Chapter 3:

The leather executive chair rotated in a slow, hypnotic circle, its faint mechanical hum the only sound cutting through the quiet of the office.

To anyone else, the sight of the Special Operations Division’s most terrifying asset spinning aimlessly in her chair would have been deeply disorienting. Her expression remained as flat and unreadable as it had been when she split the sky above the industrial district three days ago. Yet, the sharp, suffocating aura that usually hung over her like a shroud had entirely evaporated, replaced by the profound, heavy lethargy of someone who had ran completely out of things to do.

With a soft, unceremonious thud, Miyabi let her forehead drop straight onto the polished mahogany desk.

It had been three days since the Hero Killer, Stain, had been dragged into a maximum-security holding cell. By all rights, the paperwork alone should have kept her busy, but the bureaucratic machinery of the police department had practically intercepted the case files the moment her unit touched down. Somehow—despite the strict informational lockdown typical of Special Operations—whispers had leaked to the press. The public didn't know the exact details of the Tailless strike, but they knew a shadowy government division had neutralized the country's most feared serial killer in less than ten minutes.

The ripple effect was immediate, predictable, and, for Miyabi, deeply annoying.

The criminal underworld had collectively panicked. For seventy-two hours, petty thugs, underground syndicates, and rogue quirk-users had vanished from the streets, retreating into the deepest holes they could dig to avoid catching the attention of the "Fox Demon" of the police force.

With the streets suddenly sterile, Miyabi’s schedule had emptied completely. She had spent the last three days consuming imported melons, staring at the ceiling, and waiting for the higher-ups to hand down a fresh directive. When a mind accustomed to high-stakes tactical warfare is reduced to counting the grain lines on a mahogany desk, the passage of time becomes an existential threat.

A rhythmic knock at the heavy double doors shattered her internal monologue.

From the hallway, a muffled but familiar voice filtered through the wood. "Chief? I have some news to share regarding the latest city status reports."

Miyabi didn't move immediately. She let out a slow, barely audible sigh, peeling her forehead off the wood with deliberate slowness. In a practiced motion that took less than a second, she smoothed her uniform, adjusted her posture, and allowed that cold, untouchable commanding officer persona to settle back over her features like a mask.

"Enter," she replied, her voice slipping effortlessly into its usual lazy, low register.

The heavy door clicked open, and a young woman with a sharp uniform and neatly kept pink hair stepped into the room, a thick manila folder clasped firmly against her chest.

"Excuse the intrusion, Chief," Akane said, closing the door behind her with a precise, military snap before marching toward the desk. Her steps were confident, but as she drew closer, her gaze flickered upward, lingering for a fraction of a second too long on the top of Miyabi’s head.

Miyabi caught the look. She always did.

"What is it, Akane?" Miyabi asked, leaning her chin on her hand.

"Ah—my apologies, Chief. I lost my train of thought for a moment," Akane offered an apologetic smile, quickly looking back down at her papers.

Miyabi didn't call her out on it. If she hadn't known Akane for years, she might have assumed the woman was simply distracted by the case details. The reality was much simpler: Akane was staring at her ears.

It was an occupational hazard of her existence in this world. In the universe where Miyabi originally came from, she was a Fox Thiren—a distinct humanoid race with animal traits. But in this world of superhuman societies, the concept of a "Thiren" didn't exist. To the average citizen, the police force, and the hero agencies, Miyabi was simply a human born with a highly pronounced Mutant-type Quirk that altered her physiology.

It was a convenient misunderstanding, one she never bothered to correct. It saved her from explaining why she had those plush, twitching fox ears while completely lacking a tail.

Did the original Miyabi even have a tail? she mused silently, her mind wandering down a brief, nostalgic rabbit hole. It had been five years since she had transmigrated into this world, and memories of Zenless Zone Zero and the company that made it were starting to feel like a distant, half-forgotten dream. There was no HoYoverse here. No gaming consoles carrying the titles of her past life.

Oh, Da Wei... where in the world did you disappear to? she thought with a trace of dry humor. You left me in a world full of spandex-wearing heroes without a single patch update.

"Chief?"

Akane’s voice pulled her back to the present. Miyabi blinked, her crimson eyes focusing back on her subordinate, who was now sliding the manila folder across the desk.

"Is this the news you mentioned?" Miyabi asked, flipping the cover open with a single finger. Her eyes scanned the dense columns of statistical data, charts, and public safety percentages.

"Yes, Chief. Due to the total stagnation of criminal activity over the past three days, the metropolitan safety index has reached an all-time high for this quarter," Akane explained, her tone shifting into a formal, professional report. "The localized syndicates are refusing to move contraband, and even the low-level street violence has dropped by nearly eighty-five percent. The city is... remarkably quiet."

Miyabi tilted her head slightly, her ears twitching in mild confusion as she turned another page. "A natural containment pattern. Once they realize we aren't conducting a city-wide purge, the numbers will normalize."

"Perhaps, but the leadership isn't looking at it as a temporary lull," Akane continued, a subtle hint of amusement entering her voice. "The Police Commissioner and the Mayor’s office have spent the morning reviewing the data. They've decided to authorize a formal public commendation and a city-wide celebration in your honor. They are crediting the Special Operations Division—specifically you, Chief—with the complete suppression of the regional crime spike."

Miyabi’s finger froze on the edge of the paper.

Slowly, she lifted her left hand and pointed a single finger at her own chest. Her expression remained entirely blank, but internally, the gears of her mind had ground to a screeching halt.

A celebration? For me?

She ran through the events of the past three days in her head. She had flown out in a helicopter, ignored a madman's speech, cut a building in half because he threatened her budget, eaten several very expensive melons, and then spent seventy-two hours spinning in an office chair until her neck ached.

She hadn't conducted an investigation. She hadn't designed a grand strategic deterrent. She had simply wanted her lunch and a quiet evening.

"Did I..." Miyabi paused, her voice carrying a rare, faint trace of hesitation, "...actually do anything to earn that?"

"According to the public relations department? You saved the soul of the city, Chief," Akane replied, her smile widening just a fraction. "Should I tell the Commissioner you accept the invitation?"

The silence of the room stretched out for several seconds as Miyabi stared blankly at the folder, the sheer absurdity of the bureaucracy washing over her.

She had spent five years in this world, and if there was one thing she had learned about the current hero-centric society, it was that appearance and public perception were everything. The government desperately needed a win to offset the panic Stain had caused, and apparently, a stoic, monster-class Special Operations chief was the perfect poster child for "law and order."

With a slow, rhythmic tilt of her head, she decided there was no real point in fighting it. A celebration meant formal banquets, and formal banquets meant high-grade catering. If she was lucky, the Mayor’s office might even source those premium, greenhouse-grown melons from the northern prefectures.

"Accept it," Miyabi said, giving a single, decisive nod.

"Understood, Chief," Akane replied, her smile brightgening instantly.

However, as Miyabi looked up, her crimson eyes caught a strange, tiny detail. Right at the very corner of Akane’s mouth, a faint, glistening trace of moisture had appeared.

Miyabi’s brow twitched imperceptibly. Is she... drooling?

A brief flash of concern crossed her mind. Had the administrative workload for the Special Operations Division increased so drastically over the last seventy-two hours that her subordinates weren't even getting proper meal breaks? It was a serious tactical oversight if her personal secretary was suffering from acute nutritional deprivation right in front of her desk.

"You can dismiss now," Miyabi stated, keeping her tone flat and authoritative. "Go take care of your personal business."

"Understood, Chief. I will take my leave now," Akane said, bowing precisely.

Yet, even as she bent forward and straightened back up, her eyes never truly left the top of Miyabi’s head. Her gaze was practically glued to the thick, midnight-black fur of Miyabi’s fox ears, tracking the subtle, rhythmic movements they made whenever the ambient office noise shifted.

Only when she finally backed out of the room did the heavy automatic doors slide shut, cutting off her intense scrutiny.

Once the room was completely empty, Miyabi slowly raised her left hand, her slender fingers reaching up to gently touch the soft, sensitive fur of her long fox ear. As her fingers brushed against the tip, the ear instinctively twitched in response, flattening slightly against her dark hair.

She frowned in genuine confusion.

In a world where twenty percent of the global population possessed radical physical transformations—where people walked around with literal camera heads, reptilian scales, or bodies made entirely of sentient concrete—a pair of animal ears should have been the most mundane thing on the street. Mutant-type Quirks were a daily reality.

Why does she keep staring at them like that? Miyabi pondered, her hand dropping back to her lap.

She had analyzed Akane’s micro-expressions thoroughly over the past few years. There was never a trace of malice, prejudice, or disgust in those pink eyes. It was an entirely different kind of intensity—something deeply focused, almost... ravenous.

Miyabi shook her head faintly, letting the thought drift away into the quiet of her office. Humans in this world were simply odd, full of strange fixations and unpredictable impulses. But as long as Akane continued to execute her operational duties with flawless precision, Miyabi was perfectly content to let the woman stare at whatever she pleased.

With the paperwork finalized and the celebration accepted, Miyabi leaned back into the plush leather of her chair, giving it one more experimental, childish spin.

(A/n:anything for melon)