In the gloomy basement, one room alone radiated a bright and ambiguous glow—a flood of flickering neon lights, seductive and surreal. Bathed
In the gloomy basement, one room alone radiated a bright and ambiguous glow—a flood of flickering neon lights, seductive and surreal.
Bathed in shifting colors, the room resembled a dreamlike paradise hidden deep within hell. A twisted Elysium, saturated with pleasure and illusion.
Lin Mo had searched the entire underground facility, only locating his target—the imprisoned Fujiwara Kawako—in the central holding chamber.
But he hadn't expected that within such a dark, damp, and foul-smelling place, a space like this could exist—something out of a fever dream.
No wonder it was unguarded.
Tonight was a celebration for the Scavs. They'd gathered outside in the factory courtyard, dancing wildly around bonfires. For them, this was a holiday no less festive than any traditional one.
As for guarding duties, leaving a few behind in the warehouse was enough.
These people weren't trained soldiers. Their only sense of order came from brute force.
And the man who brought that force was currently enjoying himself in his private "palace."
To Lin Mo, this basement reeked of sin. Its walls were steeped in blood, tears, and agony—the victims' testaments to cruelty. Anyone with a shred of humanity would find the sight revolting.
Yet, there are always those who take pleasure in evil.
This was a "processing room" for the "goods."
Also, a storage room.
And for one man, it was a playground.
When bored, he'd stroll to the operating table to spectate a grotesque theater of blood and screams. On a whim, he'd even take the knife himself.
When irritable, he'd play a game of "eenie-meenie-miney-mo" in the holding chamber, picking a new toy to torment.
Tonight, in celebration, the self-proclaimed king of this basement had chosen a particularly pretty lamb to join him in this hidden chamber for a private affair.
...
In the neon-drenched room, the music pulsed with sultry energy, thick with suggestion.
But over it, soft sobs and broken cries echoed faintly—like ghostly remnants of indulgent debauchery.
A hulking man lounged on a cushy sofa, legs crossed, swirling liquor in a bottle, eyes burning with interest as he watched the woman kneeling before him.
She wore a BD headset. Her gaze was vacant, lifeless. The neural feed had plunged her into a vividly realistic but entirely virtual nightmare.
No one knew exactly what she was seeing. But after putting on the Black Braindance, she'd become catatonic—her brain's expression control fried. The beauty of her face twisted into something broken.
The man sipped his drink with a smile, the fiery liquor like molten lava searing down his throat.
"Now this… this is real pleasure. What do mundane lust and flesh compare to hellish ecstasy like this?"
In this age of rapid tech evolution, Braindance had revolutionized every industry—and dismantled many. Traditional vices had faded. Nothing compared to the pure high of neural immersion.
He smiled serenely, fingers interlocked as he admired the scene before him.
Then he picked up his prized handgun from the table: a red-painted, flame-detailed pistol.
He'd given it a fitting name:
Hellfire.
Originally a Constitution Arms Unity, the weapon had been completely overhauled. Aside from the frame, it was a different beast. Upgraded internals, new fire-control system, modified magazine.
His favorite part? The muzzle flash burned crimson with each shot, and it fired custom incendiary rounds that ignited targets on contact.
He caressed the weapon lovingly, watching the woman in front of him tremble like a climber losing grip at the summit, tumbling into the abyss.
"Almost there. Once you fall, I'll give you your rebirth through flame. You'll be a phoenix—burning, glorious. Welcome to hell."
The BD program wasn't something he could control directly. But this custom Black BD was hand-picked, spliced from hours of content, crafted to annihilate willpower.
No one lasted long under it.
And when the program ended—that was his favorite moment.
That's when he brought the victim back to reality with a gunshot and fire.
They thought the nightmare had ended. But the real inferno was just beginning.
"Almost time," he murmured.
He'd done this over a dozen times. Each time, he ended with a charred corpse.
By now, the pile of burnt bodies could form a hill. And he sat atop it, waiting for the next sacrifice to kneel.
The moment the music shifted in tone, he knew—the climax approached.
Sure enough, as a final explosion echoed through the speakers, the woman shuddered violently and collapsed.
"There it is," he grinned, eyes gleaming with cruelty.
The BD sequence ended. The light from the headset faded. The woman, still wearing it, opened her eyes in a daze, as if seeing the world one last time.
"Just a bit longer. The corpo cleanup crew should be here soon..."
"No celebration is complete without fire. And death."
He drained the last of his drink, wetting his lips, smiling, slowly raising his weapon to her face, ready to pull the trigger.
BOOM!
A deafening explosion rocked the room.
The man flinched instinctively, looking toward the door.
The steel security door had been brutally slashed open, then kicked with force. It blasted inward, the broken panel flying straight at his face.
His pupils shrank. Reflexes kicked in. A soft glow lit up along his spine—the Kerenzikov implant activating.
The world slowed.
Objects moved like syrup. Time bent. Neural response sped up until seconds stretched into eternities.
In this altered state, he saw the figure who'd kicked down the door: a blur of rage and speed, a demon in motion, moving faster than any human could track.
Yet even in this slowed world, the intruder still moved at near-normal speed.
Fast. Too fast.
But not fatal.
The Kerenzikov had bought him a chance.
Sandevistan, Mark II. Activate.
A surge of light from his neuralware. Power surged through his nerves. Now he, too, moved at full speed within frozen time.
He snarled, raising Hellfire, preparing to execute this intruder who dared interrupt his perfect evening.
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