In a dimly lit apartment tucked amid the neon cacophony of Lumina Square, steam curled from the bathroom like phantom tendrils as a figure emerged.
Jane Doe's slender silhouette shimmered with residual moisture, rivulets trailing down her skin as her dark hair clung in damp strands to her shoulders.
Each droplet caught the refracted glow of New Eridu's skyline, filtering in through the smudged glass window like fractured starlight.
With a graceful flick of her rat-like tail, she hooked a towel from a nearby rack.
The plush fabric caressed her skin as she moved soundlessly across the polished hardwood, her steps unhurried, measured.
The room around her was curated chaos—holo-screens blinking with Public Security case files, shelves crammed with encrypted data drives, scattered maps from old organizations curling at the edges.
A faint trace of ozone hung in the air, interwoven with lingering jasmine.
Another lead, another dead end, she mused, settling at the edge of her unmade bed.
Her tail coiled instinctively as she flipped open a sleek laptop.
Cold, digital light bathed her angular features—sharp eyes, lips pressed in thought.
A criminal behaviour specialist with Public Security, Jane had long earned her reputation through navigating the city's seedy underside—trading information with hackers, smugglers, and old informants too jaded to fear her badge.
Yet the enigma known as Zelrech remained beyond her reach. No face. No trace.
Just a whisper in a sea of rumours.
A ghost with no past.
She had scoured both digital backdoors and physical hideouts for weeks, yet the trail ran cold.
All she had was a cryptic post buried deep in the Inter-Knot—its gibberish veil concealing a subtler intent.
But Jane had cracked it.
Beneath the post's nonsense, an ancient Morse code pulsed—repurposed from long-dead clandestine cells who once danced around corporate surveillance.
Interesting tricks.
The sequence pointed to one place amid New Eridu's luminous sprawl. A breadcrumb.
I'm close.
***
With a faint smile tugging at her lips, she snapped the laptop shut.
The city pulsed outside like a living organism, its heartbeat synchronizing with hers.
Across the city, in the cavernous depths of Section 6's fortified training compound, Hoshimi Miyabi stood unmoving, her katana—Tailless—glinting beneath unforgiving fluorescent lights.
Clad in a pitch-black training gi, her lean figure exuded coiled precision.
Her long black hair, styled in a traditional hime cut, shifted with every calculated movement—short bangs framing her eyes, side-locks brushing against her jaw.
Crimson eyes burned with focus as her fox-like ears twitched, attuned to every vibration.
The air bristled with the scent of steel and sweat.
She moved.
In a single breath, her katana carved the air in a graceful arc—too fast for the untrained eye to follow.
The training dummy split apart, bisected with such surgical precision that the halves remained suspended in time before collapsing in perfect symmetry.
Silence reclaimed the space.
Still not enough.
Her lips thinned into a line. No satisfaction.
No pride.
Efficiency measured in inches.
Even now, I hesitate.
Her grip tightened on the katana's hilt, its sheath humming with restrained Etheric energy—locked to her fingerprint.
Since her unsettling encounter with an unknown adversary, Miyabi's training had grown relentless.
Her blade was now more than a weapon—it was an extension of her resolve.
As the youngest Void Hunter, her strengths were clear: speed, surgical control, and an unflinching mind.
But when she had faced that mysterious figure—something had unraveled.
Her limbs had faltered, her reactions misaligned, as if her body had been tugged by invisible strings.
Like a puppet on borrowed time.
It was an unfamiliar sensation. One that gnawed at the foundation of her confidence.
She recalled the debrief—theories tossed around like knives.
Yanagi proposed the attacker was an Ethereal, referencing Dullahan's spectral traits and the Hollow portal that had whisked them away.
But Miyabi remained unconvinced.
They were too precise. Ethereals, distorted by Hollow corruption, rarely retained such clarity.
This one had read her, countered her, evaded every strike she had held back from lethality.
They were playing with me.
Harumasa's insight echoed in her mind:
"They might possess an Etheric ability—one that manipulates the body from within."
A technique that bypassed strength and attacked the core.
Miyabi had begun refining a countermeasure: lowering her body's temperature to sever foreign influence—a crude but effective defence.
I'll shatter their hold next time.
Her katana caught the light, the blade gleaming like vengeance incarnate.
She approached a fresh target dummy—this one reinforced, weighted with tungsten bones.
Her grip on the sheath tightened.
One strike.
In a flash, she unsheathed and swung. A vertical arc—so precise it left no wasted motion.
The dummy didn't just fall—it unravelled.
A storm of shredded fibres and sparks burst forth like a silent scream.
Breathing hard, she exhaled steam into the chilled air.
Next time, I won't hold back.
Her jet-black hair flowed behind her like a war banner, defiant against the forces that had dared to mar her precision.
———
The night air of New Eridu throbbed with life.
Neon advertisements shimmered across glass towers, while drones darted overhead like metallic fireflies.
Amid the current of late-night revelry, a young woman walked purposefully through Lumina Square.
Her wolf-cut hair—dark, choppy layers brushing her cheeks—moved with each step.
Silver piercings caught flashes of neon, glinting like defiant stars.
Her jacket, traced with circuit-like etchings, blended into the city's cybernetic palette.
Yet it was her eyes—cool, alert—that cut through the chaos.
This is it, she thought, weaving through clusters of Bangboo vendors and fire-breathing performers.
The scent of grilled skewers clashed with the oily burn of Ether exhaust.
Two men in gaudy jackets stepped into her path, smiles wide, words slurred.
"Hey, gorgeous, Are you going somehwhere?" one crooned, gesturing toward nearby bars.
"Wanna drink?"
She smiled faintly, voice smooth as glass.
"Tempting, but I prefer company with a few more brain cells."
With practiced ease, she brushed past, leaving them in awkward silence.
A few turns led her into a shadowed alley.
She tapped her phone, its screen casting a soft glow on her face.
"I'm here," she murmured, eyes fixed on a crumbling building ahead.
The "Golden Starrs Apartments" sign above the entrance hung crooked, its rusted bolts groaning.
Windows were fogged and cracked, their grime refracting fractured light from nearby holograms.
Inside, the lobby was dim and thick with the scent of old cigarettes and cheap cologne.
Partygoers spilled from a basement club, their laughter echoing in drunken crescendos.
Jane climbed the staircase, her boots crunching over discarded glowsticks and confetti.
The hallway was narrow, postered with faded Hollow event flyers, the carpeting worn to threads.
She reached a scratched door with a modern digital lock.
From her phone, she pulled up the decrypted Morse code string.
Let's hope this works.
Click.
The door creaked open. Shadows pooled within.
Inside, the room was decrepit—a sagging couch, flickering overhead light, a desk strewn with cables and empty bottles.
But in the middle of the chaos sat a lone computer, humming softly, its screen aglow.
That's odd.
She approached. Sat.
The chair groaned beneath her. Beneath her jacket, her tail twitched with anticipation.
The monitor flickered, static dancing—then words began to form unbidden:
[Welcome, Jane Doe.]
Her breath caught.
They knew I'd come.
———
The air was dense—heavy with silence and static—as Jane stared at the flickering screen, its glow casting spectral shadows across her face. The message lingered:
[Welcome, Jane Doe.]
For a moment, she didn't move. Her breath stilled in her throat.
She'd worn a different face, different gait. Burned all digital traces, rerouted her trail through a half-dozen dummy accounts. And still… he had found her.
Zelrech.
She typed, fingers calm though her heartbeat betrayed her:
[How did you know it was me?]
The reply came swiftly, disarmingly confident.
[I crafted that post to draw you out. Only you would decode it.]
Her jaw tightened, mind dissecting every syllable.
No arrogance. Just certainty. Cold, calculated certainty.
She had always imagined Zelrech as some rogue programmer or a hidden hacker who plays hero, but this—this was something else.
This was a mind that hunted people like prey, not with blades, but with logic and foresight.
[And if someone else had cracked it?] she challenged, not out of doubt, but to buy herself a moment—to gauge the level of the game she had been dragged into.
[They wouldn't have. You're rare. Like me.]
That line struck deeper than she expected.
Not flattery. A statement of equivalence.
A mirror held up to her own obsessions.
Her fingers hovered over the keys before she allowed herself to respond.
[Why this meeting? What do you want?]
The screen pulsed. Paused. Then answered.
[Cooperation.]
Of all things, she hadn't expected that.
Not from a ghost.
Not from the person who even the best in the fields had yet to catch them.
Why me?
[You've demonstrated precision. Persistence. That is why I chose you: the target I am pursuing is entrenched—far deeper for me to act alone. Embedded in TOPS, layered in corruption.]
The name chilled the air around her. TOPS.
The skeleton key to New Eridu's deepest rot.
[You could still do it. You are obviously skilled for that based on what we observed.]
[At timely cost. I am choosing the more efficient route, which necessitates collaboration. You were the only viable candidate.]
That amused her—his phrasing clinical, stripped of ego.
Zelrech wasn't trying to charm her.
He was trying to optimise her.
To use her.
And yet, a strange thrill crawled up her spine.
It wasn't often Jane Doe met someone who spoke to her like an equal.
Most underestimated her, feared her for her past, the badge, the blood-stained reputation.
But Zelrech had studied her.
And worse—he understood her.
[You've done your research.]
[Of course. You've made yourself hard to find. That makes you… predictable, in some ways.]
A flare of irritation flickered in her gut.
She didn't like being called predictable.
But she let it pass.
[Fine. I'm listening.]
The cursor blinked once. Twice.
[The target is…]
***
Morning rose over Lumina Square, casting a rare, soft light across the streets, where even the neon seemed to dim in deference to daylight.
In a vintage cinema tucked between espresso bars and noodle shops, a man sat in a velvet seat.
His shirt was crisp white, his tie a muted charcoal.
He chewed popcorn absently, the scent of butter blending with polished wood and old reels.
The film glowed on screen—retro-futuristic drama flickering against his expressionless face.
She's here.
At the front row sat a woman in a tailored blazer, her auburn hair arranged in an elegant updo.
Elise Laurent. Wife of Victor Laurent. Director of the film.
She watched, unaware.
But he wasn't here for the story.
He was here for her.