A young patrolman clutched his agonizing belly, curled up on the freezing pavement; every breath felt like being torn in half.
Fear and duty waged war inside him. The pain nearly knocked him out, but the weight of the badge and worry for his partner won.
Shaking, he fumbled for the radio at his belt. Pain and adrenaline made his fingers traitors; it took three tries to press the transmit button.
"Ngh—" A groan slipped out before he sucked in a ragged breath and rasped into the mic:
"Dispatch… this is an emergency! Shibuya… Aoba-dori, third block… officers need assistance—urgent backup!"
His words came in broken gasps, sliced by pain.
"One male suspect… attacked us on sight! Repeat, officer assaulted! Yamada -senior's down —unconscious! I'm… I'm hit—cough—"
Coughs racked him; fire blazed anew in his gut.
"Suspect: male, 180 cm, lean but strong! Black jacket, dark pants, black cap and mask—moves like lightning, extremely dangerous! Send everyone—ambulance too! Over!"
Kuchiba Hiro burst from the alley straight into a neon-lit food street thick with the smell of yakitori and fried noodles. Hawkers' shouts and tourists' chatter swallowed every other sound.
He glanced around for the subway when two patrolling officers at the corner turned their heads—and their eyes locked with his.
"Stop right there!" one yelled instinctively, hand dropping to his baton.
Kuchiba cursed and sprinted into the crowd.
A chaotic urban chase exploded.
He darted like an eel through the crowd of bodies, leaving a wake of startled curses.
"My crêpe!"
"Watch it, jerk!"
At a taiyaki stall he veered to dodge a crouching child and clipped a pink-haired girl spooning shaved ice.
"Kyaa!" Chika Fujiwara shrieked; her cup flew and the rainbow ice slapped onto Kaguya Shinomiya's face.
Kaguya froze, shaved ice sliding away to reveal ruby eyes that quickly burned scarlet.
Kuchiba never broke stride.
Ahead, a group of students occupied an outdoor table piled with food.
He angled to skirt it—until a "pedestrian" lunged.
Crash—dishes flew, drinks toppled, food splattered everywhere. A heavy hand slammed Kuchiba's face onto the table.
The students screamed.
"Police—don't move!"
The officer roared, cuffs ready, warning frozen into the glare.
Without a word Kuchiba snatched a cake fork and drove it backward into the man's eye.
"Aaaagh!"
The fork stayed stuck. The cop reeled; Kuchiba grabbed his head and smashed it against the table—
Crack.
The tines punched into the brain. The officer collapsed, limp.
Kuchiba barely exhaled when whistles and running boots closed in.
"There he is—get him!"
The two original patrolmen burst through the panicked crowd, saw their comrade in blood, and froze between fury and fear.
"Bastard!" the younger one screamed, baton arcing for Kuchiba's skull.
Kuchiba tilted his head; the baton whistled past. He parried the wrist and whipped a short punch into the cop's throat. The rookie staggered, gagging.
The older officer hung back, radio raised: "Target located, we need—urk!"
Before he could finish, Kuchiba was on him. The cop swung the radio at his face and reached for pepper spray.
Kuchiba batted the radio aside and twisted the wrist; the canister clattered away.
Strength wasn't equal. In the grapple the officer clawed at Kuchiba's arm—and ripped the black mask clean off.
The face beneath was young, cold, impatient, unmistakably lethal.
"It's… you!" the veteran gasped, recognizing the wanted man.
But the daze lasted only an instant. Kuchiba Hiro gave him no chance; a brutal knee slammed into the officer's gut, and as the man doubled over in pain, an elbow smashed the back of his neck. The older patrolman collapsed without a sound, unconscious.
Kuchiba Hiro exhaled, swallowed against dry lips, parched. His gaze flicked sideways and landed on the half-finished lemonade in a plastic cup, straw still inside, held by the girl beside him. Without thinking he plucked it from her hand, gulped the cold sweet-sour liquid; the burn in his throat cooled at once.
When it was empty he even handed the cup back, muttering "Thanks" to the girl who had shown no expression the entire time.
Katou Megu blinked, watching this killer who had just murdered yet still offered polite gratitude. Her face stayed blank; she gave a soft "Mm."
Right then a hot-blooded, slightly foolish voice rang out: "Scumbag! Stop! Attacking people in broad daylight!"
A reckless, spiky-haired boy in a nearby school uniform (Satou Kazuma) shoved through the crowd.
He looked brave, but trembling calves betrayed him—probably thinking "Hero time equals instant popularity," he'd charged in without a plan.
Kuchiba Hiro didn't even look. As the boy rushed in, he simply sidestepped and flicked out a foot.
"Waaah!" Satou Kazuma screamed, lost balance, and crashed face-first toward the sharp rim of a metal trash-can.
Crack!
A sickening snap! His neck twisted at an unnatural angle; he slid to the ground, eyes wide with stunned terror, lifeless.
Kuchiba Hiro spared him a glance, unmoved — just lousy luck, a disposable extra begging to die.
"All units—target Kuchiba Hiro in the food street! Repeat, target in food street! Request backup! Seal all exits!" the downed officer radioed desperately.
The message exploded across police channels like a boulder hurled into still water.
Detectives in the Criminal Affairs Division heard it and detonated. With Sato Miwako and Takagi Wataru dead, grief had turned to fury; now that Public Security had failed, vengeance was theirs to take.
Flames of revenge devoured reason and fear in a heartbeat.
"Found you at last!" Shiratori Ninzaburo roared, eyes bloodshot, whipping out his service pistol and sprinting toward the food street. Tactics, teamwork, his own safety—everything was discarded; he only wanted to blow away the monster who had murdered Miwako.
Other detectives surged after him, but some hesitated, eyes darting, feet slowing, ducking for cover—anger yes, yet when facing a creature that could wipe out a Special Assault Team, primal survival outweighed camaraderie. Slogans are easy; let someone else take the first bullet.
Kuchiba Hiro wove through the throng, racing for the subway entrance. Identity blown—speed was everything now.
Just short of the corner, a hulking plainclothes detective sprang from behind a stall and tackled him hard to the pavement.
Got you!" the officer snarled, arms locked around his waist.
Kuchiba Hiro reacted instantly; a knee smashed the man's ribs. The detective grunted, grip loosening, and Kuchiba rolled, hammering fists into his face until he went limp.
Three more officers rushed in. Kuchiba slipped like an eel, strength and skill far beyond theirs; inside a dozen seconds all three were on the ground, joints twisted or heads ringing, combat ineffective.
At that moment Shiratori Ninzaburo arrived! He shoved through the chaos and spotted Kuchiba Hiro just finishing the last officer and turning to flee.
Hatred drowned every shred of Shiratori's reason and police discipline.
Die, trash!" he screamed inside, and in the middle of the packed street he raised his pistol, sighted on Kuchiba's back, and fired.
Bang!
The shot thundered.
A split-second before it sounded, Kuchiba Hiro—impossible, as if forewarned—jerked aside.
The bullet hissed past his sleeve and punched into the chest of a stunned young office worker standing nearby, phone still raised to film.
Uh…" The man looked down at the red bloom spreading across his shirt, swayed, and toppled backward; his phone clattered, screen shattering.
In an instant the bustling food street seemed muted.
Everyone froze, eyes fixed on the innocent body, then on the ashen-faced Shiratori Ninzaburo, gun smoking, horrified by what he had done.
Kuchiba Hiro gave him no chance for a second shot; he drew his own pistol and fired.
Bang!
Head-shot.