After completing several missions over the following weeks, the day finally arrived when I would serve as Rye's escort and assistant.
Observing the daily lives and true faces of Organization executives I knew from the original story is fascinating, but the difficulty of the actual missions remains unchanged.
In particular, a recent supply run to Pinga, who is currently deep in a long-term undercover operation, was a massive headache.
His infiltration site was a marine fortress with fortifications rivaling planned military installations; just making contact required a complex mix of official procedures and back-channel arrangements.
After all that trouble, the first thing Pinga said when we met was, "What? They sent a kid?"
You're still plenty young yourself, you moron!
I couldn't scream that aloud, so I followed Vodka's teachings and silently aimed my claws at Pinga's cheek.
Vodka says: "If you gently graze an opponent's cheek with claws charged with killing intent, most of them shut up immediately."
What eloquent body language. This is exactly what makes the underworld so barbaric and repulsive.
When the cold blade of the claw touched his skin, backed by genuine intent to kill, Pinga fell dead silent.
Regardless of his rank as a codenamed member, Furuya Rei's body is not weak enough to lose at this distance.
In close-quarters combat, no one in the Organization can best me. After all, I possess superhuman physical specs—I am effectively a trained warrior permanently unleashing hysterical strength.
If anyone could defeat me, it would probably take someone on the level of the samurai Ishikawa Goemon.
"Tch. Can't you take a joke?"
Pinga said this while raising both hands dismissively. I lowered my claws, but in that instant, he grinned maliciously.
He aimed for my face with a hidden weapon he had whipped out of his sleeve.
Your attitude is truly terrible, Pinga. But the way you drew that hidden weapon was impressive. I want to try that, too.
Thanks to my physical specs, dodging the attack after seeing it was extremely easy; I smashed the hidden weapon with my claw and kicked him in the gut.
Recently, I've become better at controlling my strength, so the kick didn't result in ruptured internal organs. He just coughed violently and screamed, "You damn monster!"
Anyway, enough reminiscing.
Sensing someone's presence behind me on the rooftop, I turned around and bowed respectfully.
"It has been a few days. I will be serving as your spotter for this mission as well. I'm Bourbon."
"...Am I really supposed to work with someone like you?"
"Yes."
Rye, carrying a black rifle case on his back, replied in a monotone voice while his long black hair fluttered in the strong wind whipping around the building.
Unlike Pinga, this man's way of speaking carried no intent to provoke.
Everyone, without exception, would assume he meant, "You aren't qualified for this mission." However, I suspect he is simply an absent-minded person verifying facts.
Seriously? How was this person left alone until he ended up like this?
While feeling intense curiosity toward this rare character—the slightly sharp-tongued Akai-san—I picked up the bag containing the spotting scope and other equipment.
As usual, I had booked the hotel, organized the schedule, and prepared the area maps and weather data for the day.
Sometimes I arrange a private Cessna, but this time it was decided we would use normal public transport.
"Can you do it?"
"I have been drilled in these skills as well. I don't believe there will be any issues."
"I see."
By the way, Korn taught me these skills.
So that I could operate even when Chianti was on another mission, I had the opportunity to be trained directly by Korn, who is famous for his few words.
I struggled to understand him because he spoke so rarely, but he is a true professional, as expected.
Once I mastered the skills, I reached a level of stability that even made Chianti praise me: "As expected of Bourbon, the jack-of-all-trades!"
But please, stop calling me a "jack-of-all-trades." I feel like that will just increase the number of annoying tasks dumped on me.
And so, the day arrived.
It seems the other side has professionals, too.
They anticipated us, deployed personnel on the rooftop where we had positioned ourselves, and launched a surprise attack.
"Die!"
A man in a loud yellow shirt screamed as he swung a massive cleaver down. Ray spun around from aiming his rifle, shock written on his face.
It was a blind spot—a lethal angle. The attack was so sudden that even someone of Ray's caliber hadn't sensed him coming.
Ray was wide open, the cleaver plunging toward him.
But to me, with senses that rival a beast's, the sound of the attacker's breathing had given him away.
Good thing I brought my claws as backup.
In a flash, I swiped sideways. The man flew back, slamming into the iron fence, three deep gashes carved across his chest as if he'd been mauled.
His mistake was prioritizing stealth over firepower.
If he'd used a pistol, I would've been forced to cover Ray, and he might have bought himself another turn in the fight.
But honestly, a guy attacking from behind with a cleaver... that's terrifying. What is this, a horror movie?
"You... I heard you were a 'Humanoid Leopard,' but you really are one."
"Excuse me?"
I tilted my head, puzzled. Ray just stared at my blood-soaked claws, his brow furrowed.
It's a rare sight, sure, but he must have heard about my fighting style from Gin or someone else by now.
Gin seems to love bragging about how I fight every chance he gets.
One minute he's calling me a "rabid wolf-dog," the next a "blood-drenched beast," spinning these exaggerated yarns like he's building a legend.
I think he gets a kick out of the idea of "Bourbon the Savage," butchering people in close quarters without touching a gun.
It's not that I'm savage. It's just that I can't fully control this body—it runs on pure combat instinct, so holding back isn't really an option.
I don't enjoy being covered in blood either. But I have absolutely zero talent for guns, so what else can I do?!
"Ah, sorry. I made too much of a mess. I'll handle the cleanup, so let's just focus on the objective for now."
"...No. We're pulling out. They've definitely spotted us."
"Are you sure? They'll mark this down as a failure."
"I don't make a habit of failing. If you want to keep going, you're on your own."
Though his tone suggested he was cutting me loose, his eyes held a look that bordered on concern.
The Organization's penalties for failure are brutal.
Ray is undoubtedly going to face severe torture for this... but honestly, I'll get off relatively easy.
It helps that I'm just an "escort." My evaluation relies more on keeping the executives I serve happy.
On the flip side, pissing off an executive in this line of work is a quick way to lose my head.
Working with guys like Gin really shreds my nerves. One slip-up means summary execution right then and there... Execution! Give me a break.
And one other thing—not that it matters much—but Ray seems to be under the impression that I'm a minor.
Furuya Rei is a twenty-six-year-old man in his prime, so kindly correct that misunderstanding immediately.
"I didn't get orders to show off my claws all by myself. We're leaving. I'll pass on the Organization's directives later."
"Understood."
With barely another word, we vanished into the darkness of the night in the blink of an eye.
Even with the mission scrubbed, I have blind faith—it's just my nature—that Ray won't throw me under the bus in his report.