*Chapter 22: Meowing Kitten*

I’ve always known what loneliness feels like.

It’s not empty rooms. I have plenty of those. It’s not silence either. Silence can actually be peaceful, sometimes. It’s the feeling of being surrounded by “empty spaces” meant for other people. People who never came.

Our dining table seats fourteen. I eat at the corner. Sometimes my mother joins me. Rarely my father—he barely has time for a visit. I have an older brother. He’s old enough now to follow my father’s path. So he does.

A piano in the west parlor. No one plays it. Sometimes I do. A library with first editions no one reads. Sometimes I do.

Then Tachibana, Maru, Hitoshi, Shin, Saito appeared like a weather change. Sudden and Unexpected. Tachibana borrowed a pencil and never gave it back. I still have it not because it’s valuable, but because it was the first thing anyone ever took from me like it didn’t matter. Maru lost seven matches in a row and demanded rematches until the arcade owner kicked us out. He called me a cheater, then a lucky bastard, then a… friend? I didn’t know what to do with that, so I bought us ramen. I said I wanted to. Maybe I just didn’t know another way.

Hitoshi was the one who actually did the homework. He complained the whole time, but he always let people copy. I think he liked being needed.

Shin could fall asleep anywhere—classroom, bus, a floor—and wake up blinking, asking what he missed. I wondered what it felt like to be that unguarded.

And Saito… I don’t really remember how he showed up. Guess he just wandered in one day, sat down with a bag of chips, and never left. I guess I just let him.

They always saved me a seat. Argued about snacks and expenses. Normal things. Stupid things. Stupid jokes. Stupid laughter. And… stupid me.

They joked, “Rey can cover it, right?” Always a joke. But the punchline was my wallet. I told myself they just had expensive taste. Told myself that’s a thing people have. Sometimes, after I paid, a face flickered—gratitude? Guilt? Something else? I never caught it before it disappeared.

But deep down, I always knew it. I knew they were just selfish. I knew why they always stuck to me, why they were always so close. I knew what they bitched about me behind my back.

I heard them once. After school. I’d forgotten my phone in the classroom and doubled back. They were on the rooftop, voices carrying through the stairwell. They didn’t know I was there.

“—seriously, it’s so easy,” Maru was saying. “Just mention a new game and he’s already pulling out his card. It’s almost sad.”

“Don’t be a dick,” Hitoshi muttered. But he didn’t sound like he meant it.

“What? I’m just saying what we’re all thinking.”

Tachibana laughed. That laugh. The one I thought she saved for me. “He’s harmless. And it’s not like he’ll ever notice. Rich kids never do.”

Shin’s voice, sleepy as always: “The bakery deal went through, by the way. Thanks to his dad.” A pause. “I guess Rey’s good for something.”

Saito crunched a chip. “Free food’s free food you know.”

No one defended me. Not even Tachibana.

I stood in the stairwell until their voices faded. Yet… I still showed up the next day with a smile.

And then the festival happened.

The memory darkened. He heard echoes of gunshots, felt the cold pressure around his throat.

Jin was on the ground. His umbrella shattered beside him.

The only person who never asked me for anything. The only one who stayed without complaining a damn word—even though I was always so rude to him.

I never… thanked him. Not once. Not for the rides, the meals, the quiet way he’d appear exactly when I needed him. I just… expected it. Took it. Like everyone took from me. Was I any different from my friends? Taking from someone who’d never say no?

“RUN, YOUNG MASTER REY—!”

Even then. Even broken on the ground, he wasn’t asking for help. He was still there for me.

…And I ran and couldn’t decide a damn thing.

And my vision’s getting so blurry… so this is it… I guess my time has finally come.

“…Rey.”

The voice didn’t match the memory.

The echo snapped tighter. Faster now. Closer. Realer. And then cold water washed across his face.

“Gah—!”

His body jerked violently. Rey coughed, sputtering, the taste of rust and metal and stale air suddenly replaced with water dripping down his chin.

He blinked hard.

Fluorescent light buzzing like an annoyed insect.

“So you finally decided to wake up?” a voice said, unimpressed.

It was her. Anya Yomizaki stood over him, holding an empty water bottle—the same one she’d just used to wake him up.

Rey blinked again, the fluorescent light stabbing at his eyes. His brain felt like it was wading through static. The girl’s face slowly came into focus. Short brown hair. Deadpan expression.

“Wait…” Rey croaked, his throat raw. He squinted, pieces clicking together. “You’re… that gorilla girl.”

Anya’s eye twitched.

“Huh?” she snapped. “What did you just say?”

The water bottle bounced off his forehead.

“Ow!”

“Who are you calling a gorilla girl?” Anya said flatly.

“I didn’t mean it like—” Rey sputtered, trying to sit up.

Then—

“So you have regained your consciousness, sweet one.”

The voice drifted from the corner of the room. Warm. Soft. Like honey stirred into warm milk.

Rey turned.

A woman stood by the wall, half in shadow. Long silver hair cascaded down her back. She wore a simple grey uniform, no visible weapons. Her hands were folded neatly in front of her. Her smile was gentle. Maternal.

Yeah. That was Jokirin.

Inside NSIA HQ, in the hallways…

Aiko Kisara and Kanako Isuha were heading toward the conference room, where a meeting was being held between Division One and Division Two members. A bandage was stuck to Kanako’s cheek, and her fingers were wrapped as well. She stretched her hands as she walked. Kisara’s injuries were less visible—her hands, abdomen, and chest were bandaged beneath her formal outfit, hidden from view.

“Only five minutes until the meeting starts. Walk faster,” Kisara said, her voice steady despite the stiffness in her movements.

“Aggh, my legs are killing me. How am I supposed to keep walking?” Kanako complained, dragging her feet slightly.

Even so, Kisara was in worse condition. Her steps were controlled and careful, her injuries hidden beneath her uniform but clearly slowing her down.

“Then maybe you should’ve grabbed a wheelchair,” Kisara said.

“Nah, I’ll pass. That’s gonna make me look like a big old grandpa,” Kanako muttered, forcing herself to keep up.

Then she sighed. “Anyway, did you hear what they codenamed the rescue operation? It’s… kinda cute, but—you know.”

“You mean ‘Operation Meowing Kitten’? I don’t know who came up with it,” Kisara said. “But I think there’s a reason behind it… or maybe they just wanted something that doesn’t sound like a disaster.”

“Doesn’t sound like a disaster? My ass… I’m pretty sure they’re calling the captured kids ‘kittens.’ Bunch of weirdoes.”

“It’s ‘kitten,’ not ‘kittens,’ though,” Kisara corrected, almost absently.

Kanako gave her a look. “Eh? Seriously? That’s what you’re focusing on? Does the singular even matter?”

The sidewalk ended as they noticed Division Two heading into the conference room.

Kai Yanagi, Jessie Backlash, Kanzaki Kenzai, and Zen Yoshiro.

Kai had already entered the room before she even noticed them.

Jessie paused at the doorway, her eyes lingering on their condition, her gaze edged with quiet pity.

“My, aren’t those Miss Kisara and Miss Isuha from the infamous Division One?” Zen said with a faint smirk. He glanced at his watch. “Oops, looks like time’s short. Hopefully, we’ll get the chance for a little coffee break sometime.” With that, he walked in.

Kanzaki, as sleepy as ever, followed behind. He didn’t even notice they existed.

“Tch. What’s with those guys?” Kanako snapped.

“Just ignore them,” Kisara replied flatly.

“Hey.”

The familiar voice came from behind. They turned.

It was Aizawa. Behind him were the rest of Division One—Shun Aizawa, Kaito Morishawa, Daichi Matsura, and Shiro Kenoshita, with Miyori Konotsuba following close behind.

“How’s your recovery going?” he asked.

“It’s going—” Kisara started, then stopped.

“Yeah, yeah,” Kanako cut in with a dismissive wave and a sigh.

“Then let’s get going, shall we?” Miyori said.

Inside the conference room…

White walls. Gray carpet. An oval table that could seat twenty.

Division One sat on the left side. Daichi occupied the far end, followed by Kaito, Aizawa, and an empty seat reserved for Miyori. Next to them sat Shiro, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular, yet seemingly aware of everything at once. Beside him were Kanako and Kisara.

Division Two sat on the right. Satome was at the head of the table, arms crossed. Zen leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. Jessie flipped through a stack of documents. Kai quietly scrolled through her tablet. Kanzaki, as always, was asleep, a small bubble forming at his nose with each breath.

Senior officials sat against the back wall like gray statues.

Miyori stood at the podium, adjusting the tablet in her hands. The projector behind her flickered once before stabilizing.

“We’ve located the holding site.”

A satellite-view map of Eastern City filled the screen. It zoomed in slowly rendering the abandoned blocks, and the old industrial quarter.

“Thanks to Division Two’s analysis team, we now have confirmed the exact coordinates.”

Tsumori Yanagihara sat at the edge of Division Two’s section. Hair unkempt. Dark circles under her eyes like bruises. She blinked slowly, fighting to stay awake. Empty energy drink cans surrounded her laptop.

She looked drunk. She wasn’t. Twenty-three hours without sleep did that.

“Analyst Yanagihara processed footage from seventeen traffic cameras,” Miyori continued, glancing briefly at her notes. “She cross-referenced cellular disruption patterns and tracked vehicle movement during the attack. Her team worked through the night.”

Tsumori made a small sound in acknowledgment, her head dipping before jerking back up.

Zen gave her a lazy thumbs-up from across the table. “Looking fresh, Yanagihara-san.”

“Die,” she mumbled.

Satome shot Zen a sharp look. Zen only shrugged.

Miyori tapped her tablet. The screen shifted to a massive shopping complex, long dead for decades. Its windows were boarded up, and the parking lot was worn and used.

“This is the Estate Shopping Complex. It was decommissioned in 2001. Beneath it—”

Blueprints appeared on the screen, old and blue, yet still clear.

“—there is an underground railway station. It was dismissed and sealed during the Second World War. It’s basically erased from public records now. The tracks connect to an old freight line running east.”

Another tap. A red line traced across the map from the complex toward the coast.

“The railway leads roughly seven hundred seventy kilometers to Dock Channel 7, a maritime transfer point. We believe they intend to transport the children through these abandoned routes to avoid highway monitoring and aerial surveillance.”

A pause.

Miyori’s voice stayed steady, but sharper now. “We don’t have much time. If they reach the channel, the kids get moved onto cargo ships. After that, tracking them becomes almost impossible. We’ve got thirty-six hours. Max.”

Shiro finally spoke. “What’s the station layout?”

“Three platforms. Two collapsed. One still functional. Multiple access points from the shopping complex like the service stairs, freight lifts, maintenance tunnels.”

“Hostile count?” someone asked.

Miyori hesitated for half a second, eyes flicking to her screen. “Still being confirmed. Rough estimate is between twenty and thirty, but we’re updating that as we speak. Could be higher.”

Daichi clicked his tongue and leaned back. “Twenty to thirty isn’t much.”

Miyori didn’t even look at him. “There are over forty minors inside. Any mistake, they die first.”

That pulled the air tighter.

“Tch.” Daichi looked away.

Shiro’s gaze stayed locked on the blueprint. “We’ve got entry routes yet?”

“Division Two is mapping them now. We should have usable approach vectors shortly—”

The door slammed open.

“SIR, YOU CANNOT—”

“Who the hell do you think I am?”

He didn’t push past them. He didn’t need to. He simply walked forward, and the aide stumbled back on instinct, as if the space itself had decided resistance was pointless.

Health Minister Hoshimora filled the doorway.

An expensive suit. Rings on both hands. A body built not from indulgence, but from years of taking up every room he entered. His face was flushed, not with worry, but with annoyance, like his time had been wasted.

Behind him, his wife stepped in quietly.

She was the opposite of him. She was thin where he was large, pale where he was red. Her clothes were expensive but slightly wrinkled, as if she had been wearing them for too long without noticing. Her eyes were red, but her face stayed calm. Too calm. She held a handkerchief in her hand, but didn’t use it.

The room went still.

Senior officials straightened. Division members exchanged quick looks. Everyone settled into careful silence.

Kanako leaned toward Kisara, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Ew… look at that. The Health Minister?” Her eyes flicked to his stomach. “Guy should check his own health first.”

“Keep your voice down,” Kisara murmured, her lips barely moving. “If he even hears a word, you’re done. He funds the NSIA. A lot of it.”

Kanako made a face but stayed quiet.

Minister Hoshimora surveyed the room like a landlord inspecting tenants who were late on rent.

“Well?” His voice filled the space more than it needed to. “Is this what my taxes pay for? I reported my son missing last evening, and what progress have I seen? Nothing. Zero. Emails. Form letters. ‘We’re doing everything we can.’”

His wife placed a hand on his arm. “Dear—”

He shook her off without looking at her. “My name carries weight in this government. I didn’t build my reputation just to be handed bureaucratic excuses while my family’s name is dragged through—”

He stopped mid-sentence. Caught himself. Adjusted his tie.

“While my son remains missing.”

The correction was small. But everyone in the room noticed it anyway.

“But sir,” Satome began, rising from his seat, “we’ve made significant—”

“Significant?” The Minister let out a short laugh. It wasn’t amusing. “Do you know who I am? Do you understand what I can do to this department with a single phone call? I have the Prime Minister’s ear. I have the Budget Committee in my pocket. Your funding, your positions, your very existence. All of it can be reviewed.”

The room tightened at the words.

His wife’s fingers pressed harder into the handkerchief. “Minister, please. They’re working. Just let them—”

“Ayaka. Enough.”

Her mouth closed immediately.

She didn’t look down. Didn’t move. But she stopped speaking.

Miyori stood motionless at the podium. Her expression didn’t change.

“Minister, if you allow me to continue the briefing, you’ll see we have actionable intelligence and a tactical plan in development. Your son is a priority.”

“Damn right he is.” The Minister pointed at the screen. “The Hoshimora name is not some minor footnote. This should’ve been resolved within hours. Instead, I hear nothing. Do you know how that looks? For me? For my office? What if the media starts circling—‘Health Minister’s son missing.’ Do you understand what that does to my standing?”

“Understood, sir,” Miyori replied, voice completely flat. “We are doing everything we can—”

“Then do it faster.”

Aizawa rose. His movement was slow, deliberate. He walked around the table with the practiced ease of someone who had handled a thousand angry men with too much power and too little patience.

“Minister Hoshimora.” His voice was calm. Low. “Let’s continue this outside. I’ll brief you personally. Every detail, every timeline. You have my word.”

The Minister stared at him. Sizing him up. “And you are?”

“Senior Detective Shun Aizawa, Division One.”

“Division One.” The Minister’s lip curled slightly. “I see.”

His jaw worked as he looked around the room again, as if searching for something to push against, something that would give him control back.

“Fine. Brief me. But if I’m not satisfied—”

“You will be. This way, sir. Ma’am.”

The Minister’s wife, Ayaka Hoshimora, paused at the door. She turned back for a moment.

“Please,” she said. Her voice was soft. Just a woman, a mother, tired, holding a handkerchief she hadn’t used. “Please find my son.”

Then she followed her husband out.

The door clicked shut. Silence stretched across the room.

Zen let out a slow breath. “Well… that was almost fun. Don’t see that kind of buzz much these days.”

“Zen,” Satome warned.

“I’m just saying,” Zen went on, unfazed. “The man’s worried about his reputation. His wife’s the one actually worried about the kid.”

He added, voice dripping with mockery, “Papa gets minus two hundred points, and Mommy gets plus one hundred.”

Tsumori’s head dropped onto her folded arms. Asleep in seconds.

Kanzaki had never woken up.

“Praying for Aizawa,” Kanako muttered under her breath. “So that’s how power works, huh?”

“Indeed,” Kisara replied quietly.

Miyori tapped her tablet. The screen shifted back to the blueprints. “Shall we resume?”