Morning in Tokyo tasted like clean metal and citrus. Suncrest HQ ran quieter after a good day; the ops floor hummed with tidy graphs and the liminal clatter of keyboards. Anastasia Shimizu stretched in the training bay, rolling her neck until it clicked like a polite metronome. Kana was doing handstand pushups against a wall while complaining about gravity’s poor customer service. Raina had her rifle disassembled on a charm-cloth, a prismatic naga eye set aside like a jewel she wasn’t quite ready to spend. Miyu stood by a practice dummy, tracing careful circles of antiseptic light, rehearsing whole-body mend sequences the way a pianist runs scales.
Ootori clapped once. “Quick notes. Coalition commendations posted. City Hall sent the fruit basket. Do not eat the mystery durian.”
Kana, upside-down: “What if it eats me first?”
“Let it,” Raina murmured, slotting a spring. “We’ll bill it.”
Anastasia smiled and fastened the Aegis to her forearm, feeling the familiar weight find home. The Aegis thrummed low—a cat purr only she could hear.
Her HUD chimed, a soft bell:
“New trick?” Miyu asked, noticing her blink.
“Just a little Public Assurance,” Anastasia said, amused. “Apparently, bureaucracy likes it when we speak softly.”
Kana thumped back to floor. “Do you get paid extra for being soothing? Because I can try my customer service voice.”
Raina, dry: “Your customer service voice owes back taxes.”
Ootori’s wristband buzzed. A second later, everyone’s did. The ops screens pivoted to an emergency slate.
IGA PRIORITY: PROTECTED ZONE GATE — SETAGAYA (KINUTA GENERAL HOSPITAL).
CLASS: Bronze swarm initial → Silver/Gold probability rising. TYPE: INVERSION (internal dungeon).
NOTE: Gate anchored inside hospital atrium. Bystanders include patients, staff. Civic escalator Tier V if damage < threshold.
Orders: Suncrest primary, Dragonspear support en route, East-Ward staging outside. Cloud Ladder unavailable (Yokohama).
Ootori didn’t raise her voice. “We’ll be kind inside a hospital,” she said. “And fast. Load med-friendly gear. No explosives. No shock grenades. Kana, you’ll want the foam gauntlets. Raina, subsonic rounds for close quarters. Miyu, you’ll triage as we move. Nana—anchor as usual. But remember, walls echo differently in a place like that.”
“Yes,” Anastasia said, already stepping into motion. “We’ll make a hallway and call it safe.”
Kana whooped, securing soft-padded gauntlets that looked like cartoon hands but hid smart foam that stiffened on impact. “Hospital money is the good kind—righteous yen!”
Raina slid a suppressor on and checked her sling. “Righteous yen still gets taxed,” she said. “Let’s earn and file.”
Miyu tucked extra field kits into her pack and, as they jogged for the van, tugged at Anastasia’s sleeve. “You said chiffon again after training.”
“We’ll earn it twice,” Anastasia said, and there was a promise in how she shouldered her shield that made Miyu’s pulse settle.
Kinuta General Hospital had that smell everyone knows: antiseptic, rubber, coffee trying its best. The atrium ceiling soared with skylights and little potted trees that made illness feel like it might tolerate sunlight. Patients in gowns stared, nurses shepherded, a doctor barked orders that had nothing to do with monsters and everything to do with keeping a ward together.
The Gate hung under the skylight like a folded iris—petals of glassy air bending inward. The warning boards had updated: INVERSION GATE: ENTRY REQUIRED. EXIT ON BOSS CLAIM.
Officer Takada stood at the sliding doors, looking relieved and out of place. “They keep putting me on your shifts,” he said, trying to grin.
“And you keep doing great work,” Anastasia said. “Hello, Doctor…?”
“Fujimoto,” said a compact woman in a lab coat with tired eyes and perfect posture. “Chief of Emergency. The thing is singing, and I don’t mean metaphorically. People are weepy.”
“Auditory compulsion,” Miyu said, already weaving a small ward near the admissions desk. “We’ll counter with dampeners.”
“Gate type?” Raina asked, peering up.
“Inversion,” Ootori’s voice came over comms from the sidewalk post. “Environment inside is typically… themed. This hospital gives it an anchor to pull at. Expect ‘caretaker’ motifs and corridor mechanics. Keep collateral down.”
Kana flexed the foam. “If a boss throws a bed at me, I’m keeping it.”
“Beds are expensive,” Dr. Fujimoto said reflexively. “Please don’t.”
“Understood,” Anastasia said. She stepped into the atrium and lifted her voice on open channel. “Kinuta staff, patients, and visitors—thank you for staying calm. We’ll be in and out as quickly as we can. The gate will attempt to echo your worries. That’s its trick. Ours is better.”
You could feel the room ease—Public Assurance layering under the hospital’s hum, bending fear away from panic.
She checked her slate:
“Wardwalk?” Kana said, peeking. “Oh that’s tasteful.”
“Hospital-specific boon,” Miyu said. “Gate likes theme; so do helpers.”
Anastasia faced the Inversion’s petals. “We go in, we respect the space, we keep it small.” She nodded to Takada and Dr. Fujimoto. “We’ll bring your atrium back in one piece.”
“Bring yourselves back,” Dr. Fujimoto said. “Atriums can be rebuilt.”
Anastasia bowed. “We will.”
They stepped through.
Inversion space is the eerie comfort of a place you know, crooked. Suncrest emerged into a corridor that almost was a hospital: floors too shiny, light too soft, signs in a font that looked like the memory of a font. The ceiling hissed with a faint wind like breath in a mask. Doors lined either side; each had a window glazed with fog that cleared when you looked away.
Kana cracked her neck. “Hate it.”
Raina adjusted her sling and kept her muzzle down. “Left is a loop. Right is the boss lane. The place wants us to walk story beats.”
Miyu closed her eyes. “There’s a pull toward… kindness. Like the world is asking for a gentle answer.”
“Then we answer gently,” Anastasia said, setting the Aegis. “Sanctuary up.”
The dome unfolded in warm gold. The corridor stopped trying to breathe at them and settled for being a corridor.
A bronze Caretaker Wisp drifted out of the first door, wearing the suggestion of a cardigan and a pocketful of sadness. It reached for Kana, hands like mist.
“Pardon me,” Kana said, and palmed it into the wall so softly she might as well have tucked it into bed. It dissolved like dust in sunlight.
“Subjugation payout?” Kana chirped, habit.
Raina scanned the floating tooltip. “¥6,500 here. Hospital rates are lower for trash; bonuses are in completion and collateral.”
“Roger,” Kana said, slightly put out. “We’re doing it for the hugs.”
“Some of us always were,” Anastasia said.
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