Cold air swept in with the sea mist, soaking every brick and stone of the West Blue's G-101 Branch. The base's tranquility shattered beneath a series of crisp, cold footsteps.
Three figures in regulation jet-black police uniforms, their epaulets bearing the markings of Cipher Pol No. 5, cut through the hazy morning mist like three unsheathed blades.
Their leader wore black sunglasses that seemed to swallow every gaze. Behind those lenses, his eyes scraped like scalpels across the faces of every Marine officer and soldier who stood at attention to salute or hastily lowered their heads along the way-he was the commander of Cipher Pol No. 3's West Blue Inspectorate, responsible for monitoring the Marines internally.
They paid no attention to the Marines' salutes, heading straight for the branch's seat of power: Rear Admiral Raymont's office.
Inside, Raymont, who stood over three meters tall, sank into his custom-made high-backed chair, his thick brows knotted tightly. The tapping of his knuckles against the desk betrayed the turmoil within him.
Had word gotten out that I withdrew the covert operatives in Bernia to cover for Robin?
Or had those little bastards under me failed to watch who they were taking their "customary payments" from and stepped on Cipher Pol's toes?
Countless contingency plans flashed through his mind.
"Sorry, sir. Please show your identification." His adjutant, Colonel Valentine Carl, reached out to block the doorway.
The attendant on the right shoved him roughly aside, while the one on the left respectfully and swiftly opened the office door.
Raymont raised his eyes, his cold gaze settling on his visitors as he spat inwardly, Damn black-uniformed dogs.
The Cipher Pol No. 3 commander approached the enormous desk, which stood waist-high before him, and slammed a palm down without a word of introduction!
Bang!
The documents