Kenji secured a visitor's pass from the Public Security Bureau reception desk. With his first official shift scheduled for tomorrow, he figured it was only prudent to map out the terrain today. Aside from the high-clearance restricted zones, the pass gave him the run of the facility—a rare luxury in a city as bureaucratic as New Eridu.
The workplace is a battlefield, and Kenji was a veteran of the corporate trenches. He understood the power of optics. As he navigated the sterile hallways, he wore a gentle, approachable mask. Standing at a solid 1.8 meters with a clean-cut, cheerful expression, he looked every bit the dependable junior. Even if he didn't instantly win over his new colleagues, he was at least ensuring that no one would go out of their way to make his life a living hell. The persona was taking root.
He soon reached the floor housing the Criminal Investigation Special Task Force. This was his future base of operations, the place where he'd be grinding away his life alongside his seniors. Through the reinforced glass of the office partitions, he spotted Zhu Yuan. She was pacing before a digital tactical board, barking out directives while the rest of the squad scrambled to keep pace with their notes.
Kenji didn't intrude. He watched for a moment, appreciating the professional intensity of the scene, then quietly slipped away. His interest in Zhu Yuan was, by his own admission, a base instinct—she was striking, certainly—but he was a professional above all else. He wasn't about to jeopardize his "iron rice bowl" with blatant harassment. If he was going to make a move, it would be a slow, calculated burn.
Eventually, he reached the end of the corridor, where the restrooms were situated next to a large, open ventilation window. Kenji stepped inside to familiarize himself with the facilities, then stood before the mirror to check his reflection. He was dressed simply: a crisp white shirt, an unassuming sports jacket, and athletic pants paired with sensible trainers. Aside from his spiky, "hedgehog" hair being a bit unruly, he looked the part of a promising recruit.
Just as he was splashing a bit of water on his hair to tame it, a crimson flash streaked through the open window. A mechanical stag beetle—a Zecter—spiraled into the room. Its metallic wings generated a sharp gust of air pressure that instantly ruined Kenji's attempt at grooming.
"I know you're in a hurry, but take it easy," Kenji muttered, his voice heavy with the exhaustion of a man who had seen too much. "It's not your turn to Henshin yet."
Kenji reached out and snatched the red Kabuto Zecter from the air. Once caught, the device retracted its flight wings and settled into his palm, turning docile. Only its glowing, bulbous compound eyes continued to flicker with a rhythmic, pulsing light.
Resting the Zecter in his left hand, Kenji used his right thumb to trace a specific mark on its carapace. There, amidst the high-gloss red paint, was a single white scratch. It wasn't a battle scar from an Ethereal; it was a souvenir of his own clumsiness.
It felt absurd that a weapon forged from the pinnacle of another world's super-science could be marred so easily, but the scratch was real. Touching it always sent Kenji's mind spiraling back to his life before the Hollows.
Back on Earth, he had been a quintessential Whale—a hardcore Gacha addict and Tokusatsu collector. He was a man of simple needs—no smoking, no drinking, and he'd wear the same clothes for a decade if they hadn't fallen apart—but he was a legend in the P2W spending circles of his favorite games. His true obsession, however, was his collection of CSM (Complete Selection Modification) belts. He had an entire wall dedicated to them, and every day he'd wake up surrounded by high-end replicas, wiping them down with a microfiber cloth and a grin that most people would find borderline idiotic.
That was the discipline of a true Toku fan. He had mastered every transformation sequence and every "Henshin!" call across ten years of shows. But even experts slip up. While handling the Kabuto Zecter one afternoon, he'd dropped it, resulting in that agonizing scratch. He'd been too heartbroken to even attempt a paint repair, eventually convincing himself that the "battle-damaged" look gave it character.
Shortly after that, his life took a turn for the surreal. While re-watching a classic series, a blinding light had erupted from his television, enveloping the room and dragging him—along with his entire collection—into the void. When he came to, he was on Sixth Street in New Eridu.
He'd spent weeks trying to make sense of it. Somehow, he'd been inserted into this world with a pre-existing identity: a top-tier graduate from the police academy. It was a cosmic joke. In his old life, he wouldn't even kill a spider, and now he was expected to be a front-line defender against the apocalypse.
"They didn't even give me the dignity of a Truck-kun," Kenji grumbled.
His transmigration had been decidedly unglamorous. He had landed in a world teetering on the edge of disaster. Hollows—spherical localized distortions—manifested without warning, eroding reality. Inanimate objects became "anomalies," and living beings were corrupted into Ethereals, monsters that existed only to hunt. To enter a Hollow was to enter a death trap of spatial distortions, mutating food supplies, and hyper-aggressive predators.
For an ordinary office worker, New Eridu was a nightmare. But there was a silver lining: Ethereals generally couldn't leave the Hollows. As long as the containment held, they were like fish in a very dangerous aquarium. And Kenji, unlike the average citizen, was now armed with more than just a police academy diploma.
He looked down at the Zecter in his hand. He had the power of the sun in his pocket, and he intended to use it.