Location: Minato Ward, Tokyo – The Genius Office
Date: Monday | 08:00 AM
Brrr-ring. Brrr-ring.
"Yes, the Senator's patrol escort is scheduled for 19:00 hours. Please ensure the press photographers are stationed at the South Plaza."
The Genius Office was already operating at maximum capacity.
Located on the upper floors of a towering glass skyscraper in Minato Ward, it didn't look, or sound, like a standard Hero Agency.
There were no sidekicks shouting over static-filled police scanners, and no weight benches cluttering the halls.
Instead, it looked like a high-fashion magazine headquarters mixed with a luxury hedge fund.
PR assistants in tailored navy suits hurriedly crossed the polished marble floors carrying digital tablets.
Licensed sidekicks, wearing agency-mandated high-collared denim uniforms, were getting last-minute lint-roll checks before heading out for high-society urban patrols.
Hsssss.
Inside the private executive lounge, the espresso machine hummed with a quiet, expensive frequency.
The scent of dark roasted, imported coffee beans mixed seamlessly with the faint, crisp aroma of cologne and freshly ironed cotton.
Kaito Arisaka sat in a plush velvet armchair. He held a porcelain saucer and a delicately crafted cup of black coffee.
Sipp.
He took a slow sip.
Clink.
It was, without exaggeration, the best coffee he had ever tasted.
Sitting across from him on a pristine white sofa was Tsunagu Hakamada—the Number 4 Hero, Best Jeanist.
The hero wore his signature denim suit, his blonde hair slicked perfectly to the side.
He was reviewing Kaito's employment contract, his long, elegant fingers turning the pages with absolute precision.
"The terms are perfectly aligned, Arisaka-san," Jeanist said, his voice smooth and carrying a naturally refined cadence.
Thud.
He set the folder down on the glass table. "However, before we introduce you to our top-tier clientele, there is one... aesthetic misalignment we must address."
Jeanist gracefully gestured toward Kaito's attire.
"Your grey suit," Jeanist noted, his eyes narrowing slightly beneath his denim collar in polite, artistic critique.
"It is impeccably clean, yes. But it is terribly rigid. Safe. Uninspired. A manager representing the 1% must be a thread that elevates the tapestry, not one that simply holds it together. Allow my tailors to fit you for a bespoke denim three-piece. It will soften your silhouette and project a much more avant-garde authority."
Kaito set his coffee cup down on the glass table.
He offered a warm, polite smile, gently adjusting the lapel of his charcoal-grey jacket.
"I deeply appreciate the offer, Jeanist-san, and I have nothing but the utmost respect for your artistry," Kaito said, his tone conversational but firm. "But this suit is not a lack of inspiration. It is a philosophy."
Jeanist tilted his head, genuinely intrigued. "Oh? Do enlighten me."
"Your agency caters to the elite. Politicians, billionaires, and magnates. They are surrounded by avant-garde fashion and aggressive personalities all day long," Kaito explained, leaning forward slightly. "My grey suit is a palate cleanser. It is durable, approachable, and most importantly, it acts as a visual baseline. When I stand next to you, I do not compete with your threads. I fade into the background, which allows the Hero—the true masterpiece—to shine infinitely brighter by contrast."
Kaito picked his coffee back up.
"I am the canvas, Jeanist-san. You are the paint."
"...."
Jeanist stared at him for a long, quiet moment. The ambient noise of the bustling agency outside the lounge seemed to fade.
Then, Jeanist slowly closed his eyes and offered a deep, respectful nod.
"A tightly woven rationale," Jeanist murmured, a rare, genuine smile touching the corners of his eyes. "You understand the true fabric of society, Arisaka-san. Very well. You may keep your canvas. Let us begin our work."
Swish.
The glass doors of the lounge slid open as Kaito stepped out onto the main operations floor.
He didn't have time to ease into the role.
"Manager Arisaka!" A senior PR assistant practically sprinted up to him, clutching a glowing clipboard. "The CEO of Kanto Tech just called. He is demanding a heavily visible patrol escort for his daughter's charity gala tonight. He wants Best Jeanist there personally, but Jeanist is scheduled for a joint-operation with the police in Shibuya!"
Kaito didn't miss a beat.
He took the clipboard, his eyes scanning the billionaire's demands in a fraction of a second.
"Deny the personal request politely. Offer him Sidekick Squad C as a premium alternative," Kaito instructed, handing the board back.
"Ensure Squad C's denim uniforms are color-matched to the gala's midnight-blue theme. Route their patrol path directly through the paparazzi perimeter at the South Entrance. The CEO doesn't actually need maximum security; he needs the press to see he has premium security. It satisfies his ego and keeps Jeanist on his scheduled operation."
The assistant blinked, thoroughly stunned by the immediate, flawless compromise. "Y-Yes, sir! Right away!"
Kaito walked through the bustling floor, offering precise, rapid-fire logistical corrections to patrol routes and budget sheets until he reached his designated office.
Click.
The heavy, soundproof door closed behind him, sealing away the noise of the agency.
Puff
Kaito let out a slow exhale, cracking his knuckles.
The public alibi was established. The agency was running smoothly. Now, it was time for the real job.
Clack-clack-clack.
Kaito began cross-referencing the data he had scraped from Detnerat with Best Jeanist's elite client databases.
'If All For One and Detnerat are operating on this massive of a scale,' Kaito thought, his eyes tracking the financial ledgers, 'they can't just hide in abandoned warehouses. They are moving billions of yen. That requires political protection. It requires offshore banking and legitimate corporate fronts.'
He bypassed standard banking firewalls, masking his intrusions as the agency's high-frequency trading algorithms.
He started tracing the political donations, the shell company mergers, and the elite charity galas.
Beep.
A complex web of offshore accounts populated on his screen.
Kaito adjusted his golden glasses. The rot was infinitely deeper than the streets of Naruhata.
The financial networks of All For One and the Meta Liberation Army were woven directly into the portfolios of Japan's 1%.
Politicians, tech CEOs, and media magnates were all secretly funding one side or the other.
"A complete logistical entanglement," Kaito whispered, his voice calm but incredibly focused. "If I want to isolate All For One's remaining funds, I have to map out every single compromised billionaire in Tokyo. This is going to require a meticulous audit."
Sipp.
Kaito took a slow sip of his water. He wasn't going to rush it. He was going to sit in this comfortable, air-conditioned office and quietly, systematically strip the financial armor off the two most dangerous organizations in the world.
_-_-_-_-_-_
Location: Naruhata Ward – O'Clock Agency (Converted Garage)
Date: Wednesday | 14:00 Hours
Squeak-squeak-squeak.
Koichi Haimawari slid back and forth across the concrete floor of the newly repurposed garage, pushing a heavy push-broom.
He was sweating in his All Might hoodie, but a bright smile was plastered on his face.
Thump-thump-thump.
Sitting on a stack of wooden pallets near the open garage door, Kazuho Haneyama—Pop★Step—was tapping her boots to the rhythm of a new beat looping on her phone.
Sitting in a folding steel chair in the center of it all was Iwao Oguro.
With his wife finally awake and recovering, the suffocating, violent aura of the old vigilante had dissolved into the stern, commanding presence of the reinstated Pro Hero: O'Clock.
Crunch. Crunch.
Footsteps echoed on the gravel outside the garage.
Koichi stopped sweeping. He leaned against the broom, his smile faltering slightly.
Kazuho paused her music, her eyes narrowing in instant suspicion.
Standing in the afternoon sun were Soga Kugisaki, Rapt Tokage, and Moyuru Tochi.
The three local street thugs looked terrible.
They were covered in bandages from the Naruhata Park breach.
They didn't have their usual arrogant swagger. They were slouching, their hands shoved deep into their pockets, looking everywhere except at the three heroes.
"What do you want?" Kazuho snapped, jumping down from the pallets and crossing her arms defensively. "If you're here to cause trouble, the old man will throw you into the sun."
Iwao didn't move from his folding chair. He just stared at them, his heavy, scarred brow furrowed.
Soga swallowed hard. His spiky blonde hair hung low over his eyes. He stepped forward.
THUD.
Soga dropped to his knees on the hard concrete.
He didn't just kneel; he bowed his head until his forehead touched the dusty floor in a full, desperate dogeza.
Thud. Thud.
A second later, Rapt and Moyuru dropped to their knees right beside him, pressing their faces to the floor.
Koichi blinked, completely stunned. "Whoa! Guys, what are you doing? You're still hurt!"
"Shut up and let me say it, Crawler," Soga's voice cracked, muffled against the concrete.
His shoulders were shaking. "We... we came to apologize. For everything. For beating you down in the alleys. For being absolute garbage."
Soga turned his head slightly, looking directly at Kazuho.
"And to you, Pop Step. We harassed you. We cornered you and treated you like dirt," Soga gritted his teeth, his voice thick with genuine, humiliating shame. "I'm sorry. We're so damn sorry."
Kazuho's tough exterior faltered. She uncrossed her arms, her eyes widening.
She looked at Koichi, who was just as speechless.
Thugs in Naruhata didn't apologize. They just fought until someone stayed down.
"Why now?" Iwao's deep, gravelly voice echoed in the quiet garage.
Rapt lifted his head. The lizard-mutant had tears pooling in his reptilian eyes.
"You saved our lives in the park," Rapt choked out.
He then gestured to his own scaly, jagged face. "And look at us! Look at my face! Look at Soga's spikes! Ever since middle school, people crossed the street when they saw us. Teachers looked at us like we were already criminals. We look like monsters. We look like villains."
Sniff-sniff.
Moyuru wiped his nose, sniffing loudly. "Society told us we were trash. So we figured... we might as well act like it. We bullied people because we thought that was the only way people would respect us."
Soga pushed himself up onto his hands, looking directly into Iwao's intimidating eyes.
"We were attacked back then—injected with a small dose of Trigger, controlled by a villain—and then that psycho with the sword pinned us to the dirt," Soga rasped, the terror of Stendhal's blade still fresh in his memory.
"He called us an infection. He was going to cut my head off. And you guys... you stepped in front of the blade."
Soga clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white.
"We don't want to be seen as villains anymore, or be called trash and an infection to society," Soga pleaded, his voice completely breaking.
"We're begging you. Let us join your agency. Make us your trainees. We'll be human shields, we'll take the hits, we don't care! Just... teach us how to be heroes. Please!"
"....."
"....."
The garage was dead silent.
The only sound was the distant hum of traffic and the heavy breathing of the three boys on the floor.
Kazuho looked away, wiping a sudden tear from the corner of her eye.
Koichi gripped his broom, his heart completely melting. He looked at Iwao with massive, pleading eyes, silently begging the old man to say yes.
Clomp. Clomp.
Iwao stood up from his folding chair. He walked forward, his massive frame casting a long, dark shadow over the three kneeling teenagers.
He looked down at Soga.
"You think you're ready to be human shields?" Iwao growled, his voice low and terrifying.
Soga flinched, but he didn't look away. "Yes, sir."
CLATTER!
Iwao kicked a heavy plastic bucket across the floor.
It stopped right in front of Soga's nose, spilling three heavy wire-bristle scrub brushes and a bottle of industrial bleach onto the concrete.
"A hero doesn't start by dying for the city," Iwao replied, pointing a massive finger at the bucket. "A hero starts by cleaning it up. You three punks spent the last three years trashing this neighborhood, scaring old ladies, and vandalizing the walls. You want to be my Probationary Trainees? You are going to scrub every graffiti tag, carry every grocery bag, and fix every broken fence until the people of Naruhata actually look at your faces and trust you."
Soga stared at the scrub brushes.
Then, a massive, watery smile broke across his bruised face.
"Yes, sir!" Soga yelled, grabbing a brush.
Rapt and Moyuru scrambled to grab the others, scrambling to their feet with a newfound, frantic energy.
Scrub-scrub-scrub!
Ten minutes later, outside the garage, the harsh sound of wire bristles tearing against brick filled the alleyway.
"Man, my arms are gonna fall off!" Soga groaned, aggressively scrubbing his own spray-painted villain tag off the side of a convenience store.
"Keep scrubbing, Soga! If I see a single speck of blue paint left on that brick, you're doing fifty more laps around the block!" Iwao shouted from the sidewalk, his arms crossed over his chest.
"I didn't sign up for janitor duty!" Rapt whined, dragging a heavy trash bag full of empty cans across the dirt.
WHACK!
Iwao casually flicked a small pebble, hitting Rapt perfectly on the back of the head.
"Ow!"
"Less whining, more shining, lizard-boy!" Kazuho yelled cheerfully from the roof, holding a megaphone she had found in the garage. "You missed a spot by the dumpster!"
Whiiish!
Koichi zoomed past them on his hands and knees, holding a stray cat in one arm and a stack of neighborhood watch flyers in the other.
"Master's right, guys!" Koichi yelled, sliding to a halt near the gate. "Being a hero is ninety percent community service! Plus, it really helps with your cardio! And also call me Sky Crawler. I'm not the Crawler anymore. Hehe."
Soga wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
He looked at the clean brick wall, then looked over at Koichi, Kazuho, and the intimidating figure of Iwao.
His muscles ached, and his pride was completely gone.
But for the first time in his entire life, Soga actually felt proud of himself.
"Shut up and scrub, Moyuru," Soga muttered, plunging his brush back into the soapy water and putting his back into the work. "We owe them. The old man gave us a second chance. I'm not gonna waste it."
Iwao watched the blonde punk scrub the wall with renewed vigor.
The grizzled hero didn't say anything, but a soft, proud huff of air escaped his nose.
The streets of Naruhata were finally healing. And for the first time, the trash was actively recycling itself.
_-_-_-_-_-_
Location: Hosu City – Industrial District Alleyway
Date: Thursday | 23:45 Hours
The United Nations had launched their "Global Purge" against the Villain Factory weeks ago.
But Chizome Akaguro—the vigilante known as Stendhal—hadn't waited for the politicians and the false heroes to wake up.
For the past month, while the HPSC was busy holding press conferences, Stendhal had been in the gutters of Hosu City, single-handedly bleeding the local Trigger syndicates dry.
He was a one-man immune system, carving out the rot that society was too cowardly to touch.
Pitter-patter. SPLASH.
The cold rain of Hosu fell in a relentless sheet, turning the narrow, garbage-choked alleyways into shallow rivers of mud and blood.
Clang!
A heavy metal dumpster tipped over as a low-level Trigger smuggler desperately scrambled backward through the filth.
He was clutching a deep, bleeding laceration on his shoulder.
"Stay away from me! You're crazy!" the smuggler screamed, his voice cracking with pure, unadulterated terror.
He pulled a handgun from his waistband, his hands shaking so violently he could barely keep his finger on the trigger. "I'll shoot! I swear to god I'll shoot!"
Step. Splash.
Stendhal emerged from the shadows.
He wore a new mask. The broken faceplate from the Naruhata breach had been replaced by a sleek, terrifyingly blank metal visor, but his eyes burned like hot coals from the slits.
He held his katana loosely in his right hand.
He didn't crouch like a feral beast anymore. He stood perfectly straight, forcing his shoulders to relax.
He had watched the footage of Hero X in Ota Ward a thousand times. He was desperately trying to emulate the god-like, effortless efficiency of his idol.
"Your breath is wasted. Your fear is loud," Stendhal rasped, his voice a low, fanatical hiss that carried over the rain. "You are a stain on a world that is trying to cleanse itself."
"Die!" The smuggler pulled the trigger.
BANG! BANG!
Tilt.
Stendhal didn't dive for cover. He moved his head three inches to the left, then two inches to the right.
The bullets hissed past his ears, burying themselves into the brick wall behind him.
It wasn't the calculation of a machine; it was the terrifying, suicidal discipline of a zealot who had trained his body to ignore fear.
Stendhal stepped inside the smuggler's guard in a single, fluid motion. He raised his katana, his eyes locked onto the smuggler's neck.
FWISH-SNAP!
A thick, grey cloth shot out from the fire escape above, wrapping tightly around the blade of Stendhal's katana mere millimeters before it pierced flesh.
Tug.
The momentum of the heavy blade was instantly halted.
Stendhal's burning eyes widened. He looked up.
Crouching on the rusted iron railing of the fire escape was Shota Aizawa.
The underground hero's black hair hung heavy and soaked with rain, his bloodshot eyes glaring down at the vigilante with absolute, freezing contempt.
Aizawa had been tracking the trail of mutilated bodies for weeks.
"You've been busy," Aizawa said, his voice a low, tired growl that cut right through the sound of the rain. "But you're just making a mess in my city."
Stendhal violently yanked his katana, but Aizawa's grip on the capture scarf was ironclad.
"Eraserhead," Stendhal spat, stepping back, his calm facade instantly cracking to reveal the seething anger underneath. "The ultimate hypocrite. You skulk in the shadows, yet you protect the disease! You let the infection spread! The false heroes of this era coddle villains in prisons until they inevitably break out and kill innocents!"
Aizawa dropped from the fire escape, his boots landing silently in the muddy puddle between Stendhal and the terrified smuggler. He didn't blink.
"I investigated the alleyways after the Naruhata breach. I saw what you did to those low-level street punks before that old guy stopped you," Aizawa stated coldly, unwinding more of his capture scarf.
"You idolize Hero X. You changed your stance. You're trying to move like him. You think you're his disciple."
"I am the blade that follows his divine will!" Stendhal roared, gripping his katana with both hands, his fanatical zeal boiling over. "He rewrote the world! He proved that the old system is weak! I am simply carving the path for his new dawn!"
"Then you're blind," Aizawa rebutted, his voice completely devoid of emotion.
"..."
Stendhal froze, his jaw clenching.
"I was there in Ota Ward. I was there in Naruhata," Aizawa continued, taking a slow step forward. "Hero X can bend the laws of physics. He can rewrite reality with a thought. But do you want to know the truth, Stendhal? In all his appearances, with all that god-like power... Hero X has never taken a single human life."
Stendhal's grip on his sword trembled.
"He incapacitated All For One. He turned those suicide bombers into graffiti without killing them. He saves people," Aizawa said, his eyes narrowing, his gaze piercing right through Stendhal's delusions. "You aren't a disciple of efficiency. You don't have his vision. You're just a psychotic butcher using a god as an excuse to satisfy your own bloodlust."
The alley went dead silent, save for the pouring rain.
For a second, Aizawa thought the words had broken him. But Stendhal didn't shatter.
"Hehe...HAHAHA!"
The vigilante let out a low, dark chuckle that quickly escalated into a manic, uncompromising laugh.
"A god does not need to kill to cleanse the earth, Eraserhead," Stendhal hissed, his conviction burning hotter than ever.
"Hero X can rewrite reality. He has the luxury of mercy! But I am just a mortal man. I do not have the power to turn filth into ink. So I must use steel!"
Stendhal ripped his katana free from the scarf with a violent jerk, pointing the bloodstained tip directly at Aizawa's chest.
"Society is too weak to stomach what must be done!" Stendhal shouted, his voice echoing fiercely off the brick walls. "The end justifies the means! Hero X is the blinding light of the new era. But light casts a shadow. I will gladly be that shadow! I will bear the sin of murder, I will do the butchering, so that his world can be perfectly clean!"
"You're completely insane," Aizawa sighed heavily, his eyes flaring a brilliant, lethal red as his Quirk activated.
"And you are an obstacle!" Stendhal screamed.
He ripped a throwing knife from his thigh holster and hurled it at Aizawa's face.
Clang!
Aizawa parried the knife with his metallic goggles, diving to the side.
SHWISH!
Stendhal lunged. He completely abandoned the "perfect, minimalist logic" he had tried to copy from Hero X. He reverted to his true self—a feral, relentless, highly lethal predator.
Aizawa met him head-on, his capture scarf whipping through the rain like a striking viper.
The underground master and the fanatical executioner clashed in a blinding, sparks-flying blur of steel, cloth, and blood—
_-_-_-_-_-_
Location: Roppongi District, Tokyo – The Platinum Gala
Date: Saturday | 20:00 Hours
The Grand Ballroom of the Roppongi Hills Crown Hotel was a vision of absolute, untouchable opulence.
Crystal chandeliers the size of small cars hung from the vaulted ceilings, casting a warm, golden light over the room.
A live string quartet played a flawless rendition of Vivaldi in the corner.
Waiters in crisp white tuxedos glided across the marble floors, carrying silver trays of imported champagne and beluga caviar.
This was the Platinum Gala—an ultra-exclusive, invite-only charity event hosted by Best Jeanist's top-tier corporate clients.
The people in this room didn't just have money; they owned the infrastructure of Japan.
Kaito Arisaka stood near a towering ice sculpture, looking perfectly at home.
He wore his signature charcoal-grey suit, though he had upgraded to a flawlessly tailored, high-end wool blend for the occasion.
It was undeniably sharp, completely honoring his agreement with Best Jeanist to act as the perfect, understated "canvas" amidst the flashy, avant-garde attire of the billionaires around him.
Kaito held a crystal glass of ginger ale, casually observing the room.
He wasn't acting like a bodyguard. He was charming.
He had spent the last hour gracefully navigating conversations with shipping magnates and tech billionaires, offering polite, grounded PR advice with natural charisma.
He was smiling for the cameras, but internally, Kaito's mind was taking notes. Half the men he had just shaken hands with were the exact same compromised shell-company directors he had mapped out on his computer that morning. He was standing in a room full of All For One's wallets.
Clink.
"Arisaka-san, isn't it?"
A deep, jovial voice spoke from his right.
Kaito turned.
Standing beside him was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a prominent nose, sharp eyes, and a receding hairline marked by a distinctive, dark birthmark on his forehead.
He wore an immaculate, perfectly tailored burgundy tuxedo.
Rikiya Yotsubashi. The CEO of Detnerat. And in the shadows, Re-Destro, the Supreme Leader of the Meta Liberation Army.
Kaito adjusted his golden glasses and offered a polite, professional nod.
"Yotsubashi-san. A pleasure," Kaito replied smoothly, clinking his ginger ale against Rikiya's champagne flute. "Your company's recent quarterly earnings report regarding the integration of lifestyle support gear was structurally brilliant."
Rikiya laughed, a warm, booming sound that turned the heads of a few nearby socialites.
"Ah, the famous Golden Manager! You flatter me," Rikiya smiled, taking a sip of his champagne. "I must admit, I have been following your career with great interest. Establishing Christopher Skyline as a Symbol of Hope. To completely reorganize the logistics of the Ryukyu and Gunslinger Agencies, and elevate Team Idaten to the Top 15 in a matter of months... it is nothing short of miraculous. You have a profound understanding of how to optimize human potential."
"I simply remove the operational friction so the heroes can focus on their jobs," Kaito answered naturally, leaning slightly against the high-top table.
"Modesty," Rikiya chuckled, his eyes gleaming with a sharp, calculating intelligence.
They spent a few minutes seamlessly discussing corporate logistics and the shifting hero market.
But then.
Rikiya lowered his voice slightly, the jovial CEO mask slipping just a fraction to reveal the fanatic underneath. "But tell me, Arisaka-san. As a man who manages the pillars of our society... how do you view the current shifting of the tides? This sudden rise in powerful vigilantism? The emergence of... entities that defy the status quo? Like the famed Hero X?"
"I view anomalies like Hero X as systemic disruptors," Kaito said, his voice calm and analytical, entirely unfazed by the name drop.
"When a system becomes too rigid, it inevitably invites an anomaly that forces it to evolve. Entities like Hero X do not operate within the standard framework of the HPSC. They are a catalyst. They remind the established hierarchy that power is not a monopoly. They force society to adapt or be left behind."
Rikiya Yotsubashi stopped breathing for a fraction of a second.
His eyes widened, staring at the twenty-one-year-old manager in absolute awe.
To Rikiya, Kaito had just flawlessly articulated the core philosophy of the Meta Liberation Army without even realizing it.
He saw Kaito not just as a manager, but as a visionary who understood the necessity of the "Singularity."
Rikiya let out a breathless, genuine laugh of pure admiration.
"A systemic disruptor... a catalyst for evolution," Rikiya repeated, the fanaticism burning brightly in his dark eyes. "Arisaka-san, you are a remarkably rare intellect. You see the board with such absolute clarity."
Rikiya reached into the inner breast pocket of his burgundy tuxedo.
He pulled out a sleek, matte-black business card with the Detnerat logo embossed in silver foil.
He handed it to Kaito.
"If you ever tire of managing the PR for false idols and government lapdogs," Rikiya said, a half-joking, highly charismatic smile on his face, "give me a call. Detnerat is building the true future of this country. We could use a mind like yours to help us pave the way."
Kaito took the card. He looked at the silver lettering, then looked back up at the billionaire terrorist.
"I will keep it in mind, Yotsubashi-san," Kaito smiled politely, slipping the card into his vest pocket. "Enjoy the gala."
Rikiya offered a deep, respectful bow and turned, walking away to mingle with a group of politicians.
Kaito stood alone by the ice sculpture.
He took another sip of his ginger ale.
The polite smile remained perfectly fixed on his face for the surrounding cameras, but internally, Kaito's mind was racing.
The absolute, surreal absurdity of the situation hit him.
The Supreme Leader of a hundred-thousand-man cult had just unwittingly tried to recruit the very god he worshipped to be his corporate PR manager.
Kaito let out a long, quiet exhale through his nose.
_-_-_-_-_-_
Author's Note
First off, I want to say I'm incredibly sorry for the late release of this chapter! It's been a bit of a wild week. Yesterday was my birthday, and let's just say... the 'celebration' was a bit more effective than I anticipated. A lingering hangover is definitely not part of the 'Standard,' but we made it through!
Thank you all for the birthday wishes and for being patient. Now, back to our regularly scheduled programming of Kaito rewriting Hero Society one contract at a time!