(Rage scorched Misaka Mikoto's chest, threatening to vaporize the last of her reason. She couldn't wait another second—she had to know which bastard had killed Kuroko! The fastest way was to buy the killer's details through that all-powerful app.
She thumbed her phone open, tapped into the information-purchase screen, and typed her query: "Identity and current location of the murderer who killed Shirai Kuroko." The system instantly priced it: 10,000 coins.
The number froze her fingers. A glance at her balance—2,340 coins—told her it wasn't nearly enough.
Frustration surged. As a top-tier esper, the very name "Railgun" was deterrent enough to keep ordinary trouble away, and the "big events" that did demand her attention usually came with fat rewards from The Authorities or lucrative spoils. Yet she'd never cared about money; whatever coins she earned were blown on gua tai merch or shared with hangers-on. Saving had never crossed her mind.
Borrow from friends? She crushed the thought the instant it surfaced. Who could cough up that much at once? And the mere idea of asking—especially facing that know-it-all smirk of Shiokishi—made her skin crawl with humiliation.
This was her vendetta. Kuroko had been her friend; she would be the one to settle the score. What sort of revenge relied on outsiders?
Only one shortcut remained: home.
Without hesitation she spun around and sprinted toward the high-end residential district where her parents lived, using her power to accelerate until her silhouette blurred down the avenue.
The Misaka house was a sleek, modern detached villa—spacious, bright, expensively furnished, every corner breathing upper-middle-class comfort. The moment Misaka Mikoto burst into the living room crackling with residual sparks and icy bloodlust, that cozy atmosphere shattered.
Her parents were sipping tea on an imported sofa. They jumped when their daughter stormed in.
Misaka's mother, a well-preserved, gentle-faced woman, rose hastily. "Mikoto? What's wrong? You look—"
"Dad, Mom, I need money—lots of it, right now!" Misaka Mikoto cut her off, voice urgent and absolute. No preamble; she shoved the query screen under their noses, the five-digit sum glowing. "I'm buying the killer's info to avenge Kuroko!"
Misaka's father adjusted his glasses, brows knitted. A shrewd businessman, he grasped the figure's weight at once. "Ten thousand coins? Mikoto, do you realize what that means?" He fought to stay calm. "That's no petty sum. Converting it from company liquidity would carry a ruinous exchange rate and cripple several ongoing projects—possibly throw the firm into a cash-flow crisis…"
"I don't care!" Her voice spiked; a blue-white arc leapt between strands of her chestnut hair, and the living-room lights flickered. "Kuroko is dead—murdered! All I want is the bastard's name! Projects? The company? Are any of them worth more than Kuroko's life?!"
Her control slipped; a powerful electromagnetic field radiated outward. Teacups rattled, chiming softly. Her parents paled, instinctively shrinking back.
Her mother tried to soothe her, tone trembling. "Mikoto, calm down… We know you were close to Kuroko, but… revenge is dangerous! And so much money—can't you think again? Or—or call the police? Let The Authorities handle it…"
"The Authorities?" Mikoto's mouth twisted in a cold smirk. "They only show up to collect corpses. You don't understand how that world works. Wait for them and the killer will be continents away."
Seeing the unmistakable fear and reluctance on their faces, the shame of having to ask, the gnawing hatred for the murderer, and the hurt of being misunderstood fused into fiercer rage. She stepped forward, eyes sharp as blades, aura lethal.
"I'm not asking for opinions—I'm informing you. I will have that money. If the company's short, sell stocks, sell property—I don't care how! The coins hit my account today!"
The girl's voice carried an esper's pressure; it was no longer a daughter pleading but a superior issuing an ultimatum to the weak. The air seemed to solidify, the room's luxury starkly clashing with the drawn-bow tension.
Her parents exchanged a look—complex, layered with grief for their daughter's loss, panic at the astronomical sum, but deeper still, an unspoken terror of the daughter herself, of the destructive power she wielded.
They loved her, but at this instant they feared her more—feared her uncontrolled strength, her absoluteness, the consequences of refusal.
At last her father exhaled heavily, shoulders sagging as if years had landed on them. Avoiding her scorching gaze, he muttered, "…All right. I'll find a way. Give me time to arrange it."
The answer she'd demanded dulled the inferno inside her—if only by a fraction—yet the cold murderous intent remained untouched.
She said nothing more, only gave them a long look so alien it chilled their hearts. Then she spun away, strode upstairs, slammed her door, and shut out the messy tangle of family ties.
Downstairs, her parents sat in silence, the scent of expensive potpourri mingling with the stench of helpless dread.
They began making calls—humble, even servile—pleading with bank managers, brokers, dismantling the empire they'd built to fund their daughter's blood-soaked vengeance.
They dared not refuse, because the girl they once cradled had long since become something they neither understood nor could control—an esper.)
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