Evening heat clung to the alley behind Kichijoji Station. The ramen shop’s air conditioner wheezed like a dying cat, rattling above the counter.
William sat near the back, close to the kitchen, wearing a faded navy Hawaiian shirt patterned with pale white hibiscus.
The fabric looked like it had survived too many summers and too few laundry cycles—creased, sun-worn, and missing one button near the collar. It clung to the oil-slick air, sweat and steam soaking into the rolled sleeves like the shirt belonged more to the room than to the man.
He slurped his noodles loud, like he was challenging someone. Not on purpose. It was just etiquette—Japanese custom said noise meant appreciation. And besides, this bowl was a level ten Hokkaido Hell Ramen . Eating it quietly would’ve been unnatural. The broth reeked of cheap bravado—less a recipe, more a last-ditch gamble by the chef. He’d ordered a Calpis on the side—too sweet, too watered down. But it matched the soup’s salt like a bad marriage made for balance.
That’s when his phone buzzed. He frowned. Didn’t answer. The phone went still. He kept eating. Another sip of broth. The chili hit late, scraping his throat raw. His glass was empty. He lifted it anyway, fished out the last sliver of ice, and chewed it with resigned patience. The phone buzzed again. With a sigh, he wiped his mouth and picked up.
“Mr. Grasse,” a bright voice chirped, youthful, polite, and completely disingenuous. “Can’t believe someone like you would still eat ramen in a Kichijoji chain joint.”
William belched. Casually. “It’s decent. Spice is right. Salt’s a bit much.”
A faint laugh from the other end—crystal clear, but sharp like biting down on glass. “I read about the explosion. Honestly, I thought you’d pick a better spot for someone that important.”
William stirred his broth with his chopsticks, slow and idle. “I was about to ask you that. When did **you read about it? Before the explosion? Or right after?”
“Still funny,” the voice repeated, with a smile so cold it didn’t touch the syllables. “Precognition’s not real, you know. That kind of Kamuy doesn’t exist.”
“Is that so.” William’s eyes narrowed. A scallion floated to the surface like a corpse. “Funny. I just heard Lockhart refused to release any synthetic relics to treat her.”
“Shame.” The voice didn’t waver. “I rather liked the president. She did so many things for you that you couldn’t be bothered to do yourself. But you know how it is. Capitalism doesn’t spend money saving people when the relics cost more than a life.”
William gave a dry chuckle. “Money, huh. Funny—I always thought you didn’t need it. Just one call from you. That’s all it ever takes. Let it happen. Let it slide. Let it burn.” The line went silent. Not passive. Not confused. **Challenging. William’s tone dropped. “Spare me the courtesy. Just say it.”
The voice didn’t skip a beat. “Everyone’s calling it Ouroboros now, aren’t they?” A pause. Light, amused. “If that helps them sleep.” Then the voice shifted. Lighter, breezier, like the moment never happened. “Anyway—how’s your field trip going, Vice President Grasse? Heard you’re sightseeing Japan for Effigies research. Any exciting new Drakespawn mutations? We just got a lecture about them in Dr. Yamada’s class this week. Guess you’re doing the fieldwork version.”
“Nothing impressive.” William stretched the pause. “Another one logged, same as always. But a few strains... I’ll admit I find charming.”
“You could always keep one. For fun.”
“I’m not like you,” William muttered. “I don’t keep pets.”
There it was. Light as breath. Twice as sharp. The voice went quiet for half a second. Then returned, just as cheery—just colder. “Pity. Well, if that’s all, I won’t keep you from your dinner.”
“The data key.” William’s voice cut through like the first drop of rain on a match.
The silence hung.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t play dumb. My intel says Lockhart handed you a ‘data key’—recovered from Asia. Personal handoff. Don’t tell me you missed it.”
“Ah—must’ve been a mix-up,” the voice said, utterly calm. “Could’ve been meant for the Celestial Society. Some student project. Nothing interesting. You know, all for the sake of research.”
“Research, huh.” William set his chopsticks down. “Then mind letting me borrow it? A couple days. Just to observe.”
“Of course. Anytime.”
The voice didn’t rush. Just a small pause, polite on the surface. But it lingered—like he was letting William think he still had control. “It’s just a key. Depends what kind of door you’re trying to open.” Click . The line went dead.
William didn’t move. Then reached for the ramen bowl. Lifted it with both hands. Drank the rest in one go. His throat burned. But he didn’t flinch. It wasn’t satisfaction. Just routine. He set the bowl down. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Some red chili oil clung to the edge of his lip. The only thing left from the call—its final, lingering heat.
He didn’t curse. Didn’t rage. Because he knew what he’d just spoken to wasn’t a student. Wasn’t a proxy. Wasn’t a courier or informant.
What he’d heard behind that voice…
was a dragon.
And it had just blinked at him through the line.