08:00 PM
Ren's Office / Penthouse Balcony
Rion was reviewing digital activity logs gathered by Gin. He narrowed his eyes, noticing several police patrol reports around the High-Rise district that had been abruptly withdrawn just as a Cosa Nostra logistics shipment passed through two days ago.
"Gin," Rion called out without looking away from the screen. "Who controls the patrol schedules in this sector? This data shows a gap that is far too clean to be a coincidence."
Gin remained silent for a moment, his eyes flickering toward the office door where Ren stood, sipping a glass of wine. "That's police bureaucracy, Rion. Ironport always has gaps if you have enough money."
Rion turned, looking at Ren as she leaned against the doorframe. "This isn't about money, Ren. It's about coordination. Someone at the top level is clearing the path. You said we don't have allies in the government, but this opening... this is high-level protection."
Ren walked in with steady steps, the click of her heels echoing softly against the marble floor. "You're far too suspicious of luck, Rion. Isn't that what we need? A negligent enemy?"
"In Osaka, negligence like this means there's a traitor or an under-the-table deal," Rion countered, his voice dropping. "If we're going to move against Seifong, I need to know who holds the reins of the law here. We can't dance in the middle of the street if we don't know when the music is going to stop."
Ren set her glass down on the table, right beside the digital map. "Focus on the Yakuza and Seifong. Let the 'blue uniforms' be my business. I have my own ways of making them look the other way."
Rion stared into Ren's eyes, searching for honesty. He felt she was hiding something—a very powerful asset. He didn't yet know about the encounter at *The Velvet Anchor*, or about Commissioner Sinclair, who now frequently checked his phone, waiting for a message from the woman standing before him.
"You're playing with fire if you try to control the police on your own, Ren," Rion said quietly.
"I'm not controlling them," Ren replied with a mysterious smile. "I'm just... giving them a reason to look elsewhere."
Suddenly, Ren's phone vibrated. She glanced at the screen for a split second—a brief message with no sender name—then immediately turned it off. Rion caught the slight change in her expression, a flash of alertness that only appeared when an outside variable entered the equation.
"I have to go out for a moment," Ren said, straightening her coat. "Gin, Shawn, stay here. Help Rion finish mapping the escape routes."
As Ren walked out, Rion watched her back until she disappeared behind the elevator doors. He turned to Gin. "Where does she go at this hour?"
Gin returned to his monitors, his expression as flat as a robot's. "Mami has many meetings that we don't need to know about, Rion. It's best you do the same."
Rion turned back to the map, but his mind was no longer on the geography. There was a missing puzzle piece in the architecture of power Ren was building. And Rion knew that if he didn't find that piece, his grand plan could crumble before it even began.
Below them, on the dark streets of Ironport, a black car sped toward a private restaurant on the outskirts of town, where Sinclair was already waiting with a mountain of questions only Ren could answer.