Scene, Dravenholt borders.....
A lavish looking bathroom inside a lavish palace. A man in his fifties take a long and relaxing bath while smoking his favorite. Suddenly a phonecall comes. The man picks it up from afar using voice assistance.
Man- Hello, Andrew Scott here. May I know who's on the other side?
Caller- Adrian.
Andrew- Oh, Reinhardt? What you got at this hour?
Adrian- Heard a message from C78 got till you, he threatened you too.
Andrew- Yeah he keeps saying the same thing. To do this to the war, to do that. If he's so goddamn powerful just do it yourself!
Adrian- Don't. Underestimating dangerous figures like him... or her... or whatever, is the most foolish things the dead did. I can predict them sometimes, but then it breaks apart.
Andrew- Reinhardt, did you call me at this hour to tell me to beware of C78? As if I weren't?
Adrian- To warn. *smirk* And slightly try to negotiate with you to at least pretend to give C78 what he wants. Or else...
I was just working on it. And with how much I digged up, I can say the next target... might be you.
Andrew- Hah, hahaha.... You think I'll get killed by a newly trending fish all on a sudden? As if I haven't been a big enough one? Just wait for him to get caught, I'll make him suck my ****.
Adrian- Arrogance, I choose to not waste time on it. Well, don't come to me crying after you're dead. You're on the wrong side anyway, if I were to meddle in this, I'd say I've seen less brave bastards like this Raven 78.
Andrew- Are you trying to mess with me now? The war will not stop. No matter what happens-
CRASH!!!
Suddenly the strong floor to ceiling windows shatter, and something dark, really dark makes it unable to see that direction.
Not something in particular. Maybe... Aura?
Andrew stares in surprise.
Andrew- Y'you?! Wh-who the heck are you---
Something comes flying at the speed of an eagle and slashes through Andrew's throat in less than a second. Andrew only feels a tingling. Then, blood floods out from the fall created around his neck, leaving out nothing but the vertebrae to hold his head standing.
From the dark mist, emerges a figure. Tall, wide, not even an inch of hair uncovered underneath dark attire.
There was no need of introduction. It was him.
"Raven 78."
Andrew's best trials to give his thoughts into voice turned into a transparent whisper.
"How...did you...get...in...-"
Before he could finish, his head fell backwards, hanging onto the apex of his back. The entire body sinks into the pool of blood contained by the bathtub, looking like wine oozing out of a porcelain cup.
The voice whispers,more to himself.
"You were meant to make this scene. Like your comrades do. Just gave you time enough to prove you died from your foolishness."
He doesn't say it out loud. The footages or recorders forever were left behind with zero awareness of his existence. Today was just no different. He vanishes into the clouds of darkness with the cover keeping him well fit into it.
Dravenholt, Davenport, Cortia....
"Wow, DH is big. Too bad I can't just walk the distance.", Sylara murmurs.
"Madam, are you by chance a Gaten?", the cab driver says with an hint of anxiety.
".... Maybe I am, so what? You gonna be racist with me?",she replies deadpan.
"No no, don't misunderstand me! You're heading towards the Bureau and your accent sounds like Gatens. You must be a big agent!"
"Oh. Are Gatens available here?"
"You're the first I saw. Your stoppage arrived Madam. Good luck, save our country and we support Gatenberg too!"
The cab leaves. She stands on the concrete. Tall, long rose golden hair. Cool pale skin with piercing amber eyes. No makeup on but a bold red lipstick curled around an unlit cigarette.
"Wow, are people here usually talkative? At least not envious.
However, the city is...cool. I could use an entire day on an armchair near the glass window of the 30th floor watching the view outside. But I'm here to catch a serial killer that's on everyone's ass."
Sylara reaches the front of her office. A massive building, completely guarded with armors.
She thinks, "Here goes work again. I wish I were a housecat."
A guard blocks her way with his tall rifle.
Guard: Madam, civilians aren't allowed inside, I'm sorry to say. There's a photography area on the other side if you want.
Sylara: (stares for a few seconds at the man's face. Then replies.) Wait, they took my written, viva, medical, physical, technical and combat interview to hire me as a... photographer?
Guard: ?
Oh... you... work here? Sorry I couldn't comprehend since you're off uniform. May I see your card?
Sylara gets escorted inside.
Sylara: (Didn't they say we could wear anything formal? What about the uniforms?)
Guard: This room, ma'am. I'm sorry for the inconvenience earlier.
Sylara: Ok. (That was literally nothing, does he think I'll sue him over that?)
Nervous, the guard lights her cigarette for her with mafia courtesy.
Guard: Heh, I'll get going then. (She looks mad, dammit. I thought everyone here wears 30 layers of suit no matter how hot it is.)
The corridor to the meeting hall was too clean.
The kind of clean that smelled faintly of chemicals and control — like they were trying to scrub history itself off the walls.
Sylara halted in front of a half-open office door. The brass plate read: Jordan Ramsey – Chief Instructor.
She pushed it open.
Inside, a man stood at a desk littered with papers. Mid-forties, short wavy hair, honey-brown skin, dark eyes that looked like they didn't miss much. Except right now, he missed her entrance entirely — too busy reading.
When he noticed her, he blinked, quickly setting the papers down. One sheet slipped off the pile and onto the floor, but he didn't bother picking it up.
Jordan: "Ah. Sylara Warren. Finally."
He came forward, hand extended. She shook it without warmth.
Jordan: "Myself, Jordan Ramsey. I'll be your chief instructor for this… less mission and more war."
"I was just waiting to take you to the ongoing meeting and introduce you as the leader of the operation. Appreciate you making the trip here."
She blinked slowly.
Sylara: "…Leader of the operation?"
Her voice was dry, not a question so much as an accusation.
Jordan gives a reassuring smile.
Jordan: "Don't be swayed when it comes to valuing your own worth. You've earned it, and that is why we need you."
Sylara: "I understand. But why?"
Jordan: "Because we've checked your previous works. How you single-handedly caught half the odds in Gatenberg in the past few years. We decided Davenport needed someone just as capable."
"You'll have options, of course. Now… let's get to the presentation."
Sylara fell in step beside him, speaking to herself only.
Sylara: "I see. But aren't we catching a rogue soldier? Or something closer to a serial killer of war assets?"
She exhaled through her nose.
"They think I can lead it? Not that I can't, but is it really just… easy to give me like that?
Was Dad right about these INFRA organizations?"
---
The conference room was already buzzing when they arrived.
Jordan held the door open for her. She stepped in, cigarette still in her mouth, smoking unmindfully.
She didn't look for an empty seat on the side. She dragged a chair from the edge of the table to the middle of the room and sat down in it backwards. One leg crossed over the other knee, calf balanced on thigh. Posture lazy, deliberate.
Jordan's mouth tightened. He suddenly looked like a man who was very aware of the cane in his hand, pointing at a presentation board looking like a salaried employee.
Her shirt hung open at the collar, the top two buttons undone. No tie, no attempt to fit in.
Around the table, murmurs began.
Man 1: "Damn, she's beautiful."
Woman 1: "What's with that posture? Does she not know she's in front of the boss?"
Man 2: "She turned Jordan's den into her own in under a minute."
Woman 2: "Gatens are either born fearless or born insane. Still not sure which."
---
Jordan cleared his throat, drawing their attention.
Jordan: "Ladies and gentlemen. We've gathered here to finalize something crucial. We all know the needs and benefits of the ongoing Cortia–Velmark war — politically, economically… strategically. But the assets running this war, the people defending our country, are under threat."
He tapped a remote. The screen flashed with images of crime scenes, redacted files.
Jordan: "A shadow has been stalking them. Murdering them. Sabotaging wherever it strikes. Its motive is unknown... personal gain, political destabilization, or something else entirely. But the effect is the same: fear in the defense unit, and a body count that's growing. Even yesterday Mr. Andrew was found dead in a bathtub inside his own palace near the border.
Click. Another image: of a chit left behind by C78. "The rest are yet only being given opportunity to survive
-XOXO, 78."
Jordan: "We know this figure by several names: Code 78. Raven 78. Blackhawk 78. The Bureau has decided — we will end this threat. Mission 78 begins now."
His gaze swept the room.
Jordan: "And our lead — the one to head team SW9-78 — will be Sylara Warren of Gatenberg. Chosen unanimously, with the higher-ups' approval."
There was clapping. Genuine, if cautious.
Sylara rested her elbow on the chair arm, two fingers pressed to her temple. She took the cigarette from her mouth and rolled it between her fingers.
Sylara: "Every small-town detective dreams of working under The Bureau. The INFRA."
She looked around slowly.
"I wish they got to see the true colors of both."
The murmurs this time weren't about her looks.
Whisper: "She's going to get herself killed saying that here."
Whisper 2: "We've all stopped caring since INFRA swallowed the Cortian government, but saying it out loud--"
Sylara's tone didn't change.
Sylara: "You just need a bait to lure C78. You know you don't have a chance otherwise — you've already lost five agents chasing him. The last two… Connor Rider and Vinod Greene. Superb agents. Better than me. Don't think I never researched on this."
She let the pause hang.
Sylara: "So don't flatter me. I'm not here because I'm the most qualified. I'm here because I'm disposable."
The silence this time was heavy.
Jordan: "…You can reject, if you want."
Sylara smiled — just a twitch at the corner of her mouth.
Sylara: "I'll reward you for that generosity. I'll take the mission — but not as leader of operations. I'll take it as the Sole Supervisor of Plan 78. Not as an insect, but in a position the whole country will know. I like it big, *wink* always.
Gasps. A couple of nervous laughs. Sylara isn't talkative. But when she does, she turns the spot into a theater.
Man 1: "She's insane."
Woman 3: "Or suicidal."
Man 2: "Does she want to be just... famous?"
Man 4: "Or maybe… just Gaten."
Sylara put the cigarette back between her lips and leaned back in the chair.
Sylara: "And the Bureau will take responsibility for every pro and every con.
Every wrong turn, every casualty — all on your name. If C78 decides to kill, he should kill you before me. And if I die first, you die at the people's hands."
She let the words hang, then flicked her eyes toward the frozen frame of Code 78 on the projector.
Sylara: "And this… 'Raven 78'? Sounds like a tasty insect. I've been meaning to try something big, always."
Silence, confusion, and faint disbelief rippled through the conference table.
An analyst whispered,
Analyst: "Is that… a Gaten way of being cocky?"
Colleague: "I think she just threatened to eat him."
Man 1: "I hate my mind."
Woman 3: "You always do."
Jordan's smirk finally surfaced.
Jordan: "Alright, Warren. Challenge accepted. You are now officially the lead of Mission 78. INFRA will follow your directives."
The room broke into hesitant applause, though the tone was closer to are we really doing this? than celebration. Gatens are confusing.
---
Later that day — Press Briefing.
The cameras clicked like locust wings. Reporters leaned forward, their eyes glinting with the hunger for a headline.
Sylara sat behind the podium — wide-brimmed hat shadowing her face, black mask hiding her mouth. Only her eyes showed, and they weren't particularly charitable.
Reporter 1: "Can you tell us how long until you apprehend Raven 78?"
Sylara: "No. Because I'm not a fortune teller, and neither are you."
Reporter 2: "Do you have a strategy you can share?"
Sylara: "Why? So you can write an article telling him exactly what we're doing? Genius."
A few chuckles broke out among the crew; others bristled.
Reporter 3: "What makes you think you can succeed where five agents have already failed?"
Sylara: "Because they thought they could too. And the ones after me will think the same."
She stood, gave the cameras a dismissive look, and walked out — leaving the press corps muttering and the PR officer quietly dying inside.
---
Somewhere else — Night...
A rundown apartment. The only light came from a flickering television set.
On screen:
MISSION 78: TERMINATE CODE 78 – LEAD SUPERVISOR, S.W.
The masked woman's voice was clipped, biting, impossible to place.
On the couch, a man leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His face was hidden in the gloom, glimmering turquoise eyes, the only feature visible, fixed on the broadcast.
The corner of his mouth curled, resulting to a smirk.
Raven 78: "…Interesting. I've been meaning to try something bold, always."
---
(I often make artworks or character designs for the episodes, unfortunately can't add them here. Might add them on wattpad or instagram.)