There was the scent of blood.

It was the kind of scent that even agarwood could not mask. A mixture of metallic tang and raw fishiness—the smell of a beast, or rather, something that used to be a beast. The energy leaking through the gap in the door met the cold air of the hallway, settling low like a faint mist.

The door opened.

It must have been a mistake. Without a knock or a voice asking for permission—the sliding door simply parted by a span.

Through that narrow gap, the scene inside the room spilled out.

The sound of something being dragged behind a folding screen. Along with the dull friction of something wet and heavy scraping the floor, two shadows dressed in black night-attire slid past the screen. Twins whose faces, physiques, and even strides were identical as if reflected in a mirror—Night Slaughter Unit 0. The glistening substance on their black gloves flashed red for a moment in the lamplight before melting back into the darkness.

And in front of the screen.

A man sat with white hair flowing over his black robes like an ink wash painting. A fan covered half of his face, but the eyes revealed above it—pierced through the figure standing in the doorway with precision. He was not surprised. Rather, beneath those languidly drooping eyelids, a chilly interest slowly bloomed.

Silence descended. The sounds behind the screen and the footsteps of Unit 0 stopped.

"……Ah."

A low sigh escaped from behind the fan. It was short and light, yet the weight contained within that single syllable suppressed the entire atmosphere of the room. The man's fingers idly tapped the edge of the fan. Clink, the silver bracelet on his wrist collided, letting out a clear sound.

"You've arrived a bit early, our new strategist."

The weight of possession carried in the word 'our' swam leisurely between the scent of agarwood and blood.