Tatsumi Kage
The low hum of keyboards and muted conversation filled the office. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Tatsumi Kage, senior accountant of Border, leaned over the shoulder of a younger employee at the adjacent desk.
"No, not quite," Tatsumi said, tapping the screen gently with the end of his pen. "If you input the amortization like that, you'll throw off the entire reconciliation. See this line here? It should carry over from the Q2 variance report, not start fresh."
The junior nodded, brow furrowed in concentration. "Ah, got it. I see the mistake now."
"It's a small thing, but they add up," Tatsumi said with a calm, practiced tone. "Double-check everything before you finalize the ledger. Accuracy over speed. Always."
He gave the junior a reassuring nod before returning to his desk, stretching his back with a quiet sigh. The numbers were no longer dancing in front of him, but mentoring left a different kind of fatigue—less draining, more grounding.
Stacks of paperwork lined the edge of the dark oak desk, neatly arranged in the kind of order only someone with years of habit could maintain. A digital clock on the far wall blinked 11:52 a.m., its soft red glow casting a faint hue across the otherwise pristine room.
Tatsumi Kage, tall and wiry, sat with a slight hunch over a data tablet, scrolling through reports with a stylus tapping absently against the side. His ashy blonde hair, trimmed short but still tousled in a way that refused to be completely tamed, caught a shaft of sunlight peeking through the blinds. The air conditioner hummed gently in the background, accompanied by the soft click of a pen cap being opened and closed—rhythmic, thoughtful.
His green eyes, sharp but tired, moved from document to document. Quarterly report. Budget plans. Upcoming expenses. All part of keeping Border functioning in a world that never quite stopped throwing punches.
A low sigh escaped him—not out of frustration, but habit. He stretched one long arm overhead, the sleeve of his button-down shirt riding up just enough to show a faint scar across his wrist, long faded with time.
On his desk sat a mug of lukewarm coffee he hadn't touched in an hour. Beside it, a small framed photo: Takumi, maybe six or seven, grinning with a missing front tooth and chocolate smeared on his cheek. Tatsumi glanced at it briefly, a fondness flickering behind his eyes. Then he set the tablet down and leaned back in his chair.
He closed his eyes for just a moment. It was the kind of pause a man takes not because he's tired, but because the world is too loud and too quiet all at once.
Then a beep. A soft chime came from his watch.
12:00 p.m.
"Lunch already," he murmured, the words barely above a whisper, spoken more to the room than to anyone else.
Tatsumi picked up a bag near his desk. It had his lunch waiting to be devoured. Something simple from last night's dinner—salmon, rice, and steamed vegetables. But before he could even open the container, he heard a familiar rhythmic knock.
"Kage, care to join me for lunch?" Karasawa asked, standing at the door holding his own lunch.
Tatsumi stood, stretching out his lanky frame, then reached for his blazer hanging on the back of his chair. Sliding it on with practiced ease, he glanced once more at the photo before heading toward the door.
"Yeah, sure. Where do you wanna go?"
Karasawa smirked at the question. "I have just the place."
Karasawa exhaled slowly, a stream of smoke curling from his nostrils like a dragon at rest.
"Today's a good day," he said, eyes drifting across the rooftop view like he owned the skyline.
I didn't look up from my food. The salmon and rice were decent, at least. "So, why bring me up here? I doubt you called me out just for a bite."
He gave me that smile—the one people call charming when they don't know better. "Can't I have lunch with one of my best employees?"
I shrugged. If he wanted to play coy, fine.
He walked over and sat beside me, reaching for his own tray. "But… you're right." He took a bite and chewed slowly. The silence stretched a little too long before he spoke again.
"It's about your son."
My chopsticks froze mid-air. Just like that, my appetite vanished.
"What do you mean?" My voice betrayed me—thin and tight. I hated that.
He didn't answer right away. Another drag from the cigarette. Another pause.
"I was talking to Mr. Rin from Recruitment—congrats to him, by the way, ten years with us—and something came up." Smoke spilled from his mouth like punctuation as he finished the thought.
He handed me a file. I took it, fingers tense, heart already racing before I even opened it.
Inside was a photo. My son.
And something else.
"Did you know your son wants to be a Border agent?"
I didn't answer right away. I was still flipping through the file—his file. My son's. He'd filled out nearly everything himself. The only thing missing was a guardian's signature.
How the hell did he even know his social?
"Yeah… we knew," I finally muttered. "But I didn't know he already filled out paperwork."
"Yeah. His name's already in our system."
Silence settled between us for a moment. The weight of it felt heavier than the sky.
I let out a long sigh—one of those soul-deep exhales that drag the exhaustion out of your bones. I reached for my glass and glanced up at the soft, baby-blue sky.
"To be honest, I don't know what to do with that boy." I shook my head. "He just… out of nowhere demanded to join Border. And of course, Shoko and I were against it. He's nearly died twice because of those things. What kind of parent would be okay with that?"
My voice cracked a little, my emotions leaking through. My hand curled into a fist at my side.
"One part of me wants to shut it all down—never let him near a trigger, let alone the front lines. But another part of me… I don't know. Part of me understands that this isn't just a phase. It's something he needs to do. Something he feels he has to do. And that terrifies me."
I stared down at my half-finished plate.
"Shoko's been talking about therapy. Maybe it would help. But deep down, I don't think it'd fix the root of the problem. Not entirely."
I exhaled again, this one softer. My fist relaxed.
"He's so damn determined to become an agent. The conviction in his voice… it's hard not to admire. If it were about anything else, I'd be proud. Hell, I'd be boasting about it."
A small chuckle slipped past my lips, though it didn't reach my eyes.
Karasawa hummed thoughtfully, taking another drag from his cigarette. The wind toyed with his hair.
"Let me give you some advice," he said, his tone heavier now. "From someone who's been in this business a long time."
Smoke trailed from his nostrils like a quiet warning.
"Kids who go through something traumatic—something involving Neighbors—they tend to go down one of two roads." He held up a finger. "One, they avoid everything to do with it. Can't even look at a Neighbor without freezing up. Doesn't matter if it's real or not—the fear locks them up."
Then he raised a second finger.
"Two, they take that fear, that helplessness… and they turn it into something else. It twists into anger. Then hate. They'll chase that hate all the way to the end, whether it's to wipe out every last Neighbor or to make sure they never feel that powerless again."
He tapped his cigarette, letting the ash drift away on the wind. His face was grim, like he'd seen too many of those paths play out already.
"I'm not gonna pretend I know your son better than you do," he continued. "But I've met a lot of Border agents. Most of them? They're just kids trying to make sense of this world. A world where invasions are normal. Where we've already been invaded—and where it's children we ask to fight the battles adults should be handling."
He stubbed out his cigarette, brushing ash from his pants as he stood up.
"Your son seems dead set on joining. And once he turns sixteen, he doesn't need your permission. That's the law." He looked down at me. "My advice? Don't lose your relationship with him over something you can't stop."
Karasawa gave his pants one last pat before turning away.
"I'm gonna head inside. Lock up the roof when you're done."
He started walking off.
"Hey, Karasawa…" I called after him. He paused.
"You're a good man."
He smirked at that, not looking back.
"You're an even better father, Tatsumi," he said before disappearing through the rooftop door.
I sat there for a while, finishing my food under the midday sun.
The weight on my shoulders felt a little lighter.
A small smile tugged at the corner of my lips.
"Takumi… how do you really feel?"