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Summary
“Mikoshi has begun to malfunction,” said a man whose digital ghost now wore his son’s body.
Arasaka Saburo sat straight-backed in his black leather chair behind a tiered marble table, his back to the ridged skyline of Tokyo city. The same table, chair, and bonsai adorned Saburo’s offices in every key Arasaka complex. When he had been Saburo’s bodyguard, Takemura knew them in perfect detail. Memorised exits, defensible positions, and potential situational weaknesses, down to questions of ventilation and security rotations. Being in such an office again after a year away from his role felt disorienting, rather than familiar. Unsettling, to hear Saburo’s clipped intonation emerge from Yorinobu’s mouth, a man Takemura had once written off as reckless and dissolute.