The aftermath of the explosion rippled through the once-holy serenity of the park like a desecrated hymn. What had been an evening woven from prayer, circuitry, and tranquil beauty had been ripped apart — the hum of harmony now replaced by the wails of alarm drones and the terrified cries of civilians fleeing through fractured light.
Agent-90 moved through the smoke like a phantom of precision. His eyes — cold, cerulean, and mercilessly analytical — cut through the haze, dissecting chaos into patterns. The smell of burnt ozone clung to the air; fragments of neon glass crunched beneath his boots. Each movement of his was mechanical elegance, the rhythm of a man who had fought too many battles to ever be startled by explosions again.
Behind him, Wen-Li followed — breathless, terrified, yet unyielding — clutching Wen-Mi, her white cat, close against her chest. Her heels struck the marble causeway with hurried rhythm as her coat billowed behind her like a dishevelled shadow. The reflection of emergency lights danced upon her dark hair, shimmering like molten ink. Her voice trembled as she called out:
"Ninety! Wait! Don't go ahead alone—"
But Agent-90 was already on the move, drawn towards the trail of smoke that spiralled over the eastern promenade.
They arrived at Jinshū Bazaar, a sprawling open market pressed between two towering research spires. A chaotic intersection of colour and clangour — where merchants hawked neon-fruits, holographic tapestries, and synth-silk robes beneath the ever-present hum of advertising drones. Yet, amidst the chatter and barter, there was unease. People clustered in whispers, their eyes darting toward the far end where the explosion's echo had left scorch marks upon the gleaming tiles.
Agent-90's gaze sharpened. Through the weave of bodies and holographic stalls, he caught a flicker — a silhouette half swallowed by smoke and neon. A figure in a two-toned tactical jacket — half obsidian black, half neon violet — moving fluidly through the crowd. Their gait was too composed, too deliberate, too quiet for panic. A predator's stride camouflaged by humanity.
His eyes narrowed, and without a word, he began to follow.
Wen-Li stumbled after him, her arms wrapped tightly around her cat, its fur bristling in unease. She weaved through the crowd, her breath uneven, the soft mewls of Wen-Mi merging with the noise of the bazaar.
Finally, she reached him, tugging lightly at his sleeve. Her face glistened faintly with perspiration, strands of hair clinging to her cheek. Her voice cracked between frustration and disbelief:
"What the hell was that, Ninety? You're walking through fire like it's a morning stroll! People could've died!"
Agent-90 didn't flinch. His expression remained unreadable, his voice cold, measured — yet not unkind.
"Someone did this on purpose. I can sense it — the air carries the scent of etheric residue. A Sinner's signature."
Wen-Li frowned, her brow tightening.
"A… Sinner? What do you mean, a Sinner?"
"There's no time, Chief." His tone sharpened, and he scanned the rooftops again. "We need to find the source before another detonation. The energy isn't fully dispersed — that means they've planted more."
Wen-Li bit her lip, swallowing her fear. Her eyes, though trembling, carried a spark of command that hinted at her true nature — the disciplined Chief beneath the trembling woman. She nodded once, resolute.
Then — the voice came.
Soft at first, lilting and almost melodic, floating down from above like the laughter of a trickster deity.
"Come on, come on… Velvet Guillotine…"
Both of them froze. Agent-90's eyes flicked upward, his hand instinctively moving toward his sidearm. Wen-Li followed his gaze, her breath catching in her throat.
Upon the rooftop of the market's central archway stood a feminine silhouette, poised in eerie elegance. A fox mask adorned her face — porcelain-white, edged with faint traces of crimson lacquer that shimmered in the light. Her hair, pale as moonfire, whipped about her shoulders. She stood like a vision from a fevered dream — poised between allure and menace.
Her voice dripped with playful malice.
"How could you lose your touch, Guillotine? Have the petals of your little dandelion softened you?"
At her words, Wen-Li stiffened, instinctively clutching Wen-Mi closer. The mention of "petals" struck like a barb, mocking her humiliation, her very fragility. Her face flushed with fury and shame.
Agent-90 stepped forward, his voice low and cutting like tempered steel.
"Reveal yourself. No more games."
But the fox-masked woman only laughed — a crystalline, dissonant melody. She threw something into the air — not a weapon, but a handful of bioluminescent petals, glowing faintly violet, drifting lazily through the smoke.
"Catch me if you can, Velvet Guillotine. The game's just begun."
And with that, she vanished in a blur — vaulting across the rooftops, her laughter trailing behind like phantom bells.
Wen-Li exhaled shakily, her pulse hammering against her throat.
"Who the hell was that?"
Agent-90's gaze remained fixed upward, his jaw tightening slightly.
"A Tier-Sinner," he muttered. "Her name… is Zhāoyè."
At the name, Wen-Li froze. Her eyes widened with faint recognition — a flicker of something buried in memory.
"Zhāoyè… I've heard that name before. From the reports — the rogue engineer from the Black Division."
Agent-90 nodded grimly.
"Yes. The phantom of illusions. She was presumed dead. But if she's here…"
His gaze swept the crowd once more, eyes scanning every motion.
"We have to move before she strikes again."
Wen-Li's lips tightened in determination, and she shifted Wen-Mi in her arms.
"Then let's find her — before she kills someone else."
Agent-90 inclined his head once, the faintest ghost of approval passing over his features. Together, they disappeared into the shifting sea of neon and shadow, two silhouettes hunting a phantom beneath the fractured sky of Jinshū Bazaar — where faith, fear, and circuitry bled together in perfect discord.
The chaos of Jinshū Bazaar had begun to settle into an eerie, breath-held stillness — like the world itself was waiting for the next tremor. Shattered neon screens flickered across the stalls, their fractured advertisements bleeding blue and pink light over the slick, rain-streaked pavement. The murmurs of frightened civilians echoed through the alleys, dissolving into the rhythmic hiss of cooling metal and the faint hum of surveillance drones circling above like patient vultures.
Agent-90 stood still amidst the turmoil, a motionless pillar in the swirl of confusion. The electric glow gleamed against his damp white shirt, clinging to his frame like a second skin. His eyes — those cold, analytical cerulean mirrors — darted through the restless crowd with mechanical precision, dissecting every twitch, every whisper, every shadow that dared to move.
Then, without a word, he raised his wrist.
The chronometric interface on his watch pulsed once — a low, resonant hum vibrating through the air, as though reality itself had inhaled. He pressed a recessed obsidian button on its rim. At once, a holographic scan wave burst outward from the device — expanding in concentric circles of pale blue light. The wave swept through the bazaar like ripples across water, passing over walls, humans, machines, and even the restless smoke.
Every object it touched flickered briefly — outlines rendered in ghostly wireframe projections. Stalls, holographic koi, fragments of architecture — all illuminated in spectral geometry before fading back into shadow. The scan's resonance made Wen-Li's hair lift slightly, like static meeting silk. She blinked in awe, holding Wen-Mi a little closer to her chest.
The watch's screen reconfigured, projecting a radar interface that spun in steady rotations. Flecks of light danced upon it — data fragments, heat signatures, and encrypted anomalies. Then, amidst the chaos, one pulsing crimson dot appeared — faint, but distinct. Moving.
Agent-90's pupils constricted; his jaw tightened. His voice, when he spoke, was low but unwavering, a cold thread of composure drawn through the storm.
"Found her."
Wen-Li leaned closer, her breath catching against the metallic hum of his device.
"Where?" she asked, her tone edged with a mixture of fear and determination.
He turned his wrist slightly so the dim holographic display shimmered across her face — the crimson signal blinking faintly within the labyrinthine map of the bazaar's east corridor.
"She's heading toward the Raku-Stair District," he said, the name rolling off his tongue like a coded warning. "A perfect place for a trap."
Without hesitation, he stepped forward — movements sharp and disciplined, like a blade cutting through fog. His boots struck the slick pavement in rhythmic confidence, splashing through puddles glowing with reflected neon.
Wen-Li, still catching her breath, followed behind him with surprising swiftness. Her long coat fluttered behind her like a dark banner, and Wen-Mi meowed softly, unsettled by the tension saturating the air. She stumbled once over a fallen market sign, regaining her balance with a small gasp.
"Wait— Ninety, slow down! You can't just—"
He turned his head briefly, eyes glinting beneath the dim streetlight.
"Stay close, Chief. She's fast — but I'm faster."
The faintest ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips — not arrogance, but the quiet assurance of a predator who had hunted in darker jungles than this.
For a heartbeat, Wen-Li froze — watching him stride ahead, his figure framed against the shifting haze of violet light and falling rain. Her pulse quickened; she could feel the weight of destiny converging like thunderclouds above them.
"Alright then," she muttered under her breath, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she started after him. "Let's see if the 'Velvet Guillotine' still lives up to his reputation."
And with that, she broke into a run — her silhouette merging with his under the flickering signs of the bazaar, two shadows threading through the veins of a dying city.
The holographic radar on Agent-90's wrist pulsed again, sharper now, the crimson dot racing toward the east.
Zhāoyè was near.
The hunt had begun.
The Raku-Stair District — a vertical labyrinth of shattered neon, suspended bridges, and flickering advertisements — sprawled ahead like the innards of a mechanical beast. The air was perfumed with oil, rain, and smoke, tangled in the pulse of artificial lights that quivered along the glass towers. Each level of the district wound upward like the ribcage of a dying leviathan, its metallic bones humming with the residue of static energy.
Agent-90 moved through it with mechanical precision — every step measured, every breath timed to the rhythm of pursuit. His eyes flicked between the holographic pulse on his wristwatch and the maze of corridors ahead, his mind parsing distances, angles, and probabilities as though his body itself were an algorithm.
Behind him, Wen-Li ran with surprising determination, though her breath came raggedly. Her cat, Wen-Mi, clung to her shoulder, tail puffed in instinctive alarm. Her shoes splashed against the damp steel flooring as she followed the faint silhouette of the man before her — that unwavering phantom of purpose who seemed half-human, half-myth.
The crimson dot on Agent-90's radar blinked faster — like a heartbeat quickening with anticipation.
"She's close," he muttered, his voice a low thrum of control beneath the thunder of distant machinery.
Then — a flicker.
The neon lights along the upper struts began to distort. Their reflections multiplied, stretching like liquid glass across the air itself. The alleyway seemed to split — walls folding inward, sky turning into mirrored panes.
Wen-Li slowed, eyes wide.
"Ninety— something's wrong—"
But before she could finish, the ground beneath them rippled like a disturbed pond. The world twisted.
The two of them were swallowed by the light.
When Wen-Li opened her eyes, she was standing inside a hall of mirrors — infinite corridors spiralling outward in fractal perfection. Her reflection stared back a thousand times over — a spectral army of herself, each bearing a slightly different expression of fear.
The mirrored walls shifted subtly, warping her own image — sometimes older, sometimes younger, sometimes utterly broken. Her heartbeat echoed unnaturally, like it was being recorded and played back in fragments.
"Ninety?" she called out, voice trembling, reverberating endlessly. "Where are you?"
No answer came. Only the whisper of her own breath bouncing between the walls.
And then — the soft click of boots.
From the reflection ahead emerged Zhāoyè — or rather, dozens of her, multiplying across the mirrored maze. She stepped forward, real and unreal at once — her two-toned tactical jacket, half obsidian black and half neon violet, caught the fractured light like a living paradox. The fox mask hung loosely to one side of her face, its glowing streaks pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat.
Her smoky silver hair shimmered faint lavender under the maze's refracted light. Her gaze — amber fading slowly into glacial violet — fixed upon Wen-Li with clinical amusement.
"Oh, Wen-Li…" Zhāoyè's voice came like a song hummed through broken glass — soft, beautiful, and venomous. "You've become a living spectacle, haven't you? The woman the whole network watched cry, beg, break. Such poetry in humiliation."
She tilted her head, the mask catching the faintest echo of laughter.
"Did it hurt? When they peeled your dignity off in pixels? When strangers turned your pain into their nightly entertainment?"
Wen-Li's breath caught — fury eclipsing the fear in her veins. Her fingers clenched until her knuckles whitened.
"Enough…" she whispered, her voice trembling at first — then rising, sharp as broken crystal. "Enough!"
From her wrist flared the Crimson Shackle — a psychic construct shaped from her latent neural resonance. The air vibrated violently as the chain of scarlet light erupted from her palm, its ethereal coils cracking like thunder.
Zhāoyè only smiled, serene and unbothered, as she drew her Twin Pulse Daggers — Dawn and Dusk. Their blades shimmered between tangible steel and raw energy, resonating with the pulse of her nerves.
With fluid elegance, she closed the distance — a blur of motion, a flicker of violet. Before Wen-Li could strike, Zhāoyè plunged Dusk into her abdomen.
The sound was sickening — a wet, gut-wrenching puncture, followed by the slow, deliberate twist of the blade.
Wen-Li gasped, a choked cry torn from her lips as she collapsed to one knee, her other hand clutching the wound. Blood welled between her fingers, dark and glistening under the mirrored light.
Zhāoyè leaned close, her lips grazing Wen-Li's ear as she whispered in that lilting, melodic tone:
"Mercy is for the untouched. You… are neither."
But before she could withdraw, a feral shriek erupted.
Wen-Mi, eyes blazing with protective fury, leapt onto Zhāoyè's leg — claws tearing through fabric, fangs sinking deep into flesh. Zhāoyè screamed — the sound sharp and discordant, echoing through the mirrored halls. She stumbled, kicking violently as Wen-Mi clung on, relentless.
"Nice try, cat," she hissed, raising her other dagger—
A muted gunshot sliced the air.
The impact struck her wrist; the blade spun free, clattering against the mirrored floor. Sparks flew.
Agent-90 stepped out from the distortion — his silenced pistol, Phantom Blade, still smoking faintly. His face was carved in cold precision, eyes gleaming like winter steel.
"Step away from her," he said quietly, but the chill in his tone could have frozen fire.
Zhāoyè's expression twisted — not fear, but exhilaration. She smirked, half-bloodied, half-divine.
"Before you catch me, Velvet Guillotine," she sneered, straightening with unnatural poise, "you should know… that explosion wasn't mine."
Wen-Li coughed, crimson staining her lips.
"Then… who?" she rasped.
Zhāoyè's grin widened beneath the half-mask.
"The King of Beggars. The one they all pretend doesn't exist. He's the puppeteer behind tonight's theatre."
Agent-90's jaw tightened, unreadable. Wen-Li's eyes widened at the name — recognition flickering like lightning through her pained expression.
"So," she gasped, "the High Chaebols sent you…"
"Yes," Zhāoyè replied simply — a confession and a curse.
Before Agent-90 could fire again, she moved — her form dissolving into a flurry of mirrored projections, her laughter ricocheting across the maze. The bullet grazed a reflection, shattering glass into spectral dust as she vanished into the distortion, her voice echoing like the taunt of a phantom.
"Catch me if you can, Guillotine…"
Silence reclaimed the maze.
Agent-90 holstered his weapon and strode to Wen-Li, his movements stripped of hesitation. Without a word, he knelt, slipping one arm beneath her knees and the other around her shoulders.
Her blood smeared faintly against his white shirt, but his expression did not waver. His face was unreadable — yet behind his impassive eyes lay something quieter: a grief restrained by duty.
Wen-Mi followed closely, tail low but eyes defiant, pacing beside them as Agent-90 carried Wen-Li through the mirrored exit — his silhouette reflecting endlessly in broken glass, like a knight bearing his wounded queen through the ruins of a war waged in silence.
Outside, the city lights shimmered dimly through the rain, and the distant sirens of Shin-Zhang Corporation's drones echoed above.
Agent-90 walked on — silent, stoic, unwavering — as Wen-Li's blood traced small, dark constellations down his sleeve.
They were heading home.
To the Shin-Zhang Corporation.