Warning: This chapter contains mature theme
The Black Castle loomed over the steel labyrinth of Nin-Ran-Gi, its silhouette cutting the storm-lit skyline like the jagged crown of a sleeping monster. From a distance, it appeared less a fortress than an omen—its spires glinting faintly beneath the argent moon, its windows burning like the eyes of some colossal, dormant beast.
Inside, the corridors whispered with mechanical echoes. The scent of cold metal and incense mingled with the sterile chill of technology.
At the heart of the citadel sat Lady Sin.
Her office was both throne and sanctum—walls lined with glass panels streaming spectral data, each pulse of light tracing the veins of her empire. She sat behind an obsidian desk, a figure of impossible composure. Her fingers—slender, gloved in onyx silk—danced across a floating holographic display, parsing encrypted transmissions from the underworld's network.
Her face, lit by the blue shimmer of the screens, was a masterpiece of restraint—serene, statuesque, and dangerous. Crimson eyes like liquid rubies studied the cascading data with the precision of a surgeon dissecting truth itself.
Then, a single notification chime broke through the ambient hum.
A red sigil flickered on her holographic panel. Her gaze sharpened. She opened the encrypted communiqué—an urgent report from one of her intelligence couriers.
As her eyes scanned the message, her calm expression fractured. For a moment—just a flicker—her pupils dilated, her lips parted, and the faintest trace of disbelief crossed her porcelain face. Then, the mask of composure returned as swiftly as it had broken.
She leaned back in her chair, fingers steepled beneath her chin. "So… it has begun," she murmured, her voice soft as silk and twice as dangerous.
The heavy doors to her chamber opened without a sound.
Chaongu Zoyah entered—like a storm given human form. Her long, silver-white hair caught the dim light, refracting it into pale shards that shimmered like ghost-fire. The air seemed to tremble around her; even the faint breeze from the hall carried her aura—a tempest of command and latent violence.
Her steel-blue eyes, sharp and predatory, fixed upon Lady Sin as she approached. The soft clink of her tactical boots against the marble floor echoed like measured heartbeats. Her fitted black battle coat moved with her like liquid shadow, its gothic trims glinting faintly as she came to a halt before the desk.
Zoyah bowed low, one knee grazing the floor in reverence. Her voice was low and steady.
"My Lady, you called?"
Lady Sin lifted her gaze from the hologram, her crimson eyes gleaming with an unreadable depth. "Yes." Her tone was gentle, but it carried that undertone of omnipotent command that made subordinates tremble. "There is something I must tell you, Zoyah—and I trust you will keep it sealed within your soul."
Zoyah lifted her head slightly, curiosity flickering behind her composed façade. "What is it, my Lady?"
Lady Sin's gaze drifted to the luminous screens beside her. For a moment, her reflection shimmered in the glass—a monarch veiled in digital fire. Then, she spoke, each word deliberate, heavy.
"You must have heard—the Chief Wen-Li of the SSCBF has been humiliated. Her… private scandals have been unleashed to the public."
Zoyah's expression hardened, her voice like a blade drawn from its sheath. "Yes. The entire world speaks of it."
Lady Sin exhaled slowly, her tone darkening. "And tonight…" She paused, her eyes narrowing as though the very thought was an affront. "Tonight, Madam Di-Xian has killed the Adjudicator—executed her in cold blood… to save Wen-Li."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Zoyah's eyes widened, the silver in her irises flaring like struck steel. "Which means she—"
"Yes." Lady Sin cut her off softly, her voice a silken whisper over a blade's edge. "She has broken the sacred accord. The High Chaebols will not forgive her rebellion. Her act has severed the delicate balance that binds the underworld and the state."
She leaned forward slightly, resting her chin upon her interlaced fingers, her crimson eyes glimmering with calculating light. "But tell me, Zoyah—what, in your view, do we stand to gain from this chaos?"
Zoyah hesitated, her lips parting, but no sound came. Her eyes darted downward, her mind racing through possibilities, traps, and outcomes—yet every path led only to darkness.
Lady Sin smiled faintly, the kind of smile that preceded storms. "Nothing," she said at last, her tone cutting like crystal. "Absolutely nothing."
Her words slithered through the air like serpents of smoke.
"As the SSCBF fractures without its Chief, their unity will scatter—like the petals of a dandelion caught in the scorpion's claw. Every fragment will fall precisely where the High Chaebols desire."
Zoyah frowned, her voice taut with unease. "So, what will happen now, my Lady?"
Lady Sin rose from her chair in one fluid, deliberate motion. Her silhouette was regal against the vast holographic window behind her—the city lights of Nin-Ran-Gi sprawling beneath her like a glittering sea of dying stars.
She turned to Zoyah, her crimson gaze burning through the half-light.
"What will happen?" she repeated softly, her voice almost reverent, almost prophetic.
Then her tone deepened, every syllable rolling like distant thunder.
"A war, Zoyah. A war is approaching."
Her words seemed to thrum through the chamber itself—the glass trembled faintly, as if the castle felt her proclamation.
Zoyah bowed again, her silver hair cascading forward like a silken curtain. "Then shall we prepare, my Lady?"
Lady Sin's lips curved, the faintest smirk ghosting across her face. "Yes. Prepare the Sinners. Let the world tremble once more beneath our shadow."
As she turned back to her window, lightning flashed over the skyline—its reflection caught in her eyes, painting them momentarily white.
The storm outside howled. Inside the Black Castle, the storm within had already begun.
The chamber was draped in a pall of heavy silence. The war-room—normally a sanctum of control and composure—now carried the tension of something ancient stirring beneath its polished surface. The lighting was subdued; smart panels along the walls flickered faintly, casting spectral gleams across steel and glass.
At the centre stood Madam Di-Xian, a figure of austere elegance. Her posture was statuesque, her arms crossed with poise yet charged with restrained fury. The faint hum of the holo-table before her pulsated with live schematics of the world's networks—zones marked in crimson and gold, like arteries of a wounded leviathan.
Before her stood her most trusted operatives: Agent Jun, composed and taciturn; Farhan, his arms folded, jaw tight; Masud, ever observant, spectacles glinting beneath the pallid light; Roy, who tried to appear stoic yet whose eyes betrayed disquiet; Agent-90, silent as a blade drawn in thought; and beside him, Wen-Li, the reluctant flame at the heart of the storm.
A few steps away, Commander Krieg loomed—broad-shouldered, weary, his weathered face half in light, half in regret.
Di-Xian's voice cut through the quiet like the edge of a sabre.
"A great war is approaching."
The words lingered, heavy, echoing against the chrome walls.
Wen-Li tilted her head slightly, her tone cautious yet resolute. "So… by killing the Adjudicator?"
Di-Xian shook her head slowly, her crimson braid brushing against her shoulder. "No, my dear," she said, her tone steeped in grave calm. "The High Chaebols are after you."
Her gaze fixed on Wen-Li, sharp yet oddly maternal. "So tell me, child—what truth did you uncover?"
Wen-Li inhaled deeply, her fingers clasping together before her. "I saw my father's final message," she began, her voice trembling yet filled with conviction. "He said the High Chaebols are not human—they're demons disguised as us. He called them the Reptalians."
At that, Krieg's eyes widened, the shadow of disbelief rippling through his stern composure. "Reptilians?" he muttered, his voice caught between mockery and horror.
Di-Xian's gaze shifted to him, unflinching. "You were never truly aware of their nature, were you, Krieg?"
He scowled faintly. "I knew of their influence—their corruption, their reach. But this?" He spread his hands in disbelief. "You all knew… and didn't tell me?"
Her tone remained cold yet mournful. "Had we informed you, the High Council and the Chaebols would have erased every trace of our findings. Wen-Luo himself decreed you were not to know—not until the hour of revelation arrived."
Krieg's expression hardened. "And that hour is now, I presume?"
Di-Xian inclined her head slightly, her crimson eyes glimmering like fire beneath frost.
Wen-Li frowned, her hands pressing lightly against the table's edge. "So there are others aiding them?"
"Yes," Di-Xian replied, her voice rich and deliberate, each syllable woven with precision. "They are called the Ark-Templars—a cabal older than empires, veiled in relics and riddles. Their creed is not conquest but ascendancy—to sculpt humanity into their own divinity. They consort with what lies beyond the veil, invoking the Necromancer, lord of the underworld, to grant them dominion. But…" She paused, her gaze piercing. "Something—someone—obstructs their design."
Wen-Li's eyes flickered with apprehension. "Who?"
Di-Xian's tone darkened, a whisper of thunder wrapped in velvet. "You, Wen-Li. They claim you are the anomaly that must be erased."
Wen-Li froze. Her heartbeat seemed to echo in her ears, her expression paling beneath the sterile glow. "Me? But… why me?"
Di-Xian took a slow breath, stepping closer, her eyes softening but her voice remaining resolute.
"Because your bloodline bears the seal of defiance. Your father, Wen-Luo, was the first to expose their parasitic dominion. You, his heir, carry that same light—the light that can unmask the serpents beneath their skin."
Agent-90's voice entered then—low, smooth, unyielding. "Your father stood for the truth," he said. "The elites feared him—not for his words, but for his courage to name their shadow. So they silenced him."
Di-Xian nodded faintly. "He's right."
Krieg clenched his fists, his voice sharp with frustration. "How do you even know all this?"
Masud stepped forward slightly, his spectacles catching the dim light. "Because, Commander, we were there," he said solemnly. "In disguise. We infiltrated their sanctum, learned of their pact."
Farhan crossed his arms, his tone flat but heavy. "And when we saw what they'd done—when we saw their rituals—we burned Vantablack Isle to ashes."
Krieg's brow furrowed, confusion mingling with dread. His voice faltered. "You… burned an entire island?"
Masud nodded once, unflinching. "It had to be done."
Wen-Li's hand rose to her chin, her fingers tracing her jaw in contemplation. "But how do they become Reptilians?"
Di-Xian's answer came like a quiet curse. "By contract with the devil himself."
Her words seemed to frost the air.
"The Reptilians," she continued, "are those who have sold their souls for dominion—wealth, power, immortality in name if not in flesh. Their human forms are but masks; beneath them, they slither in scales of deceit. They are the masters of this world—the invisible architects of its corruption."
Wen-Li's lips parted slightly, her eyes trembling with the weight of the revelation. "All this time… we were living under them?"
Di-Xian's expression softened only slightly. "Yes, my dear. And your father died to unmask them."
Her gaze turned toward Agent-90, her tone shifting back to command. "Ninety. You know your mission?"
He stood tall, eyes glinting a glacial blue beneath his spectacles. "Yes, Madam."
"Good," she replied, the authority in her voice absolute. "You and Wen-Li—go. The path ahead is steeped in peril."
They both bowed their heads in acknowledgment. As they turned to leave, Wen-Li glanced shyly at him, her cheeks faintly aglow, words caught between gratitude and hesitation.
"Do you need something?" he asked, his tone even, though his eyes softened almost imperceptibly.
She shook her head lightly, brushing a stray lock behind her ear. "No… nothing," she murmured, her voice small but warm.
As they departed, the other agents followed suit, each bowing respectfully before slipping into the corridor, leaving only Di-Xian and Krieg in the echo of silence.
Krieg exhaled through his nose, a faint smirk curving his lips. "Those two remind me of us, you know."
Di-Xian's composure faltered—a brief flutter of colour rising to her cheeks. "Perhaps," she said softly, eyes drifting toward the window.
Krieg chuckled, half-amused, half-nostalgic. "You haven't changed, Di-Xian. Still the same iron heart with a glass edge."
She didn't answer, merely turned away, her braid catching the low light.
He began to leave, pausing at the door. "We'll meet again," he said, his tone carrying that old familiar weight of camaraderie and loss.
As the door closed behind him, Di-Xian remained still. The silence pressed in once more, the hum of the holo-table whispering like ghosts.
Her crimson eyes drifted toward the reflection of the departing pair in the glass wall. A faint, wistful smile ghosted her lips as she murmured to herself,
"Wen-Li… Agent Ninety… perhaps the world still has a reason to fight, after all."
The storm outside the citadel rumbled softly, as though echoing her thoughts—ominous, inevitable, and vast.
The night over Nin-Ran-Gi hung heavy with a pallid light, the neon arteries below twisting like veins beneath the city's obsidian skin. At the summit of the High Chaebols' Tower, amid glass and silence, Gavriel Elazer sat enthroned behind his vast mahogany desk — the surface immaculate, save for a single crystalline decanter and an open dossier whose contents gleamed with encrypted sigils.
The air was still until it fractured under the rapid percussion of approaching footsteps.
The door hissed open, and Chief Ilsle Richter entered — a woman whose very presence commanded the room with austere elegance. Her platinum hair, bound tight in a martial twist, shimmered under the low amber light like molten steel. Her gloved hands were clenched, betraying the tremor she sought to hide.
Gavriel did not look up immediately. He continued to type languidly across his holopad, the holographic letters cascading into the void like falling embers.
Then, without raising his gaze, he said in a silken, measured tone:
"Chief Richter… you storm into my sanctum as though you've seen a ghost."
Richter halted, breathing shallow, then said in a voice that faltered between duty and dread, "Sir… the Adjudicator—"
At that, Gavriel's hands stilled. He leaned back, his expression inscrutable, and intertwined his fingers beneath his chin. "Something happened to her?" he asked, his tone almost indulgent, as though entertaining a rumour rather than a tragedy.
Richter hesitated — her lips parted, her pupils dilated as though wrestling with disbelief. "She was killed… by Madam Di-Xian."
A flicker of delight ghosted across Gavriel's mouth, curving into a smile both serpentine and amused. A faint, low chuckle escaped him — the sound of venom disguised as laughter.
"So…" he murmured, leaning back in his chair, the leather creaking like a sigh. "She breaks the sacred accord again. Predictable. And, I presume, she refuses to hand over the girl—Wen-Li."
He turned in his chair to face the towering porthole behind him, gazing down at the metropolis where monolithic towers rose like cathedrals to sin. "She must have learned the truth, then…"
Richter's eyes lowered, her expression taut. "It seems so, sir."
"Then deploy his brothers," Gavriel said softly, his tone as calm as a hanging blade.
Richter blinked, momentarily uncertain. "Sir—you mean…?"
Gavriel's gaze drifted back to her, and his smile deepened, predatory and gleaming. "Yes, Chief. The agents of our dear defector—Ninety." His voice coiled like smoke. "Even prepare the SCP operatives and our private enforcement. I want them hunted—and extinguished."
Richter straightened, her throat tight but her discipline unbroken. "Yes, sir."
As she turned and departed, the sound of her heels faded into the distance—an echo devoured by the tower's vastness.
Silence reclaimed the chamber.
Then, from the dimmest corner of the room, a voice slipped through the air—honeyed, haunting, laced with something primal and cruel.
"You speak of extinction so sweetly, Gavriel… as if death were a melody you composed yourself."
Gavriel froze for a heartbeat. Then, slowly, he smiled without turning. "I was wondering," he said, his tone velvet-smooth, "when you would come."
The air behind him warped like molten glass. Shadows rippled, folding inward until she emerged—Nahema Dysion, the Embodiment of Desire.
Her ash-blonde waves cascaded like liquid dusk down her shoulders, her blindfold glimmering with red runes that pulsed faintly, alive with forbidden resonance. Two obsidian horns, traced with golden veins, curved elegantly from her temples, their chains whispering as they caught the faint electromagnetic hum of the room.
Her cloak unfurled as though breathing, revealing her form—terrifyingly divine. Her alabaster skin glowed with runic gold, her abdomen a lattice of sacred circuitry that shimmered with infernal grace. Each movement was both a caress and a threat.
She did not walk—she glided, barefoot, her steps resonating in faint harmonic frequencies.
"It's been a while, Gavriel," she purred, her voice a siren's hymn, each word brushing against the walls like the edge of silk over steel.
He turned to face her now, his eyes gleaming with both reverence and danger.
Nahema smiled faintly and, with languid grace, lowered herself onto his lap. Her presence was intoxicating—a celestial poison. Her scent was that of burnt incense and forgotten sin.
"It's so delightful," she murmured, tracing her clawed fingertips along his jawline, "how the world bends slowly, irresistibly, upon its knees for us."
Gavriel's smirk deepened, his reptilian eyes glinting beneath the veneer of humanity. "Do not worry, my dear. We shall crush all who stand before us—those who still believe they walk in light."
Nahema tilted her head, her smile unfurling like a rose with thorns. Her hand caressed his cheek, and as her claws brushed against his skin, one side of Gavriel's face rippled, shifting—scales of emerald and bronze unfurled like molten armour, his eye narrowing into a slit of inhuman gold.
Her voice darkened to a whisper, serpentine and sensual.
"The girl… Wen-Li. The child of light born of human sin. She will unmake what we have sown. And your defector—your precious Agent-90—his blade still remembers mercy. He is your flaw, Gavriel."
Gavriel chuckled lowly, the sound reverberating from somewhere deeper than his chest—something ancient, something wrong. "Ah, Nahema," he said, his tone dripping with malice and mirth alike, "even perfection needs a flaw. Without one, how would the gods remind themselves they are still alive?"
Nahema leaned closer, her lips brushing the scaled half of his face. Her whisper was a curse disguised as affection.
"Then perhaps, my dear serpent, you will remember that even gods can be devoured."
Her blindfold pulsed once—red light spilling like blood from the runes—as she vanished in a ripple of heat and distortion, leaving behind only the faint scent of smoke and jasmine.
Gavriel remained still, his reflection in the window a grotesque blend of man and reptile. The city below shimmered in its false splendour—an empire built upon deceit.
He smiled, a quiet, venomous smile.
"Let the world burn, then," he murmured. "From its ashes, the serpents shall inherit the throne."
The lightning outside forked across the clouds like veins of a god awakening.
The night bled rain.
Silver ribbons poured from the heavens, cascading upon the silent, sleeping city where the neon lights burned like wounded stars.
The jet-black 1954 Mercedes-Benz 300SL Gullwing glided through the empty boulevards of Nin-Ran-Gi, its polished chrome glimmering beneath the downpour. The rhythmic wipers cut the rainfall into fleeting halves. Inside the car, Agent-90 held the wheel with unflinching precision — his gloved hands steady, his jawline carved by stoicism itself.
Beside him sat Wen-Li, wrapped in the folds of his dark coat, the faint warmth of its fabric whispering of his silent protection. Her long, silken black hair, dampened by the mist, clung delicately to her neck, reflecting the amber glow of passing street lamps. Her gaze lingered upon him — on that unyielding expression of marble restraint, on the aura of solitude that surrounded him like frozen air.
The rain whispered between them for miles before she finally found the courage to speak.
"You're going to protect me?"
His eyes did not waver from the road. His voice came low, almost mechanical, yet firm — the tone of a man who made promises carved in stone.
"Yes."
She hesitated, her fingers curling upon her lap as her heart beat faster, uncertain whether it was fear or something else that quickened it.
"For how long?"
For a moment, the neon lights streaked across his face — the reflection revealing a flicker of humanity hidden beneath that cold armour.
"Until my last breath."
Her cheeks warmed, touched by the quiet gravity in his words. Her breath caught, and her eyes softened like thawing glass. The world outside blurred into liquid colour as she whispered again:
"Don't you feel… love?"
There was silence. The rain seemed to wait for his answer.
"Well, I used to," he said at last, his tone clipped, almost reflective, "but I don't."
Her brows knitted faintly, confusion and melancholy brushing across her delicate features.
"What about Madam Di-Xian? Your comrades? Don't you feel anything for them?"
His lips curved faintly, not into a smile but into an echo of one — a shadow of irony.
"Chief," he said, "I was programmed. You know about that. Madam… she is my benefactor. I obey because she commands, not because I adore. I respect her, yes — for her discipline, for her certainty — but kindness is not the soil from which loyalty grows. As for my comrades…" he exhaled quietly, a sigh ghosting over the rain's murmur, "they are an odd collection — eccentric, intolerable at times — but serious in their purpose. Useful people."
Her eyes softened.
"Please… don't take it seriously. I didn't mean to offend."
"I don't mind," he replied, voice flat but not unkind.
Her gaze lowered, and for a fleeting second, the blush deepened upon her cheeks — a fragile bloom in the cold car. She turned her face to the window, hiding the quiet curve of a smile that trembled against her restraint.
Then, abruptly, the car halted.
The screech of tyres broke through the rain's steady hymn.
Wen-Li straightened, alarm flickering through her eyes.
"What happened?"
"Sinners," he said, his voice dropping into a grave register, cold as winter steel.
Through the misted windshield, shadows emerged from the veil of rain — six figures, motionless yet immense, standing across the empty road. Their silhouettes were monstrous in grace and menace.
Leading them stood Chaongu Zoyah, her long silver-white hair cascading like stormlight, her steel-blue eyes glowing faintly in the gloom. Around her — Ravok, his arms inked with serpentine sigils that glowed through his soaked coat; Joker, a maniacal smirk curling beneath a crimson mask; Bai-Yu, pale and poised like porcelain with eyes sharp as glass; Ashera, tall and silent with her blade resting idly against her shoulder; Zaylen, his gaze serpentine, twin daggers gleaming at his thighs; and Syntara, whose slender frame emanated an aura of inhuman calm.
Agent-90's hand brushed briefly against the gun at his side before resting on the door handle.
"Stay in the car," he ordered softly.
Wen-Li's lips parted in protest, but the sheer finality in his tone froze her words. She nodded.
He stepped out into the downpour.
Rain immediately drenched him, yet he did not flinch. His silhouette under the flickering neon was that of a phantom forged from iron and rain.
Zoyah stepped forward, folding her arms across her chest, her tone laced with arrogance.
"Ninety," she said, her voice cutting through the storm. "Do you even realise what you've done?"
He raised his head, water streaming down his face like cold tears he'd long forgotten to feel.
"I'm aware," he replied, his voice low, smooth, and devoid of fear. "And I'm not in the mood for lectures."
Zoyah's glare sharpened.
"You've ignited a war, fool. Do you understand that?"
He tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk ghosting over his lips.
"A war? No. The High Chaebols ignited it the moment they turned justice into theatre. Killing the Adjudicator wasn't the spark — it was the revelation."
The group tensed.
Ravok stepped forward, his voice deep and thunderous.
"You're taunting us, 90?"
He gave a cold chuckle.
"I don't taunt," he said, his tone razor-edged. "I merely tell the truth. If you want war, then step forward and embrace it."
Bai-Yu, her pale lips curving faintly, spoke in a voice so soft it was almost sorrowful.
"The truth you speak will drown you, Agent. You stand alone — the world has no place for those without chains."
Ashera, tightening her grip on her blade, added with venomous calm,
"He's no different from the ones he kills. Cold-blooded and hollow — just another relic pretending to be righteous."
Agent-90's eyes flicked briefly toward her — a glance colder than the rain itself. Then he turned his back, beginning to walk toward his car.
"I've no quarrel with you tonight," he said evenly. "Not unless you make yourselves my enemies. And trust me, you won't like that ending."
Zoyah's voice rang behind him, sharp and unyielding.
"Then hand down the Chief to us!"
He stopped.
The world seemed to still.
When he turned, the look in his eyes made the storm itself falter — a terrifying calm radiating from him like a blade unsheathed in silence. The faint luminescence of his gaze sliced through the dark; every Sinner felt the cold hand of mortality brush their spines.
"Go back to the pit you crawled from," he said softly, his tone eerily calm. "And if you value your breath, don't come near her again."
He turned away, re-entered the car, and the engine roared like an awakened beast. The Sinners stepped aside as the Gullwing sped past, slicing through the rain like black lightning.
Inside, Wen-Li sat silent, her eyes wide — heart pounding. As the car passed them, her gaze briefly met Zoyah's through the rain-streaked window.
Bai-Yu watched the taillights vanish into the storm and murmured,
"He's not human… he's something carved from vengeance itself."
Zoyah's expression hardened, the rain glistening over her pale lashes. Her voice was low, determined, almost prophetic.
"Then we shall see," she said, steel-blue eyes narrowing. "For every phantom bleeds, even the ones born without a heart."
And the rain fell heavier — as if the sky itself anticipated blood.
The rain had thinned to a faint drizzle by the time the jet-black 1954 Mercedes-Benz 300SL Gullwing coasted into the sleeping city of Veilmoor — a city swaddled in mist, where the lamplight gleamed through the fog like molten amber behind frosted glass. The rhythmic hum of the engine faded as Agent-90 pulled the car to a stop in front of Wen-Li's townhouse, a quiet, ivy-draped relic of gentler days amid the metropolis's growing decay.
He switched off the ignition, his movements methodical and precise — like a clockmaker winding the last seconds of a dying hour. Wen-Li unclasped her seatbelt and turned toward him. The air between them was hushed but not cold — it pulsed with the unspoken, with gratitude that felt too fragile to name.
"Thank you… for bringing me home," she said softly, her voice barely rising above the hush of the rain.
Agent-90's gaze remained fixed forward for a moment before he spoke, his tone steady and emotionless yet somehow warmer than before.
"You should rest, Chief. The storm outside may cease, but the one ahead will not."
She studied him quietly — the faint reflection of neon lights waltzing across his spectacles, his face carved from silence and discipline. Then she smiled, a soft, tremulous thing that glimmered briefly through her exhaustion.
"Goodnight, 90."
"Stay alive," he replied simply, the faintest pause betraying something human beneath the precision.
She stepped out of the car, the cold air biting gently at her cheeks. He didn't drive away immediately — just watched her walk toward the door, her figure framed by the dim gold light spilling from the porch. Then, as the door closed behind her, he exhaled — a sound not of relief but of quiet burden — and the car's engine roared again, vanishing into the misted street.
Inside, warmth greeted her like a sigh of remembrance.
A soft meow broke the silence.
From the corner of the parlour, a snow-white cat — Wen-Mi — bounded towards her, tail flicking like a ribbon of ivory silk. Wen-Li knelt at once, her fatigue momentarily dissolving into affection.
"Wen-Mi… I'm so sorry, little one," she murmured, her voice tender as she cupped the cat's face and stroked beneath its chin. "I kept you waiting again, didn't I?"
The cat purred deeply, pressing its head into her palm as if to absolve her of all guilt. A faint smile ghosted her lips, though her eyes carried the dim shimmer of unshed tears.
"You wouldn't believe it, Wen-Mi," she whispered, her words trembling, "what they did to me at the gala. How they twisted everything — turned honour into humiliation. And yet…" her voice faltered, a soft ache curling through her chest, "…he stood there. Agent-90 — silent, unshaken — like the whole world could collapse and he wouldn't flinch. I don't know if that's strength or emptiness, but it frightens me how safe I felt beside him."
Wen-Mi purred again, brushing her head against Wen-Li's wrist as though to soothe her turmoil. A small laugh escaped her — weak, wistful, but alive.
"First things first," she murmured, standing and stretching wearily, "a shower. Then I'll play with you, I promise."
The cat watched as she gathered her towel and clothes from the closet — her movements languid, burdened by thought — before padding away toward the bathroom.
Steam curled like ghosts through the small, tiled chamber.
The water cascaded down her hair, long strands of obsidian silk plastering to her skin as rivulets trailed along the curve of her shoulders. She pressed her palms to the cool wall, letting the water drown out the echoes of everything she had seen and lost.
Her thoughts spiralled — fragments of her father's trembling voice from the video, "They are the demons in human form…" — then the haunting cold of Agent-90's farewell: "The storm outside may cease, but the one ahead will not."
Her breath hitched.
The truth had carved its way too swiftly into her soul — her parents' death, their silence, the monstrous masquerade of the High Chaebols, the world festering beneath illusions.
And she could not — would not — cry before anyone.
But here, under the torrent, her tears fell freely, indistinguishable from the water that streamed down her face.
"Father… Mother…" she whispered, the words fractured. "Why didn't you tell me sooner? Why did you bear it alone?"
Her shoulders quivered, and for a moment she wished the water would carry her away — dissolve her into something simpler, something painless.
When she emerged from the shower, her skin glowed faintly against the dim light of her room. She wore a simple black crop top and loose trousers, her damp hair cascading down her back like a dark waterfall.
She lay upon her bed, staring at the ceiling — at the faint cracks that seemed to map constellations of all she had lost. Her cat, ever faithful, leapt softly onto the sheets, curling beside her.
Wen-Li smiled faintly, brushing Wen-Mi's fur.
"You're the only one who still waits for me," she said quietly.
The cat blinked at her, eyes like small moons, and rubbed its face against her arm as if to say, You're not alone.
Her gaze drifted — and there, draped over the chair, was his coat.
Dark, heavy, perfectly pressed — a remnant of the man who wore solitude like a second skin.
"Oh… he forgot his coat," she murmured, sitting up and reaching for it.
The fabric was cool beneath her fingers, smelling faintly of rain, steel, and something indefinably human. She clutched it to her chest — the weight of it both grounding and suffocating.
"What are you doing, Wen-Li?" she whispered to herself, her voice trembling between laughter and tears. "He's a machine of purpose, a ghost of command… and yet…"
She couldn't finish.
The thought was too fragile, too dangerous.
Her eyes closed as she sank back into the bed, the coat still pressed against her heart.
"You're foolish, Wen-Li," she murmured, half-asleep, half-lost. "Falling for the silence between gunfire."
Outside, the rain began again — a lullaby of ghosts upon the windowpane — as Wen-Mi curled closer to her, and the lights of Veilmoor dimmed into a dream of coming storms.