reject me. If I am the boss of my own agency, I can hire him myself. I get his route mapping. My arrest rates double. And you still get to call me when you need a dirty job done."
He gave her a knowing look.
"You get a much sharper weapon," Hawks said. "And it costs you absolutely nothing."
"...."
"...."
The room went dead quiet.
The President stared at the nineteen-year-old hero. She could see the ambition burning in his eyes.
But his logic was bulletproof. Having Kaito Arisaka buff their top asset without the HPSC officially paying for it? It was a massive win for her.
'After all,' the President thought, 'the Commission has wanted Arisaka for years. But the man is like a damn loach. Too slippery to contract. Always had a reason to refuse.
"Very well," the President said finally. She picked her pen back up. "Find a building. I will authorize the paperwork for the Hawks Agency today. But remember you are a part of the HPSC, Keigo Takami."
Hawks smiled. A real, genuine smile.
"Thanks, Madam President," he said.
_-_-_-_-_-_
Location: Put Your Hands Up Radio – Main Studio
Date: Friday | 11:30 PM
The studio was dark.
The only lights came from the glowing mixing boards and the red "ON AIR" sign on the wall.
Present Mic, Hizashi Yamada, sat behind his massive microphone.
He wasn't acting like the loud, screaming stadium announcer tonight. He was the smooth, late-night DJ.
"Alright, all you night owls and midnight drivers," Mic's voice purred over the airwaves.
A slow, heavy jazz beat played in the background. "It's 11:30 PM. The city is sleeping, but we are wide awake."
Behind the soundproof glass, three producers sat at a long desk covered in phones and monitors.
"It's time for the Late Night Traffic Report," Yamada said smoothly.
It had been three full months since Kaito first pitched this insane idea to him, back before the Golden Manager even left for his American contract with Star and Stripe.
Yamada had spent all that time fighting the station executives, upgrading the switchboards, and slowly training his audience.
For the last few weeks, Yamada had laid out the rules on air.
If they saw something bad happening on the streets, a mugging, a shady deal, a break-in, they shouldn't try to be heroes even if they have those Detnerat-Shield lifestyle gear.
He told them to just call the radio station and complain about the "traffic."
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
The switchboard didn't just blink. It lit up like a Christmas tree. Five lines rang at the exact same time.
A producer grabbed the first line and gave Mic a thumbs-up.
"Looks like we have a busy night," Hizashi Yamada said, pressing a button on his console. "You're live with Present Mic. What's the road looking like out there, listener?"
"H-hey Mic," a nervous, shaky voice came through the studio speakers. "Man, I'm shaking a bit."
"Hey man, take a deep breath. You're safe with us," Yamada said, keeping his tone calm and completely level. "What's the situation?"
"I... I'm a night-shift worker at the convenience store on 4th and Elm," the caller stammered. "I went to take the trash out to the back alley. There's... there's a really bad pothole back here. Like, a massive traffic jam. Four guys in dark coats. They look like they're trading boxes of... heavy car parts."
Behind the glass, a producer immediately started typing.
He traced the call location. 4th and Elm. Back alley. Four suspects. Possible Trigger drug deal.
The producer grabbed a red phone on his desk.
This phone connected directly to the local police precinct and a private line for trusted underground heroes on patrol.
"I hear you loud and clear, man," Yamada said over the radio. "A four-car pileup in the back alley. That sounds like a total mess. Nobody likes bad roads. Thanks for the heads up."
"Y-yeah. Thanks, Mic. Love the show."
"Keep staying safe out there, listener," Yamada said, cutting the call.
CLICK.
Yamada didn't stop. He pressed the next blinking button on his board.
"Line two, you're on the air. Talk to me."
"Hey Mic, love the jazz tonight," a gruff, tired voice answered. It sounded like an older guy. "I'm a long-haul trucker driving down Route 9 near the old shipping docks. Got a serious roadblock out here."
"A roadblock on Route 9?" Yamada asked, leaning into his mic. "What's holding up the lane?"
"Looks like a couple of guys in masks trying to force a warehouse gate open with a crowbar," the trucker said casually. "Real bad for traffic."
Behind the glass, another producer grabbed a second red phone. He started whispering coordinates to a local police dispatcher.
"Good eye, driver," Yamada said smoothly. "We'll send a city tow truck down to Pier 9 right away to clear that up. Keep your doors locked and have a good drive."
CLICK.
Yamada went right to the next line.
"Line three, what's your traffic report?"
"Mic! Hey!" a younger, fast-talking voice came through. "I'm a taxi driver. Just dropped a fare off in the residential zone on 8th Avenue. Got a bunch of cars with flat tires out here."
"Flat tires?" Yamada asked. "Must be some debris on the road."
"Yeah, two guys are looking real close at the tires with flashlights," the cab driver said. "Think they're trying to fix 'em, but they're breaking the windows instead."
"Got it," Yamada said. The third producer was already typing: 8th Ave, car break-ins, two suspects. "We'll send roadside assistance to 8th Avenue right now. Good looking out, cabbie."
CLICK.
"Line four, you're live," Yamada said, not missing a beat.
"Hey Mic," a quiet, hushed voice whispered.
"I'm a university student studying for midterms. I'm looking out my apartment window on the West Side, near the jewelry district. There are some late-night window washers out here."
"Window washers at midnight?" Mic asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Yeah. Three guys climbing the fire escape of the gold exchange building," the student whispered. "Looks dangerous."
"Extremely dangerous," Yamada agreed.
The producers were practically sweating now, dialing police dispatch as fast as they could.
"We'll send a safety inspector to the West Side jewelry district immediately. Go back to studying, listener. You'll ace that midterm."
CLICK.
He hit a button, fading out the calls and bringing the jazz beat up louder.
"Alright, folks," Yamada said to the city. "Looks like the city planners are going to have a busy night fixing these roads. Let's get back to the music while we wait for the streets to clear."
He hit a switch and a new song started playing over the broadcast.
Yamada pulled his headphones off his ears. He looked through the glass.
The producers were working frantically. They were on the red phones, pointing at city maps on their monitors, and coordinating with police dispatchers in real-time. It looked like a war room.
HUUUFF.
The studio held its breath.
Two minutes passed. Then five.
RING. RING.
The red phones on the producers' desk started ringing loudly. The lead producer snatched his up. He listened for exactly five seconds.
BAAM. BAAM.
He slammed the receiver down. Then the second producer slammed his down.
The lead producer looked through the glass at Yamada. He shot both of his hands into the air, giving a massive, triumphant thumbs-up.
"Busts confirmed!" the producer yelled through the intercom, his voice cracking with excitement. "Police swarmed the alley on 4th and Elm! Local patrol stopped the warehouse break-in! The cops just boxed in the car thieves on 8th Avenue, and Snipe happened to be patrolling the West Side and just tied up the three guys on the fire escape!"
"YES!" Yamada cheered.
He threw a fist in the air and kicked his chair back.
He stood up and walked over to the studio window. He looked out at the sprawling, dark city below. Thousands of tiny lights flickered in the distance.
He couldn't believe it. Kaito's insane idea actually worked.
He wasn't just a radio host anymore. He had completely weaponized his audience.
He had thousands of delivery drivers, security guards, taxi drivers, and college kids all acting as a massive, invisible intelligence network.
The public was watching the streets for him.
Yamada smiled. The Golden Manager really did just read the map.
_-_-_-_-_
Location: The Mirko Agency – Commercial District
Date: Four Days After | Monday | 02:00 PM
SCRATCH.
SCRATCH.
Mirko aggressively scribbled her signature at the bottom of a thick, heavy document.
"This is actual torture," Mirko groaned.
CLATTER.
She dropped the pen on the desk. She leaned back in her new leather chair and rubbed her eyes. "My hand is cramping. I would seriously rather fight a dozen guys in a dark alley than read another tax form."
Kaito stood right next to her desk, holding a clipboard.
They were in a freshly rented commercial office space.
The walls were painted white.
There was a small reception desk near the front door. It was mostly empty right now, but it was legitimate. The official Mirko Agency.
"You missed a line on page four," Kaito said calmly, ignoring her complaining.
He reached over, flipped the document back a few pages, and tapped a blank line with his finger.
"Are you kidding me?" Mirko whined.
She slumped forward and stared at the paper. Then she looked up at Kaito, narrowing her eyes.
"Wait a second," Mirko said, pointing the pen at him. "Back in my apartment, you pitched me this whole 'fighter pilot' idea. You said I was getting a shadow team. A ground crew to do the boring stuff. So why am I sitting here doing the boring stuff? Where are the guys in the chairs?"
Tap. Tap.
Kaito just tapped the top of the paper she was reading.
"They can't sit in the chairs until you hire them, Rumi," he said. "Read the header."
Mirko squinted at the bold text at the top of the page.
"Non-disclosure agreement... for remote intelligence operatives," Mirko read out loud.
"That is your shadow team," Kaito explained. He pointed to the other stacks on the desk. "The yellow folder is the payroll setup for your dispatchers. The blue folder is the official trademark registration for the M-Usagi brand."
Mirko looked at the stacks of paper again. It suddenly made a lot more sense.
"Being a vagabond street hero was way easier," Mirko muttered, but she grabbed the pen again.
"Vagabonds don't reach the Top Ten easily," Kaito reminded her. He picked up a finished tray and neatly stacked the folders. "You wanted to be the best without sidekicks. This is the price."
"Yeah, yeah," Mirko grumbled.
SCRATCH.
She signed the last page and tossed the heavy folder into the finished tray.
HUUUF.
Mirko let out a massive breath of relief.
She stood up from her desk and stretched her arms high over her head.
POP. POP.
Her shoulders popped loudly. She walked over to the large window and looked out over the city streets.
It felt different.
It was weird standing in an actual office with her own name on the front door.
She wasn't just a random brawler looking for a fight anymore. She had a real base of operations now.
She turned around and looked at Kaito.
A slow, fierce grin spread across her face. Her long rabbit ears stood straight up.
"Alright, Manager," Mirko said, cracking her knuckles. "The paperwork is done. The agency is real. Now let's get to the fun part."
Kaito put the signed folders into his briefcase.
CLICK.
He shut the briefcase and set it on the floor. "What do you want to do?"
"You promised me Quirk development," Mirko demanded, her eyes completely lighting up. "I want the routes. I want the training. Tell me exactly what I need to do to start crushing the guys in the Top Ten. You gave the best suggestions and training to all the hero agency you worked with."
"..."
Kaito looked at her.
Instead, he pulled a single, thin file from his jacket and tossed it on the desk.
THWACK.
He looked right at her legs.
"You kick hard, Rumi," Kaito said. "You have crazy raw muscle. But you are missing the core mechanic of your own Quirk."
Mirko frowned, crossing her arms. "What are you talking about? My kicks shatter concrete."
"Because you're swinging your legs like baseball bats," Kaito said flatly. "You're just using raw force. But you have a Rabbit Quirk. A rabbit's power doesn't come from swinging. It comes from compression."
"Compression?" Mirko asked, tilting her head.
"You're jumping and kicking from a standing start," Kaito explained, tapping his own thigh.
"You need to treat your legs like loaded springs. You have to coil the tension into your hips and core before you release it. If you add compression to your strikes, you'll hit twice as hard with half the effort."
"...."
Mirko stared at him, completely caught off guard. Nobody had ever criticized her actual fighting style before.
"Sit down," Kaito said, pulling out a chair. "Let me tell you how a rabbit is supposed to move."
_-_-_-_-_
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