Silent Judgment

After the dining hall commotion subsided, Kazama In didn't follow Sudo and the others to the VIP room for a meal. Using the excuse of needing some fresh air, he quietly slipped away from the main restaurant area. Dodging the ubiquitous surveillance cameras, he melted into the shadows like a ghost, slipping into a dead-end corner of the cargo passage piled with cleaning supplies—a spot with no cameras at all.

A moment later, a figure emerged from that corner.

He wore a white shirt, black vest, and trousers identical to the other waiters, with a black bow tie. But his striking silver-white and dark red hair was cleverly hidden under the standard-issue service cap, the brim pulled low to cover most of his face, revealing only the cold, hard line of his jaw. He hunched his back slightly, retracting all the sharp aura of "The Arbiter," and his gait became steady, slightly dragging—completely transforming into an ordinary, perhaps slightly tired, low-level waiter.

Kazama In (disguised) had a clear goal. He didn't head toward any service area. Relying on his memory of the cruise ship's layout (he'd already hacked the system to obtain the blueprints), he walked deep into the crew work zone. In front of a machine room door marked "Equipment Maintenance, No Admittance," he glanced around, then swiped a forged electronic work card across the door sensor with his fingertip.

"Beep." A soft sound, and the lock clicked open. He slipped inside and closed the door behind him.

The machine room was dimly lit, with only the faint glow of server indicator lights. Uncle Kurosawa was sitting in front of an open monitoring terminal, the screen split into countless real-time feeds from various areas of the ship. He had also shed his manager's suit, now wearing a dark, easy-to-move-in work outfit. His gentle, refined frameless glasses were gone, revealing deep, ancient-well-like eyes that now gleamed with the cold, sharp light of a top predator.

"Kid, you're quick," Kurosawa said without turning, his voice low.

Kazama In walked over to him, took off his cap, and tossed it carelessly onto a nearby server case, his gaze sweeping across the monitor screens. "What's the situation?"

"Not good." Kurosawa's fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up an encrypted communication log. "'Albatross' (the organization's internal comms code) just sent the latest intel. Confirmed at least three 'Cleaners' boarded, belonging to the 'Blood Crow' squad. This squad... is infamous. No bottom line, only serves the highest bidder, and their methods are extremely brutal." His voice carried suppressed anger. "One of them, codename 'Painted Skin,' is the sicko mentioned in the intel. He's addicted to torture, especially... enjoys tormenting young people your age, savoring their fear and pain. He's a master of disguise, skilled in plastic surgery and gender reassignment, can perfectly play any role."

Kurosawa paused, his gaze heavy as he looked at Kazama In. "The boss sent me because the 'Blood Crow' squad took a contract from a Middle Eastern warlord last time. They massacred an opposition village, didn't even spare infants. The boss was furious and decided to use the 'Cleanup Fund' (money voluntarily donated by organization members for dealing with such extreme scum) to have me take them out. As for why he didn't call you..." Kurosawa showed a rare, helpless smile. "The boss said you've 'washed your hands' now, playing house and student games. He said not to bother you with this dirty work. He treats you like his own son, doesn't want you to get blood on your hands again."

Kazama In was silent for a few seconds, his ink-black eyes unreadable. "...Thank the boss for me." He shifted the topic, his tone icy. "But 'Blood Crow's' target might include me, or other valuable targets on the ship. I can't stand by. Especially that 'Painted Skin'—if he gets on the island, it'll be more trouble. The island's complex terrain makes it easier for him to succeed."

Kurosawa looked at Kazama In's resolute gaze, sighed, then grinned, showing his white teeth. "Knew you couldn't sit still! Fine! Then let's partner up again! Same rules?"

"Same rules," Kazama In nodded. The "same rules" meant sharing intel, coordinating actions, and eliminating targets without leaving loose ends.

Without further words, they immediately got to work. Kazama In pulled out his customized tablet from his backpack (disguised as a cleaning kit) and quickly connected to the machine room's backup network node. Kurosawa, using his restaurant manager privileges, accessed the more detailed passenger and crew information database.

Both screens lit up simultaneously, data streams rolling like waterfalls.

"Cross-check all boarding records and surveillance footage for abnormal behavior patterns, targets with slight discrepancies from registered info." Kazama In's fingers flew across the tablet, the surveillance footage fast-forwarding, zooming in, running facial and gait analysis comparisons.

"Focus on service staff, especially those with frequent passenger contact and independent workspaces," Kurosawa added, his screen rapidly filtering crew information. "'Painted Skin' likes to lurk close to his victims, savoring that sense of control."

Time ticked by. The machine room was filled only with the sound of keyboard clicks and the low hum of server fans.

Suddenly, Kazama In's tablet let out a soft notification. On the screen, a surveillance feed from the SPA center was frozen and enlarged. In the frame, a tall, slender "female technician" in a uniform and mask was giving a female guest an aromatherapy massage. The movements looked standard and professional, but Kazama In's sharp eyes caught several key points:

1. Hand details: The "female technician's" finger joints were slightly thick, and the fingertips had subtle calluses different from female skin texture (formed from long-term weapon or tool handling). The nails were trimmed too short and flat (for ease of movement).

2. Adam's apple: Though hidden by the high collar of the uniform and deliberate head-lowering, at a certain angle, a faint outline of an Adam's apple was visible.

3. Gait: In the few steps leaving the surveillance range toward the storage room, the steps were steady and powerful, with a larger stride, carrying a masculine inertia.

4. Eyes: When occasionally looking up while serving the guest, the eyes above the mask flashed not with a server's warmth, but with a cold, predatory assessment, like sizing up prey.

"Bingo," Kazama In muttered, sharing the screen with Kurosawa. "SPA center, Technician No. 7, 'Lisa.' Registered as female, but... fake."

Kurosawa quickly pulled up "Lisa's" employment records, comparing them with the surveillance footage and Kazama In's analysis. His eyes turned cold. "That's him! 'Painted Skin'! Good eye, kid!"

With the target locked, action couldn't wait. They quickly formulated a plan.

"The SPA center has dense internal surveillance and guests present. Can't go in hard," Kazama In analyzed calmly. "He just finished a service. According to the schedule, his next appointment is in half an hour. He has about fifteen minutes of rest and prep time. He'll go to the staff lounge or storage room."

"The lounge has too many eyes. The storage room is more likely," Kurosawa nodded. "I'll use my manager status, claim an 'equipment safety inspection,' and clear out anyone nearby who might get in the way. You're responsible for 'inviting' him to 'quietly' come with us."

"Got it."

Kazama In put his service cap back on, pulling the brim low. Kurosawa straightened his work clothes, resuming his stern manager expression. Like two silent shadows, they left the machine room.

The SPA center area was filled with the fragrance of essential oils and soothing music. Kurosawa, holding a folder and wearing a stern face, easily dismissed two chatting attendants near the lounge entrance under the guise of a manager's inspection, and informed the technicians not to approach the storage room area for a while, citing "pipe maintenance."

Kazama In, like an ordinary service worker delivering fresh towels, pushed a cleaning cart naturally toward the staff storage room at the end of the corridor. His keen hearing caught the extremely faint sound of someone organizing items inside.

He stopped in front of the door, didn't knock, but pulled a specially treated towel soaked with a potent nerve anesthetic (identical in appearance to a regular disinfectant towel) from the lower shelf of the cart, while his other hand silently gripped a pen-sized stun gun hidden in his sleeve.

"Knock, knock." He rapped his knuckles twice on the door, his voice neither loud nor soft.

"Who is it?" A deliberately disguised, soft feminine voice came from inside, tinged with annoyance at being disturbed.

"The manager sent me with new essential oils and disinfectant towels," Kazama In replied in a steady tone.

There was a second of silence inside, as if assessing. Then, with a "click," the lock turned, and the door cracked open.

The instant the door opened!

Kazama In moved!

Fast as lightning! He gave the other party no reaction time. His left hand violently pushed the door fully open! His right hand, holding the anesthetic-soaked towel, shot forward like a venomous snake, precisely covering the mouth and nose of the person behind the door!

The "Lisa" (Painted Skin) behind the door reacted quickly too! The moment the door was pushed open, the murderous intent in his eyes flashed, the disguise completely shed! He leaned back, one hand instinctively reaching for his lower back (clearly hiding a weapon)!

But Kazama In's speed was too fast, his prediction too accurate! The towel, carrying a pungent odor, instantly covered his mouth and nose! "Painted Skin" only managed a muffled grunt before a powerful wave of dizziness surged over him like a tide! His hand, reaching for his lower back, had just touched cold metal when his body lost all strength, collapsing limply!

As he fell, the stun gun in Kazama In's sleeve silently extended, precisely pressing against his neck!

"Zzzz—!" A faint electrical sound.

"Painted Skin's" body convulsed violently once, then went completely limp, collapsing like a pile of mud. The entire process took no more than three seconds, without making any significant noise.

Kazama In quickly dragged him into the storage room and closed the door. Kurosawa's figure appeared like a ghost at the doorway, slipping inside.

Looking at the unconscious "Painted Skin" on the floor, Kurosawa crouched down, expertly checking his hidden weapons (a poisoned dagger, several poison needles) and communication devices, then pulled out a special restraint bag.

"Nice work, kid," Kurosawa praised, swiftly stuffing "Painted Skin" into the restraint bag and zipping it up, leaving only a small hole for breathing.

"I'll handle the rest. I'll 'dispose' of him cleanly, make sure he can never do evil again," Kurosawa said coldly. "As for the other 'Blood Crows' that might be lurking on the island... kid, be careful yourself. These lunatics aren't easy to deal with."

Kazama In nodded, watching as Kurosawa effortlessly hoisted "Painted Skin" over his shoulder like a sack, melting back into the shadows and disappearing down the corridor. He straightened his service uniform, pushed the cleaning cart, and calmly left the SPA area. As if the silent judgment that had just taken place in the luxurious SPA center's storage room had never happened.

The sea breeze remained gentle, the cruise ship still cutting through the waves under the starlight. But Kazama In knew that beneath the calm surface, the killing intent had not been lifted. The shadows on the island awaited their arrival. And he, in the name of "The Arbiter," would protect this brief, hard-won "normalcy."