*Disclaimer: This chapter contains violence and it might disturbs some readers.
On 4th July 2042 6:50 am, the morning mist still clung at the Klevensfeld Park, low across the banks of Lake Perrault, its silvered surface untouched save for the occasional ripple of a passing bird. Two students from Vandebrook Academy, Hubertet Levynaudry and Ingeborgit Reitz, ambled along the gravel path beside the reeds, rucksacks slung over their shoulders and notebooks in hand.
They were out collecting samples—igneous shards for a geography project, specifically—but their chatter wandered as freely as their footsteps.
Ingeborgit, brushing a stray lock of copper hair behind her ear:
"Professor Laux said quartzite clusters could form near exposed granite beds. We should check near the eastern ridge."
Hubertet, absently skipping a pebble across the water's edge:
"Can we also agree that any decent stone before 9 a.m. deserves to be left where it is?"
Ingeborgit, with a smirk:
"Yes, but sadly, our grade doesn't agree with you."
As they continued along the wooded path, Ingeborgit's gaze caught a glint of metal nestled within a bramble patch, half-shielded by overgrown ivy and moss. Curious, she stepped closer.
"Wait—Hubertet, come here. There's something in the bush."
He came over, brushing leaves aside until the object became clearer: a medium-sized metallic box, dull grey with flecks of rust, padlocked shut.
Hubertet, squinting:
"A box? Here? In the middle of the park? That's… unsettling."
Ingeborgit, biting her lip:
"Maybe someone forgot it. Or hid it. Why here though?"
Hubertet's brows furrowed with interest. "We should at least see what's inside."
But Ingeborgit instinctively held him back, arm outstretched like a crossing barrier.
"No. This feels off. What if it's dangerous? I'm calling the constables."
"Oh, come on," he replied with an eye-roll. "It's not some spy film. It's just a—"
He paused. They both did. A sudden, acrid scent hit the air—thick, metallic, and sickly sweet. The smell of decay.
Ingeborgit's face paled, her voice shrank into a whisper.
"Hubertet… don't."
He didn't listen. Driven by a mix of unease and a sense of responsibility, he reached for a hefty stone, wedged it against the padlock, and with a few forceful strikes—it snapped free.
He pried open the box.
And froze.
What lay inside made the world around them tilt. The air thickened. Their lungs caught fire with the weight of what they saw.
Nestled within the metallic casing was the decomposing body of a young boy—pale flesh greyed and bloated, eyes long gone, features barely discernible. He was naked, curled as if stuffed in haste. His limbs were bruised, the skin mottled with signs of prolonged trauma.
Ingeborgit shrieked, stumbling backward, hand clapped over her mouth.
Hubertet staggered, eyes wide in disbelief, the colour draining from his face.
"W-We have to call the police—now!" Ingeborgit stammered, fumbling for her phone.
The park suddenly felt too quiet. Even the birds had stopped.
At 7:00 am, the morning sun struggled to pierce the low-hanging mist that still draped the lake like a funeral shroud. Police tape fluttered between trees like tattered warnings, and a crowd of bystanders—faces drawn tight with morbid curiosity—was being steadily pushed back by local constables.
An unmarked black vehicle rolled up the gravel path, and out stepped Captain Robert Voreyevsky and Captain Lingaong Xuein of the SSCBF. Both donned black investigating gloves with a silent efficiency born from habit. The scent of rot clawed at their nostrils as they approached the metallic box.
Inside, the decomposed body of the young boy sat in grotesque silence.
His skin was greyed, bloated, and pocked with livid bruises. One eye was collapsed inward, the other an empty socket. His limbs were contorted—arms and legs stiff, flesh mottled with purplish hues. The smell was unbearable.
Lingaong Xuein blinked rapidly, hand briefly covering her mouth.
"He's… so small," she whispered, her voice cracking, eyes glossy. "Like he never had a chance."
Robert exhaled, stepping back and scanning the area with a hardened gaze.
"Alright—who found him?" he called out to the officers nearby.
From behind the cordon, Hubertet Levynaudry and Ingeborgit Reitz stepped forward cautiously. They looked pale, shaken. Ingeborgit clutched her bag like a shield.
"Sir," she said with a timid but clear voice, "It was us."
"You're the ones who filed the report?"
"Yes, sir," Ingeborgit confirmed with a nervous nod.
"And you two are from…?"
"Vandebrook Academy," Hubertet offered, voice low but steady.
"What were you doing here at this hour instead of school?" Robert asked, folding his arms.
"We were collecting geological samples," said Hubertet, glancing at Ingeborgit for reassurance. "Igneous rocks. It's part of our geography coursework."
"Rocks?" Robert repeated, sceptical but scribbling notes. "Well. You've ended up with something rather grimmer than granite."
He reached into his coat pocket and handed them a contact card.
"Take this. If you feel unsafe, suspicious, or your memory sharpens later—call us. And if you find anything else that even smells like it's connected to this," he gestured grimly toward the box, "don't touch it. Call us immediately."
"Yes, sir," they both replied softly before being escorted away.
As the students departed, Captain Xuein joined him by the remains, scanning the corpse again. Her tone hardened.
"Robert. This boy… he was murdered. It's homicide."
"You're sure?" Robert asked flatly, eyeing the body again.
"Look at the bruising across his ribs and abdomen," she pointed with a gloved hand. "Classic signs of blunt-force trauma. Likely multiple impacts. His nails are torn—he struggled. But there are no ligature marks. This wasn't a prolonged captivity."
She knelt beside the body, voice clinical now.
"Judging by the bloating and skin marbling, I'd estimate he's been dead at least 48 hours. Possibly longer if he was kept cold."
"Do we have ID?"
"No one here seems to recognise him. No wallet. No tags. Nothing."
Robert's jaw flexed.
"Alright. Let's get him transported to HQ. I want Dr. Abrar to run a full autopsy—blood work, stomach content, everything. Maybe there's something on him we're missing."
"And inform the Chief?" Xuein asked knowingly, rising to her feet.
Robert gave her a sideways glance.
"Are you reading my mind now, Captain?"
"No time for romance, Robert. We've got a child in a box. Let's go."
Robert gave a dry chuckle, then signalled the field team.
"Bag the scene. Transport the remains. And someone call Dr. Abrar. He's got work waiting."
8:15 AM, a pale shard of morning light pierced through the slatted blinds, casting angled lines across Chief Wen-Li's desk where a mountain of unsorted case files sat like silent burdens. The room was still, save for the faint hum of the ventilation system. She sat stiffly in her chair, one hand on a datapad, the other—
She winced.
Her right wrist twitched, a slow, dull ache blooming beneath the Sentinel Helix bracelet she'd been given at the signing. It pulsed faintly with a crimson sheen, syncing silently with her biometric data. The pain wasn't sharp, but niggling, like something buried too deep to name.
"Tch…" she muttered under her breath, massaging her wrist. "What the hell is this thing doing?"
She turned the bracelet slightly, but its sleek black metal remained unyielding—cold and serpentine, with micro-filaments she could almost feel winding beneath her skin.
Before she could dwell further, the door burst open with a breathless whoosh. Nightingale, eyes wide and flushed from sprinting, stepped in without knocking.
"Chief! You need to see this—now!"
Wen-Li snapped to attention, her body going still like a blade drawn taut.
"What happened?" she asked, eyes narrowing.
"It's Captains Robert and Lingaong," said Nightingale, catching her breath. "They've uncovered a body—a child victim. Dumped in a locked metallic case at Lake Perrault. Park patrol found it around seven. Looks... grim."
The blood drained slightly from Wen-Li's face.
"A child?" she echoed, rising from her seat. Her chair gave a soft squeak against the polished floor. "Where's the body now?"
"En route to HQ. Dr. Abrar's preparing the forensics lab. From the initial report, Lingaong thinks it's homicide—brutalised before death."
Wen-Li moved around the desk, her fingers brushing the edge as if trying to stay grounded.
"This soon after the agreement with SCP…" she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. Her tone shifted, low and sharp, "Could be worse."
She strode to the wall panel and grabbed her coat, then paused mid-motion and looked down again at her wrist. That same ache again—like tiny insects crawling beneath her skin. Her brow creased in irritation.
"And this damn bracelet…" she whispered, flexing her hand again.
Nightingale caught the motion and frowned.
"Still hurting?"
"No," Wen-Li said flatly. "But it's not just tech, Nightingale. There's something invasive about it. I don't trust the 'gift'."
Nightingale gave a tight, dry smile.
"I was going to say something during the ceremony. But... well. You were standing next to Chief Richter. Didn't feel like the moment to crack jokes about being 'gifted' spyware."
"I'll have our engineers run a scan once we're done with the case," Wen-Li said grimly, then grabbed her commlink.
"Tell Krieg to meet me in the morgue. I want eyes on that body the moment it arrives. And notify our tech division—I want a full diagnostic on these bracelets. Quietly. Off-record."
"Already on it," said Nightingale, following her out. "Something tells me the honeymoon phase of this alliance is already over."
At 8:45 AM, the room was steeped in stark fluorescence, the light humming softly over stainless steel counters and rows of medical instruments arranged with surgical precision. A faint chemical sterility hung in the air, laced with the heavier, acrid weight of death.
On the cold examination table lay the small, fragile corpse of a young boy, aged just five. His skin had taken on the ashen grey of decay, bloated in places, mottled in others. His tiny limbs were twisted unnaturally, as if snapped and discarded without care.
Dr. Abra Faiyaz, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and gloved hands steady as stone, leaned in with clinical precision. He carefully traced a finger along a web of deep contusions that bruised the boy's abdomen and inner thighs.
"Limbs—both radial and ulna—dislocated," he murmured, brow furrowed behind his protective visor. "One eye collapsed inward. The other… removed."
Nurse Anne Parker, composed yet visibly disturbed, adjusted the scanning console.
"Doctor, we've completed the X-ray series."
He turned toward the display as the digital render of the boy's skeletal structure flickered onto the monitor.
The room fell silent.
The X-ray revealed jagged fractures down both femurs. The ribs showed multiple, uneven breaks—some fresh, some older. There was a sickening lattice of damage, inconsistent with accidental trauma.
"He's been through more than just one assault," Dr. Faiyaz muttered grimly. "Some of these breaks were weeks old. Maybe months."
Just then, Chief Wen-Li entered briskly, flanked by Nightingale, Captain Robert, Captain Lingaong Xuein, and her younger brother Xuemin. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes locked on the child's broken body like twin blades.
"Doctor Faiyaz," she said quietly. "What have you found?"
Dr. Faiyaz slowly removed his gloves with deliberate care.
"Chief, this boy… Rafelix Newtons... was murdered. And not quickly. It was deliberate. Sustained. Sadistic."
Lingaong turned to Robert with a grim look.
"Told you it was a homicide."
"Walk us through it," Wen-Li said, her voice taut.
"Blunt force trauma, primarily," said Faiyaz, pointing to the bruises. "Blows to the torso and spine—delivered with something heavy, possibly a bat or iron pipe. There's perimortem bruising around the wrists and ankles, suggesting he was restrained. Defensive wounds on the forearms indicate he tried to shield himself."
"So, the killer was enraged?" asked Wen-Li, jaw tightening.
"More than that," he replied. "This wasn't just a fit of anger. These injuries show intent... sustained aggression. Whoever did this—was venting or... punishing."
"Or worse," muttered Robert. "For pleasure."
Faiyaz paused, eyes flickering briefly.
"That... is a plausible assumption."
Lingaong Xuein, arms folded tightly across her chest, looked pale.
"Doctor, were there any signs of… I mean… was he—"
Dr. Faiyaz interrupted gently, as if shielding her from the full horror.
"There are signs consistent with physical abuse. Possibly sexual. But we'll need a complete pathology report to confirm."
Wen-Li swallowed, her voice steady despite the churn in her gut.
"Have you identified him?"
"Yes." He nodded at Nurse Anne, who handed him the forensic profile.
Dr. Faiyaz read aloud, sombre and precise.
"Name: Rafelix Newtons. Male. Age: Five. Cause of death: Blunt force trauma. Secondary injuries include internal haemorrhaging, compound fractures, and cranial swelling. Time of death estimated between 11 and 14 hours ago."
Just then, Commander Krieg stepped into the room, adjusting his coat.
"Chief, apologies for the delay—briefing overran."
Wen-Li raised an eyebrow.
"You're late, Commander."
"Yes, Chief. A poor habit I'll break—after caffeine," he said wryly, then turned his eyes to the child. The joking left him. "Bloody hell…"
Dr. Faiyaz lifted a series of enhanced scans, holding them toward Krieg and Wen-Li.
"And here—notice these impact patterns." He pointed to faint circular fractures on the ribs. "Consistent with a cylindrical weapon—like a baseball bat. The bruising is staggered and layered—multiple impacts over time."
Krieg's jaw clenched.
"So this kid was tortured."
Wen-Li exhaled through her nose.
"Nightingale—get in touch with Rafelix Newtons' family. I want both parents brought in for questioning. If they've nothing to hide, fine. If they're involved..."
"Yes, Chief," said Nightingale, her face stony.
As the team filtered out of the lab, Wen-Li remained behind a moment longer, gazing at the child's lifeless form.
"No child deserves to die like this," she murmured.
The room said nothing back.
At 10:22 AM, the air inside the morgue was a still, sterile hush—the kind that absorbed sound and suffocated comfort. Cold metal counters reflected the clinical glow of the overhead lights. Behind a pane of frosted glass, the small body of Rafelix Newtons, aged five, lay covered in a white sheet, still and cold as marble.
The doors hissed open. Two figures stepped in.
Mirella Newton, her eyes swollen from endless weeping, clung to her husband's arm. She stumbled forward, her breath hitched in shallow gasps. Darian Newton, gaunt and silent, walked with a haunted stiffness. His hand trembled as it clutched a damp handkerchief, though his face remained carved in stoic grief.
Then Nurse Anne gently drew back the sheet.
Mirella let out a broken scream.
"Rafelix—no... no!" she howled, falling to her knees, clawing at the edge of the examination table. Her cries echoed off the sterile walls like the toll of a shattered bell.
Darian didn't speak. He didn't move. He simply stood, gazing at the tiny corpse. His eyes shimmered, jaw clenched tightly, as a single tear traced silently down his cheek. Grief, compressed under unbearable weight.
Chief Wen-Li, arms folded across her chest, stood beside Nightingale, watching the parents with quiet reverence. Her expression remained composed, but her knuckles whitened with restrained emotion.
Mirella turned sharply toward her, wild with despair.
"Who did this to him?" she demanded, voice shaking. "Who?!"
Wen-Li's eyes met hers with a heavy calm.
"Ma'am, I promise you—we are doing everything in our power to find the one responsible and bring them to justice."
"Justice?!" Mirella's voice cracked like glass. "Where is your justice, Chief? For six years—six bloody years—we filed reports, begged for help, and prayed someone would listen. And now we see him like this?! You call this justice?!"
She struck her own chest with a sob, collapsing into herself.
"Don't you feel anything, Chief? Don't you feel our pain? Or have you become just another suit?"
Wen-Li didn't flinch. But something softened in her eyes—a flicker of guilt, of connection. Still, she remained silent, absorbing the anguish.
Darian stepped forward, placing a hand gently on his wife's back. His voice was barely above a whisper.
"It's all right, Mirella. Please…"
Then he looked straight at Wen-Li.
"Chief… when you find the one who did this… I don't want leniency. I don't want a courtroom. I want their punishment to be something… worse than death."
There was no malice in his tone. Only weariness. A plea from a man emptied by grief.
Wen-Li nodded slowly, her voice level but resolute.
"I understand. And I swear to you—I will not let this pass quietly."
Nightingale, standing just beside her, gave Wen-Li a sidelong glance. Even she could see the weight pressing behind her Chief's calm exterior.
Wen-Li stepped closer to Darian, lowering her tone.
"Sir, if I may… I'd like to ask you a few questions, if you're ready."
Darian gave a slow, hollow nod.
"Yes… go on."
Wen-Li opened her notepad. Her expression was neutral, but her eyes carried the full burden of the promise she had just made.
"Tell me everything you remember… about the day he disappeared."
The room was still and sterile. No hum of overhead fans, no tick of a wall clock—just the slow thrum of grief held taut beneath fluorescent light.
Chief Wen-Li sat across from Darian and Mirella Newton, her notepad open, her eyes steady. She spoke with calm clarity.
"Mr. Newton… I know this isn't easy. But if we're to understand what happened to Rafelix, we need to go back to the day he disappeared."
Darian gave a faint nod, his voice dry and gravelled.
"It was six years ago… 3rd March. He was five. Said he wanted to go to the park with his mates—same as most evenings."
Wen-Li leaned in slightly.
"Did you see him leave?"
"I did," Darian replied, eyes unfocused as if playing the memory on a loop. "I'd just come home from work to grab my keys—told him to be back by sundown. He said he'd come home with his friend." He paused, jaw clenched. "That was the last time I saw him."
Mirella's voice broke through, softer, brittle.
"He didn't come home. His friends said he never met them at the gate. They waited. Thought he got delayed. But when the sun dropped and he still wasn't there… we knew something was wrong."
Wen-Li scribbled a few notes, her brow drawn.
"So, he vanished before reaching the park. No sign. No witness?"
Darian shook his head.
"None. We searched every bloody streetlamp and alleyway within ten blocks. Filed the report that night."
Wen-Li's tone sharpened just slightly.
"Where were you both at the time?"
"I was at work," said Darian. "I left just before he did. Mirella was home—cooking dinner."
"I checked on him from the kitchen window," Mirella added. "He waved and ran off down the road with his bag. I didn't think… didn't think that would be the last…"
Her sentence dissolved into a soft sob. Wen-Li offered a tissue but said nothing, letting the silence do what words couldn't.
"Do you recall seeing anyone… unusual? A stranger? Someone who took interest in him?"
"No," Darian replied flatly. "We knew most faces in the neighbourhood."
"Any tension with neighbours? Workmates? Someone who might've harboured a grudge?"
The couple exchanged a glance, then Mirella shook her head.
"No… we kept to ourselves. No enemies. No strange behaviour. Nothing."
Wen-Li tapped her pen against her notepad, the only sound in the room. She narrowed her gaze in thought.
"So... he left for the park, alone, in broad daylight… and disappeared without a trace. No one saw a thing. That's—unusual."
Darian nodded solemnly.
"Unusual's putting it lightly, Chief."
Wen-Li stood slowly, the steel in her spine unshaken.
"Thank you. You've both been incredibly strong. We'll do everything in our power to bring justice for your son."
"We've heard that before," Mirella muttered, more from weariness than anger.
Wen-Li met her eyes with grave finality.
"Not from me."
Nightingale opened the door quietly and stepped aside to escort them. As the parents rose—Mirella dabbing her eyes, Darian resting a steadying hand on her back—Wen-Li watched them leave with the weight of a promise settling in her chest.
The door clicked shut behind them. The silence lingered like dust in old light.
"Nightingale," Wen-Li said quietly, "get me every missing child report filed between 2036 and 2038. Especially those around park vicinity."
"On it, Chief."
3:42 PM, inside the Intelligence Core, room was dim, lit only by the cold glow of holographic displays flickering like silent heart monitors. The air carried a stale blend of recycled oxygen and burnt coffee grounds.
Wen-Li sat rigid at her station, her expression carved from focus. A wall of digital files unfolded before her in triptych form—dozens of missing children, faces frozen in time, each one a question left unanswered.
Nightingale entered briskly, her coat swishing at her sides, one gloved hand holding a sleek black drive.
"Chief, here's the extraction—every recorded child disappearance between 2036 and 2038, filtered by abductions near public parks."
Wen-Li took the drive in silence, plugged it into the main console. Within seconds, a flood of dossiers burst to life—faces, birth records, timestamps, last-known locations. Photographs hovered in space like ghosts.
She leaned in, scanning the grid with hawk-like intent.
"Let's see who made it home," she murmured.
Her fingers flicked across the interface. The room filled with the soft sound of files sorting.
"Forty-seven cases total," she reported evenly. "Twenty-four recovered alive. Seven found… decomposed." Her tone dipped, becoming iron. "All found in the same places—Crimson Forge, Ashenfort, Wraithfall… Voidmarch."
Nightingale frowned, brow furrowing.
"All perimeter cities around Noctum Hollow."
Wen-Li's eyes narrowed.
"Exactly."
She activated the geospatial overlay. A red pulse glowed on the map—Noctum Hollow, a vast, charred scar where a city once stood.
"Every body was discovered orbiting this crater," she said coldly. "Like carrion circling a corpse."
"But Noctum Hollow was levelled," Nightingale said, almost to herself. "That crater spans 800 square kilometres. There's nothing left. Not a brick."
Wen-Li nodded once, slow and solemn.
"Because he made sure of that."
The screen shifted to a grainy tactical photo—Agent-90, shadow-cloaked, his hand wrapped around the remote detonator that triggered the blast.
"Agent-90 razed the city under Directive Black Thorn," Wen-Li continued. "We had SSCBF forces deployed on the perimeter. Madam Di-Xian led her own operatives. Even the outlaw Amigu-Rumi sent Katoge and Wanaka. I signed the coordination order."
Nightingale's voice dropped low.
"And this boy… doesn't match the Hollow cases?"
Wen-Li's gaze returned to the latest autopsy report—Rafelix Newton. She tapped the line for location of abduction.
"Rafelix vanished near Brighthaven Park. Age five. He was supposed to meet friends after school. Disappeared without a trace." Her voice turned quiet. "And he was held for six years."
"But no ransom… no communications? No trace?" Nightingale asked, visibly disturbed.
"Nothing," Wen-Li replied. "This wasn't a trade. It wasn't exploitation. It was containment. Isolation." She paused. "This boy… wasn't used. He was hidden."
Wen-Li rose from her chair. The quiet creak of the legs against the floor echoed like punctuation.
"Noctum Hollow is gone. But the architects of its evil? They didn't all burn in that blast. Some adapted. Changed skin. Shifted into shadows."
Nightingale folded her arms, tension growing across her frame.
"You think there's another ring?"
Wen-Li exhaled through her nose, her voice a knife:
"I think something crawled out of the crater."
She turned toward the holographic map once more. The yawning black void of Hollow stared back—lifeless, empty, but whispering something far older than death.
"Whatever's behind Rafelix's murder didn't die with the city. This isn't a repeat—it's a mutation."
She snapped her attention back to Nightingale, her tone sharp with command.
"Tell Lan Qian to dig into the citywide surveillance archives—back to the exact week Rafelix vanished. I want facial matches, pedestrian logs, traffic cams, transit data—everything. Let's find out who took him."
Nightingale gave a short, firm nod.
"On it, Chief."
As she turned to leave, Wen-Li remained staring at the crater on the screen. Her hand unconsciously rubbed her wrist, where the Sentinel Helix bracelet still itched beneath her skin.
Whatever crawled out of Noctum Hollow… it had begun moving again.
At SSCBF Intelligence Division – Surveillance Room, time 8:47 PM, The surveillance chamber was dead quiet but for the ambient hum of the servers. A thousand thin blue lines glowed across holographic displays, like neural pathways lighting up in a vast digital brain.
Lan Qian sat in the centre, one leg folded under her, the other tapping against the floor in restless rhythm. Her fingers hovered over a multi-touch glass console, swiping and enlarging footage with a graceful precision born of obsession. She had been at this for hours—back hunched, coffee untouched, eyes dry from focus.
Wen-Li stepped inside, the door whispering open. She crossed the floor in silence, her boots echoing softly. Behind her trailed Nightingale, arms crossed, the lines in her brow deepening.
"Anything?" Wen-Li asked.
Lan Qian didn't look up. Her eyes remained locked on the screen, flicking between camera feeds, timestamps, and AI-assisted overlays.
"I've narrowed it to a two-hour window," she said briskly. "Evening of 19th March, 2036. Brighthaven Park perimeter. Between 18:42 and 20:03."
Wen-Li stepped beside her, watching the footage unfurl in cold silence. Grainy greys and muted purples bled across the screen. The park looked almost peaceful—empty swings, a flickering streetlamp, scattered leaves catching dusk light. Then—
A small figure: Rafelix, five years old, skipping. He stopped by the lamp-post. Looked over his shoulder. Waited.
Another shape entered the frame—tall, cloaked in shadow. The perpetrator moved like a mist-laced phantom, gliding rather than walking. No distinct facial features. Their body language is unreadable.
Lan Qian magnified the frame.
The facial recognition grid blinked "NO MATCH." Again.
"This is the last known sighting," Lan murmured. "Rafelix was waiting for someone. Maybe one of his schoolmates. But then this figure appears, just behind the fence line."
She adjusted the light filter. The screen dimmed. Thermal view revealed vague heat signatures. The perpetrator's frame was humanoid—but the face remained completely obscured, shrouded in either deliberate shadow... or something more calculated.
"Their image is being scrambled," Lan said. "Look here—distortion blooms every time their face enters a clear angle. It's either post-manipulation, or they're using a dampening device."
"Like a cloaking visor?" Nightingale asked.
Lan Qian nodded. "Something beyond market grade."
Wen-Li narrowed her gaze.
"Pause it. There—at 19:09:47."
The frame froze. The figure had extended a hand to Rafelix. The child didn't flinch. In fact, he stepped forward, willingly.
"They knew each other," Wen-Li said quietly.
Lan Qian's brow twitched. "Or he was made to trust them."
Wen-Li's jaw clenched, her voice lowering.
"Replay the sound."
Lan Qian activated the audio. Static hissed, then cleared slightly.
A faint voice: deep, smooth, and distorted.
"It's alright. You can come. I won't let anything happen to you."
The child's voice responded, soft and hesitant.
"Okay…"
End of footage.
The screen cut to black. A silence hung in the room like mist over a battlefield.
Nightingale exhaled, rubbing her temple.
"That's it?"
"Yes," Lan Qian replied. "No exit cam. The moment they leave the frame, they vanish from every CCTV channel. Like ghosts."
Wen-Li said nothing for a long moment. She stepped back, arms behind her, wrist still itching beneath the Sentinel Helix.
Then, calmly but firmly:
"Run a spectrum match on that voice. Filter out the distortion. I want every possible profile flagged. Known abductors. Former Hollow syndicate members. Even military."
Lan Qian nodded. "Already queued."
Wen-Li turned to Nightingale.
"If this is who I think it is… they've returned. Or they've sent someone just like them."
Nightingale's eyes darkened.
"And if it is them?"
Wen-Li's voice was colder than the floor beneath them:
"Then Noctum Hollow didn't kill the rot. It just buried it deeper."
Wen-Li's eyes lingered on the frozen image of Rafelix one last time, jaw set, her expression carved from tension and restraint. The electric hush of the intelligence suite buzzed in the background, yet her voice cut through it with quiet precision.
"Contact Gonda. I want intel. Everything he has cloaked in the timeline disappearances of Rafelix and who are involved in this."
Nightingale blinked, a hint of hesitation flickering in her eyes.
"Chief… I don't have his number. Not directly."
Wen-Li didn't miss a beat. Her tone remained calm, but laced with urgency.
"Then speak to Captain Robert. Tell him to place the call."
Nightingale gave a sharp nod, her boots echoing against the polished floor as she turned briskly and made for the exit—shoulders squared, pace clipped. The moment she vanished beyond the sliding doors, Wen-Li exhaled slowly, her gaze never leaving the screen.
Time was thinning. And shadows, like memories, never died quietly.
Captain Robert leaned against the corridor wall, one hand in his coat pocket, the other holding his mobile to his ear. The line clicked after two short rings.
"Gonda. Nightingale says you might have something for us," Robert said, his tone casual but lined with curiosity.
From the other end, Gonda's voice crackled through, cool and unbothered.
"Got it. And I think I know who it might be."
Robert's brow furrowed slightly.
"Oh? That quick?" he asked, genuinely surprised.
"Meet me. Gloombane district—Old Lantern Alley. I'll be waiting."
Click. The call ended.
Nightingale, who had been watching him intently, stepped forward. Her arms were crossed but her eyes were sharp—expectant.
"Well? What did he say?" she asked, her tone clipped, one eyebrow arched in wary anticipation.
Robert slid his phone into his pocket, pushing off the wall.
"He says he's got a lead. Told us to meet him in Gloombane—Old Lantern Alley."
Nightingale's eyes narrowed slightly, then she gave a curt nod, pivoting on her heel.
"Right. I'm informing the Chief."
She moved off at a fast pace, her coat flaring slightly behind her, every stride humming with purpose. Robert watched her for a beat, his expression unreadable.
"Gloombane, huh… Never a quiet night in that place." he muttered to himself.
When night falls over Gloombane, the city doesn't just sleep—it broods. It rises in ash rain and spectral lights, the skyline scorched by shattered cathedrals and rust‑cloaked towers. Chimneys thrust phosphorescent smoke into the obsidian sky. Beneath them, Watcher Angels (drone spotlights) sweep cold beams through the mist, searching for unchipped wanderers—or rogue Sinners.
Holo‑ads stutter in flickering ruin, advertising salvation one moment, broadcasting execution footage the next. Every alley hums with haunted wind chimes made of bone and wire—the cultish totems of the Gloombane Seraphics, believers in suffering's divinity.
Architecture shifts minutely at night—as if the city itself reacts to rage, guilt, pain. At its core, the Monolith pulses, chanting in low frequencies only the genetically corrupted can hear. Some call it mourning; others, a warning of what's yet to come.
Sharply lit by a single flickering lamp, the alley is narrow and decrepit—rusted pipes, broken bricks, refuse piled in corners. Shadows crawl along the walls.
From the gloom, a silhouette emerges. Gonda, white hair whipping in the breeze, flicks a cigarette into view. Smoke coils around him like a living thing.
As Wen‑Li, Nightingale, Robert, and Xuein approach, Gonda steps fully into the alley's light.
Wen-Li squares her shoulders and asks,
"Gonda—who murdered Rafelix Newton?"
He exhales a plume of smoke, voice low and precise.
"Rafelix Newton, aged five—kidnapped at Brighthaven Park. The culprit is Kairoth."
Shock ripples through them. Kairoth—an SS‑Rank Sinner who infiltrates and mimics. He can replicate anybody's voice and visage by touch—and leaves victims eyeless, bodies twisted.
"So… he killed Rafelix?" Wen‑Li whispers. "For what purpose?"
Gonda ashes his cigarette.
"A predator fond of extremes—after women, children. He operated in Noctum Hollow, catering to the vile desires of wealthy clients."
Robert's face tightens.
"But the Hollow was obliterated. All predators were supposedly wiped out."
Gonda's thumb jerks.
"Worse than that—he survived. He's Sinner. And dangerous, Chief. Apply extreme caution."
Wen-Li's gaze narrows.
"Where is he now?"
"At the Fissure Docks, sector‑12. Old shipping bay converted into an illegal biotech black‑market."
Wen‑Li turns on her heel, spine straight.
"Understood. I'll handle him myself."
Nightingale steps in sharply.
"Chief, that's suicidal."
Xuein adds, concern written across her features.
"Let us come with you!"
Wen-Li glances at both women, voice calm but unwavering.
"No. If you join, he'll kill you first. Gonda and I have this."
Gonda slaps her shoulder affectionately.
"Chief, you've got this. We trust you."
She nods once, hard.
"Then watch the perimeter. Anyone approaches, you notify me instantly."
Gonda unfurls a wry grin.
"I agree. But… be careful, Chief."
Wen-Li manages a brittle smile in return.
The Fissure Docks aren't part of any tourist map—they're the industrial lungs of a forgotten coast, tucked along the edge of a poisoned inlet where no tides flow and no light lingers.
By night, the docks resemble a battlefield long abandoned to rust and rot.
Massive, decaying cargo cranes loom like skeletal leviathans, their arms locked in twisted postures, silhouetted against a sickly green sky. Shipping containers—stacked five high—form a labyrinth of rusted iron and graffiti tags, their once-bright colours now reduced to flaking bruises of red, blue, and ochre.
The wind tastes of corroded metal, mildew, and burnt oil—clinging to the lungs like regret.
Puddles of black rainwater ripple with each step, disturbed by rodents the size of house cats and the occasional flutter of corrupted gulls—flesh-patched and shrieking like dying machinery.
From the ground up, the environment whispers something's wrong here.
Flickering halogen lights struggle to pierce the fog, their buzzing drone the only rival to the distant clang-clang of shipping chains groaning in the wind. Surveillance drones hang motionless in the air—dead or pretending to be—like vultures caught in pause.
Graffiti glows faintly in bio-luminescent inks, marking territories of syndicates long gone or warnings no one alive remembers.
Nestled deep within this forgotten sprawl is Warehouse 7F—its entrance blocked by two rusted trucks and a retractable mesh gate wired with motion detectors. This is where the trade happens: spliced organs, illegal augment kits, memory wafers, and biotech grown in backroom cradles.
Inside, the light is sterile and unforgiving—a surgical white that cuts deeper than shadow. But the outer perimeter is a different beast: all darkness, whispers, and phantom movement.
No one lingers here unless they mean harm.
No one leaves unless they're changed.
Tonight, it's quiet—but not in the peaceful sense.
The kind of quiet that feels staged.
As though something's waiting to exhale.
The industrial waste of the docks – rusting cranes, stagnant pools, twisted scaffolding – made the air thick with menace. Wen‑Li moved through the eastern sector with the grace of a hunter: silent, precise. She avoided cracked panels on the container yard, slipped past inactive motion sensors, each calibrated pulse dancing beneath her wrist worn Sentinel bracelet.
The entrance to Warehouse 7F loomed: two rust-laden trucks blocking a mesh gate wired with trip sensors. Wen‑Li sidled around them – her slender frame drifting like smoke through a gap she could see but not be seen – and deactivated the gate without triggering an alarm. Inside, the warehouse interior was suffocatingly bright. Harsh white lamps revealed rows of medical glass cases, discarded augment limbs, neon memory wafers in trays, and shadowy silhouettes of tech pods lying inert in the gloom.
She paused at the center of the room, SIO‑PX7 drawn, senses taut. Then—
CRASH.
A heavy metal crate fell behind her. Instinctively, she ducked sideways. The crate hit the floor with a shriek of tortured sheet-metal. Around her, rough figures emerged – men all heavily tattooed in tribal and bio-tech marks, eyes cold under shadows.
A single footstep echoed behind the rusted scaffolding. A voice—the voice of Kairoth—dripped from darkness.
"Well, well… if it isn't Chief Wen‑Li of the SSCBF."
He stepped into the flickering plain light, composed and pale. Face ghostlike in detail. The shadows of his visage teased her mind. She recognized him instantly—Kairoth, the SS‑Rank Sinner capable of mimicking any person he touches, stealing identities and leaving victims eyeless, contorted.
Those four tattooed guards converged. Wen‑Li pivoted, firing a silenced round into the nearest guard's knee, dropping him to the floor. A kick sent another sprawling. She activated her Crimson Shackle – a toxin-laced gauntlet which constricts around the wrist of close combat targets. She slashed her shackle forward – the crimson vapour hissed. One man jerked violently, convulsing, then collapsed.
Kairoth grimaced and flicked a hand. His ability—Voice Echo Veneer—unleashed: his skin rippled like static, radiating invisible waves. His body twisted, shifting posture. Suddenly, he looked like Nightingale, then Robert, then someone Wen‑Li didn't know—his shape shifted, voice morphed, mocking her senses. The shadows in the warehouse darkened.
But Wen‑Li held her ground. Her eyes narrowed, deadly and resolute. She whispered low, steel in her tone:
"You think changing faces makes you unstoppable? I see through illusions."
She fired her SIO‑PX7: a monofilament round sliced into Kairoth's veneer, tearing at his shifting flesh. His form shuddered, and the mimicry faltered. Screams echoed as more guards advanced. She dodged, pivoted, each movement a blade of precision—her fists striking with the weight of vengeance.
Even as Kairoth reformed again, attempting to copy her, Wen‑Li's blade hand slashed across his cheek. He staggered, face cracking back into his true self—eyeless, pale and terrified.
He clasped his face and hissed.
"You… have no idea what you've cursed yourself with."
Wen‑Li unsheathed her gauntlet's secondary function: Neurovine Electroshock. She pressed the plated palm to his temple. A surge of violet light pulsed. Kairoth shrieked, body contorting, mind unraveling under microsecond shocks. Then he collapsed, unconscious.
Aftermath:
Wen‑Li stood over him, breathing steady, adrenaline pooling in her veins. Her eyes gleamed with something cold as mercury—justice sharpened on the edge of violence.
She leaned in close to the crumpled creature.
"Kairoth," she said, low. "You preyed on innocence. You stole voices and souls. Now, you'll be brought to SSCBF—and your truth will be stripped from you."
His laboured breath hissed. She straightened, gaze sweeping the unconscious guards.
"I take him and lock you in the high-security cells. Treat you… as a guest, yes, but question you. Subject you to every measure—legal, psychological… whatever it takes to atone for what you've done."
Her hand rested on his shoulder—brief, authoritative. She turned on her heel and walked away.
In the silence of Warehouse 7F, only the faint hum of biotech refrigeration remained. The red light from her Sentinel bracelet blinked slowly—a quiet pulse of promise: the war was far from over.
Beyond a thick pane of observation glass, Wen‑Li, Nightingale, Lan Qian, and Captain Xuein stand watch as Kairoth—pale and bound—sits in the interrogation cell under harsh, clinical lighting.
On the other side sits Commander Krieg, Captain Robert, and Xuemin, circling the table like predators testing prey.
Interrogation Begins
Robert leans forward, knuckles white on the table.
"Kairoth. You abducted and brutally tortured a five-year-old boy. For what purpose? Whose orders?"
Kairoth's lips curl into a slow, chilling smile. He answers with a whisper:
"You have no idea what I served."
Robert pounds the table.
"Spit it out! Who commissioned you? What was Rafelix meant to become?"
Nightingale's hand tightens at her side. Through the glass, the ladies exchange looks of tension.
Lan Qian murmurs quietly to Xuein:
"He isn't broken. Not yet."
Xuein's jaw clenches.
"That smile—a mask. But for what?"
Wen-Li's eyes flicker, watching him.
Tensions Escalate
Robert slams his head against the table in frustration.
"You sick bastard, why are you smiling?! What stirs amusement inside you?!"
Krieg springs forward and grabs Robert's shoulder to pull him back. Xuemin yields to caution.
Kairoth's smile widens grotesquely. Then, in a single convulsive motion—
HIS CHEST EXPLODES.
A crimson geyser bursts outward. His ribcage ruptures; blood jets like a fountain. The cell is saturated instantly.
Robert, Krieg, and Xuemin are hurled backward; Robert's forearm jerks against the glass protector—etched now with scorched grooves. Krieg and Xuemin collapse, injured.
Inside the control room, Wen‑Li's face drains pale.
"Stand back!"
She presses a hidden speaker button.
"Medical team—NOW!"
The hydraulic door slides open with a hiss. Nightingale and Xuein charge in, Lan Qian racing beside them.
Aftershock
Inside the cell, the floor is a shimmering river of blood. Kairoth lies motionless, his chest shattered, his smile frozen in finality.
Wen‑Li kneels fast, checking the officers: Robert writhing against the wall, forearm burned; Krieg and Xuemin breathing shallowly.
"Robert! Stay with me!"
She inspects the corpse: rib fragments and tissue splayed out, with blood bubbling from the heart cavity like a grotesque geyser. The smell of iron thickens in the air.
Lan Qian reaches in to secure biometric data recompression. Nightingale calls for forensics.
Wen‑Li stands, trembling very slightly but fiercely composed. Her voice is low and cold—
"He kills himself under interrogation. That wasn't suicide… that was purpose. Something inside him was seeded. And it triggered from anger—something primal."
Xuein's eyes shine, fury mixing with grief.
"He weaponised his own heart."
Nightingale places a steady hand on Wen‑Li's shoulder.
"Chief… he still killed Rafelix."
Wen‑Li's breath stabilises, jaw hard.
"Yes. But he didn't speak. He left us his rage. We have no answers yet. And this... this fucked conclusion only deepens the mystery."
Moments Later
The glass of the observation window is splattered with blood; watchers' reflections are blurred. Nightingale and Xuein guide the injured officers away.
Wen‑Li remains, silent in the crimson haze, straightening her uniform like a blade resetting in a scabbard.
"Log it. Full autopsy. Trace any psychological triggers that could cause such—self‑rupture. Cross reference with spectral mimic anomaly. Record the silence."
She allows herself a single breath.
"No more illusions."
The office glows with muted amber from the floor-to-ceiling porthole. The skyline of Nin-Ran-Gi sprawls below, veins of crimson light threading through the steel veins of the city. Gavriel Elazar, dressed in a charcoal waistcoat, stands motionless, his hands behind his back, a half-drunk glass of vermouth on the table beside him.
He gazes down at the metropolis like a god brooding over a flawed creation.
The hydraulic doors hiss open.
Chief Ilse Richter steps in briskly, her boots tapping across the polished obsidian floor. A faint smell of ozone lingers behind her.
Gavriel doesn't look back.
GAVRIEL (coolly)
"So, Chief. What's the news that requires breaking my silence?"
She stops a few paces behind him, spine rigid.
RICHTER (measured, respectful)
"Chief Wen-Li of SSCBF and her unit found the body of a child—Rafelix Newton. Stuffed inside a metallic box in Klevensfeld Park, just off the banks of Lake Perrault."
He finally turns, the glow from the city tracing a cruel edge across his cheekbone.
GAVRIEL (deadpan)
"And the killer?"
RICHTER
"An SS-Rank Sinner. Name: Kairoth. Known mimic, infiltrator, and sadist. He was apprehended and brought in for interrogation…"
She pauses slightly, voice tightening.
RICHTER (cont'd)
"But he died. Heart exploded mid-interrogation. Self-detonated. Internal fail-safe, likely embedded biotech."
Gavriel narrows his eyes slightly, walking toward the bar. He pours himself a fresh measure of liquor, the ice clinking like faint percussion.
GAVRIEL (dryly)
"So the devil killed himself. How considerate."
RICHTER
"There's more, sir. The Sentinel bracelets—the ones SCP distributed to SSCBF during the alliance—transmitted a full telemetry log. Every movement. Every biometric shift. They're giving us more intel than expected."
GAVRIEL (quiet amusement)
"Like watching prey from inside the bloodstream."
RICHTER (nodding)
"And one more thing, sir. The lead informant that guided them to Kairoth was a man named Gonda. Former SSCBF operative. Served fifteen years. Resourceful. Tactically astute. Deep street contacts."
Gavriel stops swirling the glass. His voice shifts—silken, yet edged.
GAVRIEL
"This Gonda… sounds like a wolf who still knows where the meat's buried."
RICHTER
"Precisely."
GAVRIEL (sipping, then coldly)
"Send one of our best. I want eyes on him. I want to know what he drinks, where he walks, who he dreams of. Quietly. If he sneezes, I want to be the first to know whether it's a cold or a signal."
RICHTER
"Understood, sir."
She turns to leave, but Gavriel stares out the window again—face a mask of thought.
Then, almost inaudibly, he murmurs to himself:
GAVRIEL (murmuring)
"Wen-Li. You chase ghosts in the light… but you've no idea what's crawling beneath your feet."
The city pulses below, indifferent and watching.
FADE OUT.