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street. A short honk cut across the quiet street in front of the hotel.

My gaze landed on a black minivan with diplomatic license plates.

Naturally, I opened the car door and got inside, where an old man I was familiar with greeted me.

“I heard you got shot?”

“…I won’t ask where you heard that.”

I looked at the old man sitting across from me with an incredulous expression.

“When exactly did you arrive here, Director?”

The old man with bulging eyes replied curtly, “What do you mean by ‘couldn’t come’?”

“…Seriously.”

“It’s chilly at night, so let’s close the door.”

*Thud.*

The car door slammed shut with a loud noise.

—

Episode 5 – Journalist, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy

Time flowed like a river despite the commotion.

Not a single media outlet reported on the shooting incident in the city center of the Magic Tower. To be precise, they could not report it.

It seems to be an unwritten rule that events occurring in the shadows should remain secret, and no media could report on this shooting incident, which involved the intelligence departments regardless of nationality.

Therefore, people remained unaware of the chaos that had unfolded overnight and started their day just like any other.

“…Uh, where should I put this?”

“That’s a corridor, so just place it over there.”

I felt the same way.

Having been shot in the shoulder while caught in a shootout, I sutured my wound somewhat carelessly and returned to work.

To be honest, there isn’t much to do at work.

“Prepare the next person.”

“I’ll conduct a personal belongings check, please cooperate.”

“Hey, you there! Don’t block the road, move!”

Helping Lucia with her medical aid.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m heading to the central library nearby. Want to come along?”

“No, I’ve still got some work left. Should I send someone to accompany you?”

“Um… do I really need someone while practicing magic?”

“Then I’ll send a magician along with you.”

“Okay, that works. But if I get to check out the underground waterways—”

“Absolutely not.”

“Ugh.”

Helping Camila with her magic practice.

“How are the protests going?”

“I’m in contact with the leadership. We’re deploying additional troops and controlling the scene.”

“There won’t be any terrorism or surprise protests, right?”

“Nothing has come through from our information officers yet. We’ll send out a formal report as soon as there’s any news.”

Engaging with the information police to share intel collected by the police.

In addition, I live my life handling trivial tasks like meeting businessmen or politicians for photos, attending meetings with public servants from the Magic Tower, and drinking with foreign defense attaches.

So far, nothing special has happened. Just getting by, living moderately, somehow.

You could say it’s a good sign of safety, but on the flip side, it wouldn’t be wrong to say I’m just loafing around.

However, it seems that the Defense Attaché Office, or rather the Military Intelligence Agency, thinks that my current situation is dangerous.

While they believe my identity hasn’t been exposed yet, it’s common conversation in my ears that someone who has been shot can’t be going about doing their job; I should be taking forced leave until my wound heals—like some trivial chatter.

But I’m perfectly fine.

Honestly, how significant is getting shot?

I’m not the type to whine about being physically unwell, and given that there aren’t enough people to handle all the work, if I, the officer in charge, just disappear, it’s obvious that operations would come to a standstill. Plus, there’s the issue with Camila and Lucia.

Someone needs to take care of this job, and since I’m the only one who can, I have to buckle up and get it done.

That’s more or less how I see things, pushing through whatever work I can.

But it seems like Pippin and Jake have a different perspective.

“Manager, can’t you take a break now?”

“What are you talking about?”

Jake shot a glance at me through the rearview mirror.

To begin with, he’s the deputy operative, both in name and function, but since he’s the best driver among the three of us (having learned driving skills in the Special Forces), he takes on the role of our driver.

Anyway, as the deputy operative and driver, Jake took the wheel and bluntly said,

“You don’t look well. You’re clearly in a bad way—one good poke and you’ll collapse.”

“Do I look that bad?”

“Yeah.”

“Dang….”

With a light sigh of resignation, I turned to the analyst sitting in the passenger seat, “Pippin, do you have any makeup tools?”

“Makeup tools? Why do you need those suddenly?”

“…Are you seriously going to put on some?”

Pippin and Jake started to get all flustered.

They acted like they were surprised by my taste, saying things like they wouldn’t judge me for having a preference for that kind of thing, but it all felt so ridiculous.

As I pondered why asking for makeup tools turned into being accused of being gay, I remembered that this town has a vibe just like that.

Eventually, I sighed heavily and snatched back my words.

“I’m just trying to tidy myself up a bit, you fools.”

Makeup isn’t just about trying to impress others.

At the end of the day, makeup is an act meant to enhance one’s outer appearance, and if used well, it can drastically change one’s impression. That’s why intelligence agencies of all kinds, regardless of gender or age, utilize makeup extensively.

Of course, many might find it odd for a man to wear makeup. So, those who feel that way just change their appearance with clothing or accessories.

Doesn’t that get featured in movies? Like when someone flips their clothes or puts on glasses while passing through an alley to completely change their looks. All those techniques are real. The CIA even uses them in advertising.

Anyway, I received the makeup tools from Pippin and did my best to get my appearance back to normal.

Pippin shook her head as she watched me.

“How about just taking a break?”

I glanced at the passenger seat while continuing my makeup application.

“Why do you keep nagging me?”

“Honestly, Manager, you’ve done enough. Taking a few days off won’t mess up international business….”

“So, have we found those idiots who barged into the hotel with guns?”

At those words, Pippin and Jake immediately went silent.

As I applied makeup until my cheeks turned a bit red, I continued, “Get a grip. We still haven’t even caught their tail.”

“……”

The statement seemed to hit home, as Pippin and Jake sealed their lips tight. The atmosphere turned tense.

But what can we do? If we’re not careful, someone could’ve ended up dead, and Pippin and Jake aren’t kids. They need to adapt to this business too.

I looked into the mirror and organized my makeup tools. The results were quite satisfactory.

“What are the employees doing?”

“They’re all being cautious and reporting their work. Room 51 is now waiting in the representative’s lodging instead of at home.”

Fabio Verati has gone into hiding. If I’d known that, I’d have taken the opportunity to punch him on my way home and abduct him in a van. I wasted time and ended up messing it up.

Honestly, nothing good ever comes from the Empire’s meddling.

“Should we schedule a new appointment?”

“No, hold off on that for now. Just keep watching.”

“Yes.”

“Any intel on the thugs yet?”

“Not yet. Both the Empire’s representative office and the Magic Tower are silent.”

“What about the home office?”

“They’re assessing the situation through the attaché office. Guidelines have been issued, but no additional intel has come through.”

Sigh… I guess I’ll need to dig into this more.

But what can be done? The thirsty man has to dig the well, that’s the rule in this line of work.

Reflecting on my unfortunate situation, I pulled out the prepaid phone I activated that morning.

“…Where are you?”

-‘In the office. Why are you calling, you bastard?’

“I’ll give you ten minutes. I’ll buy you a drink, so sneak out from under the bridge.”

I met Dmitri in a private room of an upscale restaurant.

“Why are you asking that all of a sudden?”

“Why would I ask you that?”

The head of the social department of a media company, dressed in a suit with his staff neatly placed aside, glared at me with a sullen face.

“You’re not asking me to sell information again, are you?”

“Don’t look so cold. What do you mean ‘information business’…?”

“That’s the same thing.”

To lighten Dmitri’s sour mood, I filled my glass with alcohol.

I wasn’t some old man nor was it the right time for day drinking, but there is this terrible tendency where people refuse such requests without a drink involved, so I had no choice.

Dmitri, a former journalist from a major Imperial media outlet, began to speak as he accepted the drink I offered.

“What else do you need?”

“I was wondering if you know any journalists connected to the military.”

It’s utterly foolish to ask any reporter if they have connections with the military. But if that reporter hailed from the political or social department, it could be a different story.

“Be specific. I need to know the department, whether it’s defense industry or policy research, to make the connection.”

Dmitri raised his glass as if daring me to make my request.

I hesitated for a moment, then gently tapped my glass against his.

*Clink*, the sound of our glasses echoed briefly.

Once the toast was over, as Dmitri naturally gulped down the drink, I set my glass down and got to the point.

“I was hoping you could look into journalists connected to the special operations.”

*Pfft—!*

Dmitri, who was casually sipping, suddenly sprayed alcohol all over my face.

“What the hell did you say…?!”

“I asked if there are any journalists connected to the special ops. Or maybe someone who knows them?”

Like in any authoritarian regime, the perception of ‘special operations’ in the Empire isn’t particularly favorable.

Dmitri, who was coughing repeatedly, covered his mouth with a handkerchief and waved his hand dismissively.

“Hey, no way! I can’t get involved with them.”

“Why not? Are you scared?”

“You crazy…!”

“You’re scared.”

Though he said that, I understood. Dmitri had painful memories tied to the counterintelligence agency.

He once published a scoop on military procurement corruption without prior censorship, which led to him being dragged into the basement of the counterintelligence agency. This was because he ignored the government’s press guidelines and refused to submit to censorship.

I heard that he was forced to write reports in a basement interrogation room for over a month, deprived of sleep; they didn’t beat him, but that was basically torture. Depriving someone of sleep is a common practice before serious torture anyway.

It was just a report exposing embezzlement, so it ended there, but if he had criticized the government or military, it wouldn’t have ended simply at writing reports.

I understood. Completely understood.

But it wasn’t my problem.

“Hey, Dmitri. Just help me this one time.”

“Are you out of your mind? You want me to get mixed up with counterintelligence?”

“This isn’t counterintelligence; it’s reconnaissance.”

“You’re crazy! It’s basically the same thing!”

Dmitri adamantly rejected my request, claiming he didn’t want to be tried by a military court.

“Dmitri, think about it honestly. You’re already on the police’s radar; do you think poking around the special ops will get you in any trouble?”

“At least the cops operate within the Empire; the special ops will chase you beyond the borders!”

“Dude, the counterintelligence didn’t chase anyone across the border.”

“What?!”

Oh, right. The military police aren’t involved here.

“Ugh…! Just sit down for a sec.”

I tapped the empty chair across from me and opened a new bottle of alcohol, trying to soothe the nervous head of the social department.

“I’m not asking for anything overly classified here.”

*Swirl*. The brown liquid sloshed in the glass as I extended five fingers toward Dmitri.

“Five people. Just tell me who they are. You don’t even have to give me all the details; just a summary of what they’re up to will do.”

I handed him the glass and reached into my bag. I pulled out the sketches of the mysterious thugs who had raided the hotel room.

Dmitri glanced at it and quizzically asked, “…Isn’t this dangerous?”

“It’s fine. They won’t even know if a reporter does a background check on them.”

“How can you be so sure?”

I curled my index finger and mimicked pulling a trigger. That was enough of an answer.

Of course, Dmitri still seemed uncertain. I’ve always thought he resembled a bear but was surprisingly timid.

Still, I knew he was the kind of person who does what needs to be done, so I threw in a proposal he couldn’t refuse.

“About those resolutions you published as an article.”

“…….”

“The ones about stopping oppression of dissidents, reinstating dismissed journalists, and the movement to release political prisoners—don’t you think you could use some support?”

Like public statements from foreign lawmakers, for instance.

I omitted the rest.

After all, we both knew what the other understood.

“…Are you sure?”

“Don’t treat it like some charity.”

“…….”

The former journalist from the social department fell into deep thought.

But his contemplation didn’t last long.

Dmitri quickly downed his drink and grabbed the bottle beside him, downing it in one go. Then, he slumped over the table.

There’s nothing more distasteful than seeing a grown man burying his head on the table while drunk, but I understood there are things only alcohol can let you do, so I quietly waited for Dmitri’s answer.

After a lengthy silence, he weakly mumbled, “…I’ll do it.”

“…Alright.”

I patted the shoulder of the significantly older journalist and exited the restaurant.

That evening, a member of the Information Committee proposed a resolution on the Empire’s human rights situation for the next plenary session.

It was four days later that Dmitri brought back the information about the five people.

 

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