Metamorphosis is the process where an organism undergoes a radical and relatively abrupt transformation in form, structure, and sometimes behavior from its juvenile to its adult stage. Radically it is used as a psychology and self-help to describe profound personal growth, transformation, and self-realization through life transitions and challenging experiences, rather than a physical change.
The clock within the SSCBF war-room ticked in a slow, suffocating rhythm — each second a small incision into the air. Chief Wen-Li sat at the head of the dimly lit table, her profile framed by the blue glow of the holo-projector. Rain streaked down the glass behind her like molten silver, distorting the city's silhouette beyond. Her eyes — cold yet contemplative — moved between the faces of her confidantes: Nightingale, Lan Qian, and Lingaong Xuein.
"I don't think that Dr. Abrar is behind all of this," she began, her tone measured but edged with exhaustion. Her fingers drummed once, twice against the steel tabletop — a gesture of restrained agitation. "What do you all think?"
Lingaong Xuein leaned forward, her expression pinched by disbelief and sleeplessness. "But Chief," she said, voice taut as a drawn bowstring, "Vanguard turned against Commander Krieg — and Xuemin's entire team nearly perished." The faint tremor in her hands betrayed her frustration, though she masked it quickly with a soldier's discipline.
Nightingale, always the one to temper intensity with logic, exhaled softly before speaking. Her eyes reflected the holographic light like shards of ice. "Dr. Abrar was cautious with his project, Chief. He told us time and again that the neural interface wasn't complete — that it shouldn't even be capable of autonomous activation." Her voice carried conviction, but also the uneasy undertone of someone trying to convince herself as much as anyone else.
Wen-Li's brows drew together, her expression sharpened into resolve. "Exactly," she murmured. "I feel like someone is behind this — someone trying to frame Dr. Abrar. He's worked with us for years, built our entire cyber-biological framework from the ground up. Betrayal is not in his lexicon." Her tone deepened, the undercurrent of loyalty burning like restrained fire.
Lingaong Xuein crossed her arms, the rigid posture of a soldier giving way to the tremor of moral uncertainty. "Chief," she asked quietly, "do you still believe him — after everything? After what Vanguard did?" Her voice wavered on the edge between professionalism and disbelief, her jaw tightening as though to bite back her own doubts.
"He said he didn't do it," Wen-Li replied, tapping the edge of her jaw with a forefinger — a familiar gesture of contemplation. Her eyes dimmed to a faraway gleam. "He never activated any remote protocol… which means either someone hijacked his system — or…" She stopped, her gaze narrowing like a blade's edge as the thought took shape. "Or someone used his signature against him."
The silence that followed was almost orchestral — a pause heavy enough to bend the air. Wen-Li turned her gaze toward Lan Qian, who sat in contemplative quiet, her expression distant, eyes glazed with something like remembrance.
Lan Qian's fingers ghosted over the metallic band encircling her wrist — the Sentinel Helix bracelet — its faint amber glow pulsing like a living heartbeat. The echo of Alvi's voice replayed in her mind, haunting and clinical:
"Our DNA itself is the most sacred archive—a record of our very existence. A double helix, they call it, two strands entwined like lovers in an eternal embrace. But when a third helix enters the dance, it entwines with them both, corrupting the purity of the spiral. That third helix, I believe, is not natural. It is engineered—an aperture through which our most intimate codes, our essence, are transcribed and computerised by those who sow corruption."
Her breath hitched — the memory tasted metallic, like old blood.
"Lan Qian!"
The call broke through the haze — sharp, immediate. Wen-Li's voice again: "Lan Qian! Lan Qian!"
She blinked rapidly, the present reassembling itself around her. "Something wrong?" Wen-Li asked, her gaze narrowing, concern tucked beneath command.
Lan Qian shook her head quickly. "No, Chief. Nothing," she replied with a small, reassuring smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. Her hand slipped from the bracelet, folding neatly into her lap.
Wen-Li sighed — not out of weariness, but in contemplation, as though exhaling the weight of too many secrets. "We can't rely on conjecture," she said, standing with slow authority, the coat about her shoulders swaying like a shadowed mantle. "We must investigate Vanguard's body. Only there will we find the truth buried beneath this catastrophe."
Her gaze hardened with quiet determination, the kind that turned conviction into command. "Call Nurse Anne Parker," she said, voice precise and cold as tempered glass. "We'll begin the autopsy at once. I intend to uncover what lies beneath this treachery — even if the answers burn through the last thread of our faith."
The three subordinates exchanged glances — a mixture of unease and admiration. In Wen-Li's stance — upright, resolute, haloed by the flicker of blue holographic light — she looked less like a mere commander and more like a figure carved from defiance itself: the kind of woman who stood before gods and demanded explanation.
The SSCBF networking room felt less like an office and more like the agency's beating synapse — a cavernous chamber of humming servers, braided fibre looms, and banks of monitors that glowed with a cold, clinical light. Racks of equipment marched in neat rows; status LEDs blinked in an inscrutable Morse. Acoustic dampening panels swallowed footsteps; the air tasted faintly of ozone and burnt coffee. Each terminal was a window into the private neural map of the Bureau: mission manifests, personnel biometrics, encrypted comm logs — the entire organism of the SSCBF digitised and catalogued.
The hydraulic door whispered open and a lone figure slipped inside, silhouette swallowed by the blue glow. He moved with the furtive economy of someone used to skirting notice — shoulders loose, gait practised. From the pocket of his jacket he produced a slim, unremarkable pen-drive: matte black, unlabelled, its metal edge catching the monitor's light like a blade. For a moment he simply stood, reading the room with calm predation, eyes flicking from access panel to console.
He found the main ingress: a recessed USB port beneath the primary console, guarded by a keypad and a tired sticker that read NETWORK ADMIN. He hesitated only a breath, then slid the drive home with a soft click that sounded indecent in the stillness. The machine registered the hardware; the cursor shivered. A small programme — the size of a whisper — began to unpack itself: kernel-level injection, privilege escalation, lateral movement subroutines. Lines of code unfurled across the screen like a virulent vine, and the room's LED heartbeat accelerated by fractions.
On the monitors, icons that denoted integrities flickered to amber, then to a sickly red. Firewall logs scrolled, timestamps folded, access tokens duplicated and relabelled. The pen-drive had slipped a ghost into the network: a courier that would siphon dossiers, mirror databases, and forward them — in encrypted shards — to an outside rendezvous. The whole operation was elegant in its cruelty: surgical, silent, irreversible.
He withdrew the drive, pocketed it with the same nonchalance as one might fold a handkerchief, and melted back toward the door. As he left, a smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth — small, predatory, almost content. The entire act lasted less than a minute, but it would leak secrets like a ruptured artery for days.
When he stepped out into the corridor the scene flipped into a memory — a flashback that fit together like a puzzle piece.
It was a rain-slick alley under sodium light. Captain Elan of the SCP stood beneath an overhanging drainpipe, the brim of his coat soaked, his silhouette all granite and authority. The shadows around him whispered. From within those shadows Zhai Linyu emerged, eyes glinting like a feral coin. He looked younger in the memory, but the slyness in his grin was unchanged.
Elan's voice rasped, low and iron. "You understand the gravity, boy?" he asked. The rain stitched thin lines across his face. "This pen-drive will open them up. Every node. You plug it in, you hand us the keys. The SCP needs those logs — the SSCBF's repository. Once the Bureau is naked, we can rearrange the narrative. Do you comprehend what that means?"
Zhai took the drive without hesitation, thumb rubbing the metal as if already feeling its weight. He answered with the casual insolence of someone who sells loyalty for coin. "Yes, Sir. Consider it done. They'll never know who bled them dry." He flashed a grin that was almost a leer. "Your Captain Xuemin thinks himself incorruptible; the lad's as righteous as old rope. He'll be humiliated when he finds out his own house has been sacked."
Elan slid a wad of bills across the wet pavement. The currency landed with a wet slap. "You're paid. One caveat — if you are seen, if the Bureau traces this back, you will not walk away. Understood?"
Zhai's smirk hardened into something colder. He tucked the money away like a man hiding a talisman. "Relax, Captain. No one will notice. And if they do — well, we've both got contingencies." He turned away briefly, a shadow within a shadow, then looked back, voice mocking as a knife. "As for Xuemin and his celestial virtues — hypocrites bleed the same as the rest of us. He will learn his place."
Elan's jaw tightened; the rain kept time like a metronome. "Be careful," he warned — not as a plea but as a professional rubric. "You fail us, and the price will be your existence."
Back in the present, Zhai Linyu stepped out beneath the fluorescent corridor lights, the smirk still playing on his lips. He walked away with the easy stride of a man who believed himself two steps ahead — part treacher, part pawn, wholly dangerous. As he melted into the flow of staff and shadows, the consequences of his small, elegant treachery began to unfurl elsewhere: a cascade of compromised files, a map redrawn by unseen hands, and a trust within the SSCBF that would not be repaired with platitudes.
"Back at the meeting the hydraulic door parted with a hiss, and Nurse Anne Parker entered, accompanied by Lieutenant Nightingale. Anne's white uniform caught the light with a sterile shimmer; a few locks of pink hair escaped her bun, softening the composure of her calm, professional demeanour. She clutched a digital clipboard to her chest as she bowed slightly.
"Chief, you summoned me," she said, voice even but tinged with concern.
"Yes," Wen-Li replied, her gaze slicing toward her like the edge of a moonlit knife. She leaned forward slightly, elbows resting upon the glass table, her reflection ghosting beneath her. "You were with Dr. Abrar during his research phase — the Vanguard augmentation trials. Did you notice anything amiss? Any irregularities, any signs of instability before the experiment concluded?"
Anne shook her head slowly, eyes flickering with thought before she spoke. "No, Chief. Nothing irregular occurred. I was with Dr. Abrar throughout the process — from the genetic calibration to the final neuro-link integration. We followed every safeguard." Her fingers tightened faintly on the clipboard. "Dr. Abrar warned us all of the project's volatility — how the neural synchronisation could turn fatal if mishandled — but this… this was beyond imagination." Her voice trembled, not from fear, but disbelief.
Wen-Li exhaled softly through her nose, her gaze sharpening. "Then, Nurse Anne — I need you to investigate Vanguard's body. Dissect every anomaly. Find out what went wrong."
Anne hesitated. Her brows furrowed slightly; her lips parted before she answered, hesitant yet resolute. "Chief… the High Council has issued orders. The autopsy and any further examination of Vanguard's remains are prohibited."
"The High Council?" Wen-Li repeated, her tone low, incredulous. She straightened in her chair, the faint metallic creak echoing like thunder in miniature. "On what grounds?"
Anne swallowed, lowering her gaze briefly before meeting the Chief's piercing eyes. "They said — and I quote — 'There is no need for further investigation. The incident has already been classified as experimental deviation.'" She paused, biting her lower lip. "They claim the matter is concluded."
For a moment, silence hung, taut and heavy, like the air before a storm. Wen-Li's jaw tightened. Her gloved hand tapped the table once — a crisp, deliberate sound that cut through the tension. Her expression darkened into something steely, an ember of defiance glinting in her eyes.
"So," she murmured, almost to herself, before meeting Anne's gaze. "Can you proceed with the investigation… discreetly?" Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, each word weighed with intent. "Find whatever truth lies buried beneath their gilded decrees."
Anne nodded once, her voice quiet but resolute. "I'll try my best, Chief. If there's a secret to uncover, I'll find it." She clutched the clipboard tighter and bowed, before leaving the room with brisk, determined steps — her shadow folding behind her like a closing curtain.
As the door sealed with a sigh, Lingaong Xuein leaned forward, resting her chin lightly on her hand, her eyes narrowing. "Why would the High Council forbid an investigation?" she asked, her tone coloured with suspicion and restrained frustration.
Wen-Li's gaze lingered upon the now-empty doorway, her voice quiet but edged like glass. "Because there are knots tied deep within this chaos — threads interwoven with power, deceit, and blood. Pull one, and the whole web begins to tremble." Her expression softened for a heartbeat, then hardened again with purpose. "We'll find out soon enough."
"But how?" asked Lan Qian, her brow knitting as she adjusted her glasses, voice tinged with apprehension.
Wen-Li rose from her chair, her silhouette tall and commanding against the soft electric glow. She adjusted the collar of her coat, the black silk of her hair cascading like ink in motion. "By going to the source," she said calmly, yet with quiet ferocity. "I'm going to meet Dr. Abrar myself — at the High Security Cell."
As she turned and strode toward the exit, her heels clicked sharply upon the marble, echoing with the gravity of unspoken rebellion. The others watched in silence — the air thick with both admiration and unease — as the Chief of the SSCBF walked straight into the storm that her own Council tried to hide.
The High Security Cell lay buried beneath layers of reinforced steel and humming surveillance, a mausoleum of secrets rather than justice. The corridor was long, sterile, and suffocatingly silent — its faint blue lights flickering like the dying pulse of an exhausted machine. The air smelled faintly of ozone and disinfectant, the scent of captivity itself.
Inside one of the isolation chambers sat Dr. Abrar, hands bound in titanium cuffs, his posture stooped beneath invisible weight. His once-brilliant eyes — eyes that once gleamed with scientific fervour — now glimmered only with remorse. The shadows beneath them were bruised crescents of sleeplessness. His fingers trembled faintly, the tremor of a man haunted by his own creation.
The magnetic lock of the cell disengaged with a resonant hiss. The door slid open, releasing a current of cold air that coiled through the sterile gloom.
Chief Wen-Li entered — her long black trench coat trailing behind her like the shadow of authority itself. The overhead light caught upon her dark silk hair, crowning her in spectral luminescence. Her expression was unreadable — carved between sorrow and strength — the kind of composure worn by those who must bear the guilt of many.
At the sight of her, Dr. Abrar rose abruptly, lowering his head in humiliation. His voice broke faintly, "Chief…" It came out as a whisper — cracked and subdued, like a confession already half-made.
Wen-Li's gaze softened. "Dr. Abrar," she said, her voice low but firm, carrying both reprimand and reassurance. She stepped closer, her boots echoing softly upon the steel floor. "Look up."
He obeyed slowly, eyes meeting hers — a storm of guilt and disbelief swirling within them.
"I know you didn't," she murmured, her tone suddenly human, the iron edge of command melting into compassion. A sigh slipped from her lips — quiet yet laden with exhaustion. "Please… can we talk?"
"Yes," he said faintly, nodding, his shackles clinking like distant wind chimes.
She gestured toward the steel bench beside him and sat, the cold surface biting through the fabric of her uniform. "Vanguard was a dignified man," she began, her voice trembling just enough to betray sincerity. "He carried out missions that others dared not even attempt. And now…" — she hesitated, her gaze drifting briefly to the wall as though searching for words — "now he's gone."
"He was killed by me," Dr. Abrar said abruptly, his tone hollow yet heavy — the voice of a man condemned by his own conscience. His eyes shone wetly in the half-light, and his shoulders slumped like a tree bent by too many storms.
"No," Wen-Li countered sharply, her tone slicing through his despair. "It's not your fault, Doctor." She leaned closer, resting a gloved hand upon the cold table between them. "You've dedicated your life to preserving human potential, not destroying it. I've seen your integrity — and your fear. You warned us about this project. You knew the risk." Her expression softened, her voice a blend of empathy and command. "You are guilty only of brilliance misused by others."
He shook his head weakly, despair clinging to him like smoke. "Chief… I checked everything, multiple times. There was no malfunction, no neural irregularity, no corruption in the biometric core. I was cautious — painfully cautious. I knew it could kill him if mishandled, but this—" His voice broke, his hands trembling against his restraints. "This was beyond comprehension."
Wen-Li's eyes narrowed slightly, her mind flickering behind her calm facade like an engine revving in silence. "Was there any anomaly in your biometric system when the project commenced? Any glitch, any unauthorised modification?"
"No," Abrar said, shaking his head. "I archived everything — every calibration, every waveform, every molecular imprint. It's all in my documentation."
"Documents?" Wen-Li repeated, her tone shifting — sharper now, like a blade catching light. She stood abruptly, the chair scraping faintly behind her. "Doctor, where are those documents?"
"In my office chamber," he replied, startled by her sudden intensity. "But why?"
"Yes…" Wen-Li breathed, her eyes gleaming with sudden resolve. She turned, pacing a few steps as her coat swayed like the sweep of a curtain. Her mind connected invisible threads with the precision of a chess master. "If we can retrieve those documents — your research logs, biometric readouts, and Vanguard's neural feedback data — we can prove your innocence. We can show this wasn't your doing."
Abrar blinked, hope flickering weakly within his wearied face. "How, Chief? They'll never allow it. The Council—"
"We will," Wen-Li interrupted, her tone now a whisper of iron. Her eyes burned with the subdued fire of rebellion — like a candle that refuses to go out, no matter how fierce the wind. She turned to him, her expression both fierce and maternal. "Even if the Council tries to bury the truth beneath their gilded walls, we will exhume it. I promise you, Doctor — this injustice will not become your epitaph."
A silence lingered between them — heavy, intimate, electric. Dr. Abrar bowed his head, tears brimming but unfallen. Wen-Li stood tall, her silhouette framed against the sterile light — the quiet defiance of a woman standing against an empire of lies.
In that moment, beneath the sterile hum of the cell, the air felt charged — as if history itself was holding its breath.
The metallic doors groaned open with a hiss of compressed air. Chief Wen-Li stepped out from the High Security Cell, her boots echoing upon the polished steel floor like the ticking of a clock in an empty cathedral. The corridor stretched before her, long and sterile, humming with the faint vibration of surveillance drones.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Zhang Ji approaching — immaculate as ever, his suit pressed to military perfection, his hair slicked back with calculated precision.
"Oh, Mr Zhang Ji!" Wen-Li greeted, her tone courteous yet distant.
"Chief Wen-Li," he replied with a serpentine smile, inclining his head as he drew near. "I noticed you emerging from the High Security Cell. I presume you've had an audience with the mad scientist — the one whose experiment led to an agent's death?"
Her gaze flicked towards him, cool and measured. "What do you want, Mr Zhang Ji?"
"Nothing," he said, waving his hands with a flamboyant flourish — his fingers slicing the air as though conducting an invisible orchestra. "I merely wished to observe how Dr Abrar's project has turned... paradoxical."
Her eyes narrowed, arms folding across her chest, a gesture as much defensive as disdainful. "What do you mean?"
"Well," he began, clasping his hands together as though in mock prayer, "it seems to me you're endeavouring to prove Dr Abrar's innocence. But tell me, what of Vanguard? His family demands justice. Should the Doctor be exonerated, they shall not rest; they'll seek vengeance — and not merely upon the man, but upon the very heart of our organisation. What will you do then, Chief?"
Wen-Li's voice steadied, each word deliberate, sharp as glass. "Mr Zhang Ji, I know the difference between righteousness and corruption. I will uncover the truth — even as your High Council attempts to bury it beneath bureaucracy and deceit."
Zhang Ji gave a low chuckle, his lips curling as he leaned closer, his breath ghosting near her ear. "I didn't bury anything, Chief. The others did. They fear scandal — the erosion of our noble image before the public eye." His voice dropped to a silken whisper. "You and I share a title, do we not? I, the C.E.O; you, the C.C — Command Chief. If you wish to remain alive and... comfortable, you'd best accept the orders as they come. Otherwise..." His eyes gleamed with predatory amusement. "You may find yourself alone — abandoned by your operatives, forsaken by the Council. Lost in perpetual darkness, unable to seek the light."
Wen-Li's expression hardened, yet her pulse trembled beneath the surface — a quiet storm behind her composed facade. Her jaw tightened, and for a heartbeat, fury glimmered in her eyes like lightning behind storm clouds.
Zhang Ji straightened, adjusting his cufflinks with casual grace. "Tomorrow there shall be a court," he said, his tone almost playful. "Think wisely before you act, Chief. Will you serve justice for those who have lost their loved ones, or absolve the man whose experiment killed the very soul subjected to it?"
With that, he smiled — a thin, knowing crescent — and walked away, his footsteps fading into the mechanical hum of the corridor.
Wen-Li remained standing, her body still as marble, her thoughts an orchestra of doubt and defiance. The sterile lights above flickered, casting brief shadows across her face — fragments of light and dark warring upon her skin. She pressed a hand to her temple, eyes closing for a moment.
Justice or loyalty? Truth or survival?
Her mind swirled with the paradox of it all — the same paradox Zhang Ji had mocked her with. She felt like a candle flickering in a tempest: small, fragile, yet refusing to die out. When she opened her eyes again, they burned — cold, determined, and luminously defiant.
Morning light filtered through the half-drawn blinds of Wen-Li's office, casting latticed shadows over the polished mahogany desk that groaned under the weight of files, folders, and fatigue. Her eyes were wide, bloodshot from sleepless vigils; her silken hair, usually immaculate, hung dishevelled around her face like black ink spilled across porcelain. The faint hum of the air filtration system underscored the silence — mechanical, sterile, yet oddly intimate in the lonely dawn of bureaucracy.
A soft knock-knock ruptured the stillness. Wen-Li's voice, mellow but weary, carried through the room.
"Come in."
The hydraulic door sighed open, releasing a faint draught of cooler air, and in stepped Han Seo-Rin — her composure as pristine as ever, a symphony of precision in tailored charcoal and silk. Seeing her, Wen-Li's exhaustion melted momentarily; a fragile smile unfolded across her lips.
"Han Seo-Rin," she breathed, standing at once. The two women met midway, and Wen-Li drew her into a spontaneous embrace. For a moment, the weight of duty slipped from her shoulders; the gesture was both solace and remembrance — two old friends clasped against the cruel arithmetic of time.
"It's been a long day," Wen-Li murmured against her friend's shoulder.
"Yes, Chief," Seo-Rin replied lightly, pulling back with a teasing arch of her brow.
Wen-Li chuckled faintly, shaking her head. "Don't call me Chief. You're my best friend — you've earned the right to ignore the title."
They both sat, the air warming with familiarity. Seo-Rin crossed one leg over the other, her immaculate posture betraying the steel of a courtroom tactician.
"I must say," she began with a smile that was both fond and admiring, "I'm impressed. The youngest Chief in SSCBF history, still holding the legacy of the late Commander. You've done what most men in that building can only pretend to do."
"Yeah…" Wen-Li exhaled softly, her eyes drifting to the side. "Legacy feels heavier than honour sometimes."
"So," Seo-Rin tilted her head, eyes narrowing in gentle curiosity, "what brings me here at dawn, then? You need help."
"Yes," Wen-Li said, her tone sobering. "It's about Dr. Abrar."
"What happened?"
The Chief leaned back, her gaze distant, as she recounted everything — the project, Vanguard's transformation, the blood-red chaos of Obsidian Peak. Her words came measured yet tremulous, like a confession to someone who already knew the cost of truth. Seo-Rin listened without interruption, her hands folded, her expression grave yet sharply analytical.
When Wen-Li finally fell silent, the lawyer inhaled slowly through her nose, then exhaled as though tasting the air for lies.
"Why," she asked softly, "does the High Council deny the investigation of Vanguard's body?"
"It seems…" Wen-Li's voice lowered, almost to a whisper, "it seems they are trying to hide something. I don't understand their fear. Or their motive."
Her gaze met Seo-Rin's — eyes dark, gleaming with doubt. "Han Seo-Rin… am I doing wrong? I'm determined to prove Dr. Abrar's innocence, but Vanguard's family… They cry for justice. What if I'm betraying one truth to protect another? What will I do?"
Seo-Rin leaned forward, resting her hand gently atop Wen-Li's. "Justice, my dear friend, is not a coin — it cannot be spent on one side without devaluing the other. Sometimes, to prove innocence is to serve justice. If Dr. Abrar is truly blameless, then uncovering that truth honours Vanguard more than condemnation ever could."
Wen-Li blinked, a shimmer of emotion crossing her gaze, fragile as dew.
Seo-Rin continued, "Besides, you have his project files, don't you? The documents themselves might hold the key."
"Yes." Wen-Li reached across her desk, gathering the files with careful reverence, as though they were relics rather than records. She handed them over.
Seo-Rin leafed through the pages, her lawyer's precision quick and silent — fingers sliding like scalpels over classified data. "By this," she said finally, "we can argue his innocence. The structure of his biometric model is sound. But…"
"But what?" Wen-Li asked, her tone taut.
"Did you check the surveillance during the live phase of the project? There might have been anomalies — neural spikes, interference, something Abrar missed or someone tampered with."
Wen-Li's eyes widened slightly — the realisation striking like an aftershock. "No. I… I completely forgot." She pressed her palm to her forehead in quiet frustration.
At once, she reached toward the intercom and pressed the call bell. "Lan Qian, come to my office — immediately," she ordered, her tone crisp again. When she turned back to Seo-Rin, the softness of friendship had already receded behind the armour of command.
As the call light blinked red, Wen-Li sat back, folding her arms, the ghost of Zhang Ji's voice crawling through her mind: 'If you want to stay alive, accept what is given by the orders…'
She wanted to tell Seo-Rin — to confide in her about that venomous encounter in the corridor — but something held her tongue. Perhaps instinct, perhaps self-preservation. Instead, she smiled faintly, masking unease beneath the illusion of calm.
Outside the window, the first light of morning sliced through the fog, gilding the skyline of Nin-Ran-Gi in muted gold. Inside, two women sat at the precipice of revelation — one clutching the law, the other clinging to truth — and between them, a silence thick as prophecy.
The Federal Judge House stood like a bastion of marble authority — a cathedral of order in a world decaying beneath its own secrets. Its vaulted ceiling arched above with rib-like beams of obsidian steel, light filtering through translucent glass that rippled like water. The air itself seemed heavy with the musk of judgement — an amalgam of aged wood, ink, and unspoken fear. Rows of agents, officials, and operatives filled the chamber, their uniforms glinting beneath the sterile luminance of the overhead panels.
At the centre of the courtroom, a raised platform bore the symbol of the Federal Justice Division — a blindfolded woman holding scales that gleamed faintly like the moon against a storm. The judge, an elderly man with the poise of sculpted granite, presided with solemn detachment.
Chief Wen-Li sat amongst the prosecution benches, posture straight but her eyes clouded, fingers subtly entwined in tension atop her knee. Beside her, Nightingale rested her chin upon her interlaced hands, the faint tremor of her breath betraying nerves. Captain Robert, stone-faced, tapped his gloved fingers rhythmically upon his thigh. Lingaong Xuein leaned slightly forward, her gaze burning with restrained suspicion, while Lan Qian watched quietly — her silver irises unreadable, her hands folded as though in prayer. Nurse Anne Parker fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve, her throat constricting in guilt. Behind them, Captain Lingaong Xuemin sat beside his partner Feng Shaoyun, both radiating the restless stillness of soldiers unaccustomed to silence.
At the defendant's dock, Dr. Abrar sat shackled, his face pale and hollowed by weeks of confinement. His spectacles clung precariously to the bridge of his nose, and his eyes — haunted, remorseful, yet somehow resolute — flicked toward Wen-Li for reassurance.
Then Han Seo-Rin rose, moving with the composed elegance of a swan gliding upon still water. Her heels echoed sharply against the marble floor — a rhythm that silenced the whispers like the prelude of a blade unsheathed.
"So, Dr. Abrar," she began, her voice clear and crystalline, resonating through the chamber. She adjusted her glasses, her expression both empathetic and formidable. "You have performed a biometric project upon Vanguard — a project designed to enhance human capability, to forge the unbreakable out of the mortal. Correct?"
"Yes," he replied softly, his tone reverent, as though confessing to a sacred act now profaned.
"Even the project was deemed successful," Seo-Rin continued, pacing slowly before the dock, "there were no symptoms of rejection, no cellular haemorrhage, no neural collapse. His synaptic enhancement stabilised. His muscle density increased twofold. Every metric within normalised boundaries, correct?"
"Yes," said Dr. Abrar, his fingers tightening around the rail.
She nodded, her gaze sharpening. "Then tell me, Doctor — how does a man, so perfectly enhanced, turn monstrous? How does flesh become conduit to fury? His breath quickened; his veins pulsed beneath the skin like molten circuitry. His pupils spiralled — the whites consumed by a storm of red. Are you aware of such metamorphosis?"
Dr. Abrar swallowed hard, his throat bobbing visibly. "No," he murmured. "No, I was vigilant. Every variable was calculated. Every deviation recorded. Such… transfiguration — it was beyond prediction, beyond design." His voice trembled at the edge of disbelief.
"Even so," Seo-Rin pressed, "are you aware that he appeared controlled — not enraged by emotion, but directed by command? Are you, Doctor, behind this?"
Dr. Abrar's head jerked upward, his spectacles glinting under the light. "No! Why would I destroy what I built? Why would I slaughter the very hands I worked beside?" His voice cracked, despair and defiance intermingling like water and fire.
Turning to the judge, Seo-Rin spoke firmly: "Your Honour, mind control is not mythology. It is manipulation incarnate — a corrosion of autonomy. It is the covert seizure of one's essence, a theft of will through coercion and deceit. It obliterates individuality, reshaping thought into obedience. It is brainwashing, transmuted through modern science."
The courtroom stirred; murmurs rippled like dry leaves.
Seo-Rin pivoted back to Dr. Abrar. "So, Doctor, are you suggesting that your project was tampered with? That someone corrupted it while you were unaware?"
"No," he said, shaking his head, voice subdued yet earnest. "Nothing of the sort occurred in my presence. I examined his brain — through MRI — before and after enhancement. His neural architecture was immaculate, his synaptic pathways luminous with clarity. No trauma, no interference."
He lifted a small pen drive from his breast pocket. "May I demonstrate, Your Honour?"
"Proceed," the judge replied.
The clerk accepted the device and inserted it into the holographic console. With a soft hum, blue light cascaded upwards, and a three-dimensional projection bloomed — Vanguard's brain, suspended in ethereal glow. The image revolved, layers of neural filaments flickering like constellations. The courtroom watched in hushed awe.
Seo-Rin stepped closer. "This was before the mission, correct?"
"Yes."
"Fascinating. No abnormalities." She gestured toward another set of scans projected beside the first — these ones fractured, webbed with fissures of crimson. "And this was after."
The contrast was harrowing — regions of the cortex exhibited cerebral spasms, synaptic decay, vascular ruptures, and hallmarks of prosopagnosia.
"Are you aware of this, Doctor?" Seo-Rin demanded, voice sharp yet trembling with restrained anger.
"No, not at all," he answered, eyes widening in shock.
"Then someone," Seo-Rin said, pacing toward the jury, "had accessed his neural system through remote manipulation — bypassing your biometric safeguards. Someone corrupted the code while you were absent."
"I don't know who!" Dr. Abrar exclaimed, desperation fracturing his voice.
Seo-Rin turned sharply to the clerk. "Display Exhibit Twelve — the surveillance footage from the Research & Development Division."
The holographic display flickered again — now showing the laboratory. Dr. Abrar and Nurse Anne Parker were visible, monitoring Vanguard in suspended rest before leaving for lunch. Moments later, the door slid open, and through it stepped Zhai Linyu, his posture casual yet his eyes predatory.
Gasps filled the courtroom. Nightingale's hands clutched the bench edge. Captain Robert muttered under his breath, jaw clenching. Lingaong Xuein's expression hardened into fury, while Nurse Anne Parker's hands flew to her mouth in disbelief. Xuemin's eyes widened, a tremor of betrayal flashing across his face. Feng Shaoyun reached for his hand beneath the table, squeezing gently in silent support.
The footage showed Zhai Linyu connecting a small device to the neural interface console. Lines of data flickered. A faint pulse of red spread across the biometric monitor — subtle, deliberate corruption. Then, he smirked — a serpent's grin — and vanished before Dr. Abrar and Nurse Parker returned.
The room erupted in murmurs until the judge's gavel struck with resounding force. "Order!" he thundered. Silence fell like a blade.
"Ms. Han Seo-Rin," he said, his tone grave, "do you wish to proceed further?"
She bowed her head slightly. "No, Your Honour. The truth speaks for itself."
After conferring briefly with the jury, the judge returned his gaze to the chamber. His voice, though aged, carried the weight of a hammer upon steel.
"By our analysis of the evidence and the tragic death of Agent Vanguard — Elias Krohn — we hereby declare: Dr. Abrar is…"
The courtroom froze — hearts suspended mid-beat.
"…not guilty."
A breath like wind through glass filled the chamber. Nightingale let out an audible sigh of relief, clasping Anne Parker's shoulder. Lan Qian smiled faintly, eyes glimmering with vindication. Captain Robert exhaled deeply, murmuring, "Justice, at last." Lingaong Xuein nodded, expression solemn yet softened.
But Xuemin sat motionless, his eyes hollow — the weight of betrayal pressing into his chest. "Zhai…" he whispered, bitterness clawing through his tone. Feng Shaoyun touched his arm gently, whispering, "You couldn't have known."
Across the room, Wen-Li rose, her composure momentarily breaking into a small, triumphant smile. She approached Han Seo-Rin, her friend glowing under the courtroom's sterile light. "You've done it, Seo-Rin," Wen-Li said quietly, eyes shining. "You fought for truth when everyone else cowered before convenience."
Seo-Rin smiled back, tired yet radiant. "Truth doesn't fight for itself, Wen-Li. It needs stubborn fools like us to drag it screaming into the light."
The two women exchanged a quiet, knowing look — one of friendship, defiance, and the bittersweet burden of justice hard-won.
Outside, sunlight spilled through the courthouse glass — warm, fleeting, almost tender — as if the world itself dared to hope again, if only for a moment.
Later, the moment the gavel's final echo dissolved into silence, Wen-Li rose, the faint trace of triumph on her lips now hardening into something colder — sharper — purpose forged into resolve. The courtroom, still trembling in the afterglow of victory, quietened once more under her commanding presence. Her long black silk hair swayed as she turned, her black eyes glinting beneath the artificial light like tempered steel.
"Celebrate later," she declared, her voice low but resonant, slicing through the murmurs with surgical precision. "Right now, our duty is not done. Zhai Linyu is still out there — and if we hesitate even for a moment, he'll vanish into the abyss that bred him. We move now, before it's too late."
Her words hung in the air like the toll of a distant bell, reverberating with grim finality.
Nightingale straightened at once, the warmth of relief draining from her features, replaced by a stoic composure. Her hands, which moments before had clasped Anne's shoulder, now slid to her sidearm. The soft click of the safety echoed faintly — a vow unspoken.
Captain Robert's jaw flexed, the muscle beneath his cheek twitching as he nodded curtly. "Understood, Chief," he said, his deep voice carrying the resonance of a war drum. His gloved hands tightened, leather creaking — a sound like restrained violence.
Lingaong Xuein's eyes narrowed, her expression a tempest of restrained fury. "That snake played us all," she muttered, her tone laced with venom. Her gloved fingers brushed the silver insignia pinned to her collar — a gesture of oath, of vengeance disguised as loyalty. "He won't slither far, not this time."
Lan Qian, her voice calm but steely, added, "Zhai Linyu infiltrated the Bureau's network once. He knows the corridors, the shadows, the blind spots. We must predict his next step before he makes it." Her gaze flicked to Wen-Li, seeking silent confirmation — and received a solemn nod in return.
Nurse Anne Parker, still pale from shock, swallowed hard. Her trembling hands found steadiness as she spoke. "Chief, I can reroute the biometric trace from his access card. He might've erased his trail, but not the electrical ghost — I can find where he's been."
"Do it," Wen-Li commanded, her tone unwavering. "And don't alert anyone outside this circle. The fewer who know, the less chance the mole can warn him."
Across the aisle, Captain Lingaong Xuemin stood, the chair scraping harshly against the marble floor as he rose. His eyes — once calm, oceanic — now burned with volcanic wrath. His fists were clenched so tight the veins in his forearms stood out like cords of tempered wire. Feng Shaoyun reached for him instinctively, murmuring something soft, but he shook his head, his voice dark and thunderous.
"That traitor," he spat, each syllable seething with contained rage. "I took him under my command. I taught him, trained him — trusted him!" His eyes flashed, his voice deepening to a snarl. "And he sold us — he sold me — for a handful of credits and a serpent's whisper!"
"Xuemin," Wen-Li said firmly, stepping toward him, her tone both stern and compassionate. "Anger sharpens the sword, but if you grip it too tightly, it cuts the wielder first. I need your focus — not your fury."
For a heartbeat, the room stood in suspended tension — the weight of betrayal heavy as a blade pressed against every throat. Then, slowly, Xuemin exhaled through his nose, the fire dimming into a cold, lethal determination. "You'll have it," he said, voice low, resolute. "But when we find him — I'll be the one to end this."
"Good," Wen-Li said simply, her tone grave. "Because when the shadows move, I'll need my best hunters ready."
Han Seo-Rin, still by the stand, closed her folder and met Wen-Li's gaze with a faint, knowing smile. "Back to the battlefield already, my friend?"
"There's no rest," Wen-Li murmured, eyes hardening once again. "Justice doesn't sleep — and neither do traitors."
The team exchanged glances, their exhaustion buried beneath a resurgent flame of resolve. The courtroom that had moments ago been a sanctuary of law now felt like a war room — the air thick with purpose and vengeance alike.
As Wen-Li turned to leave, the folds of her coat flaring like wings of shadow, the camera of fate seemed to follow her — each echo of her heels upon marble like a drumbeat to war.
Outside, thunder rumbled faintly over the distant skyline, as if the heavens themselves anticipated the coming storm.
And in that fleeting moment, as her team followed in perfect synchrony, their silhouettes carved against the light like sentinels of destiny — the hunt for Zhai Linyu began.
Inside the armoured convoy, the rhythmic hum of the engines merged with the whine of the hover turbines as the Celestial Unit carved through the misted highways, bound for Gravewind City. The air outside was a burnt ochre haze, swirling like ash in slow motion, and the atmosphere inside the vehicle was as taut as the strings of a bow drawn to its limit.
The faint pulse of the Sentinel Helix bracelet glowed on Lan Qian's wrist, its spectral light casting ghostly ripples across her pale face. "We have him," she said softly, her voice cool yet heavy with gravity. The holographic display above her palm flickered, revealing a crimson marker blinking amidst the digital topography of the decayed metropolis. "Zhai Linyu's signal — it's emanating from the lower industrial quarter of Gravewind."
A grim silence followed.
Chief Wen-Li, seated at the front, leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing as she studied the pulsing beacon. The harsh blue glow reflected off her irises, turning them into twin shards of cold fire. "So, the rat found himself a nest among the ruins," she murmured, her voice low, laced with quiet venom. Her long black hair, unrestrained, caught the dim cabin light and shimmered like ink in motion.
Lingaong Xuemin, seated opposite, clenched his gauntleted hands together. The scar on his cheek tensed, whitening as his jaw locked. "When I see him," he said through his teeth, his tone measured but trembling with fury, "I'll make him answer — not with words, but with his breathless silence." His partner, Feng Shaoyun, placed a gloved hand on his arm, her gaze steady yet sorrowful. "Xuemin," she said softly, "focus on bringing him in. The dead deserve justice — not wrath." He exhaled slowly, the flame in his chest tempered to an ember.
Nightingale adjusted her tactical visor, her expression concealed but her voice sharp. "We'll corner him before he realises we're in the city. But once we engage, it'll be chaos — the Dominion drones patrol that sector at midday."
"Then chaos will be our veil," Wen-Li replied, her tone edged with command. "No one knows Gravewind better than ghosts — and today, that's exactly what we'll be."
The vehicle descended a ramp into the skeletal outskirts, the horizon unfolding into a desolate expanse that once dared to call itself a city.
When the sun rose over Gravewind, it did not bring life — it brought exposure. The pale, corrosive light seeped through the smog-choked atmosphere like acid through silk, bleaching the ruins into spectral silhouettes. Towers stood broken and bent, their iron skeletons reaching into the heavens like the bones of titans long perished. Every cracked window caught the light and hurled it back in jagged reflections — fragments of a dead civilisation staring at itself.
The air was a slow lament — heavy, metallic, breathing through vents and the hollow throats of collapsed structures. From afar, the towers of the Hollow Core loomed like ancient monoliths, their corroded spires shimmering in the heat haze, standing as epitaphs to forgotten empires.
The sky was not blue but a muted copper-grey, streaked with jaundiced gold where the weak sunlight filtered through the poisoned haze. The sun itself was a malignant sphere — not a giver of life, but a weary sentinel, radiating heat that corroded rather than warmed.
Dust and nanite debris drifted lazily through the air like diseased snow, catching the light in a sickly glitter. The heat rose from the ground in waves, making the twisted metal groan and scream like tortured souls beneath the earth. From beneath the fractured highways came the faint whisper of forgotten drones, their dying circuits still humming faintly, like echoes trapped in the bones of the city.
At the heart of the ruins, scavenger crews in torn hazsuits crept like phantoms through the carcasses of war machines, their reflections flickering in the pools of toxic runoff that glimmered like oil-born rainbows. From afar, the movement of these wanderers resembled a colony of insects scuttling over the corpse of a god.
The market squares, hidden within gutted arcades and half-collapsed atriums, breathed with quiet menace. Merchants wore light armour beneath their robes; their mouths and noses veiled with metallic mesh scarves. Deals were whispered in fractured tongues — Zayraniq, Old Shíen, and the clipped syllables of code smugglers. The faint chime of data-chips exchanged hands like coins of sin.
Overhead, bioengineered crows perched upon rusted power lines, their synthetic eyes glowing crimson, scanning movement with eerie patience. Their talons scraped against the metal cables, the sound like the ticking of a clock counting down to calamity.
And above it all — the Dominion Accord drones drifted lazily, glass wings glinting like shards of mirrors. Their patrols traced slow circles, shadows falling like the scythes of invisible reapers.
"Gravewind," murmured Lan Qian, gazing out from the armoured viewport, her eyes reflecting the city's hollow glow. "A mausoleum of progress — where even the air forgets how to breathe."
Wen-Li's voice came in response, quiet yet commanding. "And within that mausoleum hides our serpent. Ready yourselves — once we step into that city, the ghosts will know our names."
A faint hum rose from the Sentinel Helix as it pulsed brighter, synchronising with the city's invisible rhythm — a heartbeat echoing beneath layers of steel and silence.
The vehicle slowed as the team prepared their descent, each movement precise, ritualistic — like soldiers walking into the mouth of a god long dead but still hungry.
The camera panned outward — the convoy cutting through Gravewind's scorched avenues like a phantom blade — their figures reflected in the melted glass and the skeletal remains of what once was civilisation.
The hunt for Zhai Linyu had begun in earnest — beneath a sun that no longer gave warmth, only judgment.
The armoured convoy crawled into the heart of Gravewind City, the sun already smouldering through the smog like a dying god. The metallic ruins stretched before them, shimmering with heat distortion, every structure trembling as if awaiting its own collapse.
"Signal narrowing," murmured Lan Qian, eyes fixed on her gauntlet display. "He's close. South quadrant… near the ruins of Eidolon Park."
Eidolon Park — once a bastion of beauty, now an open grave. Its iron gates hung like broken ribs, creaking in the sulphur breeze. Rusted carousel horses stood motionless in the dirt, their hollow eyes gazing at nothing. A toppled fountain lay cracked at its centre, stagnant green water shimmering with chemical oil. Every sound echoed — the rattle of metal, the slow groan of wind through hollow swings.
They moved through the park like phantoms. Nightingale's cloak shimmered faintly, her crimson aura pulsing with restrained tension. Captain Robert raised his rifle, scanning the horizon. "Movement — ten o'clock," he whispered.
From behind a derelict concession stand, a figure darted — gaunt, frantic — Zhai Linyu. His once immaculate suit was torn. He limped through the ruins, desperate, breath ragged with panic.
"Target in sight!" shouted Xuemin, his voice a thunderclap.
Before he could move, Wen-Li stepped forward, her eyes cold as carved obsidian. With a single motion, she drew her SIO-PX7 tactical handgun, and the air cracked — BANG!
The round tore through the smog and struck Zhai Linyu's leg. The man dropped instantly, screaming — a guttural, animal sound that ripped through the rusted silence. His voice cracked and echoed against the dead swings — raw agony twisted into madness.
Nightingale and the others surged forward, their weapons drawn. But just as they neared, Dr. Abrar's expression froze — his pupils dilated, his breath caught. The air around them thickened, heat curling through it like molten wax.
"Step back!" Abrar bellowed. "Now! The air— it's wrong!"
Too late.
Zhai Linyu's scream deepened — from pain into something inhuman. His body convulsed violently, flesh swelling beneath his skin like waves under cloth. The sound of tearing sinew filled the air. His veins blackened, bulging outward; splitting apart, sprouting tendrils of fused flesh and steel.
Then came the metamorphosis.
His body burst, expanding grotesquely — bones snapping like dry twigs beneath the weight of mutation. His torso ballooned, splitting into a writhing mass of muscle and viscera. The air filled with the stench of ozone and burning meat. His face — or what remained of it — stretched and folded, features melting into grotesque spirals of flesh.
His arms melted into tendrils, whipping across the ruins, tearing through walls and trees alike. The carousel shattered beneath his growing bulk, and in moments he towered over them — a colossal, pulsating mass of living horror, veins glowing faintly beneath translucent flesh.
Dr. Abrar stumbled back, his face pale with dread. "It's… it's a metamorphosis," he whispered hoarsely. "An aberrant cellular reformation— uncontrolled genetic cascade!"
"Whatever it is," shouted Xuemin, his halberd igniting with spectral flame, "we end it here!"
He lunged forward, Azure Spirit Halberd glowing blue, striking through the creature's arm with a blazing arc. The blow seared through flesh — the air hummed as energy cracked and flared.
Beside him, Nightingale stepped forward, her voice lowering into a haunting melody. "Crimson Shroud… awaken."
Her voice split the air — a harmonic resonance that bent reality itself. The whispers of the dead echoed around them, distorted cries and phantom chants that swirled in Zhai Linyu's monstrous mind. The beast roared, thrashing in confusion, striking wildly at the echoes in its own head.
Feng Shaoyun clasped her hands together, her body glowing with eerie light. "Phantom Chrysalis — arise!" she cried. Spectral beasts erupted from her aura — lions of smoke, serpents of flame — lunging toward the abomination.
Captain Robert and Xuein fired in unison, bullets piercing its mass, blood and ichor splattering across the park.
"Don't shoot so many!" yelled Dr. Abrar. "He'll regenerate! Every wound triggers another mutation!"
"Then how do we kill it?!" shouted Shaoyun, parrying a tendril with her spectral claws.
"Target the neural core!" Abrar shouted. "At the base of the spine — the central mutation node!"
Before they could act, a tendril lashed out, striking Wen-Li, wrapping around her waist and dragging her toward the pulsating maw. "Chief!" screamed Lan Qian, lunging forward.
"Chief!" shouted Xuemin, his voice cracking in fury.
The tendrils lifted her, crushing her armour, drawing her toward the mass — but before it could consume her, a single shot rang out from above. The tendril exploded into fragments of gore.
The team turned upward — and there, upon the shattered roof of a nearby highrise, stood Agent-90 and his Crimson Lotus unit — Farhan, Roy, Masud, Jun, Hella, and Hecate — silhouetted against the smog-choked sun.
Agent-90 reloaded smoothly, smoke curling from his rifle. "Looks like you needed a hand," he said coldly.
He fired the zipline gun; cables hissed through the air as the squad descended in perfect synchrony, landing amidst the carnage.
"Light it up!" he ordered.
Gunfire erupted — staccato bursts like metallic thunder. The Crimson Lotus agents moved with mechanical precision — slicing, firing, slashing through tendrils as the creature roared, regenerating as fast as it bled.
Wen-Li staggered to her feet, eyes meeting Agent-90's for a fleeting instant — the reflection of war flickering between them.
A sniper round whistled from afar — BOOM — tearing through the abomination's side, splattering irradiated blood across the carousel remains.
"What are you waiting for?!" Wen-Li shouted, drawing her Crimson Shackle, its scarlet chains whirling around her. "Fight!"
Jun dove toward Nightingale, deflecting a tendril with his blade as it lashed toward her. For a heartbeat, their eyes met —Nightingale looked at him in shock and Jun feel little embarrassed— before they turned again to the chaos.
Dr. Abrar's voice carried over the roar. "His cells are irradiated! The core is overloading — the mutation's destabilising!"
Suddenly, the beast surged again, striking at Wen-Li, its flesh engulfing her entirely.
"Chief!" cried Xuemin, rage and terror in equal measure.
Agent-90 didn't hesitate — he plunged into the writhing mass after her.
"Chief! Take my hand!" he shouted, forcing his way through the pulsating tunnels of flesh. She screamed in agony as pressure crushed her ribs. His gloved hand broke through — and she grasped it, trembling, eyes wide with pain.
Outside, the team watched helplessly.
Jun shouted, "Stay back! It's going to—"
The air ignited.
A burning wave rippled outward, the flesh of Zhai Linyu glowing red-hot, then white. He screamed — a terrible, echoing sound that shattered glass and sanity alike — and in a blinding instant, exploded.
A shockwave of light, blood, and radiation tore through the park. The team was thrown to the ground — Jun covering Nightingale with his body, Robert shielding Xuein, the others rolling amid the debris as crimson mist rained from the heavens.
When the dust settled, silence fell.
Agent-90 knelt in the blood-soaked dirt, cradling Wen-Li against his chest. His spectacles were splattered crimson; her uniform soaked through with scarlet. Around them, the others slowly rose, eyes wide with awe and disbelief.
Wen-Li stirred weakly, pushing away from him. They both stood, coated in the aftermath of horror.
The team gathered, silent — the only sound the slow, rhythmic dripping of blood from the trees.
Agent-90 turned to leave, his team following in silence, boots splashing through crimson puddles.
"Wait," Wen-Li called softly.
He stopped, turning halfway.
She stepped closer, removing a folded kerchief from her pocket and holding it out. Her voice was quiet, almost gentle. "You're stained."
He glanced at the blood streaking his face, then at her. "You are too."
"Don't," she murmured, looking away. "At least… you saved my life. That's reason enough."
He paused, then took the kerchief without a word. As he did, she noticed the thin scar tracing along his jawline — sharp and old, like the memory of a wound that refused to fade.
Their eyes met — for a moment, the battlefield stilled.
Then Agent-90 nodded once, expression unreadable, and turned away, his cloak sweeping through the mist like the wing of a raven.
The Crimson Lotus vanished into the haze — leaving behind only the echo of battle, the metallic scent of blood, and the faint tremor of victory that felt far too much like mourning.