I am Amuro Tooru, codenamed Bourbon. Recently, I have been assigned an increasing number of missions focused on disciplining and eliminating traitors.
This was Gin's brainchild. He argues that bodies torn apart by claws look far more savage and terrifying than those killed by bullets—an outcome he finds "magnificent."
The problem is that this assignment is tricky. If the target were a member of a rival gang, my conscience wouldn't hesitate for a second. But it becomes genuinely difficult when the target turns out to be a Non-Official Cover (NOC) operative planted within the Organization by the police or other agencies.
Killing them without mercy creates endless problems and unnecessary tension down the line.
So, with the help of Public Security, I try my hardest to smuggle these undercover agents out. However, the success rate sits at only about sixty percent.
I don't know why everyone fights me with such desperation whenever I approach...
Even though I tell them I'm getting them out, they often surprise me by emptying their magazines at my face from point-blank range the moment I raise my claws. Stop that. It actually terrifies me.
Imagine if I killed one of you by mistake out of a defensive reflex—how would I fix that? Please, try to stay alive.
With these anxieties swirling in my mind, I found myself racing across rooftops, executing my second mission this month to purge an undercover agent.
God, the sheer number of spies here. The Organization is riddled with security holes. (Though, as a Public Security officer myself, I am hardly in a position to criticize.)
Putting my Parkour training to use, I cut through the wind between buildings with agile grace, leaping for a pipe jutting out from a fire escape.
I even deployed my retractable grapple to make massive bounds, moving through the night with the total freedom of Spider-Man. What a rush.
Pulling off moves like a character in an open-world game was incredibly exhilarating.
Far below, I caught a glimpse of the target's silhouette sprinting beneath an arcade.
I grabbed a pipe fixed to the wall to kill my momentum.
Then, with cat-like fluidity, I landed silently right in front of him. The man froze in sheer shock.
"Damn it! It's the Wolfhound!"
"Please don't put up too much of a fight; it's a hassle for me."
I frowned as I saw him try to veer sharply in the opposite direction.
Don't run off. If you go anywhere else, the whole plan falls apart. Stay right there, please.
I deftly tripped him, sending him sprawling to the ground. Then, with a sleight of hand too fast to follow, I slipped a special pouch of fake blood beneath his clothes against his exposed midriff.
The blood pack was custom-made by the Public Security Bureau—an ingenious device designed to mimic the spray of viscera when ripped open by claws.
Leaning in close, I whispered so only he could hear:
"Play dead. I'll keep Gin away from you."
"!"
Not waiting for a response, I brought my iron claws down in a violent, theatrical strike, shredding both the man's flesh and the blood pack I had planted.
Crimson blood mixed with chunks of synthetic flesh sprayed out, splattering not just the alleyway but the wall of the adjacent factory as well.
Of course, the claws tearing into him were real—necessary to sell the illusion.
While his internal organs remained intact, the skin and tissue unprotected by the pack would certainly require dozens of stitches later.
The NOC agent slumped to the ground, lifeless.
It was so convincing I almost whistled in admiration; not a breath to be seen, his body perfectly still. Was he a pro at playing dead or what?
"Good work, Wolfdog. Poor bastard. If I'd killed him myself, it would have been less painful."
"Gin. It was a bit of a dull show... but are you satisfied?"
"Yeah."
Gin approached from behind at a leisurely pace, his companion Vodka in tow.
Gin kicked the feigning man several times, a savage, mocking grin twisting his face. He seemed to genuinely enjoy my method of killing.
(Hey now, he's not actually dead).
"Now the rats will know their fate. They'll understand exactly what awaits them if they try to infiltrate the Organization."
"Hopefully that serves as a deterrent. Should I have shredded him more?"
"If you had, we wouldn't be able to identify the corpse. Though, it might have added a certain artistic flair."
Gin let out a low, hellish chuckle. Kukuku. He was undoubtedly imagining some other atrocity.
The last time we drank together, he waxed poetic about the magnificence of my fighting style—specifically the brutality of my weapon and the way viscera scattered upon impact—revealing just how depraved his tastes truly are.
Thanks for the praise, Gin, but let's drop the subject...
Vodka grabbed his hat before the wind tunneling between the buildings could snatch it away, then jerked his chin toward the fake corpse.
"Bourbon, do you want me to handle the cleanup and disposal? You must be exhausted from all these back-to-back missions."
"No, that won't be necessary. You have important work attending to Gin. Besides, I've become a reliable professional; I prefer to clean up my own messes."
"Heh, really? You're sounding like a real veteran. Alright then, I'll leave it to you."
"...Thanks as always, Vodka."
"Don't mention it."
Let Vodka handle it? Impossible!
I feigned a prickly, professional territorialism to make him back off. It worked; Vodka withdrew with an amused look, as if humoring a petulant child.
If Vodka had examined the body, he would have instantly seen through the feigned death. I had to protect that secret at all costs.
I exhaled a long sigh of relief as I watched their silhouettes fade into the distance.
It seemed the plan had worked this time.
Once they had vanished completely and I was certain the area was clear, I finally turned to the body beside me.
"It's safe now. Can you stand?"
"Gh... ah... No problem."
My claws had indeed torn his skin, even if the wound was superficial. I supported his shoulder, feeling a pang of pity as he groaned in pain.
Forgive me. I couldn't hold back the strike any more than that. The bleeding looks heavy.
"...Wolfdog, what do you intend to do with me now that you've saved my life?"
The man coughed a few times, then eyed me with deep suspicion.
"My intention? I'm an undercover agent, too. I couldn't stand the thought of someone on the same side dying for nothing."
"You? Undercover? You've got to be kidding."
His face scrunched up, as if he'd just heard a bad joke.
That stung. Indignation bubbled up inside me, though I kept my expression stony.
Why the hell does no one ever believe me? I just saved your life, didn't I?
"Doesn't matter if you believe me. I'm handing you over to the Public Security Bureau. You can ask them about your fate and your next move."
"...Are you serious? Public Security? That rabid dog works for Public Security?"
"Say one more word, and I might just finish the job right here."
"Alright, alright! Get those claws away from me. I don't want to get sliced to ribbons in a dump like this."
When I gently brushed my murderous claws against his cheek, he shrugged with exaggerated theatrics, signaling his surrender.
It was a move I'd picked up directly from Vodka—a subtle threat effective enough to silence even Pinga when he was on a rampage.
But what was this guy's deal? Was there some issue with me being PSB?
Chatter aside, we managed to rendezvous safely with the Public Security team. All that remained was to hand over the bloodied NOC agent.
We succeeded this time, but there are no guarantees for the next. The world rarely gives us exactly what we want.
Still...
I hope this served as a dry run for saving my closest friend, Scotch.