On 30th May 2042, in an unknown location the room was plunged into near-total darkness. Only a solitary pendant light dangled from above, casting a harsh cone over a circular table. Stark shadows painted the faces of the figures seated beneath it, concealing more than they revealed—save for the occasional gleam of calculating eyes or the twitch of a mouth mid-thought.
Silence loomed heavy—thick, anticipatory—until Gavriel Elazar, the cold architect of High Chaebol's global economic dominion, finally stirred. Reclining in his chair with predatory ease, he steepled his fingers, his voice as smooth as oil and twice as slick.
"So... Chief Wen-Li has done the unthinkable. Noctum Hollow, the missing files, the buried truths—she's unearthed them all and broadcast them like dirty laundry flapping in the public square. How inconvenient."
His tone was laced with disdain, but his measured cadence betrayed deeper fury.
Arindam Chatterjee, head of propaganda, scoffed. He sat with a languid arrogance, arms crossed, one leg lazily draped over the other.
"The media's already ablaze. We've spent years building the façade, and now she's pulled the curtain back with a single press briefing. How in God's name did she even access our deep vaults?"
Maheshvar Rao, commander of the secret police, leaned forward, elbows on the table, knuckles whitening.
"It's no coincidence. The SSCBF have grown bold. That woman—Wen-Li—she's persistent. Just like her father before her. The same damn tenacity."
From the far end of the table, a dark chuckle rippled through the gloom. Philippe Devereux, the silver-haired manipulator of Ni-Ran-Gi's infrastructure, leaned into the light, the scar on his cheek catching the glow like a blade.
"Persistent, yes... but predictable. Her little exposé barely nicks the surface of what we've built. What troubles me more is this... 'Agent-90.' A defector. Our defector."
Yuan Meiling, the enigmatic technocrat draped in a high-collared silk coat, tapped her lacquered nails rhythmically against the tabletop—tick-tick-tick—like a countdown.
"Not merely a defector. He murdered his brothers during the facility breach. Others fled, but he hunted them. A surgical betrayal."
Edward Cartwright, head of media control, leaned back slowly, lacing his fingers behind his head. His brows were knit tight, jaw clenched, eyes unblinking.
"As long as he remains on continental soil, we cannot martyr him. He's too visible. Too... sympathetic. We need a more subtle hand, Gavriel. Do we not?"
Gavriel offered a faint smirk, cold as tundra.
"Indeed. So long as he honours the code, we tolerate him. But if he steps beyond the boundary..."
He snapped his fingers softly.
"He will be extinguished."
Arindam cut in sharply.
"And Wen-Li? She inches closer with every day. Another revelation and the public may start to listen."
Gavriel's gaze sharpened. His voice dropped.
"She's her father's daughter. Stubborn. Honourable. Dangerous. We silenced Wen-Luo. She walks his path—she'll meet the same end."
A low, gravelled laugh rolled from Diego Cervantes, the baleful baron of narcotics.
"The SSCBF won't take kindly to her vanishing. They'll cry martyr. They always do."
Otto Kohlmann, the ghost-like figure in charge of covert operations, sat straight-backed, his gloved hands folded precisely before him.
"Let them. We erased the Global Gazette in under seventy-two hours. The SSCBF are a nuisance, not a threat. If they interfere, we dismantle them—brick by brick."
For a moment, the only sound was the hum of electricity. Then Ingrid Falk, elegant and venomous, finally spoke, voice like velvet over ice.
"And Agent-90? What if he unravels our century of preparation? One man with that kind of precision is a threat unlike any other."
Gavriel's nod was slow, thoughtful—eyes glinting with cruel certainty.
"We'll cast him as the villain. Feed the public his sins and twist them until he's unrecognisable. People don't want truth. They want a monster to hate. Agent-90 will become that monster."
Akihiro Takahashi, cyber-intelligence chief, tilted her head slightly. She sat rigid, hands on her lap, her eyes hidden behind smart lenses.
"And if he retaliates?"
Gavriel glanced at her, then crossed his fingers.
"Then we erase him—utterly. No name. No trace. As for Wen-Li..."
He turned to Akihiro, voice firm.
"Deploy Eitan Shalom. Let him bleed into her systems. Every message. Every note. Every whisper. We'll own her secrets."
Akihiro bowed her head in affirmation.
"As you command."
Yuan Meiling raised a brow, fingers laced.
"The SSCBF is inducting new candidates tomorrow, yes?"
Gavriel's lips curled into a serpentine grin.
"Indeed. And we'll plant our agents among them. Groomed, trained, and loyal. We'll watch from the inside—let the Bureau believe it grows stronger. And if they move against us... we'll be the ones pulling their entrails into daylight."
Adil Hasan, architect of urban control, finally spoke. His voice was low, like stone grinding against stone.
"And if the Continental bloc stands against us?"
Gavriel rose slowly from his seat, the light casting his shadow long across the floor.
"Then we bend them. If not through power, then by poison. If not by influence, then through fear. But make no mistake—nothing shall impede the will of the High Chaebols."
A dreadful silence settled, as final as a guillotine. One by one, the members of the council rose and filed out, their silhouettes vanishing into darkness—each carrying their portion of the plan, and the scent of something bloody soon to come.
The overhead lights were dimmed, casting soft amber pools across the room's steel-and-glass contours. At one end, nestled in the corner beneath a shuttered window, Chief Wen-Li lay curled on a leather settee. Her long, black silk hair spilled over her cheek like ink on parchment, shifting ever so slightly with each exhausted breath. Her coat, half-slid from her shoulder, hung like armour shed after battle.
The door slid open with a faint hydraulic hiss.
Nightingale entered in her sleek, black military uniform—pressed to perfection, boots polished to a near mirror sheen. Her sky blue-green hair was pinned back with regimental precision, but her eyes—sharp as ice—softened the moment they fell upon the slumbering figure on the sofa.
She halted.
"Chief...?"
Her voice barely rose above a whisper.
Stepping closer, Nightingale observed Wen-Li with quiet reverence. The woman looked younger in sleep—unguarded, almost fragile. A smile flickered on Nightingale's lips, warm and melancholic. With delicate hands, she lifted Wen-Li's coat from the back of the chair and draped it gently over her like a blanket.
"Take a rest, Chief," she murmured, crouching beside her for a moment. Her gaze lingered, betraying a deep, unsaid worry behind her composed demeanour.
Wen-Li shifted slightly, one hand curled beneath her cheek, her breathing steady. The lamplight caught in her hair, giving it a moonlit sheen. There was a strange sort of loveliness in her fatigue.
Nightingale rose and turned, just as the door parted again with its customary sigh.
Lan Qian stood in the threshold, her usual poise slightly dishevelled, chest rising with uneven breath. She clutched a folder to her chest as if it were fragile.
"Oh, Nightingale—you're here…"
Nightingale's brows knit.
"What is it, Lan Qian?"
Lan Qian approached cautiously, eyes darting briefly to the sleeping Chief before lowering her voice.
"The final files came through from Central Command."
She opened the folder and revealed neatly clipped documents, stamped with the SSCBF insignia.
"Tomorrow, the presidential board and chairmen will be conducting face-to-face interviews with the incoming candidates. Top selections from every division—field ops, tech, intel. Some are exceptional. But... there are flags."
Nightingale's expression shifted to one of quiet intensity. She took the file and leafed through it, her eyes scanning rapidly.
"Infiltration risk?"
Lan Qian nodded, solemn.
"One or two profiles stand out. Too clean. Fabricated histories, or just... too perfect."
Nightingale exhaled, her voice tempered but authoritative.
"Right. I'll notify Internal Affairs to triple-check all biometric verification. Set up the pre-screening room on Level Three. I want surveillance in place before sunrise."
She turned back toward Wen-Li, her gaze softening once more.
"Let her rest tonight. She's carried enough."
Lan Qian gave a respectful nod, eyes briefly flicking to the sleeping Chief with unspoken admiration.
"Of course."
The two women exited quietly, the door sealing shut behind them with a faint hiss—leaving the room in near silence once more.
Outside, preparations for tomorrow's scrutiny had already begun.
However, at Shin-Zhang Corporation, At the centre sat Madam Di-Xian, poised behind her carved obsidian desk. A single crimson lotus, placed in a glass vessel, bloomed beside her, its petals opening in languid defiance of the sterile air.
She sat with imperial composure, legs crossed neatly, twisting a lock of her deep crimson hair around one slender finger. Her eyes—dark as garnet—flickered with a knowing gleam as she sensed the approach.
A measured footstep echoed through the marble corridor.
The doors opened without announcement, revealing Agent-90. Clad in a sharp, black gentleman's suit—immaculate, understated—he stepped into the room like a shadow given form. A glint from his spectacles caught the overhead light, while his icy blue eyes reflected with deadly stillness. He stopped precisely three paces from her desk.
"Madam, you summoned me?"
Di-Xian's lips curled in a half-smile—one that neither welcomed nor warned. Her fingers folded elegantly beneath her chin as she replied.
"Yes, Ninety," she said, her voice velvet-wrapped steel. "Tomorrow, the SSCBF begins their candidate interviews. Among the administrative chaos, I want you to infiltrate the facility."
Agent-90 tilted his head ever so slightly, expression unreadable.
"Target?"
"Hecate and Hella," she said without hesitation. "They're being held in High-Security Cells beneath the south wing. Retrieve them—quietly. They've lingered there long enough. The Sinners need their witches back."
He nodded once, crisp and silent.
"Understood, Madam. However... Chief Wen-Li—if she uncovers my presence?"
Di-Xian gave a soft, mirthless chuckle. She leaned back, brushing an invisible speck from her lapel.
"Wen-Li will be occupied—spinning plates and managing rookies. Her attention will be split. Besides..."
Her gaze sharpened like a blade being drawn.
"You know precisely how to disappear inside their system. You taught half their firewall division what they know. Use it."
A pause. Agent-90 adjusted his cufflink.
"As you command."
Di-Xian gave a regal nod, her crimson nails tapping once against the lotus vase.
"Good. Be ready by zero five hundred. This mission cannot afford error."
Without another word, Agent-90 inclined his head and turned. His footsteps were silent as he departed, the doors sliding shut behind him with a whisper like breath held too long.
Left alone, Madam Di-Xian gazed at the lotus beside her—its petals now fully unfurled.
"Sorry Wen-Li!," she murmured, almost to herself.
A heavy stillness blanketed the grand office like fog. The only sound was the slow, methodical tick of an antique clock affixed to the far wall—each stroke echoing the weight of passing time. Papers rustled softly under the breath of a hidden vent, while lamplight cast a warm but sombre glow across the room's rich wood furnishings.
President Song Luoyang sat slumped in his leather chair, his posture wilted, one hand pinching the bridge of his nose. His eyes, usually sharp and composed, were dull with fatigue. The meeting earlier had left a fissure in his poise, and now the silence seemed to mock him with its oppressive calm.
Then came the shrill ring of the telephone.
The sound sliced through the room like a scalpel. Song jerked upright slightly, his hand hovering over the receiver, hesitating—for just a moment—before lifting it with slow deliberation.
"President Song speaking," he said, voice formal, but worn thin.
A beat of silence. Then: a voice—silken, deliberate, and coiled with menace.
"Ah, President Song," came the measured tone of Gavriel Elazar. "I do hope I'm not intruding at an inconvenient hour."
Song stiffened. The weariness vanished from his face, replaced by a flicker of something colder—apprehension.
"What do you want, Gavriel?"
There was a faint, mirthless chuckle on the line.
"Straight to the point. Admirable, as ever. I'm calling about tomorrow's interviews. The candidate vetting at SSCBF. It's... an important moment for the public image."
Song's brow furrowed. He shifted in his seat, shoulders taut.
"If you're referring to the council's oversight, I've followed protocol. The process will proceed as mandated. I see no reason for further discussion."
Gavriel's tone dipped into something colder, quieter—more dangerous.
"Oh, but there is. Certain individuals, myself included, anticipate a more favourable outcome. One that aligns with... broader interests."
Song's grip on the receiver tightened, knuckles paling.
"I will not pervert the integrity of this office to accommodate your schemes, Gavriel. I have a duty to the people."
"Refuse?" Gavriel cut in smoothly, voice edged with mockery. "Dear Song, I believe you mistake the nature of this call. This isn't a polite suggestion—it's a directive."
Song stood abruptly, his chair scraping back across the floor, fury igniting beneath his exhaustion.
"I will not be strongarmed into this! My organisation is not your chessboard—"
"Careful, now," Gavriel murmured, with something resembling amusement. "Let's not make this theatrical. You know the rules. You've played this game long enough."
Then his voice dropped to an icy whisper.
"Let's consider your wife—elegant woman, isn't she? And your daughters. Beautiful girls. It would be... unfortunate if their lives were disrupted by unforeseen circumstances. Accidents happen, after all."
The colour drained from Song's face. His free hand gripped the edge of the desk as if to anchor himself, while the receiver trembled slightly in his other.
"Don't you dare—don't you dare threaten my family."
"But I already have," Gavriel replied coolly. "Now, let's not prolong this unpleasantness. You're a pragmatic man, Song. You understand cause and consequence."
Song's heart pounded like a war drum. He swallowed hard, his voice breaking through the silence with grim restraint.
"What... exactly do you want from me?"
There was a pause—pregnant, precise.
"That's more like it," Gavriel said, purring with satisfaction. "You'll receive a dossier shortly. It contains narrative points to push, individuals to endorse, and one or two... inconvenient names to bury. Follow the script, President. Play your part. And all will remain... harmonious."
Click.
The line went dead.
Song remained standing for a long moment, the receiver still clutched in his hand, the weight of the conversation pressing against his chest like a slab of concrete. Slowly, he returned the handset to its cradle, his breath trembling as the echo of Gavriel's words lingered.
He turned away from the desk, shoulders bowed, and sank back into his chair. With a shuddering exhale, he lowered his head into his hands.
For the first time in years, Song Luoyang felt the full truth of his powerlessness—not a political loss, but a personal one. A man once hailed as the people's guardian now found himself a marionette, strung up by invisible threads, in a theatre where the script was written in blood.