The storm outside battered the High Chaebols Tower as if the heavens themselves were rebuking the conspirators within; rain lanced the reinforced glass in needle-thin sheets and the city's neon bled into a smudged watercolor of red and cobalt. Inside the high-rise conference room, a long polished mahogany table reflected the gathered faces—each an island of ambition, duplicity and deliberate calm.
Gavriel Elazar sat at the head like a conductor before an orchestra of sharks, fingers steepled, the faint pallor of the room throwing hollows into his cheekbones. His voice, when it came, was low and silk-sheathed steel. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "our narrative has been set. Agent-90 stands accused in the world's eye; the scapegoat is in place. With that poison sown, our path to a unified administration is markedly clearer."
A diplomatic murmur rustled across the table. Zhang Wei — tall, immaculately composed, but for the tightness at the corner of his jaw — inclined his head. "And my role, Mr Elazar?" he asked, each word clipped and contained.
Gavriel's smile was thin and well-rehearsed. "Chairman Zhang, you will assume the presidency of the SSCBF. With you at the helm, our influence will no longer be merely whispered in corridors; it will sit at the executive table."
Zhang Wei's face was an unreadable mask; he gave a curt, measured nod. The slightest quiver at his lip betrayed no joy — only the calculus of a man who understands liabilities as well as laurels.
From the SSCBF side, Aarav Sharma's voice cut through the polite fog of assent, threaded with scepticism. "And Chief Wen-Li? She will not accept this with silence. That woman is as stubborn as a hedge of thorns and twice as painful."
Gavriel's eyes glittered like obsidian. "Then we remove the thorn," he said quietly, the room absorbing the phrase like a cold draught. "Or we make it appear she was the talon that pricked the world."
Yuan Meiling, poised with the unruffled mien of a chessmaster, tapped a stylus idly on her tablet. "Agent-90 was our apogee — a vector we cultivated. Chief Wen-Li has rudely corrected our calculus. The resultant chaos is regrettable, but manageable, provided we hold the narrative."
Zhang Wei's patience ruptured in a flash: he slammed his palm on the table, the sound like a gavel, his contempt spilling over. "Damn that fool and his cursed progeny," he spat, rancour sharpening his vowels. "If only the assassin had taken them years ago!"
Rahim Ahmed's dry laugh was a brittle thing. "Wen-Li's doctrines have metastasised through the SSCBF. Her presence is a contagion."
Elizabeth Carter's manicured fingers drummed the mahogany with a cold, surgical rhythm. "Let the old order be ash," she said, her smile an icicle. "Her reputation, incinerated, will be the lesson."
Gavriel lifted a hand to quell the chorus, his composure an armour. "Enough," he said. "We will not bicker. Agent-90 served our ends; he slipped from our leash. He has become a liability that can be wielded to cleave our rivals. We shall wield it. Our goal remains the same: a single administration under ordered stewardship."
Diego Cervantes lounged back as if the whole conspiracy were a theatre and he its amused spectator. "And the immediate manoeuvre?" he asked, voice lacquered in curiosity.
Gavriel's gaze cut to Diego, the room narrowing as if a viper watched its prey. "We bait him with the presidency. We present the SSCBF as a rudder restored to steadiness, while behind that rudder you will find a helmsman we can instruct. Chairman Zhang will be our figurehead; through him we will expose Agent-90 as an existential menace and thus justify the consolidation of extraordinary powers. The world will clamber to safety, and we will supply it—on our terms."
Across the table, Fahad Al-Farsi's jaw tensed; Elizabeth's eyes cooled to chips of ice. Otto Kohlmann's fingers drummed a nervous, metallic tick; Yuan Meiling's inscrutable face betrayed only the slight tightening at the edge of her mouth, a small storm brewing behind placid waters. Akihiro Takahashi sat like a statue of calm, but the tilt of her head suggested a mind already calculating countermeasures.
Aarav pushed his spectacles up, fury coiled beneath propriety. "And if Chief Wen-Li resists? If the SSCBF fractures rather than submits?"
Gavriel's answer was a slow smile that did not reach his eyes. "Then we accelerate. Either way, the outcome favours consolidation. We will present a world in which we are the only plausible stabilisers. The proffered remedy will be a governance architecture where dissent is inefficacious."
The rain increased as if punctuating his sentence, hammering the tower with a staccato fury. In the reflection on the glass, the city's neon writhed; inside, the room's occupants became schematic silhouettes — ambition, fear, greed, resolve — each playing their allotted part in a ritual of power.
Zhang inhaled and let the sound out like a blade sheathing. "We proceed, then," he said, voice even. "But be mindful: once you unloose this tide, you cannot easily staunch it."
Gavriel inclined his head like a pontiff consigning a benediction. "Precisely. Let us be the waters' architects."
There was a beat of silence, a held breath. Then the conference dissolved into business: tactical briefings, lists of proxy spokesmen, the slow choreography of propaganda releases. Outside, the storm did not relent; inside, men and women whose faces had been cast by fate's stern hand bent over schematics and figures, arranging the world to their liking.
When the meeting finally broke, each delegate departed with small, private adjustments to their expression — a frown here, a conspiratorial smile there. The arc of their intent was clear and cold: to turn a murdered president into the linchpin of their ascendancy.
Gavriel stayed a moment longer, staring at the rain-rimed city below. He murmured under his breath, almost to himself: "The world will thirst for safety. We will sell them peace for price of liberty." His reflection in the glass wavered; for a heartbeat he looked more like a pilgrim than a villain — and then, as if embarrassed by such transparency, the mask of composed menace returned.
Outside, thunder rolled; inside, the plot tightened like a noose.
The storm had not yet abated when Chief Wen-Li returned to the SSCBF headquarters, her boots clicking against the marbled floor as water slid from her coat in rivulets. The atrium hummed with a low anxiety — officers whispering in corners, clerks typing with nervous urgency, the silence between each word stretching like a taut wire.
Commander Krieg was upon her almost instantly, his long strides betraying the urgency he masked behind a measured voice.
"Chief!" he called, the metallic timbre of his tone echoing faintly in the vaulted hall.
Wen-Li paused, her hand brushing a damp strand of hair from her temple. "What is it, Commander?" she asked, her tone steady yet cool, as though balancing weariness and authority upon a knife's edge.
"Where have you been?" His brows knit, concern shadowing his otherwise martial composure.
"I went out to get fresh air. Is there any problem?" she replied, her voice calm but with a flicker of guardedness, as if her words were armour against suspicion.
Krieg hesitated for a breath, then exhaled. "No, not at all. We were tense, that is all." He adjusted his gloves, a faint crease of worry at the corner of his mouth. "But—there is something. Captain Robert and Lingaong Xuein… they went to President Song Luoyang's mansion to investigate."
Wen-Li's eyes sharpened like drawn steel. "They went?" she asked, the syllables clipped, surprise flashing across her face like lightning in a darkened sky.
"Yes," Krieg admitted, his posture stiffening. "I sent them. To know the truth — who lies behind the death of the President."
Her lips parted, a brief silence trembling between them. Then, measured and almost reluctant, she replied, "Commander, we all know that Agent-90 is the one." Her voice faltered at the edges, betraying doubt she would not admit aloud.
Krieg's jaw tightened. "But the SCP investigated, and we did not. We cannot frame a man without unearthing the truth… without knowing what foul root lies beneath this soil." His gaze burned with conviction, a soldier's stubborn refusal to bow to expedience.
"You're right," she conceded at last, her voice softer, weighted with concession. "Can I discuss this with you later?"
"Yes, Chief," he said, offering a curt nod, though unease still clouded his eyes.
Wen-Li turned, her footsteps muted as she made her way to her office. She closed the door behind her with a quiet click, the sound echoing like a gavel striking within her mind.
Inside, silence enveloped her. She removed her coat, draping it neatly over the chair, though her hands trembled imperceptibly. The room, usually her sanctum of strategy, now felt suffocating — walls closing in with the weight of unspoken accusations.
She sank into her chair, her fingers brushing against the polished surface of the desk, eyes unfocused. President Song… The name reverberated within her chest like a wound reopened. She recalled his laughter, his voice steady with reason even in turbulence, and the warmth with which he had once spoken of unity. Now that warmth was extinguished, replaced by the cold finality of gunfire and blood.
Her breath shuddered. Agent-90… scapegoat or serpent? she asked herself, her mind circling like a vulture around carrion. The official narrative clung to her ears, suffocating in its certainty, yet her instincts whispered rebellion. Truth was not so easily gift-wrapped, nor malice so neatly contained.
She leaned back, pressing her palms against her eyes. If I pursue this too far, I risk the ire of the Council. If I yield, I betray his memory. The conflict gnawed at her ribs, each thought a jagged shard.
The rain outside streaked the glass like tears, and in that dim-lit chamber Wen-Li's reflection stared back at her — a woman both commander and mourner, both sceptic and loyalist. She whispered to herself, barely audible, "Am I protector… or pawn?"
The question hung in the air unanswered, like incense smoke coiling toward a ceiling it would never touch.
The car tore through the arterial veins of the city, the rain hammering its frame like the furious drumming of a thousand fists. Each droplet fractured the lamplight into shards of broken glass across the windshield, while the wipers, beleaguered and weary, fought a losing battle against the storm's unrelenting deluge.
Inside, the air was thick with tension and the acrid tang of damp leather. Captain Robert's hands clenched the steering wheel with the discipline of a man steering not merely a vehicle, but fate itself. His eyes, sharp and unswerving, devoured the blurred road ahead. Beside him, Lingaong Xuein sat with her customary poise, her silhouette elegant yet impervious, as though she were carved from onyx. Her gaze drifted beyond the rain-streaked glass, lost in contemplation, her expression a still pond concealing untold depths.
The backseat was less tranquil — Daishoji, Tao-Ren, Demitin, and Sakim jostled for legroom, their voices occasionally rising above the rain like sparks in a tempest.
Breaking the rhythm of silence, Robert spoke, his voice dry with irony.
"Xuein, if I might inquire—what strange whimsy compels you to grace us tonight? A sudden appetite for nocturnal rambles, or merely the perennial urge to critique my driving skills?"
Lingaong Xuein turned her head with glacial precision, her eyes narrowing as though she were measuring the worth of his words. She tugged delicately at her collar, the damp fabric clinging to her throat like ivy.
"I thought it prudent someone keep an eye upon you, Captain. Your proclivity for plunging headlong into calamity is legendary. And, frankly, who better to inject a sliver of refinement into this otherwise lacklustre parade?"
Daishoji leaned forward, his grin wolfish, his voice carrying the gleeful mischief of a boy poking a sleeping beast.
"She means she doesn't trust you, Captain. Not that I'd wager against her. Last time you drove, we ended in a ditch."
Sakim chuckled darkly, his eyes gleaming with mischief like lanterns in the fog.
"And let us not omit the grievous dent you left in that poor lamppost."
Tao-Ren, her posture taut as a bowstring, rolled her eyes with theatrical exaggeration. Her arms crossed with an audible rustle of her coat.
"Can we for once fixate on the mission, rather than compile an anthology of Captain Robert's vehicular crimes?"
Robert's jaw tightened; he shot a glance into the rear-view mirror, his words laced with mock solemnity.
"Thank you, Tao-Ren, for salvaging a shred of decorum. And, for the record, that lamppost materialised out of thin air. A miracle of urban planning."
Xuein's lips curled faintly, her fingers drumming an idle rhythm upon the window ledge. Her eyes, however, were sharp as razors.
"I came because you will require perspective. The President's mansion is no simple edifice—it is a labyrinth, a palimpsest of secrets etched layer upon layer. I would rather not leave you blundering through the dark like drunken poets."
The levity faltered, evaporating into the storm's oppressive cadence. The atmosphere in the car thickened into a fragile sobriety. Robert's grip on the wheel whitened his knuckles, his voice low, as though confessing to the night.
"Touché, Xuein. But there is no sightseeing tour. Song Luoyang's walls hide truths enough to corrode even the steadiest of men. One false step and the floor will collapse beneath us."
Sakim leaned forward, his jesting tone subdued into something almost fearful.
"Do you truly believe we'll find anything? Beyond the obvious carnage?"
Robert's gaze flickered to the mirror, locking briefly with Sakim's eyes, before returning to the storm-scoured road. His voice was a quiet growl.
"I do not merely believe—I know. Song Luoyang was a man who sowed trails of breadcrumbs. But heed me: every morsel we follow may well lead us to a precipice. And one misstep—just one—and it will not be bread we taste, but oblivion."
Tao-Ren's arms folded tighter, her eyes like a hawk's as she leaned forward.
"Then why risk it? If the SCP forbids us to tread there, then perhaps (she sneered faintly) we are trampling over our own graves."
Robert's lips curved into a smirk, insolent yet resolute. His words dropped like iron nails.
"Because truth is seldom found upon permitted roads. If graves await, better they be dug in pursuit of justice than in cowardice."
Silence descended, heavy and complete, broken only by the storm's endless percussion. Each occupant retreated inward, their thoughts no less turbulent than the torrents outside. Yet, amidst jest and unease, a subtle bond coalesced—a fragile camaraderie born in the crucible of danger.
The car's headlights flared, piercing through the murk as the wrought-iron gates of Song Luoyang's mansion emerged from shadow. The estate loomed vast and brooding, its windows glinting like malevolent eyes that had witnessed unspeakable things.
Robert cut the engine, his voice level yet charged with grim determination.
"We have arrived. Steady your hearts. Whatever ghosts wait inside, we face them not as fragments—but as one."
They stepped out into the storm's embrace, the rain battering their shoulders like cold steel, the thunder above roaring its dirge. The mansion stood before them—silent, monolithic, a mausoleum of secrets awaiting exhumation.
The office of Chief Wen-Li was drowned in an oppressive stillness, broken only by the rustle of papers and the soft hum of the fluorescent lights above. Her desk was a battlefield of dossiers and scattered reports, their edges curled and stained by rain from her hurried journey earlier. She leaned forward, one elbow braced against the wood, her temple resting in her palm as though the weight of an entire world pressed upon her skull. Her eyes, heavy-lidded and ringed with weariness, flicked feverishly from page to page. The files blurred before her, not from fatigue alone but from the ceaseless storm raging in her mind.
Her fingers trembled as she turned another sheet, the paper flopping noisily like a dying bird against the wood. Her jaw clenched; her lips drew into a thin line, though her pupils widened with every damning piece of information she unearthed. It was as if truth itself dangled before her—mocking, elusive, and cruel.
The hydraulic hiss of the door jarred the silence. Wen-Li raised her head sharply, eyes darting toward the intrusion. Lan Qian stood framed in the doorway, her posture crisp, her expression caught between concern and loyalty.
"Chief, you called?" Lan Qian's voice was soft, yet it carried an undercurrent of urgency.
"Yes, Lan Qian," Wen-Li replied, her tone steady though laced with exhaustion. She straightened in her chair, brushing stray locks of her black hair from her brow with a weary hand. Her gaze sharpened, slicing through the haze of fatigue.
"I need you to carry out a task of utmost importance. You will check the surveillance feeds from President Song Luoyang's mansion—every angle, every fragment—on the night he and his family were killed. I must know, beyond all shadows, who delivered that accursed blow."
Lan Qian inclined her head, her eyes glimmering with determination. "As you order, Chief." With a resolute turn, she strode towards the Data Analysis Room, the echo of her boots fading swiftly into the corridor's mechanical hum.
Left once more in solitude, Wen-Li exhaled a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding. She pressed her fingers against her lips, as though to still the tremor that threatened to break her composure. Her eyes lingered upon the files spread like shattered glass before her.
Her voice emerged in a hushed murmur, cracked with fatigue and steeled with defiance.
"I must know… was it truly 90, or some phantom cloaked in his shadow? For if the world condemns the wrong man, then justice itself lies butchered beside the President's corpse."
Her words dissolved into the silence, leaving only the storm outside to bear witness. Lightning flared, illuminating her drawn features—eyes like burning coals, fists trembling over parchment. Wen-Li was no longer simply a Chief burdened by duty; she was a lone sentinel wrestling against a labyrinth of lies, desperate to drag the truth into the light before it consumed them all.
The wrought-iron gates loomed like the maw of some ancient leviathan, their blackened bars slick with rain, their hinges groaning as the storm lashed them mercilessly. Captain Robert and Captain Lingaong Xuein, flanked by their operatives—Daishoji, Tao-Ren, Sakim, and Demitin—halted abruptly at the sight before them. A phalanx of SCP officers barred the path, their midnight uniforms melting into the tempest, their visors glinting with spectral light.
At the centre stood two figures whose mere presence seemed to cleave the storm itself. Elan Mordecha was a mountain of flesh and resolve, his bulk immovable as bedrock, eyes smouldering beneath his sodden brow. Beside him, Shira Malachai held herself with the predatory poise of a falcon poised to strike, her gaze unflinching, cutting through the deluge as though it were no more than mist.
Robert, rain coursing down the lapels of his trench coat, stepped forward with deliberate grace, his boots splashing against the cobblestones like punctuation marks in a quarrel yet to be written. His tone was courteous but iron-spined.
"We are officers of the SSCBF, tasked with investigating the death of President Song Luoyang. Stand aside and permit our entry."
Elan's lips twisted into a sardonic crescent, and he advanced a pace, the steel tip of his boot striking water that spattered like shards of glass.
"The investigation is concluded," he said, his voice low and granite-heavy. "You have no jurisdiction here, Captain Robert. No one enters the mansion."
The words struck like a gauntlet hurled upon marble.
"What do you mean by no jurisdiction?!" Lingaong Xuein interjected, her voice sharpened by indignation, the storm's ferocity mirrored in her eyes.
Thunder cracked, rattling the very marrow of the earth.
Robert, though his temper simmered beneath his skin, kept his countenance taut and regal. He advanced another pace, his tone modulated to the controlled menace of a rapier drawn in candlelight.
"Captain Mordecha, the SSCBF bows to no one but justice itself. Our duty is not to bureaucrats nor to expediency, but to the truth. Delay us, and you dishonour not merely the President's memory, but the very principles upon which we serve."
Elan folded his massive arms, the shadow he cast swallowing the glow of the lone streetlamp above. Shira, until now silent, swept forward with all the elegance of a falcon stooping upon prey. Her words cut with surgical precision.
"The mansion falls under SCP jurisdiction. Any trespass will be met with consequences most grave. Do not mistake this ground, Captain Robert, for your playground."
The heavens themselves seemed to intervene, a lance of lightning etching their faces in stark relief—Robert with his jaw clenched and eyes burning, Shira with her hawkish defiance, two mythic adversaries frozen in tableau.
Lingaong Xuein shifted subtly, her gloved hand brushing the hilt of her sidearm. She leaned in, whispering low so that only Robert might hear.
"Captain, this isn't worth the confrontation. We cannot risk—"
Robert stilled her with the raising of one hand, not once averting his gaze. His voice was tempered steel.
"Captain Mordecha, I shall not repeat myself. We are here not to meddle but to honour the dead with truth. Every obstruction is a stain upon President Song Luoyang's memory."
At that instant, Elan's earpiece crackled. His massive form tilted slightly as he listened, his stern profile illuminated by a flicker of lightning. A pause, a nod—then he stepped forward, his tone grudging but unequivocal.
"Very well. You are permitted to enter. But you have five minutes—no more."
Shira's lips parted sharply, her voice ready to slice the night with protest, but Elan raised one gauntleted hand—silencing her before her defiance could be loosed. The hawk was tethered, if only for a moment.
Robert inclined his head, the faintest of wry smiles gracing his lips, though it never reached his eyes.
"Much obliged, Captain Mordecha."
The gates screamed open, iron grinding against iron, as the SCP officers parted reluctantly, their glares like hot coals pressed into the skin of the intruders. The SSCBF team strode through, the rain hammering against them like the applause of some malignant deity. Behind, Elan and Shira remained, their dark silhouettes etched against another thunder-strike, guardians of a truth they had been commanded to guard yet compelled to yield.
Shira turned on him, her tone edged with indignation barely held in check.
"Why did you allow them?"
Elan's jaw tightened, his face carved into the semblance of a cliff weathered by storms. He answered with grim finality, his words a slab of stone laid upon the moment.
"It is the order of Chief Ilse Richter. And when Richter commands, even the storm itself must bend its knee."
At the very crown of the SCP citadel, where glass walls kissed the storm-laden heavens, sat the sanctum of Chief Ilse Richter. Her office was no mere room—it was a theatre of power. The walls were clad in obsidian panels that seemed to absorb the light, punctuated by slivers of chrome veins that pulsed faintly like a slumbering heart. Shelves of data-slates and archaic tomes stood in precise alignment, their spines glimmering as though secrets themselves had been bound in metal. In the centre, a vast desk of blackened oak, its lacquered surface reflecting the moonlight that bled through the panoramic window behind her. The sound of rain—soft, crystalline, almost musical—danced across the glass, while lightning now and then illuminated the chamber like a camera flash exposing guilt.
Ilse Richter sat enthroned behind her desk, her posture immaculate, her elegance weaponised. Her platinum hair caught the moon's silver and refracted it, so that her very crown seemed to burn with an unholy halo. In her right hand, she turned a crystalline data-rod, rolling it between her fingers with the idle cruelty of a cat toying with a crippled bird. Papers—yes, physical papers, for she delighted in the archaic—were spread before her, though her eyes lingered on none. Her gaze was fixed upon the storm, as if she held communion with it, her reflection etched upon the black glass like the face of an empress carved in obsidian.
A smile, thin and serrated, uncoiled upon her lips—a smile not of warmth, but of malice distilled. Her voice, when it came, was silken and venomous, each word a spider descending upon its prey.
"Wen-Li... how valiantly you flail toward truth, and yet how hopelessly you stumble. You sift branch by branch, while I—" she lifted the crystalline rod and let it click against her teeth, "I peel leaf by leaf, until the marrow of the tree is bare."
Her eyes narrowed, moonlight catching in them like shards of ice. Her words flowed with quiet contempt.
"And Agent-90... Madam Di-Xian's hound. A creature bred of circuitry and obedience, leashed with illusion yet rabid enough to turn on his mistress. She believes herself his master, but what is a mistress to a beast that devours both cage and key?"
Her smile widened, serpentine, her shoulders tilting back as the rain gave a sudden lash against the glass. Her hand rested lightly upon her desk, nails tapping a rhythm both deliberate and menacing—like the tolling of a funeral bell.
"Madam Di-Xian herself... ah, the orchid in a vase of steel. She nurtures her intrigues in shadows, convinced she cultivates power. But she forgets—orchids are delicate things, easily plucked, their petals scattered with a mere exhalation. She prunes her garden; I salt the earth."
The office fell into silence save for the storm's lullaby, her malice smile lingering, faint as a scar that never heals. For Richter was not merely speaking—she was prophesying, as though the storm outside was the parchment upon which her will was written.
At the Intelligence Division – Surveillance Room, the air was heavy with the sterile hum of machines. Rows of holoscreens glimmered with spectral light, each one looping fragments of the surveillance archive. Lan Qian sat alone, her slender frame bathed in the flickering glow, her fingers dancing across the console with mechanical precision. Her face, usually calm and impassive, bore now the furrows of strain, the storm outside reflected in her own countenance.
She sifted through hours of footage: empty corridors, servants extinguishing lamps, the Song household slipping into slumber. Time stamps blinked in the corner of each screen like the slow ticking of a clock ready to betray its secret. Then—her eyes froze.
A shadow.
The figure slipped into the mansion's threshold at 01:37 AM, well before President Song returned to his study. Clad in a black gentleman's attire—tailored coat, gloves, and spectacles that gleamed faintly in the moonlight—the intruder moved with uncanny poise. His gait was deliberate, predatory, yet eerily calm, as though the house itself bowed before him. The cameras failed to capture his face, shadows pooling unnaturally around him, obscuring every identifying feature.
Lan Qian leaned forward, her breath shallow, her eyes narrowing. "Who… who are you?" she whispered, as though the phantom could hear her.
The footage fast-forwarded: the figure prowling the corridors like a phantom of vengeance, each step echoing through the mansion's stillness. Then came the final chamber—the youngest daughter's room. A muffled scream. A flash of steel. A gunshot tearing through the silence like the verdict of an unforgiving judge.
And then—
The figure turned.
The camera caught his face at last. The angle was sharp, merciless, undeniable. Blue eyes that burned like frozen fire, spectacles glinting, expression as cold and resolute as a statue of war itself.
Lan Qian's heart plummeted to her stomach. Her hand trembled as she pressed pause, the figure frozen in eternal indictment. Her voice cracked with horror.
"Agent-90…"
The name slipped from her lips like poison.
Without hesitation, she fled the room, the echo of her boots across the sterile corridor betraying her agitation. She burst into Chief Wen-Li's office, breath uneven, eyes wide with a fear she rarely betrayed.
"Chief!" she gasped, placing the data-slate on Wen-Li's desk with trembling fingers. "You must see this."
Wen-Li, weary-eyed and bowed by exhaustion, lifted her gaze slowly. Her hand—once steady as steel—hesitated before touching the slate. She activated the footage. Silence fell, broken only by the rain thrumming against the glass.
Her eyes widened as the phantom came into view, and when the figure turned, the world seemed to collapse around her. She inhaled sharply, her lips parting but no words escaping. For the first time, the iron-blooded Chief Wen-Li looked as though her very soul had been pierced.
"No…" she whispered, her hand rising instinctively to cover her mouth, as if to cage her disbelief. "It cannot be…"
The silence hung heavy as death itself. Wen-Li lowered her hand slowly, her face drained of colour, her eyes gleaming with a mixture of anguish and wrath.
"Lan Qian," she said at last, her tone brittle but commanding, "secure the original files. Seal this footage under the highest encryption protocol. Not a whisper of this leaves this room—do you understand?"
Lan Qian, still shaken, bowed her head deeply. "Yes, Chief."
As the younger officer departed with hurried steps, Wen-Li remained seated, her body trembling imperceptibly. Her hand clenched into a fist upon the desk, her nails biting into her palm until blood welled. Her voice came low, a murmur that was less words than invocation, her reflection fractured upon the rain-smeared glass behind her.
"If it is truly you… Agent-90… then tell me—why? Why would you stain your hands with this? Unless…"
Her whisper faded into the tempest, her heart a labyrinth of grief and suspicion, her will caught between the duty of justice and the dread of betrayal.
"The grandiose edifice of Song Luoyang's mansion loomed against the tempestuous sky, its baroque façade now weathered and foreboding. Rain lashed against its arched windows like cold tears of sorrow, and the heavens grumbled with distant thunder, as if mourning the tragedy that had unfolded within its walls.
Inside, the living room of Song Luoyang's mansion was a mausoleum of splendour and silence. The velvet draperies, once radiant with imperial dignity, sagged in the dim light like mourners draped in shadow. Gilded chairs stood untouched, polished marble floors gleamed coldly, yet an aura of ruin clung to every ornament as though grief itself had seeped into the very walls.
The SSCBF officers advanced with the measured cadence of hunters in alien territory. Robert moved first, his boots striking against the marble with resolute rhythm, his gloved hand brushing along the carved banister as though seeking whispers from the house itself. Lingaong Xuein followed, her eyes sharp, scanning each corner with the meticulous poise of a hawk. Behind them, Daishoji, Sakim, Tao-Ren, and Demitin fanned out, methodical yet tense—the silence broken only by the ticking of an antique clock whose pendulum swung like a judge's gavel.
Robert broke the stillness, his voice low yet edged with urgency.
"We've five minutes. Not a heartbeat more."
From the periphery, Lingaong Xuein's gaze caught the SCP officers—Elan Mordecha and Shira Malachai. The former loomed with his arms folded, granite-like and immovable, while the latter's piercing eyes fixed upon the SSCBF intruders as though to strip flesh from bone. Lingaong Xuein's lips brushed close to Robert's ear, her whisper a needle through the storm's hush.
"They're watching us. Elan prowls the perimeter, but Shira—she's locked onto us. Look at her posture. To her, we're accomplices, not investigators. Wolves in sheep's garb."
Robert's jaw flexed, his teeth grinding against his restrained fury. His glance slid toward Shira, and though his words remained soft, his tone carried the still menace of steel drawn in darkness.
"They think their badge is law incarnate. They think justice is theirs to ration. Let them dwell in their conceit—we've no time for vanity. We're here for truth, not theatre."
Xuein gave the faintest of nods, her back straightening as though fortified by his defiance. She resumed the search, eyes combing bookshelves, fingertips tracing over polished wood and untouched porcelain. Yet every room yielded only silence—perfect order, too perfect. As though hands had scrubbed away every blemish, leaving no residue of the carnage that had unfolded within.
Her breath tightened. "Too clean," she murmured.
Robert's lips curved into the faintest grimace, his gloved hand clenching as he closed the final drawer, empty save for dust. The storm outside rattled the stained-glass panes as a heavy footstep echoed.
Elan Mordecha stepped forward, his voice flat and unyielding as a tolling bell.
"Time's up. Five minutes are over."
Disappointment weighed upon Robert's shoulders, yet he masked it with the poise of an officer unwilling to yield ground. He strode toward Elan, his face impassive save for the shadow of contempt flickering in his eyes. His words fell measured, carrying both apology and defiance.
"Well… the house yields no whispers tonight. We'll take our leave—for now. My apologies for disturbing your hallowed stage."
Elan inclined his head ever so slightly, his lips curling in a sardonic half-smile.
"As well. Go, Captain. And carry your ghosts with you."
Robert turned to his squad, his voice crisp.
"Withdraw."
Yet as they filed out, Lingaong Xuein lingered at his side, her voice low but sharp as a blade pressed against conscience.
"We can't stop here, Robert. This is too neat, too sterile. They've buried the truth beneath polish. If we don't dig deeper, all we'll hold is dust."
He halted, his shoulders rigid beneath the rain-soaked coat. Turning half toward her, his eyes locked with hers, steely yet weary. His reply came with the finality of iron doors closing.
"Patience, Xuein. You don't unearth the serpent by thrashing the grass. We step back today… so that tomorrow, when the mask slips, we'll be ready."
Her lips tightened, but she said no more. Together, they walked back through the storm, their figures swallowed by the rain as the mansion's iron gates clanged shut behind them. From the shadows, Shira Malachai's hawk-like stare followed them still, suspicion burning like a lantern that refused to gutter out.
In the stillness of her office, Chief Wen-Li sat hunched over her desk, her slender fingers pressed against her temples as though to ward off the storm that brewed within. The files lay scattered before her like fragments of a shattered mirror, each page reflecting doubt, each word dripping with suspicion. Her eyes—red-rimmed, heavy with unrest—moved restlessly across the documents, yet found no solace, no anchor. She could hear the rain outside, hammering against the windows in sync with her thoughts, relentless and accusing.
The hydraulic hiss of the door broke her solitude. Lieutenant Nightingale entered briskly, her breath catching, urgency evident in the tautness of her posture.
"Chief…" Nightingale began, her voice lowered but tinged with unease. "It's official. Chairman Zhang Wei… he has been named the new President of SSCBF."
Wen-Li's head snapped up, her expression a kaleidoscope of disbelief, outrage, and wounded pride.
"What?" she demanded, her voice cracking like a whip. Her body leaned forward, palms slamming lightly against the desk as if the furniture itself were guilty of betrayal. "How is this possible? So sudden—so seamless? Who sanctioned this?"
Before Nightingale could respond, the muffled roar of voices swelled from the main entrance below. Wen-Li rose swiftly, her chair rolling back with a hollow scrape across the floor, and strode toward the hall, Nightingale close at her heels.
At the main entrance, a throng had gathered. Officers lined the marble steps like sentinels, their uniforms damp from the rain, faces lifted in strained admiration. Beyond them, the figure of Zhang Wei advanced with measured dignity, flanked by the Chairmen and Chairwomen—Fahad Al-Farsi, Elizabeth Carter, Selim Kaya, Kim Ji-Soo, Andreas Karalis, Hiroto Nakamura, Aarav Sharma, and Rahim Ahmed—all radiating the polished gravity of those who had already rehearsed this theatre of power.
The new President's presence cut through the crowd like a blade through mist; tall, stern, his sharp gaze unwavering, his every step punctuated with inevitability. The atmosphere was almost ritualistic, as if the storm outside had crowned him itself.
At that precise moment, Captain Robert and Captain Lingaong Xuein arrived, their boots splashing against the wet marble. Their operatives trailed behind, still bearing the storm's residue. Robert's brows knitted as he took in the gathering, his voice pitched with suspicion.
"What in God's name is all this?"
One of the nearby officers, flushed with excitement and awe, turned toward him.
"Captain… President Zhang Wei has been sworn in. He is now our leader—the new face of SSCBF."
Robert's lips pressed into a tight line, his eyes narrowing as though he had just tasted iron. Xuein, standing at his side, folded her arms, her face schooled into neutrality though her eyes betrayed flickers of unease.
From across the hall, Wen-Li, Nightingale, Lan Qian, Commander Krieg, Xuemin, and Feng Shaoyun with their comrades emerged, the wave of commotion drawing them into the tide. The officers parted instinctively, granting a clear path as Zhang Wei approached Wen-Li directly.
"Chief Wen-Li," Zhang Wei intoned, his voice both solemn and resolute, "the weight of leadership now falls to me. I trust you will stand steadfast by my side as we guide SSCBF into its new dawn."
He extended his hand, steady and deliberate, its gesture both an invitation and a command.
Wen-Li stood motionless for a heartbeat too long, her silence rippling through the crowd like an unexpected chord in a symphony. Her eyes, dark and searching, lingered on his hand before flicking to his face. She inhaled slowly, her chest tightening with the gravity of the moment. Finally, with deliberate grace, she extended her own hand.
The handshake was not soft—it was firm, her grip measured, her knuckles whitening subtly as if she sought to test the strength of his resolve. Yet her words, when they came, were clipped, her tone carefully neutral, though laced with an undercurrent of unease.
"Congratulations, President Zhang Wei. May your tenure serve justice as faithfully as it demands loyalty."
For the briefest moment, their eyes locked—a duel in silence, her suspicion clashing with his steely composure. Then Zhang Wei inclined his head curtly and moved past her, his entourage flowing behind him like shadows tethered to power.
Wen-Li's gaze lingered on his retreating figure, her hand lowering slowly to her side, her heart thrumming with a storm of misgivings. Around her, the officers cheered the new President, their voices rising in hollow triumph, but to Wen-Li the sound felt distant, like echoes in a cavern where truth itself was imprisoned.