That night was unnaturally silent, as if the city itself had stopped breathing. Rain poured relentlessly from the heavens, its cold touch soaking through layers of clothing and skin, blurring the line between exhaustion and numbness. Tokyo, once vibrant even after dark, now felt like a graveyard of sound—empty, hollow, and hostile.

Izumi had lost her direction—both literally and within herself. Each step felt heavier than the last, her boots echoing faintly against the glistening concrete. She no longer knew where to go, nor did she care. Her mission had failed. Yū Tosaki was critically wounded, perhaps beyond recovery, and the delicate structure of command she once clung to had crumbled.

She had released her IBM despite the worsening weather, knowing full well that summoning it in such conditions made her more visible, more vulnerable. But fear had cornered her. She wasn’t running from the police or civilians. No—this time, she was trying to evade something far more terrifying. Something—or someone—that knew her rhythm, her tactics, her breathing patterns.

She was trying to escape him.

Satō.

The name alone cut through her mind like broken glass. A former U.S. Special Forces operative turned Ajin war criminal, Satō had become a figure of myth and terror—a ghost draped in military precision and unrelenting malice. His goal was no longer revenge; it was conquest. Japan was merely the starting point.

Izumi was alone now. She had no more allies in the field, no more coordinated plans, and no more safety nets. Her IBM circled in the shadows, a specter of her own inner decay.

Her footsteps led her to a stretch of sidewalk illuminated only by the neon flicker of a nearby vending machine. She halted—not out of caution, but because her body had reached its limit. Her breath was shallow. Her skin trembled, not from the cold, but from the weight of everything pressing down on her: failure, fear, guilt.

There, beneath the artificial glow, she saw someone—an unrecognizable figure, back turned, retrieving a drink from the machine. It was insignificant. A passerby, perhaps. Someone not meant to be part of this story.

But something in that moment—whether fate, fatigue, or the fracturing of her own mind—broke whatever willpower she had left. The adrenaline that had kept her moving drained from her system like a severed artery. Her knees buckled. And with no strength left to hold herself together, she collapsed onto the soaked pavement—unconscious, alone, and forgotten beneath the rain.