Chapter 3: The Arrival of the Fixers

Just as the precinct began to settle into its usual, grinding rhythm—with forms filed, suspects categorized, stale coffee reheated—the atmosphere didn’t shift. It snapped.

A group of men in black suits entered the lobby. Immaculate. Silent. Expensive armor woven from contracts and tax loopholes.

Their movements were synchronized, deliberate, and possessed a quiet menace that made even the officers instinctively straighten. One agent gave a quick, discreet nod toward a surveillance camera, and the nearest officer instantly looked away, breaking eye contact.

"The premise has been secured."

The sergeant's gaze was not just hesitation; it was the look of a man who had just realized the true chain of command in Tokyo did not involve uniforms or law books.

They were Kurogane fixers—the kind of men who didn’t ask. They collected.

The lead agent approached the sergeant’s desk and dropped a folder with an expensive, decisive thud—the sound of legal authority instantly overwhelming years of police procedure. His voice was precise, practiced, and utterly unyielding.

“We are here for our clients involved in the Shinjuku incident. Authorization has been granted. We will collect them now.”

The sergeant hesitated, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. Eyes flicked to the others. If they didn’t comply, a legal standoff could loom—until a voice, cutting through the tension like silk over steel, delivered the final word.

“Please, everyone. There’s no need for second-act drama.”

Minami glided in. She didn’t walk. She rewrote the room. Her heels clicked like punctuation. Her tailored ensemble shouted the cost of freedom and screamed control.

The fixers bowed instantly. Deep. Surgical and absolute. Their black suits formed a perfect, silent arc of submission.

The sergeant blinked twice. Then once more, just to be sure.

Minami dismissed the entire arrest with an effortless gesture, handing over a thick manila envelope—cash, notarized documents, and a pre-written statement describing the party’s destructive actions as “experimental performance art.” Her gesture was an official erasure of the police's entire narrative.

Her smile was dazzling. Practiced. Dangerous.

“These individuals are my guests,” she said. “They are essential to my family’s philanthropic initiatives. The debt has been paid.”

The sergeant opened the envelope, skimmed the contents. His shoulders sagged—not in agreement, but in surrender. The fixers moved quickly, retrieving the party with quiet precision.

***

In the interrogation room, Kyle looked up as the door opened.

“Minami? Is that you?”

There Minami stood—framed by fluorescent light. Her silhouette was sharp. Her expression was always unreadable, but today there was a terrifying, controlled vibe to her step.

She was the only warmth in the sterile room. And the only danger.

“Come now, Kyle,” she said. “The episode’s over. Time to go home.”

She didn’t wait for his compliance. She glided forward and placed a cold, utterly firm, and impersonal grip on his wrist. He felt the weight of ¥22,500,000 settling onto his skin, a non-verbal confirmation that he was now her property, bought and paid for.

Behind her was a reluctant Chief of Police sweating profusely, fixed in a complete dogeza.

“On behalf of the Tokyo Police Department, we deeply apologize for detaining you and your group.”

The Chief's body was pressed to the floor, glazed, miserable eyes fixed solely on Minami’s shadow. Kyle felt a wave of nausea and dread. He tried to tell the Chief to get up, but the man remained an unmovable boulder, held down by an invisible weight of fear and contract that no sword could break. Kyle was horrified: Minami was capable of greater cruelty than any Demon Lord.

With no idea what to do next, Kyle rose and numbly followed Minami, leaving the Chief of Police still kneeling in the dogeza position.

In the lobby, the others had already gathered.

Renji stretched their arms skyward, their shared body momentarily blissfully unaware.

“Freedom... freedom at last...”

Luna seized control mid-pose, the body twitching—caught between hunger and decorum.

“How is it that you are from this world yet you know nothing about manners!”

Masayuki bowed low, his small body executing a perfect, unwavering seiza bow to the Fixers.

“I apologize for my rude behavior of challenging you to a duel,” he muttered, his voice thick with misplaced shame.

The lead Fixer didn't acknowledge the apology, only checked his wristwatch, confirming Masayuki's dignity was only delaying the operation by 3.5 seconds.

Kotaro and Kokoro clung to each other, their grip a tangle of desperation and shared terror. Kokoro’s fingers gripped Kotaro’s sleeve like it was the last thread of her femininity, while Kotaro’s shoulder felt the dread of a prison he couldn't fight or outrun.

Neither of them spoke.

They were free—not by sword, spell, or prophecy.

But by money, paperwork, and Minami’s terrifying, calculated grace.

“Come now,” she said, smiling. “We can discuss everything later. Let us leave.”

She made direct, cold eye contact with the lead Fixer before turning.

The Fixers immediately moved, subtly surrounding the heroes as they walked toward the exit, reinforcing that they were escorted prisoners transitioning to a new, corporate cage.

***

Outside, Tokyo pulsed with impossible noise—neon, engines, voices. The party followed Minami out of the precinct and into a waiting black limo.

The door closed behind them with a soft, final click. The soundproofing created an unnatural, thick barrier, allowing only the low, rhythmic thrum of the powerful engine to penetrate. The chaos of the city was now unseen, suppressed, and external, forcing the heroes inward.

“Everyone, seatbelts,” Minami reminded, as Luna stared at the contraption like it was a cursed relic.

The scene around Kyle felt strange.

“Namu Myōhō Renge Kyō. Namu Myōhō Renge Kyō.”

Masayuki sat beside him, posture unnaturally absolute, breath slow. He was meditating—not for peace, but for armor, creating an internal pocket of rigid discipline against the chaos of the modern world.

Behind them, Renji hunched over a confiscated smartphone, whispering to it like a shrine.

“Tentacle-chan… how I miss you.”

Luna shrieked inside his mind, aristocratic outrage flaring.

“You are not in a tavern! Sit up straight!”

Their body twitched—caught between regression and decorum, between longing and legacy.

In the third row, Kokoro and Kotaro were a knot of limbs and silence. Kokoro’s fingers clutched Kotaro’s sleeve like it was the last thread holding her together. Kotaro stared out the window, eyes unfocused, watching the city smear into abstraction.

No one spoke.

Even the silence felt choreographed.

Minami sat in the front, posture perfect, fingers dancing across a tablet. She sighed softly, not in pity, but in annoyance—the sound of an executive dealing with a costly glitch.

“Two years back and that foolish little man is still up to his old tricks.”

She subtly adjusted the climate control on her tablet without looking back, demonstrating remote command over their environment.

Her presence filled the car like perfume—expensive, invasive, inescapable.

Just a face. Mud-streaked. Hollow-eyed. Someone stripped of title, purpose, and recognition. He looked like nobody important. That thought was the final, crushing defeat.

After an hour of driving, the car turned down a private road. Massive jet black iron gates that looked impenetrable, swallowing the noise and chaos of Tokyo entirely.

Once the entrance opened, there were traditional torii gates to welcome them, flanked by towering hedges. Surveillance cameras, tiny, red eyes gleaming behind the ornamental stone lanterns, tracked their arrival.

At the end of the driveway stood the opaline Kurogane Mansion—a beautiful, cold fortress, majestic enough to match the Palace of Versailles.

“We have arrived, my lady,” the chauffeur announced as he glanced at the rearview mirror.

The limo stopped. The doors unlocked with a soft, final click.