Inside a completely sealed building stood a cylindrical tank over four meters in diameter and more than ten meters in length, made entirely of reinforced glass.
It was filled with red liquid.
Suspended upside down in that crimson fluid was a person.
He wore a set of pure green surgical scrubs, head down and feet up, floating in the red solution. His knee-length silver hair fanned out in every direction like countless electrical wires, each strand perfectly separated.
From his facial structure, he appeared to be male—yet his features carried a faintly feminine touch.
But the most striking thing about him was his pair of emerald-green eyes.
They held no emotion at all, only a detached indifference toward everything—like that of a sinner who no longer placed any value on the world.
Before him hovered hundreds, perhaps thousands, of virtual screens.
His eyes followed the constant stream of data flashing across them—until they suddenly froze for an instant, his Adam's apple shifting slightly.
"A deflected trajectory? No need to worry about it."
…
Eighth School District – Leo Base!
For most Skill-Out groups, the common image was abandoned factories, bare concrete floors, and exposed rebar.
But Leo was fundamentally different from the other Level 0 armed groups.
Yes, their headquarters was still in an abandoned part of District 8, just like everyone else's.
But their base of operations was another matter entirely.
A clean, tidy main building with a fresh coat of paint.
Automatic revolving doors, massive potted fortune trees flanking the entrance, and a white-tiled interior.
Reception desks, elevators—everything you'd expect from a proper office building.
This was what set Leo apart from the rest.
Other Skill-Out groups stuck to surface-level thuggery—
Picking fights daily, bullying younger students, extorting money.
The more ruthless ones went further—smuggling firearms, trafficking drugs, even forcing girls into prostitution. In more chaotic areas, such things were common.
District 8 had once been exactly that kind of place.
But after Makoto took over, everything changed.
He shut down all illegal venues within District 8. Not a single grain of illegal drugs was allowed to enter.
The group's income now came from running KTV lounges, bars, massage parlors—industries that, while somewhat gray, operated legitimately enough.
In this city, legitimate businesses absolutely had a place.
It was just that those used to quick, shady profits rarely had the patience for the long return cycle of lawful operations.
Makoto, however, could.
Top floor of the building—Makoto's office.
"Onii-chan Makoto."
"Mm. Technically speaking, that title isn't wrong… but for some reason, whenever you call me that, my kidneys ache."
"Can you not call me that anymore, Fremea?"
The wide executive chair fit Makoto's adult-sized frame perfectly now that he had grown to near full maturity.
Sitting in his lap was a young girl.
Around seven or eight years old, with slender limbs, soft wavy blonde hair, fair skin, and clear sapphire-blue eyes—
She looked like a living doll.
Her clothes only reinforced the impression—white and pink frills, layered ruffles, lace trims, a mini skirt, and pink thigh-high socks.
The kind of outfit you'd expect to see on a figurine or in a game.
"Probably not~ Because Onii-chan Makoto is Onii-chan Makoto. Any other name? No way."
The blonde loli swayed her legs in his lap as if stirring water, her mouth curling into a mischievous smile.
But her gaze remained locked on the computer screen in front of them.
"That so? Then let's just stop right here. Besides, a little girl shouldn't be playing something this gory."
Indeed, what had Fremea so engrossed wasn't a shoujo anime or a cute girl game—
But a blood-and-guts zombie shooter called Resident Evil.
"Ehh, nooo~ I finally made it to this level!"
Threatened with losing what she valued most, the little loli immediately surrendered to Makoto's intimidation.
The hands that had been gripping the mouse and keyboard now clutched his left hand—the one reaching toward the power button—tightly with both of hers.
"Then what should I call you? Just 'Harumura-san'? That's way too distant."
Quitting the game was unthinkable—this was Fremea Seivelun's lifeblood, the result of five days' effort.
Not to mention the amount of cutesy begging it had taken to get Makoto to buy it for her in the first place.
So compromise was the only option.
"Just call me 'Onii-chan.' But drop the 'Makoto' part."
"Alright… though I still think 'Onii-chan Makoto' sounds better."
The girl nodded reluctantly—her priority was getting back to the game.
Half-distracted, she reached for the mouse again, ready to continue her playthrough.
"Enough for today. And isn't today the day your sister comes to visit? Go wash your face and tidy up."
Without further discussion, Makoto grabbed her by the back of her collar and lifted her from his lap.
"Ah! I totally forgot."
Tongue out, head tilted, one eye closed, tapping her temple—
The familiar sequence of gestures gave Makoto an odd sense of déjà vu.
"Hanzōu, take Fremea over, then bring her back when her sister's done."
Makoto addressed the empty doorway. At that moment, the door opened.
In stepped a short man in black clothing, his shirt embroidered with a white cross.
"Yes, I'll ensure Miss Fremea's safety."
He wasn't the only one to enter.
Another man followed—towering and gorilla-like, his frame nothing but muscle.
"Komaba, something on your mind?"