In the heart of that lifeless facility, where the scent of iron and cold glass hung stagnant in the air, Damazti moved with an eerie grace—her guise as a researcher utterly flawless.
She held in her gloved hands a stack of files, scanning through the columns of mutation logs, organ decay rates, and failed graft timelines, her voice low as she continued to converse with Howard.
They stood together, flanked by rows upon rows of glass pods—each one cradling a malformed, twitching sarkaz bathed in pallid fluid and the lightless hum of machinery.
Mutations, all of them—some barely recognizable as human, others clinging to form through sheer will alone.
"Even if we cut the head," Damazti said, flicking through one of the folders, "the body is many-limbed. They will rebuild. The people behind this are truly monsters."
"Unless we find the heart—nothing changes."
Howard, silent, paced with slow deliberation, his crimson eyes flicking from pod to pod.
His coat whispered as he moved. He stopped beside one—the body inside shriveled and glassy-eyed, twitching slightly, the light of life flickering like a candle before death's breath.
"I'm aware," Howard said, his voice heavier than usual.
"But I've no names. No signatures. I can't drag shadows before a court."
His jaw tightened.
"And there's another issue."
Damazti tilted her head, watching him closely.
"They'll all be dead within the hour," he muttered.
He lifted his hand, touching each of the tubes as his red eyes shimmered.
One by one he had confirmed it. Fractured souls. Blood rejecting the grafts.
Originium resonance tearing through cellular frameworks.
He stepped back and inhaled deeply.
"They won't last past four hours."
Damazti said nothing for a long time. She stared forward—her gaze resting on one pod in particular.
The figure inside was Sarkaz. Young.
Barely into adulthood.
Her voice, when it came, was quiet. Not cold, but empty.
"Isn't it sad?"
Howard looked at her.
"At the end of the day, I'm to write my report and return. The council will nod. One or two may scoff. And then it will be buried—deep, as if it were never found."
She turned her eyes toward him.
"Such is the fate of our kind. We are but instruments. Pliable. Replaceable."
Howard sighed. From his coat's breast pocket, he drew a lighter.
It clicked once, twice, before the flame caught.
He raised it to the cigarette pressed between his lips and let the fire touch it.
A soft fsssst echoed in the sterile air.
The smoke trailed from his mouth like breath on a wintry morning. He closed his eyes.
His mind wandered.
He saw memories. Fragments. A courtyard bathed in red light.
Books filled with faces, names, and stories now erased. A girl with short hair and eyes of weary steel.
The wails of the dying and the silence of those already dead.
When he opened his eyes, they glowed faintly—not with magic, but with purpose.
"There is," he said quietly, "a solution."
Damazti raised an eyebrow.
"A miracle, then?"
Howard's lips curled slightly, though the smile didn't reach his eyes.
"No, not quite. But perhaps… an answer only monsters like us can deliver."
He dropped the cigarette to the floor and crushed it beneath his boot.
"Tell me," he said, stepping past her toward the center of the chamber,
"are you prepared to break your orders?"
The lights flickered overhead as something shifted—both in the room and between them.
For better or worse, the hour of choice had come.
***
Inside the dimly lit server room, the soft hum of a computer system reverberated like a heartbeat beneath the walls.
Hoshiguma stood with arms crossed, gaze fixed on the terminal.
The USB was at seventy-eight percent, a slow, creeping crawl of data transfer.
Each tick of the percentage felt like an echo of time slipping through her fingers.
Behind her, Yan Yansheng sat slouched against the wall.
The artificial light gave his tired face an unhealthy pallor.
He watched the transfer bar for a while before letting out a dry chuckle.
"So what is it that you're after?" he asked, voice low.
"Do you truly believe you're saving anyone?"
Hoshiguma didn't answer. Her silence was neither hostile nor passive—merely distant.
Detached.
He let his head fall back against the wall and stared at the ceiling with glassy eyes.
Then he spoke again, slower this time, as though each word had been sculpted in resignation.
"Wei Yenwu... was never a hero. Just a sword—sharp, polished, and wielded by the State."
"Break the sword if you like. It won't stop the hand that swings it."
He paused, a bitter smile tugging at his lips.
"Lungmen's peace has always been a balancing act on a threadbare rope. And the wind from Ursus grows colder by the day."
His gaze drifted to Hoshiguma now. She remained still, unreadable.
"I used to be like you," he said, quieter.
"A man of ideals. I thought I could change the system from within. When I was named CEO… I was proud."
A short, humorless laugh escaped him.
"Then I saw what lay behind the curtain."
"The price of progress. The silence of the masses. The markets are built atop blood."
He shifted, eyes growing darker.
"Power changes you. The moment I had it, I realized what it meant. Not protection. Not guidance."
"It meant indulgence."
"It meant cruelty, shaped like governance."
She said nothing. But her grip on her folded arms tightened.
Yan turned his head, his voice lowering further, almost conspiratorial.
"You think this ends here? That you've cornered your prey and now the game is done?"
"The Emperor of Yan is not some silent figurehead."
"He's the last dragon hidden behind clouds."
He leaned forward slightly, eyes sharp despite the weariness.
"You remove a piece from the board, and he will move the heavens to strike back."
"He killed the gods without hesitation in order to further his ideals, and he eventually became one himself."
"So do you truly believe the Emperor will hesitate to kill you?"
"Are you going to ask the gods to protect you?"
At last, Hoshiguma glanced down at him. It was a silent steel, not fear or rage.
"I don't believe in gods," she said simply.
The USB ticked to ninety-five percent.
"Good," Yan replied with a soft chuckle.
"because they stopped listening a long time ago."
***
In the bustling heart of Lungmen, where the clamor of street vendors mingled with the distant clatter of trams, Exusiai lounged at Penguin Logistics' cluttered office, her halo casting a faint glow over a stack of delivery manifests.
Her fingers danced across her phone, halfheartedly scrolling through orders, when a sharp ping broke her reverie.
A message, cryptic and urgent, flickered on the screen:
I want you to go to the location I will provide. I need you to do something for me.
Her crimson eyes narrowed, a spark of intrigue cutting through her usual nonchalance.
She glanced at Texas, who was idly chewing on a pocky stick at the desk across from her.
"Yo, Texas, I gotta hit up a spot real quick. Cover for me, yeah?"
Texas raised an eyebrow but nodded, her lupine ears twitching as Exusiai grabbed her gun case and darted out, the office door swinging shut behind her.
___
The Lungmen District loomed under a sky bruised with twilight, its cobblestone alleys winding like veins through Lungmen's industrial underbelly.
Ch'en stood before the address from Hoshiguma's slip—a weathered tenement, its façade scarred with vibrant spray paint and peeling plaster, blending seamlessly with the district's gritty charm.
Gas lamps flickered, casting a warm, amber haze that danced across the stonework.
Nothing out of place. Too quiet, maybe.
Her dragon tail swayed as she entered, the creak of the heavy oak door echoing in the narrow stairwell.
The air was thick with the scent of damp wood and old iron as she climbed the spiraling steps, her hand resting on Chi Xiao's hilt, senses honed for any threat.
At the top, she reached the door marked on the slip, its brass number tarnished but legible.
She knocked, the sound sharp against the stillness, and waited, her breath steady but her mind racing.
If this is a trap, they'll regret crossing me.
Footsteps approached, light and unhurried, followed by the soft clunk of a lock.
The door swung open, and Ch'en's grip on her sword faltered. There stood Exusiai, halo aglow, a slice of pizza in one hand and a grin spreading across her face.
"Yo, Ch'en! Didn't expect you here. Come in, grab a slice!"
She chirped, ushering her into the dimly lit room, where the faint strains of a phonograph's jazzy melody curled through the air, blending with the scent of melted cheese and intrigue.
***
The sun had begun its slow retreat behind Lungmen's concrete skyline, washing the city in fading gold as Howard unlocked the apartment door.
Hoshiguma followed close behind, a weighty duffle bag slung over one shoulder.
The lock clicked.
The door creaked open.
And there, as though nothing in the world had changed, sat Exusiai and Ch'en at the low table, a half-devoured pizza box spread between them.
Exusiai had a slice in each hand, her wings twitching with each exaggerated bite.
Ch'en, by contrast, nursed a lukewarm slice with the solemn air of someone who hadn't yet decided whether this counted as dinner or defeat.
"Oh hey!" Exusiai waved, mouth full.
"You guys want a slice? We saved… two. Kinda."
Ch'en glanced up, her gaze immediately locking on the duffle in Hoshiguma's grip. Her brow furrowed.
Hoshiguma let the bag drop to the floor with a dull thud.
Howard stepped in behind her, rubbing at his neck, his shirt collar half-unbuttoned, his expression the kind worn by people who had stared at too many horrors in one day.
"Is the coffee machine working?" he asked.
"Don't know," Exusiai chirped.
"But the pizza's still hot if you don't mind pineapple."
Howard looked at the table, looked at the box, and then sighed.
"I've seen enough today that pineapple pizza barely registers as a crime."
Ch'en took a slow bite, chewing thoughtfully.
"Then sit down. Start talking."