Russia

"You're telling me this is all connected?"

Isagi's voice was firm, yet doubt lingered in his tone. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, as Ryota shifted uncomfortably across from him. The office was dimly lit, the faint glow of Isagi's monitor illuminating the tired lines on both their faces.

Ryota nodded. "It's not just a guess anymore. The money trail, the students going missing, and now this…" He tapped the stack of papers between them. "People near the train station remember seeing someone that fits his description — tall, lean, dark hair — but no one can describe his face properly."

Isagi frowned. "Because of the blurred footage?"

"Exactly," Ryota said. "Even the people who saw him up close say they can't remember his face clearly. Like it's just… missing."

Isagi leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. "That's not normal."

"It gets worse." Ryota slid another sheet forward. "The same man was seen near the area where those students vanished. It's all lining up, Isagi. Whoever this guy is, he's tied to everything."

Isagi exhaled slowly. "I need this on record."

Hours later, Isagi sat in a cold, sterile conference room in front of the investigation board. The faces of senior agents and officials stared back at him with sharp eyes and skeptical expressions.

"So what are you saying, Detective Isagi?" one of the board members asked.

"I'm saying we have a suspect — someone moving between major incidents, blending in, covering his tracks." Isagi gestured to the projection screen where the blurry footage played on loop. "This person has been seen near every major event — the students' disappearance, the security breach, and the money transfer."

"And you don't have a face? No name?" another agent asked dryly.

"Not yet," Isagi admitted. "But I believe he's one of the key players. If we follow this lead, we can uncover who's behind all of it."

The room fell silent. The board members exchanged glances. Finally, the man seated at the center of the table spoke.

"Fine," he said, voice low but firm. "Pursue him. Whatever it takes."

Days later, Isagi stood at the airport, his passport in hand. He had been ordered back to America to assist in the case — to work directly with U.S. authorities as the investigation expanded. He stared out the terminal window, watching planes take off. The knot in his stomach told him things were about to get far worse.

"There's a prison in Russia..."

Sylvia's voice broke the quiet hum inside the chopper. Keitaro sat across from her, staring silently out the window as the frozen landscape blurred below. The interior rattled faintly from turbulence, but Keitaro's expression never changed.

"A prison?" Keitaro finally asked, his tone distant.

"Not just any prison," Sylvia said. "This place — people don't just get sent there for breaking the law. These are death row prisoners, political pawns, people they want forgotten."

Keitaro turned away from the window, his gaze sharp. "And why are you telling me this?"

Sylvia hesitated for a moment. "Because I know you're thinking about it."

Keitaro didn't reply. He tapped his fingers against his knee, eyes narrowing.

"If you're going there," Sylvia continued, "it won't be simple. Security's brutal, and if anything goes wrong, you're as good as dead."

"Then I won't make a mistake," Keitaro said flatly.

Sylvia's expression darkened. "Just don't think you can survive this on instinct alone."

Meanwhile, TikTok feeds exploded with excitement as influencers hyped the upcoming New Year's Eve party in Times Square. Videos filled social media — flashing lights, luxury cars pulling up to rooftop venues, and celebrities teasing surprise appearances.

"This is the party of the decade!" one influencer shouted, dancing in front of glowing billboards. "New York's about to go crazy!"

In another video, a group of influencers filmed themselves touring the VIP areas, boasting about the security checkpoints and flashing their exclusive passes.

For most, it was just another party.

For Keitaro, it was something else entirely.

In a private room deep inside the Kremlin, a tense meeting was unfolding. The Russian officials sat in silence as a grim-faced general paced at the front of the room.

"They're pointing fingers at us?" one man scoffed, slamming his fist on the table. "This is absurd! We didn't touch their systems, and they know it."

"They don't care," the general snapped back. "The Americans are looking for someone to blame. We're just the easiest target."

An older man leaned forward, adjusting his glasses. "We need to make it clear this wasn't us. Issue a formal statement — demand they retract their accusation."

"And what happens when they refuse?" another official asked.

Silence filled the room.

The general spoke again, his voice cold. "If they want war… we'll give it to them."

The next morning, the American President stood before a podium, cameras flashing wildly. His face was tense, his speech slow and deliberate.

"We have reason to believe that the recent attacks were orchestrated by Russian agents," he announced. "This was an act of aggression against our nation. If Russia wants conflict, we are prepared to respond."

The broadcast aired worldwide. Within hours, Russia had answered.

"If America accuses us of war," a grim Russian official stated on live television, "then let them declare it openly — and we will meet them with fire."