Kyoko Tachibana arrived at the residential district less than thirty minutes after receiving the call.
The area was only two or three kilometers from her rented apartment, a quiet cluster of detached houses tucked inside Bunkyo Ward.
On any other morning, it would have looked perfectly ordinary: narrow streets, neat fences, potted plants by front doors, bicycles parked beneath awnings, and curtains drawn against the early sun.
Today, the atmosphere had changed completely.
Police cars blocked every entrance and exit.
Blue-and-white cordon tape sealed off the entire block.
Uniformed officers moved from house to house, questioning residents in small groups, while the people barred from returning home gathered outside the restricted area with pale faces and restless whispers.
Every now and then, someone glanced fearfully toward the depths of the neighborhood.
Kyoko’s grip tightened around the strap of her bag.
She could still hear the voice from the phone call half an hour ago.
Her informant was someone she had planted in Tokyo’s underworld after spending no small amount of money and effort.
The man was cautious, greedy, and terrified of death, but his information had always been reliable.
According to him, the notorious Meiyuan Church had held a livestreamed human sacrifice here last night.
Near the end of the ritual, something had gone wrong.
An unknown intruder had appeared at the scene.
Alone.
Barehanded.
That intruder had killed three members of the Meiyuan Church and caused destruction comparable to a bombing.
Her informant had emphasized again and again that it was not the result of guns or explosives.
It was something else.
Something supernatural.
A mysterious being had attacked a cruel sacrificial ritual performed by cultists.
For a journalist, there was no phrase more intoxicating.
Kyoko felt her blood heat beneath her professional composure.
A scoop like this was not merely big.
It was the kind of story that could overturn common sense, drag hidden filth into the sunlight, and tear open the polite mask of modern society.
More importantly, this place was only a few minutes’ drive from her home.
This was not some distant incident from another prefecture.
It had happened near her.
Near Kyo.
“Those Meiyuan bastards…” Kyoko cursed inwardly, her eyes turning cold.
“How dare they run wild this close to me?”
Her expression settled into the calm mask of a professional reporter.
She pulled her press card from her bag, slipped past the first layer of confusion at the outer cordon, and headed straight toward the half-collapsed house.
The closer she got, the stranger the damage looked.
One side of the detached house had been torn open.
Not burned out.
Not blasted apart in the usual way.
The structure looked as if some invisible giant had reached in and gouged out half of it by force.
Kyoko’s gaze sharpened.
At the edge of the inner cordon, she quickly found the officer in charge of the Metropolitan Police Department’s operation.
He was a middle-aged man with a bloated face, narrow eyes, and the unpleasant air of someone used to smiling while hiding dirty hands.
His name tag read:
Police Inspector Kenji Sakata.
Kyoko stopped in front of him and showed her press card.
“Police Inspector Sakata.
Kyoko Tachibana, Tokyo Daily.”
She did not bother with pleasantries.
Her voice was cold and direct.
“Has a violent homicide occurred here?
According to my source, there are at least three dead.
I’m requesting permission to enter the crime scene for interview and photography.”
The moment Sakata saw her, the fat on his face twitched.
A flicker of panic crossed his eyes.
It vanished quickly, replaced by a broad, practiced smile.
He straightened his posture and put on the stiff dignity of a public official doing his solemn duty.
“Reporter Tachibana, you seem to have misunderstood.”
He gestured toward the ruined house.
“No homicide occurred here.
This was an unfortunate accident.
According to our preliminary assessment, an old natural gas pipe leaked and triggered an explosion.”
He sighed with just enough weight to look sincere.
“As for your request to photograph the scene, I’m afraid I cannot approve it.
We must protect the victims’ privacy.
The scene will remain fully sealed until our investigation is complete.”
A gas explosion?
Kyoko almost laughed.
She looked past him toward the damaged house.
The destruction was too clean.
A gas explosion would have blown outward, shattered windows, scorched walls, scattered debris, and affected neighboring buildings.
But the surrounding houses had suffered only minor damage.
The target house itself looked as if half its interior had been carved away with absurd precision.
No normal gas explosion caused damage like that.
Not unless natural gas had learned how to use a sword.
Kyoko took one step forward and stared directly into Sakata’s eyes.
“Police Inspector Sakata, I’m not a rookie fresh out of university.”
His smile stiffened.
“You know better than I do whether a gas explosion could cause such precise damage.
Furthermore, my informant told me that members of the Meiyuan Church were active here last night and conducted a human sacrifice.”
Her voice dropped.
“Are you certain you want to classify this as an accident?”
Sakata’s eyes narrowed.
Kyoko did not give him time to interrupt.
“If you continue brushing me off with this kind of nonsense, you may find tomorrow’s Tokyo Daily front page very difficult to handle.”
The smile on Sakata’s face froze completely.
Anger rose behind his eyes.
A mere reporter dared speak to him like that?
Yet he did not dare act on it.
Kyoko Tachibana was not an ordinary reporter.
She was one of Tokyo Daily’s star journalists, famous for being stubborn, fearless, and annoyingly difficult to silence.
Worse, her background was troublesome.
She came from the prestigious Tachibana family, old Kazoku nobility with roots deep enough to make many bureaucrats think twice before offending them.
There were rumors that Kyoko had long since broken ties with her family.
But rumors were only rumors.
Sakata had no intention of gambling his career on whether they were true.
If he offended the Tachibana family and guessed wrong, he could forget about rising any higher for the rest of his life.
After weighing the matter in an instant, he forced down his anger and softened his tone.
“Reporter Tachibana, please calm down.
The police have procedures for handling cases.
I promise that once evidence collection is complete, I will arrange an exclusive interview opportunity for you.”
A promise so empty it almost echoed.
Before Kyoko could press further, Sakata turned and signaled to two female officers nearby.
“You two, accompany Reporter Tachibana properly.
Ensure her safety.”
He emphasized the word accompany.
The two officers understood at once.
They moved to either side of Kyoko with polite, professional smiles, their bodies subtly forming a barrier around her.
“Reporter Tachibana, this area is dangerous,” one of them said.
“Please step back a little.”
Sakata wasted no more time.
He turned and hurried toward the collapsed house.
Kyoko watched his retreating back.
He was anxious.
That was obvious.
Most likely, he was rushing to warn the people inside who were busy altering the scene.
If they moved too slowly, if they left even one obvious flaw behind, this so-called gas explosion would collapse faster than the house.
Kyoko glanced at the two officers beside her.
Protection?
No.
Surveillance.
They were stalling her.
Her eyes turned cold.
Unfortunately for them, Kyoko Tachibana had never been the kind of woman who obediently stood where corrupt officials told her to stand.
She swept her gaze over the chaotic scene: residents arguing with officers, investigators moving equipment, reporters gathering outside the outer cordon, emergency workers passing in and out, neighbors whispering in fear.
A narrow window would appear.
It always did.
And when it did, she would slip through.