I reluctantly disappeared behind the glass partition. I sat alone in the sterile white room, gripping the armrests of the imposing medical chair. The door sealed with a vacuum-tight hiss, leaving me in silence broken only by the soft hum of monitoring equipment. The clinical whiteness of the walls seemed to press in on me, making the restraints built into the armrests all the more obvious.
I kept my face neutral, bored even, while my mind raced at light speed. This wasn’t standard procedure. No rookie Hunter-in-training gets a private evaluation chamber with observation windows and medical restraints built into the armrests. The isolation tank vibe wasn’t lost on me. Something was wrong.
Very, very wrong.
I subtly flicked my eyes upward, checking my System interface while ensuring my face betrayed nothing of the panic beginning to bubble beneath my carefully constructed mask of indifference.
[ACTIVE ABILITIES (2/2): EMBER, SEVER]
[PASSIVE ABILITIES (2/4): MYSTICISM, PROTECTION FROM ARROWS]
My combat options were severely limited. [FREEZING BREATH] was still locked away on cooldown—just my fucking luck. If things went sideways, I’d have fire and invisible force-slashes at my disposal. Not great for a stealth escape through what was undoubtedly a heavily monitored VHC facility, but decent for making a bloody mess if it came down to it. And I was absolutely willing to make a mess if necessary.
Through the doorway’s narrow window, I could see Coordinator Reed speaking with a gaunt man in a pristine white lab coat. His face was all sharp angles and hollow valleys, like someone had stretched skin over a skull and called it a day.
"...Nakano file is flagged... Level 7 Protocol..."
The man in the lab coat frowned, his forehead creasing. "Are you certain? He’s just a boy."
"The age fits. Orders are from the top."
Top? As in, the very top of the VHC? Why would the leadership of the entire Hunter Commission care about a nobody Zero suddenly manifesting a mediocre fire Aspect?
I glanced at Luka behind the glass. His massive frame looked diminished somehow, his usual confidence replaced with growing concern. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across his face, highlighting the worry lines that weren’t usually there. He caught my eye and mouthed, "What’s wrong?"
I gave him a subtle shrug of my shoulders and the faintest of reassuring smiles.
Nothing to worry about, Dad. Just your average evaluation for your average son who’s actually housing the soul of a dead yakuza enforcer with inexplicable powers from cosmic entities who’s been corrupting your daughter behind your back. Totally normal Saturday. We should grab ice cream after this if I’m not dissected.
HSSSK-CHUNK!
The pneumatic door slid open with a sound that reminded me unpleasantly of a morgue drawer. The gaunt man entered and up close, he was even more unsettling. His face was deeply lined but not with age—rather with something that suggested he’d seen things that had permanently carved their existence into his features. His eyes were deep-set, nearly black, and seemed to look right through me, past skin and bone and into whatever lay beneath. They were the eyes of someone who had stared into abysses and catalogued what stared back.
"Mr. Nakano." His voice was surprisingly melodious. "I am Chief Evaluator Elias Washington. Thank you for your patience. Late manifestations are a matter of particular interest to the Commission. We like to be... thorough."
The way he said "thorough" made it sound like a medical procedure performed without anesthesia on a fully conscious patient. I suppressed a shiver.
"I didn’t realize I was that special," I said, forcing lightness into my tone and a crooked half-smile onto my face. "Just a guy who got his Aspect a little late to the party."
Washington’s expression didn’t change by so much as a muscle twitch. "Indeed. The party, as you put it, typically concludes around age twelve. You’re approximately six years fashionably late."
He began calibrating the equipment surrounding me, not looking at me as he spoke. Each adjustment he made to the machines was deliberate, almost ritualistic.
"Tell me, Mr. Nakano. Prior to your... recent manifestation, you were registered as a Zero, correct?"
"Yeah. No Aspect. Nothing." I let a hint of past bitterness creep into my voice. "Just another Zero trying to get by."
"Interesting. And your manifestation occurred during what circumstances?" His tone suggested the question was routine, but his eyes told a different story.
"I was training with someone. We were doing a practice run in an E-Rank Gate—"
Washington’s hands froze above a control panel, hovering like pale spiders. "You entered a Gate without a license?"
"Technically, they had a provisional—"
"That doesn’t extend to you, Mr. Nakano."
"It does since I was registered as a porter not a hunter. Anyways, they just wanted to get some money and it seemed like an easy payday." I ran a hand through my hair, playing the remorseful teenager caught breaking the rules. "Anyway, we got into trouble. My friend was in danger. I panicked, and suddenly my hands were on fire. But not burning, you know? It was like... part of me."
Washington nodded slightly, returning to his calibrations. "Fight or flight response is a common trigger. Though typically in early childhood."
He pressed a button, and mechanical arms descended from the ceiling with a whir, carrying scanning arrays that surrounded my chair like metal vultures.
"This will be a simple Aspect Resonance Scan. Completely painless. Please remain still."
The equipment hummed to life. Blue light washed over me in slow, penetrating waves. I forced myself to breathe normally, to keep my heart rate steady. Whatever this scanner was looking for, I didn’t want it finding anything unusual. I prayed to whatever cosmic entity might be listening that the System wouldn’t register on whatever arcane technology they were using.
"So," I said conversationally, deliberately projecting casualness, "do all late bloomers get the special treatment, or am I just lucky?"
Washington stared at a monitor, his gaunt face bathed in the blue glow of the display. "Your name triggered an automatic protocol."
"My name? What’s so special about Nakano?"
For the first time, Washington’s impassive mask slipped. A flicker of surprise crossed his face, like the brief shadow of a bird passing overhead. "You don’t know?"
"Know what?"
He studied me for a long moment, his black eyes dissecting me. "Your father."
"What about him?"
"Your biological father," Washington clarified, watching me closely, like a scientist observing a particularly interesting specimen under glass.
"Never met him. Mom doesn’t talk about him."
"I see..."
"Does my father have something to do with this special evaluation?"
Washington’s lips thinned to nearly nothing. "I’m not at liberty to discuss personnel files."
"But it’s my file."
"Only half of it is yours, Mr. Nakano."
The scanner suddenly emitted a series of beeps—sharp, insistent, like the warning signals of a bomb about to detonate. Washington’s eyebrows rose fractionally as he examined the readout, the first real expression I’d seen on his face.
"Interesting." He tapped the screen with a long, bony finger, then looked at me with renewed intensity. "You claimed your Aspect manifested as fire manipulation, correct?"
"Yes."
"Would you mind demonstrating?" His request carried all the warmth of a morgue drawer.
I hesitated. "Here? Now? In this room full of expensive-looking equipment?"
"This room is designed for Aspect assessment. It can contain anything short of an S-Rank manifestation." His mouth quirked in what might have been a smile on a normal human but on him looked like a facial spasm. "I suspect we’re safe."