Do Not Speak with the Devil

For Ōmasa Mitsuaki, this was another eerily familiar night.

It began full of anticipation, then gradually turned awkward amid confusion, ultimately becoming hesitation and sorrow, before he greeted the sunrise for the second time in disappointment and grief.

"Damn it, you guys fooled me too..."

In the empty garage, Ōmasa Mitsuaki smoked alone. He raised his head to watch the sun rise, then lifted an arm and vigorously wiped at the corner of his eye.

His eyes were almost moist.

In the silence, the subordinate who had returned hesitated, stopped himself, then tried to speak again. After lingering for a long while, he finally approached with trembling steps. "Chairman..."

Only after a long time did Ōmasa Mitsuaki turn around.

"Yes, speak."

The subordinate's shaking hands offered up a phone. A cable news channel on it was broadcasting the morning news—another traffic accident had occurred in the suburbs last night, an oil tanker collision. The Metropolitan Police Department reminded citizens to observe traffic safety and never drive drunk. One drop of alcohol for the driver, two lines of tears for the family, blah blah blah...

"What are you showing me this for?" Ōmasa Mitsuaki asked faintly. "I never drink when I drive. Don't I have a driver?"

"..."

Under the gaze of those eyes, the subordinate's little hands trembled again. He shakily raised a box.

"This was just... delivered by the Hybrid Alliance."

Ōmasa Mitsuaki casually waved a hand. "Open it. What's inside, a bomb?"

When the box was opened, there was only a pile of fine, pale powder within, mixed with particles of varying sizes and the remnants of charred ash...

Like ashes left behind after something had burned completely away.

"They said... property returned to its rightful owner..."

There was none of the expected fury. Ōmasa Mitsuaki stubbed out