*Warning: This chapter contains gore and violence that it might disturb some readers. Readers Advised
Night at the Black Castle was a thing fashioned from myth and malediction. The corridors breathed with cold, airless silence; the walls, obsidian plates fitted with monolithic precision, devoured the light rather than reflected it. Only one object was permitted to gleam:
The Black Rose.
Suspended within a glass reliquary behind Lady Sin's desk, its midnight petals glistened with a metallic sheen as though lubricated by moonlight itself.
The hydraulic door sighed open, allowing a thin blade of pallid light to intrude. Zoyah stepped through, her silhouette cutting a delicate line against the gloom.
She kneeled.
"My Lady… I have returned. The intel you sought has been retrieved,
and the message delivered to Zhāoyè—exactly as you commanded."
Her voice trembled ever so slightly not with fear, but with that instinctual reverence predators feel toward greater predators.
Lady Sin did not immediately acknowledge her.
She remained seated in languid elegance, one leg crossed over the other, her posture an effortless portrait of aristocratic menace. With slow, unhurried movements, she turned the crystalline case containing the Black Rose, letting its shadow ripple across her fingertips like ink.
Then—finally—she spoke.
"Rise, Zoyah."
Her voice was low, velvety, and yet as lethal as a stiletto hidden in satin.
Zoyah stood, head bowed.
Lady Sin's crimson eyes glowed faintly like twin predators reclining in the dark, waiting for something warm and breakable.
"So," she murmured, brushing a petal with a languid caress, "the King of Beggars has fallen."
Zoyah's breath caught.
"F–fallen, my Lady?"
Lady Sin smiled—a slow, carnivorous unfurling of lips that implied nothing human.
"Yes, Zoyah. Léopold Parent lies in pieces beneath the city."
Zoyah stiffened, eyes widening in involuntary shock.
Lady Sin's gaze sharpened, amused by her reaction.
"Do you know who felled him?"
Zoyah swallowed.
"No, my Lady."
Lady Sin leaned forward, the moonlight tracing the curve of her cheekbone like a blade.
"Velvet Guillotine."
The name alone shifted the atmosphere—the room suddenly colder, denser, as if exhaling an ancient omen.
Zoyah's pupils constricted.
"He… he killed the King?"
Lady Sin chuckled softly—
elegant, chilling, indulgent.
"Velvet Guillotine is no mere man, Zoyah. He is an aberration masquerading in human flesh—a creature carved from the sins of the world. A monster refined, distilled, perfected."
Her fingers tapped the glass of the Black Rose—a predator's heart tapping the walls of its cage.
Then she rose.
Her silhouette towered like a gothic statue come alive, her steps serene, serpentine, sovereign.
She approached Zoyah until they stood only inches apart, the scent of winter jasmine and steel drifting from her like a quiet warning.
"You will observe him.
Study him.
Do not interfere."
Her voice dropped to a whisper colder than the moonlight.
"For now, simply watch the monster walk."
She turned away, returning to her throne of shadow.
"You may leave."
Zoyah bowed deeply, relief and awe mixing across her face like trembling water.
"As you command, my Lady."
She turned the door opening with a soft hydraulic sigh—and stepped back into the thin sliver of light.
Lady Sin watched her go. Her crimson eyes gleamed.
And the Black Rose behind her pulsed, for a moment, as though it could breathe.
Zoyah strode down the obsidian hallway, her boots tapping with soldierly precision—still recovering from the frost that Lady Sin's presence had deposited in her bones.
Halfway down the corridor, a figure leaned casually against the wall:
Bai-Yu, all calm composure and razor-edged poise, arms folded, Nin-Yan sword at her hip.
Her quetzal-green ponytail shimmered under the corridor lights like an emerald serpent poised to strike.
Bai-Yu raised an eyebrow.
" You look as though someone's just told you the moon filed for resignation. What's with the funereal face?"
Zoyah exhaled sharply.
"If you stood ten seconds in Lady Sin's shadow, you'd look like this as well."
Bai-Yu's expression twitched—annoyance mixed with intrigue.
"Tch. Don't tell me she asked about Zhāoyè again. That woman's name gets tossed around here like an over-worn proverb."
Zoyah rubbed her temple as they began walking.
"Worse. She told me Velvet Guillotine slaughtered the King of Beggars."
Bai-Yu blinked once.
Twice.
Then muttered:
"Oh splendid. As if we needed another unpredictable lunatic traipsing around the city."
Zoyah shrugged with helpless sarcasm.
"Apparently he's not a lunatic. He's a 'refined aberration'."
Bai-Yu snorted.
"Ah yes. Nothing says refinement like dismemberment."
They continued walking—until an almighty roar shattered the corridor's solemnity:
"OH YEAHHHHH! I NAILED IT!"
Both women jumped slightly.
Inside the recreation chamber, chaos reigned supreme.
Wolverine—a colossal slab of a man with eyes like caffeinated wolves—was on his feet, fist pumping triumphantly.
"Don, you cunning gremlin—LOOK AT THIS! I destroyed your entire bloodline with one—UNO REVERSE!"
Don, ever the composed strategist, didn't flinch. His sharp gaze flickered.
"You didn't 'destroy' anything, you thoracic buffoon. You merely prolonged the inevitable nature of your defeat."
Rahu sat between them, ethereal and terrifying, her voice smooth as velvet dipped in venom.
"If you two don't shut up, I shall hex both your decks so every card is a Draw Four."
Wolverine gasped.
Don stiffened.
They immediately resumed play with religious silence.
Wolverine slid a card.
Don slid a card back.
Both raised their cards in each other's faces like duelists.
Rahu, bored, had begun levitating her cards in a lazy orbit around her head, humming ominously.
Zoyah pressed a hand to her lips to stifle her laughter—her shoulders trembling.
Wolverine caught sight of her.
"Oi! What're you snickering at? You got something funny to share with the class?"
Before Zoyah could reply, Bai-Yu stepped forward, deadpan and merciless.
"She's laughing at the fact that two grown men are losing to a woman who's not even using her hands."
Rahu smirked, letting her cards drift like malevolent butterflies.
Wolverine blinked.
Don sighed.
Both resumed playing with wounded pride.
Just then—
Clink. Clank. Snip.
Someone approached with the sound of steel brushing steel.
Adela Young emerged from the side door, her periwinkle hair messy and chopped as though she'd fought three windstorms and a pair of scissors. Her long scissor-sword rested on her shoulder like a threatening fashion accessory.
Her scarred face was stern—until she grinned widely.
"Oh brilliant. The circus is in session. Anyone need a haircut while losing at Uno? I'm doing trims for free if you promise not to bleed on my shoes."
Wolverine recoiled.
"NO. Last time you 'trimmed' me, I looked like a drought-stricken alpaca."
Adela shrugged with exaggerated innocence.
"You moved."
Don chimed in dryly:
"He sneezed, Adela."
Adela waved her scissors dismissively.
"Details. Hair is art, and art is violence."
Rahu chuckled. Zoyah finally broke into a full smirk. Bai-Yu sighed—already regretting stopping here.
Adela rested her blade on her shoulder, smirking at Zoyah.
"So, what's the gossip? Someone die? Someone cry? Someone make a mess we'll all be blamed for?"
Zoyah deadpanned:
"Yes."
Adela froze.
Wolverine froze.
Don froze.
Rahu's cards stopped orbiting.
Zoyah added casually:
"Léopold Parent."
The room erupted—
Wolverine screamed "WHAT?!"
Don dropped his cards.
Rahu whispered, "Oh… splendid."
Adela muttered, "I knew it. This week was too quiet."
Zoyah sighed.
Bai-Yu pinched the bridge of her nose.
And somewhere deep in the castle, a distant rumble echoed—as though the world itself had felt the shift.
The infirmary was quiet—clinical white softened by a gentle hum of machines. Wen-Li lay on the bed, her long black silk hair spilling over the pillow like a midnight waterfall. Her breathing steadied. The faint scent of antiseptic mingled with warm linen.
Her eyelashes trembled— then lifted.
Her eyes slowly opened, soft, hazy amber catching the LED light.
Madam Di-Xian, sitting beside her, immediately leaned forward, relief loosening her rigid posture.
"Thank God… you're safe."
Her voice—usually steel-bound—wavered faintly.
Wen-Li blinked once, then managed a small, genuine smile.
Her voice was warm, delicate, grateful in a way that softened even the air around her.
"Thank you… Madam Di-Xian. Truly. I owe you… all of you."
Alvi, standing primly at the bedside with her clipboard, adjusted her spectacles with a light tap. Her black hijab shimmered beneath the LED glow, creating a halo-like impression around her resolute features.
Madam Di-Xian turned to her.
"What's the status of her health?"
Alvi straightened, professional yet visibly relieved.
"Her vitals stabilised within the last hour, Chief. The wound has been cleansed, treated, and sealed. She will recover soon—no permanent damage expected."
Her tone was calm yet affectionate, as if she had personally wrestled injury itself into submission.
Wen-Li exhaled softly, a hand drifting to her bandaged abdomen.
Her gaze shifted, searching the room.
"Where… is Ninety?"
Madam Di-Xian folded her arms.
"He went on a mission."
Wen-Li frowned, worry creasing her delicate brow.
"What mission? To confront Zhāoyè?"
Madam Di-Xian shook her head.
"No. He went to Under-Narúm. To face the King of Beggars."
Wen-Li's head snapped slightly, confusion and dread mixing.
"All of a sudden… why are you asking about Zhāoyè?"
Wen-Li hesitated.
Her eyes lowered, lashes trembling like fragile feathers.
"I thought he had gone after her… to finish her… after what she did to me. But… luckily he didn't. At least not yet."
There was a strange twinge in her expression—fear, anger, and something unspoken.
Then, more quietly:
"But why would he go after the King of Beggars… Léopold Parent?"
Madam Di-Xian inhaled through her nose, her expression solemn.
"Because Léopold is the one who orchestrated the explosion at Echelon Serenity Park. And because he may know the truth behind Ninety's past."
Wen-Li's eyes widened— hurt, fear, and dawning understanding blooming like a bruise.
Before she could speak, the infirmary door burst open.
Hella, Hecate, Farhan, Masud, Roy, Elara, and Jun spilled into the room in a mismatched parade of concern, awkwardness, and mild terror.
Wen-Mi, the small feline terror, pranced proudly at the front—tail high, eyes sparkling with imperial mischief.
The moment the cat saw Wen-Li—
it let out a delighted chirrup.
Wen-Li's face lit up, joy softening her entire posture.
She reached out weakly as Wen-Mi leapt gracefully onto her stomach, nuzzling her cheek, pawing at her face with affectionate triumph.
"There you are, sweetheart…" she murmured, rubbing her face gently against the cat's soft fur.
Then she looked up at the others with a sheepish smile.
"I hope she didn't trouble you."
Every agent froze.
Farhan's smile twitched.
Masud looked traumatised.
Roy pretended to admire the ceiling.
Hecate and Hella exchanged glances that screamed survival instincts.
Elara alone remained silent, deadpan, watching the chaos like a documentary narrator who had given up.
Jun opened his mouth—
"I will not—"
Farhan subtly stepped on his foot.
Jun yelped.
Wen-Li frowned.
"You will not… what?"
Farhan cleared his throat, choosing words carefully.
"…We will not… lie to you, Chief. Your cat is… erm… spirited. Very spirited."
Masud nodded vigorously.
Roy added with a cracked voice:
"She climbs walls. Like… actual walls."
Wen-Li stifled a laugh, then turned warmly to Hella and Hecate.
"Thank you—truly. For taking care of Wen-Mi. I hope you've both found a place here that makes you happy. You deserve it."
Hella flushed slightly.
Hecate gave a shy nod.
Both murmured:
"Thank you, Chief."
Before the atmosphere could soften further—
A sudden roar of an engine echoed through the parking bay below, vibrating through the floor like thunder.
Jun smirked, pushing his glasses up dramatically.
"Oh look—our main protagonist has arrived."
Everyone turned toward the window.
Wen-Li's heart skipped.
Madam Di-Xian's jaw tightened.
Elara's eyes narrowed in calculation.
And Wen-Mi perked up, tail flicking like a tiny banner of doom.
Agent-90 returned.
However, night draped itself over the Black Castle like an obsidian mantle.
Far below, the city pulsed— a vast electric tapestry of neon arteries, smouldering chimneys, spectral billboards, and drifting smog that glowed faintly like dying embers.
The skyline shimmered with a decadent, almost poisonous beauty crimson lights blinking like warning sigils, sapphire floodlights carving geometric blades through the smog, amber lanterns quivering along the lower districts like fireflies trapped in glass jars.
Under this shimmering pandemonium, the city looked alive—breathing, whispering, conspiring.
Zoyah stood on the balcony, her silhouette silvered by moonlight.
Her long, flowing silver-white hair caught the breeze and shimmered like liquid moonbeams, strands whipping around her like a restless halo. Her sharp steel-blue eyes glowed faintly in the shadows, reflecting both the city's chaos and her own simmering disquiet.
Her breath fogged lightly in the cold night air as she exhaled a weary sigh.
"This city… forever rotting beneath its glitter."
Her voice carried a melancholic bite— half lament, half contempt.
A voice—deep, male, smooth as polished obsidian—answered.
"Quite true—beautiful from afar, malignant up close."
Zoyah stiffened.
Her head snapped sideways, eyes sharpening like drawn blades.
"Who is it?"
A soft laugh followed— too controlled, too knowing.
"Merely someone who finds your cynicism… refreshing."
Zoyah looked upward with predatory swiftness.
A lone figure sat crouched upon the stone beam above her— draped entirely in black, almost part of the darkness itself. Only the subtle glint of metal on his attire betrayed that he was flesh and not shadow.
Her muscles coiled immediately.
In one fluid, trained movement, she summoned her weapon— Xhaeyra, the scythe of death and dominion. The weapon unfurled a dark metallic staff, obsidian-polished, erupting into twin crescent blades wreathed in incandescent azure plasma. The flames hissed and swirled—half ghost, half starfire—etching sigils of death in the air.
Zoyah's stance shifted—the same stance that had butchered warlords and silenced traitors.
Her voice dropped into lethal command.
"Identify yourself."
The figure didn't answer with name or fear.
Only motion.
He dropped.
Not with a thud— but with a silent, predatory descent, like gravity itself obeyed him reluctantly.
Zoyah swerved aside, blade raised to cleave.
But he was faster.
In a blur— a black streak of terrifying precision— he lunged and pinned her against the cold stone wall.
Both of her arms were caught in his iron grip, his black gloves pressing firmly against her wrists.
Her heartbeat spiked.
Her breath hitched.
Her pupils dilated in a mixture of shock, fury, and something she refused to name.
"Release me—"
she hissed.
He leaned closer; the moonlight caught the faint outline of his face— a jawline she knew, a presence she remembered even if she didn't want to.
A half-smile cut across his shadowed lips.
"Recognise me now… my lady?"
Her breath froze. Her eyes snapped wide, her pulse slamming in her throat.
The flicker of his features— the voice underneath— the unmistakable aura of danger she had encountered once long ago—her voice cracked with shock.
"Y–You?!"
He tilted his head, amused, his tone a dark caress.
"It has been a while."
Before she could retort— before she could push, strike, or question—he vanished.
Not ran. Not leapt.
Vanished. Like a candle extinguished by an invisible hand.
Zoyah staggered forward, freed abruptly, palms touching the cold stone as her breath came in sharp, uneven pulses.
Her silver hair whipped wildly in the wind as she steadied herself.
Her voice trembled— not from fear, but from the sheer implausibility of what she had witnessed.
"How…? How are you still alive?"
Her heart hammered violently— not from battle, but from a truth she knew would return to haunt every shadow of the kingdom.
The infirmary door hissed open.
Agent-90 stepped inside— silent, rigid, a silhouette carved from exhaustion and violence.
But what arrested every gaze was the blood.
His Victorian-esque coat was drenched in it—dark maroon stains dried in spiralling patterns across the fabric, as though he had walked through a storm of death. His gloves bore smears of scarlet. Even the rim of his hood still dripped faintly.
The room froze.
Farhan's jaw unhinged.
Masud's eyes widened like saucers.
Roy squeaked something unintelligible.
Jun blinked twice and muttered, "Bloody hell…"
Elara covered her mouth with a trembling hand.
Hella and Hecate's faces blanched— a rare moment where even former Sinners looked unsettled.
Wen-Li, propped weakly on her pillows, saw him and felt her breath catch. Not out of fear— but because she could sense the carnage written on him like calligraphy.
Madam Di-Xian cleared her throat sharply.
It sliced through the stunned silence like a bell toll.
"All of you—out. Now."
Their reactions were immediate and comical:
Farhan yawned so abruptly it looked like his soul tried escaping. Masud staggered slightly, sleep-deprived and disoriented. Roy stumbled into Jun, who shoved him aside half-asleep. Hella stretched like a cat, yawning with murderous elegance. Hecate nearly bumped into the medical tray, muttering curses under her breath. Elara simply bowed politely, though her eyelids drooped like heavy curtains.
One by one, they shuffled out— a parade of exhausted idiots, half-limping, half-sleepwalking.
Madam Di-Xian lingered by the door.
Her eyes softened just briefly upon Wen-Li, then hardened into maternal steel as she addressed Agent-90.
"Ninety. Look after her."
He nodded once, curtly; his glasses caught the pale dawn light, turning the lenses into opaque mirrors.
Madam Di-Xian left.
The door was sealed.
Silence swelled—soft, intimate, broken only by the faint hum of medical monitors.
Agent-90 turned towards Wen-Li.
She cradled Wen-Mi gently against her stomach; the cat purred with delicate devotion, nuzzling into her hand as she stroked her.
Finally, she spoke.
"So… how was your mission?"
He answered without flourish.
"Yeah. Finished."
She nodded, her silk-black hair shimmering under the infirmary lights.
Then softly, carefully, almost timidly—
"Did you… find what you were looking for?"
His jaw tightened.
"Found enough."
A strange heaviness settled in the air.
He hesitated, then asked in an almost uncharacteristically quiet tone:
"You've heard about me. Right?"
Wen-Li lowered her gaze, then raised it again— eyes gentle, warm, unflinchingly sincere.
"Yes… but—"
She smiled. A small, fragile, heartfelt smile— soft as melting snowwater.
"Thank you… for everything."
Agent-90 stared.
No shift of expression. No flicker of embarrassment. No trace of emotion. Just an unreadable mask.
"…What for?"
Her cheeks warmed slightly.
"You know… saving me. Staying. Not letting me die alone."
He swallowed something invisible. Something heavy.
Then nodded.
"Take a rest. We'll proceed tomorrow."
Wen-Li watched him.
Her heart clenched softly— a knot of gratitude, fear, and something unnamed.
She parted her lips, desperate to speak. To ask him. To tell him she wanted justice for her parents. That she needed his help. That vengeance still burned in her chest like a forbidden prayer.
But before she could utter anything—
Agent-90 fell asleep.
Just like that.
Sitting upright in the infirmary chair, back ramrod straight, head slightly tilted forward. As if his body simply shut down after holding itself together for too long.
Wen-Li blinked.
Then bit her lip.
Then laughed— very softly, almost silently—a tiny involuntary sound of disbelief and affection.
"You absolute… machine…"
She whispered it fondly.
Her expression softened—eyes shining with quiet emotion—as she looked at him slumped in that rigid, exhausted pose.
She settled back against her pillow, her hand resting lightly on her forehead.
Her voice trembled with distant worry.
"I wonder how everything is going at SSCBF…"
Images flickered in her mind— Nightingale's calm severity, Lan Qian's steadfast loyalty, Captain Lingaong Xuein's intimidating precision, Robert's warm, dependable presence, and all the others she had left behind.
Her heart ached.
"…Please let them be safe."
She closed her eyes as dawn's first golden ray spilled timidly into the room— illuminating her, him, and the fragile moment suspended between them.
"Then at 9:30 am The morning hum of SSCBF HQ was a symphony of quiet industry—
keyboards clattering like metallic rain, holo-screens flickering with spectral blue runes, and the distant thrum of communication relays echoing through the steel corridors.
Yet beneath that disciplined façade lay an air of reticence, a tension woven into the very ventilation vents, for a certain presence— a certain warmth— was no longer among them.
Nightingale stood at the central operations dais, elbows braced against the edge of her holographic console. Her tactical gear—dark, structured, efficient—hugged her form like armour carved from winter's breath. The modular vest across her torso was packed with pouches; her fingerless gloves tapped against the glowing interface with a rhythm that matched the beat of her analytical mind.
Her long, silvery–aqua ponytail cascaded behind her like a frozen waterfall, shimmering each time she moved. But today…her eyes—normally sharp turquoise blades—were unfocused.
She was staring through the holographic schematics.
Not at them.
Her lips parted slightly. Her cheeks… flushed.
A faint, traitorous tint of rose brushed across her pale skin.
Because her mind replayed that night. The gala. The lights. And those voyeuristic holographic projections—the humiliating spectacle forced upon Chief Wen-Li.
Images she never wished to recall yet could not expunge.
Her throat constricted with quiet worry.
Chief… where are you now?
And why does it feel as though we've lost more than just an officer?
She clenched her jaw.
At the opposite workstation, Lan Qian stood immersed in a luminous cascade of data. Her double-breasted military jacket resembled a ceremonial coat married with cybernetics—black fabric traced with shifting neon-blue circuitry that pulsed like a living organism. Her visor streamed coded sigils across her lenses.
Her gloved fingers flicked through holographic panels, rearranging encryption sequences with a virtuoso's precision.
Yet despite her clinical focus, she noticed Nightingale's stillness.
She turned her head slightly, voice quiet but laced with concern.
"Nightingale… are you feeling unwell?"
She jolted faintly—an almost imperceptible twitch, as if pulled from reverie.
Her cheeks warmed a degree further.
"I— I'm quite fine, Lan Qian."
But she wasn't.
Her gaze slipped downward.
"…It's just Wen-Li."
Her voice turned hushed, nearly a whisper meant for the shadows.
"She won't return. Not after what they did to her dignity. I… failed to protect her."
Her fingers tightened on the console edge, knuckles pale beneath the gloves.
Lan Qian lowered her visor slightly, allowing Nightingale to see her eyes—cool yet kind.
"You did not fail. She was betrayed by the system, not by you."
Her tone was steady, calm, and almost sisterly.
From across the room, Captain Lingaong Xuein—draped in her dramatic black uniform, red-lined mantle flowing like a war-banner—raised her gaze from the mountain of reports she was reviewing.
Her voice cut through the air with the sharpness of a sabre.
"Chief Wen-Li's absence is a detriment to morale—and discipline. But she is not so frail that a single ordeal will destroy her."
She tapped her black-gloved fingers against her clipboard.
"Mark my words. She will rise again."
Her red eyes glinted with something like admiration.
Meanwhile, Captain Robert—broad-shouldered, wearing his dark overcoat and tactical vest—looked up from cleaning and recalibrating a disassembled rifle spread meticulously over his desk.
His amber eyes softened.
"Wen-Li brought life to this place."
"She made even this steel-cased citadel feel… human."
He paused, wiping the last trace of oil from the weapon.
"Now it feels like we're living under constant surveillance."
The others nodded in quiet agreement.
A hollow truth filled the room—
Wen-Li's gentle presence had been the unseen warmth of SSCBF.
Her absence left only the cold.
Silence reigned for a moment.
A silence full of ghosts.
The doors slid open with a mechanical sigh as Commander Krieg strode in, his boots striking the floor with the subdued authority of a seasoned veteran.
His sharp eyes scanned the room.
"Status report."
Lan Qian adjusted her data visor.
"Operational patterns remain stable. Patrol sectors seventy-six through eighty-one are secure. No major hostilities reported."
Krieg nodded.
"Good."
He inhaled—
as if preparing to say something more, something heavier—
but stopped.
A beat of hesitation flickered in his eyes.
He looked away.
"…Well. Keep it up. High priority shift protocols will commence soon."
He diverted the topic so abruptly that even the air felt startled.
Robert narrowed his eyes suspiciously
but held his tongue.
Something wasn't right.
Everyone could feel it.
Suddenly the overhead speakers crackled, then boomed:
"DR. ABRAR FAIYAZ! PLEASE REPORT TO THE C.E.O.'S OFFICE IMMEDIATELY."
The entire room froze.
Lan Qian's brows shot up.
"Dr. Abrar? What trouble did he wander into this time?"
Nightingale's eyes narrowed with unease.
Lingyao Xuein folded her arms behind her back, cloak shifting ominously.
Robert exhaled sharply.
Commander Krieg clicked his tongue.
"Let's see what the C.E.O. wants with him now. Man hasn't even committed a misdemeanor."
He shook his head slowly.
"Something is brewing… and I don't like its scent."
The atmosphere thickened— a quiet storm gathering in the steel bones of the headquarters.
SSCBF felt on the cusp of revelation.
A revelation tied to Wen-Li.
To Agent-90.
To the unseen hands pulling the strings.
And none of them were ready.
The C.E.O.'s office was colder than most morgues Dr. Abrar had worked in—
a cavern of glass, steel, and sterile illumination. The lights glimmered off the obsidian floors like reflections in a polished sarcophagus.
A single voice broke the silence.
"Enter."
Zhang Ji's tone, smooth as lacquer yet sharp enough to draw blood, sailed through the door.
Dr. Abrar inhaled once—steady, cautious—and stepped inside. His coat swayed behind him like a physician's cape, though at that moment it felt more like a funeral shroud.
He cleared his throat.
"Sir… you called for me?"
Zhang Ji reclined in his chair at first—elegant, smug, fingers interlaced like a spider observing prey. Then he straightened.
"Yes, Dr. Abrar."
He paused. Too long. Too deliberate. Like he savoured the moment.
"There is something I want to speak to you about and that…"
Another theatrical pause.
"…you're fired."
His entire face slackened— eyes widening, lips parting, colour draining. A man who had examined cadavers for two decades suddenly resembled one.
"F–Fired? Why, sir? What have I done?"
His voice trembled slightly, though he tried to stand straight.
Zhang Ji heaved a dramatic sigh, rubbing his temple.
"Well…"
He cleared his throat with exaggerated civility.
"You killed Vanguard in your experiment. Do you truly not know?"
Abrar blinked rapidly.
"Sir—that matter was resolved long ago. I was proven innocent. And you were fully aware that Zhai Linyu orchestrated everything."
Zhang Ji shrugged.
A heartless gesture.
One that dismissed entire tragedies as trifles.
"Yes, yes. Zhai Linyu turned into a monstrous abomination and had to be put down by our organisation—Agent-90 included—for saving that lustful Chief…"
He waved dismissively.
"…what was her name? Wen-Li."
Abrar flinched at the derogatory tone.
Zhang Ji continued without remorse:
"She rescued your reputation, mind you. Without her statements, your career would've been in the crematorium by now."
His lips curled faintly.
"Besides, you were a dedicated worker. Excellent with autopsies. Admirable with forensic reconstructions."
Abrar's nostrils flared.
"Yet you will still blame me for Vanguard's death? After I've worked here for years?"
Zhang Ji stood up—slowly, predatorially—and walked toward him, hands in his pockets, footsteps soundless on the marble floor.
He stopped inches from Abrar.
Then with cool malice:
"Abrar, that is not my concern. Nor my burden."
His eyes gleamed with bureaucratic cruelty.
"It is an order from the High Councils."
Abrar's breath hitched.
Zhang Ji went on:
"Your replacement—Mariana Silva from SCP—will take your position. She is also a Director of Biotechnological Research. And since SCP and SSCBF are allies, the transition is… convenient."
He placed a hand on Abrar's shoulder—
a gesture so insincere it felt venomous.
Leaning forward, he whispered:
"Before you leave, show her the entire Research & Development Division."
"We don't need you anymore."
He stood frozen. Eyes wide. Mouth slightly open. Breath shallow. A man struck by news heavier than any corpse he had ever carried. Words refused to form inside his throat. His hands trembled at his sides.
Zhang Ji stepped back with a warm, poisonous smile.
"Go. And good-bye."
The dismissal cracked like a guillotine blade.
Dr. Abrar turned slowly, walking out of the office like a man drifting through water— numb, pale, hollow.
As he vanished behind the sliding doors, Zhang Ji murmured to himself, voice dipped in malevolence:
"According to fulfilling the Order… pawns must be replaced."
He smirked—thin, evil, serpentine.
Dr. Abrar emerged into the corridor, still ghostly pale.
Commander Krieg was the first to notice.
He stepped forward, boots thudding with concern.
"Dr. Abrar—what happened?"
Abrar swallowed hard.
"…I'm fine."
His voice sounded like paper tearing.
Robert approached, brow furrowed.
"Mate… why does your face look like chalk?"
Abrar forced a brittle smile.
"It's nothing like that."
Captain Lingaong Xuein crossed her arms, cloak rustling.
"You are hiding something. Tell us what happened."
Abrar shook his head more urgently.
"I said there's nothing wrong. Please—let me go."
Robert raised a hand in surrender.
"Alright, we won't push."
Abrar bowed his head faintly.
"I'm sorry. I need to return to R&D."
He left quickly—too quickly.
His steps are uneven. His silhouette trembling.
Lan Qian exhaled.
"What in the world happened to him?"
Nightingale frowned, arms folding in worry.
"I… don't know."
The room's earlier tension deepened— like a crack spreading through a dam's surface.
Commander Krieg and Captain Robert exchanged a long, dark look.
They both felt it: something went terribly, terribly wrong.
But neither understood the scale of the storm approaching SSCBF.
The Research & Development Division was always frigid, always humming faintly with the droning chorus of consoles, holograph emitters, and cryo-chambers—
but today it felt colder than an abandoned mausoleum.
Dr. Abrar entered through the automated doors with the gait of a man who had left pieces of himself in the hallway behind him.
The fluorescent lights above flickered once, their pallid glow settling over his silhouette like a clinical shroud.
He walked towards his workstation—the same desk he had stood over for years, the same spotless surface he had once defended like a sanctum.
Today, however, it felt like an altar to his own obsolescence.
His hands hovered over the holo-console, trembling.
Then, with a sudden exhale, he collapsed into his chair.
His glasses slid halfway down the bridge of his nose.
His shoulders drooped—no, folded—like a man caving inward under invisible iron weights.
He buried his face into both hands.
And finally—softly, like a confession surrendered to the void—he spoke to himself:
"Years… decades… all reduced to a single decree."
His voice wavered, laced with disbelief and wounded dignity.
"I have given this organisation my mind, my spine, my very marrow—only to be dismissed as though I were a defective instrument."
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling, eyes glassy with restrained tears.
The overhead lights reflected in them like fractured constellations.
"Vanguard… I did not kill you. I tried to save you—God knows I tried."
His hand clenched into a fist against his chest.
"But nobody remembers the truth. Only the convenient narrative."
He let out a humourless, bitter laugh, the sound brittle as cracking porcelain.
"Zhai Linyu was the monster… yet somehow I remain the shadow they point to whenever the High Councils need a scapegoat."
His chair creaked as he stood abruptly, pacing in a trembling arc across the lab.
His lab coat fluttered around him like a distressed spectre.
"Fired. Discarded."
He pressed a palm to his forehead, fingers shaking.
"And that man—Zhang Ji—had the audacity to say it as though he were telling me the weather."
His breath hitched.
His eyes reddened.
He pressed both palms onto the cold metal counter, leaning on it for support.
"Wen-Li… you defended me. You believed me."
His voice cracked for the first time.
"And you are gone now. Exiled. Defamed."
His reflection stared back at him from the polished metal surface—
a man worn thin, worn out, worn through.
"What am I now without purpose?"
He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing sharply.
"A ghost wandering my own laboratory."
He looked around—the centrifuges, the surgical instruments, the specimen tanks.
Every tool he had ever used now looked like an accusation.
He whispered:
"I should have left… years ago."
His voice dwindled to a fragile murmur.
"But I stayed. For the work. For my principles. For the belief that science could heal, not harm."
He pressed a fist to his mouth, stifling an unmanly sob.
"And this is my recompense… abandonment."
The holo-screen flickered beside him, its projection illuminating half his face in a pale, spectral sheen.
He looked at it with hollow eyes.
"Mariana Silva…"
He exhaled shakily.
"Another prodigy to replace me. Another cog for the Councils. They will consume her as they consumed me."
Slowly, carefully, as though afraid he might shatter, he lowered himself onto a nearby stool.
His hands dangled limply between his knees.
His whole body trembled.
"God help me…"
He whispered again, barely audible—
"What have I become?"
The silence that followed was not empty.
It was suffocating—dense as a burial cloth.
A man who dissected bodies for a living had finally been dissected himself— layer by layer, until only ache remained.
The infirmary was quiet— the sort of quiet that comes only after a night of calamity, panic, bloodshed, and far too many people screaming about a cat.
Morning light filtered through the frosted glass, settling in pale ribbons across the floor.
Wen-Li stirred softly against her pillow, long black hair spilling in silken rivers around her cheeks.
Her eyelids fluttered open—slow, gentle, as though waking from a long winter.
Her gaze drifted to the chair beside her——and there he was.
Agent-90.
Still in his chair.
Still covered in dried blood.
Still asleep sitting upright like some deranged, bulletproof gargoyle.
And still wearing his spectacles at an angle that defied physics and comfort.
Wen-Li blinked.
Then stared.
Then blinked again.
"…how long has he been like that?" she murmured to herself.
As if answering on cue, Agent-90's head— which had been tilted with impeccable stability— tilted two millimetres further and bonked the wall behind him with a dull thud.
He didn't wake.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't even twitch an eyebrow.
He simply breathed… deep, steady, and entirely unfazed by the humiliation of gravity.
Wen-Li covered her mouth with one hand, torn between laughing and groaning.
"He sleeps radiating violence," she whispered in disbelief.
Wen-Mi, her loyal cat, sat curled on her lap, blinking at Agent-90 as though inspecting a very poorly functioning android.
The door creaked open.
Hella peeked in.
Saw Agent-90.
Her eyebrows shot up to her hairline.
"Lord have mercy… is he dead?"
Wen-Li shook her head.
"No. He is… resting."
Hecate appeared behind Hella, eyes widening.
"Resting? He looks like he fell asleep trying to intimidate the air."
Wen-Li tried not to laugh—her stitches protested.
"Quiet, please… he guarded me all night."
As if summoned by the mere mention of responsibility, Agent-90's eyes snapped open with the immediacy of a combat drone booting online.
His spine straightened as though pulled by invisible strings.
His spectacles aligned themselves as he pushed them with one finger.
Completely calm.
Completely deadpan.
Completely Agent-90.
He looked at Wen-Li.
Then at Hella.
Then at Hecate.
His face remained an emotionless slab of granite.
"…Why are you all staring at me?" he asked in his neutral, monotone, dangerously calm voice.
Hella and Hecate immediately stood straighter.
Wen-Li tried a gentle smile.
"You were… sleeping."
Agent-90 blinked once.
Slowly.
"Incorrect. I was in a temporary energy-conservation cycle."
Hecate whispered under her breath:
"Sweet heavens, he describes naps like a malfunctioning refrigerator."
Agent-90 turned his gaze towards her.
She froze like a deer caught in psychic crosshairs.
But he simply stood—removing his blood-stiffened coat with the solemnity of a funeral attendant.
Wen-Li's eyes softened, her voice warm.
"Did you… rest well?"
Agent-90 paused.
Then replied in the most impossibly flat tone known to mankind:
"I achieved optimal unconsciousness for 3 hours, 12 minutes, and 49 seconds."
Wen-Li covered her face with both hands.
Hella coughed into her fist to hide a laugh.
Wen-Mi meowed judgementally.
Agent-90 surveyed the room, unfazed.
"Where is Madam Di-Xian?"
"Behind you," came her cool voice as she entered.
Agent-90 did not flinch—though everyone else did.
Madam Di-Xian gestured for the others to leave, then approached the bed.
"Wen-Li, how are you feeling?"
Wen-Li nodded gently.
"Better… thanks to him."
Madam Di-Xian glanced at Agent-90.
He stood stiff as a marble statue— as though being thanked caused him physical discomfort.
A moment of soft silence passed.
Then Madam Di-Xian cleared her throat.
"90—look after her."
He inclined his head.
A precise, obedient bow.
And somewhere—just faintly—Wen-Li thought she saw his eyes soften.
Just a fraction.
Madam Di-Xian sat behind her lacquered desk, spectacles perched low upon her nose as she reviewed a mound of documents. The room was still, save for the faint rustle of paper and the distant hum of the corridor outside.
A firm, disciplined knock punctuated the quiet.
She did not look up immediately.
"Come in," she said, her tone soft yet authoritative — a voice that could soothe or command depending on the hour.
The door opened by a fraction.
A delicate face peeked through —
Wen-Li.
Her long hair framed her pale cheeks like streaks of midnight ink.
Their eyes met.
Di-Xian's expression softened at once, the stern lines easing into something maternal.
"Wen-Li? Why are you here, dear?" she asked in a warm, motherly tone.
Wen-Li stepped inside, closing the door gently behind her. She clasped her hands together, a nervous habit, her fingers tightening as though trying to keep her thoughts from spilling out too quickly.
Her voice emerged quiet, but steady:
"Madam Di-Xian… I'm fine now. Truly. But I—I wish to speak about something rather urgent."
Madam Di-Xian straightened subtly, sensing the gravity beneath the girl's politeness.
She gestured toward the chair opposite her.
"Sit down, Wen-Li. Speak freely."
Wen-Li sat, smoothing her hospital gown as though gathering composure, then lifted her gaze.
A beat of silence.
Then—
"It's about the incident…."
Madam Di-Xian's brows rose gently.
Wen-Li inhaled.
"The one where Agent-90 killed seventy-three Sinners and one hundred and seven Outlaws."
The room seemed to hold its breath.
Madam Di-Xian studied her carefully.
"You do not know the full context?" she asked quietly.
Wen-Li shook her head.
"Well… I heard about it," she admitted, her voice trembling at the edges. "But I… I've grown curious. I want to understand why. I want to understand how he—"
She hesitated, eyes lowering before rising again, filled with earnest anxiety.
"—how he became what he is."
Her words hung in the air like fragile glass.
Madam Di-Xian regarded her with an expression both solemn and strangely proud — as though Wen-Li had finally asked a question she had long been tiptoeing around.
A slow, knowing smile touched her lips.
She rose from her chair with a graceful rustling of robes, adjusting her sleeves.
"Very well," she said softly. "Then prepare yourself."
Wen-Li blinked in confusion, straightening.
"Prepare…? Madam, where are you going?"
Madam Di-Xian turned toward the door, her posture elegant, her eyes glinting with a mixture of resolve and something far older, deeper.
She rested her hand on the doorframe, half-looking back at the bewildered girl.
"Not I alone, child."
A faint, enigmatic smile.
"We are going."
"To the place where the answers reside."
Wen-Li felt a chill glide down her spine— not of fear, but of inevitability. The truth about Agent-90 about the massacre about the man who had guarded her through the night so silently—was finally within reach.
The sleek, black saloon sliced through the evening mists of the Qīnglián District, its tyres whispering on the rain-slicked tarmac. Inside, the air was thick with unspoken history. Madam Di-Xian's hands rested lightly on the wheel, her profile as sharp and unreadable as a cameo. Beside her, Wen-Li stared out at the blurring neon, her own reflection a ghost in the glass.
"You are quiet, Wen-Li," Di-Xian observed, her voice a low contralto that barely disturbed the hum of the engine.
"I am preparing myself," Wen-Li replied, her fingers tightening imperceptibly on the leather of her seat. "To walk into a memory I never lived. To see the stage where my parents' world ended."
Di-Xian's gaze remained fixed on the road ahead, a flicker of ancient pain in her eyes. "Some memories are inherited, child. They live in the marrow of those who come after."
They ascended the serpentine roads of Mount Khryseos, where the very air seemed to thin and cool. The car finally glided to a halt before an immense structure that dominated the summit. Wen-Li stepped out, her breath catching in her throat.
The Marbled Seraph Hall was a masterpiece of ceremonial architecture—a chilling fusion of neo-classical divinity and futuristic grandeur. It was a cathedral of dread, its beauty intact but perverted by the memory of death.
"So this is the place," Wen-Li murmured, her voice barely a whisper. "Where he caused the massacre?"
"Yes," Di-Xian confirmed, her tone funereal. "This hall witnessed La Nuit des Masques Brisés."
"The Night of Shattered Masks?" Wen-Li translated, the name hanging in the cold air like a curse.
"Come with me."
As they approached, the silence deepened. Entering the Hall was like stepping into a moment suspended in time, frozen in invisible amber. Pale light speared through broken skylights, illuminating dust motes drifting like faded memories. The vast marble floor, once a mirror for dancers, now reflected only a profound emptiness. The silence was so absolute it felt unnatural, a physical weight. Wen-Li felt a prickle on her neck—not as if watched by spirits, but by the very architecture, as if the stones remembered every atrocity.
"It's… colder inside," Wen-Li noted, rubbing her arms.
"It is always five degrees colder than the outside," Di-Xian said, her gaze sweeping the cavernous space. "The cold clings to the memory of spilled warmth." She produced a polished orb from her coat. With a soft hum, it activated, unfolding delicate wings and a single, luminous eye. The scanner lifted into the air and began its work, painting the ghastly present with the brush of the past.
A shimmering holographic scene erupted around them, overlaying the desolation with spectral life.
The Hall was reborn in glorious, terrible clarity. It was the Fête du Sang Voilé, the Veiled Blood Ball. The air thrummed with music and the murmur of a hundred conversations, a warm, hopeful cacophony. There was Late Chief Wen-Luo, his arm around Wen-Li's mother, the brilliant Lieutenant Ren-Li. A younger, less hardened Di-Xian stood with a fierce-eyed Commander Krieg. The room was a tapestry of infamous faces—the redeemed Sinners and pardoned Outlaws, all gathered under one roof for a night of truce. Among them, silent and watchful, stood Agent-90.
The warmth of the holographic conversation washed over them—a diplomat's laugh from Wen-Luo, a technical point from Ren-Li, a wry comment from Krieg. Wen-Li watched, her heart a clenched fist, seeing the parents she only knew from photographs as living, breathing people.
Then—a sound, sharp and wrong. A wet slash. A gasp of agony.
The scene fractured.
Wen-Li watched, horrified, as the silent Agent-90 moved. His blade, the Étoile du Requiem, flashed, and Arclight Veyra fell, a bloom of crimson on his pristine white jacket. Chaos erupted. Before anyone could even process the act, 90 was a whirlwind of death, his movements a brutal, efficient poetry of slaughter. He was everywhere at once—the Étoile du Requiem finding eyes, ears, brains; a metallic pencil in his other hand stabbing Cinderline Opha through the stomach mid-lunge. He moved through the Sinners and Outlaws not like a man, but like a force of nature, a perfectly calibrated killing machine.
Wen-Li saw her father's face—not just anger, but dawning, horrific comprehension. "He's out of control!" Wen-Luo yelled over the screams, his eyes locking with Di-Xian and Krieg's. "Someone is controlling him!"
When the last of the 180 souls lay still, Agent-90 froze. The temperature in the hall plummeted. He stood amidst a charnel house, his face and formalwear drenched in crimson, the Étoile du Requiem dripping gore in one hand, the blood-smeared pencil held fast in the other. The predator's eyes that Wen-Li knew were now vacant, glazed windows into a controlled mind.
The hologram flickered and died, leaving them once more in the cold, silent hall. Wen-Li was trembling, her face pale. "The aftermath?" she finally managed to ask, her voice raw.
"Your father confronted Gavriel Elazer," Di-Xian said, her own composure a mask over profound grief. "The architect of the High Chaebols. He was the mastermind. He had a secondary control chip implanted in 90's neck."
"His mind?" Wen-Li breathed.
"Indeed. Gavriel claimed ignorance, of course. A lie. His purpose was singular: to make a monster of the man your father had saved from the Gon-Whiel orphanage. To pervert the very redemption your parents championed."
The wind whispered through the broken panes, stirring Di-Xian's long crimson hair. "Wen-Li, you must understand. Ninety is not the threat others perceive. He feels emotion, deeply. He simply lacks the lexicon to express it. My other agents… they too saw only the killer. Now, they see the man. It is a slow, fragile trust."
"I see," Wen-Li whispered, the image of his deadened eyes seared into her memory. "When I first met him, his gaze was that of a predator. His combat style… a killing machine." She paused, gathering her courage. "You raised him. Why does he still use a number? Why not the name you gave him?"
A rare, sad smile touched Di-Xian's lips. "I did give him a name. He requested I use his designation. I never pressed him; some scars are too deep to probe." She turned fully to Wen-Li, her expression grave. "And he has one more task, Wen-Li. A final request from your father. His primary mission is to keep you safe from the corruption that seeks to consume this world."
Wen-Li met her gaze, a new resolve hardening within her, a legacy settling on her shoulders. "I know," she said, her voice now steady and clear. "And I will not shy from the path laid before me, nor from the protector my father chose. Even if his guardianship is written in blood."