On 1st June 2042, the morning sun bled softly through sheer linen curtains, casting a peach-hued glow across the serene district of Veilmoor—a quiet enclave nestled between historical towers and modern spires. Faint bird chirps were audible from the balcony garden, beneath the rising hum of the city awakening.
Inside the Wen house, Chief Wen-Li lay sprawled on her bed, lost in a deep, dreamless sleep. Her black silk hair splayed across the pillow like a ripple of ink on water, her breathing calm, the faint rise and fall of her chest just visible beneath her loose short-sleeved tee, which had ridden slightly above her midriff. Her short cotton shorts and bare legs hinted at rare comfort—an image of someone far removed from war rooms and bulletproof corridors.
Beside her, curled in a fluffy ball of snow, was Wen-Mi, her loyal white cat, nestled in contentment against her side.
BZZZZZZT!
The alarm on her bedside chirped to life—6:00 AM sharp.
Wen-Li stirred only slightly, her arm flopping lazily over the edge of the bed as she blindly slapped at the snooze button until silence returned.
But Wen-Mi was wide awake.
With feline purpose, the snowy fluff ball sat up, stretched her paws, and climbed onto Wen-Li's stomach. She began kneading—her tiny paws pressing rhythmically into her owner's soft skin, claws barely unsheathed.
Wen-Li winced, still half-asleep.
"Wen-Mi... ha ha ha—stop clawing my spleen!" she giggled groggily, eyes fluttering open.
The cat let out a chirping "Meow!" and flopped dramatically beside her again, tail flicking against her arm.
Wen-Li yawned, arms stretching wide above her head.
"Ugh, I don't want to go in today... but if I don't show up, who knows what chaos will unfold at SSCBF..."
She lay still for a moment, blinking up at the ceiling with a look of peaceful rebellion.
"Nope. I'm off today. I earned this."
Just then, realisation struck. She sat up slowly, rubbing her temples.
"Wait... today's the first of June."
Her eyes darted toward the calendar on the wall.
"Government holiday."
She let out a sheepish laugh, scratching the back of her head.
"Huh. All that melodrama... for nothing."
Scooping Wen-Mi gently into her arms, she cradled the cat close.
"Wen-Mi, guess what? You and I finally have the whole day together. I'm so sorry I haven't had time for you lately… the world's been on fire, you know?"
She rubbed her cheek against Wen-Mi's fluffy head, exhaling softly. Her expression softened—eyes half-lidded, voice dropping to a whisper.
"I really missed this."
Wen-Mi, understanding more than a cat reasonably should, let out a soft, affectionate "Meow."
It wasn't just a sound—it was a response. A gesture of pure empathy.
Wen-Li chuckled under her breath, eyes moist with exhaustion and fondness.
"You're too pure for this bloody world."
But even amidst the warmth, her mind flickered elsewhere—like a smudge in the corner of a mirror.
The orphanage. Gon-Whiel.
She frowned, a crease forming between her brows.
"Still... there's something I need to look into. But if I time it right, we can still have our morning walk."
She looked down at Wen-Mi, who blinked up at her with wide, trusting eyes.
"After breakfast, let's go out for a bit, hmm?"
Wen-Mi let out a soft "Meow!" and nudged her cheek affectionately, paw batting playfully at her chin.
Wen-Li smiled brighter this time.
"Alright, alright—you win."
The city roared in the distance, but here in Veilmoor, on a morning bathed in golden calm, Wen-Li finally allowed herself to breathe.
The streets of Veilmoor shimmered under the late morning sun, the scent of jasmine and warm brick rising through the narrow alleyways. Wen-Li, dressed casually in her fitted walking jacket and soft trainers, returned from her morning walk with Wen-Mi nestled lazily in the crook of her arm.
She stepped lightly across the courtyard stones, her expression thoughtful yet relaxed. The fresh air kissed her cheeks with a rare flush of color. Wen-Mi let out a satisfied meow, tail twitching with contentment.
Back inside, Wen-Li placed the cat gently on the sofa, exhaled, and took a moment to breathe. After a few minutes' rest, she moved with quiet purpose to prepare herself.
Within minutes, she stood before the mirror—now fully clad in her SSCBF Chief's field uniform: a sleek, grey tactical ensemble tailored to precision, with subtle silver insignia on the collar and a slim utility belt cinched at her waist. She had tied her black hair into a low, disciplined bun. Her expression had hardened—professional, unreadable.
She lifted Wen-Mi once more into her arms and stepped outside, the city beginning to hum back to life.
Stopping at the neighbouring flat, she pressed the doorbell of the ever-cheerful Irmin Küçükoldan.
Ding-dong.
Moments later, the door swung open.
Irmin, short and round-faced with a headscarf tied in a floral twist and flour dust still on her apron, greeted her with the warmth of an old friend.
"Oh, Wen-Li! My dear, you're up and about already. You look terribly sharp—off to save the world again, I imagine?"
Wen-Li offered a rare smile, dipping her head politely.
"It's always a pleasure to see you, Mrs Küçükoldan."
Wen-Mi, sensing a familiar voice, perked up in Wen-Li's arms with a quiet chirp.
"And isn't it my little darling Wen-Mi?" Irmin cooed, reaching out to stroke her fur with gentle fingers. "Oh, the children adore her. She makes the whole flat feel softer."
Wen-Li looked down at her cat with fondness.
"Would you mind watching her for the day? I've... somewhere important I need to be."
Irmin waved her hand dismissively.
"No trouble at all! You know my two won't let me sleep if Wen-Mi's not tumbling about the living room. Go on now—urgent things to tend to, is it?"
Wen-Li gave a soft nod, then turned, her expression tightening slightly.
"You could say that."
She handed Wen-Mi over gently. The cat gave a soft mewl, pawing at Wen-Li's sleeve for a moment before settling in Irmin's arms.
"Thank you, truly," Wen-Li said, glancing once more at Wen-Mi with a gentle look of guilt and affection. "Be good."
Irmin winked.
"We'll be just fine. You take care of whatever storm needs settling, hmm?"
With that, Wen-Li walked briskly across her garden courtyard and approached her personal garage unit. With a hiss, the steel door rolled up to reveal her sleek, black motorcycle—a heavily modified Arashi Vektor-V8, polished to a mirror sheen and fitted with silent-glide tech and adaptive plating.
She pulled on her matte helmet, the visor sliding down with a quiet click. The bike rumbled to life—its engine emitting a deep, controlled growl, like a tiger waking from slumber.
She mounted the machine in one smooth motion.
No hesitation. No delay.
Today, I find the truth.
And with a twist of her wrist, she was gone—roaring down the boulevard, slicing through the morning cityscape like a blade, bound for the shadows of Gon-Whiel Orphanage.
The silence of the top floor was absolute—sterile, reverent, dangerous. From his private suite in the High Chaebols Tower, Gavriel Elazar stood motionless before the sweeping floor-to-ceiling porthole. He clasped his hands behind his back, his leather gloves creaking faintly under pressure.
Beyond the reinforced glass, the city below stirred with subdued life. Across the plazas, scattered crowds moved with holiday ease—families gathering, street vendors returning for the Annual Founding Day. Even amidst iron rule, tradition had its theatre.
Gavriel's reflection shimmered in the glass, distorted and looming—more phantom than man.
Behind him, the hiss of the polished doors broke the stillness.
Chief Ilse Richter entered silently, every step a deliberate study in grace and control. Her platinum hair was bound in a tight knot, uniform pristine, expression unreadable. She moved like a razor hidden beneath silk.
Without turning, Gavriel spoke.
"Is the city responding as expected to the government's closure?"
Ilse paused a metre behind him.
"Yes, sir. All primary administrative offices have ceased operations for the holiday. Public gatherings are being monitored but remain docile. Nothing unusual."
Gavriel exhaled through his nose—a shallow, disdainful breath.
He turned slowly, walking toward his ornate obsidian-inlaid desk. Each step echoed with weight. Once there, he placed one gloved hand flat on the polished surface, the other curling at his chin in brief contemplation.
"And the Chief of SSCBF—what's her movement?"
Ilse's eyes flicked to her datapad.
"She did not report to headquarters. Stayed home through the morning. Took a walk with her cat. Then left shortly after nine. She logged no official dispatch—her destination remains unclear.
Gavriel's jaw tightened.
"Urgent, was it?"
Ilse nodded once, crisp and unflinching.
"Yes. One of our shadows is following her discreetly, but we've yet to determine the endpoint."
He leaned slightly over the desk, fingers drumming with slow calculation.
"Ensure she doesn't uncover anything. Especially…" His voice dropped. "…the truth about what happened to her parents."
Ilse's posture straightened.
"Yes, sir. Our surveillance grid is active. Any deviation, and we'll intercept."
But Gavriel's stare hardened further. His voice dropped into something quieter—and colder.
"And if the Velvet Guillotine crosses paths with her again... eliminate him."
Ilse inclined her head, a shadow of steel flashing in her pale eyes.
"Understood. If we see him, he won't walk out."
Without another word, she turned on her heel and exited, her cape flicking behind her like a whisper of judgement.
Gavriel remained still. Then, as the doors sealed shut once again, he stood in silence—gaze returning to the cityscape below.
His reflection, warped and restless, stared back at him.
A moment passed before his voice returned—not aloud, but in the quiet theatre of his mind.
"Wen-Luo… your daughter is as maddeningly stubborn as you once were. A wildfire wrapped in courtesy."
His fingers curled slowly into a fist.
"And your son… Wen-Liao… federal stooge in polished boots. So unlike you. A mouthpiece for procedure. No threat at all."
A bitter smirk played at the edge of his lips.
"But Wen-Li… she's the one you should've warned us about."
And with that, Gavriel turned his gaze back to the horizon.
The twisting roads of Rivinglow Hill were eerily silent. A silver mist clung low to the crumbling asphalt, rising like breath from the earth itself. Wen-Li's motorcycle tore through the quiet, her body crouched low as the engine thrummed beneath her.
On her mounted dashboard screen, a blinking dot marked her destination—Gon-Whiel Orphanage.
The sky above was a dull wash of grey. Not a glimmer of sunlight broke through the cloud bank. The wind howled in gentle fits, like a warning whispered too late.
As Wen-Li accelerated uphill, the tyres hissed over damp leaves and gravel. The world narrowed to road and silence—no birdsong, no passing cars, just the roar of her engine and the cold air whipping past.
She spotted the structure ahead.
An abandoned building, crumbling and sinister, sat alone at the crest of the hill. Surrounded by skeletal trees and flaking iron gates, it loomed like a relic from a forgotten nightmare.
Wen-Li slowed, pulled to a stop, and killed the engine.
She removed her helmet with practiced ease. Her black silk hair unfurled like a curtain in the wind, brushing across her shoulders as she dismounted. She kept her eyes fixed on the building. Then she glanced at the old image displayed on her phone's screen.
"This is the place," she murmured. "Gon-Whiel…"
The orphanage stood in ghostly stillness. A hollow husk of faded brick and shattered windows, its surface was intentionally decrepit—an illusion for what slept beneath. Wen-Li felt it before she stepped forward. Something lay buried here. And not just structures.
She approached the rusted gate. It hung ajar, groaning softly in the breeze. As she reached out to push it open—
CLANG!
The other half of the gate collapsed with a violent crash, slamming to the ground.
Wen-Li flinched, immediately drawing her SIO-PX7 tactical handgun, sleek and glinting in the lightless morning. Her eyes scanned the shadows, breath steady. Her heart, not so much.
Calm, Wen-Li. In and out. No ghosts—just answers.
She slipped through the opening and crossed the weed-ridden path. Her boots echoed against the cracked tiles as she pressed her hand to the main door.
It creaked open on rusted hinges, moaning like an old wound.
The interior was even more jarring.
The white sterile walls, minimalist beds, and child-sized lockers looked almost too clean—as if nothing had moved in years. The absence of colour was intentional. It was a place designed to raise children without warmth.
She tiptoed down the corridor, the gun never leaving her hand.
Her breath misted slightly. The deeper she went, the colder it became.
Behind a hidden sliding panel near the rear stairwell, she found it—a narrow lift shaft, still active.
She descended.
What awaited below was no orphanage.
It was a facility. Cold steel corridors with barcode locks. Long glass corridors. Medical beds behind sealed doors. Observation rooms, each one revealing more than the last.
There were containment pods. Surgical chairs stained faintly. Monitors with files left half-loaded. She passed by a holographic training hall—frozen mid-simulation, the silhouettes of child-sized figures grappling against armed drones.
Then she found it.
A heavy door, marked: "SUBJECT TEST ARCHIVE | BETA-WING."
Inside were rows of files—physical, stored in drawers as if they were school records. She began reading.
And with every document, her face darkened.
"Subject 038 - Terminated: Failed Neural Sync." "Subject 062 - Implanted. Loss of vocal function. Combat-effective. Reassigned to Siege Division." "Subject 090 - Survived all three phases."
Her hands trembled as she turned another page.
Children—ages 3 to 13. Abducted. Microchipped. Augmented. Memory-erased. Barcodes. Most died screaming. Those who didn't… forgot how to.
She froze at one folder.
SUBJECT-90.
No name. No birthplace. Just statistics. Surgical logs. Combat recordings. Pain tolerance levels.
"Dear God," she whispered. Her eyes welled, stomach turning.
Then—
CLANG.
A sound above.
She tensed, lifting her pistol.
She moved cautiously, step by step, up the corroded stairwell. The creaks beneath her boots echoed like gunshots in the stillness.
At the far end of the hallway, inside what had once been an observation chamber, a figure stood—motionless.
A man in a grey gentleman's suit.
Wen-Li raised her weapon. Her voice rang with quiet authority.
"Who are you? Show yourself. Now."
The figure turned.
A familiar face. Sculpted, calm, eyes like still water.
"You're Jun," she exhaled. "Agent-90's comrade."
He gave a polite nod.
"Yes, Chief. Jun. At your service."
Her gun remained steady.
"Why are you here?"
Jun placed his hands casually behind his back.
"For the same reason as you. The truth." He stepped forward, slowly. "We—Madam Di-Xian's agents—have been tracking down the origin of Subject-90. What they made him… what they transformed him into.
"He was a child," Wen-Li said, voice low, pained. "A child turned into a weapon."
Jun's expression didn't change, but something flickered behind his eyes.
"Yes. And the cost of that sin still echoes. Which is why we're here… and why time is against all of us."
Later, The sterile, flickering lights of the corridor faded into darkness.
Behind Agent Jun, a fine mist hissed from a capsule concealed beneath his coat. The chemical dispersed soundlessly.
Wen-Li staggered, her pupils dilating. The room tilted, the walls melted into shadow. Her grip loosened on the SIO-PX7 as her knees buckled.
Her vision blurred—but just before unconsciousness claimed her, she saw Jun's silhouette framed against the hall light, calm and unbothered.
She awoke slowly.
A dim, lantern-lit chamber surrounded her, the walls rough and dark like the inside of a cellar. She sat upright, bound at the wrists, secured to a plush, antique armchair—far too comfortable for captivity, which made it more unsettling.
A single table stood before her. On the opposite side, in the gloom, sat a woman—cross-legged in elegance, her posture unshakeable. A porcelain cup hovered gracefully in one hand.
"Where… where am I?" Wen-Li muttered, her voice dry with sleep and apprehension.
The woman stirred.
A soft voice emerged from the shadowed seat. Familiar. Controlled.
"You made it this far, Wen-Li. All on your own."
The lantern flickered as Madam Di-Xian leaned into the light—her eyes, those piercing crimson irises, glowing like dying embers.
Wen-Li's heart jumped.
"Madam Di-Xian… What is this? Why are you here—and what am I doing tied to a bloody chair?!"
Di-Xian tilted her head, setting her tea gently on the table.
"You came for answers. I simply chose the setting."
Wen-Li's chest rose with restrained anger.
"This entire thing—Gon-Whiel, the files, the gas—it was all a setup, wasn't it?!"
"No," Di-Xian replied coolly. "You've been looking for the truth. The real truth—about your parents. About Agent-90. This is just the final corridor."
Wen-Li fell silent, breathing shallow. Her hands clenched unconsciously against the ropes.
"I knew it," she murmured.
Di-Xian nodded solemnly.
"I will tell you what your father never had the chance to."
She drew a breath, her voice dropping to a low, resonant hum.
"It began in 2019, during the rainy season. The world felt heavier then—as though mourning something not yet lost. Rumors reached the SSCBF. Atrocities. My contacts reached your father—Chief Wen-Luo—and he went, along with Robert, Commander Krieg, Lieutenant Ren-Li, and Gonda… to this very place."
Wen-Li listened, rigid.
"They were not prepared. None of them were."
Di-Xian's voice slowed, touched by a distant tremble.
"Blood covered the walls. The facility reeked of burnt flesh and bleach. Broken syringes. Shattered scalpels. Children's shoes... scattered like debris. Then they found him."
Wen-Li's eyes widened.
"Who?"
"A boy. No older than seven. Standing amidst the carnage like a ghost. Pale skin. Jet-black hair. Eyes like frozen water. He didn't speak. He didn't cry. He simply... existed."
Di-Xian glanced toward Wen-Li, her face unreadable.
"Your father knelt beside him. Offered him his coat. No sudden moves. The boy looked at him—then clung to him like he had known him forever."
"And the barcode?" Wen-Li whispered.
"Branded across the back of his neck. '90'."
A beat of silence passed between them.
Wen-Li's throat tightened.
"Subject 90…"
Di-Xian nodded.
"The files Gonda recovered were damning. These children were abducted, stripped of identity, reprogrammed, implanted with pain-response chips. Those who didn't survive were discarded. Your father brought him to me—he asked me to hide him. Heal him."
Wen-Li blinked back emotion.
"That's… monstrous. They took everything. His childhood. His humanity."
"They made him efficient," Di-Xian said bitterly. "But hollow."
She rose slowly, her silhouette regal against the light.
"No name. No birthplace. No date of birth. He was a child from nowhere. And they moulded him into a weapon of precise devastation."
"It's not right," Wen-Li said, voice cracking. "He should've been in a park. With toys. And family."
She choked back tears.
"He was… abused, wasn't he?"
Di-Xian's silence was heavy.
Then softly—
"Yes."
A quiet rustle drew both their attention. In the shadows, Jun, Farhan, Masud, Roy, and Alvi Taslim stood silently, their expressions grim.
Alvi, eyes shimmering behind her glasses, murmured—
"We all read the logs. Some things… can't be undone."
Masud clenched his jaw.
"The bastards who ran that facility weren't human."
Roy muttered,
"And this is the criminal."
Jun said nothing, but his jaw ticked, ever so slightly.
Wen-Li turned back to Di-Xian.
"Then how did my father discover the full truth?"
Di-Xian's gaze met hers.
"Through Agent-90 himself. Over time, he remembered things. Details. The smell of antiseptic. A name. A face. He shared them with your father in fragments. Together, they began building the picture."
She stepped forward.
"I raised him as my own. To protect what was left of him. And not just him. Jun, Farhan, Masud, Alvi, Roy, and even those two Sinners—Hella and Hecate—they are my children too. Misfits the world spat out."
Wen-Li exhaled slowly.
"So it was you who ordered Agent-90 to take them from SSCBF?"
"Yes," Di-Xian said without shame. "Because they deserve more than a cage and a label."
Wen-Li's voice hardened.
"Then tell me the last thing. Who killed my parents?"
A long pause.
Di-Xian's face turned solemn.
"I don't know."
Wen-Li's eyes widened.
"What?"
"I have suspects. But no certainty. Not yet. I'm searching too, Wen-Li. They were my closest friends. And whoever did this... must've feared what your father had learned."
Wen-Li's expression twisted from sorrow to steel.
"Then whoever it is... they'll pay. I'll make sure of it."
Di-Xian nodded.
"Good."
She turned to Jun.
"Escort the Chief home. No harm. No tracking."
Jun saluted wordlessly.
Wen-Li stood slowly as the ropes were loosened. She rubbed her wrists.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "Not just for the truth—but for protecting him."
Di-Xian offered a faint smile.
"Go now. Rest. And prepare. This isn't the end. It's barely the beginning."
The gentle hum of the descending lift filled the silence. Overhead lights flickered softly, reflecting in the polished chrome walls.
Wen-Li, standing with arms crossed, cast a sidelong glance toward Jun, her expression guarded but composed. Her voice cut through the still air—measured, but laced with quiet steel.
"Why did you make me senseless? And what sort of mist gas did you release?"
Her gaze was direct—sharp, yet not accusatory.
Jun didn't flinch. His hands were folded neatly in front of him, his demeanour as unflappable as ever.
"Odourless synthetic suppressant," he replied calmly. "Non-toxic. Temporarily inhibits motor function and short-term memory. Standard protocol for extraction without physical harm."
He paused, eyes meeting hers with quiet gravity.
"You would have resisted otherwise."
Wen-Li arched a brow, unimpressed.
"You think?"
Before Jun could respond, the lift gave a soft chime.
Ding.
The doors parted with a smooth hiss, revealing the subterranean garage bathed in low amber lighting. Rows of black, sleek vehicles lined the vault-like space. Directly ahead stood Wen-Li's Arashi Vektor-V8—pristine, motionless, gleaming like a coiled predator.
Wen-Li strode toward it without hesitation, unfastening the collar of her field coat as she walked.
"Jun," she called over her shoulder, "no need to play chauffeur. I can get home without babysitting."
Jun gave a faint, respectful bow, his tone unwavering.
"As you wish, Chief."
She reached her bike, ran a hand across the smooth curve of the chassis, and mounted it with practiced ease. The engine rumbled to life—a low, purring growl that echoed faintly in the concrete chamber.
As she slid her matte black helmet over her head, Jun took a single step forward, his voice lower—more personal now.
"Chief."
She paused, visor half-lowered.
"Agent-90… he's not the monster the world claims he is. He has a heart. It's just been buried, beaten, and dissected so many times, he no longer knows how to use it."
Jun's eyes, for once, were not calculating—but earnest.
"If anyone can reach that part of him... I believe it's you."
For a moment, Wen-Li said nothing. Her eyes flicked across his face through the visor's glare.
The engine's purr filled the silence between them like the breath between thoughts.
Then, quietly, she nodded.
Not a grand gesture—just the slightest incline of her head. Subtle. Thoughtful. Human.
With a twist of her wrist, the Vektor-V8 leapt forward, tyres spinning slightly as she carved through the dark garage toward the exit ramp.
Jun remained in place, watching the twin red tail-lights disappear like two trailing stars into the tunnel.
And though she couldn't see it, a slight smile flickered at the edge of his lips.
On the one hand, the room was quiet—too quiet.
Gavriel Elazar sat at his desk, fingers steepled beneath his chin, the fading sunlight slicing across the obsidian floor like the edge of a guillotine. Papers lay untouched before him. A steaming glass of black tea had long since gone cold.
Behind him, the skyline of Nin-Ran-Gi sprawled across the horizon in metallic silence. From this height, the city resembled a petri dish—its flickering lights and crisscrossing streets mere strands in his experiment.
A slow smirk curled across his lips. Not the kind worn for charm—no, this one was carved from something far more wicked. It was the kind of smile born not from victory—but from knowing the game was already fixed.
The doors hissed open.
Chief Ilse Richter entered with clipped precision, her boots echoing against the marble. Platinum hair tied taut, hands folded behind her back, eyes calculating. She paused at attention.
"Sir, you summoned me?"
Gavriel rose with slow deliberation, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket as he turned to face her. He strolled toward the towering porthole, one hand sliding into his coat pocket.
"Yes, Richter. There's a task."
"It must be urgent, I presume," she said, her tone neutral but alert.
Gavriel cast a sidelong glance at her, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"Tomorrow, there'll be an agreement."
"An agreement?" she repeated, brow arching.
"Yes. Between the SSCBF and our Secret Police Division. A formal collaboration. Shared assets. Shared intelligence. A contract that binds them to us in ink… and eventually, in blood."
Richter's eyes flickered—not hesitation, but the flicker of a strategist recalibrating.
"And if they resist? Chief Wen-Li and her captains aren't exactly… compliant."
Gavriel turned slowly, voice dropping to a velvety chill.
"Let me worry about Chief Wen-Li. You simply present the contract. The rest will fall into place."
He stepped forward, eyes narrowing with something between amusement and malice.
"Do it, Richter. As I say. No improvisation. No hesitation. If we're to control the Bureau from the inside, we need them to believe it was their idea."
Richter gave a short nod, crisp as always.
"Understood, sir."
Without another word, she turned and departed, her coat flaring behind her like a banner of authority.
The doors closed.
Gavriel remained still, once more facing the glass.
He folded his arms, watching the city below like a predator studying a maze.
Then he murmured to himself, voice low, barely audible.
"The end is approaching... sooner than they imagine. And when it comes, there will be no one left to shield you, Chief Wen-Li."
He exhaled slowly, almost indulgently.
"And Velvet Guillotine…"
A smirk returned, darker this time.
"You're not a ghost. You're a relic. A blade that's grown too used. And like all old weapons—eventually, you break."
The last word dripped from his tongue like poison.
And far below, the city continued, oblivious.