The rain tapped a gentle rhythm against the coffee shop window, a muted soundtrack to the dim, almost claustrophobic space. Reiner Cain—DRC White—sat with his tea, the warmth from the dark, sweet liquid radiating through the cup into his hands. Without a shift in his expression, he carefully unfolded the letter, its neatly creased lines suggesting the careful attention of the sender. The letterhead was unmistakable: From the Office of High General Lián Boje, Nyxvale Police Department. A confidential mark was stamped boldly at the top.
His eyes drifted over the text in measured silence, unflinching, unaffected by the tragic narrative. Even as he read through the report, detailing the life of a girl with a haunted past, his demeanor remained resolute, unmoved—as though reading the latest page in a mystery novel rather than a real account of a broken life.
The subject of the file, Jụngiyu Sehanh "Hope" Rin, was only fifteen, and the words painted a bleak picture. Abandoned by a ruthless father, the leader of the Jụngiyu Criminal Organization, and likely orphaned after her mother's disappearance, Hope had faced enough cruelty to drive her to the edge of despair. They had found her on her knees, scars bearing testament to the horrors inflicted by her own blood. The mental state assessment painted her as both fragile and fiercely loyal, her trauma interwoven with an unexpected faithfulness toward those who had shown her a sliver of kindness. A trait, it seemed, that had caught even the hardened General Boje off guard.
White read the final lines:
She has become like a daughter to me—a child whose resilience and loyalty deserve a second chance. I trust your team to give her the guidance she needs, White. She is, above all, a faithful child, and I know she will benefit from your influence.
A simple request from an old friend: to care for this girl, who wore her emotions with a mask as precise and cold as White's own. "She doesn't show emotion with those she suspects," Boje had written, a hint of admiration in the words. A very smart teenager, able to fake emotions—in other words, a survivor.
But none of this stirred Reiner Cain. He simply folded the letter with the same care with which he had opened it, sliding it into his coat pocket. It was a story, like so many he had read or heard. The darkness of human behavior was not a shock to him; it was the landscape he traveled, a map etched into his mind. And so he regarded Hope as he would any file, any case—a puzzle to be solved, a life to be read with cool precision.
His yellow eyes shifted from the letter back to Hope, whose gaze remained focused on her peach blossom tea, as if the letter's contents had never been shared, as if this moment of silence between them were part of some hidden ritual. The soft, rose-and-chocolate scent around her was almost ironic, a tender contrast to the harsh life she had endured. White's gaze remained steady, an unreadable fortress, as though the letter had left no trace on his thoughts or his heart.
Instead, he sipped his tea, his face unchanging. This was the kind of horror he encountered regularly—a tale of violence, betrayal, survival. And for now, that was all it would be.