Akiko Nakamura's boots hit the cold, sterile floors of The Bastion of Nexus Command (B.N.C.), her breath sharp and unsteady as she moved through the dimly lit passageways. The scent of antiseptic and something metallic—something undeniably final—hung in the air.
She had been running, but now her steps slowed as she reached Sector MORGUE. The word itself felt heavy, carved into the steel doorway like a death sentence.
Just outside, two senior officers exited, their conversation hushed and tense. They barely acknowledged her, their grim faces saying enough. Four dead. She already knew. Four soldiers. New recruits. Her recruits.
Akiko swallowed the knot forming in her throat and stepped inside.
The coroner, a weary man with thinning gray hair and sunken eyes, glanced up as she entered. He had seen this before. He had seen too much.
"They're over there," he said simply, nodding toward the cold slabs.
Akiko walked forward, her fingers curling into fists. Kota. Reina. Sota. Yuu. Their faces were pale, their bodies eerily still beneath the sheets. They had barely worn their new squad insignias before they were gone.
She inhaled sharply. I should have been there.
"You're looking for Captain Murakami, aren't you?" the coroner asked, watching her carefully.
She blinked, pulling herself from the numbing grief. "Yes. Where is he?"
The coroner sighed, rubbing his temples. "I don't know. He came here, identified them, signed the death reports himself… then left. He looked…" the man hesitated, searching for the right word. "Broken."
Akiko's stomach twisted. She should have been there—not just for them, but for him.
"What happened out there?" the coroner finally asked, voice softer now.
Her throat felt tight. "The Shells…" she forced the words out. "There were too many. We were overwhelmed, We lost contact with the team midway. Three killed in battle, but one was…" she hesitated. "Infected."
The coroner's face darkened. "B-Pod protocol?"
Akiko nodded. "Euthanized on the spot."
The coroner sighed heavily. "Damn shame."
She bit her lip, her chest tight with guilt. "Where did the captain go?"
"I told you, I don't know," the coroner repeated, his voice weary. "But I know this—he agreed to take the death reports to the families himself."
Akiko felt her stomach drop. Takeshi Murakami, a man who carried his squad like a steel pillar, now bearing the weight of four families' grief alone.
She turned toward the exit.
She had to find him.
....Meanwhile beneath Top City....
Takeshi Murakami sat hunched over the counter of The Rusted Lantern, a rundown bar in Underground City. The air was thick with the stench of alcohol, damp wood, and fear—mostly fear.
Despite the usual rowdy crowd, the place was unnervingly quiet. Conversations had died the moment he walked in, laughter fading into tense whispers. Even the bartender poured his drink with stiff hands, careful not to meet his gaze.
He didn't care.
He wasn't here to fight. He wasn't here for orders, for duty, for war. He was here to drink—to drown the faces of four dead recruits in burning liquid.
He took another swig of the cheap whiskey, letting it scorch his throat, but the fire in his chest wouldn't go out. It never did.
Then came the voices.
"Oi, soldier."
Takeshi didn't bother looking up. He knew the type—resistance members, self-proclaimed rebels. The kind that saw the State as the enemy. The kind that saw him as nothing more than a uniform, a weapon with no soul.
"You don't belong here," another voice said, sharper this time.
Takeshi continued drinking.
A chair scraped against the floor. Someone stood too close. The air crackled with tension.
Then he lifted his empty bottle, tapping it lightly against the counter.
"Another," he muttered.
The bartender, to his surprise, didn't move.
Takeshi finally looked up.
The man—usually too scared to refuse a soldier anything—stood firm, arms crossed over his stained apron. His face was tight, his knuckles white.
"No more," the bartender said.
Takeshi's blood simmered. He turned, scanning the room.
Every patron had risen to their feet.
Eyes filled with anger. Fear, yes, but anger too.
The rebels had started this. The rest had joined in.
This wasn't just about him drinking here. This was their moment, their small rebellion. They weren't scared shitless anymore.
Takeshi exhaled through his nose, shaking his head miserably.
Then, without a word, he stood, rolling his shoulders, and walked toward the door.
The tension broke.
A cheer erupted behind him, small at first, then louder. A celebration of their tiny victory, their defiance against the State.
They saw him as a bully. As an oppressor. As a reminder of everything wrong with their world.
Takeshi didn't care.
He stepped into the cold streets, the voices of the living chasing him as the ghosts of the dead whispered in his ears.