The blast hit Tetsuo’s core. It didn’t hurt. Instead, he felt hungry . The energy from the rifle—ionized, high-yield—absorbed into his body like water into sand. His eyes flickered from brown to molten gold.
Tetsuo just wanted to know if his pressure washer had survived the blast.
Tetsuo Fujimori had spent fifteen years scrubbing kaiju guts off Tokyo’s rooftops. His pressure washer was his only partner, his hazmat suit his second skin. At 42, he was too old for the Defense Force, too slow for the front lines, but someone had to clean up after the real heroes.
The news cameras caught that moment. A kaiju— weeping .
