A sharp coldness greeted my skin-no warmth, no softness, only the indifferent air pressing against my fragile body. My first sight was not of a mother's embrace nor the sterile brightness of a hospital, but of a dimly lit underground room. The walls, forged from dark gray stone, bore a metallic plating, interwoven with lined storage compartments. The absence of windows indicated an underground facility. The lighting was peculiar-bluish flames flickered from torches, casting elongated, sharp shadows that made everything appear colder, devoid of life. The scent of antiseptic filled the air, clinical and exacting.

Beneath me, I could feel a surface-neutral, unremarkable cloth against my skin, neither comforting nor deliberately uncomfortable. I analyzed the structure before me: a reinforced medical table, slightly inclined, likely to assist the birthing process. The padding was minimal, a clear indication that comfort was not a priority. To the side, scalpels and surgical tools rested within a strange container, prepared for intervention if necessary. A clinical setup-no ceremony, no sentiment. Efficiency was the only concern.

Around me, figures moved-silent, masked. The medics bore featureless white masks, their eyes obscured. Their presence was cold, mechanical, devoid of human empathy. Their black attire was adorned with faint, barely noticeable sigils embroidered into their cloaks. Their movements were calculated, efficient, more precise than the White Room instructors. No, these men surpassed them. They reminded me of White Room students acting as instructors-prodigies trained to be machines, devoid of unnecessary emotions, responding only to logic and command.

At the door, two guards stood motionless, statues of vigilance clad in dark gray armor. Their faces were hidden beneath deep hoods and masks. They weren't merely observers; they were enforcers, prepared to eliminate any unauthorized presence with absolute certainty.

Then, my gaze shifted. Among these faceless individuals, one man stood apart. He approached with deliberate steps, an air of command surrounding him. No mask concealed his face. His dark kimono was simple yet rigid, mirroring the discipline he carried in his posture. He exuded control, but more than that-authority.

Then, our eyes met.

In that instant, I understood what Shibai had meant.

"A man similar to your original father."

The familiarity was unsettling. That cold stare, void of affection, weighed on me. No excitement, no acknowledgment of my existence beyond necessity. I checked off the personality trait in my mind-so far, he fit the pattern perfectly. But unlike my original father, this man lacked the sheer oppressive darkness of his gaze. He wasn't a scientist molding a project-he was something else. A tactician? A general? A ruler?

Regardless, he had already judged me.

One second had passed since I began analyzing my surroundings. Yet, throughout that brief moment, the man had not averted his gaze. He was studying me just as I was studying him.

A sudden realization struck me-I hadn't cried. There was no reason to. Crying served no purpose. I remained still, my body frail and uncoordinated. Attempting to move my fingers resulted in nothing. My muscles lacked the strength to obey my will.

"Troublesome."

A faint murmur from one of the masked figures caught my attention. Though indistinct, I could assume they were reporting my condition. Healthy, perhaps? It didn't matter. What mattered was the name that followed.

"Danzo-sama."

Danzo. So that was his name.

The man didn't respond. Instead, he simply nodded. Then, he spoke a single phrase.

"Kiyotaka Shimura."

I processed the name instantly. Shimura-his family name, then. But why Kiyotaka? Shibai's interference? It was an unnecessary detail, one that served no apparent purpose. Yet, if Shibai had chosen to retain my original name, there must have been a reason. A convenience? A personal amusement? The thought lingered, but I set it aside.

More pressing was the question of what other changes Shibai had made. He had imposed laws and limitations on himself, but how much influence did he truly possess? The extent of his control over this world remained unknown.

Before I could dwell further, the masked figure lifted me. My vision shifted as I was carried toward the exit. But just as I was about to lose sight of Danzo, something caught my attention.

A needle.

It rested in his grasp, prepared for use. He turned toward the medical table, where my supposed mother lay, weak and vulnerable.

Elimination. The removal of unnecessary variables. A method to sever any potential emotional attachments before they could form. A pattern I had seen before.

As the door closed behind me, I let out an internal sigh.

"How troublesome."

This is not the beginning of a life-this is the beginning of a mission.