Kenjaku stood still, watching the entrance. His new body was comfortable, familiar, yet foreign—Geto Suguru’s frame, his voice, his hands. A tool. Nothing more.

Behind him, Jogo muttered something about “wasting time.” Mahito hummed a tune that sounded like a funeral march played backward.

Kenjaku ignored them.

His fingers twitched at his side.

He was waiting.

You were late.

A door creaked open at the far end of the warehouse. Footsteps echoed against concrete. Slow. Unhurried.

Kenjaku’s shoulders relaxed a fraction of an inch.