Panther Cop II by Role Reversal

Chapter 1

This is an alternate universe where the gender roles are reversed, hope you enjoy.

I do not own inuyasha, All characters are fictional. This story contains mature themes, reader should be 18 years or older. This is a female dominant story. If you like the story please leave a review.


Chapter 1.

The cold glow of fluorescent lighting flickered across the locker room’s steel surfaces. Midnight approached, but Tokyo never slept, and neither did the Special Assault Team.

Kagome stood at her open locker, slipping into her armored vest, the thick fabric settling over her black tactical suit like a second skin. She adjusted the straps across her shoulders, securing each one with practiced ease. Around her, the hum of preparation filled the space clicks of loaded magazines, muted conversations, the occasional hiss of velcro. This was routine for them. A rhythm. A ritual.

Beside her, Sango finished lacing up her combat boots, then stood to slide her utility belt around her hips. She twisted her hair into a tight braid, securing it with a black band before speaking, her voice low enough to stay between them.

“You know, Bankotsu made me breakfast yesterday… in nothing but an apron.”

Kagome paused, one hand halfway to her holster. “No underwear?”

“Nothing,” Sango grinned, clearly pleased with herself. “Just him, a frying pan, and this nervous little smile like he didn’t know whether to serve me eggs or get on his knees.”

Kagome chuckled, sliding her sidearm into its thigh holster with a satisfying click. “So you did scare him into your bed.”

“Oh, completely,” Sango replied with a glint in her eye. “He’s so sweet. Polite, gentle, all that countryside innocence, but deep down? That male is desperate to be dominated.”

“You’re such a perv,” Kagome muttered, smirking as she tightened her gloves.

“Pot, meet kettle,” Sango shot back without missing a beat.

They shared a soft laugh, a quiet bubble of warmth amidst the clinical cold of the locker room. Around them, the other SAT officers continued gearing up with quiet focus, their minds on the mission ahead.

Kagome glanced sideways. “You two still good for the Giants vs DeNA game tomorrow?”

Sango lit up. “Of course. I wouldn’t miss watching Yomiuri wipe the floor with those snobby Yokohama girls. That new pitcher they signed? Fastest curveball in the league.”

Kagome’s smile grew. “Right? Number 32. Left-handed and ruthless. I swear, if she hits another shutout, I’m buying her jersey.”

“Only if I don’t buy it first.”

They both laughed again, this time a little louder, earning a glance or two from nearby squadmates, but no one said anything. Everyone had their pre-mission habits. For Kagome and Sango, this was part of the process, grounding themselves in something real before stepping into the unknown.

They bumped fists once, silent solidarity, before grabbing their helmets and stepping out of the locker room.

The hallway buzzed with tension, boots echoing down the corridor as the rest of the SAT squad fell into formation, all heading toward the debriefing room. These were Tokyo’s finest toughest and most disciplined. Women who didn’t flinch in the face of darkness. And tonight, the shadows were especially deep.

Kagome slowed near one of the narrow corridor windows, casting a glance out over the glittering sprawl below. Even at this hour, Tokyo pulsed, neon signs bleeding color into the smog, promising pleasure and sin in equal measure.

The city was alive, but not clean. Not anymore.

“Look at it,” she muttered. “Like a damn theme park for predators.”

Sango came to a stop beside her, following her gaze. “Used to be you'd only hear whispers about prostitution. Back alleys, love hotels. Now? It’s out in the open. Strip clubs, massage dens, hell some of them have marketing teams.”

Kagome’s jaw tightened. “And the males, they just vanish. One day they’re at university or working in a damn bookstore, the next? They’re strung out on this new drug and locked in some ‘private room’ for some female with control kinks.”

Sango glanced at her, brows furrowed. “How many missing now?”

Kagome’s voice was cold. “Twelve this quarter. That’s just the ones we know of. And half of them were barely out of high school.”

Sango muttered a curse under her breath, her knuckles whitening around her helmet. “We shut that place down tonight.”

Kagome nodded grimly. “Agreed.”

They continued down the hallway and pushed through the doors of the debriefing room. The air inside was sharp with focus. Every chair was filled, every woman alert. The large digital screen dominated the front wall, showing a street map of downtown Tokyo. At the center, a garish building glowing in shades of pink and violet, Club Velvet Claw.

Lines of data ran down the screen’s side, ownership records, shell companies, links to missing persons. Beneath it, smaller surveillance photos flickered, shots taken outside the club, women in furs and stiletto heels, males in chokers trailing behind females like pets.

1st Lieutenant Kagome and 2nd Lieutenant Sango stood at attention near the front as Police Chief Kirara stepped up to the console. Her long blond hair was braided tightly down her back, and her black eyes were sharp enough to cut steel. She spoke with practiced authority, her voice slicing through the tension.

“This isn’t just another bust,” she began. “Club Velvet Claw is believed to be a front for illegal gambling and a high-level trafficking operation. We’ve tracked three confirmed missing males to this block alone. And our intel suggests they’re being sold off in a private VIP lounge by the Yakuza.”

She tapped the digital board. A floor plan of the club bloomed to life, bar area, performance stage, private lounges, hidden stairwells, staff corridors.

“Our undercover is already inside,” Kirara continued. “Wired, armed, and under strict instruction to extract intel. She’ll trigger a silent alarm once she finds the kidnapped males.”

Kagome narrowed her eyes. “Who’s undercover?”

Kirara answered with a keystroke. The image on screen changed to a photograph bathed in soft pink neon. A woman sat alone at a poker table, long black hair swept into a lazy bun, a blood-red dress hugging every inch of her dangerous frame. Her expression was ice, eyes calm, calculating, deadly.

“Detective Kikyo,” Kirara confirmed.

A low murmur swept through the room. Everyone knew the name.

“Last intel places her in the high-stakes gambling lounge. She’s playing slow, drawing out the table regulars. She’ll signal when she has a visuals.”

Sango whispered to Kagome in amusement, "I hear she uses a lipstick gun.”

Kagome smirked. “Probably upgraded to nail polish grenades by now.”

Kagome raised a hand. “Do we have backup teams on exits in case they try to flush the males out?”

Kirara nodded. “Two intercept teams: one on the roof, one covering the alleyway and service doors. They’re equipped with thermal scanners. No one slips through.”

“Do we have any floor access to the club?” Sango asked, studying the map.

“Side staff entrance, unguarded on rotation every ten minutes. That’s your way in. Remember, stealth until breach. No civilian casualties. We shut it down clean.”

The room went quiet as the screen zoomed in on the club’s layout again. Each woman reviewed comm protocols and movement orders. The tension had crystallized into purpose.

Sango tapped through security camera placements on her tablet. “This feels big.”

Kagome nodded. “Because it is.”

Then, softer, so only Sango could hear: “Somewhere in there, some male is praying for someone to come for him.”

Sango looked up, her face hardening. “Then let’s be who he’s praying for.”

Outside, Tokyo pulsed on. The skyline glittered like a lie. But deep in the city's underbelly, behind glass walls and velvet curtains, a darker truth waited.

And tonight, they would rip it into the light.


Elsewhere in the city. Sota hunched beneath the broken light of the apartment stairwell, a chipped “Men’s Rights Rising” sticker half peeled on his cracked laptop bag beside him. He kept glancing at his phone, no new messages. No missed calls. Just another notification from his latest video, “Why Cooking is Male Oppression,” still stuck at 37 views.

His breath fogged in the cool night air. He muttered his speech under his breath for the twentieth time.

Soten, I came to apologize. The truth is, you’ve been brainwashed by matriarchal propaganda. But I still love you.

He stood straighter when he heard footsteps and laughter approaching. His heart lifted, until he saw her.

Soten, radiant under the hallway lights. Strong. Composed. Laughing. And clinging to the arm of another.

That damn fox demon. Shippo. With his bright eyes, clean nails, and that smug, polished look like he’d just come from organizing someone’s spice rack.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Sota blurted, stepping into their path.

Soten’s expression immediately soured. “Oh gods. You.”

“I came to talk,” Sota said quickly, trying to sound firm but already sounding like a whiny child. “We have unfinished business.”

“We don’t,” Soten replied coldly. “We broke up. You got kicked out. I changed the locks. That’s very finished.”

“You didn’t mean that,” Sota said, eyes darting between her and Shippo. “You were just emotional. You don’t understand how much pressure I’m under. My channel’s growing. I had eleven people watching live tonight.”

Shippo blinked. “We were watching and laughing, but weren’t most of those bots?”

Soten smirked. “Yeah, one of them literally commented ‘click here for lonely house husband's in your area.’”

Sota flushed. “That’s not the point. The point is I’m fighting back. Society’s gone too far. Males like me are being crushed by the matriarchy! I’m raising awareness!”

“By yelling into a webcam about how laundry is psychological warfare?” Soten snapped.

“It is! They’ve conditioned males to believe folding fitted sheets is normal!” Sota cried.

Shippo choked on a laugh. “Okay, but like, there’s a trick to folding those. The Trad Male just did a video on it, it’s super helpful..”

“Don’t you DARE bring up that traitor,” Sota snarled. “He is part of the problem! All that calm smooth voice and house husband propaganda. He’s selling out to the system!”

“He has a million followers and was offered a book deal,” Soten said dryly. “You have a GoFundMe that hasn’t cleared ¥3,000 in two months.”

“I’m being censored!” Sota snapped. “The algorithm is against men! That’s why I haven’t gone viral yet!”

Soten stared at him. “No, Sota. You haven’t gone viral because you filmed your last rant in a bathrobe while eating cold instant ramen and claiming ‘bento boxes are female control mechanisms.’”

“They are!” he shouted. “You ever see the precision? The order? The cuteness? It’s all part of the matriarchal soft power strategy to keep us docile and adorable!”

There was a long silence.

Shippo raised a tentative hand. “Um… is this guy okay?”

“I told you, he really acts like this off and on camera every minute of the day.” Soten muttered. “I had to explain to my mother that I was dating a male who thinks table manners are fascism.”

“I am revolutionary!” Sota barked. “You don’t get it! Males like me, we’re the future! We’re challenging the system, tearing down the matriarchal overlords brick by brick!”

“Dude,” Shippo said, shifting behind Soten like he expected something to explode.

Soten growled “you live-streamed a tantrum because a female cashier called you ‘sweetie.’”

“I AM NOT SWEET!” Sota howled. “I AM STRONG! I AM..”

“You’re pathetic,” Soten said flatly, stepping past him. “And Shippo? He doesn’t scream about conspiracies when I ask him to vacuum.”

She stopped at the door, turned, and added with a smile, “Also, I voted for Prime Minister Shizu. Because unlike your precious Ginta, she doesn’t think males should get paid just for being ‘underappreciated.’”

“You WHAT?!” Sota sputtered. “She’s the face of the matriarchal regime! She supports mandatory cooking classes for men!”

“And guess what,” Soten said, unlocking the door. “Shippo aced that class. Makes an amazing miso soup.”

She pulled him inside. “Goodnight, YouTube warrior.”

The door slammed shut.

Click.

Sota stared at it, jaw slack, reality crashing down.

“She’s lost,” he muttered to himself. “Brainwashed. Conditioned.”

He turned, seething.

“This is all Sesshomaru’s fault.”

He stormed off down the alley, pausing only to kick over her motorcycle like a sulking toddler.

A second later, the door burst open.

“HEY!” Soten’s voice roared. “DID YOU JUST KICK MY BIKE?”

Sota bolted into the night like a coward, flailing and gasping as his sandal slipped off.

“I WILL NEVER BE A SLAVE!” he screamed at the empty sky.

From inside the apartment, Shippo peeked through the blinds. “Is he… crying or quoting himself?”

“Both,” Soten sighed. “He’ll post a video tomorrow claiming this was a ‘deep state matriarchal ambush.’ Just ignore him.”

As Sota vanished down the street, one sandal missing. Soten returned after fixing her motorcycle and shut the blinds with a sigh, she  and turned toward the couch, where Shippo was already fluffing a pillow and pulling out a cozy blanket.

He looked up at her with those bright eyes and a soft smile. “You okay?” he asked gently.

“Yeah. I’m good.” She plopped beside him and leaned into his side. “Better than ever, honestly.”
They both laughed, soft and warm, as Soten rested her head on his shoulder.



Please any feedback would be great.