*Warning: This chapter contains mature and explicit scene that it might disturb some readers
At Wen's residence, Wen-Li is drinking her coffee at her kitchen table, her black silk hair cascading down to her waist. Her mind raced when she spoke to Madam Di-Xian: "Then I will not run from the truth. Nor from the guardian my father chose. Even if his path is written in blood… I will walk alongside it."
Her cheeks glow softly as she bites her thumb, her resolve already set to avenge her parents. Those who betray them will face justice. Yet, she is alone—the High Council is with the High Chaebols, and even the government and media are under their control. She is caught in internal conflict, her mind racing with thoughts of what to do or not to do. She worries about Nightingale and others—what if the High Council manipulates them or forces them to do their dirty work? Her path now is a paradox, a spiral, and a twisted maze.
Once, she was the pontification chief of her own organisation, but now she is not. Even worse, the High Chaebols and the High Council are acting dogmatically, behind the killing of the late President Song Luoyang. Taking advantage of the situation, Chairman Zhang Wei has become the new president. Now, she must tiǎozhàn herself and do everything she can to protect her people. She currently has no power to stand against them.
Suddenly, Agent-90 approaches from the hallway. Seeing him, she jolts and asks, "What is it, 90?!" as she grips her coffee.
He remains emotionless as he walks toward her with mechanical precision and asks, "Are you okay?"
Her eyes twitch, and she replies, "I'm fine!"
"Your eyes are twitching. It seems like you're not yourself again," he says, his deadly blue eyes reflecting in his spectacles. "Well, you're worrying about your people and trying to find solutions to save others from those who run the world."
She nods. She wants to say something but remains silent. After a moment, she gathers her courage and says, "90! The thing I want to ask…"
"Is it to avenge your parents, and late President Song Luoyang and his family?" he finishes her sentence. "I will help, because they have taken the people I hold dear. Your father was my mentor, and I promise to protect you and help serve justice to those who killed your parents—and to rest their souls as well."
"So, what are we going to do?" she asks, her face becoming emotional.
"We will act… by assassinating them," he replies in a cold tone.
"Assassinate?"
"Yes! We will punish them for their crimes, and not even the High Chaebols will be able to save them."
"But what if they do? Even if it's a crime?"
"I don't care. They will perish, Chief! Mark my words!"
Wen-Li chuckles and says, "Still calling me Chief, but I'm not anymore."
"Chief Wen-Li, you're not just the leader of your organisation. You are the leader of the people—because you help others when they face danger. You participate in every case, face torture, and risk your own life. You're not just someone who gives orders to subordinates; you are a true leader. Leaders walk the path and guide their people—they are an amalgamate."
Her eyes widen in surprise, then she smiles in a gesture of mamihlapinatapai, says, "Well I have nothing to worry and afraid about as long as you live" .
But then, Agent-90's phone rang. He picked up the call and said, "Hello, Gonda-san." He remained cold for a moment, nodded, and said, "Okay, I will come in a moment," then hung up.
Hearing Gonda's name, she asked, "What did Gonda say?"
He glanced at her and replied, "We got intel."
Then, both of them arrive at the alleyway, where Gonda is waiting. He's dressed in the same black outfit, his white hair flickering under the streetlight as he smokes a cigarette, curling his lips into a smirk as he sees them.
"So, you brought the Chief along, then, 90!" he says with a sly grin.
"I came along with him," she replies before he can speak.
Gonda then asks seriously, "Are you sure? Are you willing to risk your life for this?"
Wen-Li chuckles softly. "Gonda-san, you know how much trouble and risk I've faced in the past."
"Yeah, I know," he replies.
Agent-90 adjusts his spectacles and asks, "So, what's the intel? And what about our targets?"
Drawing smoke from his cigarette, he says, "The targets are: Andreas Karalis—Greco unionist pushing aggressive expansion—and Fahad Al-Farsi—Gulf security mogul, deeply embedded in energy warfare."
"So, where are they located?" she asks.
"Don't act hastily, Chief. Be patient," he advises, then poses a crucial, hypothetical question about the risky mission, "Chief, do you remember the day when late President Song Luoyang died? Do you recall the moment Chairman Zhang Wei became president?"
"Yeah! I know that Zhang Wei and the others are behind the assassination, and I blame him," she says, pointing at Agent-90.
"Well, it's fùzá—politics, fanaticism—everything's part of it. They turned the SSCBF into just another tool—a slave of the High Chaebols," he explains.
"So why don't we first kill Zhang Wei and his son, Zhang Ji, then finish off the rest?" she suggests, spreading her arms confidently.
"You can't," says Agent-90 firmly. "Because they're camaraderie, and the other Chairmen of the High Council are the backbone of President Zhang Wei."
"If we eliminate them…" Gonda begins.
"Then Zhang Wei and his son will be all that's left," adds Wen-Li.
"So, the High Chaebols won't need them anymore," finishes Agent-90.
"How can you be so sure?" she asks, her jaw tightening in confusion.
"I'm sure," he replies with conviction.
"Alright, that's enough!" Wen-Li snaps. "Tell me, where are they?"
"Well, both Chairmen are at Qal'at al-Raqsa."
"Wait—that city is… the Belly Dance Fortress City!" she exclaims in surprise, her eyes wide with shock.
"So, what are we waiting for? Let's go!" says Agent-90 with determination.
"Before you go, I must warn you—they are heavily guarded by the SCP. Be careful!"
"We're fully aware of that. So, what do you say?" she turns to Agent-90.
He nods solemnly.
Qal'at al-Raqsa is a city that stands like a mirage forged from stone, steel, and song—a place both sacred and seductive, a fortress and festival intertwined. It's a sanctuary where art becomes rebellion. Built on a plateau of polished red sandstone and surrounded by shimmering solar dunes, the city rises in layers of gold-glass towers, curved minarets, holographic calligraphy, and arc-shaped citadel walls.
As Agent-90 and Wen-Li walk through, she exclaims, "This place is truly majestic!"
He nods in silent agreement.
The architectural design of the Crimson Fortress Walls is colossal—massive curved walls of reinforced sandstone and nanosteel. Their surfaces are etched with flowing, Arabic-inspired holograms, pulsing with faint gold at night. They resemble the ribs of a colossal desert serpent, coiling protectively around the city.
The Sky-Veil Minarets are tall, slender towers topped with crescent-shaped hologram emitters. These project shimmering light barriers that serve as communication towers, shield emitters, and performance platforms. During festivals, dancers ascend them to perform ritual dances amid the glowing lights.
The Golden Spiral Bazaar is a spiraling, multi-level marketplace shaped like a coiled dune. Bridges twist around it like ribbons, connecting each level. The marketplace buzzes with life—spice-vent booths, drone-guided silk stalls, cyber-jewel forges, VR memory carpet shops, and traditional oud makers using nano-wood. The air is thick with the scents of saffron, cardamom, rosewater, and hot copper.
The Sapphire Oasis District features artificial freshwater pools fed by subterranean cooling systems. Palm trees intertwine with glowing fiber-optic roots, their reflections shimmering against the city's red-gold palette, creating a surreal, almost dreamlike beauty.
The Qalb al-Nūr Grand Amphitheatre is the heartbeat of the city's dance culture—a circular, open-roofed arena where dancers, musicians, holo-bards, and genetic rhythm artists perform on a rotating mosaic floor. The patterns shift and ripple beneath their feet, reacting to sound frequencies.
Holo-Caravan Streets are long, torch-lit avenues lined with translucent neon banners hovering overhead. Hover-carts drift silently past, while camel-shaped utility mechs wander with merchant caravans.
Women of Qal'at al-Raqsa are celebrated as artists, guardians, historians, combatants, and storytellers. Their attire is a stunning blend of traditional Middle Eastern garments and cyber-futuristic enhancements—flowing dance skirts made of translucent, holographic fabrics; coin belts that shimmer with movement; arm cuffs with projected henna patterns; veils woven with nanofibers that pulse rhythmically; crystal anklets chiming with each step; and desert boots designed for agility. Their outfits honor ancient traditions, beautifully fused with futuristic artistry, not "revealing for spectacle," but rooted deeply in culture.
At night, the city transforms—every gold line on the buildings becomes neon blue. Minarets glow like sapphire pillars, holographic dancers shimmer in the air, and performers light up the city with their movements. It's a festival of light and shadow, where dance festivals illuminate the amphitheatre, shadow markets open for rare data, relics, and forbidden art, and rebel groups gather in secret, rhythmic rendezvous. Musicians blend loud melodies with electronic pulses, lovers and wanderers drift along the Sapphire Oasis, listening to quiet music. The atmosphere is enchantingly electrifying—a city alive, refusing to sleep—a dream rebellion glowing beneath a dystopian sky.
Wen-Li gazes around in awe. "Even shadows dance here," she whispers, her voice tinged with wonder.
Agent-90 nods quietly, a faint smile on his lips.
Suddenly, a gorgeous woman approaches. She's dressed in a top heavily adorned with beads, sequins, and crystals—highlighting her chest with intricate beadwork and shimmering embellishments. She wears a hip belt decorated with fringe, coins, and tassels that jingle with her movements, and her flowing chiffon skirt spins as she moves seductively, her belly undulating with a hypnotic rhythm.
"Oh, my, my! What do we have here?" she purrs, approaching Agent-90. "You look handsome, young man. It seems you've lost your way—your beautiful blue eyes reflecting in your spectacles, like a predator hunting for its prey. May I serve you?" She gently places her hand on his arm, smiling alluringly.
Agent-90 hesitates, remain emotionless.
Wen-Li quickly steps forward, her face showing a flicker of jealousy. "Excuse me. He's with me. Please, keep your hands to yourself," she says firmly.
The woman—Jennifer—apologises with a dazzling smile. "Oh, my apologies! And you…," she turns to Wen-Li, "you look stunning—like a dandelion. I think I've seen you somewhere before. Have we met?"
Wen-Li clenches her jaw, impatience flickering in her eyes. "We don't have much time, lady. Please, let us go."
Jennifer eyes her curiously. "Wait—you're the Chief of the SSCBF, Wen-Li, right?"
Wen-Li nods, confused.
Jennifer extends her hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Jennifer. I've heard a lot about you."
Wen-Li hesitates, then shakes her hand. Jennifer's gaze lingers, then she asks, "He must be your boyfriend?" she points at Agent-90.
Wen-Li's face flushes slightly. She hesitates, then blurts out, "He's my…," she glances at him, unable to finish.
Agent-90 cuts in smoothly, "We're here on urgent business, Jennifer."
Jennifer scoffs playfully. "And what's that?"
He produces a photo of Fahad Al-Farsi and Andreas Karalis. "Have you seen these two?"
Jennifer studies the photo, then nods. "Yeah! They're regular visitors to our city."
Wen-Li presses, "Who?"
Jennifer points at Fahad Al-Farsi. "He's our client. Did something happen?"
Wen-Li exchanges a glance with Agent-90. "Something… personal," he says, voice tense.
Jennifer raises an eyebrow. "They arrived at 6:30 pm in a black SUV, heavily guarded—men in suits."
Wen-Li asks urgently, "Where are they now?"
Jennifer responds swiftly, "They're at the Qalb al-Nūr Grand Amphitheatre. I can take you there."
Agent-90 shakes his head. "No need. Just take us to your manager—who handles this?"
Jennifer nods. "Yeah, I can do that."
Agent-90 steps forward. "Good. Take us to your manager. We need to discuss something urgent."
Jennifer's expression flickers with confusion, but she nods, leading the way.
As they went to the club as Jennifer lead them to meet the manager as she calls him, "Manager! The guest wants to meet you"
The manager turn back and notice Agent-90 and Wen-Li says, "Hello! 90!" as he offer a handshake, "it's pleasure to meet you, Sir!" he handshake with him, then the manager look at Wen-Li with smirk on his face, "You must be…."
Before she can tell Agent-90 says, "A friend of mine!"
The manager nods his head in acknowledgement then Agent-90 show the photos of both chairmen: Andreas Karalis and Fahad Al-Farsi says, "These both are our prime target, you know what to do!"
"I see!" the manager reply with smirk on his face, "Don't worry, my girls will handle them but…"
"They are heavily bodyguard by SCP! I understand!" says Agent-90, "can you arrange for that?!"
"I can don't worry!" says the manager
"Good!"
Wen-Li sees him in amuse the way he corporate to dismantle his target and he has already resource for that even he is one step ahead of his targets. Then Agent-90 glance at her for a moment she ask him, "What?" in confuse expression, then he says, "Well!" he turn to manager, "can you make her to be one of your performers" pointing at Wen-Li
She exclaim "What?!" her cheeks slightly blush
The manager fēnxī at her says, "I can!" then orders Jennifer to take her to changing room, she nods as Wen-Li takes Agent-90 aside ask, "Are you nuts or your brain become rot why me! And why you want me to be like them" in low voice
"Chief, if you want to serve them justice for their crime, it is the only option, "your job is to lured them by your beauty to put them in trap and rest is upon to me"
"But!" her face is little blush,
"Do you trust me?" he ask comforting her
In heartbeat, she reply, "I do…but"
"Don't worry! Nothing will happen"
"If something happen you will pay for this"
He nods, as Jennifer takes Wen-Li to the changing room with a playful smirk, "Come on! Chief!"
She stare at him like her lungs has been taken.
The time has come as the black SUV cars has arrived Chairman Fahad Al-Farsi and Chairman Andreas Karalis has arrived in their black SUV with heavily bodyguard of SCP they all in black gentlemen suits wearing spectacle. The manager welcomed them warmly. They have a conversation as they walk by.
Manager welcomed them, "Chairman Al-Farsi. Chairman Karalis."
He inclines his head with ceremonial grace. "Qal'at al-Raqsa is honoured by your presence this evening."
Fahad Al-Farsi, adjusting his cuff, voice smooth as polished marble
"Spare me the poetry. We were told tonight's performance would be… exceptional."
The manager continued, "Of course, sir. We have prepared something most… exclusive." a slight pause, deliberate. "A private showcase at the Qalb al-Nūr Grand Amphitheatre—no interruptions, no witnesses. Only artistry at its most… persuasive."
Andreas Karalis chuckles, low and indulgent, "You always promise much. You'd best deliver."
The manager smiles wider, yet his eyes remain cold, "I assure you, Chairman, disappointment does not survive long in this city."
Fahad Al-Farsi:
"Our security will remain closed."
The manager accepts, "Naturally."gestures subtly to the SCP detail.
"Our dancers are accustomed to powerful audiences. Discretion is… embedded in our culture."
Andreas Karalis ask, "And the girl?" his gaze sharpens. "The one Jennifer mentioned."
The manager gives a knowing smirk flickers, "She will perform tonight." measured, almost reverent.
"A rare bloom. Unseen by most. Remembered by all."
Fahad Al-Farsigives a nod once. "Then proceed."
Manager says, "As you wish, Chairmen." he steps aside, arm sweeping outward. "Allow Qal'at al-Raqsa to dance for you."
Among the crowd the assassin is mixed within. As both chairmen sit on the V.I.P seat they all having drink of wine and laughing.
The lights collapsed into darkness.
For a breathless instant, the amphitheatre seemed to hold its own pulse—then a single spotlight flared to life, pale gold and unwavering, cleaving the shadows like revelation.
Music unfurled.
A zither whispered its metallic sorrow, a reed flute answered with mournful breath, and the drums entered last—low, patient, inexorable—beating not for spectacle, but for ritual. The dancers emerged as one body, their silhouettes carved from motion, their movements swelling and receding like a tide obedient only to the moon.
Their torsos moved in measured cadences, waists tracing liquid geometry, abdomens rising and folding with the grace of waves rehearsed by centuries of memory. This was not an exhibition. It was an invocation.
Among them danced Jennifer, radiant and skilled, her expression serene—yet even she faltered, if only by a heartbeat.
Because the centre of gravity shifted.
From the veil of bodies stepped one figure, and the air changed.
She wore an ensemble of sapphire, obsidian, and molten gold, a regalia rather than a costume—exotic not for its rarity, but for its authority. A sheer face veil obscured her mouth and jaw, directing all attention upward, where her eyes—rimmed in kohl and crowned by a crimson gem—burned with quiet dominion. Mystery clung to her not as ornament, but as armour.
Her black bra top, structured and dense with golden filigree, caught the light like a reliquary. Over her shoulders flowed a translucent robe of deep blue, its hem embroidered in antique gold scrollwork, moving not independently of her body but with it, as though answering a private command.
Her midriff lay bare—not exposed, but declared.
Gold chains rested against her waist with ceremonial precision, converging at a small navel ring that glimmered faintly, less jewel than punctuation. Around her hips, an ornate belt of black and gold appliqué bore suspended chains and long red tassels that marked each movement with deliberate emphasis—an exclamation to every turn, a flourish to every pause.
This woman was Wen-Li.
And no one knew.
Her dance was neither coy nor indulgent. It was exact.
Her abdomen rolled in controlled sequences—measured contractions and releases, sculpted with the discipline of a master calligrapher drawing meaning from restraint. Each undulation arrived precisely on the beat, neither rushed nor languid, as if time itself bent to her tempo.
The spotlight lingered.
Her navel caught the light briefly—no more than a glint, a constellation point—before vanishing again into motion. The chains at her waist responded with soft metallic whispers, echoing the rhythm like afterthoughts.
The audience fell silent.
Jennifer's breath stilled, her own choreography momentarily suspended, eyes widening not with envy, but reverence. Around them, the other dancers adjusted instinctively, orbiting Wen-Li's gravity, their movements unconsciously harmonising with hers.
Even the Chairmen—men accustomed to command, to consumption—watched without recognition.
They did not see prey.
They saw art.
As the music intensified, Wen-Li's movements deepened—not faster, but fuller. Her hips traced crescents; her core articulated subtle pulses, ripples travelling through muscle and breath alike. She did not invite attention. She held it.
She was not being watched.
She was conducting.
The amphitheatre seemed to breathe with her—every roll of her abdomen mirrored in the hush of the crowd, every sway reflected in the flicker of torchlight against gold.
Her dance spoke without language: of survival, of inheritance, of beauty that answers only to itself.
And beneath veil and silk, beneath ornament and shadow, Wen-Li remained sovereign—unrecognised, unclaimed, and utterly in control.
The music reached its crest.
And the city watched, spellbound, unaware that justice was already moving—quietly, rhythmically—towards its mark.
Fahad Al-Farsi rose from his seat with a measured exhale, adjusting his cufflinks as though the world still bent obediently to his convenience. He leaned towards Andreas Karalis and murmured that he required the lavatory. Andreas waved him off indulgently. Two bodyguards followed at once, shadows stitched to his heels.
This was the aperture.
Outside the men's restroom, the guards took their stations, alert but complacent. From the periphery, Agent-90 observed without seeming to observe at all. His gaze flicked sideways; his wrist tilted imperceptibly. From the housing of his watch, a mechanical insect unfolded—delicate, iridescent, almost beautiful. It lifted silently into the air, wings humming at a frequency below notice, and drifted towards the surveillance unit mounted above the entrance. A brief flicker—then darkness. The camera died without complaint.
Moments later, an elderly man shuffled into view.
His gait was uneven, punctuated by faint irritation, each step a complaint against age and gravity. The guards stopped him, eyes narrowing, assessing the stoop, the trembling hands, the weathered face. One guard glanced at the other, who merely shrugged.
The first guard sighed. "Sorry, sir."
The old man nodded curtly and passed through.
Inside, the tiled room echoed with retching. Fahad leaned over a basin, gripping its porcelain edge as bile rose again, his breath harsh, his complexion already paling. Behind him, the old man entered a stall, closed the door softly, and opened a narrow canister. From within, he removed a slim injector—his Phantom Blade, disguised, precise. Water dripped steadily, masking all sound.
When Fahad straightened and moved to wash his hands, the old man emerged and stood beside him at the sink. Their reflections did not meet. Fahad saw nothing amiss—only another tired patron, insignificant.
The old man stepped behind him.
The movement was economical. The injection was delivered cleanly at the base of the neck, almost tender in its accuracy. Fahad stiffened.
His body betrayed him immediately.
Nausea surged. His vision fractured. A crushing headache bloomed behind his eyes as his lungs failed to obey. His hands slipped from the basin's edge; blood gathered at the corner of his mouth.
The old man leaned in and whispered, voice low, almost kind.
"Dear Chairman, the substance now within you will silence every cell that depends upon breath. You have less than a minute."
Fahad turned, eyes wide with dawning terror. His voice was barely a sound. "Who… are you?"
"For Chief Wen-Luo," Agent-90 murmured, his true voice slipping through the disguise like steel through cloth, "and for Lieutenant Ren-Li."
Fahad collapsed, choking on air that no longer served him.
At that moment, the restroom door burst open. The two bodyguards rushed in—and were greeted by death before either could raise a weapon. Agent-90 fired with surgical calm. Two precise shots. Two bodies fell. Blood streaked the tiled floor like spilt ink.
He hoisted Fahad's corpse with grim efficiency and exited, his disguise dissolving into chaos and panic behind him.
Meanwhile, Chairman Andreas having fun seeing that Chairman Fahad and his bodyguards didn't arrive yet he ordered his men to look for them. The bodyguard nods and went to find them. Even yet, this is Wen-Li's preimushchestvo she approaches him in a seductive way asking him, "Mr Karalis," she said softly, "you look weary. Why not steal a moment? Just the two of us." her face is pure with beauty, so Andreas accepts her offer.
Occasionally, they entered a private room. Andreas sat, loosening his posture, his gaze lingering where it had no right to linger. He asked her to remove her veil.
She refused.
His impatience surfaced, crude and entitled. He leaned forward, reaching—
Wen-Li's expression changed.
The softness vanished, replaced by something glacial and exact. In that instant, a colourless gas hissed into the room. Andreas froze, blinking, confusion wrenching his features as his vision dissolved into white fog.
He staggered.
Wen-Li seized a wine bottle and struck him across the head with controlled force. The glass shattered. Andreas crumpled to the floor.
She stepped back, chest rising once, sharply.
"Disgusting," she whispered, breathless—not with fear, but with contained fury.
Outside, the city continued to dance—unaware that its predators were already falling.
Andreas Karalis awoke to darkness so dense it felt tactile, pressing against his eyelids like damp velvet. His head throbbed; his thoughts arrived out of sequence. How did I get here? The question echoed, unanswered, as he strained against the chair restraining him.
Then—a sound.
Measured footsteps. Unhurried. Neither rushed nor theatrical.
A faint, erratic light flickered, and within its pallid pulse a silhouette emerged. The glow traced the outline of a tall figure, immaculately still, until the light finally revealed the glint of spectacles and eyes cold as polar glass.
Agent-90.
Andreas sneered, though fear trembled beneath the bravado.
"Agent-90… how did you—"
"You are awake," Agent-90 interrupted calmly, his voice stripped of inflection, as if emotion were an obsolete language.
Andreas swallowed. "Where is Fahad?"
"Chairman Fahad has departed this world," Agent-90 replied evenly. "He succumbed to the weight of his own transgressions."
"You will not escape this!" Andreas roared, fury clawing through his panic. "This is a crime!"
Agent-90 gave a quiet chuckle—not one born of mirth, but of finality. It lingered in the air like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath.
"Oh, really?" he said. "Then allow me to ask you something, Mr Karalis."
He paused deliberately, letting the silence tighten like a noose.
"Do you feel even the faintest remorse for the deaths of Chief Wen-Luo, Lieutenant Ren-Li, and late President Song Luoyang… and his family?"
Andreas laughed—a harsh, unrepentant sound. He lifted his chin, eyes blazing with fanatic pride.
"Remorse? We celebrated their deaths. They stood in the way of progress. Thanks to the High Chaebols, we will forge a new world order. Our god will rise—and crush vermin like you."
"God?" Agent-90 asked coolly. "Which god would that be? The Almighty?"
He tilted his head slightly. "That god liberated His people. He preached justice, restraint, and peace. He was not a tyrant."
"Not Him," Andreas spat.
"Then who?" Agent-90 pressed.
"You will witness the lord of the underworld soon enough," Andreas replied, eyes alight with zealotry.
"Lucifer, then?" Agent-90 said softly.
He stepped closer. "And tell me—were Chief Wen-Luo and President Song Luoyang sacrifices in your ritual?"
"Yes," Andreas said without hesitation. "And Wen-Li… and her brother Wen-Liao were meant to—"
He stopped.
Agent-90 gestured behind him with a subtle tilt of his thumb.
A figure approached from the shadows. Slow. Controlled. She removed her veil.
Wen-Li.
Andreas's jaw slackened. The colour drained from his face as if terror itself had reached out and gripped his spine.
Her voice, when she spoke, was glacial.
"I respected the High Council," she said, her composure trembling only slightly beneath the weight of restrained grief. "I respected you. And yet you betrayed my parents… corrupted our own organisation, the SSCBF… and turned it into a slaughterhouse for your ambition."
Her eyes burned, tears threatening but never falling.
"You are monsters," she said flatly. "You know what will happen if I expose your dealings here in Qal'at al-Raqsa—just as you destroyed my family. I will not forgive you."
She turned to Agent-90.
"He is yours."
And she left.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Agent-90 stepped forward. His movements were precise, reverent in their restraint. Andreas struggled, breath hitching, as Agent-90 delivered the final measure—swift, clinical, irreversible.
Andreas Karalis exhaled once… and did not inhale again.
Later, Wen-Li stood upon the rooftop, the city beneath her ablaze with neon constellations. Qal'at al-Raqsa shimmered like a living organism, indifferent to the blood it had witnessed. The night wind threaded through her long black hair, chilling her skin.
She shivered.
A moment later, warmth settled upon her shoulders. Agent-90 had draped his blazer over her without a word.
"Are you all right?" he asked quietly.
"I am," she replied, though her voice betrayed unease.
"Chief," he said after a pause, "revenge consumes the wounded until nothing remains. It is not justice—it is self-annihilation."
She stared at the city, eyes clouded.
"I want revenge," she admitted. "But if I take it, I become them."
"That is the realisation most never reach," he said.
She turned to him. "Then what of you? You help others confront those who destroyed them."
He lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his expression.
"That is not revenge," he replied. "That is justice. Some evils will not leave the world unless they are removed from it."
"Don't smoke," Wen-Li said sharply, snatching the cigarette away. "It causes cancer."
He blinked once, surprised. Said nothing.
A chill crawled down her spine. The memory of Andreas's gaze—where it lingered—made her recoil inwardly.
Agent-90 adjusted his spectacles, then lifted her effortlessly into his arms.
Her eyes widened in startled protest.
"Let's go home, Chief," he said simply.
She hesitated, then asked about the bodies.
"They are dealt with," he replied. "Jun and Farhan ensured there would be no remnants."
She said nothing. Her cheeks warmed faintly as she leaned against him.
Together, they disappeared into the night—leaving behind a city still dancing, unaware that two of its darkest architects had already fallen.