Chapter 23: The Sins of One’s Crime
The control room beneath the docks was colder than usual.
Nanashi stood alone before the wall of monitors, arms clasped behind his back, the white of his uniform stained with old blood and seawater. The hum of machines filled the silence, punctuated only by the soft beeping of biometric readouts.
Three prison cells in the dark.
Nanashi’s jaw tightened.
The cost of capturing the girl had been steep. Half of Unit Four was dead. Subject #108 had nearly gone feral before they forced it back into its reinforced pod. But it worked.
The girl had stopped fighting.
And the Akaname… was learning.
The intercom crackled.
“Report,” came Shiraishi’s voice — smooth, clinical, and utterly disinterested.
Nanashi straightened. “Containment stable. The girl’s sedated. Bio-readings are within expected range. Subject #108 has returned to dormancy.”
“Behavioral response?”
“She hasn’t spoken since the extraction. But her Chi reacts to the boy’s vitals. The more unstable he gets, the more volatile she becomes.”
A pause.
Then: “Good. That confirms the tethering hypothesis.”
Nanashi hesitated. “Sir… about the casualties. We lost—”
“They’re replaceable,” Shiraishi said flatly. “You’re not calling to mourn, are you?”
“No, Commander.”
Nanashi’s gaze drifted back to Kyle’s tank.
“I’m calling about the boy.”
Shiraishi’s tone sharpened. “He’s alive?”
“Barely. But yes. I kept my word. He’s stabilized. I’ve assigned a medical team to monitor him around the clock.”
Another pause.
Then, quieter: “Good. Keep him alive. For now.”
The line went dead.
Nanashi stared at the blank monitor for a long moment.
Then turned back to the prison cells.
Three lives. Three levers. Three loaded guns.
And somewhere in the dark, the Akaname slept — its tongue coiled, its mind humming with new instructions. It tasted the girl’s aura. It had learned her rhythm. It would not fail again.
Nanashi exhaled, the breath fogging in the cold.
He didn’t know what Shiraishi was planning.
But he knew this:
The Commander was afraid of something.
And that made him afraid, too.
***
Darkness.
Not the kind that comes with sleep, but the kind that hums — thick, metallic, and endless.
Kyle stirred.
The floor beneath him was cold concrete. Damp. His cheek stuck to it. His breath came shallow, rasping through a throat scraped raw. Every muscle ached. His head throbbed like it had been split open and stitched back wrong.
He tried to move.
Pain lanced through his left side.
He gasped, rolled onto his back — and froze.
His left arm was gone.
Not bandaged. Not broken.
Gone.
He stared at the stump, breath catching in his throat. The skin was sealed with some kind of synthetic mesh, faintly glowing, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. His Chi flickered weakly around it, like a candle guttering in the wind.
Memory surged.
The Akaname.
Kotomi’s scream.
The tongue.
The tearing.
He choked on a sob.
“Kotomi—”
His voice cracked, dry as ash.
He tried again, louder. “Kotomi!”
The name echoed off the walls, swallowed by the dark.
Then—
A rustle.
A breath.
Someone else was here.
Kyle blinked, eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering through a vent above. Shapes resolved: rusted bars, a cracked sink, a second figure slumped in the far corner.
The man didn’t move.
But something about him—
Familiar.
Kyle crawled forward, every movement a fresh agony. The man’s head was bowed, his hands limp in his lap. His hair was longer now, streaked with gray. His uniform — or what was left of it — hung off his frame like a shroud.
“Detective…?” Kyle rasped. “Detective Doka?”
No response.
Kyle reached out with his remaining hand. He reached for his Chi — what little he had left — and let it flow into his hand. It sparked weakly, flickering violet against his skin.
“I don’t know if this will work,” he said. “But Luna used to do this for me. When I couldn’t breathe.”
He pressed his palm to Doka’s chest.
The Chi flowed.
Not strong. Not clean. But steady.
Doka gasped — then stilled.
Then slowly, painfully, raised his head.
His eyes were bloodshot. Hollow. But behind the haze, something flickered — recognition, maybe. Or memory.
“Who are you…?” he whispered.
Kyle nodded, swallowing hard. “It’s me, Kyle. We met at the police precinct.”
Doka blinked. His lips trembled. “I… I failed you. I failed Kotomi. Kotori, I’m sorry—”
He broke off, voice cracking into a sob.
Kyle’s heart twisted.
He sat beside him, leaning against the wall, their shoulders touching. “She’s alive,” he said softly. “I know she is.”
Doka shook his head. “They took her. Shiraishi. Said we were… collars. Leashes. To keep her from running.”
Kyle closed his eyes.
Of course.
Of course they would use them like that.
“What is it that you are doing,” Doka began to asked.
His eyes cleared, just a little.
Kyle smiled faintly. “It’s like magic. It’s a kind of magic like your daughter’s.”
Doka looked at him.
And for the first time in what felt like years, he nodded.
The cell was still. Only the distant hum of machinery and the occasional drip of condensation broke the quiet. Kyle’s Chi had faded, leaving his fingers numb and his vision swimming. But Doka was breathing evenly now, his posture no longer curled inward like a man waiting to die.
Kyle leaned his head back against the wall, eyes half-lidded. “Your daughter will be glad to know that you are safe.”
Doka’s voice was hoarse. “I didn’t think I’d see anyone.”
He rubbed his face with trembling hands. “How long has it been?”
“I don’t know,” Kyle said. “Days. Weeks. Time’s been… strange.”
Doka nodded, as if that made perfect sense.
Kyle hesitated. Then: “Do you remember what happened? After you were taken away by the Men in White?”
Doka’s brow furrowed. “They said… they said she was necessary for the Majin.”
Kyle was struggling to piece the information. First magical girls, majin, and finally Shiraishi. Nothing seemed to connect.
His voice cracked. “What in the world is going on in Japan?”
Kyle looked down at his hand. The one he still had.
“You didn’t fail her,” he said.
Doka gave a bitter laugh. “I’m her father. That’s the one thing I wasn’t supposed to do.”
Kyle’s throat tightened.
He wanted to say something comforting. Something brave. But the words caught in his chest.
Instead, he said, “I know what that feels like.”
Doka turned to him.
Kyle didn’t meet his gaze.
“I never told my friends,” he said. “I never told anyone.”
He closed his eyes.
“You might not believe this but before I came to Japan, I was isekai’d to another world. I thought I was summoned to fight a war — to kill a Demon Lord.”
Doka said nothing.
Kyle went on.
“I did it. I won. I drove my sword through its heart. And for a moment, I thought… I thought I’d saved the world.”
He laughed, hollow. “But the Demon Lord’s core wasn’t just power. It was a keystone. A tether. When I destroyed it, the world began to collapse. From my actions; no, my recklessness, the sky cracked. The oceans boiled. The people—”
His voice broke.
“I killed them. All of them.”
Tears slid down his face.
“I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know. But it doesn’t matter. They’re gone. I committed planetary genocide. Because of me...”
He buried his face in his hand, shoulders shaking.
Doka didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
Just listened.
When Kyle finally looked up, eyes red and hollow, Doka met his gaze.
“I’ve looked into the eyes of murderers,” he said quietly. “Drug lords. Human traffickers. Men who smiled when they talked about what they’d done.”
He leaned forward.
“You don’t have their eyes.”
Kyle blinked.
“You carry guilt,” Doka said. “That means you’re still human.”
He reached out, placed a hand on Kyle’s shoulder.
“And if you’re still human… then you still have a choice. You can decide to live in a world of guilt or move forward.”
Kyle stared at him.
Then nodded.
A quiet breath escaped his lips — not relief, exactly, but something close.
Resolve.
Footsteps.
Heavy. Measured. Getting closer.
Kyle stiffened.
Doka’s hand instinctively reached for his side — no weapon there, just bruised ribs and a phantom holster.
The corridor outside their cell echoed with the clank of boots on metal. A door hissed open. Voices murmured — too low to make out, but urgent. Then silence.
Kyle pushed himself upright, heart pounding. His Chi was nearly spent. He could barely stand, let alone fight.
Doka rose beside him, slower, steadier than before. “If it’s them,” he said, “I’ll stall. You run.”
Kyle shook his head. “No. It’s someone else”
The lock on the cell door clicked.
They braced.
The door creaked open.
And Minami stepped through.
Behind her, Kotaro slipped in, followed by Kokoro — eyes wide, fists clenched — and Masayuki, who carried something long and wrapped in cloth.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then Kyle exhaled, a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob.
“You guys…”
Kokoro was the first to move. She crossed the cell in three strides and threw her arms around Kyle, nearly knocking him over.
“You idiot,” she choked. “You absolute idiot.”
Kotaro followed, hugging them both. “We thought you were dead.”
Masayuki gave a crooked grin. “You look like hell.”
Kyle laughed, tears in his eyes. “You’re not wrong.”
Minami stepped forward, holding out a small black device. “We don’t have long. But someone wanted to say hi.”
Kyle took it.
The intercom crackled.
“—Kyle? Kyle, is that you?” Luna’s voice, sharp with worry.
“Kyle, you better not be dead again,” came Renji’s voice, half-sob, half-snarl.
Sebastian’s voice followed, calm but tight. “We’re holding the perimeter. You’ve got maybe ten minutes before they reroute power.”
Kyle smiled. “I’m here. I’m okay.”
Kokoro and Kotaro helped Doka to his feet. The older man looked at them — these strange, bright-eyed kids — and gave a slow, reverent nod.
Masayuki stepped forward, unwrapping the cloth.
Inside was a katana.
Its blade gleamed faintly in the low light — not the jagged, broken Sunbreaker Kyle had lost, but something reborn. Sleeker. Sharper. Forged from the same steel, but reforged with care.
Kyle stared.
“This is—”
Masayuki nodded. “Every hero needs a sword.”
Kyle took the sword in his hand.
It felt heavier than he remembered.
And lighter.
He looked at the faces around him — bruised, tired, but burning with purpose.
He tightened his grip.
“Let’s go get her.”
