Chapter 12_ The Blueprint

The triumph in Asakusa’s arcade was a quiet, personal victory, but it echoed through the team in subtle ways. At breakfast the next morning, Mizuki slid a plate of tamagoyaki toward Raze with an approving nod. Kurumi gave him a look that said, I saw the drone footage, not bad. Mika simply said, “The flow suits you,” before returning to his newspaper.
The validation was warm, but it was immediately tempered by cold, hard reality. The planning table in the back of LycoReco was no longer covered with city maps. It was dominated by a single, sprawling schematic: the architectural blueprints for the Arashiyama Medical Research Tower.
“This is it,” Mika stated, his finger resting on the top floor. “The ‘renovation’ zone. Our objective is confirmation. Visual, auditory, or digital proof of Syndicate presence and activity that the DA cannot ignore.”
Takina leaned over the plans, her analytical gaze missing nothing. “The civilian labs operate from 7 AM to 10 PM on floors ten through twenty. The target zone is floors twenty-one through twenty-five. We have a narrow window for infiltration during shift change, when elevator use is highest and security is distracted.”
“Or we go in from the top,” Chisato suggested, tapping the rooftop helipad. “Less predictable.”
“And how do you propose we reach the rooftop of a 30-story tower without being spotted by every air traffic controller in western Tokyo?” Mizuki asked, arms crossed.
“I could fake a medical emergency flight path,” Kurumi mumbled from behind her laptop, already typing. “Or create a localized sensor ghost in their airspace. It’s tricky, but… possible.”
Raze listened, his eyes tracing the emergency stairwells, air ducts, and utility conduits. The chip in his head automatically began running infiltration probabilities, but he forced it aside. This wasn’t just a math problem. It was a puzzle with human pieces.
“They’ll be monitoring all standard approaches,” he said, thinking aloud. “The stairs, elevators, service doors. Their digital perimeter will be even tighter than the physical one. Kurumi’s ghost net might get us flagged the moment we bypass a locked door.”
“So we don’t bypass it,” Chisato said, a mischievous glint in her eye. “We walk through the front door.”
Everyone looked at her.
“Think about it,” she continued, bouncing on her heels. “They’re looking for spies, for commandos, for people trying to sneak. What they’re not looking for is… a delivery. A scheduled, legitimate-looking delivery to one of the legitimate labs on floor eighteen. Something big, something on a cart that needs a service elevator.”
A slow smile spread across Kurumi’s face. “A delivery of sensitive server equipment. I can forge the work order, hack the vendor’s scheduling system, and provide authentic radio tags. You’d be in the system.”
“And once inside the service elevator,” Takina picked up the thread, her mind clearly racing, “we could override the controls, redirect it to the twenty-first floor instead of eighteen. The intrusion is only for the final few seconds of the ascent, minimizing exposure.”
Mika considered it, his brow furrowed. “It’s audacious. It places the team in a metal box with no escape for a critical period. If they discover the ruse before you exit…”
“Then we fight our way out of an elevator,” Chisato shrugged, as if discussing a minor inconvenience. “But they won’t! Because we’ll look like we belong. That’s the key, right? Belonging.” Her eyes found Raze’s. “Your last lesson. The final exam.”
The plan took shape with dizzying speed. Kurumi worked her digital magic, creating a perfect phantom corporation—"Kansai Integrated Systems"—with a work order to upgrade bio-sample freezers in Lab 18B. Mizuki sourced authentic-looking maintenance uniforms, IDs, and even procured a real, non-functional server rack to put on a trolley.
Raze’s role was specific. He was to be the “junior technician,” the one pushing the cart, head down, following orders. His youthful face and build fit the part. Chisato, with her ability to talk to anyone, would be the lead engineer, charming anyone they met. Takina would be the silent, no-nonsense project manager, holding the tablet with the (forged) schematics.
They rehearsed in the café after hours, moving the trolley around tables, practicing their roles.
“No, no, your posture is all wrong,” Mizuki critiqued, circling Raze. “You’re walking like a soldier pushing a howitzer. You’re a tired, underpaid tech who’s done this a thousand times. Slouch a little. Sigh occasionally. Look vaguely annoyed by the weight.”
Raze tried to adjust, feeling self-conscious.
“Better,” Takina noted. “But your scanning pattern is too systematic. Your eyes should glaze over. You are bored, not assessing threats.”
Chisato laughed. “He’s thinking about it too much! Just… be bored! Think about how much you’d rather be at home, or about what you’re having for lunch!”
It was the hardest acting job of his life. To consciously suppress every trained instinct—the constant threat assessment, the ready posture, the efficient movement—and replace it with mundane incompetence.
During a break, as Raze adjusted the straps on the dummy server rack, K-1 hovered close, his voice a private hum in Raze’s earpiece. “Your biometrics indicate stress. This performance is causing more anxiety than direct combat.”
“In combat, I know what I am,” Raze whispered back. “Here, I have to remember to be bad at things I’m good at. It’s… confusing.”
“A poignant metaphor for the human experience, I’m told,” K-1 replied dryly.
The night before the operation, the café was a pocket of focused calm. Final checks were made. Kuruti had infiltrated the tower’s building management system just enough to ensure their work order would appear valid at the security desk but not enough to trigger alarms. Mika reviewed contingency plans: if compromised in the elevator, if compromised on the target floor, if compromised on exit.
“Remember,” Mika said, his gaze encompassing them all. “Confirmation only. Get proof. A photograph, a clear audio recording, a serial number on a piece of their hardware. Do not engage. Do not pursue. The moment you have the evidence, you exfiltrate. This is not the final battle. It’s a reconnaissance mission with the highest possible stakes.”
Later, Raze found himself on the rooftop with Chisato. She was looking at the stars, her expression serene.
“Nervous?” she asked.
“Yes. But not for the reasons I expected,” he admitted. “I’m not worried about the fighting. I’m worried I’ll sigh at the wrong time, or my slouch won’t be convincing.”
Chisato giggled, a warm, genuine sound. “That’s perfect! It means you’re thinking like a human on a mission, not a weapon on a deployment.” She bumped his shoulder. “You’ll be great. Just follow my lead. And if all else fails,” she grinned, “just look really, really bored. Nobody suspects a bored person of being a secret agent.”
Her confidence was infectious. As he lay in bed that night, running through the plan, the fear was still there, but it was joined by a thread of excitement. This was their plan. A plan built on blending in, on belonging, on the very human skills he had been painstakingly learning. They weren’t attacking the tower’s strength; they were exploiting its arrogance—the belief that no one would dare walk in the front door.
The sleek, black DA van idled a block away from the Arashiyama Tower at 1:58 PM, the chosen time when the day and night shifts of the lower labs overlapped. Inside, the team performed final checks. Mizuki, at the wheel, gave them a tight smile. “Go get ‘em. I’ll be right here, engine running.”
Raze took a final breath, slipping into the character of the junior tech. He let his shoulders sag, allowed a faint, disinterested frown to settle on his face. He caught his reflection in the van’s darkened window. He didn’t see Subject Zero, or Black Cheetah, or even Ren. He saw a kid with a boring job.
Chisato, in her faux company vest, winked. “Showtime.”
They stepped out into the bright afternoon, pushing their trolley with the bulky server rack toward the tower’s gleaming, rotating front doors. The concrete fortress loomed above them, its mirrored windows reflecting the sky. Somewhere in its upper floors, Stalker was waiting, confident in his unseen defenses.
He was waiting for spies, for hackers, for assassins rappelling from the roof.He wasn’t waiting for a delivery.The team moved forward, disappearing into the stream of white-coated scientists and busy office workers flowing into the tower, their weapons hidden not in holsters, but in plain sight.
End of Chapter 12