A squeaky wooden board dangled crookedly on a rusted nail above the doorway, the words
Inside the dim house-turned-"office," Shmuel sat on the couch-now serving as the client waiting area-staring blankly at the sign through the dusty window.
"…Why my house…" he mumbled, hugging his knees, "…Why did it have to be my house…"
Kamina, shirt open and shades firmly in place despite the lack of sunlight indoors, stood triumphantly atop the table he had now declared "the mission desk."
"Behold, kid! A new era begins! A new dawn for justice, freedom, and hot-blooded business!"
Shmuel rested his forehead against his knees. "This is… an unlicensed operation. I'm going to be fined. Maybe even killed. Or worse. Oh no…"
"You worry too much! We've got guts, a base of operations, and the will to fight! That's all men ever need!"
"…It's not," Shmuel said, voice small, his fingers twitching like they wanted to curl into themselves. "You… you need a license to operate, you know. That's… that's how the system works."
Kamina turned, finally raising an eyebrow. "A license? You mean like a permission slip? For fighting?"
"No. For Fixers. It's issued by the Hana Association. If you don't have one, you're not recognized, and if you're not recognized, you can't take official work. Or get paid. Or not get shot."
Kamina blinked, then stepped off the table with a thud. "Alright. Tell me more."
Shmuel fidgeted in place. His voice came out quietly, like he was afraid to even be overheard inside his own home. "You have to pass the test… they have different grades, starting from 9 and going up. I only… I only have a grade 9 license. It's the lowest rank."
He swallowed, looking away from Kamina. "Fixer exams aren't like… Wing entrance exams. Wings want smarts, brains, mental strength. The Association, though… they care about your body. How hard you hit. How well you take a hit. Whether you break when someone sticks a knife in you."
Kamina grinned. "That sounds like my kind of exam."
"…You say that, but even for someone like you, it's not easy. And it's not just passing. You also have to join an Office to get work. Most of the time, new Fixers take whatever they can get. They don't choose where to go, the Office chooses them."
He looked at the floor. "That's why I got into Starwatch. I didn't… really have a choice. They just wanted someone to do paperwork and coffee runs. I was cheap. Disposable."
Shmuel kept talking, but softer now. "They didn't care if I got hurt on missions, as long as I filed the reports. I didn't want to be alone anymore. I thought… maybe I could fit in."
He trailed off, clearly regretting saying so much.
Then Kamina slapped him on the back—not harshly, but firm enough to make Shmuel jolt forward.
"You were wasted on them, kid."
Shmuel blinked.
"Paperwork? Hah! You've got potential!" Kamina spun dramatically, pointing toward the ceiling, or perhaps fate itself. "Forget being a cog in someone else's rusty machine! We're gonna make a name for ourselves! But first—where's this Hana Association? I've got a grade to earn!"
"…You're seriously going to take the test?"
"Damn right I am."
Shmuel chewed the inside of his cheek, unsure. "They… don't like walk-ins."
"I'll kick in the door then!"
"…That's not… please don't do that."
Kamina cracked his knuckles and headed for the door. "C'mon, kid. You're showing me the way. We're gonna carve our name into this City, one exploded syndicate at a time."
Shmuel, still sitting, mumbled under his breath.
"…I miss my quiet house already…"
The alleys of the Backstreets groaned with rust and tension as Kamina and Shmuel made their way toward the Hana Association. The cracked concrete beneath their boots echoed under the weak neon lights flickering overhead, painting the walls with shifting shadows and buzzing silence.
That silence didn't last long.
The unmistakable sound of synchronized boots-heavy and numerous-shattered the uneasy quiet.
Shmuel frozen.
From the far end of the street, Kurt Kotler emerged, his gloved hands behind his back, the polished metal plating of his customized exosuit gleaming with corporate menace. Flanking him, and spreading like a tide of steel and scowls, came nearly thirty Izan enforcers, each armed with industrial batons, monoblades, and those smirks that always came before a "message" was delivered on behalf of a syndicate.
"Well now," Kurt said smoothly, voice artificially enhanced to carry. "Didn't expect to see both of you together again. Especially not after the stunt you pulled the other day, sword-boy."
Kamina tilted his head slightly. "Oh, it's Metal Chin again. Still compensating for something, huh?"
Kurt's eye twitched beneath his visor, but his smile remained.
Shmuel, however, began trembling. "T-This is bad, this is really bad, thirty's… a lot… we're gonna…"
He didn't finish the thought.
Because Kamina, without a shred of hesitation, grabbed Shmuel by the waist with one arm and hoisted him up like a sack of flour.
"Wha–W-Wait what are you doing-?!"
"Making room," Kamina said, still grinning.
The Izan enforcers began to move in. Slowly at first-tauntingly, like wolves.
But Kamina didn't wait.
He took one step forward, twisted his body-and swung his sheathed katana like a battering ram. The sheer force of the arc split the air with a howl, sending the first three enforcers flying like bowling pins. Their armored bodies crashed into those behind them, knocking down a full column of goons with a single strike.
Gasps and metallic thuds erupted down the street.
"Hey, kid," Kamina said, adjusting his grip on a wildly squirming Shmuel. "Now would be a great time to show me where this Hana Association of yours is hiding."
Shmuel's eyes were wide, voice squeaky from being jostled. "D-Down the plaza and across the Bridge of Spines, right past the Cleanser checkpoint, th-then turn right at the vending machine with the bullet holes in it-"
"Perfect!" Kamina beamed, already starting to sprint straight through the enemy formation.
The Izan enforcers scrambled to regroup, but Kamina was already a blur of motion and defiance. With each swing of his sheathed sword, another thug was knocked aside like a toy soldier. Every grunt, every cry of pain, was punctuation to the blazing trail he carved through their ranks.
Kurt growled, eyes tracking Kamina like a predator denied its kill. "After him! Do not let him reach the Association! I want that lunatic in pieces!"
But by the time the order left his lips, Kamina had already bulldozed his way through the blockade and leapt up onto a stack of crates, landing effortlessly before tearing down another alley.
Behind him, Shmuel was still held under one arm like a grocery bag.
"Y-You don't have to carry me like this-!"
"Kid," Kamina shouted over the wind rushing past them, "when thirty metal freaks try to block my path, the only proper response is to punch through!"
"But you can't just-!"
"I can, and I did! Now get ready-'cause we're headed straight to where the real fight begins!"
And with that, Kamina bolted forward toward the Hana Association, the chaos of the Backstreets trailing behind him like fire on the wind.
As Kamina followed Shmuel's frantic instructions through the maze of alleys and half-collapsed infrastructure, the chaotic screeches of the Backstreets began to fade behind them—replaced by a new kind of tension. Orderly. Sterile. Watchful.
The landscape changed.
Rust gave way to reinforced concrete. Scavenged neon signs to regulation-grade floodlights. The air itself tasted different—like regulation and regulation alone, scrubbed clean of flavor or chaos.
And then, they saw it.
Rising above the surrounding blocks like a spearhead pointed at heaven, the Hana Association South Section 4 Tower stood tall and unmoving. Its design was cold, symmetrical, and devoid of excess. Not a single inch of its structure was without purpose. Floodlights crowned the upper edges, casting their gaze down upon the surrounding districts like silent sentinels. Even from this distance, Kamina could feel the sheer pressure radiating from it.
It was a building that stared back.
"…That's it," Shmuel murmured, his voice almost shrinking as they stepped into the outer plaza. "That's South Section 4."
Kamina whistled. "Now that's a tower. Looks like it's judging the entire city from up there."
"Because… it is," Shmuel said, forcing a nervous chuckle. "The Hana Association is one of the core pillars of regulation here."
"Figures," Kamina muttered, adjusting his sheath across his shoulder.
Shmuel looked up, expression unreadable for a moment. "This is where every Fixer gets their license. Some don't make it through the test. Or if they do, it's as a grade 9-like me."
Kamina gave him a side glance, noticing the slight tremor in Shmuel's shoulders. The way his hands stayed close to his coat pockets. Not clenched-but ready to shrink into himself if things went wrong. Again.
"You've been here before?" Kamina asked.
Shmuel nodded slowly. "Yeah… twice, actually. First to take the test. Second time to get the paperwork after… well. I didn't exactly ace it."
Kamina slapped his back-not hard, but firm. "Kid, you're still standing. That means you passed."
Shmuel blinked at him. "B-Barely…"
"Doesn't matter. Whether you pass with style or crawl across the finish line, you still finish. And that's what counts."
Shmuel stared up at the tower again. "You really gonna try for a license? You're not… from here. The test's not like a street brawl. It's regulated."
Kamina grinned. That familiar, brilliant grin that looked like it could punch the moon in the face.
"Regulated, huh? Then it's time I show 'em what unregulated spirit looks like."
Shmuel sighed, then couldn't help but smile-just a little.
Kamina turned toward the front gates. "Let's go meet these clipboard warriors. I've got a name to carve, and I ain't waiting"
As they stepped into the shadow of the tower, a mechanical chime echoed from the gate's speakers.
"Welcome to Hana Association South Section 4. Please state your business."
Kamina stepped forward.
"Name is Kamina. I'm here to take your test. And I hope you brought extra ink for that clipboard—'cause I'm about to rewrite the grading curve."
The lobby of Hana Association South Section 4 was a cavern of order.
Kamina's boots clacked against polished, gray marble as he stepped inside, carrying with him the lingering grit of the Backstreets. The air smelled faintly of sterilizer and cold steel, a sharp contrast to the copper-and-trash perfume of District 12.
The ceiling was high, maybe twenty meters, yet the space somehow felt smaller-not because of clutter, but because everything was perfectly square. The walls were slabs of immaculate concrete intersected with clean, sharp lines. Rectangular lights hummed overhead in an exact grid. Not a single decoration was present that wasn't symmetrical or regulation-issued. Even the chairs were cuboid.
Kamina tilted his head. "Man, this place feels a bit too… square."
The words echoed slightly in the sterile air.
Behind the reception desk, a woman with sleek black hair tied in a perfect bun glanced at him with the faintest flicker of annoyance, but otherwise didn't break her rhythm. Her fingers danced across the keyboard in sharp, efficient movements.
"Your opinion on our interior design," she said without inflection, "is not required for the examination process."
Kamina leaned casually against the counter, grin wide. "Hey, I'm just saying-round it out a bit. Maybe throw in a triangle. I like triangles." He tapped his distinctive shades for emphasis.
The receptionist didn't even blink. A small printer embedded in the desk spat out a hard, rectangular card, which she slid toward him with the smoothness of a trained bureaucrat.
TEMPORARY APPLICANT IDENTIFICATION – PHYSICAL TESTING
Kamina | Unlicensed
"Proceed down the right hallway," she said. "Physical examination will precede the written test. You will receive further instructions at the designated checkpoint."
She paused, finally looking him in the eye.
"Do you have any augmentations or Workshop-issued weaponry to declare?"
Kamina straightened up and thumped his chest proudly. "Nope! This body's 100% Kamina-brand, no spare parts. And as for my weapon…" He tapped the sheathed katana on his shoulder. "She's called Nodachi. And no, it's not from any Workshop. It's mine. My partner."
That earned the receptionist's first noticeable reaction was a slight twitch in her eyebrow. "Non-Workshop weapons are discouraged. They may not pass our material integrity assessment. Damage to City property during testing will result in fines or denial of license."
Kamina waved her off with a laugh. "Relax! Nodachi and I have seen things you squares wouldn't believe. We'll handle your little obstacle course, and maybe I'll even polish your floors with whoever you throw at me!"
Shmuel, standing a step behind him and practically folded into himself, whispered, "P-Please just follow the procedure…"
Kamina turned, pointed at him with his free hand, and gave a thumbs up. "Don't sweat it, kid! Your pal Kamina's about to show these paper pushers how a real man makes an entrance!"
The receptionist had already gone back to typing, unmoved. "Next," she said flatly.
The automatic doors to the testing hallway hissed open, revealing a corridor of cold steel and embedded floor lights leading to the unknown.
Kamina cracked his neck, resting Nodachi across his shoulders. "Alright, square world. Time to see if your test can keep up with my soul."
Shmuel stood awkwardly near the reception desk, hands tucked deep in his coat pockets, eyes flicking between the cold floor tiles and the sterile walls.
He wasn't allowed past this point. Only applicants with the proper paperwork and approval could enter the testing grounds.
Kamina had shot him a thumbs-up before striding through the doors, nodachi still slung over his shoulder, leaving Shmuel behind in the muted quiet.
Inside the Testing Hall
The corridor led Kamina into a vast, open chamber shaped like a box. Harsh white lights gleamed overhead, illuminating clearly demarcated testing zones along a marked path. Cameras in ceiling domes followed every movement.
A few other applicants waited—most looked like they were trying to psych themselves up. One had a prosthetic leg humming with workshop tech. Another flexed their cybernetic arms, which glowed faintly under the skin.
Kamina barely gave them a glance. His attention was already on the test.
Test 1: Load-Bearing Strength
A gray cube of dense material-nearly the size of a barrel and marked with embedded sensors-sat in the middle of the platform. One by one, testers were called up to lift it off the ground and hold it for a few seconds.
Some grunted. One dropped it halfway up.
Then it was Kamina's turn.
He rolled his shoulders once and stepped forward with an easy swagger. His grip tightened around the edges of the cube—then he heaved.
With a short grunt and a flex of his back, Kamina raised it clean off the floor and held it steady.
He didn't shake.
Didn't even bend his knees too much.
Just stood there like a statue, staring ahead, grin playing at his lips.
A robotic voice announced. "Proceed to next station."
Test 2: Sprint Time
The hallway transformed into a long running track, lined with sensors and light barriers. Each tester took a position at the starting line, waiting for the cue.
When Kamina's light blinked green, he exploded forward.
"Distance sprint recorded. Above standard baseline."
Another tester muttered, "Not bad for raw legs..." under their breath.
Test 3: Reflex Challenge
The final part involved a ring of poles and holographic projectiles. Each applicant had to stand in the center while lights blinked around them and sensors launched small pellets from randomized angles.
Kamina stepped in with a cocky smile, lowering himself into a loose stance.
The buzzer sounded.
Almost instantly, his body moved-a quick lean, a hand swipe, a backstep. He didn't overthink it. He just reacted.
He dodged low, pivoted with his foot, and turned with clean timing that was more instinct than calculation.
Several hits came close-very close-but none connected.
The system tone sounded again: "Reflex rating: High. Proceed to evaluation zone."
A young intern behind a glass monitor leaned toward her supervisor. "He's unaugmented, right?" she whispered.
The older staffer didn't reply at first. Just watched the feed. Then muttered, "Yeah... just means he's been through something."
Back in the ring, Kamina gave a satisfied huff, resting Nodachi against his shoulder again. He didn't ask for praise.
He already knew he did great.
"Alright," he muttered. "Now let's see if these suits know how to measure spirit."
Final Test: Written Examination
After his impressive physical performance, Kamina was led into a sterile, cubicle-like room filled with rows of terminal desks. Each one was neatly separated with thin plastic dividers and emitted a soft hum. The air here was dry, the kind that clung to paper and old thinking.
A small screen blinked to life in front of him, and the text scrolled across in plain white font:
Begin Written Aptitude Test: 45 minutes. Questions will assess your situational judgment, urban law comprehension, client engagement protocol, syndicate interaction policies, and internal Office structure.
Kamina squinted.
The first question popped up:
"A client requests a Class 3 intervention involving cross-district jurisdiction. As a grade 9 Fixer, which procedural form must be filed, and through which Association channel?"
Kamina furrowed his brow and muttered to himself:
"What the hell is a Class 3... What even is a procedural form...?"
He scratched his head with the end of his brush pen and immediately clicked the nearest multiple choice.
"Eh, always go with B, right?"
The second question didn't fare much better. Something about Wings, backchannels, and policy thresholds. He mashed a few more buttons, arms crossed, chin resting in his palm.
By question five, Kamina was openly groaning.
"Why does every sentence read like it got sat on by ten librarians... Can't I just fight some bad guys and be done with it?"
The only part he took remotely seriously was the "Client Demeanor Evaluation" section. He doodled a crude smiley face next to a checkbox that asked:
"How would you handle an emotionally volatile client who has lost a family member to a Sweep?"
"Talk to 'em with guts," Kamina scrawled in jagged handwriting. "Let 'em scream. Then help 'em get back up."
He leaned back in his chair, arms folded behind his head, legs kicked out under the desk. The screen still had 28 minutes left on the clock, but Kamina had already slammed the big red "Submit" button.
One Hour Later – Evaluation Lobby
Shmuel stood up when he saw Kamina reappear from the hallway, arms behind his head and the same cocky grin on his face.
"Well," Kamina said, "I might've... maybe... bombed that last test a bit."
Shmuel blinked nervously. "...Define 'a bit.'"
Before Kamina could answer, a terminal on the receptionist's desk dinged, and a laminated license card slid out of the machine. The receptionist—expressionless as ever—picked it up and read aloud:
"Kamina. Grade 8 Fixer. Issued by Hana Association South Branch. Physical Aptitude: Above average. Written Aptitude: … Marginal."
She handed the card over without emotion. "Congratulations on your certification."
Kamina snatched it with a triumphant yell. "Heh! Grade 8?! Not bad for a guy with no 'augmentation' and zero clue how your 'district protocols' work!"
Shmuel's eyes widened. "W-Wait, you still got Grade 8? That's... that's higher than me..."
Kamina slapped him on the back.
He held up the license toward the light like it was a victory flag.
"Now let's take this piece of plastic and start something that'll shake this whole City. I got an office to build, kid."
Shmuel, flustered and clutching his coat tighter, could only murmur under his breath.
"This shouldn't be how it works... this definitely shouldn't be how it works..."