Night fell without making a sound.

  The lights of Kuoh illuminated a quiet side street—too ordinary to seem dangerous. A small ramen shop was closing its shutters. A couple of streetlights flickered.

  Koneko Toujou stood in front of a modest house.

  There were no screams.

  No fire.

  No chaos.

  That was what felt wrong.

  The “job” had come as it always did: a distressed person, a minor problem, a simple request. Nothing that required excessive force. Nothing that, under normal circumstances, wouldn’t be resolved in minutes.

  Koneko clenched her fists.

  “…I don’t understand,” she murmured.

  Inside the house, the woman who had made the request was crying silently. She wasn’t screaming. She wasn’t complaining. Just crying, sitting on the living room floor, surrounded by overturned furniture.

  The problem wasn’t violent.

  It was persistent.

  An invisible presence—weak, sticky. Something that didn’t attack… but wouldn’t leave either.

  Koneko had struck where she was supposed to.

  She had used just the right amount of force.

  She had followed protocol.

  And still… nothing.

  The air remained heavy.

  The sensation was still there.

  Koneko frowned.

  Normally, Rias would be guiding the operation. Adjusting. Feeling the rhythm of the job. Giving that minimal order that made everything click into place.

  But Rias wasn’t here.

  And without her, everything felt… crooked.

  Koneko stepped forward and threw another sharp punch into the air.

  The impact echoed—strong. Too strong.

  The presence shattered all at once, like breaking glass.

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  The woman screamed in shock.

  The air was released abruptly, chaotically. The pressure vanished… but left behind an uncomfortable, almost sickly silence.

  Koneko stepped back.

  That hadn’t been clean.

  That hadn’t been right.

  “…Sorry,” she said softly, not quite sure to whom.

  The woman looked at her, confused, still trembling.

  “Is… is it over?”

  Koneko nodded.

  “Yes.”

  It didn’t sound convincing.

  She didn’t believe it herself.

  She left the house without looking back.

  The job was “resolved.”

  But something had broken in the process.

  The night air was cold.

  Koneko wandered aimlessly for a few streets. She didn’t feel like going back yet. She didn’t feel like talking to anyone.

  That was when she heard footsteps.

  “…Koneko?”

  She stopped.

  Kaelan Arverth was leaning against a vending machine, a can in his hand. Dark circles under his eyes. A tired posture. Clearly someone who hadn’t been able to sleep either.

  “Hey,” he said gently. “Didn’t expect to see you this late.”

  Koneko looked at him for a few seconds.

  “Work,” she replied.

  Kaelan nodded, as if he understood all too well.

  “Did it go badly?”

  Koneko hesitated.

  She didn’t usually hesitate.

  “…Yes.”

  She didn’t give details.

  She didn’t need to.

  Kaelan didn’t press. He looked at the vending machine, then at the empty street.

  “I was walking,” he said. “Couldn’t sleep.”

  Silence.

  Koneko lowered her gaze.

  “Rias isn’t doing well,” she said suddenly.

  It wasn’t an accusation.

  It was a fact.

  Kaelan felt a knot tighten in his chest.

  “I know.”

  “When Rias is like this…” Koneko clenched her fists slightly. “Everything feels heavier. Even the easy things.”

  Kaelan didn’t answer right away.

  Because as he listened, something didn’t add up.

  Not in Koneko.

  In the world.

  This shouldn’t be happening.

  Not like this.

  When a leader enters a Rating Game…

  when there’s a political engagement at that level…

  everything stops.

  Contracts.

  Missions.

  Exposure.

  Not for comfort.

  For stability.

  Rias shouldn’t be sending them out.

  Akeno shouldn’t be allowing this.

  Kaelan tightened his grip around the can.

  They’re acting like everything is normal.

  And nothing is normal.

  He looked at the street.

  The silence left behind after the “job.”

  The residual echo his Resonance could still feel—like a vibration that hadn’t closed properly.

  This is how big mistakes begin.

  Not with malice.

  With routine.

  “Have you eaten?” he asked suddenly.

  Koneko looked at him.

  “No.”

  Kaelan lifted the can slightly.

  “I wasn’t planning to eat alone. There’s a place open two blocks from here. Nothing special… but it’s warm.”

  Koneko blinked once.

  “…Okay.”

  They walked together.

  They didn’t talk much.

  They didn’t need to.

  But as they moved, Kaelan noticed something he hadn’t before: Koneko walked a little stiffer. As if she were holding herself together. As if the job had affected her more than she wanted to admit.

  “Koneko,” he said carefully. “If things get weird… it’s not your fault.”

  She glanced at him.

  “I know.”

  A pause.

  “…But it still weighs on you.”

  Kaelan nodded.

  “Yeah. It does.”

  The restaurant appeared at the end of the street—lit, simple, human.

  For a moment, the world stopped beating so hard.

  Kaelan thought about the barrier.

  About the pulse.

  About the rhythm that shouldn’t exist.

  Somewhere, far from there, something was still accumulating.

  And every “job badly resolved”

  didn’t calm it.

  It fed it.