On 20th July, 2042. midday in Yànxiāng Alley (雁巷) — literally Wild Goose Lane — the sun perched high and unblinking above the dense warren of roofs. The narrow, bustling street was a curious marriage of antique charm and bleeding-edge futurism. The air thrummed with the mingled aromas of sizzling woks, drifting incense, and the faint electric hum of neon shūfǎ (書法). Retractable awnings in imperial crimson flapped languidly in the drone-stirred breeze, shading shopfronts whose carved wooden lintels sat beneath glimmering calligraphic signage.
The cobblestones, burnished smooth by centuries of tread, now bore discreet LED strips that pulsed gently like a heartbeat, shepherding pedestrians through the human tide. Merchants in silk jackets hawked steaming bowls of noodles, mechanical curiosities, and holographic fortune scrolls in the same breath. Hand-painted lanterns swayed beside carbon-fibre panels polished to a mirror shine. Shoppers — some robed in hanfu-inspired garb woven with nano-fibres that caught the light in rippling iridescence — drifted between stalls equal parts apothecary, street food stand, and augmented reality theatre.
Far above, the glass spires of Fēnghuáng's (凤凰) central towers pierced the cloudless sky, scattering their reflections like shards across the alley. Yet here, the midday sun was softened into gold by a tangle of rooftops, as though tradition itself had placed a hand on time's shoulder and slowed its pace.
At the alley's bend, The Dandelion Ember (蒲公英之炭) beckoned — a compact, much-adored eatery famed for its tea-smoked duck and broth steeped with oolong leaves. Its sign, a constellation of amber-lit dandelion petals, seemed to drift mid-air above the doorway.
Inside, the air was a fragrant haze of steam and charcoal smoke, steeped in a light the colour of honey from paper lanterns whose hems glimmered faintly with embedded micro-LEDs. The walls were a seamless blend of lacquered wood carved with phoenixes and sleek transparent panels that projected the menu in both brushstroke calligraphy and fluid holo-script.
Behind the counter, an elderly woman in a faded qipao embroidered with silver cranes worked with quiet mastery, ladling broth with movements as measured as a tea ceremony. A lacquered tea-trolley-shaped automaton whirred softly as it glided between low tables, bearing plates of duck breast lacquered in citrus glaze and tea leaves. Customers sat on a scatter of bamboo stools and cushioned steel benches, while holographic koi swam lazily across the lacquered floorboards.
Near the back, a silk-draped booth shimmered with glowing threads — reserved for those who required privacy, whether for romance or negotiation. The air here was richer still, laced with five-spice, oolong, and the faint, elusive curl of sandalwood from a discreet incense burner. The clink of porcelain and the sigh of the grill merged into a single, unhurried heartbeat.
At a corner table, five middle-aged office men — Yuang Baiang, Suharton Soohyunho, Ikudo Yutoshi, and Duang Luong — took their seats, loosening ties and rolling up sleeves in relief. They ordered without ceremony, and a few minutes later, steaming dishes arrived. Conversation turned, as it often did, to work — grievances about deadlines, the futility of certain managers, the price of printer ink.
Yuang was midway through a wry anecdote when his chewing slowed. His brow furrowed. He brought a hand to his lips and discreetly spat something into his palm.
It was not bone.
The others leaned in, curious — and then their expressions shifted in unison, like a breeze passing over a field. Resting in Yuang's hand, slick with broth, was a human tooth.
For a beat, no one spoke.
Suharton's face drained to the colour of wet paper, his hand hovering uselessly over his bowl.
Ikudo recoiled so sharply his stool scraped the floor.
Duang's eyes darted towards the counter as though expecting — or dreading — to see an explanation.
SUHARTON (hoarse)
"That's… that's a tooth…"
Ikudo's voice cracked.
"Oh… oh hell…"
The five men glanced at each other, each silently confirming the other's horror. Somewhere, a lantern flickered, and the broth's fragrant steam suddenly seemed cloying, too thick to breathe.
Hence at Madam Di-Xian's office as she is working on her computer and the files of her clients, a sudden knock on the door, Madam Di-Xian says, "Come In!" Then Alvi enters carrying a newspaper and says "Madam!"
"Hmmm! Tell Alvi!" she reply as she focusing on her work
"Uhhh! Actually there is a news of murder case found at Dandelion Ember (蒲公英之炭) which is situated at Yànxiāng Alley of Fēnghuáng it was found out that the restaurant is feeding the human flesh to the customers"
At the moment Madam Di-Xian stop and glance at Alvi, "It seems like another cannibal case!"
"Yes Madam!" she reply, "one more thing the chef who was charge of serving the food claim that the meat comes from the local suppliers" she says, "the meat was precisely well cut it was hard to recognise it's a human flesh or what
"And about the local suppliers who were in charge?" ask Madam Di-Xian
"The evidence couldn't find who was the perpetrator for doing such a crime!" she reply
Madam Di-Xian calmly stretches backward from her seat as she stands up and says, "There is one person who is like Fen Gohxian but beyond and skillful" a smirk across her lips.
"Madam, you know who it is?" she ask in surprise
"Well!" she says as she rest her both palm hands on her table as she stands, "Alvi, there are lot of criminals and worse people I have deal with and face them in my 20s when I work at SSCBF and I know every single criminal of what kind and what type they are"
"But…." she continue, "even there are some criminals who are blend in society and mixed among us it hards to recognise who were the killer and who become the victims"
"So, you might know who is the perpetrator?" she ask tilt her head
Madam Di-Xian glanced at her in a serious expression, "Yes, I know who it is!"
Somewhere else, in the suffocating stillness of a windowless room, a single flickering bulb swayed from the ceiling, casting jagged shadows that danced across the walls like restless phantoms. The silence was broken by a sudden, resounding thud — a sound so abrupt it seemed to bruise the air.
The floor, the walls, even the warped wooden table in the centre, were painted in a grotesque tapestry of crimson. In the dim, erratic light, the man's face remained shrouded in darkness, features indistinguishable save for the occasional glint in his eyes. His hands, slick and glistening, gripped a butcher's knife whose steel caught the light in sharp, cruel flashes.
With deliberate, almost surgical precision, he carved through human flesh, the blade sliding cleanly along bone, parting muscle as easily as silk. Each movement was methodical, practised — a ritual, not a frenzy. Warm blood spattered in arcs across the wall, dripping in slow, sticky rivulets that traced the wood like macabre calligraphy, slowly he applies living metals inside the victims body
When at last the pieces lay neatly arrayed before him, he paused — head tilting, shoulders rising and falling in the slow rhythm of someone savouring a private triumph. Then it came: a laugh, low at first, but swelling into a rasping, guttural sound that crawled along the spine like icy fingers. It was a laugh without mirth, without humanity — the kind one might imagine echoing through the mind of a predator in the instant before the kill.
Even the light above seemed to recoil, its flicker stuttering more violently, as if it too were afraid.
In the muted stillness of Madam Di-Xian's office, the soft rustle of silk accompanied the faint hum of an old record player in the corner. Agent-90 stepped inside after a measured knock, his movements precise, his posture straight as a blade.
"Madam, you called?" His voice was calm, clipped — the sort of calm that carried the weight of restraint.
"Yes, Ninety." Her fingers lingered on the delicate petals of the crimson lotus blooming on her desk, the contrast of blood-red against pale skin striking beneath the lamplight. Without looking up, she brushed the edge of a petal, then lifted her gaze to meet his. "You've heard the news, I presume?"
"Yes," he replied, the words honed to a fine, cold edge.
"Then you know." She slid a single photograph across the polished surface towards him. The image was stark, the face within captured mid-movement — a blur of shadow, steel, and malice. "Your task is simple in wording, though not in execution: the butcher is to be hunted. His name… is Spindlemaw."
Agent-90 took the photograph without a word, his eyes scanning it once, committing every line, every scar, to memory.
Madam Di-Xian continued, her tone unhurried but edged with steel. "He is an underground butcher — and not merely in name. He replaces the bones of his victims with living metal, reshaping them into grotesque mockeries of what they once were."
A fractional pause, then his voice, steady as ever: "And the connection to the Dandelion Ember?"
Her eyelids lowered briefly, a calculated pause, before she looked at him again — this time with a glint of absolute resolve. "The tooth found there was not misplaced. It was a remnant. He removes flesh and bone with surgical precision, then replaces both with metal. I believe the Dandelion Ember incident is his calling card."
The silence between them deepened. The faint scent of sandalwood from the lotus mingled with the weight of the order hanging in the air.
Agent-90 inclined his head once in acknowledgment, the barest trace of resolve sharpening his already unwavering expression.
"Understood."
He turned crisply, the long fold of his coat shifting with the movement, and strode towards the door — each step a quiet promise of inevitability.
The underground garage was a cathedral of shadows, lit only by thin strips of cold blue light running along the concrete walls. The air was still, save for the faint hum of an idling generator. Agent-90 stood beside a matte-black motorbike — a sleek, predatory machine built more for pursuit than for show.
He was dressed immaculately in a tailored gentleman's suit, the cut so precise it moved like armour. His gloves were already on, the leather polished but understated. He removed his spectacles with a deliberate motion, slipping them into an inner pocket. The overhead light caught the faintest glint off the lenses before his eyes vanished into shadow beneath the brim of his helmet. His expression — as ever — remained unreadable.
Footsteps echoed in the gloom.
Jun emerged from between two pillars, hands tucked into his coat pockets, a familiar smirk playing at his lips.
"What is it, Jun?" Agent-90's tone was flat, without inflection or warmth — a man chiselled from discipline.
Jun stopped a few feet away, the smirk widening into something almost wolfish. "Take this." With a flick of his wrist, he hurled a long, wrapped object across the space.
Agent-90 caught it in one smooth motion, unwrapping just enough to reveal the gleam of a dao blade, its curve catching the dim light like a crescent of midnight steel.
"Spindlemaw," Jun said, his voice dropping into something closer to seriousness, "is one of the Tier-Two Sinners. Be careful."
The Tier-Two Sinners — mid-echelon predators of the city's underbelly. Too dangerous for ordinary law enforcement to touch, yet not quite at the level of the infamous Tier-Ones. They ruled the hidden arteries of Nin-Ran-Gi like warlords of rot — running assassination syndicates, black-market arms trades, cybercrime webs, and narcotics networks. Each Tier-Two commanded their own crew, holding entire districts in their grip. Their ambition to ascend to Tier-One made them reckless; their cruelty, a calling card.
"I know," Agent-90 replied simply, strapping the dao to the bike's side frame with unhurried precision.
With a single twist of the throttle, the machine roared to life — a low, controlled growl that reverberated through the concrete chamber. He rolled forward, the tyres whispering over the smooth floor until he reached the ramp.
In one fluid surge, the bike shot upwards, emerging into the pale light of the city above. He slipped into the flow of traffic like a shadow made flesh, weaving between chrome-edged cars and neon-lit trams. Phoenix City — Fēnghuáng — rose ahead in a shimmering sprawl, its steel and glass towers glinting like the feathers of its namesake. Delivery drones hummed overhead, holo-billboards flashed in a thousand colours, and the rush of the city seemed to bend subtly around him, as though making way for the inevitable.
Agent-90 leaned forward slightly, the engine's snarl deepening, as he cut through the arteries of the metropolis toward his quarry.
"Madam… is it truly wise to send Agent-90?" Alvi asked, her brows knitting as she shifted her weight slightly, hands clasped before her in a gesture halfway between concern and deference.
Madam Di-Xian did not answer at once. She sat poised behind her lacquered desk, fingers idly tracing the edge of the crimson lotus in its porcelain vase. The Crimson Lotus's petals caught the lamplight, its bloom as unyielding and sharp as her gaze when it finally rose to meet Alvi's.
"He is a man of calculation and focus," she said, her voice calm yet edged with iron. "I have no doubt he can handle Spindlemaw. A psycho-cannibal meeting the Velvet Guillotine will not end well for him."
Alvi's lips pressed into a thin line, but she held her tongue.
Madam Di-Xian's eyes, dark as polished obsidian, glinted with a trace of memory. "This is the man who has eliminated seventy-three Sinners… and there will be more of them rising again. Like weeds in poisoned soil — and he is the scythe."
The faintest smile — cold, precise — curved at the corner of her mouth before she returned her gaze to the lotus, as though the conversation were already concluded.
Alvi inclined her head in silent acknowledgment before turning to leave, her boots clicking softly against the polished floor. The heavy double doors closed behind her with a muted thud, sealing Madam Di-Xian's calm, inscrutable world away from the restless hum of the corridors.
She walked with measured steps, her expression schooled into composure, but beneath that mask her thoughts were in motion — quick, taut, and threaded with unease.
Spindlemaw… The name rolled in her mind like a shard of glass. She had heard it whispered in dimly lit back rooms and smoke-filled dens — a butcher who wore civility like an ill-fitted coat, his true appetite barely restrained. His work was not chaos for profit, but chaos for pleasure.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, though no one was near enough to notice. If even half the stories are true, he's not just another Tier-Two. He's a predator who hunts for the art of it.
Her hands flexed once at her sides, the faint creak of leather gloves punctuating her pace. She knew Agent-90 was capable — surgical in his precision, almost unnervingly so — but even a blade could dull if it was drawn too often.
And Spindlemaw… he doesn't just kill. He leaves nothing whole — not flesh, not bone, not even the memory of the dead.
By the time she reached the far lift, her face had settled again into that mild, unreadable calm. She pressed the call button and let her gaze drift to the distant rain-streaked windows.
Let's hope, 90… that this time, you're the scythe — and not the weed.
Fēnghuáng (凤凰) City stretched before him like a fever dream painted in silk and circuitry — jade-green pagoda roofs gleaming beside chrome towers, crimson lacquered bridges reflected in canals that pulsed with neon light. Agent-90's bike cut through the air like a black arrow loose from an unseen bow, its engine purring with a low, predatory growl.
He swept down the mid-level hovercycle lanes at a velocity that made the surrounding traffic blur into ribbons of colour — gold, cyan, and vermilion bleeding together like pigments in a watercolour wash. Shopkeepers glanced up from steaming baskets of bao, their shouts lost to the rush of wind as the rider in the tailored black suit streaked past. Elders in embroidered robes muttered irritably at the gale he left in his wake, while a few younger onlookers raised their devices to capture the fleeting image of this shadow on two wheels.
The hum of his machine deepened as he descended a ramp to ground level, weaving between carts with silent magnetic wheels and pedestrians in neon-threaded hanfu. The city seemed to lean in around him, its blend of incense, ozone, and fried spices clinging to the air.
Then — without warning — a small boy darted from behind a vendor's stall, chasing after a fluttering AI paper crane.
Agent-90's reaction was instantaneous. With a sharp twist of his wrists and a calculated lean, he sent the bike into a clean, controlled drift, tyres skimming the blackstone like ink across glass. The manoeuvre carried him in a full half-circle, the machine's rear sliding wide before biting back into the road, the child untouched but frozen mid-step, wide-eyed and trembling.
The operative slowed just enough to look over his shoulder, his voice cutting through the electric hum.
"Watch yourself, lad — keep that up and you'll end up as pavement art. Eyes on the road, boy."
With one gloved hand, he flicked a small object towards the child. It spun in the air, glinting under the city's neon before landing neatly in the boy's hands — a wrapped chocolate sweet. The boy's fear dissolved into a grin, the kind that could light a poorer street brighter than any holographic lantern.
Agent-90, however, betrayed no warmth. He merely patted the boy's head with brisk finality — a gesture more like checking a helm strap than showing affection — before twisting the throttle. The bike's growl swelled once more, and in a blur of motion he was gone, vanishing into the arterial veins of Fēnghuáng, the scent of sandalwood and petrol lingering in his wake.
An hour later he finally reached to his destination, the Jiǔlóng Spires (九龙尖)----"Nine Dragon Spires", district.
At street level, Jiǔlóng Spires loomed like a labyrinth of concrete and neglect — a claustrophobic canyon where cracked pavement ran beneath a ceiling of tangled power cables, and neon signs fought valiantly against the pale, dusty daylight. The air carried a discordant bouquet: burnt oil, rain-soaked concrete, and the faint, greasy allure of fried street food wafting from the few surviving stalls in the shadows. Lone figures drifted through the streets like ghosts in slow exile, while the low, insect-like hum of idling old-model hover sedans lingered at the kerbs.
Above, sunlight fractured into narrow shafts, slicing through the haze of smog and dust, casting the district into a half-light that felt both post-collapse and strangely serene. The architecture was a feverish collision — the hyper-dense chaos of Kowloon Walled City welded to the stubborn severity of mid-century brutalism, its bones dressed in retrofitted cyberpunk prosthetics.
Buildings clung to one another like overgrown coral, their shells patched with rusted steel plates, mismatched concrete panels, and corrugated metal. Balconies jutted out at drunken angles, draped in laundry and potted plants, their edges reinforced with scavenged railing. Flickering signboards in a dozen less familiar tongues clung to façades like moths to glass, their glow uneven and tired. External wiring, pipework, and satellite dishes formed tangled vascular systems along the walls — veins of a city refusing to die.
At the district's heart rose Tower 7 — The Dragon's Spine. It thrust upward like a shantytown titan, its flanks jagged with decades of unregulated additions. The lower floors lay entombed in shadow, choked by the crush of neighbouring buildings, while the upper reaches caught fractured sunlight like a blade's edge. Narrow, caged balconies clung to its skin, heavy with dish antennas, dangling cables, and swaying plants. Near its middle, faint holographic adverts tried and failed to outshine the daylight, shimmering faintly through the haze.
Agent-90 paused at the tower's base, slipping his spectacles from his pocket. He polished them with measured precision, sliding them into place before lifting his gaze to its impossible height. His voice, calm and glacial, bled into the stagnant air.
"This is it. Dominion Accord territory. Spindlemaw…" His jaw tightened. "…get ready."
He stepped inside.
The lobby opened like the belly of a steel leviathan, its vaulted ceiling ribbed with arched steel beams, each rib plated to resemble the scaled hide of a dragon. Above, ribbons of holographic koi swam lazily through mid-air currents of light, their golden shimmer rippling across an obsidian floor polished to a mirror's cruelty. Along the walls, immense carved phoenixes and dragons gleamed beneath lacquer, their flowing lines interlaced with faintly pulsing circuitry that whispered of hidden surveillance.
The crowd was a theatre of contrasts. Corporate elites in tailored neo-silk suits strode with clockwork precision, their expressions unreadable behind the flicker of augmented reality streams invisible to the unenhanced eye. Information brokers and back-alley peddlers lingered in the eddies of the lobby, murmuring into slender comms pinned discreetly to their collars. Dominion Accord enforcers prowled in predatory arcs, their biomechanical augments catching the light at their temples.
In a tea lounge tucked into one corner, elderly merchants from Phoenix City's old quarters sat cross-legged, sipping chrysanthemum tea while speaking in low, weathered tones. Above, in a mezzanine café, a knot of young starship pilots laughed over cups of dark roast, the tang of engine grease drifting faintly from their open gear bags.
A glass elevator in the form of a dragon's talon slid noiselessly along the tower's inner spine, carrying patrons past suspended markets, terraced gardens glowing with lantern-light, and discreet negotiation chambers guarded by statuesque sentinels. The building hummed — not merely with electricity, but with the rustle of whispered alliances, the hiss of sealed bargains, and the creak of futures being bartered.
Agent-90 crossed the lobby with the steady gait of a man who belonged, yet belonged nowhere. Beneath the shadow of his spectacles, his eyes tracked the Dominion Accord enforcers, noting their patrol patterns without so much as a turn of the head.
Reaching the reception desk, he placed one gloved hand upon the polished counter. The receptionist, a young woman with immaculate posture and the faint, perfumed scent of lotus blossoms, glanced up from her interface.
"I'll require a room," he said, his voice stripped of all inflection.
She tapped delicately at her console, eyes flicking momentarily towards the patrolling guards before returning to him.
"Level Two, Room 214," she replied, sliding a sleek black keycard across the counter.
He accepted it with the barest nod, tucking it into his coat pocket. Without another word, he turned towards the lifts, his tread silent against the obsidian floor, disappearing into the heart of the tower as if swallowed whole.
As he stepped into the hushed corridor of Level Two, Agent-90's tread was measured, each footfall as soundless as breath on glass. With a deft flick of his thumb, he depressed the discreet switch concealed in the hinge of his spectacles. A faint hum vibrated against his temples, and the world before him shifted — the corridor now rendered in a ghostly lattice of heat signatures, every door and wall peeled back to reveal the spectral warmth of whatever lay beyond.
Rooms whispered their secrets in gradients of crimson and gold: a lone kettle steaming in one, a sleeping tenant curled beneath a thermal blanket in another, the restless pacing of a man murmuring into a comm-link further down. But Agent-90's gaze, cold and unblinking, was not drawn to the mundane. His eyes scanned each threshold with a predator's patience, the smallest narrowing of his brow betraying his sharpened focus. He sought a single anomaly amidst the banal — a heat pattern that did not belong, a silhouette too still to be sleeping, too jagged to be at peace.
His gloved fingers brushed the wall as he moved, a habit born of countless missions — not for balance, but to map the space in tactile memory. The corridor smelled faintly of disinfectant and old carpet, yet beneath it lingered another note: something metallic, acrid, almost coppery.
The corner ahead yawned into shadow.
Then it came — a dull, meaty thud that crawled into his ear like an unwelcome whisper. Agent-90 stilled mid-step, his eyes closing for the briefest moment, sharpening the other senses. Again, the sound: wet, deliberate… the unmistakable rhythm of flesh being parted. A whip-like crack followed — not leather, but something sinewy and raw.
When he opened his eyes, they were cold and certain. Something here was wrong. Utterly wrong.
He advanced three paces, each footfall soft as falling dust, until his gaze fixed upon the tarnished brass digits: 220. His hand slipped into his coat, retrieving a slender lockpick set. Kneeling, he worked with practised patience; the tumblers yielded with a muted click.
The door eased inward on reluctant hinges, and he slid inside, the dim corridor light slipping away behind him. From beneath his coat, his fingers curled around the hilt of the Phantom Blade, its matte-black body swallowing the meagre glow. His index finger rested lightly on the trigger — poised, but not impatient.
The room was a ruin of disarray. A table lay overturned, one leg splintered like bone. Shards of porcelain glinted across the carpet, strewn between upended chairs. A single shoe sat abandoned in the middle of the floor, its leather torn and damp with something dark. The walls were smeared in streaks — some the dull brown of dried stains, others still wet enough to glisten.
From the far corner came a thin spill of light through a door left ajar. Its frame cast a long blade of gold across the floorboards, splitting the gloom like a wound. The faint sound of something shifting within was accompanied by an odour — coppery, metallic, and sweet in the most nauseating way.
Agent-90 moved towards it, inch by inch. His shoulders were low, steps measured, each movement as controlled as a clock's pendulum. The muscles in his jaw tightened imperceptibly; his eyes, obscured by the shadow of his brow, never left the slit of light ahead.
The door gave with the faintest whisper of hinges, and Agent-90 stepped through, every muscle honed for silence.
The roar came instantly — metallic, savage, and far too close. A chainsaw tore into life, its teeth shrieking. Spindlemaw surged from the side like a lunatic spectre, face half-hidden behind a spattered welding mask.
Agent-90 reacted before thought could form. His heel pivoted, left leg sweeping low in a precise arc that smashed against Spindlemaw's shin. The butcher stumbled, weight shifting — not enough to fall, but enough to open an instant's breathing room.
In one fluid motion, Agent-90's hand went to the small of his back. Steel sang in the dim light — the dao, its single-edge gleaming like moonlight drawn to a razor. The blade was immaculate: sharpened along its edge to surgical perfection, its polished curve catching every fractured glint from the room.
Spindlemaw's laughter was a rasping, breathless thing, flecked with mania.
"I was expecting you to come…" he hissed through the mask, voice warbling with unhinged delight. "Velvet Guillotine!"
Agent-90's expression remained an unmoved slate.
"Then you've had time to plan your funeral."
With a guttural snarl, Spindlemaw lunged. The chainsaw screamed higher, closing the gap with erratic, vicious swipes. Agent-90 sidestepped with ghostlike economy, each dodge a narrow breath from disaster — shoulders twisting, hips turning, boots whispering against the floorboards.
The chainsaw's tempo rose, a mad crescendo, its teeth a blur. Spindlemaw pressed harder, carving the air with murderous arcs. Yet Agent-90's movements only grew smaller, sharper — a subtle lean here, a measured half-step there — making the slaughterer's frenzy look almost clumsy.
The inevitable clash came. Metal shrieked as the dao met the chainsaw's spinning teeth. Sparks erupted in a shower, painting their faces in fleeting orange. The vibration rattled up the dao's spine, but Agent-90's grip remained iron, feet braced and grounded.
Spindlemaw leaned in, grinning behind his mask. "You're better than the rumours, Guillotine."
Before Agent-90 could answer, a sudden hiss filled the room. From vents stitched into Spindlemaw's gauntlets, thick grey smoke poured outward — acrid, clinging, swallowing the space whole. In seconds, sight was a memory; only the reek of oil and copper remained.
When the fog thinned enough for shadows to take shape, Spindlemaw was gone.
But Agent-90 was already moving. No panic, no hesitation — his boots whispered across the floor as he slipped into the corridor, following the fading rattle of chains and boots against metal grates. His breath was steady, his dao angled low as he gave chase through the labyrinth of narrow halls.
Above, the distant clatter of a rooftop access door slamming echoed down like a signal.
Agent-90 quickened his pace. The hunt was not over — only climbing.
The rain fell in needle-thin sheets, slicking the rooftop with a glistening sheen as neon signs buzzed overhead, their fractured glow painting the scene in electric blues and bloody crimsons. Spindlemaw burst through the access door, his chest heaving, his face a mask of primal terror. His gang—a pack of leather-clad hyenas—lounged near the edge, cigarettes dangling from their lips, laughter dying in their throats as they took in his panic.
One of them, a hulking brute with a scarred lip, frowned. "What the hell happened to you?"
Spindlemaw's voice was a rasping blade. "He's coming. The Velvet Guillotine."
A beat. Then—chaos.
Cigarettes were crushed under boots, weapons drawn in a symphony of clicking steel and chambered rounds. Knives, pistols, a serrated machete—all raised in trembling hands. The gang formed a half-circle of snarling defiance, their eyes darting like cornered rats.
Then—he appeared.
Agent-90 emerged from the stairwell, his silhouette carved from shadow and rain, his Phantom Blade already humming in his grip. His smirk was a sickle-moon of menace.
Spindlemaw barked a laugh, false bravado cracking his voice. "Velvet Guillotine! You're one. We're thirteen."
Agent-90 rolled his shoulders, his Dao sword sliding free with a hiss of tempered steel. "Then I'll beat the hell out of you and your twelve men. One by one."
The first thug lunged, a switchblade flicking open. Agent-90 sidestepped, his Phantom Blade barking once kiss between the eyes. The man crumpled, brains painting the puddles.
Two more charged. Agent-90 twirled the Dao, its edge parting a throat mid-swing, while his left hand put a round through a kneecap. The wounded man screeched, toppling—just in time to catch a boot to the jaw. Teeth skittered like dice.
A machete-wielder swung wild. Agent-90 ducked, planted a palm on the man's chest, and fired upward. The exit wound decorated the neon signs.
Four down.
The fight became a blur of precision and brutality, a roundhouse kick sent a goon sprawling into a vent, ribs caving like rotten timber. The Dao cleaved through a pistol arm, fingers tumbling like sausages from a butcher's block. A point-blank headshot turned a skull into a grisly jack-o'-lantern.
By the eleventh man, the rooftop was a charnel house. The last thug—a baby-faced killer—fumbled with his revolver. Agent-90 put a bullet through the cylinder, the misfire taking off the kid's fingers. A second shot—through the teeth.
Silence.
Except for Spindlemaw, scrambling backward, his wingsuit half-strapped.
"Hah! You can't catch me!" he jeered, leaping off the ledge.
Agent-90 didn't blink. He ejected the spent magazine, slamming in a fresh one—tungsten-tipped, armor-piercing. The Phantom Blade locked onto Spindlemaw's fleeing form, the scope's crosshairs kissing the base of his skull.
"Die, you son of a bitch."
The trigger pull was a formality.
The bullet screamed through the rain, a meteor of vengeance. Spindlemaw glanced back—just in time to meet it.
The impact was obscene. His head detonated like an overripe melon, the hydrostatic shock ripping through his spine. For a suspended moment, his body hung in the air, a puppet with severed strings, before the organs ruptured in a chain reaction of gore.
A crimson mushroom cloud bloomed against the storm, chunks of meat and bone scattering like macabre confetti. The rain washed it all away—diluting evil into the gutters.
Agent-90 exhaled, smoke curling from the Phantom Blade's barrel. He holstered the Dao, his gloves streaked with rain and blood.
Somewhere below, sirens wailed like grieving widows.
He called "Madam, Done!"
Madam Di-Xian replies, "Good return to base!"
He nods and vanishes into the night—a ghost in a world of corpses.