The garage door opened directly into the living room.
The moment I stepped inside, the scent of metal and oil vanished, replaced by the sweet, tickling aroma of citrus and wood.
The place was even more spacious than I’d imagined.
The ceiling was vaulted, an atrium that reached high enough to offer a clear view of the second floor. A bar counter stood against one wall, its back shelves lined with a vast array of liquor bottles. Amber, crystal-clear, crimson—the light caught each one, making them sparkle like shards of stained glass.
Several houseplants sat by the window. Amidst the otherwise inorganic construction, they alone radiated the soft colors of life.
A large leather sofa and a low table occupied the center of the room. A silver platter on the table was piled high with fruit—glossy grapes, golden oranges, and apples with taut, perfect skin.
...And, rolling on a side plate, were two discarded apple cores.
Left there half-eaten, they lent the room a strange, grounding sense of everyday life.
I wonder how much a single plate of that costs.
Judging by their appearance, these weren't artificially cultured. They were natural produce—luxury goods that weren't easily obtained even in the Upper District. I found myself instinctively calculating the price tag.
Yet, mixed into this domestic scene were jagged anomalies.
An anti-vehicle rifle was mounted on one section of the wall, and a single large-caliber handgun rested under the counter. Furthermore, I noticed unnatural protrusions on several wall surfaces. They were likely flip-out weapon racks.
Just what kind of guests did she expect to welcome? Then again, it was very much like her.
While I surveyed the room, Roselia headed toward the kitchen, her metallic footsteps ringing lightly against the floor.
"Want a drink? I’ll save the alcohol for another time... is fresh juice okay?"
She grabbed two oranges in one hand and held them up. In her grip, the fruit looked no larger than ping-pong balls.
When I gave a small nod, she tossed the oranges into a blender with a satisfied look and flipped the switch. The machine whirred to life. Seen through the glass, she almost looked like an ordinary housewife.
I caught a glimpse inside her storage box, where rows of unfamiliar fruits were lined up. A colorful array of natural goods—apparently, she was quite the connoisseur.
"An unexpected hobby," I remarked.
"Shut it. After the battlefield, the dining table is the best place to be," she said with a laugh.
I couldn't tell if she was being serious, but she spoke with a strange amount of conviction.
I sat down on the sofa. It was unusually large, perhaps doubling as a sofa bed, and I sank into its comfortable cushions. Sunlight streaming through the front window illuminated the room with a soft glow. The transparent light filtered through the leaves of the houseplants, casting swaying shadows against the wall.
The peaceful sight made the moment feel almost surreal. I could hardly believe this was the home of the "woman from the Tactical Control Division."
I reached for the cluster of grapes on the table and plucked one. A jewel-like luster remained on my fingertips. It was seedless. When I popped it into my mouth, the juice burst forth with a pleasant snap. A tiny hint of bitterness balanced the sweetness—an exquisite flavor that made me let out an involuntary breath.
"...This is delicious."
The sound of metallic footsteps approached from behind. Roselia returned, carrying two glasses on a tray.
"Right? I get them directly from a farm I found the last time I went to The Outside." She grinned and set a glass in front of me with a soft clink. "They rarely circulate in the Upper District. Nowadays, just one of these would cost as much as a decent lunch."
"A rich person's pastime, then?"
"No, it's my hobby."
She shrugged and picked up the other glass. Inside, the golden liquid reflected the light as it swayed—freshly squeezed orange juice. A natural, vibrant aroma wafted from it.
Roselia raised her glass. "Here, drink up."
I lifted mine in return. The juice was smooth and refreshing. It had a different kind of sweetness than the grapes—restrained, yet deep. The acidity lingering on my tongue was pleasant, and before I knew it, I’d finished nearly half the glass.
"...Not bad."
"Don't give me 'not bad.' Say 'it's the best.'"
She wore a triumphant look. Damn, I couldn't even argue.
"It would certainly make an excellent cocktail."
"Right? O-Oh, I know! You should come by at night sometime. How about some sangria?"
Her eyes darted around as she spoke with sudden, nervous energy. It was a cramped, embarrassed smile, worlds away from the crazed grin she displayed on the battlefield.
Good grief. Looking at her like this, she really is just a normal woman.
Suppressing a wry smile, I steered the conversation back on track.
"Well, I'll consider it. But which should we start with? My story, or yours?" I asked, tilting my glass. The golden juice shimmered under the lights. I took a large gulp, letting the citrus scent fill my mouth.
Roselia, who had been fidgeting just a moment ago, instantly regained her professional composure. She tapped her chin, thought for a second, and then smiled.
"Let's start with mine. It’s better to save the 'fun' for later."
Her sharp gaze drifted toward the black case beside me—the bio-box containing that "head." For a fleeting second, her mechanical eyes reflected the light.
"Hmph. Then let's hear it," I said, shrugging to prompt her.
Roselia sank back into the sofa and swirled her juice, resting one elbow on the backrest. Even a simple gesture like that was executed with the wasted-free precision of a soldier. While watching the liquid form a small vortex in the glass, she began.
"The guys who attacked you yesterday—I've figured out who they are."
"...Didn't I tell you I wasn't involved?"
"I'm letting you say that, so just shut up and listen."
Though her words were laced with sarcasm, her eyes remained serious. She continued flatly, as if reciting a formal report.
"To get straight to the point: they were a Vira Corp private soldier unit. Not the elite inner circle, but externally contracted mercenaries. Their IDs were wiped, but some of their gear still had Vira-made experimental tags. Cross-referencing was easy. Apparently, they never expected to be wiped out by a single man, so the idiots didn't have time to remove their 'covers.'"
Her tone was light, but the content was grim. I flicked the bottom of my glass and let out a short breath.
"Hmph. Vira Corp, huh..." I feigned ignorance. "And why would they target someone like me? There's no profit in mugging a repairman."
When I spoke in a deliberately relaxed voice, Roselia scoffed.
"Don't underestimate me. This is still a police organization. Information comes in, one way or another." She crossed her metallic arms and arched an eyebrow. I found myself shrugging at the intensity of her stare.
"—That said, the info reaching this level is only a small fraction. It’s being intentionally blocked somewhere."
She traced the rim of her glass with a metallic thumb. A small clink sounded. The noise carried more irritation than her words did.
"Organizations are all like that," I said. "The top squeezes the information; the bottom bleeds on the front lines. Well, I work alone, so my mind is at ease."
I meant it as a joke, but Roselia only let out a heavy sigh.
"The problem is that those guys are connected to our 'Inside'."
The air in the room seemed to drop a few degrees.
"...It's not exactly rare for the police and a corporation to team up, is it? What’s the issue?"
"The ones they're connected to are the Inspection and Information Division—The Ninth."
My eyebrow twitched. The Ninth. Also known as the Nest of Psychopaths.
Surveillance, information manipulation, interrogation, espionage, and—erasure. They were the "dark side" of the organization, operating with legal impunity.
"I see. That's a headache."
"Lately, their movements have been suspicious. They're clearly up to something inhumane, but they haven't left a trail. Internal Investigation is watching them, but it’ll take time to get results. Who knows how many people will disappear before then? And—that's where you come in."
Roselia pointed a finger at me with exaggerated flair.
"...I have a very bad feeling about this."
"A repairman gets attacked by Vira Corp. In other words, he blows them away. After that, we intervene for 'suppression.' While we're at it, we dig up evidence on The Ninth. —And that's victory."
She set down her glass and puffed out her chest. Her face was entirely serious, yet the plan was absurd.
"...Are you an idiot?"
"Huh? It's a perfect operation."
"No, it isn't. In what world is 'I'm just the bait' a perfect operation?"
"Hey now, you're a 'Repairman,' aren't you? Your job is to fix broken things. This time, I'm just having you fix the system itself." She stood tall, radiating pride.
No, this woman really is a total meathead.
I pressed a palm to my forehead and sighed. "Don't you ever think about using your head for something other than a battering ram?"
"I do. This is the 'optimal solution' my brain calculated."
Saying that, Roselia cackled. The metallic laughter echoed like the creaking of heavy armor.
...Good grief.
Still, it wasn't the worst idea. At the very least, I had already planned on paying Vira Corp back for their "hospitality."
I broke into a slow, sharp grin.