Waking up was the first problem.

  Twenty years had been spent maintaining a body that could survive a three-day trek through the jungle or a week in a desert hideout. I was fit, disciplined, and knew every limit of my forty-two-year-old frame. But this morning, the limits had moved.

  Rolling out of bed resulted in a practically launched trajectory across the room instead of the familiar, controlled effort. My center of gravity had shifted. Standing before the mirror, I assessed the damage.

  The change wasn't just about age; it was about geometry. My waist had narrowed, losing the sturdy thickness that had anchored my gear for decades. Conversely, the "magical" rejuvenation had seen fit to expand my bust, a change that felt like a deliberate prank by the universe. Lean muscle remained, but the proportions were all wrong for the life I led.

  The wardrobe was a disaster. A favorite pair of cargo pants slid straight down my hips the moment I let go. Work shirts, usually snug across the shoulders, now hung like oversized tunics. Even my boots felt loose, my feet having shrunk just enough to make every step feel like I was wearing flippers.

  "Kibi," I barked, looking at the fox currently trying to nest in my discarded laundry. "We have a problem."

  "You look great!" Kibi chirped, poking his head out of a sweater sleeve. "A bit... airy, maybe? It’s the 'oversized' look! Very trendy!"

  "It’s a liability," I muttered, cinching a belt to its last hole just to keep my pants up. "Movement is compromised if I'm fighting my own clothes."

  An hour was spent using duct tape and safety pins to rig a temporary outfit. The result looked like a scavenger's work, but it would hold until new gear could be secured.

  First stop: The Fixer.

  Meeting 'Rat' took place in a cramped, smoke-filled backroom of a pachinko parlor in Shinjuku. The air was thick with the smell of stale tobacco and ozone from a dozen humming servers. Rat didn't look up from his monitors as I sat down. He was a man who lived in the digital shadows, and he knew better than to ask questions.

  "You're late, Ghost," he wheezed, his fingers dancing over a keyboard. Then he stopped. He looked at me, his eyes narrowing behind thick, grease-stained lenses. He scanned my face, then my hands. He’d seen a lot of strange things in the underworld, but this was a first.

  "A full set." The words came out clipped, professional. "Birth certificate, passport, driver's license. Name stays Nitō Misaki, but the birth year needs to be twenty years later."

  Rat leaned back, his chair creaking. "Industrial accident?"

  "Something like that."

  "It’ll cost double," he said. "The biometric overrides for the national registry are a pain for 'younger' profiles. They expect more digital footprint."

  "Payable in the usual account," I replied.

  "Give me three hours. And Misaki? Whatever clinic you went to... give me their number. My knees are shot."

  "The entry fee is out of your league," I said, standing up.

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  Next was the shopping district. Malls were a personal grievance. Too many people, too many blind spots, and the music was designed to induce a state of compliant idiocy. Exits were automatically noted-three on this level, two service stairs behind the food court-and my back stayed to the wall as I moved.

  The department store was a gauntlet of pastel colors and aggressive perfume samples. Moving through the aisles required the grim determination of a soldier clearing a bunker.

  A muffled thump came from inside the satchel, followed by frantic scratching.

  "Misaki," Kibi's voice was barely contained. "Misaki. Is that a jewelry counter? I can smell silver. And gold. And is that—is that a crystal chandelier? Let me out. Let me out right now."

  "You are a covert asset," I hissed, pressing the flap of the bag shut. "Covert means invisible."

  "But Misakiiii—"

  "One sound and I'm zipping this bag."

  A tiny, heartbroken whimper. Then silence. Then, very quietly: "...Can we at least walk past it on the way out?"

  The fitting room was the worst part.

  A stranger stared back from the three-way mirror. The measurements didn't lie. My old frame had been a tool, weathered and reliable. This new one was... efficient, but in a way that felt alien.

  "What?" I muttered, looking at the lace-covered contraption the sales clerk had suggested. "This is ridiculous. Concealing a holster under this is going to be impossible."

  "It provides excellent support for high-impact activities!" Kibi whispered from inside my satchel. "The Leylines care about ergonomics, Misaki!"

  "The Leylines can mind their own business," I hissed, shoving the clothes into a basket.

  Three sets of everything were purchased-utilitarian, dark colors, nothing that would stand out in a crowd. A sewing kit was also added to the haul. If this body was a permanent fixture, the gear would need proper tailoring.

  By mid-afternoon, the path led back to the residential district. A stop at the ramen shop where the neon sign had been fixed the night before revealed Mr. Tanaka outside, squinting at a broken shutter.

  "Excuse me," I said, stepping into his line of sight.

  He looked up, blinking. "Oh! Hello. Can I help you, young lady?"

  "I'm... Misaki's cousin," I said, the lie tasting like copper. "She had to leave town for a bit on a contract. She asked me to check in on the neighborhood while she's gone."

  Tanaka’s face brightened. "Ah! Misaki-san’s cousin! You certainly have the same eyes. She’s a good woman, your cousin. Fixed my boiler last winter when no one else would come out in the snow."

  "She mentioned that," I said. "The rounds will be my responsibility for a while. If anything breaks, or if you see anything... unusual... let me know."

  "That’s very kind of you. What was your name again?"

  "Misaki," I said. "We share the name. Family tradition."

  "Well, Misaki-chan, it’s good to have you here."

  Walking away left a strange weight in my chest. It wasn't guilt-guilt was for people who hadn't seen what I’d seen. It was responsibility. This was my sector. These were my people. And now, a very different set of tools was required to protect them.

  The station was the next objective, but the air changed before I could reach the turnstiles.

  A subtle shift-a drop in temperature, a faint scent of ozone and rotting vegetation. The crowd in the shopping district didn't notice it yet. They were too busy with their phones and their shopping bags.

  But the prickle on my skin was unmistakable. The "flow" Kibi kept talking about started to hum in my marrow.

  "Misaki," Kibi’s voice was sharp, devoid of its usual playfulness. "Twelve o'clock. High-density manifestation."

  Looking up, the sky above the glass roof of the atrium was bruising. A tear in reality was opening, a jagged rift of purple and black. From it, three shapes began to descend-spindly, multi-limbed horrors that looked like they’d been stitched together from shadows and broken glass.

  The first scream echoed through the mall. Then the panic set in.

  Shopping bags hit the floor. My hands reached for the pistols that weren't there. My heart hammered against my ribs-not with fear, but with the cold, familiar rhythm of combat.

  "Kibi," I said, my voice low and steady. "The 'Emergency Protocol' from last night. How do I trigger it manually?"

  "Oh! You want to transform?" Kibi scrambled out of the bag, his fur standing on end. "You just have to say the Call! It’s the verbal anchor for the soul-bond!"

  "Fine," I growled, watching the first monster shatter a storefront window. "What’s the code? What do I have to say?"

  Kibi looked at me, his eyes glowing with violet light. "You have to say: 'By the light of the twin stars, I manifest the iron will! Misaki, reporting for duty!'"

  A frozen moment followed.

  "You have got to be fucking kidding me."