The boy awoke with a head leaden as stone, his temples throbbing with a dull, persistent ache. He sat upright slowly, his breath shallow, and blinked into the murk about him. Darkness saturated the room, though a pale shaft of moonlight faintly intruded through a fractured window and spread itself across the floorboards like a cold shroud. Nothing was familiar. He could not recall how he had come here, nor indeed where here was.
A prickling unease gnawed at him. The sensation of eyes upon him — unseen, but palpable, like a predator's gaze fixed from the thicket. His chest tightened with the dreadful clarity that this was no sanctuary: it was a trap.
He rose, legs trembling, and crept towards the door. The air was dense and stale, carrying a copper tang that reminded him of rust — or blood. The hallway beyond unfurled in oppressive gloom. Each step he took along the warped wooden floorboards elicited a crank and groan, as though the house itself resented his trespass and threatened to betray him.
Then his eyes caught it — the walls lined with frames. Disturbing portraits glared back: sepia photographs of children, their features warped and grotesquely altered. In one, a boy's face had been replaced with that of a porcelain doll; in another, a girl's hollow sockets gaped where her eyes should have been. Their smiles, stiff and uncanny, stretched too far across their faces.
A sudden wallop reverberated through the silence, deep and resonant, as though something heavy struck something. The boy flinched, his breath caught. Slowly, almost against his will, he drifted forward towards the source of the sound. A door stood ajar, its seam bleeding a faint red glow into the blackened corridor.
Heart hammering, he pressed his eye to the crack. What he beheld wrenched the breath from his lungs.
Inside, a towering figure loomed — his face obscured beneath an impenetrable shroud of shadow. His hands, clad in iron contraptions, worked with meticulous horror upon another child — a boy of equal age. Mechanical tools whirred, clicked, and clamped, slicing with merciless precision. Limbs were severed, reattached with crude hinges, replaced with wooden joints and porcelain fragments. The victim's mouth opened in an animal scream, a sound so piercing, so guttural, it seemed to tear at the very fabric of the air.
"AAAAAHHHHHHHH! PLEASE! IT HURTS! STOP!" The boy's cry cracked and broke, shrieking high then plummeting low, a symphony of pure terror that rattled the eardrums.
The watcher stumbled back, his body convulsed with dread, his pulse thundering like a drum of war. His heel caught upon a loose object — a rusted lantern — which clattered to the floor with a resounding clang.
The sound cleaved through the dreadful ritual. The tall man froze, the mechanical instruments halting mid-motion. Slowly, with a dreadful deliberation, his shadowed face began to turn.
The boy's panic erupted. He spun and bolted down the hall, lungs burning, until he flung himself into a nearby room. The door slammed shut behind him, and with trembling hands he twisted the lock. A furious BANG! thundered against the wood at once, making the frame shudder as though it might splinter. Another BANG! followed, louder still — each strike a hammer of doom.
Frantic, the boy scoured the room. His eyes landed upon a narrow window, half-boarded, and beside it — a coil of rope discarded in a heap. He seized it with shaking fingers, tying it in frantic knots around the iron bedframe. Another BANG! splintered the wood behind him.
He clambered through the window into the night air, rope clenched with white knuckles as he began his desperate descent. Rain had begun to fall, slicking the rope, making every grip treacherous. His breath rasped in short gasps as he slid lower, lower, his heart lodging in his throat.
Then came the snap.
The rope tore with a sickening lurch, fibres shrieking as they parted. The boy's body dropped, plummeting into the abyss below. He struck the earth with a brutal thud, pain exploding through him — then nothing. His eyes fluttered, the world blurred into silver rain, and darkness claimed him like a closing grave.
The morning bustle at the SSCBF headquarters was a cacophony of ringing telephones, clattering keyboards, and the steady rustle of files being ferried back and forth like ants in a hive. The office resembled less a sanctum of order than a battlefield of paperwork, each officer fighting against time with pen, screen, and sigh.
At his corner desk, Captain Lingaong Xuemin leaned back with a groan, vertebrae cracking audibly as he stretched his arms above his head. He winced with exaggerated anguish, rolling his shoulders as though recalling that fateful encounter with Agent-90 on the interview day.
"By the ancestors, my back is paining!" he declared with theatrical despair, massaging the small of his spine as though preparing to compose a tragic ballad.
From across the cluttered desk, Qu Yexun gave a sharp snort, not bothering to lift his eyes from the endless cascade of reports. "It seems the Captain works for half an hour and believes he has carried the labour of a coal mine." His tone was dry as parchment, though the twitch at the corner of his lips betrayed his amusement.
Xuemin swivelled in his chair, fixing him with a wounded glare, one eyebrow cocked in feigned offence. "Half an hour? Hah! These shoulders have borne the empire's burdens! These hands have signed more forms than Confucius ever wrote aphorisms. You wound me, Qu!"
Then, with a grimace, he added, "But my back is still paining from when that man slammed me on the floor at the parking lot."
At this, Gu Zhaoyue, who had been sorting files nearby, looked up sharply. Her eyes widened, and she nearly dropped the folder she held. "Agent-90?" she asked, her voice laced with incredulity and a trace of nervous awe.
"Yep," Xuemin replied, rubbing his spine for emphasis. "The man of death—or the man of destruction. Choose your title."
He twisted further, turning towards Feng Shaoyun, who sat beside a tower of files that looked in imminent danger of collapse. She had not lifted her gaze from her papers, her pen scratching with ruthless precision. "Am I right, Shaoyun? Tell him I toil like a martyr!"
Shaoyun, without so much as flicking her eyes up, replied smoothly, her voice dipped in quiet mischief. "Indeed, Captain. No martyr has ever been so devoted to his swivel chair. Perhaps the chair itself should be awarded a commendation for endurance."
Qu Yexun let out a bark of laughter, nearly blotting his report with ink.
Xuemin clutched his chest as though skewered by treachery. "A mutiny in my very own ranks! Betrayed by my comrades-in-arms!" Yet despite his lament, the corners of his mouth curled into a reluctant grin, his eyes glinting with humour.
Feng Shaoyun's pen scratched another line before she added, "By the way, Captain, it's better not to utter his name aloud. That man—your infamous '90'—might well come and carry you off."
Xuemin froze for a beat, then straightened indignantly, puffing his chest like a wounded rooster. "Nonsense! I fear no man, not even that grim phantom! …Well—perhaps I fear his grip a little. My ribs are still giving evidence." He grimaced, rubbing his side, which only prompted another ripple of chuckles from his colleagues.
Meanwhile, amidst the storm of jest, Ping Lianhua—the Communication & Emotional Stability Operative—approached with her usual brisk efficiency, a precarious stack of files balanced against her hip. Her braid swayed like a pendulum with each step as she halted beside Lan Qian's workstation.
"Miss Lan Qian," Ping said, shifting her grip before the papers could slip, "you asked that the files be copied. I have brought them."
Lan Qian pushed her spectacles higher up her nose and extended a hand with cool poise. "Let me see." She leafed through the documents with an eagle-eyed scrutiny, her brow furrowed in deep calculation. After a measured silence, she closed the folder with a crisp snap and gave a curt nod. "No errors. Splendid. Now—handle the outgoing communications to the SCP representatives before noon, if you please."
Ping straightened with professional pride. "That thing is already being done."
Lan Qian's eyebrow arched in sharp approval, her voice clipped but satisfied. "Good. Then we shan't suffer another reprimand. Proceed."
Ping lingered a moment, expectant. "Anything else?"
"Nope," Lan Qian replied with uncharacteristic brevity, already returning to her keyboard.
Ping blinked, clearly nonplussed. She turned on her heel with the faintest huff, muttering just loud enough, "One day she'll thank me with more than a 'nope,' and I'll faint dead away from shock."
Qu Yexun chuckled, and Xuemin—ever the performer—seized the moment. He flung his arms wide like a street orator, declaiming, "See? Even our sainted Ping yearns for courtesy! We are drowning in ingratitude, ladies and gentlemen. History will not forgive this office!"
"History will not forgive your melodrama," Shaoyun murmured dryly, though a sly smile tugged at her lips as she scribbled another note.
And so the room, despite its deadlines and demands, was filled with laughter—a fleeting reprieve in the bureaucratic storm.
Amidst the lingering laughter, the office door creaked open with a low groan, and Nightingale entered—a figure of such composure that the very atmosphere seemed to contract around her. Her steps were measured, her heels clicking with the precision of a metronome, and her eyes, cold as cut obsidian, swept across the room with unswerving intent.
Her voice, when it came, was stripped of ornament, sharp as a blade drawn across silk.
"Captain Lingaong Xuemin. Captain Feng Shaoyun. You are to report to Chief Wen-Li's office. Immediately."
The mirth drained from the room as though someone had snuffed out a candle. Xuemin, still half-poised in theatrical exaggeration, faltered; the grin slid from his face, replaced with a taut solemnity. He drew in his chin, his back stiffening as though bracing against an invisible chill.
Shaoyun, pen still poised above the page, still mid-scratch. Her gaze lifted at last, eyes narrowing a fraction, her expression unreadable save for the faintest tightening at the corners of her mouth.
For a heartbeat, both captains simply stared at one another—an unspoken conversation passing between them in silence: trepidation, curiosity, and the quiet acknowledgement that whatever awaited them beyond that office door was no trifling matter.
Neither wasted words. Xuemin gave the faintest of nods, and Shaoyun, with a slight inclination of her head, matched it. In tacit synchrony, they rose from their desks, chairs scraping softly against the floor. Without protest, without jest, they strode side by side after Nightingale, their footsteps echoing like twin drumbeats as they made their way toward Wen-Li's office.
At Chief Wen-Li's office, the air was taut with silence. The hydraulic panels hissed faintly with each exhale of the ventilation system, and the tall glass façade unveiled a sprawling panorama of the city—a tapestry of neon arteries and steel monoliths stretching into the dusk. Wen-Li stood motionless before it, her silhouette framed against the skyline, long black silk hair cascading down her back like a raven's wing caught in a faint draught. Her hands were clasped neatly behind her, posture erect, a figure carved from iron discipline.
From the other side of the sealed door came Nightingale's even tone, steady yet deferential:
"Chief. May we?"
Wen-Li's head turned slightly, her profile sliding into view, her eyes aglow with an austere clarity.
"Come in," she commanded, her voice smooth but carrying the weight of authority.
With a hydraulic sigh, the door parted. Nightingale entered first, her demeanour exact, followed by Captains Xuemin and Shaoyun. Both officers instinctively straightened their spines beneath the Chief's gaze, their earlier levity evaporating as though it had never existed.
Wen-Li pivoted gracefully, hands still clasped behind her, and regarded them with the composure of a magistrate awaiting testimony. "Captains of the Celestial Units," she began, her words deliberate, crystalline. "You might be wondering why you are here."
"A mission," Shaoyun answered crisply, her tone steady though her eyes flickered with a spark of anticipation.
"Yes." Wen-Li stepped towards her desk, each stride unhurried yet commanding. With a deft movement, she retrieved a slim digital file from the lacquered surface and extended it towards them. Xuemin accepted it with both hands, his face sober as he thumbed the holographic projector embedded within.
The air shimmered, resolving into scrolling data, official reports, and blurred photographs. Xuemin's eyes narrowed as the words leapt out at him. "Missing children," he murmured, the disbelief sharpening into anger.
Shaoyun's breath caught audibly. "Missing children?" she echoed, her voice tinged with incredulity and horror, as though the very phrase burned her tongue.
"Yes," Wen-Li replied evenly, her gaze unwavering. "We have unravelled countless cases of abduction, exploitation, even murder. Yet this—" she gestured lightly towards the file, her sleeve whispering against the desk "—is far removed from the ordinary monstrosities of men. Look closely."
The article displayed reports centred upon Jinhai Township, a derelict settlement swallowed by time. Rumours whispered that an abandoned house at its heart resonated with spectral cries at night. Locals claimed they heard the laughter of children, followed by screams. Others swore that the spirits of those who vanished lingered, bound within its mouldering walls.
Xuemin's lips pressed thin, his jaw tightening. He leaned forward, eyes flicking across the scrolling lines. "A phantom nursery," he muttered under his breath, voice low with disdain. "If this is true, Chief, then we're not chasing mere criminals but something festering beyond flesh and reason."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of Wen-Li's mouth, followed by a soft, amused chuckle that did not reach her eyes. A gust from the vents caught her long hair, sending the strands flowing like liquid obsidian. Her lids lowered briefly, then lifted with renewed intensity, her gaze hard as forged steel. "You two served under BAEPSA. You've danced with aberrations and wrestled with the inhuman. If anyone can face this, it is you. This case," she said, each syllable a hammer-stroke, "belongs to you. Are you in?"
The captains did not hesitate. Xuemin straightened, his hand curling into a fist against his chest, while Shaoyun gave a curt nod, her eyes alight with fire. Together they answered:
"Yes."
"Good," Wen-Li said, satisfaction lacing her tone. "Then go. Unearth who—or what—lurks in that accursed house. Bring me truth, whether mortal or spectral."
They inclined their heads in solemn acknowledgement before turning sharply on their heels, striding side by side from the chamber. The door sealed behind them with a hiss.
For a moment, Nightingale lingered. Her hands were folded at her waist, her expression carved in cool composure, but her voice carried a thread of doubt as she asked quietly, "Chief… are they truly capable of handling this?"
Wen-Li's lips curved into the faintest, enigmatic smile as her gaze shifted back to the city's endless sprawl. "They will handle it," she said softly, her words carrying the weight of certainty, "because failure is a luxury they cannot afford. And because fear itself trembles before conviction."
Her eyes narrowed, the skyline reflected in their obsidian depths. After a pause, she added, almost casually, "Now, Nightingale, do be a dear and fetch me some coffee. The strong, bitter kind. Tonight promises long hours."
Nightingale inclined her head with measured grace. "At once, Chief." Her heels clicked as she departed, leaving Wen-Li once more alone with the city and its looming enigmas.
The road into Jinhai Township was narrow and slick, hemmed in by marshland on one side and derelict factories on the other. The convoy's headlights cut narrow tunnels of pallid gold through the mist, illuminating rust-eaten rail tracks and the gaunt silhouettes of chimneys that stood like mausoleums to forgotten industry. Their tyres splashed through shallow pools that reflected the skeletal cranes above, reflections rippling like ghosts dragged across black water.
Captain Lingaong Xuemin shifted in the passenger seat of their lead vehicle, his posture slouched but his eyes wide, alert, darting left and right as though expecting spectres to spring from the fog. He rubbed his neck and exhaled loudly, muttering, "By the ancestors, what a place. It looks as if someone wound the world's clockwork and then simply walked away, leaving it to rust."
Beside him, Feng Shaoyun sat with her arms folded, her back perfectly straight despite the jolts of the uneven cobblestones beneath them. Her eyes, sharp and steady, drank in the shadows of the township with measured scrutiny. "You sound like an old man in a graveyard," she replied coolly, not turning her head. "It's a town, Xuemin. A decayed one, yes, but merely brick and iron. Fear is wasted breath."
Xuemin gave her a sideways glance, his lips twitching into a wry grin. "You say that with the conviction of a priestess, yet even priests keep their candles lit against the dark."
At this, Gu Zhaoyue, seated behind them, gave a short laugh, brushing her fringe from her face. "Candles? In this fog, Captain, you'd need a bonfire just to see your own boots." Her tone was teasing, but her fingers tightened around the strap of her satchel—a nervous tell she had never quite mastered.
Yang Shaoyong, ever the pragmatist, leaned against the window with his arms folded, his eyes narrowing at the mist-swathed figures of townsfolk who glanced up briefly before looking away again. Their faces were pale, their attire patched and oil-stained, goggles glinting faintly beneath their caps. "They don't like outsiders," he remarked, his voice low, nearly lost beneath the hum of the engine. "See how they look at us? Like we're intruders in a shrine."
Zhai Linyu, the youngest of them, pressed her hands against the glass, her breath fogging the pane as she whispered, "It feels… as though the air itself is listening. As though the town is waiting for something." Her wide eyes caught the flicker of a lantern struggling against the wind, its glow trembling like a heartbeat about to expire.
Xuemin shifted uncomfortably, then forced a laugh, though it sounded too brittle to be genuine. "Waiting, yes—but for us or for something worse, I wonder?" He leaned back, drumming his fingers nervously on his knee, though his words carried a theatrical lilt, as though humour could mask unease.
Shaoyun's lips curved into the faintest smirk, her gaze still fixed ahead. "If the town itself is waiting, then let it wait. We are not here to trade in fears, Captain, but to unearth truths. Leave superstition to the taverns."
Her calmness was a blade—precise, deliberate, unyielding—while Xuemin's unease was a restless tide, never still, always muttering against the rocks. The contrast between them painted the air inside the vehicle with a palpable tension: one steady as iron, the other restless as smoke.
As they rolled further into Jinhai Township, the silence grew heavier. The sound of their convoy echoed off wet cobblestones, filling streets otherwise void of life. The townsfolk who lingered at the edges of alleys lowered their gazes, retreating into shadows as though unwilling to be seen. Windows shut with faint clicks, doors creaked closed; the town folded inward upon itself, as though recoiling.
At last, the vehicle halted on the crest of a hill. There, at the fringe of tangled rail tracks and rust-choked weeds, loomed the abandoned house.
Its façade was a corpse of grandeur—shattered windows glinting like fractured mirrors, paint flayed to reveal weather-beaten timber, balconies twisted into shapes like skeletal arms reaching for salvation. Mist coiled at its base, curling around the stone steps as though the house exhaled it.
Xuemin whistled low under his breath, eyes narrowing at the sight. "By the stars above… it looks less like a house and more like a mausoleum wearing a masquerade mask."
Zhaoyue crossed her arms, shivering despite herself. "And yet the people say they hear children's laughter here." She hugged her satchel close, her tone uneasy. "That is no mausoleum, Captain. Mausoleums stay silent."
Shaoyun descended from the vehicle with composed precision, boots clicking against the wet stones. She regarded the ruin with eyes like flint. "Whether mausoleum or nursery of phantoms, we shall see. But one thing is certain: whatever hides here has woven its legend well."
The group stood together at the crest, framed against the mist, their breaths curling in the cold air. The house loomed before them, watching without eyes, breathing without lungs, waiting without haste.
They walked towards the abandoned house which is the center of Jinhai Township, looms like a dark relic, its presence heavy with stories whispered by generations. Its architecture is dieselpunk-gothic, a clash of riveted steel beams, cracked stone, and rotting timber, once proud but now sagging under the weight of time. Rusted pipes run along its exterior walls like veins, some still dripping with blackened rainwater. The roof, once tiled in lacquered shingles, is fractured—iron spires jutting upward like broken teeth against the smoky skyline.
The windows are long and arched, their glass shattered or clouded with grime. Jagged shards still cling to the frames, catching the dim light of the township's oil-lamp streetlights, giving the impression of cold, watching eyes. A massive, ornate iron door, engraved with phoenix and dragon motifs, hangs crooked on its hinges—its bronze inlays tarnished green with age. Above the door, a faded crest suggests the house once belonged to a wealthy industrialist, a family long gone or erased.
They readied themselves in silence, each weapon drawn with the faint rasp of steel and the click of safeties disengaged. Captain Lingaong Xuemin reached the door first, his hand curling around the tarnished brass knob. The metal was cold as ice, almost biting, as though the house itself resented his touch. With a deliberate twist, he turned it—
and the door yawned open on rusted hinges, releasing a groan so prolonged it seemed almost human.
The group stepped over the threshold, boots creaking against warped timber. Before anyone could exhale, the door slammed shut behind them with such force that the dust shuddered from the ceiling beams. Zhai Linyu spun at once, tugging at the handle with frantic urgency.
"Captain—it's locked!" he blurted, his voice high and sharp with panic, his hands trembling against the stubborn brass.
Xuemin's brow furrowed, but he forced composure, straightening his coat with theatrical ceremony as though the gesture alone might calm his subordinate. "Then locked it shall remain," he said with a brittle smile, his voice pitched between reassurance and bravado. "We've no use for doors when the truth waits within. Spread out. Search every corner—peel back every shadow. This house shall yield its secrets."
The others nodded grimly and began to fan outward. But Linyu lingered, his feet rooted, his face pale as wax. His hands twitched at his sides, unwilling to lift his weapon, unwilling to advance into the gloom. Xuemin studied him with narrowed eyes, then softened his tone just slightly.
"Very well, Linyu. Stay close to Zhaoyue. Courage comes easier when shared, and cowardice dies faster in company."
Zhai Linyu exhaled shakily, relief washing across his young face. "Thank you… for being team," he murmured, voice low and awkward, his gratitude genuine but strained by fear.
Gu Zhaoyue, already moving toward the left-hand corridor, rolled her eyes so hard they might have spun clear from her skull. "Wonderful. Babysitting duty. My favourite," she muttered, sarcasm dripping like venom. She jerked her head toward him with exasperated impatience. "Come along, hero. If you faint, try not to land on my boots."
The atmosphere within was suffocating—every breath laden with the stench of rot and rust, as though the very air resisted intrusion. The grand hall loomed vast yet hollow, its warped floorboards groaning beneath their weight. A wrought-iron staircase spiralled upwards like a skeletal ribcage, each rusted railing jagged and sharp as fangs. The wallpaper peeled in curling strips, exposing raw brickwork beneath, while broken chandeliers hung low, their fractured crystals scattered across the ground like shards of frozen tears.
Each footfall echoed unnaturally, as if another set of unseen footsteps followed just behind. In the dining room, a long oak table stretched beneath a blanket of dust, chairs askew as though their occupants had only moments ago departed. Cracked porcelain plates and tarnished silverware sat frozen in the tableau of a feast abandoned mid-course. Candles, long dead, had melted into grotesque waxen forms, their shapes more akin to dripping limbs than flame.
Upstairs, the children's room was worse still. Tiny beds lined the walls like gravestones in neat rows, their stiff blankets brittle with age. In the corner, a cracked porcelain doll leered, half its face split away, one glass eye rolling loosely in its socket. A rocking horse stood at the room's centre, its faded paint peeling, its wooden body swaying faintly in the stagnant air—though no breeze touched the room. The silence was bruised by whispers of giggles, faint and fleeting, like echoes pressed into the floorboards long ago.
It was Yang Shaoyong who stumbled upon the most unsettling discovery. In a corridor lined with mouldering wallpaper, his lantern caught the glint of a picture frame askew upon the wall. He reached out, brushing away cobwebs, and froze.
Staring back at him were sepia portraits of children—but warped, grotesquely altered. One boy's face had been replaced with that of a porcelain doll, glass eyes staring emptily from where flesh once was. Another frame held a girl, her sockets hollow, gaping caverns where eyes should have been. Their smiles—stiff, stretched unnaturally wide—spoke of cruelty, not innocence.
Shaoyong staggered back, bile rising in his throat. "Captain!" he called, his voice hoarse, cracking with horror. "Shaoyun—come see this!"
Within moments, Xuemin and Feng Shaoyun appeared, their lanterns throwing jaundiced light upon the wall of blasphemous memories. Xuemin's swagger faltered. His breath caught audibly, and his hand went instinctively to the hilt of his blade, as though mere steel could ward off such abominations.
Zhaoyue and Linyu arrived next. Zhaoyue's face contorted with disgust, her lips tightening into a thin line. "By the ancestors," she muttered, grimacing. "Whoever made these deserves no place among the living."
Linyu, meanwhile, recoiled so sharply he struck his shoulder against the wall. His eyes widened in childlike terror, his face ashen. He shook his head vehemently, whispering under his breath, "Not human… this isn't human…"
Shaoyun, however, stood as still as carved obsidian. Her gaze swept across the portraits with clinical detachment, though the faintest furrow tugged at her brow. Her voice, when it came, was steady but edged with quiet menace.
"These are not portraits," she declared, her tone sharp as broken glass. "They are warnings. Whoever fashioned them wishes to teach us something—through horror, through desecration." She turned to the others, her eyes glinting with cold certainty. "And I assure you… the lesson has only begun."
The basement exhaled a damp chill that clung to Feng Shaoyun's skin as she descended. The ceiling hung oppressively low, crowding down upon her shoulders, and the air smelt of rust, stagnant water, and something else—something faintly sweet, like rot hidden beneath varnish. Her boots splashed lightly in shallow puddles, the sound carrying like whispers down unseen passages.
Her flashlight carved thin tunnels through the darkness, beams glancing across rusted machinery that slumbered like the carcasses of extinct beasts. Gears lay scattered upon the floor, half-swallowed by mildew. Pipes protruded from the walls like corroded arteries, occasionally hissing with pressure that had no earthly source. Along the damp stone, black stains stretched like veins, branching and spreading, as though the walls themselves were diseased.
Above her, a lone lantern hook swayed gently from its chain. Shaoyun stilled. There was no draft. The hook moved nonetheless, rocking to and fro with the rhythmic precision of a pendulum, as if some unseen hand had just passed by.
She pressed on, steadying her breathing though every nerve in her body screamed for retreat. The further she ventured, the fainter the echoes of laughter teased her ears. It was higher than any adult's voice, brittle and shrill like the ringing of a cracked bell. But then it shifted. The laughter curdled into cries, abrupt and stifled, as though small throats were being silenced mid-scream. The noise stopped so suddenly that the silence seemed to crush her.
Something caught her eye—a faint light, slivering from a narrow corridor to the left. Shaoyun froze, her pulse quickening in her throat. Tightening her grip on the flashlight, she flicked it toward the source. Each step forward was deliberate, her boots crunching against debris. The light seemed to pulse faintly, drawing her in like a will-o'-the-wisp.
As she entered the corridor, her beam swept across the sight—and her heart dropped as if cleaved in two. For a moment her breath vanished, and then, with sudden force, her voice tore through the basement in a cry that echoed against every dripping stone:
"Xuemin! To the basement—immediately!"
Her call rang sharp, empowered by the authority of Sentinel Helix herself.
Within minutes, Xuemin descended, Yang Shaoyong close behind. Their boots struck the iron steps like war drums, their lanterns throwing jaundiced halos onto the clammy walls. They found her standing rigid, her flashlight quivering faintly in her hand as though it sought to pull away from her grip.
When Xuemin's eyes followed the beam, his breath caught. Resting upon a rust-streaked operating table was a grotesque assemblage of forgotten horror: an instrument tray lined with scalpels dulled by corrosion, clamps mottled with age—and beside them, a length of metal flex-straw, the kind once threaded down a throat to feed or extract. Its tip was still slick with something dark, though decades old.
But what froze him utterly was the object laid at the centre of the tray: a small human brain, shrivelled, dried like a grotesque specimen.
Yang Shaoyong gagged violently, turning his face away. His shoulders hunched as though the very sight clawed at his stomach, his breath heaving in broken spurts. "By the Heavens—this… this cannot be—" His words fractured, lost in revulsion.
Xuemin, though pale, clenched his jaw. His eyes were wide, but he forced himself closer, hands trembling despite his composure. He clasped the back of a chair for steadiness, his knuckles white. "Whoever wrought this," he whispered, voice low with horror, "was not merely a murderer. They were a surgeon of damnation."
Shaoyun's composure, usually unshakable, had fissured. Her eyes glistened, though no tears fell. She pressed a hand against her chest, grounding her trembling heart, but her voice broke with a rare vulnerability. "Children…" she whispered, the word weighted like lead. She stepped closer but stopped short of the table, her hand half-raised as if she dared not touch the air around it. "This… this was done to a child."
For a moment, the three stood in horrified silence—the brain resting like a blasphemous relic, the instruments glinting with ghostly menace. The basement seemed to close in around them, the pipes hissing like mocking laughter, the walls dripping with secrets they had not yet unearthed.
Gu Zhaoyue and Zhai Linyu moved cautiously along the second floor, their footsteps creaking against warped timbers that moaned beneath every step. Their flashlights carved shifting tunnels of light through the gloom, glancing across faded portraits whose eyes seemed to follow, and peeling wallpaper that curled like burnt parchment.
"Check every door," Zhaoyue murmured, her voice clipped, her rifle angled in readiness.
Zhai Linyu swallowed hard, his beam jittering unsteadily along the corridor. "Right… every door," he echoed, though the tremor in his tone betrayed his nerves.
For a moment, only silence answered—then, a sudden rustling split the air. Linyu jumped violently, spinning with a sharp gasp.
"What was that?!" he stammered, panic flickering across his features.
Zhaoyue, scowling, flicked her flashlight towards the source. A rat scuttled out from a heap of rotted drapery, its beady eyes glinting before it vanished into a hole in the wall.
Her expression twisted into a look of irritation. "It's just a rat," she said flatly, brows furrowed, her voice thick with disdain.
"Oh… I see." Linyu exhaled heavily, his shoulders sagging in visible relief.
Her lips curled into a sardonic half-smile. "You're a scaredy-cat."
His spine straightened instantly, defensive pride overtaking his fright. "Nope!" he shot back, though his voice cracked at the edges, betraying him further.
But before Zhaoyue could retort, a sound slithered into the corridor—the high, fragile laughter of a child. It rang soft at first, like distant bells, then swelled into a warped crescendo that echoed from the walls themselves.
Linyu froze, colour draining from his face. His knuckles whitened around his flashlight. "Wh—what was that?"
Zhaoyue's expression darkened, her brows knitting in suspicion rather than fear. "Something's here…" she muttered, narrowing her eyes. Her instincts flared—sharp, calculating. She pivoted, striding step by deliberate step toward the source.
"Don't leave me!" Linyu pleaded, stumbling after her, his voice rising shrill with panic.
The laughter grew louder, more grotesque, each note stretched unnaturally, until it became less like mirth and more like a jeering taunt. Zhaoyue slowed, every step placed with precision, until the sound cut abruptly short. She halted, her breath shallow.
The silence pressed in, heavier than before. Then—faintly—she realised the laughter had come from behind a door to her right.
Her eyes hardened. With one hand she raised her GXR-7 Plasma Rifle—its sleek metallic black finish catching the thin light, holographic sights pulsing faintly as if hungry. With the other, she reached for the corroded doorknob.
Her palm lingered for a heartbeat, her body taut as a bowstring. Then she twisted the handle, slow and deliberate. The door creaked, the sound like bones grinding in their sockets.
Her eyes flicked open wide—terrified yet resolute, pupils dilated, reflecting the thin shaft of light as though they themselves glimmered with dread.
Meanwhile, in the basement, Xuemin, Feng, and Yang were moving deeper when a faint voice wafted through the dripping dark.
"Help…"
It was low, drawn-out, almost inaudible—yet laced with such raw desperation that their blood chilled.
They exchanged wary glances before following the sound. It led them to a narrow alcove where something stirred in the shadows. There—slumped upon the cold stone—sat a boy. His legs ended in crude stumps, his flesh marred and scarred, and worst of all—his head was not flesh at all, but wood, carved roughly like a grotesque puppet, painted faintly to mimic skin.
Xuemin's heart lurched. He crouched instantly beside the child, his voice trembling yet tender. "Are you all right? Speak to me, lad."
The boy's voice came in stuttering gasps. "Y-yeah…" His wooden jaw creaked faintly as he spoke, splinters trembling with the effort.
"Who did this to you?" Xuemin urged, desperation flashing in his eyes.
The boy's head twitched, wooden fibres cracking. "He… he is dangerous. He… turned me… into… a… doll."
Feng leaned closer, her voice soft but urgent. "Who is he?"
The boy's glassy eyes glistened with something between tears and varnish. His lips split as the last breath rattled from him. "A… Dollmaker."
Then silence. His head slumped forward, the wooden jaw clattering faintly against his chest.
"No—no, stay with me!" Xuemin seized the boy by his shoulders, shaking him gently, his voice breaking into anguish. "Hey, wake up—we'll get you safe, I swear it!"
"Xuemin, stop!" Feng's hand shot out, clasping his wrist with firm resolve. Her voice cracked—not with fear, but grief turned sharp. "He's dead. Do not torment what remains."
Xuemin froze, his chest heaving, rage and despair blazing in his eyes. His hands lingered on the boy's lifeless form, his jaw clenching until the muscle twitched. "Damn him," he hissed, his voice low and venomous. "Damn this Dollmaker."
Yang turned his face aside, his eyes narrowed, his features taut with horror. "This house is no haunt," he murmured bitterly. "It is a slaughterhouse."
The three exchanged a wordless silence, each weighed down by the grotesque discovery.
Then Xuemin touched the comm-bracelet upon his wrist, forcing steadiness into his tone though grief still shuddered beneath. "Zhaoyue, report. We are coming to the second floor."
When Xuemin, Feng Shaoyun, and Yang ascended the spiral staircase, their boots thudding softly against the groaning metal, they found Gu Zhaoyue and Zhai Linyu waiting in the dimly lit corridor. Linyu's face was drawn taut with unease, while Zhaoyue's gaze remained sharp, though a flicker of tension betrayed itself in the stiff set of her shoulders.
Xuemin narrowed his eyes. "What happened?"
Gu Zhaoyue turned swiftly, her rifle still poised, her finger hovering near the trigger. "Captain—this way," she said, her voice low and urgent, pointing toward a door half-ajar at the corridor's end.
Xuemin and Feng Shaoyun exchanged a glance, the kind where words were unnecessary but concern was palpable. They moved forward, pushing open the door—only to freeze at the threshold.
Inside stretched a sight so grotesque that the air itself seemed to curdle. The chamber was crowded with hundreds of humanoid dolls—lifeless, yet horribly real. They were children, preserved in some grotesque mockery of life: porcelain cheeks painted faintly over rotting flesh, glass eyes staring blankly, their limbs jointed crudely with hinges of iron and wire. They stood in rows, some propped against the wall, others seated at miniature tables as though caught in some eternal parody of innocence.
Feng 's lips parted, her breath faltering. Her hand instinctively went to her mouth, though she forced it down, her jaw tightening. "Dear God… what in heaven's name is this?" she whispered, her voice trembling with horror yet sharpened with rage.
Gu Zhaoyue's throat bobbed as she swallowed, steadying her tone. "His work. Whoever this 'Dollmaker' is, this… this is his theatre." Her eyes swept across the room with a disgust that barely masked her unease. "Me and Linyu were searching the second floor when we heard it—the laughter of a child."
Xuemin's brow furrowed, his voice grave. "A child's laughter?"
"Yes, Captain," Gu Zhaoyue said, nodding. "It grew louder, more twisted—until it was unbearable."
Feng Shaoyun's eyes flicked sharply toward her. "Strange. We heard nothing of the sort."
"That's because we were in the basement," Xuemin interjected, his voice low but commanding, though a trace of unease lingered in his tone. He turned his gaze upon Gu Zhaoyue. "Where exactly did it come from?"
Gu Zhaoyue lifted her hand and pointed squarely at the chamber filled with dolls. "From here. This room."
Xuemin exhaled slowly, his expression hardening. "I see…"
Before any further words could be exchanged, the air shivered with an unnatural resonance. The same laughter burst forth again—sharper, crueler, echoing through the walls like the cry of some unseen predator. It ricocheted along the corridor, high-pitched and grotesquely merry, until every nerve in their bodies seemed to recoil.
The team instantly tightened formation, rifles raised, shoulders squared. Their flashlights jittered across the dolls, each glass eye seeming to glint with unholy life.
Yang Shaoyong clenched his jaw, his voice breaking the tension with a guttural snarl. "Where in the bloody fuck is that sound coming from?" His flashlight darted wildly between the rows of dolls, his weapon held so tight his knuckles blanched.
The laughter grew louder still, cascading through the chamber, as though the very walls themselves were mocking them. The dolls—motionless though they were—seemed suddenly less inanimate, their stiff smiles curving into parodies of mirth under the trembling light.
Xuemin's sharp eyes narrowed as something flickered faintly in the gloom. He raised his hand in a silent gesture, two fingers up then a clenched fist, signalling his squad to halt. The others froze mid-step, their breaths catching as they followed his line of sight. A sliver of crimson bled from a narrow hallway ahead, the faint glow seeping through the cracks of a half-shut door.
With deliberate quietude, Xuemin advanced. His boots pressed gently against the warped floorboards, each step calculated, as though the very air might betray them. He placed one gloved hand upon the rusted handle, twisting it inch by inch until the door yielded with a muted groan. The team slipped inside, weapons raised, eyes flickering left to right.
The chamber within was small and suffocating, the red glow emanating from a broken lantern sputtering weakly upon the floor. What adorned the walls, however, stilled their breath. Sheets of paper—yellowed, curling at the edges—had been pinned haphazardly to the timber. Each bore the crude scrawl of children: stick-figures with hollow sockets for eyes, houses drawn as blackened husks, suns shaded in crimson wax. Handprints smeared in charcoal trailed down the plaster, as though tiny fingers had clawed at the surface in despair.
Feng Shaoyun's gaze sharpened as her torchlight skimmed across one of the papers. She stepped forward, her fingers brushing the brittle sheet, and her lips parted in disquiet. "Xuemin," she whispered, her tone low but urgent, "look at this… the handwriting." She lifted the page to him.
Across the faded paper, written in the uncertain script of a child, were words that chilled the marrow:
"Mummy, Daddy, don't let him sew me. The Dollmaker says I will never grow old. I don't want to be a toy. Please help me."
The silence that followed was funereal, thick as molasses. Xuemin's jaw tightened, his eyes darkening as he read, then he crushed the edge of the paper in his fist with barely restrained fury.
Before he could speak, a sharp creak split the quiet—Zhai Linyu, compelled by grim curiosity, had tugged open the closet door in the corner. The moment it swung ajar, a pallid form slumped forward, tumbling grotesquely into the light.
It was a girl's body—long decayed yet unmistakably young. Her eye sockets were cavernous voids, empty hollows staring into eternity. Her mouth gaped in a silent scream, lips sewn crudely with wire.
Zhai Linyu staggered back with a strangled cry, his torch clattering to the floor. "Bloody hell!" he gasped, his voice cracking as terror shot through him like an electric current. He pressed himself against the wall, trembling violently, his chest heaving as if he'd been plunged into ice.
Gu Zhaoyue snapped her rifle toward the corpse instinctively, then grimaced, a hiss escaping between her teeth. Feng stiffened, her shoulders squaring though her eyes widened in momentary horror. Yang Shaoyong, however, was the first to break the silence, his voice taut with grim recognition.
"It's her," he said, pointing with the muzzle of his weapon, his eyes narrowing. "The girl from the photograph—the one with hollow sockets."
Xuemin lowered himself slowly to one knee, his torchlight grazing across the body, the scarred stitching, the grotesque absence of innocence. His face was granite, his voice low but resolute, carved with fury that trembled beneath the surface.
"This is no spectre nor idle haunting," he murmured, his tone grave as a funeral bell. He rose to his full height, eyes blazing beneath his brow. "This is murder wrought into mockery—innocence butchered and bound for sport. The Dollmaker is no ghost of legend, but a butcher who walks in flesh."
His words hung heavy in the crimson air, each syllable echoing like a verdict.
The laughter came again—thin, high-pitched, and skittering like nails dragged across glass. Only this time it did not echo from the walls. It grew nearer. Louder. Closer.
A silhouette emerged at the far end of the corridor, elongated by the lantern's crimson glow. At first it seemed impossibly tall, its shoulders stooped yet monstrous in breadth. In one veined hand, the figure clasped a grotesquely rusted axe, its head pitted with corrosion, its blade still glistening faintly as though fresh from use. The laughter—the laughter of a child—spilled from its throat, warbling unnaturally, rising and falling with mechanical precision, like a phonograph needle stuck upon broken vinyl.
Xuemin snapped his torch upward, the beam striking the face.
What was revealed froze the blood of every operative present. The Dollmaker's scalp was utterly bald, his skin pallid as candle wax, stretched taut across cheekbones sharp as razors. Where his eyes should have been were sockets filled with black glass marbles, reflecting back their own faces in warped miniature. His lips were grotesquely stitched into a permanent smile, the thread glistening with congealed blood. As his jaw unhinged, the sound of giggling children poured forth, layered and overlapping, as though dozens of unseen mouths cackled from within his chest.
Zhai Linyu staggered back with a choked cry, his hands trembling on the grip of his rifle. "Bloody Christ—!"
"Steady!" Xuemin barked, his voice slicing through the tension like steel. He drew his sidearm, the matte black muzzle aligning with monstrous precision. Feng had already raised her plasma rifle, her jaw clenched, eyes narrowed, while Gu Zhaoyue flanked left, her blade drawn in fluid silence.
The Dollmaker lurched forward. With that motion, the dolls strewn across the room shuddered. Porcelain jaws cracked open, glass eyes rolled in their sockets, and wooden limbs creaked as they rose like marionettes pulled by invisible strings. Hundreds of them—children frozen in grotesque mimicry—suddenly stirred to life. Their movements were jagged, jerky, and horrifyingly rapid.
"Contact!" Yang Shaoyong roared, opening fire. The plasma bolts seared through the air, liquefying porcelain and splintering wood, but still they came—dozens crawling upon walls, scampering across ceilings like nightmarish insects.
The room erupted into chaos. Xuemin advanced with calculated precision, his pistol barking in controlled bursts. "Focus fire! Suppress the dolls!" His voice carried command, cold yet steady amidst the pandemonium.
Feng's plasma rifle thundered, white-blue bolts carving through the tide of abominations. The stench of scorched porcelain filled the air, mingling with smoke and dust. Gu Zhaoyue ducked low, her GXR-7 cutting arcs of fire through the swarm, then switched seamlessly to her blade, cleaving through a doll that lunged too near.
Zhai Linyu panicked as one leapt upon him, clawed fingers raking across his shoulder. He screamed, stumbling backward. Xuemin lunged, boot crushing the doll's skull with a sickening crack, his eyes never leaving the towering figure of the Dollmaker.
The monster moved with impossible speed, axe cleaving down in a blur. Xuemin parried with the butt of his pistol, sparks flying as steel met steel, then rolled aside as the blade bit deep into the floorboards, splitting them as if they were parchment.
Feng pivoted, loosing a volley at the creature, but the Dollmaker twisted, unnaturally flexible, the plasma bolts searing only air. He laughed again—that same childlike trill that echoed in their skulls like a nursery rhyme corrupted.
Gu Zhaoyue snarled, leaping forward, her blade catching the creature's arm. Porcelain cracked—only for her to realise it was not bone but stitched-together fragments of dolls woven into flesh. The blade sank deep, yet the Dollmaker swung the axe with the other hand, forcing her back with sheer ferocity.
Xuemin pressed forward, fury igniting his features. His movements were relentless, tactical, each strike calculated. Yang covered him, unleashing disciplined bursts, forcing the dolls to scatter.
At last, Feng seized the opening. She toggled her rifle's capacitor to overcharge, the barrel glowing with lethal heat. "Xuemin! Move!"
He dove aside just as she fired. The incandescent bolt tore through the Dollmaker's chest, blowing fragments of stitched flesh and porcelain across the chamber. The creature staggered, the childlike laughter glitching into a distorted wail.
But it did not fall.
With a guttural roar, Xuemin surged forward, drawing his MK-IX Revolver in a single, fluid motion. He plunged it into the monster's chest, twisting, forcing the steel through sinew and porcelain alike.
The Dollmaker writhed, laughter warping into shrieks, before collapsing in a grotesque heap. The dolls around them froze mid-motion, their limbs twitching once, twice, then falling limp as marionettes with severed strings.
Silence reclaimed the corridor. Only the hiss of plasma coils cooling filled the void.
Xuemin stood over the fallen carcass, his blade dripping with blackened ichor. His chest heaved, but his eyes were cold, unflinching. He exhaled slowly, sheathing his weapon with deliberate calm.
"It ends here," he murmured, voice like iron, "and no more children will be broken into toys."
The team stood amidst the wreckage, their faces pale, their bodies trembling with the aftershock of survival. Feng lowered her rifle, her gaze still locked upon the Dollmaker's corpse, her lips pressed thin in grim satisfaction.
For a long moment, none spoke. The laughter was gone. Only silence remained.
The silence that followed their battle was thick, almost suffocating, as if the very house itself held its breath. The corpse of the Dollmaker lay sprawled like a grotesque effigy, its stitched flesh steaming faintly where plasma had scorched it. Xuemin stood over it for a moment longer, his jaw set, his breathing steadying by degrees. Then, with a terse gesture of his hand, he beckoned the others forward.
"Fan out," he said in a low, ironclad tone. "If this creature lived here, he left more behind than bodies."
Feng's boots scraped against the warped floorboards as she moved to the far side of the corridor, her rifle angled down but her eyes sharp. Her face was drawn tight, the anger still simmering beneath her composure, as though every breath she took was an effort not to spit her rage at the lifeless heap they had slain.
Gu Zhaoyue adjusted her gloves, suppressing the shiver that rippled down her spine. "Something tells me, Captain," she murmured with cold sarcasm, "this monster was not merely playing with dolls." Her gaze shifted with disdain towards the nearest marionette, now inert on the ground, its glass eyes blank as winter moons.
They descended further into the house's innards—down a narrow stairwell hidden behind the grand hall, one they had not noticed before amidst the chaos. The air grew heavier as they went lower, carrying with it the tang of rust, mildew, and something far more insidious: the faintly sweet stench of decay.
The stairwell ended in a door of iron bars, already ajar, as though beckoning them to enter. Xuemin pushed it open, his gauntleted hand steady though his eyes betrayed a flicker of apprehension. Beyond lay a cavernous chamber lit by erratic lanterns, their glow stuttering across what could only be described as the Dollmaker's sanctum.
The room was a grotesque workshop, a cathedral of madness.
Rusting surgical tables stood in crooked rows, each one cluttered with instruments too cruel for their intended use—bone saws, iron clamps, drills, and hooks, all stained with the sepia patina of old blood. Along the walls, jars lined the shelves in ghastly parade: cloudy glass vessels containing fragments of humanity—fingers, teeth, eyes suspended in amber liquid like macabre specimens. The reek of formaldehyde clung to the air, oppressive and rancid.
Yang Shaoyong froze in the threshold, his voice breaking the silence in a hoarse whisper. "Bloody hellfire… how many children suffered here?" His face paled, his hand tightening around his weapon not out of readiness but in desperate need of something solid to grip.
Zhai Linyu, trembling visibly, backed against the wall as if the shadows themselves might swallow him. "This—this isn't a lair. It's… it's a slaughterhouse." His voice cracked, his eyes wide and glistening with fear.
Xuemin ignored their faltering words for the moment, forcing himself to stride forward with a commander's severity. His face betrayed little, though beneath the calm mask his stomach coiled in revulsion. He picked up a ledger lying upon a rust-stained desk, its leather binding cracked with age. As he flipped it open, his gloved fingers stiffened.
Pages upon pages of spidery handwriting filled the book, diagrams sketched with obsessive precision: children dissected into components, dolls reassembled with flesh, notes scrawled about "preserving innocence" and "perfection through porcelain." Each page was a descent into greater madness, the Dollmaker's ideology unfurling like the roots of some cancerous tree.
Feng came to his side, her brow furrowing as she glanced over his shoulder. "He catalogued them," she said with venom, her lips curling back in disgust. "Every name. Every child. Turned into a specimen, like they were nothing more than playthings for his twisted vanity." Her voice cracked with restrained fury, though her stance remained rigid, disciplined.
Gu Zhaoyue wandered further, her torch catching a figure in the corner—an unfinished creation. A child-sized frame slumped against a chair, half-flesh, half-porcelain, the seams of its construction still raw and bloody. She inhaled sharply through her teeth, the disgust flashing openly across her face. "He stitched them together like patchwork quilts," she hissed. "Monstrous artistry. It makes my skin crawl."
Zhai Linyu whimpered faintly, dragging his eyes away, his breathing ragged. "We should burn it. Burn all of it—this place, these abominations. Nothing should remain."
Yang, his fists trembling, stepped closer to Xuemin. "Captain, this isn't just murder. This is desecration. This Dollmaker didn't merely kill children—he immortalised their suffering in porcelain and stitchwork. He wanted them frozen, eternal." His voice thundered with a soldier's fury, but his eyes betrayed the horror clawing inside.
Xuemin shut the ledger with a snap, the sound echoing in the chamber like a judge's gavel. He set it down upon the desk with deliberate force. "Then we end it," he said, his voice low yet unyielding. His gaze swept across the grotesque room, his expression iron-hard. "We burn the workshop. Every trace of his madness must be purged."
Feng's eyes glinted with grim satisfaction. "Agreed. Let his empire of dolls crumble into ash."
Gu Zhaoyue smirked faintly, though it was bitterness more than humour. "A fitting end for a man who thought himself a god of toys."
Xuemin turned toward the stairwell, his hand raised in silent command. "Set the charges. This house of horrors will not stand another night."
As they moved, the flickering lanterns cast long shadows upon the walls, stretching like the remnants of the children who had once lived and laughed here. And though the laughter had died with the Dollmaker, the silence that followed was no less haunting—an echo of the broken innocence that would never return.
The crackle of fire had begun to swallow the Dollmaker's sanctum. Flames leapt ravenously across the chamber, devouring parchment and ledger alike, turning porcelain faces into molten ruin. The once grotesque workshop now became a pyre, an inferno exorcising the house of its monstrous history. The team stood at a distance, their figures backlit by the burning light, eyes reflecting both relief and sorrow.
Xuemin, his face half-lit in amber glow, unclipped the Sentinel Helix from his gauntlet. The device shimmered to life, projecting a holographic sphere that pulsated with cerulean light. His expression was resolute, though the muscles in his jaw tensed as though containing a storm of emotion. He drew a deep breath before speaking, his voice calm but weighted with severity.
"Command, this is Captain Lingaon Xuemin, Celestial Unit," he began, his tone firm, deliberate. The others turned their gazes upon him, the weight of his words hanging heavy. "We have terminated the subject known locally as the 'Dollmaker'. Target neutralised." He paused, his brow knitting as he chose his next words with surgical precision. "But the discoveries within this lair…"—his voice darkened, like iron cooling in a forge—"…defy mere classification. This was no murderer. This was an artisan of atrocities. He did not merely extinguish the lives of children; he refashioned them, grafting innocence to porcelain, imprisoning humanity in grotesque effigies."
The Sentinel Helix pulsed, recording every syllable. Feng stood near him, arms folded, her eyes burning with restrained fury. "Tell them," she interjected sharply, her voice clipped, "that he catalogued every victim. Names, bodies, every indignity documented like a ledger of sin. Let SSCBF know the scale of his perversion."
Xuemin inclined his head solemnly, acknowledging her. "Indeed," he said, returning his gaze to the hologram. "Recovered journals reveal exhaustive documentation—names, sketches, procedures. He considered himself a craftsman, elevating butchery to grotesque artistry. By all accounts, there are no survivors." His voice dropped to a growl, the fury breaking through his discipline for but a moment. "No children walked free of this house."
Zhai Linyu, still pale and trembling, shuffled uneasily before finding his voice. "C-Captain… tell them the house itself… the laughter, the dolls moving on their own. It was like—like he commanded them even after death." His hands fidgeted, his eyes darting between the fire and the hologram, as though terrified the shadows might take form again.
Gu Zhaoyue scoffed under her breath, though her smirk was brittle, a mask against revulsion. "Yes, do tell them that the bastard weaponised his creations. Dolls that fought like soldiers, children's laughter twisted into his battle cry. It wasn't simply slaughter—it was theatre."
Xuemin gave the faintest nod. "Confirmed. The enemy exerted control over constructs of flesh and porcelain, utilising them as weapons. My unit engaged and neutralised both the progenitor and his creations. Casualties: none on our side. Psychological toll: significant." He spoke the last words with quiet gravity, his gaze flickering towards Zhai Linyu, whose eyes were still wide with the residue of terror.
Yang Shaoyong spat into the dirt, his fists still clenched. "Command should bloody well mark this as more than a mission report. It was a massacre. And justice—though served—cannot repay the cost." His voice rang raw, a soldier's blunt truth.
The Helix pulsed again as Xuemin lifted his hand, steady as stone despite the fire's heat licking at his armour. "Recommendation: this township is to remain under observation. Locals must be protected, lest another zealot rise to replicate such horrors. The house and all within have been destroyed. Nothing remains but ash and bone."
The holographic light flickered as Command acknowledged, a cold mechanical voice cutting through the crackle of fire: "Report received, Captain Xuemin. Your actions are logged. SSCBF will classify the Dollmaker as an entity of abominable aberration. The township will be quarantined for further observation. Your unit will be debriefed upon return."
As the transmission ended, the Helix dimmed and folded back into its dormant state. Xuemin lowered his arm, his expression carved from stone. Yet for a fleeting moment, as he gazed at the collapsing ruin of the Dollmaker's lair, his eyes betrayed the storm within—grief, anger, and a simmering oath that such evil would never be allowed to thrive again.
Feng stepped closer, her voice quiet yet edged with steel. "Do you think Command will truly comprehend what we saw here?"
Xuemin exhaled slowly, his breath visible in the cool night air. "Comprehension is a luxury," he murmured. "But whether they believe it or not, we witnessed it. And we carry the burden."
Behind them, the house surrendered at last, the timbers collapsing inward with a resounding groan. Sparks burst skyward, a funeral pyre for the lost. The team stood in solemn vigil, their silhouettes cast long against the flames. And though the Dollmaker was gone, his laughter—thin, distant, like a fading echo—seemed to linger in memory, haunting them like a scar not yet healed.
The journey back to headquarters was wordless, heavy as a coffin-lid. The hum of the transport craft filled the silence like a dirge, each soldier sequestered in their own reflections. Zhai Linyu kept fidgeting with the strap of his rifle, his jaw clenched, eyes refusing to meet the others'. Gu Zhaoyue sprawled in her seat with feigned nonchalance, though her fingers drummed too quickly, betraying the unease beneath. Feng Shaoyun leaned her head against the steel bulkhead, half-lidded, her lips curved faintly as though mocking herself for being unsettled at all. Xuemin sat bolt upright, his hands clasped tightly, his stern profile resembling carved obsidian.
By the time they entered headquarters, the metallic corridors seemed almost too bright, too sanitised—a world cleansed of horror, yet indifferent to those who carried it within them. The hydraulic doors to the debriefing chamber hissed open, and there stood Chief Wen-Li herself, her figure tall and immaculate in a jet-black tunic, her long silk hair framing a face as coldly poised as a marble effigy.
At her side, however, was a second figure: Captain Lingaon Xuein, Xuemin's elder sister. Where Wen-Li radiated calculated severity, Xuein radiated sharp-eyed familial scrutiny—the kind that cuts deeper than any superior's reprimand.
Xuemin's stride faltered for half a beat before he braced himself and stepped forward, bowing his head fractionally. His jawline tensed as though preparing for a storm.
Wen-Li's eyes, obsidian pools untouched by sentiment, swept across the assembled unit. "You have returned," she said, her tone glacial, a faint lilt of relief buried deep within. "Alive. Fortunate. Yet fortune alone does not exculpate you from scrutiny." She gestured to the table where their report had already been transcribed via the Sentinel Helix. Her long, slender fingers rested on the edge of the dossier like talons on prey.
Feng Shaoyun folded her arms, smirk tugging at her lips. "Fortunate, aye," she muttered under her breath, "if you call wrestling porcelain abominations fortune."
"Silence," Wen-Li cut sharply, though her eyes flickered—perhaps almost amused. Then she turned her gaze upon Xuemin, who stood straight as a lance. "Captain Xuemin. You neutralised the entity known as the Dollmaker, yet you failed to secure survivors. Do you deem this a success or a tragedy?"
Xuemin's lips pressed into a hard line before he answered. His voice was low, steady, but burdened with anguish. "Chief, it is both. Success, for the evil is ended. Tragedy, for the innocent were already devoured by his craft. We were too late."
A silence hung, taut as a drawn bow. Then, surprisingly, Wen-Li inclined her head the faintest degree, her voice softening by a hair's breadth. "Spoken with clarity, if not absolution. I am… grateful that you live. This mission would have broken lesser men. And perhaps even lesser captains."
Xuemin dipped his head, the faintest exhale leaving his lips. But before the gravity could weigh further, his sister, Captain Xuein, stepped closer, her hands on her hips. Her eyes narrowed like daggers, though there was something fierce and protective behind them. "You damned fool," she said, her voice laced with familial heat. "You fling yourself into hellfire and drag others with you. Do you even comprehend what it does to me, watching my own brother march into these nightmares?"
Xuemin's composure cracked a fraction—his shoulders stiffened, his jaw slackening slightly. He bowed his head, murmuring, "Elder sister… I do comprehend. And yet—if not me, then who?"
Her glare lingered before it softened, her hand rising briefly as though to touch his face, only to retreat midway, clenched back into a fist. "Just… don't you dare make me bury you," she muttered. Her voice trembled once before it returned to steel.
The others exchanged glances: Feng Shaoyun raised a brow and whistled low, Yang Shaoyong smirked knowingly, and Gu Zhaoyue's eyes widened at the uncharacteristic display of sibling tenderness. Zhai Linyu, meanwhile, shuffled awkwardly, as though intruding upon a private play staged in public.
Then the door hissed again, and in strode Captain Robert, broad-shouldered, with a grin carved from granite and the gait of a man who thrived in chaos. He clapped Xuemin on the shoulder with such force the younger captain nearly staggered.
"Well done, lad!" Robert bellowed, his hearty voice bouncing off the chamber walls. "You've tasted the fire proper now. Being captain—" he jabbed a thumb into Xuemin's chest, nearly unbalancing him again "—isn't medals and cheers. It's a responsibility. The weight of souls. Pressure enough to crush most men to powder." His grin softened slightly, and his tone gained an earnest undercurrent. "You'll learn, Xuemin. It'll carve you hollow and fill you with steel. Just you wait."
Xuemin straightened, his lips twitching into the faintest of smiles. "I already feel the weight, Captain Robert. But I intend not to be crushed. I intend to carry it."
Robert barked a laugh and thumped him again, nearly rattling his armour. "Good lad! That's the spirit!"
Lingaong Xuein, leaning lazily against the wall, could no longer contain himself. she smirked wickedly and quipped, "Careful, Xuemin—if Robert pats you one more time, you'll need a medic for fractured ribs."
The chamber broke in brief, unexpected laughter—Gu Zhaoyue snorted, Zhai Linyu chuckled nervously, and even Yang Shaoyong allowed himself a crooked grin. For a moment, the oppressive memory of the Dollmaker's house seemed less suffocating, displaced by camaraderie's rare balm.
Wen-Li's lips twitched, the faintest curve betraying almost imperceptible amusement before her expression returned to its usual marble severity. She raised a hand, silencing the mirth. "Enough. You have done well. Now leave me. There will be further debriefings. And perhaps… a measure of rest."
The team saluted, and as they departed, Xuemin cast one last glance at his sister. Xuein met his gaze with eyes both sharp and glistening. She did not speak, but her stare conveyed enough: pride, relief, and the unspeakable fear of losing him.
The High Chaebols Tower glittered above the smog-choked skyline like a citadel of glass and steel, its heights veiled by shifting clouds. In a private parlour perched near the summit, velvet curtains swallowed the moonlight while a pair of crystal chandeliers bled a golden radiance across lacquered mahogany and ivory porcelain.
There, Gavriel sat opposite Yuan Meiling, both poised with an elegance that concealed something serpentine. Meiling lifted her teacup delicately, her manicured fingers curved around the porcelain rim with surgical grace, and sipped as though deciphering the calculus of power itself.
"Captain Xuemin has succeeded in his mission at Jinhai Township," she said, her tone cool yet edged with irony. "And was congratulated by the Chief along with her—dogs." Her lips curved faintly, the word spat as though laced with venom. "How very impressive."
"Mm." Gavriel replied with disinterested ease, the corner of his lips brushing the cup as he drank. His eyes glimmered with unreadable calculation above the porcelain rim.
Meiling leaned forward slightly, her voice hushed but sharp as a blade drawn across silk. "So, Gavriel, what is our next move?"
Gavriel set his teacup down with a muted chime against its saucer, his smile languid yet edged with malice. "Tell me, Yuan Meiling—do you know what transpired at Tower-7 of Jiǔlóng Spires?"
Her painted brows arched in recollection. "Yes, yes. Agent-90… he killed Spindlemaw and every wretch in his employ."
A smirk slithered across Gavriel's lips, his tone lowering into a conspiratorial growl. "Then you grasp it. There shall be war, Meiling. A war between him and the Sinner. And I, of course, have been anticipating this inevitable conflagration."
Her pupils dilated, reflecting the chandelier's light like obsidian gems. "So—you already knew?"
"Of course." His voice was silk stitched over iron. "It was Di-Xian herself who orchestrated Spindlemaw's demise. Do not mistake the hand behind the blade."
Meiling inhaled softly, the faintest tremor betraying her unease before she masked it again with poise. "Then… this becomes war between Di-Xian and her agents against the Sinner?"
"Indeed," Gavriel replied, the smirk widening. "A war for vengeance. The Sinner shall move against the very phantom who strides like the Angel of Death, the man whispered of with dread and reverence alike. Infamy, Meiling—true infamy—is both his sword and his shroud."
She tilted her head, feigning curiosity though her fingers tightened faintly on the cup. "I see. But… if she and her agents step further into this theatre of blood?"
Gavriel's expression hardened, the smirk collapsing into something colder, crueler. "Then we shall take another measure entirely. Remember—she is clever. She will never sully her own hands; she will let her agents scrub away the filth. But I… I shall dispatch an adjudicator to issue her a warning."
"And if she defies you?" Meiling asked, her voice almost whispering, her painted nails tapping the porcelain like the faint ticking of a clock.
The venom in Gavriel's smile returned, fanged and final. "Then, Yuan Meiling, she shall suffer the same fate as her husband… and her son."
The words struck the chamber like a frost-laden gale. Meiling stiffened, though she quickly veiled her shock with a brittle smile. "And what of Wen-Li and her… dogs?" she asked, yet the name "Wen-Li" escaped her lips with unconcealed distaste, her eyes narrowing as though speaking of vermin.
Gavriel leaned back, folding one leg over the other with aristocratic indolence. "We are already unravelling the tapestry of their lives. SSCBF operatives, their Chief, even their most private indulgences. When the hour is ripe, we shall excise them root and branch."
Meiling's eyes flickered with unease before sharpening again. "And the spy you promised? The one you would set amidst their kennel?"
A flicker of amusement ghosted across Gavriel's face. He leaned closer, lowering his voice as if savouring the sting of revelation. "The spy is already in place, my dear. Embedded deep—closer than the Chief would ever dream."
Meiling's lips parted, her breath catching. A faint gasp escaped as she hissed, "Not… Captain Xuemin?"
For the first time, Gavriel's smirk vanished entirely. His gaze sharpened into something predatory, cold as a serpent coiled in moonlight. He leaned so close their faces were mere inches apart, his words dripping like poison into her ear.
"Careful, Yuan Meiling. Some names are not uttered without cost." His voice was barely above a whisper, yet heavy with menace. "I said only this: the traitor is one whom Wen-Li holds close, one who walks her corridors, breathes her air, drinks her trust. Whether Xuemin or another—what matters is this: when the blade strikes, it shall be from her own shadow."
Meiling swallowed hard, her composure rattled. Her teacup trembled faintly in her hand before she steadied it, forcing her lips into a smile brittle as shattered glass. "You play a dangerous game, Gavriel."
He leaned back, reclaiming his composure with feline grace. "No, Meiling. I play the only game that matters."
The chandelier's light caught the glint of his eyes as his smirk returned—cold, deliberate, eternal.