An anomaly in Kamen rider geats

The scared god [83]

Pov change

The flickering blue light from the screen cast a harsh sheen on Ace's taut features. His jaw clenched as he scrolled through the grisly footage, each clip of a Jyamato transformation twisting a knot of unease in his gut. They were evolving – rapidly, ominously – and the gnawing suspicion that some puppeteer lurked behind their twisted dance wouldn't let go.

He remembered, in flashes, a glimpse of an old man, eyes glinting with a feverish obsession, the architect of this gruesome ballet. But it was a fleeting impression, a wisp of smoke swallowed by the chaos.

"Ace-sama," Tsumuri's voice sliced through his contemplation, the tablet in her hand a silver rectangle reflecting the data-drenched room. "The attacks."

He looked up, brow furrowing. "What about them?"

"They've... stopped," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "Across Japan, the Jyamato attacks have... vanished."

Ace took the tablet, his fingers tracing the sudden dip in the graph, the void where screams and carnage should have echoed. Confusion warred with relief in his chest. Why a halt now, when they held the upper hand?

His eyes scanned the grainy images, then paused. A figure in the background, cloaked in black, a silhouette that tugged at forgotten corners of his memory. Something about the stance, the way the wind ruffled the fabric – a whisper of familiarity he couldn't grasp.

"What are they planning this time?" Ace muttered, his gaze glued to the phantom image. His gut thrummed, a low beat insisting he knew this man, even if his name remained shrouded in mist.

"Some of the infected..." Tsumuri began, her voice hesitant. "They're... being cured."

Ace's brow furrowed deeper. Déjà vu gnawed at him, a phantom taste of an encounter, a whispered conversation on the precipice of this very moment. His eyes met Tsumuri's, the question burning unasked.

"The timeframe," he finally rasped. "How fast did this unfold?"

Tsumuri consulted the tablet, her brow knit in concentration. "A day," she murmured. "Within one day, everything... changed."

A gear clicked in Ace's mind, the fog lifting with a suddenness that made him stagger. A smile, slow and deliberate, crept across his face. An old friend, he thought, the name a warm ember on his tongue.

He rose, a newfound purpose straightening his shoulders. "Tsumuri," he said, his voice laced with steel, "I need to meet an old friend."

As his footsteps echoed through the room, leaving Tsumuri in a bewildered silence, the question hovered in the air: who was this friend, and what secrets did their reunion hold?

Who exactly was this old friend that Ace spoke off...who exactly was he meeting.

Pov change.

The stark sterility of the laboratory was a punch to the senses. Razor-sharp metallic smells hung heavy in the air, punctuated by the rhythmic hum of life support machinery. In the center, a monstrous contraption glinted under harsh fluorescent lights, its chrome tentacles reaching out to cradle a broken figure within.

His face, a map of suffering etched in pale flesh and livid scars, was barely visible beneath the spiderweb of wires and the mask forcing reluctant breaths into his shattered lungs. Each desperate rise and fall of his chest was a defiant counterpoint to the monotonous machine keeping him on the precipice of existence.

Emerald vials, like morbid trophies, lined the shelves, pulsing with an unsettling internal light. The green liquid within them thrummed like a captive heartbeat, its purpose as obscure as the menacing shadows lurking in the corners of the room. A prickling chill settled on the man skin, drawing a fog of condensation onto the observation window as his gaze locked on the man – and the secrets trapped within his ravaged body.