The following morning unfolded like a sigh of relief after the chaos of the night before.
Soft sunlight spilled through the gauzy curtains of Wen-Li's bedroom, brushing against her face in gentle strokes of gold. Her long, black silk hair shimmered faintly in the light, strewn across the pillow like ink spilled upon parchment.
The faint sound of a purr stirred her awake.
Blinking her eyes open, she found Wen-Mi, her snowy cat, sitting dutifully beside her — back straight, tail curled around her paws, staring at her with unblinking feline authority.
Wen-Li smiled faintly, her voice still laced with sleep.
"Oh, Wen-Mi… good morning!"
She stretched her arms languidly, her voice soft and affectionate as she rubbed the cat's chin.
"You look so serious, little one — like you're the guardian of the house. Were you watching over me again?"
Wen-Mi meowed softly, blinking in dignified silence.
Wen-Li chuckled, the sound light and melodic — a rare gentleness after days of darkness.
"Yes, yes, I know — I should've woken up earlier. Fine, fine, I'll open the window. You can get some fresh air, my queen."
As the window cracked open, a mild morning breeze drifted through the room, carrying the scent of petrichor and faint magnolia. Wen-Mi flicked her tail and hopped down, clearly satisfied with her morning sovereignty.
Wen-Li padded down the hallway, her silk robe loosely tied, her hair cascading in soft waves down her back. The house was quiet — almost too quiet — save for the low hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic tick-tock of the clock in the adjoining living room.
She yawned, stepping into the kitchen — only to stop dead in her tracks.
Sitting upon her sofa, looking entirely too at-ease for someone who wasn't supposed to be there, was Agent-90, with his white shirt; silver spectacles resting crookedly on the coffee table. His posture, however, was impeccable — even in sleep, he looked like a statue carved from discipline itself.
For a brief moment, Wen-Li's brain processed nothing — just the strange, silent presence of an armed agent in her home. Then—
"AAAAAHH!"
Her scream shattered the calm like a dropped teacup.
Agent-90's eyes snapped open instantly — his soldier's reflex flaring to life. In one smooth motion, he straightened, adjusting his white shirt, and pushed his spectacles onto his nose with absolute calm.
"Chief Wen-Li," he said flatly, as though being discovered uninvited in a woman's home were the most mundane occurrence in the world.
Her eyes were wide with disbelief, her voice trembling somewhere between outrage and confusion.
"What the heck— ninety! Why are you in my house? And—how did you even get in here?"
He blinked once, adjusted his spectacles calmly, and said in that maddeningly even tone,
"Your security system was insufficient. I enhanced it."
She gawked.
"Enhanced—? You broke into my house to protect me?"
"Technically, yes," he replied, folding his arms with mechanical composure. "The window latch was fragile. I entered quietly."
Wen-Li threw her hands up in exasperation, pacing a few steps before pointing an accusing finger at him.
"Do you ever just knock like a normal person?"
"No."
The bluntness of it made her pause, mouth slightly agape. Then, she sighed — half furious, half defeated.
"You didn't even go back to your place, did you?"
He shook his head.
"No. I was here all night. Surveillance duty."
"Oh, splendid. The world's deadliest watchdog on my sofa," she muttered sarcastically, rubbing her temples.
She took a deep breath, regaining her composure, and then managed a small, resigned smile.
"Fine. Go freshen up. I'll make breakfast."
"Already done."
Her brow furrowed.
"You didn't."
But when she turned — her kitchen counter was immaculate. Two plates were already set: poached eggs, toast, and sliced fruit presented with unnerving precision. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee lingered in the air.
She blinked — once, twice — then turned slowly back to him.
"When did you…?"
"Six o'clock sharp," he said, his tone almost proud.
Her mouth opened as if to scold him, but no words came. Instead, she just stared at him — cheeks warming faintly, though she'd never admit it.
"So… what about—"
"I've done the household chores," he interrupted. "Even fed Wen-Mi."
As if on cue, the cat strolled into the room, her fur glistening and her tail held high — clearly well-fed and perfectly content.
"Meow," Wen-Mi chimed, sitting beside Agent-90's boots as though giving approval.
Wen-Li placed her hands on her hips, muttering under her breath,
"First my cat, now my breakfast… you're slowly taking over my domestic life."
And then—
Grrrrrroooowl!
Her abdomen rumbled loudly — embarrassingly so.
For a second, silence reigned. Then—
A second growl followed. Agent-90's stomach.
They both froze.
Wen-Li's cheeks flamed a soft rose, her expression hovering between mortification and laughter. Agent-90 simply blinked, unbothered, and said flatly,
"Well. I'm hungry."
That did it. Wen-Li burst into laughter — the first genuine laugh she'd had in weeks. She clutched her stomach, shaking her head.
"You're unbelievable! You break into my home, clean it, feed my cat, make my breakfast— and then still announce you're hungry?"
"It's logical," he said simply, utterly deadpan. "Energy expenditure must be replenished."
Wen-Mi hopped onto the table, tail flicking, staring between them as if judging both for their lack of decorum.
"Even Wen-Mi agrees," Wen-Li giggled, stroking her cat's fur. "Fine. Let's eat before either of us starves or starts redecorating the house. Mr. Perfectly-Punctual!"
Wen-Mi hopped into her lap, tail swishing like a banner of approval.
And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, the walls of Wen-Li's house didn't echo with fear or ghosts — but with the quiet, unfamiliar warmth of shared laughter.
In flashback the world beyond Veilmoor's skyline slept beneath a shroud of indigo. Rain whispered softly against the windowpanes, its rhythm a lullaby to the slumbering city. Inside Wen-Li's modest home, the lights were dim — only the faint silver gleam of the moon cascading through the blinds, painting trembling bars of light across the floorboards.
Wen-Li slept peacefully upon her bed, her breathing shallow and even, one hand resting near Wen-Mi, the cat curled like a tuft of cloud against her side. The serenity was fragile — like glass kissed by the first breath of a storm.
Then — a sound.
Barely audible.
A faint creak, the subtle complaint of a door's hinge surrendering to intrusion.
Through the fissure of darkness, a man emerged.
Draped in a black suit and crimson tie, his face veiled by the gloom as though the night itself sought to conceal him. His movements were deliberate, surgical — every footstep measured, every breath rationed. The faint gleam of a blade — a narrow combat knife — glimmered in his right hand, catching the moonlight for the briefest heartbeat.
He was a hunter, trained to be the whisper before death.
But death was already waiting for him.
From the shadow beneath the corridor, something stirred — silent as the turn of time.
When the hunter's gaze shifted, just slightly, his peripheral vision caught a figure materialising out of the darkness — Agent-90 — clad only in his white shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, the faint luminescence of his spectacles glinting like cold mercury.
His expression was carved in ice.
No words were spoken.
In the next instant, movement erupted — swift, fluid, precise. The hunter lunged with a serpent's ferocity, blade flashing toward Agent-90's throat. But 90's body twisted like liquid — his right hand snapping up, catching the attacker's wrist mid-strike. The impact made a crack, sharp as breaking glass.
The hunter's eyes widened — his tendons locked in pain — as Agent-90 rotated his grip, wrenching the arm sideways with mechanical precision. A bone snapped, echoing in the room like a brittle branch underfoot.
A muffled grunt of agony escaped the hitman's lips. He swung with his free hand, the knife carving through the air. 90 ducked beneath the arc — his movements eerily graceful — and countered with a jab to the ribs, followed by a sweeping kick that collapsed the man's balance.
The hitman fell backward — but before he could recover, a thin steel wire flashed in the air, drawn from beneath Agent-90's sleeve like a ghost's whisper. It coiled around the man's throat — a silver serpent tightening its grip.
The hunter clawed at it, desperate, his muffled gasps turning into guttural chokes. The rain outside drummed louder, as though accompanying the rhythm of suffocation. Agent-90 leaned close, his breath cold against the man's ear.
"Why?" he asked — softly, yet his voice cut through the silence like a scalpel.
The hitman's eyes bulged in panic; no words escaped him, only strangled sounds. Agent-90's expression remained devoid of pity. He released one hand, only to strike the man sharply across the face — once, twice — rendering him limp.
Then, his tone shifted — low, calm, final.
"Agent-89," he murmured, his voice laced with quiet steel. "You were one of us once… and now just another ghost."
A final, firm twist of the garrote — and the sound ceased.
The silence that followed was absolute — oppressive in its purity. The moon hid behind clouds, as though unwilling to witness what came next.
With clinical detachment, Agent-90 loosened the wire, then hoisted the body with steady arms. The night consumed the scene as he carried the corpse through the back entrance, his footsteps soundless against the rain-slicked tiles.
Behind the house, near the ivy-wrapped fence, the earth was soft — soaked by rain. He dug swiftly, methodically, his movements mechanical, his breath unshaken. When the task was done, he stood over the fresh mound, his face a portrait of cold stoicism illuminated by the faint flicker of lightning.
"Rest, 89," he whispered, voice barely audible. "You served the wrong master."
He turned away, the rain cleansing the soil, as though nature itself sought to erase the crime.
Then, inside once more, he mended the fragile window latch that had betrayed the hunter's entry. Every motion was deliberate, ritualistic — the quiet choreography of a man accustomed to war's aftermath.
Back to present, The aroma of breakfast filled the air once more — eggs and toast mingled with the scent of ground coffee. Wen-Li sat at the table, radiant in the soft daylight, while Agent-90 sat opposite, his expression as impenetrable as stone, yet his eyes — those still, calculating eyes — were distant, as though staring into a world no one else could see.
"Agent-90?" Wen-Li's voice broke gently through the silence.
No answer. He was staring down at his plate, untouched.
"Ninety?" she repeated, slightly louder this time.
Still nothing — only the faint furrow of his brow.
"Ninety!" she finally said, leaning forward across the table.
His gaze flicked up sharply — the calm precision of a man who'd just returned from the battlefield. For a moment, the silence hung thick.
She tilted her head, her tone softening.
"What happened? Did something go wrong?"
He blinked once — the ghost of last night still shadowing behind his eyes — then shook his head, his voice low and restrained.
"Nothing."
He picked up his fork and began to eat — slow, deliberate, each movement like a ritual of normalcy.
Wen-Li studied him for a moment longer, her expression a blend of curiosity and quiet concern. Then she smiled faintly, breaking the tension with gentle grace.
"Well, you eat like someone who hasn't slept in a century," she teased lightly.
Agent-90 didn't respond — only glanced briefly at her, the corner of his lip threatening, just slightly, to betray something human.
Across the room, Wen-Mi sat upon the windowsill, tail swaying, eyes gleaming as if she knew more than either of them — the silent witness to a night of death, and a morning trying desperately to forget.
The house was still. The air, though calm, carried the unspoken truth that somewhere beneath the veneer of peace — a storm was waiting to rise again.
The morning at Shin-Zhang Corporation began as usual — polished corridors humming faintly with the rhythm of automation, the soft clack of shoes echoing like orderly percussion beneath the towering glass atrium. The neon crest of the company shimmered above, refracting through the marble floor like liquid starlight.
Among the orchestrated calm strode Agent Roy, his brown gentleman's ensemble perfectly pressed — his tie a careful shade darker, his polished shoes gleaming like mahogany mirrors. The golden sheen of his spectacles caught the morning light as he adjusted them upon his nose, exuding an air of easygoing refinement.
Down the corridor approached Alvi Taslim, the ever-composed data analyst. Her tailored suit flowed with quiet authority, and her hijab, a deep shade of azure, contrasted beautifully with her tan complexion. The faint glow of her holographic tablet flickered against her spectacles as she reviewed columns of encrypted data even while walking.
Roy caught sight of her and raised his hand in greeting, his voice light and warm.
"Good morning, Miss Alvi!"
She looked up, momentarily drawn from the ocean of analytics, and offered him a soft smile.
"Morning, Roy," she replied in her calm, mellifluous tone. Then, with a slightly exasperated sigh, she added, "Speaking of mornings — could you please go and wake up Hella? She's not reported in yet, and her terminal's still offline."
Roy blinked, adjusting his collar as though bracing himself for a known hazard.
"Ah… yes, that would explain the eerie silence from her quarters," he said with a wry grin. "She probably passed out gaming again."
Alvi folded her arms, her brow arching ever so slightly.
"Probably?" she repeated, scepticism woven into every syllable. "Roy, she always does. You know what happened last time — she slept through a meeting and blamed a 'psychic time dilation.'"
Roy chuckled, half in amusement, half in dread.
"Right, right… I remember the part where she called her alarm clock a 'chronological traitor.'"
Alvi sighed, tapping her tablet to her side and fixing him with a look both pleading and commanding.
"Just go wake her, Roy. And if she's still asleep, drag her out by her psychic hair if you must."
Her tone was so dry it could have absorbed the humidity in the air.
Roy gave a gentlemanly half-bow, hand over his chest with mock solemnity.
"As you command, Miss Taslim. To the dragon's den I march."
Alvi rolled her eyes but couldn't hide the faint twitch of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips as she resumed her walk, shaking her head in quiet disbelief.
Roy reached Hella Bexley's quarters, which stood at the far end of the research wing — the door slightly ajar, soft humming sounds and static vibrations seeping from within. He knocked gently, his knuckles clicking against the metallic frame.
"Hella, it's Roy! Are you awake or still drifting through hyperspace?"
Silence.
He frowned, leaning slightly forward. No response — not even the telltale rustle of blankets or the faint hum of machinery.
"Hella?" he called again, louder this time. Still nothing.
After a moment's hesitation — and a quiet prayer to the gods of patience — he pushed the door open.
The sight that greeted him made him freeze.
Her room looked as though a small hurricane had been selectively unleashed. Half-empty energy drink cans lay scattered like spent grenades, neon noodle packets piled in precarious towers on her desk. A half-assembled VR headset dangled from a chair, flickering faintly. Holographic monitors still glowed with paused game screens — avatars mid-battle, explosions frozen mid-air.
Roy stood there for a moment, utterly dumbfounded. His expression slowly transformed from polite concern to sheer existential despair.
"Good heavens," he murmured under his breath, "it's like a digital apocalypse."
Carefully, he stepped inside — and immediately yelled in agony as something sharp pierced the sole of his shoe.
"Bloody—!" he hissed, hopping on one leg and snatching up the offending object. It was a fork. A fork.
From beneath a pile of blankets on the bed, a muffled groan echoed. The mound shifted slightly, then a head emerged — crowned in mesmerising blue-purple gradient hair, flowing like liquid aurora.
Hella Bexley blinked open her lavender-pink eyes, disoriented and drowsy. Her voice, soft and sleep-thick, floated through the chaos.
"Oh… Roy," she murmured, rubbing one eye lazily. "What brings you to my humble kingdom of dreams?"
Roy straightened, his jaw hanging slightly ajar in disbelief.
"What brings me—Hella, it's nine in the morning! Everyone's waiting for you! For heaven's sake, even the coffee machine clocked in before you!"
She turned her head lazily towards her clock, squinting as if it had betrayed her. Then she groaned, wrapped herself tighter in the blanket like a human cocoon, and mumbled,
"Just… five more minutes…"
Roy blinked twice, as though trying to process the audacity.
"Five—? No! No, not this time!"
In one swift motion, he grabbed the edge of her blanket and pulled.
She resisted instantly, clinging to it like a soldier defending her last fortress.
"You monster!" she cried dramatically, her voice muffled under the fabric. "Let me sleep, you bureaucratic demon!"
Roy gritted his teeth, tugging harder as the two engaged in what could only be described as a silent tug-of-war of destiny. Papers flew. A cushion hit the floor. A holographic alarm clock fell with a plonk and cheerfully announced, "Snooze cancelled!"
Finally, Roy managed to yank the blanket free with a victorious flourish — revealing Hella's dishevelled yet oddly graceful state. Her hair shimmered faintly in the light, her neural implants glowing like embers in sleep mode.
He pointed sternly toward the door, though his face betrayed a faint grin.
"Up! Now! The others are waiting. Move before Alvi files a missing-person report."
Hella squinted at him, her expression half-annoyed, half-adorably resigned.
"Fine," she grumbled, grabbing the nearest pillow and hurling it straight at him.
Roy ducked — or rather, tried to. The pillow missed him by a hair and thudded loudly against the closing door as he made his escape.
From behind the door came her drowsy murmur, soft but filled with mock menace.
"One day, Roy… I'll replace your shampoo with glue."
Outside, Roy straightened his coat, ran a hand through his hair, and sighed with both exhaustion and amusement.
"She says that every week," he muttered, shaking his head. "Still hasn't figured out where I keep it."
Down the corridor, Alvi was waiting with her tablet, one eyebrow raised in silent question. Roy gave her a weak smile and simply said,
"She's awake. Spiritually."
Alvi rolled her eyes heavenward and muttered,
"Ya Allah, give me strength."
The two walked off down the gleaming corridor — one laughing softly, the other already regretting the day's impending chaos.
The morning had settled into a delicate stillness — the kind of quiet that seemed to cradle the faint hum of the city beyond the glass. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee still lingered in the air, intertwined with the pale gold of sunlight streaming through the curtains.
Then — a knock.
Firm. Controlled. Too measured to be casual.
Wen-Li froze mid-step, her hand still resting lightly on the edge of the kitchen counter. The sound reverberated faintly through the house, carrying with it an uncanny tension. Her cat Wen-Mi, lounging lazily near the doorway, perked up her ears, tail flicking with sudden alertness.
Agent-90, who had been quietly observing the morning through the half-open blinds, straightened immediately — his movements swift yet soundless. His eyes sharpened, their blue reflection hardening to steel beneath the thin rims of his spectacles. Without a word, he retrieved his silenced pistol, its matte barrel gleaming faintly like the fang of a serpent under the morning light.
"I'll check," Wen-Li said softly, glancing at him with a calm she didn't entirely feel.
He gave a subtle nod, pressing himself against the shadowed wall beside the entrance — his stance perfect, precise, a living statue carved from vigilance. The muscles along his forearm flexed faintly as he gripped the weapon, his breath measured into silence.
Wen-Li smoothed down her hair and adjusted her crop top and cardigan, composing herself. Her posture was poised yet gentle — one that could disarm suspicion while concealing the whirlwind of unease in her chest.
The knocking came again, slightly firmer this time.
She opened the door.
Outside stood a uniformed police officer, his rain-dappled cap still glistening from the remnants of last night's storm. His expression was polite but taut — the kind of face carved by bureaucracy and long shifts.
"Are you Miss Wen-Li?" he asked, his tone formal yet faintly cautious.
Wen-Li tilted her head slightly, offering a cordial smile.
"Yes," she replied evenly, her voice calm but edged with curiosity. "How may I help you, officer?"
Her posture remained subtly defensive — one hand resting lightly against the doorframe, her weight distributed to move quickly if needed.
The officer cleared his throat.
"We received a report from your neighbour stating that an intruder entered your premises in the middle of the night. Are you aware of this, ma'am?"
Her heart skipped once — a tremor beneath her calm. Her gaze flicked briefly, instinctively, toward the interior of her home — where, in the periphery, Agent-90 remained concealed in the sliver of shadow beside the wall, utterly motionless.
She blinked once, collecting her breath, then turned back to the officer with a faint, almost apologetic smile.
"No, I wasn't aware of anything," she said gently. "I was already asleep with my cat, and nothing appeared disturbed this morning. I assure you — nothing's gone missing."
The officer nodded slowly, eyes scanning past her shoulder before returning to her.
"Would you mind if we had a look around, just to be sure?"
"Of course," she said without hesitation, stepping aside gracefully. "Please — go ahead. Though, before that — who made the report?"
"It was Mrs. Irmin Küçükoldan, your next-door neighbour," the officer replied.
A small, knowing smile crossed her lips.
"Ah, Irmin," she said softly. "she does worry too much sometimes."
The officers entered — two of them — and began to inspect the premises. Their boots made soft echoes against the polished floor as they moved methodically, examining every window latch, doorframe, and corner. One leaned down near the kitchen sill; another checked the locks on the back door.
Agent-90 remained unseen, his presence perfectly absorbed into the architecture — a wraith behind the veil of light. His gaze followed their every movement with surgical precision, finger resting steady against the pistol's trigger guard, ready to strike should necessity demand it.
After several long minutes, the officers returned to the front, shaking their heads.
"Nothing out of place," said the taller one. "No sign of a break-in either."
The first officer turned back to Wen-Li, bowing his head slightly in apology.
"I'm terribly sorry for the disturbance, Madam. We'll report this as a false alarm."
Wen-Li's expression softened — her voice warm, though her eyes still carried the faint glimmer of vigilance.
"It's all right, officer. I appreciate your concern."
She accompanied them to the door, offering a courteous nod as they departed. The faint sound of their retreating footsteps mingled with the morning breeze before fading into silence once more.
The moment the latch clicked shut, she exhaled — a quiet sigh of relief slipping through her lips. Her shoulders relaxed, though her pulse still fluttered beneath her collarbone.
"You can come out now," she said, turning her head slightly over her shoulder.
From the corner of the living room, Agent-90 emerged — his silhouette cutting clean against the morning light. The pistol remained lowered at his side, though his expression betrayed no hint of relief, only the cold afterglow of calculation.
She crossed her arms and tilted her head, her lips curving faintly into an incredulous smile.
"So," she said, one brow arched, "care to explain why the police nearly caught you crouched behind my wall like a ghost with a gun?"
He met her gaze with unflinching composure.
"I was making sure they weren't impostors," he replied, voice level — the kind that could make a confession sound like a weather report.
Wen-Li blinked, somewhere between amusement and disbelief, her hand lifting to her temple as if trying not to laugh.
"You—" she exhaled softly, shaking her head. "You're impossible, you know that?"
Agent-90's only reply was a quiet nod — his face unreadable but his stance slightly eased.
Across the room, Wen-Mi leapt gracefully onto the sofa, tail flicking as she let out a soft "meow," as though scolding him too.
Wen-Li turned toward her cat, then back at him with a chuckle that finally escaped her restraint.
"See? Even she agrees," she said, hands on her hips, her tone half-playful, half-exasperated.
Agent-90 merely adjusted his spectacles — the faintest trace of something that almost resembled a smile ghosted at the corner of his lips.
The house once again fell into the quiet rhythm of morning, though the unspoken truth lingered between them — that danger had come too close, and the man now sharing her breakfast had killed it before dawn could see.
The conference chamber of Shin-Zhang Corporation gleamed like a sanctum of glass and steel — a crescent-shaped table stretched beneath the vast holographic emblem of the crimson lotus. The morning sun filtered through the reinforced windows, refracted into spectral streaks that danced faintly across the polished floor.
All the agents were seated: Farhan, ever immaculate in his black waistcoat and cufflinks of silver; Jun, with his easy grin and a mischievous gleam that never left his eyes; Masud, tall and broad-shouldered, arms crossed as if bracing himself for impending absurdity; Roy, reclining slightly in his chair, one leg crossed with that perpetual air of ironic detachment; and Alvi, poised and professional, stylus in hand, her expression a painting of patience wearing thin.
At the head of the table sat Madam Di-Xian, her crimson braid coiled elegantly over one shoulder, her posture carved in poise and quiet dominion. Her gaze could melt ice and forge steel — the paradox of authority and allure. The crimson lotus, still blooming in its vase, mirrored her — beautiful, poised, but perilous to touch.
The meeting had begun ten minutes ago. Yet, as ever, one seat remained conspicuously vacant.
Roy leaned toward Masud and muttered under his breath,
"If lateness were a weapon, Hella would have conquered the world by now."
Masud snorted softly, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"She probably tried to time-travel again," he grumbled in his low, gravelled tone. "Told you not to lend her that neural stimulator, Roy."
Roy smirked faintly.
"Ah, but her excuses are such fine poetry. I'd hate to deny art its muse."
Before Masud could retort, the doors hissed open with a pneumatic sigh.
There she was — Hella Bexley, the unrepentant tempest of chaos incarnate.
Her lavender-pink eyes half-lidded with fatigue, her blue-violet hair a wild aurora tumbling over her shoulders, the faint glow of her implants flickering as though her brain hadn't quite rebooted yet. Her uniform was askew, tie hanging loosely like it had given up.
She dragged her feet into the room, muttering,
"I'm here… I'm alive… mostly."
Farhan, mid-sip of his coffee, choked slightly and placed the cup down with an exasperated sigh.
"By the saints of sanity, Hella, you look like you've wrestled a supercomputer and lost."
Jun leaned back, grinning wickedly, his tone dripping with mock admiration.
"At least she showed up this time. Progress! Quick — someone mark the calendar. It might be a historical event."
Hella squinted at him as though deciding whether he was real or another figment of her sleep deprivation.
"Shut it, Jun, or I'll invert your gravity field."
Alvi, seated beside Madam Di-Xian, pinched the bridge of her nose in despair, her voice level but laced with quiet fury.
"You are thirteen minutes and forty-two seconds late, Hella. Again. That's an improvement of two minutes since yesterday — congratulations, I suppose."
Hella merely waved a hand dismissively, the motion sluggish — a sleepy flick of her wrist. Unfortunately, that careless gesture unleashed a faint psychic ripple.
A low hum filled the air — subtle at first, then sharply audible. The coffee pot on the central console began to tremble.
Farhan's brow furrowed.
"Wait… is that—"
Before anyone could finish, the entire coffee pot lifted itself gracefully into the air, rotated slowly like a UFO caught in indecision — and then, with impeccable comedic timing, flipped upside down.
Hot coffee cascaded mid-air in a glorious, slow-motion arc — a caffeinated waterfall of doom.
"Bloody hell—!" Roy yelped, jerking his chair backward as the steaming droplets narrowly missed his lap. The cup beside him shattered as it hit the floor.
Jun, howling with laughter, ducked under the table.
"She weaponised caffeine! Brilliant!"
Farhan leapt up, snatching a tissue box like a soldier diving for cover.
"My jacket! This is Italian wool, woman!"
Alvi, expression frozen in quiet, saintly suffering, simply closed her eyes, muttering a quiet prayer under her breath in Arabic that even the system's voice-recognition AI refused to transcribe.
Masud stood motionless, watching the surreal scene unfold, his tone as flat as steel.
"I told you this would happen. Again."
Meanwhile, Hella blinked up at the floating pot, still inverted, her voice groggy yet innocent.
"Oh. Did I do that?"
Roy wiped a stray droplet from his cheek with deliberate slowness.
"No, no, of course not. I'm sure the pot just developed sentience and decided to end it all."
At the head of the table, Madam Di-Xian had not moved — her crimson eyes fixed upon Hella with a look of half amusement and half quiet menace. The faintest, most imperceptible smile curved at the corner of her lips.
"Miss Bexley," she said in her melodic, velvety voice, "if your telekinesis intends to continue its rebellion, kindly inform it that my patience is on its final breath."
Hella stood straighter instantly, fumbling to re-control the psychic field. The pot wobbled, rotated again — and at last, clattered harmlessly back to the counter.
Then, before Madam Di-Xian could add another word, a sharp voice cut through the tension.
"HELLA BEXLEY!"
Everyone turned.
From the side door emerged Hecate, the organisation's AI-project supervisor — her platinum-blonde bob immaculate, her lab coat crisp, her glare lethal. Her tone was the auditory equivalent of a whip crack.
Hella froze mid-motion, her expression the very picture of guilt personified.
"Uh-oh…" she whispered, glancing sideways.
Hecate strode forward, tablet in hand, her heels echoing like war drums.
"You were supposed to report for calibration an hour ago! I had to postpone the neural sync because someone decided to take a psychic nap!"
Hella scratched her head sheepishly, smiling with the weary charm of a delinquent student caught by her professor.
"Technically, I was recharging my mental core…"
"You were drooling on your pillow!" Hecate snapped.
Jun practically fell out of his chair laughing. Farhan hid his grin behind a hand. Alvi groaned audibly. Roy simply muttered,
"And the award for Best Excuse goes to…"
Madam Di-Xian lifted one elegant hand, silencing the room. Her tone was calm, yet carried the edge of a blade wrapped in silk.
"Enough. Let us resume, before my coffee pot develops trauma."
The agents straightened like schoolchildren before a headmistress.
Hella took her seat — cheeks faintly pink, eyes downcast, murmuring to herself as her implants flickered apologetically.
"Note to self… caffeine and consciousness do not mix."
Beside her, Roy leaned slightly, whispering with a grin,
"Next time, at least aim the pot at Jun."
Jun smirked.
"You wish."
Masud exhaled deeply, muttering under his breath,
"And people wonder why I drink decaf…"
The meeting continued — though the faint scent of roasted coffee and embarrassment lingered like perfume in the air.
The morning at Wen-Li's house began with the faint whisper of drizzle against the windows — the sort of melancholy weather that seemed to sympathise with her humiliation. The light outside was pale and cold, bleeding through the curtains like a reluctant dawn.
Wen-Li stood before her mirror, transforming herself into an unrecognisable version of the once-celebrated Chief of the SSCBF. Layer after layer of fabric wrapped around her like armour — a long beige trench coat, a wide scarf covering her neck and part of her jaw, dark sunglasses large enough to hide her delicate eyes, and finally a broad-brimmed hat tilted just low enough to obscure the rest of her face.
She looked like a fugitive from a fashion magazine edited by paranoia itself.
Her cat, Wen-Mi, sat on the dresser, tail swishing in amused judgment, as if silently saying, "You look ridiculous, but I love you anyway."
Wen-Li sighed, adjusting the scarf once more.
"Don't look at me like that, Wen-Mi," she muttered, voice muffled by the fabric. "I can't let anyone recognise me — not after those awful videos being everywhere. I swear, if I hear one more person whisper 'that's her' I'll—"
The cat meowed softly, stretching its paws as if telling her to breathe.
Just then, Agent-90 emerged from the adjoining room — tall, immaculate, and unsettlingly calm. He wore his crisp white shirt from the night before, sleeves neatly rolled, collar sharp as a blade. His presence felt like a silent storm condensed into human form.
Wen-Li turned, holding out his black trench coat, saying with a faint smile that trembled between gratitude and awkwardness,
"Here… you forgot this."
He accepted it without a word, slipping it on in one smooth motion. The moment the coat settled on his shoulders, he seemed to regain his full, lethal composure — the emotionless knight back in his armour. His spectacles gleamed, reflecting the window's pale light, masking his eyes entirely.
Wen-Li hesitated, fidgeting with her gloved hands, and then spoke — her voice soft but lined with anxiety.
"Do you… perhaps know a place where no one will recognise me? Somewhere quiet — where I won't be looked at like a criminal or… a scandal."
Agent-90 adjusted his cufflinks, his tone even and dispassionate, as though he were briefing her on a military operation.
"Yes. I know a place. It's discreet, unreachable to the public, and rarely patrolled. You'll be safe there."
He didn't blink. He never blinked.
Wen-Li tilted her head slightly, narrowing her eyes behind her oversized sunglasses.
"You sound like you're describing a bunker, not a café."
"Safety is safety," he replied simply.
Her lips twitched — torn between laughter and disbelief.
"I was thinking somewhere civilian, not a subterranean fortress guarded by tripwires and emotional dead zones."
At that, he merely looked at her — face unreadable as always.
"My definition of comfort differs."
She let out a short, incredulous laugh — one of those small, weary sounds that come from a person too tired to argue with logic wrapped in absurdity.
"Clearly! Do you ever relax, 90? I mean, do you even drink tea? Or smile? Or do you just… recharge by glaring at walls?"
"Occasionally," he said, deadpan.
She blinked, unsure if he was joking.
"Occasionally what?"
"Glaring," he replied.
That did it — Wen-Li couldn't suppress it anymore. Her laughter burst out like a crack of sunlight through storm clouds. She covered her mouth quickly, muffling the sound into her scarf, her shoulders shaking.
Agent-90 watched her in silence, head tilted slightly — as though observing a phenomenon he hadn't seen in years. His expression didn't change, but something imperceptible flickered behind those reflective lenses — perhaps curiosity, perhaps something that once used to be warmth.
Wen-Mi, still perched on the dresser, gave a chirping meow as if joining in her laughter.
Regaining her composure, Wen-Li adjusted her scarf again and said playfully,
"Alright then, Mr. Glaring Specialist, lead the way. But please, somewhere that doesn't involve infrared scanners or laser grids."
He gave a faint nod — the kind of nod that could mean yes, no, or I have already predicted your death three times today.
"Understood," he said, turning toward the door.
As he reached for the handle, Wen-Li followed behind, her scarf flapping like a cape of dramatic misfortune. She murmured under her breath, mostly to Wen-Mi,
"He's like an android with good posture…"
The cat meowed once more, as though in agreement, before curling up by the window.
And as the door closed behind them, the sound of Wen-Li's boots and his calm, rhythmic footsteps faded down the corridor — an unlikely duo stepping out into a world that had already made her its headline.
The journey from Veilmoor to the Central-Eastern belt of Nin-Ran-Gi unfolded like a slow exhalation from chaos into calm. The heavy metallic corridors of civilisation began to dissolve into the luminous expanse of Echelon Serenity Park, a realm where nature and technology — long at war — were forced into a fragile truce.
As the jet-black Mercedes-Benz 300SL Gullwing hummed to a stop beside the gate of glass and bioluminescent vines, the world seemed to shift — from the mechanised brutality of the city to an oasis where data hummed like prayer and the air itself seemed to glow with whispered memory.
Wen-Li stepped out first, her scarf fluttering faintly in the artificial breeze. The moment her boots touched the marble-like pathway, her breath caught — suspended between disbelief and awe. Her eyes widened behind her dark glasses, the lenses reflecting a kaleidoscope of light — emerald, sapphire, and soft gold. For the first time in days, her expression softened.
The panorama before her stretched like a vision from an impossible dream.
Above them, the Vector Promenade shimmered — a constellation of brutalist spires and suspended glass corridors, their surfaces catching the sunlight and fracturing it into prismatic brilliance. Drones glided like metallic birds across the skyline, maintaining the delicate balance between function and perfection. Engineers in white robes — half scientist, half monk — moved with measured grace, their holographic tablets inscribed with digital calligraphy that shimmered with phrases from sacred texts.
Beneath that ordered chaos, the Transition Gardens bloomed like a suspended Eden — cascading terraces where vines of silver-leafed flora coiled through carbon-laced latticework. The air there pulsed faintly, as though the vegetation itself was breathing.
And deeper still — beyond the gentle hum of electrostatic roots and whispering fountains — the Serenity Basin beckoned: a valley of green serenity cradled beneath a dome of diffused light. The air smelled of pomegranates and wet earth, tinged with the faint ozone of purified air. A mechanical dove fluttered past her, its mirrored wings scattering the reflection of the sun like broken jewels.
She stood still, unable to move, her gloved hand pressing against her chest as though to anchor herself to the moment. Her voice, when it came, was a trembling whisper — part wonder, part disbelief.
"It's… magnificent," she murmured, her tone almost reverent. "It feels unreal — like walking through someone's dream, caught between faith and machinery."
Beside her, Agent-90 watched her quietly — his tall frame casting a clean, symmetrical shadow across the marble path. His white shirt glowed faintly under the refracted sunlight, the crisp fabric uncreased despite the journey. He adjusted his spectacles, the mirrored lenses catching a fragment of her reflection.
"Do you like it?" he asked simply, his voice low but carrying the resonance of quiet sincerity.
Wen-Li turned to him, a small, fragile smile unfurling across her lips — hesitant but genuine, like a flower daring to bloom after a storm. Her eyes softened, and for the briefest second, her guarded composure faltered.
"Yes… I do," she said softly. "It's the first place I've seen that doesn't feel broken."
Agent-90 inclined his head slightly — a gesture so subtle it could have been mistaken for a nod of approval or understanding. His expression remained unreadable, but something faintly human stirred in the air between them — a silence that carried more warmth than words could.
"Then go in," he said at last, his tone steady but gentle.
Wen-Li hesitated at the threshold. Her eyes swept across the serene landscape — the children releasing mechanical doves, the elderly praying beneath fig trees interwoven with holographic light, the engineers murmuring code like hymns. It felt sacred. Too sacred for someone who had been so humiliated, so stripped of dignity.
She looked back at him, anxiety flickering like a candle in wind.
"You sure I'll be… alright here?"
He met her gaze, unwavering.
"No one here cares who you were yesterday," he said. "Only what peace you seek today."
Those words — simple, unadorned, almost mechanical — somehow pierced deeper than any comfort could. She took a slow breath, the kind that trembles halfway between fear and courage, and then stepped forward.
Her boots touched the smooth path leading down to the Serenity Basin, and at once, the light around her seemed to shift — as if the park itself acknowledged her presence. The air grew softer, almost melodic; the faint hum of drones blended with birdsong simulation, forming a hymn of equilibrium.
As she walked, her scarf fluttered like the wing of a pale bird, her anxiety dissolving into the quiet grace of the park. Agent-90 followed at a respectful distance, his pace measured, his gaze observant — a sentinel carved from calm and precision.
For the first time since the chaos began, Wen-Li allowed herself to breathe.
And perhaps — though she'd never admit it aloud — she felt something unspoken when he walked beside her, like the faint pulse of safety wrapped in the aura of a man who had forgotten how to rest.
The Serenity Basin stretched before Wen-Li like a dream made tangible — an Eden painstakingly reconstructed by hands that remembered loss. Beneath the domed heavens of refracted glass, the world was reborn in tranquillity: fig trees arching over tranquil streams, air rich with the scent of pomegranate nectar and blooming jasmine, and the faint echo of mechanical doves gliding between the orchards, their silver feathers whispering songs of old serenity.
Wen-Li walked slowly, her steps featherlight against the stone path, almost reverent — as though afraid that too heavy a tread might break the illusion. Her dark scarf trailed behind her like a shadow of her past life, faintly brushing the dew-glistened ground. The soft, artificial sunlight bathed her face in a muted glow, tracing the delicate lines of her fatigue — eyes heavy with sleepless memory, yet softened by the quiet majesty around her.
Her cat, Wen-Mi, padded alongside, her pristine fur shimmering faintly in the dome's refracted light. She mewed softly, her eyes bright and curious, tail swaying like a silken pendulum.
They soon reached the Cave of Miracles, hidden at the edge of the Basin — a spiralling descent of pale sandstone steps, glowing faintly with bioluminescent threads that coiled along the walls like veins of captured moonlight. The air there was cool, still, and ancient, resonating with a strange hum that vibrated deep within the chest.
Wen-Li stood before it, transfixed. The cave mouth seemed alive — breathing light and shadow in rhythmic cadence, as though aware of her presence. Holographic inscriptions shimmered across the stone, fragments of lost histories and fractured prayers dancing like fireflies across her face.
Her breath quivered as she spoke softly to herself,
"It feels like the world is whispering… all the voices we forgot."
Her reflection shimmered in the mirrored pool at the entrance — two versions of herself divided by water: the woman who was humiliated and the woman now standing before the sacred silence, rediscovering her worth. For a moment, she forgot everything — the scandal, the shame, the cold gaze of a world that had mocked her. Here, there was only quiet.
And then — the faint crunch of footsteps on the path behind her.
She startled slightly, turning, her hair catching the light like a silken current in motion. Agent-90 approached, his silhouette sharp and deliberate against the warm glow of the cave's entrance. He was holding a slender cord — the rope attached to Wen-Mi's harness, ensuring the curious feline didn't wander too far. His white shirt, unbuttoned slightly at the collar, fluttered faintly in the artificial breeze; the glint of his spectacles mirrored the soft luminescence of the cave.
He paused a few paces from her, silent, his eyes — those glacial blue mirrors — assessing the moment with quiet solemnity. Then, in a tone that carried neither command nor suggestion but something steadier, he said,
"You should drink this — pomegranate juice. It'll help you regain some balance."
From his gloved hand extended a small glass flask, condensation misting along its sides, the liquid within glowing a muted ruby beneath the cave's light.
Wen-Li blinked — startled not by the gesture, but by its unexpected tenderness. Her lips parted, the faintest quirk of amusement threatening her composure.
"You… actually brought that?" she asked softly, half disbelieving, half touched.
He gave the faintest shrug — almost imperceptible — before answering in his usual measured monotone.
"Hydration is essential. You looked pale."
Her brows lifted, a faint laugh escaping her before she could restrain it — soft and melodic, like the first note of forgotten joy.
"You make it sound like an algorithm for kindness," she teased lightly, though her cheeks warmed, a delicate flush creeping along her pale skin.
He tilted his head slightly — a gesture that might have been confusion or faint amusement, though his expression remained unreadable.
"If that's what it takes for you to drink it, then yes," he replied evenly.
Wen-Li's smile lingered, subdued but sincere. She reached for the flask, her gloved fingers brushing against his hand briefly — just long enough for her to feel the quiet steadiness in his touch, that unspoken discipline forged through countless battles. She took a sip; the flavour burst upon her tongue — sweet, sharp, and grounding, like rediscovering the taste of sunlight after rain.
"It's… refreshing," she said softly, her gaze flickering away, as though afraid her eyes might betray something gentler.
Wen-Mi mewed softly, rubbing against Agent-90's boot, tail flicking in playful gratitude. The man looked down at the small creature, blinking once in mild bewilderment.
"Your cat appears to approve of me," he murmured.
Wen-Li chuckled under her breath, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
"She has a habit of liking emotionally unavailable men."
For a moment — just a fleeting second — his lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but something that lived near it, like an echo from another life.
The two stood there before the glowing cave — her eyes wide with quiet wonder, his gaze cool and vigilant, yet softened by something unspoken. Around them, the chamber seemed to hum in resonance — reacting to the unvoiced emotion that rippled between them. The walls shimmered faintly, their bioluminescent veins pulsing like the heartbeat of an ancient being that understood more than any machine ever could.
And in that silence, beneath the artificial dome that imitated the heavens, something fragile yet profound began to take root — the faint, wordless promise of healing.
But then the Cave of Miracles opened before Wen-Li like the throat of time itself — a living reliquary of light and silence. As she stepped across the glass bridge that arched over a still, mirrored pool, faint motes of golden luminescence rose from beneath her feet, responding to her presence like dust awakened by divinity. The air was thick with serenity — and yet, beneath that quiet, hummed something ancient and sentient, as though the cave itself remembered.
Wen-Li moved deeper inside, her every step a whisper. Agent-90 followed at a measured distance — his boots making no sound upon the smooth crystalline floor. His posture was immaculate, yet his gaze softened, his composure dimly humanised by the ethereal glow of the chamber.
At the heart of the cavern, the walls began to shift — the holographic resonance awakening to her heartbeat. Images coalesced like dew on glass: fleeting, fragile, and yet unbearably vivid. The air shimmered as echoes of her past emerged — refracted through the kaleidoscope of grief and memory.
There — a fragment of her childhood: her father Wen-Luo, bending over her with a smile lined by exhaustion, his hand resting upon her small head. His voice, warm as candlelight, whispered words of reassurance now half-forgotten.
"Truth, my little one, will always burn brighter than those who fear it."
The image flickered — devoured by static. Another followed: her mother's laughter, soft as bells, dissipating into the cold void of the cave's silence. Then — a darker projection.
The gala.
The humiliation.
Her own face, distorted across a thousand voyeuristic screens — the laughter of the crowd echoing like shattered glass.
Her breath hitched sharply. She staggered back a step, one trembling hand clutching her coat to her chest as if to hide a wound that still bled beneath her skin. The holographic light fractured upon her tears, refracting them into shards of colour that danced like ghosts around her.
Agent-90 watched in utter stillness. For a long moment, he said nothing — his figure framed against the light, stoic and inscrutable, yet his eyes — those cold cerulean mirrors — softened into a faint glimmer of empathy. His gloved hand twitched faintly, as though he fought the instinct to reach out.
Finally, his voice broke the hush, calm and steady — a low timbre that carried no command, only quiet concern.
"Are you… okay?"
The question hung in the air like the toll of a distant bell — simple, human, disarming.
Wen-Li turned slightly toward him, blinking through the blur of her tears. Her lips parted, trembling faintly as she struggled to summon composure. The holographic glow bathed her features in spectral radiance, softening the exhaustion beneath her eyes. She inhaled deeply — the breath catching halfway, betraying the fragility of her resolve.
"Yeah…" she murmured, her voice barely more than a sigh. "Yes… I'm fine."
But her tone betrayed her. The words fell apart midway, cracking under the weight of suppressed grief. She turned her gaze away quickly, brushing at her cheek with her sleeve in a futile attempt to disguise the tears glinting there.
The cave responded — the walls dimmed, the resonance shifting into a lower hum, as though respecting her sorrow. Even the mirrored pool grew still, the light within it softening like a candle shielding itself from the wind.
Agent-90 stepped closer — just enough that his shadow fell beside hers. He didn't speak. He simply stood there, presence steady as stone, his expression unreadable but not indifferent. His silence, paradoxically, was a comfort — a wordless assurance that she was not being watched, merely witnessed.
Wen-Mi, sensing the weight in the air, padded between them, brushing her fur against Wen-Li's ankles and mewing softly — a small, living warmth amidst the cavern's solemn grandeur. Wen-Li looked down, her lips quivering into a faint, trembling smile.
"You always know when I'm falling apart," she whispered to the cat, her tone a mixture of ache and gratitude.
Agent-90's gaze softened further. In the refracted light of the cave, the reflection of his eyes looked almost human — not the weaponised calm of an assassin, but the stillness of someone who remembered what compassion once felt like.
He finally said, in a voice quieter than the hum of the chamber,
"Sometimes the past needs to hurt before it fades."
Wen-Li turned her head slightly, meeting his gaze at last. There was no defence in her eyes now, no mask of pride — only the raw, trembling vulnerability of someone rediscovering her strength through the act of breaking.
"And if it never fades?" she asked, barely above a whisper.
He hesitated — then looked away, his jaw tightening imperceptibly.
"Then you learn to live with the echo," he said.
For a long moment, neither spoke. The cave glowed faintly around them — a cathedral of sorrow transmuted into light. And there, beneath the artificial stars of the Serenity Basin, Wen-Li stood not as a fallen Chief, nor a broken woman — but a soul learning, painfully, that even wounds can shimmer if held to the light.
Evening fell upon Echelon Serenity Park like a benediction of light and code. From afar, the adhan drifted across the air — solemn and haunting — the muezzin's voice weaving through the circuitry of the city like incense through steel ribs. The prayer call, ancient and sonorous, reverberated through the chrome towers of the Vector Promenade, merging the sacred and the synthetic. Neon halos crowned the brutalist façades, their edges glimmering with devotional geometry.
The walkways beneath shimmered in luminous veins of sapphire and amethyst, each pulse of light responding to the rhythm of unseen generators and whispered verse. The mechanical drones hovering above had dimmed their surveillance lights, their movements slower now, reverent — as though even machines were listening.
Below, in the Serenity Basin, twilight unfurled like an otherworldly dream. Bioluminescent vines traced their way along glass walls, their tendrils glowing with soft aureate luminescence that kissed the trees in a golden-green sheen. The Lake of Reflection mirrored the vast dome above, where artificial stars flickered with mathematical precision. Luminescent dandelions, their petals like drifting embers, floated upon the water — blooms engineered to awaken only after dusk. Couples and wanderers lingered at the lakeside, whispering small wishes to the holographic koi that shimmered briefly before dissolving into light.
And at the park's heart — like the pulse beneath a serene surface — the Cave of Miracles glowed with living scripture. Cascading holographic verses of ancient tongues rippled across its walls, bending and flowing in harmony with the movement of those who passed. It was said that beneath all the coded reverence, one could still hear the heartbeat of the earth, steady and unbroken — a relic from the age before corruption.
On a quiet stone bench overlooking the lake, Wen-Li sat with Agent-90 beside her. Her coat — the one he had lent her — was draped over her shoulders, its faint scent of rain and iron lingering. Wen-Mi, her snowy cat, sat obediently between them, tail curled like a comma of contentment. Wen-Li sipped from a small bottle of pomegranate juice, her lips tinted faintly ruby under the glimmering light.
Agent-90 sat still, hands clasped loosely over his knees, posture impeccable — his eyes hidden behind his spectacles, reflecting only the cyan gleam of the lake's surface. He looked, as ever, unreadable — an unfeeling sentinel carved from composure itself.
Wen-Li broke the silence first, her tone playfully soft.
"You know, for someone who says nothing, you do manage to look very philosophical," she said, side-glancing at him with a faint smirk.
He turned slightly, just enough that one brow arched behind his spectacles.
"I wasn't aware philosophy required talking," he replied evenly.
She chuckled, the sound small but genuine — like a spark that had forgotten how to burn.
"So you do have humour protocols installed," she teased, swirling the juice bottle idly in her hand. "I was beginning to think you only spoke in mission reports."
"Only when required," he said, deadpan, before adding after a pause — "and when provoked."
That made her laugh — a short, melodic burst that startled a pair of holographic koi in the lake, their forms scattering into pixels. Wen-Mi tilted her head, giving a faint "meow" of approval as if agreeing with the sentiment.
"Provoked?" Wen-Li echoed, eyes gleaming mischievously. "Then what happens if someone provokes you too much?"
He gave a minimal shrug.
"They stop existing."
Her laughter stopped abruptly. She blinked at him — uncertain if he was joking — then caught the faintest ghost of a smirk at the corner of his mouth.
"That's not funny!" she protested, lightly tapping his arm.
"You laughed," he said, tone unflinchingly flat.
"Out of fear, not amusement!"
"Acceptable outcome," he replied.
Her cheeks flushed lightly — part embarrassment, part exasperation. Yet beneath it, a warmth stirred, strange and fragile. There was something disarming about his bluntness — a kind of sincerity that no charm or politeness could mimic.
She turned her gaze back to the lake, watching the petals drift like tiny galaxies across the mirrored surface. For a moment, she wanted to ask something — her lips parted, her heart caught between gratitude and curiosity. But before she could speak, the world fractured.
The explosion came from the upper promenade, its shockwave rolling through the basin like a roar from an angry god. The ground trembled — glass rippled like liquid, drones above scattered in disarray, their lights flaring into warning red.
A plume of fire bloomed against the skyline, mirrored in the lake's reflection — a violent flower unfurling where serenity had reigned only seconds before. The murmurs of the crowd turned to screams. Artificial birds scattered; children cried; the mechanical doves malfunctioned mid-flight, their wings twitching like broken prayers.
Wen-Li's pomegranate bottle fell from her hand, the red juice spilling across the bench — a small echo of the inferno above. Her eyes widened in shock, heart hammering as she turned to him.
"What— what's happening—?" she stammered, her voice trembling.
But Agent-90 was already on his feet, his composure unbroken, movements swift and precise. His gaze darted toward the direction of the blast, his eyes narrowing — sharp and glacial. He reached into his coat, retrieving his compact sidearm with silent efficiency.
"Don't worry, Chief," he said in a calm, unwavering voice as he scanned the horizon. "I won't let anyone harm you."
The vow cut through the chaos like tempered steel — quiet, yet absolute. Wen-Li stared at him, breath caught between fear and trust, the reflection of the burning promenade glinting in her eyes.
Wen-Mi hissed faintly, fur bristling as the wind carried the echo of alarms and sirens. The park — once a temple of peace — now trembled beneath the tremor of coming war.
And beneath the first rain of falling ash, Agent-90 took a step forward — a soldier of silence in a world tearing itself apart — as Wen-Li, trembling, whispered the only prayer she could remember.