Leon didn't know how a key opened a war.
He had found it in his sock drawer again that morning, even though he was sure—absolutely sure—he'd left it buried beneath a week's worth of laundry. But there it was, resting neatly on top like it had risen through the layers on its own, the iron cold as ever. Ornate. Old. Waiting.
He turned it in his fingers, frowning at the thin symbols etched into the base. They looked foreign. Not just in language—foreign to time. The kind of marks that suggested the key didn't open something as simple as a door.
He had the coin. The badge. The keycard. Now this key.
His apartment was starting to look like an RPG inventory screen.
He didn't know what possessed him to take it out with him that day. Maybe it was boredom. Maybe it was pressure, humming just outside the edge of his understanding. Or maybe, somewhere deep down, some part of him was starting to wonder whether it would be easier to play along with the legend than fight it.
All he knew was that the key was in his pocket when he passed the warehouse district.
And that everything went to hell right after that.
It started with a firecracker.
A sharp pop from behind a chain-link fence. Leon turned, startled, half-expecting a kid or a prankster.
What he saw instead were two men in black standing just outside a rusted side gate, both wearing mirrored sunglasses despite the overcast sky. One of them was holding a walkie. The other had a crowbar.
The gate was half open.
Behind it, tucked between two shipping containers, was a steel door with a heavy padlock.
And above the lock—faint, almost faded—was a symbol.
Leon didn't recognize it. But the key in his pocket suddenly felt heavier.
He shouldn't have walked closer.
But he did.
The two men noticed him.
One stepped forward.
"Private lot," he said. "Move along."
Leon didn't move. He didn't even mean to. His feet just... stayed.
The man stiffened. He reached for something at his waist—maybe a baton, maybe worse—but Leon pulled the key from his pocket, almost without thinking, and held it up.
The man froze.
His partner whispered something in rapid Mandarin.
Then they stepped back. Slowly. Heads bowed.
Leon blinked. "Wait, what—?"
The gate creaked open the rest of the way.
No one stopped him.
So he walked in.
Inside, the air was thick with dust and heat. The warehouse walls were tall and narrow, stacked with crates marked only with numbers and single-letter codes. It smelled like oil and wood. Leon didn't recognize the layout, the cargo, or the floor plan.
But someone else did.
Because five minutes after he stepped in, someone screamed.
Outside.
Leon turned, confused—and then the first explosion hit.
Not a real explosion. A shock. A sound. A flash. Something slammed into the side of the building, sending crates toppling. Sirens. Voices yelling in multiple languages. Gunfire crackling from the street. Tires screeching.
Leon ducked behind a crate, heart pounding. His first instinct was to scream. His second was to throw the key as far as possible and pretend none of this was his fault.
But then he heard the panic.
"They said he was inside!"
"Which one?!"
"Leon Vale!"
The name echoed through the chaos like a detonator.
Leon's breath caught.
Someone fired again. Glass shattered. The warehouse lights flickered.
And then—without warning—everything stopped.
Silence.
No more shots.
No more yelling.
Just the heavy, terrified breathing of a dozen armed men who had just realized they were making the biggest mistake of their lives.
Leon stood up.
And found himself face to face with Mira.
She was already inside. Already moving.
She had a blade—not drawn, just resting in her hand like an accessory—and her expression was absolute calm.
Behind her: Gisele. Blood on her knuckles. Jacket torn. Her eyes burning.
Sayaka entered last. Unarmed. Smiling faintly.
Leon stared at all three.
"I... didn't do anything," he said.
Mira looked around. At the destroyed crates. At the men on the floor. At the hole in the wall.
"You walked in with the key," she said softly. "That's all it takes."
Leon opened his mouth.
"No one expected you to make a move this early," Sayaka added. "But it's fine. We'll clean it up."
"Clean what up?!" he snapped. "I was going for coffee!"
Gisele stepped forward and gently brushed a piece of plaster off his shoulder.
"You don't need to explain," she said. "We all saw it. They struck first. You let them."
"I didn't let—"
"You did," Mira interrupted. "By walking in. You made them panic. That's leverage."
Leon looked around at the burning warehouse, the silent bodies, the three beautiful, terrifying women now orbiting him like moons around a collapsing star.
And somewhere, far away, news began to spread.
That Leon Vale had made his first strike.
That a major operation had fallen overnight.
That the ghost-boss no one had ever seen had finally moved.
Leon took one step back and nearly tripped over a crate.
"I'm just... I'm just a guy," he whispered.
Sayaka's smile sharpened.
"Exactly," she said. "That's what makes it perfect."