[Multiverse] I Became The Prime Minister In A Mashed Up Anime World

"Understood, Boss."

Toru Fujiwara hung up the phone, his adoptive father, Spencer, had given him a simple command: "Don't kill Vermouth." The FBI had been investigating her identity, and the CIA director had long known that Chris Wynyard was Vermouth.

The pieces clicked together. The CIA's director wasn't just a high-ranking official—he was part of the Black Organization. That meant the organization was not simply infiltrating global intelligence agencies; it had a deep, cooperative relationship within the highest levels of power.

Fujiwara Toru's mind raced. The Black Organization had somehow managed to install one of their own as the CIA director. If they had the power to do that, it explained how they could avoid detection by global intelligence agencies.

Across the room, Vermouth also set down the phone. The dangerous tension between the two had dissipated. They were no longer adversaries.

"Boy, it's not wise to point a gun at someone. You might end up shooting someone by accident."

"I really did shoot by accident," Fujiwara Toru replied with a smirk, the implication clear.

Vermouth, no longer in immediate danger, regained her composure. She stood, stretching gracefully in her black lace underwear. Her silhouette curved and flowed as she stretched her body.

Toru silently holstered his weapon.

Before either of them could speak, the doorbell rang, echoing through the luxurious suite.

"Who's there?" Toru called out.

"Sir, I've brought the food you ordered."

Toru glanced at Vermouth, who nodded slightly. "I ordered it when I woke up."

He picked up the clothes from the floor and tossed them to her. "Put on your clothes," he said calmly.

Toru left the bedroom and walked to the front door. Peering through the peephole, he saw a waiter standing outside, pushing a dining cart.

He opened the door, stepping aside. "Push the cart in."

The waiter wheeled the cart into the living room. Vermouth emerged from the bedroom, fully dressed.

"Sir, please sign here."

The waiter held out a pencil and a bill. Toru took the pencil, but his eyes narrowed. In an instant, his right hand moved like a blur, stabbing the pencil into the waiter's throat with lethal precision.

In the same fluid motion, Toru's left hand swung out like a hammer, striking the waiter's temple. The man collapsed with a grunt, unable to make a sound, his life slipping away as the pencil lodged in his trachea.

Vermouth's eyes widened as Fujiwara lifted the tablecloth, revealing not food, but an MP9 submachine gun hidden beneath.

"How did you know he was a fake?" Vermouth asked, her tone heavy with curiosity.

"I noticed the calluses between his thumb and index finger. They're from years of holding a weapon," Fujiwara said coolly. "And the etiquette of serving food—too many mistakes. He wasn't a hotel waiter."

Vermouth's mind, still clouded, didn't catch those details right away, but now she understood.

Fujiwara Toru glanced at the dead man. "A master, but killed with a pencil. Impressive, don't you think?"

Suddenly, a cold chill ran down Fujiwara's spine, and the alarm bells in his mind rang loud and clear. "Get down!" he hissed.

Before Vermouth could react, he threw himself forward, tackling her to the ground.

"Da da da da!"

The deafening sound of rapid gunfire rang out, bullets tearing through the door and splintering the living room into chaos. Glass shattered, and furniture was riddled with holes. Water spilled across the floor as cups exploded. The entire room was reduced to a war zone in an instant.

Fujiwara Toru, already in motion, dragged Vermouth across the floor and into the bedroom.

No matter how strong he was, no human body could survive the hail of bullets unleashed upon them.

He barely managed to shield her from the attack as he pulled her into the bedroom. The sound of the door crashing down echoed through the house.

A flash bomb hurtled into the living room. The explosion of light and sound was nearly blinding. Toru, having already shielded Vermouth, only felt a brief sting of discomfort as the intense flash engulfed the room.

Three armed men burst into the suite. They scanned the room, finding only destruction. They moved toward the bedroom, guns drawn.

One of them nodded, signaling for another flash bomb. It flew through the doorframe, but in the blink of an eye, Fujiwara Toru's leg shot out in a blur, knocking the device back toward the soldiers.

The flash went off again, deafening and disorienting. The three men were temporarily incapacitated.

Fujiwara Toru slid through the doorframe, his M9 already drawn. He fired three shots, two to the chest and one to the head, taking out all three operatives with pinpoint accuracy.

The sounds of the gunfire echoed in the chaos, and the men crumpled to the floor, lifeless. The magazine dropped from Fujiwara's gun, and without missing a beat, he replaced it, rushing back into the living room to confirm the area was secure.

The sound of someone breathing heavily drew his attention. He turned toward the hallway and found a hotel waiter crouched on the ground, hands on his head. His posture was perfect—clearly accustomed to dealing with gunfights.

Toru nodded to himself, satisfied that the immediate danger had passed. He returned to the room, checking the bodies of the fallen assailants.

"Is this the work of a drug cartel?" Vermouth asked, still trying to steady her breath. Though shaken, her instincts quickly kicked in.

"It's not a cartel," Fujiwara replied, inspecting the men's weapons. "They don't have this kind of training. And they wouldn't risk an attack like this on American soil."

He held up a magazine and shook it in front of Vermouth. "These are armor-piercing rounds. They're specifically made for taking down heavily armored targets, in case you're wearing a vest."

Vermouth's eyes narrowed. "Who are they then?"

"These men are from the Mossad. I've crossed paths with them before," Toru explained. "They're reckless, and they'll do anything, even attack on American soil if it suits them. They weren't after me—they're after you."

Vermouth's face darkened as she realized the situation was more dire than she initially thought.

"Have you been to South Korea recently?" Toru asked, his voice quiet but filled with intent. "What were you doing there?"

Vermouth, her expression hardening, immediately pulled out her phone and dialed a number. "Gin, there's an undercover mole in the organization, likely from Mossad. I've been attacked. Find out who leaked my location immediately."

Despite only a few knowing Chris Wynyard's true identity as Vermouth, some members of the Black Organization were aware of her whereabouts. After all, cooperation was essential among their ranks.

Toru's eyes fell to the blood trickling down Vermouth's leg. He frowned.

"Are you injured?"

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