The members of Exotic Squad lounged near the entrance to the outer rim, impatience and annoyance etched on their faces. The grimy, half-ruined walls of the area did nothing to alleviate their boredom as they waited, and the faint buzz of machinery in the distance was the only sound around them. Crow, the squad's leader, sat perched on a rusted metal beam, her dark eyes narrowing with every tick of the clock.

She drummed her fingers on her knee, the rhythm uneven as her irritation grew. Her black and red jacket hung loosely off her shoulders, exposing the tattoos on her chest and arms, each marking a part of her grim past. The bomb collar around her neck glinted faintly, a constant reminder of the leash that kept her in check. "Late," she muttered under her breath, glancing at the time again. "Why the hell did we agree to this?"

Not far from her, Jackal was sprawled out on the cracked pavement, legs kicked up as she tossed a pebble in the air. Her pink shorts and loud jacket stood out against the dirt and grime of the outer rim. She had the energy of a hyperactive child who'd been cooped up for too long, her body constantly fidgeting as she played with anything she could get her hands on. The bomb collar that rested around her neck didn't seem to faze her at all.

"Captain, captain, captain!" Jackal sing-songed, tossing the pebble higher. "When's this guy getting here? I'm bored. Do you think he's lost? Can I blow something up while we wait? Pleeeeease?"

Crow shot her a sharp glare. "No. And if you blow something up, I'll make sure Syuen detonates that collar around your neck personally."

"Aww, you're no fun!" Jackal giggled, not the least bit deterred. She flipped herself upright, bouncing to her feet and grinning wide. "But seriously, Cap, this waiting is killing me! Can't I just fire a rocket when he shows up?"

"No," Crow repeated, her voice hard. "Just keep it together for five more minutes. If he doesn't show up by then, maybe I'll let you blow up the next thing that moves."

Jackal clapped her hands together, hopping in place like an overexcited puppy. "Yes! You're the best, Captain!"

Viper, leaning against a nearby pillar with her arms crossed, rolled her eyes. Unlike Jackal's chaotic energy, Viper exuded cool, calculated calm. Her holographic skirt shimmered in the dim light, and her ever-present smile was as sly as it was dangerous. She toyed with the edge of her bomb collar absentmindedly, her eyes drifting between Crow and Jackal.

"Honestly, Crow, I'm surprised you're even still waiting," Viper drawled, her voice like silk, smooth but with an edge. "Figured you'd have ditched this Ark commander already. I thought you hated these types."

"I do," Crow said, her voice clipped. "But we need to play nice for now. Missilis and the Central government is watching. We can't afford to screw this up."

Viper sighed, tilting her head lazily. "Whatever you say. Still, I can't wait to see what he's like. Think he'll try to boss us around? I'd love to see how long he lasts."

"I'll gut him if he does," Crow replied without hesitation, her eyes narrowing. "But we'll see."

Jackal, hopping around in circles, suddenly froze and pointed toward the horizon. "Hey! Hey! I see something! I bet that's him! Do you think it's him? Please let it be him!" She didn't wait for an answer, already waving wildly toward the approaching figure.

Crow stood up, her eyes darkening. "Finally."

John strolled up to the group, a little too relaxed for Crow's taste, holding a carry bag filled with apple pies like he hadn't just kept them waiting for what felt like hours. The energy shifted immediately as his nonchalant grin met the cold stares of Exotic Squad. He was late, and not just fashionably so. Crow's eyes narrowed dangerously as he approached, her fingers twitching with restrained frustration.

"Finally decided to show up," Crow spat, her voice low with irritation.

John, seemingly unfazed by her venom, shrugged, handing out the pies. "What can I say? I had a boner that just wouldn't go away. Had to sit there and think of the oldest, most horrible relatives I could."

Crow's face twitched, her patience running razor-thin. She looked at the apple pie he handed her, expression flat, before promptly throwing it into the nearest pile of rubble. "You must think you're real funny."

Jackal, on the other hand, was already scarfing hers down like she hadn't eaten in days, barely giving it a glance before the pie was in her mouth. John wasn't even sure she'd taken it out of the container first. She looked like a hyperactive kid on sugar overload, her cheeks puffed up as she chewed with reckless abandon.

"Mmmph—thanks, Commander!" Jackal managed through a mouthful of pie, crumbs flying everywhere. "This is the best!"

John blinked at her, then at Crow, who was now watching her subordinate with the same cold glare as before. Jackal didn't seem to notice, but when Crow's discarded pie caught her eye, her face fell.

"Aw, Crow! You didn't want yours?"

Crow crossed her arms, giving Jackal a sideways glance that practically screamed, Don't push it. "No."

Meanwhile, Viper stood back, watching the interaction with a bemused smile, her arms still lazily crossed. She eyed the pie John handed her but decided to forgo it. With a casual toss, she handed it to Jackal. "Here, take mine before you whine any louder."

Jackal's face lit up instantly. "Really?! Thanks, Viper!" She devoured the second pie just as quickly as the first, her energy as relentless as ever.

John leaned against the cracked wall, watching the dynamic play out with some amusement. The tension between Crow and the rest of the squad was thick, but Jackal's carefree attitude managed to ease it—slightly. John's hand idly rested on the last pie as he caught Crow's gaze. Her simmering anger wasn't lost on him, but he figured he'd push his luck just a little longer.

"Y'know, Crow, with all that black and red, I'm starting to think you came straight out of a Hot Topic catalog."

Crow shot him a withering glare, her eyes narrowing with disdain. "You really wanna keep poking at me, Commander? Keep it up, and we'll see how much of that wit survives out in the Rim."

Jackal, mouth still half-full of apple pie, burst into laughter. "Hot Topic! That's so accurate!"

Crow gave Jackal a flat stare. "Shut it, Jackal."

Viper chuckled, her fingers idly twirling a lock of her hair. "I dunno, it's not completely off the mark..."

John, pleased with himself, adjusted the carry bag on his shoulder and gestured toward the buildings in the distance. "Alright, alright. Let's head out. I'll brief you all on the mission while we move. The operation—"

But Crow cut him off, holding up a hand. "Save it. We'll talk about the details when we're at the safe house. Too many ears around here." Her tone was sharp, no room for debate.

John sighed but didn't push further. "Fair enough. Lead the way then, Captain."

With that, Crow took point, her movements decisive as the rest of the squad fell into formation behind her. The group made their way through the dimly lit streets of the Outer Rim, the oppressive atmosphere weighing down on them as they slipped deeper into the fringes of civilization.

The Outer Rim was like stepping into a forgotten world, a place where the Ark's reach barely extended. It was suffocating in its bleakness. The streets were a patchwork of cracked pavement and dirt, flanked by rusted, broken-down buildings. Windows were shattered or boarded up, grime coating every surface like an unwelcome second skin. Neon signs flickered weakly, casting sickly green and red hues that barely cut through the suffocating gloom.

Filth was everywhere—puddles of sludge gathering in the corners of alleyways, trash spilling over from bins that hadn't been emptied in years. The stench of decay hung in the air, mixing with the acrid tang of oil and rust. Stray dogs, thin and mangy, rooted through heaps of refuse, their ribs visible beneath their fur. People shuffled through the streets, their heads down, eyes hollow. The unlucky souls who called this place home were gaunt, their faces lined with a mix of fatigue and desperation, skin pallid from lack of sunlight, making them look almost like ghosts in this forgotten land. The Ark didn't care about them. To the Ark, they were rats—just another part of the filth.

Abandoned machinery lined the streets, reminders of the promises the Ark had made but never delivered on. Cranes that had once built up this place now lay like skeletons, rust eating away at their once-proud forms. The only things that thrived here were crime, corruption, and the occasional flicker of rebellion. No one in the Ark talked about the Outer Rim unless they had to, and even then, it was in hushed tones, as if saying its name too loud might drag them into its depths.

The further they walked, the more it became clear just how far this place had fallen. The Ark might have had its struggles, but at least it had some semblance of life. Here, hope was a foreign concept, long abandoned along with the crumbling infrastructure. Even the air felt heavy, thick with the weight of years of neglect.

Crow, walking slightly ahead, glanced over her shoulder at John. Her sharp gaze lingered on him for a moment, her instincts flaring up. Something didn't sit right. For a commander, especially one as new as John was supposed to be, he seemed far too comfortable navigating the filth and squalor of the Outer Rim. There was a subtle ease to his movements, a familiarity that didn't match the wide-eyed naivety she expected from someone fresh out of the Ark's upper districts. Crow's eyes narrowed, but she didn't say anything—yet. But she would be watching him closely. Too many commanders had tried to hide things from her in the past, and she had no patience for lies.

Rapi sat at her desk, absorbed in the flood of requisition forms, each one necessary to facilitate the expansion Liter had planned for the outpost. The forms were tedious, but they were essential; the outpost needed upgrades, and with potential reinforcements and more teams coming in, they couldn't afford to delay. The hum of the outpost's systems provided a constant backdrop as she worked, and she had settled into the quiet rhythm when the door to the office creaked open.

Rapi glanced up, expecting one of her usual squad members, but instead, a figure she didn't immediately recognize stepped in. The woman had an air of fragility about her. Rapi finally recognized her from the encounter with Chatterbox—Mihara of the Wardress squad.

Mihara stepped inside, her movements almost too careful, like she was walking in a dream. Rapi hadn't heard anything about her since Yuni's death, only that she had not left the repair center. Now, standing before Rapi, there was something distant in her eyes, something hollow.

"Is the Commander here?" Mihara asked, her voice soft, barely above a whisper.

Rapi's hand paused mid-signature, a faint frown crossing her face. "He's not in right now. Do you need something?"

Mihara stepped further into the room, her gaze distant, barely registering Rapi's words. "I need to talk to him. About Yuni."

The name hung in the air like a heavy stone, and Rapi's normally composed expression shifted. For a moment, there was a flicker of something—regret, maybe—but she quickly masked it. Yuni's death hadn't just affected Mihara, after all.

"I understand," Rapi said quietly, standing to meet Mihara at eye level. "I was with him during that mission."

Mihara's eyes flickered at that, a spark of something—pain, grief, perhaps even resentment. "You saw what happened, then. How did she..." Mihara trailed off, her voice catching as she struggled to maintain her composure. "I don't know how to make sense of it."

Rapi's heart tightened at Mihara's words, but she maintained her professional stance. It wasn't easy for her to express emotion, not when she had been trained to maintain composure in the face of loss. But now, faced with Mihara's brokenness, she felt a quiet need to be honest.

"It wasn't easy. I know that's not what you want to hear, but the truth is... I didn't have all the answers then, and I still don't." Rapi's voice was low, but steady. "We did everything we could, Mihara."

Mihara clenched her fists, her eyes brimming with unshed tears, but she didn't let them fall. "It doesn't feel like enough. She was everything to me. And now... she's gone. It's like a part of me has been ripped out."

The words hit Rapi harder than she expected. Her own chest tightened with the weight of Mihara's grief, though she remained outwardly composed. She wanted to say something comforting, but comforting wasn't something she was good at. Not in moments like these.

"I know," Rapi said softly. "I saw what she meant to you."

Mihara's lip trembled, but she pressed on, her voice brittle. "I keep thinking about what I could've done. If I had acted differently... maybe she'd still be here."

Rapi let out a slow breath, her gaze steady as she took in the sight of Mihara's barely held-together composure. "You can't think like that. It'll only eat at you. We're soldiers, Mihara. We make decisions in the moment, and we deal with the fallout. But it's not your fault."

Mihara seemed to waver, her arms wrapping tightly around herself as if trying to hold herself together. "You think that helps? Because it doesn't."

Rapi's jaw tightened, her usual discipline faltering for a brief second. "No, it doesn't. But it's the truth."

Mihara stood silent for a long moment, her head bowing slightly as though the weight of it all had finally sunk in. Rapi watched her carefully, feeling the tension in the air but knowing that there wasn't much more she could say.

"If you want to wait for the Commander, I'm sure he'll be back soon. He might be able to offer more than I can," Rapi finally offered.

Mihara nodded absently, her thoughts clearly elsewhere. Without another word, she turned and left the room, the door closing softly behind her. Rapi remained standing for a moment, staring at the door with a faint frown.

The dimly lit safehouse had the distinct odor of dust and neglect. Faded wallpaper peeled from the walls, and the mismatched furniture had seen better days. Crow sat cross-legged on a ratty old couch, playing with a knife, watching John with her usual unimpressed glare. Viper leaned casually against the wall, twirling a lock of her hair, while Jackal fidgeted with a pen she'd found on the floor, tapping it rapidly against the table.

John stood at the center of the room, holding up a small device. "Alright, let's get this over with. First things first," he began, waving the device slightly, "I was handed control of your bomb collars."

At the mention of the collars, Crow's eyes narrowed dangerously, while Viper's expression remained neutral but watchful. Jackal stopped fidgeting long enough to throw him a curious glance.

"Don't worry," John continued, his tone flat, almost disinterested. "I'm not going to use it, so you don't have to freak out."

Crow let out a slow, sarcastic clap, her voice dripping with venom. "Oh, well, aren't you just the most trustworthy Commander we've ever had?" She flashed a grin, her amusement clearly lacking sincerity.

John smirked, leaning back against a creaky chair. "I aim to please."

The sarcasm lingered in the air as the tension thickened. Viper raised an eyebrow but didn't comment, while Jackal seemed to find the whole exchange hilarious, snickering quietly to herself.

John let the moment pass, straightening up as he began to outline the mission. "Here's the deal: We've got a brothel owner going by the moniker Rat out here who thinks it's a good idea to try blackmailing high-ranking members of the Ark's military and government. He's been spreading false info, and we're supposed to monitor and report back, maybe catch him in the act."

Viper interrupted, her voice smooth as silk but carrying an edge of skepticism. "False info, huh? That's cute. You sure the data's fake?"

John raised an eyebrow at her, and Viper continued, "Rat, or whatever alias he's going by this week—Julio's his real name, probably—is likely an Ark asset gone rogue. The data's probably very real."

Crow leaned back, her grin widening at the revelation, clearly amused by the corruption at play.

Feigning shock, John put a hand to his chest, his voice dripping with mock surprise. "Oh no, the Ark government? Corrupt? Who would have thought?"

Crow shook her head, a dark glint in her eye. "As if anyone's surprised. Let's just get this over with."

John sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, well, we'll head to the brothel and play this by ear. If we're lucky, we catch him red-handed. If not, we at least get some dirt. Anything to add?"

The safehouse was thick with tension, a weight that pressed down on the room like the stale, musty air. John stood at the center, his eyes scanning the group in front of him. His arms crossed over his chest, he waited for them to give something—anything—that could be useful. The silence stretched out, broken only by the subtle creak of Crow's chair as she leaned back, watching him with that calculating gaze of hers. No one here was eager to play nice.

"Alright," John started, his voice low but firm, "These are the basics, but we need more than that. I need details. Anybody got anything useful, or are we playing blind?"

Viper, who had been lazily twirling a lock of hair around her finger, let the silence hang for a moment longer before sitting up, her eyes gleaming. "Contacts," she said smoothly, her voice soft but sharp. "I've got a few people who owe me... favors. Some are tied up in the underworld out here. Could be useful to get us closer to Rat."

The way she said "favors" sent a chill through the room. There was always something dangerous lurking behind her words. It was clear she wasn't giving everything away, but she'd offer just enough to keep them interested.

Crow, on the other hand, didn't bother hiding her disdain. She had been sitting there, lazily twirling a knife between her fingers, but now she stopped and locked eyes with John, her lips curling into a faint, mocking smile. "I know some places," she said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Spying, making people uncomfortable—that's my game. There's an old factory deeper in the Outer Rim. Abandoned, nasty, and it's got a view of everything Rat's been up to."

Her tone was casual, almost too casual, and it made John's jaw tighten. It wasn't the information itself that set him on edge—it was the way she held back, offering only what she wanted. There was no full cooperation here, no trust. Just cold calculation. Both Viper and Crow were playing this close to the chest, giving him what he asked for, but never more than they had to.

The silence that followed was thick, palpable. John's gaze flickered between them, his eyes narrowing just slightly as if weighing their usefulness. He nodded slowly, but there was no warmth in it. Just acknowledgement. "Alright," he muttered, "get me what you can. We'll head out at dawn"

Crow's smirk deepened. She tossed the knife in the air, catching it lazily as she leaned back in her chair. "Dawn, huh?" she echoed, her voice mocking. "You know the Dome of Eternity doesn't reach out this far, Commander. There's no dawn here. Just the endless dark."

Her words hit like a dare, a challenge to see how far John was willing to push. Viper gave a slight nod, her own quiet agreement barely noticeable, but the look in her eyes said enough.

John shrugged, nonchalant but with a hint of steel beneath it. "At the hour of dawn, then. We'll operate like we're under Ark daylight, and we'll hit Rat when he least expects it. Pretend there's something normal about all this."

The tension spiked as the silence stretched between them again, charged with unspoken threats and hidden agendas. Crow let out a dry, humorless laugh. "You'd better be ready, Commander," she said, her voice dropping lower, more serious now. "The Outer Rim? It's not as forgiving as your precious Ark."

John stretched, the tension in his muscles easing slightly as he glanced around the dim room. It was time to get a feel for the place he'd be sleeping—if you could call it that. "Mind showing me to the room I'll be staying in?" he asked, his voice casual but his eyes still sharp.

Crow, never missing an opportunity to let her indifference show, gave a lazy wave in Viper's direction. "Viper, show our precious guest where he'll be crashing."

Viper's smile was instant, a slow, coy grin spreading across her face as she sauntered over to John. "Of course, Commander. Let me take care of you." Her tone was syrupy sweet, too much for John's liking. She sidled closer, leaning in with her usual predatory charm. "While we're at it, why don't you let me borrow your phone for a second? I'll add my contact on Blabla. You know, just to make sure we stay in touch."

John arched a brow but handed her the phone anyway, more curious than concerned. Viper took it with a wink, her fingers moving swiftly over the screen. "Thanks, honey. Now, follow me."

She led him down a narrow corridor, her hips swaying slightly as she walked, the dim light flickering above them casting eerie shadows on the walls. Viper stopped in front of a rusted door, pushing it open with a flourish. "Here we are."

The room was... well, calling it a room was generous. It was more of a glorified storage closet. The walls were cracked, the bed little more than a thin mattress on a creaky frame, and there was a single dim bulb hanging from the ceiling, flickering like it was on its last legs. The smell of mildew clung to the air, but John hardly cared. He'd slept in worse.

"Nice, huh?" Viper said with a grin, clearly amused by the conditions.

John shrugged, unfazed. "I've had worse."

John waited for a beat, watching Viper linger near the door. Her eyes glinted mischievously as she leaned against the frame, her hand still casually holding his phone. She handed the phone back, her fingers brushing against his as she passed it over. "There you go, Commander. My number's in there now. Don't hesitate to call me anytime you need... anything." Her voice purred, and she winked before stepping back from the doorway.

John didn't flinch, didn't give her the satisfaction of a reaction, though his grip on the phone tightened ever so slightly. "Thanks," he said, his voice flat, neutral.

Viper lingered for a second longer, her gaze flitting over his face as if she was trying to read him. She didn't say another word, but the sly smile on her lips spoke volumes. With a final glance, she turned on her heel, sauntering back down the hall, her footsteps echoing faintly until the sound faded entirely.

Once he was sure she was gone, John exhaled and rubbed the bridge of his nose, the tension draining from his shoulders. The room was his now, small and grimy as it was. He wasted no time setting up the barrier, placing talismans with careful precision. The faint hum of energy filled the space as the barrier took hold, its subtle force already making the room feel more secure. It wasn't anything showy, just enough to make anyone feel uncomfortable if they tried to come snooping. He didn't trust Exotic Squad any more than they trusted him, and he wasn't about to take chances.

John tossed his bag onto the chair and laid out the disguise for later, eyeing the platform shoes and grey wig with a smirk. It wasn't going to be comfortable, but it would do the job. He set his alarm for midnight, the small display glowing dimly in the darkened room. It would be a long night, but for now, he could afford a few hours of rest.

Stretching out on the bed, he closed his eyes. Even in the discomfort, he found himself slipping into a light, but steady sleep—his mind already ticking over the plan ahead.

John awoke to the sharp blare of his alarm at midnight, groggily reaching for his phone to silence the noise. His head pounded slightly from the abrupt wake-up, but there was no time to waste. Groaning, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, shaking off the sleep that clung to him.

The room was dark except for the faint glow of his phone, which he used as a makeshift mirror while he began to piece together the disguise. The platform shoes came first, clunky and uncomfortable. John winced as he balanced himself, the extra height feeling unnatural under his feet. Takumi was taller than him, and he needed the height. As he slipped them on, he wobbled for a second, catching his balance on the edge of the bed. "How do women manage heels..." he muttered, shaking his head as he stood up.

Next, he tugged on the grey wig, adjusting it so it sat properly over his messy hair. The strands brushed against his neck in an unfamiliar way, making him feel even more out of place. Finally, he shrugged into the Japanese-style trench coat, the dark fabric swaying as he moved. With the coat draped over his shoulders and the wig hiding his real hair, John glanced at himself in the phone's camera.

From a distance, in the dark, he could pass for Takumi. The height was right, the grey hair matched, and the coat concealed much of the difference in build. It wasn't perfect, but it would have to do.

Satisfied enough, he moved toward the window, easing it open. The cool night air swept in, and he stepped up, ready to leave quietly. But as he shifted his weight onto the platform shoes, his foot wobbled. His ankle twisted awkwardly, and John had to grab onto the sill to stop himself from falling outright.

He jumped down from the window, aiming to land smoothly, but the uneven weight of the shoes threw him off balance. His feet hit the ground hard, but instead of landing gracefully, his body pitched forward, and he faceplanted into the dirt.

With a groan, he slowly pushed himself up, wiping the dirt from his face. "Fantastic," he muttered sarcastically, dusting off the coat and fixing the wig. It was an inauspicious start, but he wasn't going to let that stop him.

John kept to the shadows, moving through the back alleys of the Outer Rim like a ghost. The towering remnants of buildings loomed over him, their surfaces weathered and crumbling, barely holding onto the last vestiges of what once made them useful. The air was thick with decay, carrying a rancid stench of unwashed bodies, rotting food, and something more foul—something deeper, as though the streets themselves were sick and dying.

Each step was met with a squelch of mud and grime, the ground littered with refuse and filth that clung to his boots. A sticky, oily residue from the broken-down machinery and abandoned vehicles that lined the alleys permeated the air, mixing with the sharp tang of rust. It coated his throat as he breathed, leaving a metallic taste lingering on his tongue.

As he moved deeper, the sounds of the Outer Rim filtered through the oppressive silence. The distant clatter of something metal falling, a dog barking somewhere far off, and the low murmurs of people huddled in corners. The walls around him echoed the faint whispers of those who called this place home—voices hollow with despair, barely more than shadows themselves.

John passed by figures crouched in the doorways of what used to be shops and homes, their eyes dull and hollow, watching him with a mixture of suspicion and desperation. Their clothes were torn, hanging from gaunt frames, and their faces etched with the kind of weariness that only came from being forgotten. The skin of their hands and faces was ashen, smudged with soot and grime, but their eyes—their eyes burned with the kind of hunger that came from days, maybe weeks, without proper food.

In the dim light, he could make out a family huddled beneath a torn sheet, the only shelter they had. The mother clutched her children to her, their small bodies trembling as they pressed against her side. John's stomach twisted at the sight. He had seen it before, but it never got easier.

Further on, a man was bartering with another, their voices hushed but intense. They traded in whatever they could get their hands on—scraps, drugs, bits of tech. Anything that could be useful for survival in this hellhole. Their skin was thin, stretched tight over bones, and their eyes darted around nervously, always on edge. They, like everyone else in the Outer Rim, were trapped in a cycle of survival, forced to do anything they could to make it through another day.

The alleys grew narrower, and the air thicker with the cloying stench of bodies packed too close together, festering wounds left untreated, and the sharp sting of sweat mixed with fear. Every breath John took felt heavy, like the air itself was trying to choke him, as if the very essence of the Outer Rim was trying to seep into his lungs and drag him down into its squalor.

The flickering lights from broken street lamps cast long, jagged shadows, the illumination more a mockery than a comfort. It barely cut through the darkness, casting eerie reflections in the pools of stagnant water that collected in the dips of the alley floors. The darkness here wasn't just a lack of light—it was an oppressive weight, a constant reminder that the Outer Rim was a place abandoned by the Ark, where the people were left to rot.

Despite it all, John moved calmly. His steps were measured, his eyes scanning each movement with the ease of someone who had walked these streets many times before. His hands rested loosely at his sides, but he was ready. Crow had noticed earlier how he handled himself, how this supposed newbie commander didn't flinch in the face of this filth. It was clear, even if she hadn't said it outright—he wasn't new to this. Not at all.

He pressed forward, his destination looming just ahead—the old warehouse, the place where he had faked his death. The closer he got, the more the weight of the past settled on his shoulders.

John's footsteps slowed as the warehouse came into view, its rusted walls crumbling under years of neglect, blending into the squalor of the Outer Rim. His mind drifted back to those first few months after being unceremoniously assigned here, barely a Grade 2 sorcerer, fresh out of Jujutsu Academy and thrown into this wasteland of despair and filth. They didn't tell him what to expect—just threw him to the wolves. And he had been naïve enough to think that he could handle it.

The Outer Rim had crushed those illusions quickly.

The streets of the Outer Rim were a wasteland. Every corner told the same story: crumbling buildings leaned like broken teeth, and the ground was slick with filth, half-hidden under layers of grime that hadn't been washed away in years. The air stank of rot and desperation, thick with the oily scent of decay and smoke from nearby fires.

As he walked through the alleys, his boots squelched in the mud, a grim reminder of how deeply the Outer Rim had sunk. The darkness here wasn't just from the lack of light—the artificial sky of the Ark's dome didn't stretch this far—it was from the sheer weight of suffering that clung to everything. The distant sounds of coughing and muffled cries echoed off the graffiti-stained walls, like the world itself was trying to forget the people left behind.

The memory tugged at him as he approached the warehouse—the mission that had torn away the last of his innocence. He had been so eager then, a new sorcerer barely out of Jujutsu Academy. They sent him here, just another tool for the Society, expecting him to clean up their messes. He was too green, too naïve to understand what this place demanded.

His mistake had cost lives. Not curses—people. Civilians who had been caught in the crossfire of his eagerness, his need to prove himself. That was the mission that had hardened him, twisted something inside until the only thing left was survival. He didn't talk about it, didn't let himself dwell on the details. But the echoes were always there, gnawing at him in moments like this.

John gritted his teeth, shaking the thoughts away. The mission was now—focus on the now.

The warehouse loomed ahead, a skeleton of rusted metal and broken windows, sagging under the weight of its own abandonment. It was here that he had buried his old self.

But as he stepped closer, something stopped him.

In the mud, half-buried and forgotten, was the body of a child. The small figure was curled on its side, motionless, as if left there by the world that had long since abandoned them. The child's clothes were torn, caked in grime, and their face was slack, emotionless. A pang shot through John's chest, but he didn't move. He just stared.

In the murky puddle by the child's face, John caught his own reflection. The dark eyes staring back at him didn't belong to the sorcerer he once was. They belonged to the man the Outer Rim had forged—a man who knew what it meant to survive, no matter the cost. The silence of the streets pressed in around him.

He crouched down, his fingers brushing the mud, but he didn't touch the child. His reflection rippled next to the child's face, the dirt smearing like blood across the water's surface.

This wasn't new. This wasn't even surprising. He'd seen bodies like this before, more than he cared to admit. The people here were left to rot—abandoned by the Ark, discarded like refuse. And yet, every time he saw it, the knot in his chest tightened a little more.

He straightened, his hand sliding back into the pocket of his coat. The mission called, and he had to answer. With a final glance at the reflection in the puddle, John stepped forward, letting the darkness of the warehouse swallow him whole.

The inside of the warehouse was barely more than a hollow shell. Stripped metal beams crisscrossed above, casting jagged shadows across the floor littered with debris. The air was heavy with the scent of rust and decay, mingling with the faint crackle of a makeshift blowtorch sparking to life in the corner of the room.

A young girl, no older than her early teens, was hunched over a pile of scrap metal, her eyes narrowed in concentration as she worked the torch. Her hands moved quickly, slicing through the rebar with the ease of someone who had been doing this for far too long. She wasn't new to the struggle—the lines of dirt on her face, the way her ribs pressed against her skin, showed how long she'd been forced to survive in this forgotten corner of the Outer Rim.

Then, she saw it. A shadow stretching long behind her, flickering in the glow of the blowtorch. Her heart lurched, her pulse quickening as the fear set in. Without thinking, she whipped around, swiping the torch towards the figure. The flame hissed, but before it could connect, a hand—calm, precise—caught the tool mid-swing.

John stood there, his grip steady as he gently lowered her hand. The girl's breath came in shallow gasps, her eyes wide with terror. The torch clattered to the ground, and she scrambled back, panic seizing her small frame. "I'll do anything—anything!" she stammered, her voice breaking. "Just… just let me go. Don't touch me!" Her final words cracked, and she burst into sobs, covering her face with her hands.

John's eyes softened, though his face remained unreadable. He slowly crouched down, his presence deliberate, non-threatening. "I'm not here to hurt you," he said quietly, his voice calm but firm, cutting through the haze of her panic. "I just need some information. That's it."

The girl sniffled, glancing at him warily between her fingers. She watched him reach into his coat pocket, her body tense, ready to bolt at any sudden movement. But instead of a weapon, John pulled out a small, vacuum-sealed packet—a military ration.

He offered it to her without a word, setting it gently on the ground in front of her. For a moment, the girl didn't move, her eyes darting between John and the ration like it was some kind of trick. Then, slowly, cautiously, she reached out and snatched it from the floor, tearing into the packet with trembling hands.

The shift was immediate. As she chewed, her panic subsided, her body relaxing as the taste of food—real food—hit her senses. For someone who had been scraping by in the Outer Rim, a simple ration pack felt like a feast. What had moments ago been a life-or-death situation in her eyes had now turned into something more familiar: a trade. She understood bartering, understood survival. And John had just given her something worth more than a threat could ever produce.

He watched her eat in silence, his expression unreadable but patient. "Let's start over," John said after a beat, his voice even. "I'm just here for answers. Tell me what you know, and you can get more food. Deal?"

The girl swallowed hard, her eyes now focused on him with a mix of wariness and curiosity. She nodded, wiping the tears from her dirty cheeks, and in that moment, the balance of power had shifted—not through fear, but through understanding.

John watched the girl chew, her hunger momentarily silencing her fear. After a long pause, he spoke again, his voice low but steady. "This warehouse. What do you know about it?"

She hesitated, eyes darting around the dilapidated space. "Not much," she admitted, between bites. "People don't come here. Not after… well, after the explosion. And all the disappearances." Her voice dropped lower as she continued, like speaking the words would make them real again. "They say it's cursed or something. Nobody messes with this place unless they're desperate. It's too risky."

John's eyes narrowed, absorbing the information. Of course, the explosion would have kept people away—made this place the perfect hideout for him back when he needed it. "That's why you're here?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

The girl nodded. "Yeah, it's quiet. Less trouble. Easier to survive."

John tapped a finger against his chin, thoughtful. "What about the disappearances? Any areas nearby where people avoid even more than here?"

She chewed her lip, thinking. "There's a few places… Um, near the old Eastside Trainyard, no one goes there. Ever since the flood, the water's poisoned or something. People say the ones who go too close disappear. And there's this junkyard, past the scrap market—people talk about hearing weird noises coming from it at night. Some think it's haunted, others say it's just gangs."

John nodded, filing away the information. "Thanks," he said simply, reaching into his coat once more. He tossed her another ration, and she caught it, her eyes widening at the unexpected generosity.

As he turned to leave, his eyes caught on the half-cut rebar she'd been working on earlier, the metal twisted and jagged. He moved toward it, grabbing hold of several pieces. With minimal effort, John pulled them free from the rusted foundation, each bar giving way with a groan of metal. He handed them to her, her face frozen in surprise.

Before she could even say a word of thanks, John had already melted back into the shadows. The girl blinked, looking around frantically—but he was gone, leaving only the soft creak of the warehouse behind him.

Rapi stood at the outpost's central area, the hum of machinery and distant conversations filling the air as she went over the expansion plans with Liter. Despite Liter's diminutive size, the leader of Mighty Tools had a commanding presence, her voice sounding more like a weary elder than someone her size would suggest.

"So, we'll be expanding the Visitor area to accommodate the new Nikke squads coming in and out of the outpost," Liter explained, a small map of the outpost spread out between them. Her robotic dog, Bolt, sat by her feet, eyes blinking periodically as it scanned the area.

Rapi nodded, taking in the details of the blueprint. "This will help with the influx of squads coming and going. Our current facilities are... a bit cramped."

Liter nodded sagely, her small hands tracing the planned structure on the map. "I reckon it'll take about two days to get the first phase done. Gonna need to head down to the Ark and pick up some supplies first, though. Centi will be coming with me—gotta make sure she doesn't accidentally knock down a wall with her enthusiasm."

"Understood. Let me know if you need anything from us before you head out."

As the conversation was wrapping up, Liter paused, her hand still hovering over the blueprint. She glanced up at Rapi with a small frown, her tone casual yet thoughtful. "Funny thing, you know? The Visitor building's only got one occupant at the moment."

Rapi's expression shifted slightly, her attention sharpening. "Only one?"

"Mm-hmm," Liter confirmed, her voice soft. "Mihara's the only one in there. She's been keeping to herself, hasn't left the place since she was discharged from the repair center. Mighty Tools hasn't seen a soul go in or out."

Rapi's gaze drifted over to the Visitor building across the courtyard, its exterior quiet and almost lifeless. A flicker of concern crossed her features. Mihara, the grief-stricken Nikke, had been struggling after Yuni's death. It wasn't surprising she had isolated herself, but still, something about it left a heavy weight on Rapi's chest.

Liter gave a small nod, picking up on Rapi's mood. "Well, I'll be heading down now to grab those materials. Take care of things here, eh?"

Rapi nodded, her eyes still lingering on the building as Liter walked away, Bolt trailing behind her.

John's boots hit the ground with a dull thud, the sound reverberating in the stillness. He moved slowly, each step deliberate, as if savoring the growing panic in the gangster's eyes. The man scrambled back against a pile of rusted scrap metal, his breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. He shouted out, his voice cracking, but the only response was silence. No backup. No help. Just the cold, suffocating quiet of the junkyard.

"Answer my questions, or I'll show you what happened to your friends" John's voice was quiet—too quiet—but the threat beneath it was unmistakable. He crouched, the motion casual, almost lazy, but his eyes were fixed on the man like a predator toying with its prey.

The gangster's head jerked from side to side, searching for any possible escape. But it was futile, and the realization sank in, his panic sharpening. "Alright, man! Alright!"

John leaned closer, his expression unflinching, watching the fear rise in the man's eyes. "The disappearances. In the junkyard. Who's responsible?"

The man stammered, his hands shaking. "It—it's us! My gang, we... we've been taking people. Selling them off—whoever we could find!"

John frowned "What about the Eastside trainyard," he continued, his tone calm but cold enough to freeze the air. "Who's responsible?"

The man's breath hitched, and for a second, it seemed like he might pass out. "We don't go near there, I swear! It's cursed or something. We hear stories… people go in, they don't come back. Ain't nobody in my crew messin' with that place."

John's jaw tightened, his patience stretching thin. "So it's not you." There was no accusation, just a statement of fact. But the disappointment was clear. This wasn't the answer he'd hoped for.

The gangster, emboldened by John's lack of immediate violence, began to babble. "We—we just stick to the junkyard, man. Easier targets, you know? Ain't no one gonna notice a few people here and there..."

John let out a slow sigh, standing up straight. His hand slipped into his jacket pocket, feeling the faint buzz of his phone. The message on the screen told him it was time to head back, Exotic Squad was waiting. But the nagging frustration of unfinished business gnawed at him.

He turned, as if to leave, then paused. A wicked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He turned back, looming over the gangster who was too terrified to move. "There's something I've always wanted to try, something I wasn't allowed to do back when I was with the Society." John mused, his tone light, but there was a darkness behind his eyes.

The gangster's face paled. "W-what do you mean?"

John didn't answer right away. His smile widened, and he leaned in closer, the scent of oil and rust thick in the air between them. "You'll find out."