The Returned Calm

The opulent office was a wreck. A crystal paperweight lay shattered against the far wall, a cascade of pens and documents littered the plush carpet, and a half-empty coffee cup seeped a dark stain into an expensive mahogany desk. Failure wasn't just an option; it was a looming, unacceptable specter over a stunt that had been meticulously planned, its execution as precise as it was risky. Even if it were to collapse entirely, Hiroshi Miyazaki, the formidable head of the Miyazaki family and the CEO of Miyazaki Holdings, had ensured no direct evidence would ever link back to him.

Yet, a different kind of fury simmered in his gut, a rage entirely directed at his idiotic son. "How stupid can he be!?" Hiroshi roared, his voice hoarse, fists clenched. That sorry excuse for a son, Kenzo, was at the scene of the crime? It was an amateurish blunder that threatened to unravel everything. Now, the crucial leverage he desperately wanted was gone. And worse, far worse, those vultures in his own bloodline, were undoubtedly drooling at this opportunity, poised to exploit this.

His bespectacled female secretary watched from the doorway, her face impassive amidst the chaos. Slowly, with a visible effort of will, Hiroshi forced himself to breathe, to regain control. He smoothed down his rumpled suit and adjusted his silk tie.

His eyes, cold and sharp, met hers. "Deny all involvement of Miyazaki Holdings in this incident. Deny any knowledge of its planning. Furthermore, Kenzo Miyazaki is to be declared a rogue actor. His actions do not, and will never, represent Miyazaki Holdings or the Miyazaki family. He is disowed."

The secretary face remained blank, but a subtle tension in her jaw betrayed her understanding. "Right on it, sir." She turned on her heel, her footsteps brisk and efficient, leaving Hiroshi Miyazaki alone in his ruined office, consumed by a rage that burned with familial disgust.

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A week had passed since the terrifying incident at Sakura Academy. The vibrant Culture Festival, meant to be a celebration of school life, had instead been canceled, leaving behind an uncomfortable pall over the campus. Now, a semblance of peace had returned, but it was an uneasy quiet, underlined by the newly conspicuous presence of additional security personnel patrolling the grounds. The event had exploded into national news, and the students, including Ren, were constantly hounded by the media, eager for their personal slice of the dramatic story.

Most of the armed gunmen had been apprehended attempting to flee Japan, their escape routes compromised. The Sakura Group publicly accused Miyazaki Holdings of orchestrating the entire incident, but no direct, irrefutable evidence could definitively connect the conglomerate to the hostage crisis. Even the arrested gunmen themselves, when interrogated, confessed they had been aided by an unknown, shadowy party, revealing no knowledge of Miyazaki's direct involvement.

Well, all except for one. Kenzo Miyazaki, or simply 'Kenzo' now, as the Miyazaki family had publicly disowned him. Yet, in a bewildering twist, Miyazaki Holdings simultaneously denied all involvement in the incident and defended Kenzo. Their official statement claimed he had bravely attempted to rescue his ex-fiancée, Akari Sato, from the 'terrible incident,' only to be knocked unconscious during a heroic struggle against the kidnappers. His subsequent 'unruly behavior,' they asserted, was merely the result of his anger and distress after his assistance was rejected by his 'hateful ex-fiancée.' The entire narrative was a contradictory, a confusing mess, reported widely across all news channels.

But Ren, unlike the general public, knew the true story. Akari Sato herself had recounted it to him, her voice still shaky but firm, describing the kidnapping, sudden darkness, the inexplicable unconsciousness of her captors, and her miraculously loosened bonds. She had stated, unequivocally, that someone or something had rescued her, but she didn't know who or what it was.

Ren pondered the strangeness of Akari's account. It was too bizarre. Nevertheless, he breathed a profound sigh of relief for Akari's safety and the fact that everything, superficially at least, seemed back to normal. His thoughts drifted to Kaito and Maria, and he couldn't help but wonder, for a fleeting moment, if they could have been involved. But he quickly waved the thought away, dismissing it from his mind. He had personally witnessed them at the headcount event conducted by the police when the ransom was supposedly exchanged, and all the students were finally released. They had been right there, among the other relieved faces. Besides, although they were probably some kinds of elite bodyguard, doing such a thing would be impossible. 'Perhaps', he mused, a small, genuine smile touching his lips, his prayer was finally answered by God after all.

_______________________________________________________________

A small, gray pigeon sat cooing softly within its cage, its head tilted, watching the man pacing before it. "Birds are not real," a voice muttered, almost like a mantra. "They are drones created by the US government." The words were repeated, a continuous, low murmur in the otherwise quiet hotel room. The pigeon, oblivious, simply cooed again, ruffling its feathers as a pigeon does.

Dante sighed, a long, exasperated sound. "This is harder than anything I have ever done before," he mumbled to himself. He could manifest magic, could bend reality and conjure supernatural abilities through the sheer force of his firm belief, solidifying his will into concrete power. Yet now, he was having an incredibly hard time doing the same for a simple conspiracy theory. Dante prided himself on his malleable mind, its ability to adapt and reshape its understanding of the world. But it seemed, a certain fundamental part of him, a stubborn core, simply couldn't genuinely change a deeply ingrained foundational belief.

Cutting off the magical flow that sustained his illusion, the pigeon in the cage abruptly turned still, its lifelike movements ceasing, before it toppled over with a soft thud. He had used magic to craft a perfectly convincing mechanical imitation of a pigeon, complete with programmed coos and head tilts. But to truly believe it was a pigeon, to internalize that conspiracy theory to the point of manifesting a real mechanical pigeon through sheer belief, that was proving to be an arduous effort.

Dante thought over his current situation. He had returned to the United States for a few months now, diligently attempting to craft another significant incident to move his elaborate plan along. His strategy was to tap into the vastly held public distrust of the government, to exploit the rampant conspiracy theories already swirling through society. Yet, despite his best efforts, nothing truly clicked within his mind, no belief solidified enough to create the widespread phenomenon he desired. At this point, Dante was almost ready to abandon his meticulous approach, to simply throw something out there and get the ball rolling, damn the elegance. But his immense pride and his ingrained patience, stopped him.

He had already successfully created the necessary background regarding the CIA and their supposed mind control and various psychic experiments, all embodied in the persona of Maria. But he needed another distinct faction within the United States to truly create a compelling scene, a multi-layered conflict that would draw in and expose new players. He mused over some names: the enigmatic Freemasons, the shadowy Illuminati, perhaps a localized, eccentric cult, or even some obscure folklore manifesting as a cryptid.

His thoughts, however, were abruptly interrupted by a cacophony of noise filtering up from the streets outside the luxurious New York hotel he was staying at. The distant blare of car horns, and the rising murmur of a crowd. It was a protest regarding the President's recent harsh policies against illegal alien, a common occurrence in New York.

Then, a single word escaped Dante's lips, a quiet, almost revelatory murmur: "Alien."