Chapter 7 — The Council and the Ghost of the Fox
The night air was thick, heavy with the scent of wet asphalt and electricity. Ken, Eloïse, and Yuri stepped out of the warehouse, their footsteps muffled by the drizzle-soaked ground. The distant wail of sirens cut through the stillness, mingling with the faint hum of city lights. Every shadow seemed alive, stretching long and sinister, whispering secrets that only the dark could hold.
Before them, black sedans blocked the narrow alley, their headlights slicing through the darkness in harsh, slanted beams. Men in tailored suits descended swiftly, moving with the precision of trained predators. They formed a tight circle around the trio, silent but imposing. And from the center emerged a figure whose mere presence demanded attention.
The grandfather of Ayato.
Despite his age, his stature was commanding. His eyes, metallic gray and piercing, scanned each of them with scrutiny so sharp it could cut through steel.
"Ayato… what is the meaning of this? I was told you were being held hostage. Where is your captor?"
Ken's jaw tightened. He met the old man's gaze without flinching, holding the image of Ayato's calm composure firmly in his mind.
"There was no captor, grandfather. This… was a misunderstanding."
The old man's voice was cold, slicing through the humid night.
"A misunderstanding? You were caught in crossfire, Ayato! Bullets flying, lives at risk!"
Ken said nothing. Eloïse's hands tightened into fists at her sides, her knuckles whitening as she avoided the grandfather's piercing gaze. Yuri's posture radiated readiness, every muscle tensed, as though he were prepared to spring into action at the first sign of danger.
Finally, the elder sighed, a deep, weary sound that seemed to carry decades of authority. He rested a gnarled hand on Ken's shoulder, his grip firm but not unkind.
"Come to the Council tomorrow. We need to discuss everything that happened."
Ken inclined his head, hiding the unease that churned inside him.
"Understood, grandfather."
---
The following morning, pale light filtered through the tinted windows of the black sedan. Yuri sat beside him, silent, his eyes tracing the cityscape as it slipped past in a blur.
"Are you sure about this?" Yuri asked quietly. "The Council isn't just a meeting of bureaucrats. Every glance, every word, is a test. One wrong move… and it could end badly."
Ken allowed a faint, controlled smile.
"Don't worry. I've faced worse than glances."
When they arrived at the OIMEN headquarters, the building loomed like a dark sentinel, windows reflecting nothing but the cold sky. Inside, the corridors smelled of metal, discipline, and authority, each step echoing with the weight of unspoken rules. Every shadow seemed to watch, every whisper seemed to echo from long ago, carrying the legacy of generations.
Yuri stopped at the door to the main chamber.
"Only members may enter. Good luck, chief," he said with a subtle smirk.
Ken stepped forward. Seven figures awaited him around a long glass table—the Seven Pillars of the OIMEN. At their head sat the elder patriarch, the grandfather of Ayato, standing as the immovable center of power. Ken's eyes scanned the room, reading each gesture, every micro-expression, measuring loyalty and suspicion alike.
"Welcome, Ayato," the patriarch intoned. "The White Wolf returns among us."
A murmur traveled through the room. The weight of expectation, the echo of history, pressed down on Ken's shoulders. He sat, his movements deliberate, observing each face, every twitch of muscle or flicker of emotion. The room was a minefield, and he walked it like a tightrope.
"Before anything else," the patriarch continued, "we must understand what transpired that night."
Ken inhaled deeply, weighing every word.
"What transpired? Someone tried to eliminate us. Me… and Ken."
The name hit the room like gunfire.
"Ken?" one of the Pillars repeated, eyes wide. "You mean the young operative who vanished?"
"Not vanished," Ken corrected, his voice steady and icy. "Murdered."
Silence fell, heavy and suffocating. Eyes flicked from face to face, searching for hidden truths. Ken could feel the room's collective heartbeat, the pulse of suspicion and fear. The grandfather's face remained impassive, unreadable.
"Do you accuse OIMEN, Ayato?" he finally asked.
"I accuse no one," Ken said, letting the words hang. "But someone, somewhere, knew exactly where we would be that night."
The patriarch's fingers steepled, his gaze unwavering.
"This was not OIMEN's doing. This attack… bears the signature of another."
The room seemed to constrict, the air thick with tension.
"The Black Angel."
Gasps, murmurs, rapid exchanges of disbelief. The other Pillars' faces betrayed shock, fear, and hesitation. Ken remained still, expression calm, heart pounding. He felt the old name stir memories, shadows, and unspoken fears.
"You mean… he's back?" one whispered.
"If his name resurfaces," the patriarch said softly, "then the Fox is not far behind either."
Time seemed to slow. The Fox. The ghost that haunted Ayato's memories, an untouchable phantom, a deadly variable. Ken's grip tightened on the armrest of the chair, his mind racing. Every instinct screamed, every memory whispered caution.
"What is your decision, Ayato?" asked the elder.
Ken straightened, his voice calm but resolute.
"I will return. If the White Wolf must hunt again, then I take my place."
The patriarch nodded gravely.
"Very well. The White Wolf is reborn."
Inside, however, Ken's fists were clenched.
> "These people… they are OIMEN."
Ayato's voice lingered, a ghostly reminder. Ken was not returning to serve. He was returning to punish.
---
That evening, the family mansion glowed under warm lights. A celebratory dinner was organized, masks of politeness and concern hiding questions none dared to voice openly. Ken moved through the ritual with practiced ease—smiles, gentle nods, measured words—while scanning every face, cataloging every movement, every shadow behind their eyes.
Then his gaze froze.
At the far end of the table, a man laughed casually with Hana. Familiar gestures, the slight curl of his lips, the faint arch of his brow… something deep within Ken's memory stirred violently.
Time seemed to halt. Ken's blood ran cold.
It was him.
The man who had removed his hood.
The one who had smiled before pulling the trigger.
A whisper escaped Ken's lips, barely audible:
"You…"
The man's head turned slowly, eyes meeting Ken's with a calm, unsettling confidence. The smile remained, innocent to the world but deadly in intent, a reminder that the past never truly dies.
And in that moment, Ken understood: this was far from over. The game had only just begun.