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"Inspector Megure, th-that Apache attack helicopter seems to be on our side," Officer Takagi stammered, swallowing hard as he stared at the hovering helicopter with a mix of awe and disbelief.
The deafening roar of the helicopter's rotors continued to drown out all other sounds, while the gusts of wind it generated made it nearly impossible to keep their eyes open. Officers instinctively shielded their faces with their hands.
Inspector Megure forced a dry laugh, replying hesitantly, "Y-yes, I suppose so."
Regardless of where this helicopter had come from or whether it was truly there to assist the police, the most pressing issue now was the catastrophic scene unfolding in the Tokyo suburbs.
Though the scale of the incident could classify it as a terrorist attack—something largely outside the jurisdiction of the local police—the fallout would inevitably land on their shoulders. Writing up reports and enduring harsh criticism from higher-ups was unavoidable.
Inspector Megure and Inspector Shiratori exchanged glances, both stealing looks at the reporters nearby who were frantically snapping photos.
They sighed deeply in unison. The moment the police had raised their hands in surrender upon seeing the helicopter, they knew the images would soon be plastered across the internet, sparking outrage.
The collective surrender of law enforcement officers was an unprecedented humiliation for Japan. Even if they were facing an Apache helicopter, as descendants of samurai, shouldn't they have fought back with whatever means they had? Wasn't it customary to atone for failure through seppuku?
Especially now, when the Japanese police force was already under heavy scrutiny.
Across the nation, violent crimes were on the rise, and the public viewed the police as incompetent. Taxpayers questioned why their money funded such ineffective individuals.
Thinking about the online backlash, Inspector Megure felt a headache coming on.
Sure, he had a good relationship with high school detective Shinichi Kudo, but as a police officer, he couldn't help but feel deep shame. The mere presence of detectives like Kudo was a slap in the face to law enforcement.
The Apache helicopter descended, kicking up clouds of dust as it landed not far away. Out stepped a blond-haired, blue-eyed foreigner.
The Japanese officers stood frozen, unsure how to proceed.
The memory of the helicopter's earlier assault was still fresh in their minds, and the collapsed building lay in ruins before them. Technically, the pilot could also be considered a suspect.
But when they saw Fujiwara Che—disguised and stepping off the helicopter—they were left flustered, unsure what to do.
Should they arrest him?
"Inspector Megure, what should we do now?" Officer Takagi whispered nervously.
Inspector Megure shot him a sharp look. "Takagi, don't push this onto me. Whatever decision I make here will fall squarely on my shoulders. Some responsibilities are too big for me to bear!"
Inspector Megure wasn't afraid of accountability—he was a good cop—but certain burdens were beyond his capacity to shoulder. After decades in law enforcement, he was no fool. Seeing dozens of officers looking to him for guidance made his scalp tingle. He quickly shifted the focus. "Inspector Shiratori, what do you think we should do?"
Though Shiratori belonged to the elite group and had risen to the rank of inspector at a young age—a position Megure had spent his entire life striving for—he was still inexperienced compared to Megure. After a brief pause, Shiratori suggested, "Inspector Megure, maybe we should call headquarters for advice?"
Megure wanted to give Shiratori a thumbs-up. Good job, Shiratori—you've grown up! He nodded approvingly. "Everyone, wait a moment. I'll call headquarters."
The other officers breathed a sigh of relief. Despite being outnumbered, the Japanese police were too shaken to confront the foreign operatives directly. When Fujiwara glanced their way, they avoided eye contact, none daring to step forward.
Just then, a car sped toward them.
The already jittery Japanese officers tensed up again.
The Ford sedan stopped near the police line, and two more foreigners stepped out.
One of them approached the officers and asked, "Who's in charge here?"
Inspector Megure reluctantly stepped forward. "I'm from the Metropolitan Police Department. May I ask who you are?"
The man flashed his credentials at Megure. "I'm from the U.S. Joint Operations Command stationed in Japan. This is a representative from the Tokyo District Prosecutor's Office."
"We received intelligence about an imminent terrorist attack in Tokyo. We acted swiftly to neutralize the threat. I'm here to retrieve our personnel."
Without waiting for a response, he turned to Fujiwara Che and said, "Mr. Wick, your ride awaits. The Apache will be flown back by another pilot."
A tall, military-looking Westerner saluted Fujiwara before heading to the helicopter.
Fujiwara understood that these individuals were sent by Spencer to clean up and officially categorize the incident. He simply nodded and followed the man into the car.
The Japanese officers could only watch as they drove away, too intimidated to say a word.
Inspector Megure felt both relieved and frustrated. Relieved because the Americans had taken responsibility, meaning the incident was no longer his problem. Frustrated because these people acted with complete impunity, treating Tokyo, the capital of Japan, as if it were their playground. They came and went as they pleased, piloting helicopters and wreaking havoc, while the Japanese authorities were rendered powerless.
Still, despite the humiliation, Megure had no choice but to accept the situation.
The Tokyo District Prosecutor's Office, nominally tasked with monitoring corruption among Japanese officials, was in reality an institution established by the U.S. It was a puppet organization designed to keep Japan in check, much like the prosecution offices in South Korea.
As the car disappeared, one young officer muttered bitterly, "What arrogance! They spoke to us like we were dogs."
"This is nothing short of a violation of national sovereignty!"
The older officers remained silent. Truthfully, these Americans treated them exactly like dogs. As for national sovereignty—did Japan even have any left?
Inspector Megure sighed, trying to console his team. "Alright, everyone, let's pack up. Considering the scale of this event, the fact that no civilians were killed is a miracle."
Tokyo had been plagued by a surge in violent crimes recently, leaving the police overwhelmed. But Megure would rather deal with those random murderers than face terrorists armed with weapons of war.
Grumbling under their breath, the officers reluctantly began to withdraw.
Nearby, reporters from Nippon TV were elated. Knowing their superiors might pressure them to suppress the news, they had already uploaded the footage online immediately after filming. In the age of self-media, someone else could always take the blame if trouble arose.
The footage of the Apache helicopter's assault and the subsequent collapse of the building was far more thrilling than any Hollywood blockbuster. Leaving it unpublished would be a disservice to journalism.
Even the scene of the Joint Operations Command reprimanding the Japanese police was ripe with controversy.
For the media, chaos and controversy were gold mines. Whether or not it embarrassed Japan was irrelevant to them.
The officers cordoned off the area, surveying the battlefield-like wreckage of the research institute. Bodies were scattered everywhere amidst the debris.
Even seasoned officers couldn't suppress their nausea at the sight. Some younger officers had already vomited.
Inspector Megure, however, had seen his share of decomposing corpses and could endure the sight of over a hundred mutilated bodies. He shook his head grimly. "Identifying all these bodies will take time. What exactly was this institute researching to attract such a group of terrorists?"
Inside the ruined compound, the elite NATO mercenaries regrouped briefly.
Their captain, realizing no one was paying attention to them, ordered his team, "Retreat. Let's get out of here."
He thought his team of mercenaries was already reckless enough, but after witnessing Fujiwara's audacity, he felt humbled. Even they wouldn't dare unleash such blatant destruction in Tokyo's capital.
Moreover, Fujiwara had walked away scot-free, picked up by personnel from the U.S. Joint Command. Clearly, whoever hired him held significant power.
Meanwhile, a kilometer away from the institute, Gin and Vodka emerged from an underground tunnel.
Gin's black coat was torn to shreds, his hat missing, and his signature golden hair mostly burnt. They had been lucky—the institute had hidden underground passages known only to a select few. Using these tunnels, they escaped the C4 explosion and avoided being crushed by the collapsing building.
Gin touched his charred scalp, his expression darkening furiously.
"Damn it! That bastard thinks he can just waltz in and destroy everything!"
"Vodka!"
Vodka, still shaken from their narrow escape, cautiously looked at the cold, menacing Gin and forced a nervous smile. "Boss, is something wrong?"
"Get me one."
"One what?"
"Get me an attack helicopter!"
Gin growled through gritted teeth.
"I'll fly it myself and strafe Tokyo Tower! That bastard has gone too far—more arrogant than me!"
"B-boss, that's an Apache attack helicopter! They're not easy to come by. There are only about a thousand in service in the U.S., and even fewer in other countries. Even if we tried to buy one under the guise of a country, it wouldn't be guaranteed!"
Vodka was on the verge of tears. "Boss, please don't make this so difficult."
"I don't care. Get me one!"
Gin's tone was commanding and absolute. Seeing Gin's murderous expression, Vodka hastily nodded. "Y-yes, boss. I understand."
Gin muttered darkly to himself. Under such an explosion, there was likely no survivor. Shiho Miyano must have been reduced to a charred corpse.
But dead or alive, he needed confirmation. If she was dead, he had to see her body.
The Organization had significant influence in Japan. Once the police finished investigating the scene, they could obtain a report. However, given the number of casualties, even with increased efforts, it would take some time.
"Hmph, I can wait. Even if you're dead, I won't rest until I see proof of your death."
Gin glanced at Vodka, noticing his hat was still intact. Suppressing his voice, he ordered, "Give it to me."
"Boss, what?"
"The hat on your head."
"Yes, sir!"
Vodka quickly handed over the hat. Watching Gin's patchy, burnt scalp, he found it comical but dared not laugh or even look for too long.
After putting on the hat, Gin left the scene with a dark, brooding expression.
Damn it! He had never suffered such a humiliating defeat in his life.
After exchanging a few words with representatives from the U.S. Joint Operations Command and the Tokyo District Prosecutor's Office, Fujiwara Che disembarked and resumed his identity.
He opened Google Maps on his phone, analyzing the streets of Beika City, Tokyo.
"Sherry managed to escape. With nowhere else to go in Tokyo, the first person she'll think of is surely Shinichi Kudo, who also shrunk like her."
"Shinichi Kudo and Dr. Agasa's house is here. There are only two roads leading there."
"She probably won't take the main road. A child wearing oversized adult clothes would draw too much attention. If she's taken to the police station, she'll be in trouble."
"So, she'll definitely take this smaller path, and she won't move during the day. She'll come at night."
Fujiwara quickly identified the route Sherry would undoubtedly take.
Back home, Fujiwara retrieved a black trench coat and a fedora from his closet. Dressed in the outfit, he holstered his silenced M9 pistol.
Standing in front of the mirror, he studied his reflection. Anyone familiar with the Black Organization would likely mistake him for one of them.
"BOOM—"
Outside, thunder roared as lightning split the darkened sky. It seemed Tokyo was in for a heavy downpour.
"SWISH SWASH—"
In the early hours of the morning, torrential rain drenched Tokyo's deserted streets.
Miyano Shiho, clad in an oversized white lab coat and barefoot, struggled to walk along the edges of buildings, seeking shelter from the rain.
The rain poured down mercilessly, as if punishing her for her sins. Her journey from the suburbs to central Tokyo had been arduous, and without her usual resilience, she might not have made it this far.
Finally nearing Beika City, she was caught in a sudden storm. The wind-driven rain battered her small, weakened frame, making her sway precariously, as though she might collapse at any moment.
Rainwater—or perhaps tears—streamed down her pale, fragile face.
Under the relentless downpour, Tokyo's streets were deserted. Occasionally, a car sped past, its headlights failing to illuminate the tiny figure standing by the roadside. Splashes of water soaked her completely.
"Almost there."
Up ahead was Shinichi Kudo's house. During a previous raid, she had secretly kept a spare key. Now, it would prove useful. She could hide in Shinichi's house at least until the storm passed.
But just then—
Through the blinding curtain of rain, Miyano Shiho froze, her eyes widening in terror as a shadowy figure emerged before her.
The figure wore a black trench coat and a fedora, holding a black umbrella. He stood motionless in the storm.
Spotting Miyano Shiho, he smiled faintly. Over the cacophony of rain, she barely heard him murmur, "Sherry…"