Darkness suddenly descends in the middle of the hall. Completely out of nowhere. So unexpected that my eyes take much longer than usual to adjust to this black void. And even then, they aren't fast enough.
"Sorry, kid. But the Sondies are sold out."
I only hear deep words, then the discharge of a weapon. I swallow. Because I sense it. I suspect, I think, I hope—but I don't understand. I am still blind. Almost. Except for some faint, first outlines.
Suddenly, a short cry. Immediately followed by a few drops hitting my trembling skin. Finished off by a dull thud and the clinking of glass.
Now I can make out the first shards at my feet, then even a liquid on my hands. But it isn't mine. Not my blood—I don't feel any pain, not even a scratch. But it's too warm for anything else. So if it's not my blood…
Before I can think further, the outline of a cloth roughly brushes across my face.
I blink, puzzled, before the cloth moves to my hands, and a warm grip wraps around my shoulder.
"Looks like a power outage."
Shato's voice brings a little calm to my inner turmoil, though his words sound almost like a lie.
The shards of glass, the clinking, the thud, the liquid—all of it couldn't have just appeared from nowhere.
But the truth refuses to reveal itself before another click races through the hall, closely followed by a red light. Emergency lamps, triggered by the outage, illuminate the darker interior, casting everything—decorative bushes, futuristic benches, the unnaturally clean trash bins, even the white walls—into an oppressive red.
I immediately survey my surroundings: first the shards at my feet, clinking with every step, then the red blood on the Sondies packaging and on the wall. I even spot the curled fingers of a hand just peeking from behind the counter. The events seem obvious, the puzzle of a potential murder practically laid out at my fingertips.
And yet, I feel little interest, as the craving for a warm dessert fills me. With a quick reach, I pass through the broken glass and grab the still-steaming package of Sondies, which had only been on display until now.
"Doesn't mean you have time to eat now," Shato says skeptically, tossing the cloth into one of the trash bins.
"Y-yeah?" I reply, chewing, shoving one dough ball after another into my mouth, before placing the empty package back on the display counter.
"Ah… that was good!" I exclaim afterward, rubbing my full belly.
"Because we should have separated from the crowd first," Shato scolds me, eyes scanning the concerned murmurs of the people around us. Almost as if he's analyzing them.
Whether they're panicking, whether something frightens them, whether mass hysteria will erupt. Probably especially the last one.
Because humans have always been predisposed for that.
"Now it's too late anyway," Shato adds, loosening his stance.
At first, I don't understand, just look at him in confusion, shake my head, and then survey my surroundings. Suddenly, a continuous beeping sounds. It resembles a car alarm, echoing similarly, irritating in the ears, yet with a difference.
Because a jolt runs through the ceiling, and the first panels are literally pulled inward to make space. Space for the screeching metal sound as enormous steel gates descend from above. A safety measure against fires. We had learned about this back in school. They are so-called fire protection walls, lowered in such buildings to contain or limit flames and fires. At least, that's their intended purpose. They exist for protection. They are supposed to protect us.
But for that, there would need to be a danger—something from which we needed protection. And even then, not all gates should descend simultaneously. Because that would merely divide the long tunnel into shorter sections, which suddenly no longer protect but trap. Trap us.
And that's exactly what happens as the gap between the wall and the floor shrinks. As the last families desperately gather together, as restless pedestrians search for the best compartment, as lone travelers cannot decide, as first panic attacks make babies and children cry. As the squealing ends and finally a loud bang confirms the locking of the protective wall and floor.
"Well then," Shato begins again, settling onto one of the futuristic benches next to the trash bin where the cloth had previously vanished.
"What, well then?" I ask, not exactly unimpressed.
Because first thoughts are already spreading in me.
"Uh…" Shato ponders, scratching his chin.
I wait, probably several seconds, maybe even a minute, before giving up and sitting down next to him.
"Ah, exactly!" Suddenly, completely out of nowhere, as if he had just been waiting for the moment. Shato apparently has a new idea.
"Think of it as a lesson."
It doesn't come across very professionally—neither the pointed finger nor his smile.
"Keep a calm head, even in situations like this. Then analyze your surroundings and wait for your opportunity."
I'm right—he really pulled that out of nowhere.
"Sounds good, right?"
I grimace, say nothing, and let my mind wander. Observing, paying attention. While I listen to the whispered voices of the passengers trapped with us: the five-person family with a school-aged child and a teenager, the couple whose afternoon had been planned differently, and the three friends posturing to one another while radiating the most fear.
An unbalanced group, neither able to reach consensus nor solve the puzzle of our current situation. So I turn away from them again, lost in thought, studying the ceiling—similar to how Shato did before the panic. Maybe I've overlooked something, maybe he still wants to tell me something.
But I drift off. Partly from the actual problem, partly from a solution. After all, I'm only pretending too. Because what solution is there anyway? Except to wait and drink tea.
„We're really extraordinarily quiet partners, don't you think?"
At the same time, walking along the roadside of a heavily trafficked street, two figures move through the city. Dressed in gray protective suits, with the white letters "APH" stretching across their backs, Mazawa seems to carry on a one-sided conversation, while his partner Letta barely reacts.
"Mmhm… yes, yes, I see, so that's how it is," Mazawa agrees with the silence, nodding and stroking his beard. This prompts a sigh from Letta.
"Maybe I should have ignored my orders after all. With your annoying chatterbox," Letta's words could not be colder, and yet they bring a smile to Mazawa's face.
"Ha! I win! You spoke!" he exclaims, throwing both hands joyfully into the air.
The cheerfulness doesn't last long, as a sharp beeping sounds from Letta's gray pants and almost simultaneously he grips his weapon.
"Oh oh, a mission," Mazawa interjects, as his partner's hand moves to the gray protective helmet, lined with several switches.
With a press of a button, he stops the beeping, only to let a voice speak directly into their ears:
"To all patrolling elite soldiers near Trevis Shopping Tunnel in the 3rd Main District! Proceed immediately to the specified location. This concerns an attack by a terrorist group. You are authorized to intervene upon arrival until on-site commanders issue new orders."
Letta clicks his tongue, pauses briefly, presses the button again, and takes off.
"Uh, w-wait, how, where, what's the plan?!" Mazawa asks, overwhelmed, and rushes after his partner.
"Well, what do you think? We're less than five minutes away. Hurry up, and don't let that belly of yours slow us down!" Letta shouts back, turning into a side street, beyond which he can spot the large Shopping Tunnel sign on the horizon.
"Th-that… is… unfair!" Mazawa pants behind him, only able to follow as the distance between them grows larger and larger.
"That's… just muscle mass… that I… haven't… applied… yet!"
But Letta can no longer hear his voice, once he passes the two pillar-like buildings, jumps over the marble path, ignores the vast lawns and pond areas, and finally reaches the entrance hall where the first employees have gathered.
He comes to a stop, immediately catching the first frightened glances—some even mixed with tears and sweat.
"F-finally…" breathes the receptionist with the light brown bun as she steps out from the small circle of six people.
"Elite soldier Letta, Hunter rank, requesting a situation report!" Letta introduces himself, while behind him the exhausted Mazawa finally catches up.
"Ma… za… wa… Eli… Elite… No… uh…" he mutters, bracing his hands on his knees.
"W-what… was it… again?"
"Ignore him," Letta cuts off the introduction round, drawing the attention back to himself.
"Uh… okay, so we…" stammers the receptionist until the hand of a short, stocky bald man takes over the conversation.
"It's all right, Ilena. I'll handle the rest," he reassures her calmly, and tears begin to form in her eyes.
"Richard la Deluna, head of the security department of the Shopping Tunnel," he introduces himself, extending his ice-cold hand to Letta.
"At exactly 8:31 local time, we noticed we had lost contact with the construction site on the fifth level. On my order, I first sent a scouting unit consisting of two security officers. At 8:40, they confirmed that nothing unusual was happening on the lower level and that the workers' communication devices had simply failed."
He pauses briefly to straighten his red tie and then rubs his trembling hands together.
"At 8:48, we noticed the first anomalies in the security control room, and by 8:50, we had completely lost control over the consoles. Someone seems to have gained access and activated all emergency measures — starting with the emergency lights, leading up to the activation of every single fire protection wall. Normally, this automatically triggers an emergency signal to the APH, but by that point, I already realized we were dealing with a much bigger problem. So I initiated the evacuation."
The man swallows and breathes heavily — likely from the rising panic inside him — though Letta can't quite read his exact state.
"Do we know who the attackers are?" Letta takes command of the conversation again.
"Terror… terrorists!" the receptionist suddenly cries out.
"T-they came… they just stormed in and… and…"
"Ilena! Pull yourself together!"
Richard shouts, eyes shut and head lowered.
"We are professional employees! Give a proper report!"
He sounds angry — but he's right.
So Letta ignores the outburst and returns a look of understanding.
"T-t-they came with… rifles… They just… just stormed in and started shooting. I hid under the counter, but Marie… Marie was—"
The receptionist's face goes pale, her hands flying to her mouth as if trying to hold something in.
"I-I've… never seen so much blood and body p-p—"
"How many people are still inside?" Letta interrupts, because he can see it in her eyes.
She can't bring herself to say it.
"We counted over 300 people today. We're still waiting on an exact number. Most of them are on the second level," Richard reports and sinks to the floor.
"Sorry, I'm a bit… exhausted today," he explains, letting out a deep breath.
"All right, I'm going in," Letta decides and wraps his hand around the leather hilt of his sword.
"W-wait… Shouldn't you at least wait for a commander or reinforcements?" Richard tries to stop him, but Letta walks on with purposeful steps.
He practically ignores him.
"They won't be able to stop him," Mazawa says.
"More importantly, I still have a few questions," he adds.
Richard looks at him, confused. His lips are no longer red, his complexion is pale and goosebumps ripple visibly across his skin. It isn't even that cold.
"But we don't have time. Just tell me what happened to the security staff and how we get down," Letta says.
Richard swallows, tries to answer, but falls silent — as if the last spark of life has left his body.
"U-uh, th-the security staff is still downstairs," the receptionist interjects.
"T-they're probably helping the visitors. You can get deeper down via the elevators," she explains, and Mazawa nods.
He throws one last look at Richard la Deluna and then follows through the tunnel into the hall.
When he reaches the lower level he meets Letta, who is fishing small beads out of the blood puddle at reception.
"Conventional weapons and no signs of Wunder," Letta tells Mazawa, then looks up and surveys the oppressive red interior.
"Disgusting cliché."
"What?" Mazawa asks, stepping up beside his partner.
"The red light, the whole setting. Everything," Letta answers and keeps moving toward the outer wall where elevator number 1 is embedded.
"Right. Like in a zombie movie. Only missing the undead dogs," Mazawa says and follows his partner, who wedges the sword into the tiny gap of the automatic door and strains against it.
"What zombie movies do you even know?" Letta asks as he forces the automatic door a bit wider, jamming his foot and hand between the panels and levering the metal open with brute force.
"None," Mazawa replies.
"I'm not a fan of zombies. Or raw violence."
With a quick move he helps his partner until the door gives way.
"Well, sometimes brute force really is the best way," Letta says, then jumps up the metal cladding, using the railings as a ladder.
"I think there's always another solution. You just have to use your head," Mazawa objects and follows his partner, climbing after him.
They follow the paneling through the cool interior of the deep shaft until they feel the stationary elevator under their feet and use the emergency exit—disguised as a hatch in the roof—to climb in.
"Didn't get far," Mazawa murmurs after jumping after his partner and jostling the elevator.
"Man! You really need to lose weight!" Letta snaps angrily, startled and grabbing on.
Mazawa grins sheepishly and strokes his silver beard before both of them step through the already-open elevator door onto the second floor.
Here, too, the red light weighs on the mood, but it doesn't remain the only thing; the two elite soldiers again step into a puddle of blood and witness the true scale of the massacre.
Among cartridges and scraps of clothing lie empty handguns and people of all ages who only wanted to spend an afternoon here. Tiny impact holes gape in the walls and the screams are almost tangible. But their gazes move on—away from the dead, away from the blood, away from the wall—and to the fire barrier, the huge steel gate with a massive hole torn into it.
"I think we have a lead," Mazawa states the obvious, practically provoking an insult from his partner, when suddenly the sprinklers kick in and snap them out of their chatter.
"They're early enough."
Mazawa shudders, shaking his clothes as if to dry them.
But Letta offers no sympathy; he presses another button on his round helmet and a face shield slides down.
"Don't you find this strange?" Mazawa asks.
Letta ties a dangling strip of cloth from his helmet into the collar of his jacket by zipping another zipper and walks toward the perfect hole in the steel wall.
"Don't you think it's colder down here?" he adds, drifting from the subject, and Mazawa runs his hand through his beard.
"Maybe they left the AC on, but what are you getting at?" he says, repeating the actions with his helmet—first the face shield, then the strip of cloth that wraps around the neck to the nape.
Letta ignores him, traces his finger along the hole, then lifts a handgun magazine into the air.
"Uh, hello?" Mazawa asks as he strolls after him.
"A magazine without a seal… illegally obtained," Letta murmurs and then drops the object and passes through the hole.
"Tell me, don't you find this really odd? And could you stop—"
"Shhh."
Letta cuts his partner off and halts. For a few seconds… then a scream suddenly rips through the hall and an orchestra of gunshots follows.
"They're killing innocent civilians," Letta breaks the silence as pleading screams and shuddering impacts make a dreadful sound.
"It would be—" Mazawa tries again, but Letta interrupts him once more.
"They want to erase their tracks. And probably limit our movements," he says, moving to the next hole in an adjacent fire barrier.
"So you know all that and you still want to—"
"And their weapons are from the black market. Simple handguns from police stock, but probably not very reliable. A malfunction could give us an opening."
Mazawa exhales.
He sighs, because he gives up — clearly Letta doesn't care. Not how recklessly they rush into the fight, nor how much Mazawa would like a short plan. So the two just move on. They leave the watered-down puddles of blood behind, ignore the charred magazines, and pass through the next hole.
At the same time I'm still sitting on the bench, staring at the ceiling. Still pretending, still beside Shato. With sharpened ears I practically eavesdrop on our fellow captives: on a mother's soothing "Everything's fine," on the stupid joke about drill alarms from the three macho men, and finally on the constant "I love you" from the cuddling couple. They all process the situation differently — or not at all. Take it how you will. Then I want to sigh, complain about my boredom and ask Shato something again. Or play a game. But I don't get that far: all of a sudden the sprinklers kick on and soak us in no time.
"Eh? What's that about?" I say, jumping up and shaking.
My surprise and the others' odd looks don't stop the water from drenching my clothes. As soon as I stand and complain and look for shelter, a soft, dull impact reaches us — followed by a hint of a cry — and finished by an orchestra of screams and gunfire. An orchestra that can't be more than two sections away from us. And it hardly lasts a minute before it falls silent again, as if it never happened.
"Shato… just to be sure…" I begin, swallowing and staring at the fire door to our right.
"How likely is it," I add, and Shato rises from the bench.
He draws a few looks — not only mine, because the other inmates have nothing better to do and long for answers, as I do, so their efforts won't prove useless.
So they can keep comforting, keep caressing, keep pretending.
"We hide."
That's his answer. Simple and effective. And yet not what I had hoped for.
"How, what… where?" I ask immediately.
Shato's finger points to a gray double door right next to the Sondies stall in the wall that's not locked.
"But… what about the others?" I go quieter until I'm whispering and lean toward him.
"What should happen to them?" Shato asks, completely cold.
"We can't just…" I start.
"And what do you want to do?"
Shato's question overwhelms me, if only for a moment.
"I will… protect —" I begin.
"How? With your powers? Without the veil? Without a mask?"
Again he throws me off. He's right. If I fight now, they will notice. No matter how many lives I save, it will be irrelevant to them whether I stand for the right thing. To them we are only creatures. That's why we wear cloaks. That's why we wear masks. That's why we hide. I know all that. And yet.
"Maybe only for a short—" I try.
"Do you kill them afterwards? The people you wanted to protect? And then erase the footage?"
Shato cuts me off, and slowly I've had enough. But he doesn't care. He walks on without a word. He walks silently toward the double door.
"But…" I start.
"Vio, I know this is hard for you. But you can't do anything except hope. And hide. Because if they find you, it will end the same way."
He tries to explain it to me as he pushes the door handle down.
But my feet refuse to move.
Not even when another impact echoes through the hall, another scream grabs our attention, and the orchestra starts up again—much louder than before. In the same instant everyone's eyes shoot up and right toward the source of the sound, a moment Shato uses to break open the door. It takes only seconds. Then it all goes quiet again. Barely a minute later.
My pulse is racing.
My breathing uneven.
Beads of sweat fall from my forehead to the ground.
And then—something begins.
Right at our protective wall.
Something hot, because the metal starts to melt while a crackling sound reaches our ears and a spray of sparks reflects in our eyes.
"Vio!" Shato suddenly yells.
I stumble, catch myself, and look at him.
He's standing in the doorway, waiting, eyes lowered.
He knows my conflict—or at least, I think he does. And maybe he's trying to solve it, as the mother's family follows, as the couple joins in, and the trembling men finally rise. Because they all want through that door.
They don't care why it's open now, or why the handle fell off, or why the frame is bent.
They just want to flee.
"Thank you," I whisper, turning toward the steel gate, where a half-circle has already been carved through the metal.
"Now we can—ouch!"
Shato grabs my hand with all his strength and yanks me toward the door.
"H-hey, what—" I start to protest, but his expression silences me.
He's angry. His eyes dark, the corners of his mouth tense.
And I find myself crossing the shattered door with him—
behind it, a corridor flooded with water, which we follow until it splits into two paths.
There, we meet the survivors—unsure whether to go left or right.
At least until another impact crashes through the hall.
Then they know the attackers are coming.
They choose left immediately, rushing forward without hesitation.
But Shato takes the opposite way—and drags me along.
Like a parent pulling a stubborn child.
Like that mother's little girl, whose eyes meet mine.
I freeze.
First inside, then with clenched fists—then with firm steps.
I tear free from Shato's grip, but slip on the wet floor and fall into the forming puddles.
I get up again—soaked and shaking, but not from the cold, as the adrenaline keeps me warm.
"I can't accept this," I mutter, before I take off running—charging back toward the junction.
Shato tries to stop me, but my determination won't be restrained.
Not by him—nor by the man suddenly standing in front of me.
A man, armed with a pistol and wrapped in far too many layers of clothing, topped with a raincoat, as if it were twenty below zero outside.
I'd freeze or react—if I had the time.
But I don't, as the slippery floor keeps my gaze low and my mind clouded.
Something my opponent seems to mirror, because it's just as much a surprise to him as it is to me.
And then it happens—
a new sound cuts through the hallway.
Like shattering metal mixed with screeching brakes.
And it doesn't come alone.
With it, one of the macho men at the front of the fleeing group explodes.
Out of nowhere, from within, as if he had been the bomb.
Only his blue cap remains, fluttering to the ground before the horrified eyes of his friends.
Who recoil immediately.
Shove the others aside.
And push the schoolgirl to the ground.
But that's not all.
Shato's hand shoots forward, grabs the terrorist's face, and slams him into the wall.
The raincoat tears; his body drops lifelessly to the ground.
And in the same moment—that sound echoes again.
The shattering metal. The screeching brakes.
But this time, it's different.
It's behind the crowd.
Right beside the little schoolgirl, sobbing in the puddle at the back.
Then I see it.
Barely visible—but it's there.
A small orb, larger than my hand, smaller than my head.
Glass-like and tinted faintly pink.
It's no bomb.
Not even a weapon.
Not something man-made.
No—this translucent orb is the work of a Wunder.
I recognize it instantly.
That's why I move.
Why I want to protect.
Why my eyes glow violet as I leap forward, pushing off, almost flying across the wet ground.
Past the stunned looks of the terrorists—
toward the orb that shrinks, trembles, then flashes—
just as I grab the girl.
A high-pitched hiss follows—
then an explosion.
The ceiling gives way instantly.
A cloud of dust races down both corridors.
Instinctively, everyone looks up.
The mother screams, tears flooding her eyes as she dashes forward,
only to stop in shock.
Because in the middle of the dust cloud, her daughter rolls across the floor—wrapped in my arms, safe within my body's shield, which lost all of his violent gaze already.
We tumble to a stop just short of her mother's feet.
A heartbeat later, the last bits of debris come crashing down, sealing off the view behind us.
Immediately, the woman rushes over—first checking her daughter, then me—as I slowly loosen my arms.
"How did you—" she begins, but the how dies on her lips the moment she realizes her daughter is alive.
"Mina?! Mina! Oh my God!"
She sobs, burying her tear-streaked face in the girl's shoulder.
"Mina, Mina, Mina… Thank God, thank God, thank God, Mina!"
Her voice trembles, her grip tightens, and she cries even harder while I straighten up in the background and brush the dirt from my soaked clothes.
But before any of us can even think we're safe, the last corner of an emergency exit sign breaks off from the ceiling. A dull thud follows—a man's short, startled cry—and then he crashes down between us. Blood streaming from his head.
The bent sign tumbles after him, landing right at my feet.
We all just stare, wordless, at the back of his skull.
Even a doctor couldn't save him now—not with his blood already coloring the rising water red.
And then, his lover collapses beside him—her despair so loud it almost drowns out the sudden hail of gunfire.
I spin around instantly.
More screams.
Cries for help.
A final thud.
Then—running footsteps.
But they don't make it far.
Everything goes silent before we can even process—before we can see, or know.
Though I can imagine what happened.
It has to be Shato.
He's the only one behind that wall of rubble—and now, even more so, since not a single terrorist's voice remains.
I keep my eyes fixed on the mound of debris, calm and patient.
Behind me, despair feels colder than the water still pouring from the sprinklers.
"Vio."
There—finally, a sign of life.
Not that I was worried.
We're talking about Shato, after all—the leader of the Five Aces. The strongest Wunder I know.
"Vio, you there?" his voice calls.
"Yeah," I answer quickly, stepping closer to the rubble.
"I can't get you out, but the APH should be there any minute. Head to the end of that tunnel and wait for evacuation, got it?"
"What about you?" I ask, pressing my palm against the cold stone.
"Uh… I'll find another way out."
His voice dips and rises—probably scanning the surroundings.
"But that's my problem. You just keep moving, alright?"
I hesitate. There's so much I want to say—but no argument feels right.
Not to him. Not after he already respected my choice—after he helped me follow my stubborn impulse.
"Shato?" I begin.
"What?"
"Um…" I stammer, not sure how to put it.
"You don't have all day, Vio," he cuts in.
"Could you… maybe grab a few Sondies on your way out?"
Silence. Then, faint laughter filters through the rubble.
"You really are something else," Shato says with a smirk in his tone.
"But fine. I was planning to pick up the groceries anyway—so why not those too. Now move, you got that?!"
His voice hardens suddenly, and I can't help but grin as I turn to the others—already preparing to move on.
"Well then," I sigh softly, "time for the boring part."