That same night, high above the city, the High Chaebol Tower lay awake.
A hydraulic door sighed open, its steel segments retreating with mechanical reverence. A lone figure stepped through, coat damp with night air, and crossed the obsidian floor without haste. Before the towering windows, he knelt, head bowed.
"Everything has been carried out as you ordered, sir."
Gavriel did not turn at once. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, gazing down at the metropolis—an ocean of lights, pulsing and indifferent. When he finally spoke, his voice was smooth, almost indulgent. "Good. Very good."
He turned then, his expression composed, eyes glinting like cut glass. "Aarav Sharma is dead. By morning, his blood will belong to Wen-Li and her hound, Agent-90."
He began to pace, each step deliberate, his presence filling the room like a slow-spreading shadow.
"At dawn," Gavriel continued, "the headlines will bloom. Former Chief Wen-Li murders Chairman Aarav Sharma. Alongside Fahad. Alongside Andreas. Psychopath, they will say. Assisted by the infamous assassin known as Agent-90."
A faint smile touched his lips—cold, precise.
"And the people," he murmured, "will do the rest. Fear is far more efficient than truth."
The kneeling man remained motionless.
"You may go," Gavriel said lightly. "Your task is complete, Luciano Ferro."
Luciano inclined his head. "As you wish, sir."
He rose and withdrew, the doors sealing behind him with a muted finality.
Left alone, Gavriel returned to the window. The city shimmered below, fragile and luminous. He lifted his glass, swirling the dark liquid within, and spoke softly—to himself, to the night.
"Let us see how long the petals of a dandelion can drift," he murmured, a smile curving slowly, "before the storm decides where they must fall."
The dawn's tender light unfurled across the horizon of Veilmoor, casting a luminous aureole upon the city's silhouette. Wen-Li stood at the balcony, her gaze wistful as she watched the first rays of sun pierce through the mist, igniting the skyline with a delicate glow—like a celestial brushstroke upon a canvas of shadows. Her posture was languid, yet beneath her calm exterior, a tumult of thoughts churned silently, as if the very fabric of the world was unraveling beneath her feet.
As the soft chime of footsteps approached, Wen-Li turned slowly. From the shadows emerged Agent-90, his form defined by a quiet purpose, a stoic silhouette against the awakening city. He carried a cup of steaming coffee, the aroma rich and grounding amid the dawn's serenity. Without a word, he extended it towards her.
She took the cup, her fingers brushing his briefly—an unspoken acknowledgment of their shared burdens. Her eyes lingered on the horizon, her voice low and contemplative, imbued with a faint ache. "From here," she murmured, "you don't truly know that the world is tearing apart."
His gaze softened momentarily, a flicker of understanding passing through his otherwise inscrutable façade. He regarded her with a quiet intensity—an unspoken recognition of the chaos lurking beneath the surface of their tranquil veneer.
Meanwhile, Wen-Mi glided silently into view, her delicate frame moving with a feline grace, her eyes fixed upon Wen-Li. She approached slowly, every step measured and deliberate, her presence as subtle as a whisper. With an almost imperceptible meow, she sat beside her mistress, her gaze inscrutable yet expectant.
Wen-Li reached out, her hand gentle yet firm, and gently patted Wen-Mi's head. The cat responded with a soft purr, rubbing her snowy cheek against Wen-Li's palm—an emblem of quiet companionship amid impending chaos.
The moment hung in the air like a fragile web, shimmering with unspoken truths. Wen-Li's eyes shimmered with a mixture of sorrow and resolve, her voice soft but resolute. "We live in shadows of illusions, Agent. What's visible is merely a veneer—beneath, the world's fractures run deep, unseen but painfully real."
Agent-90's expression remained composed, yet his eyes betrayed a flicker of empathy, a silent acknowledgment of her words. "Indeed," he replied, his voice measured and dulcet, "sometimes, the most formidable battles are fought within the mind, invisible to all but ourselves. But it is in acknowledging the darkness that we find the strength to forge the dawn."
Wen-Li inclined her head slightly, her lips curving into a faint, knowing smile—an expression tinged with both melancholy and resilience. "And yet," she whispered, "even amidst chaos, we cling to the hope that dawn will break. It must. Otherwise, what's the point of fighting?"
Wen-Mi, as if sensing the weight of their exchange, let out a soft, contented meow and nuzzled against Wen-Li's side. Wen-Li gently stroked her, her fingertips tracing the soft fur as if seeking solace in its warmth.
Agent-90 observed them in silence, the corners of his mouth twitching in a semblance of a grim smile. "Hope," he echoed softly, "is the quiet rebellion that refuses to be extinguished—even in the most desolate of nights."
He continued quietly, his voice kept deliberately low, as though the walls themselves might be listening.
"I spoke with Captain Robert."
At that, Wen-Li's composure fractured—only for a heartbeat. Her eyes widened, pupils catching the dim light as she turned sharply towards him.
"Nightingale, Lan Qian, and Commander Krieg have come to see Captain Xuein,"
Agent-90 went on. "They were… shaken. Deeply so."
Her lips parted, then pressed together again. A breath escaped her—half relief, half ache.
"And her brother?" she asked at last. "Xuemin?"
"He arrived as well," Agent-90 replied. "Angered. Grieving. Barely containing himself. His unit came with him."
Wen-Li let out a soft, hollow chuckle, the sound edged with melancholy rather than mirth. She leaned back, eyes lifting to the ceiling as though counting the cracks in memory itself.
"Yes… I thought as much." She sighed.
"Days, weeks—perhaps even months—it has been since I last saw them. I miss them more than I care to admit. How are they?"
She paused, fingers curling lightly against her sleeve.
"I lack the courage to stand before them," she confessed. "What happened that night—the gala—it lingers like a spectre. I am ashamed of myself." Her gaze slid back to him, steadier now. "At least you—Madam Di-Xian, Jun, Farhan, Masud, Roy, Alvi… the whole of Crimson Lotus—you saw nothing of what I carried. I did not have to fear."
"If you didn't do it, did you?" Agent-90 ask
She glanced at him in disbelief, as she scoffed, "What do you think I would do? Ninety? I would never do it in my life. How can you say things like that? Are you those people who believe with their eyes what they saw? I have never done anything so nasty in my life. I don't... why would I? How can you even think such a thing? "
"Sorry just to confirm," he reply
"Confirm! my ass!" she reply
Silence followed, thick and contemplative slowly she calm herself as she took a deep breath.
"It has been over a years," she added softly, "since I last saw my brother, Wen-Liao. I do not even know whether he still draws breath. I fear he despises me for what came to pass."
She turned to Agent-90 then, her expression resolute, almost austere.
"This is my war," she said firmly. "I will not have anyone drawn into it—not even you. Please."
Agent-90 did not respond at once. When he did, his voice was quieter than before, stripped of its usual steel.
"I cannot," he said. "I will not abandon someone for whom I…" He faltered, the words arresting themselves. "…for whom I feel deeply. Someone who bears pain alone."
Her brow furrowed. "Whom are you referring to?"
"Nothing," he replied too quickly. "Merely—nothing."
Before she could press him further, his phone vibrated sharply in his hand, the sound slicing through the fragile stillness like a blade.
Both of them looked down at it.
"He picked it up ask, "Yes Jun what is it?"
Jun on the other end says, "Dude turn on the television. You need to see what's happening at the news." His voice was startled.
As Agent-90 turn on the television.
The flickering footage on the news media outline displayed the grim tableau of the previous night's catastrophe: Chairman Aarav Sharma of the High Council of SSCBF had perished in a conflagration at his residence. The screen showed flames licking hungrily at the night sky, while authorities from the Corporate-Security Jurisdiction (CSJ) asserted that the perpetrator had orchestrated a meticulous gaslighting operation—setting the blaze while the chairman was ensconced in his bath within the confines of his washroom. They declared it a calculated homicide, cloaked in the guise of an act of arson.
At the SSCBF headquarters, the reactions were immediate and visceral. Nightingale's usually composed visage twisted into a mask of shock, her eyes widening as if the very fabric of her understanding had been shattered. She grasped the edges of her desk, knuckles blanching, voice trembling with disbelief, "This… this cannot be true. The chairman… gone?" Her tone was a fragile whisper, yet beneath it lurked a tumult of dread and fury.
Lan Qian, standing rigid with her jaw drops, crossed her arms tightly over her chest, Her eyes, now shimmered with a flicker of incredulity "The implications are staggering," she murmured, voice low and measured, yet edged with an undercurrent of menace. "If the CSJ's assertions are accurate, then the stakes have just been raised—perhaps beyond our comprehension."
Commander Krieg unwavering gaze. His normally unflappable expression was momentarily clouded with concern, a rare crack in his hardened exterior. His jaw tightened, and he exhaled slowly, voice gravelly yet precise, "We must confirm the facts. The game has shifted, and we cannot afford to be caught unprepared."
Meanwhile, at Shin-Zhang Corporation, Madam Di-Xian's eyes fluttered as she and her cadre of agents—Jun, Farhan, Masud, Roy, along with the female agents Alvi, Elara, Hella, and Hecate—gathered around multiple screens, their expressions a tapestry of shock, suspicion, and curiosity. Di-Xian's lips pressed into a thin line, her brow furrowed as she scrutinised the footage. Her voice, elegant yet edged with steel, cut through the room, "This is a most disconcerting turn of events. The fall of the chairman… and the involvement of Wen-Li and Agent-90? Such a revelation could destabilise everything we've built"
Jun's eyes widened in disbelief, his shoulders stiffening as he processed the news. "To think Chief Wen-Li, the once-revered protector of the SSCBF, now branded a psychopath… it's unthinkable," he said quietly, voice hushed with incredulity. Elara's fingers trembled slightly as she clutching her tablet, her gaze fixed on the screen. "And Agent-90? The assassin whose reputation is as dark as the abyss itself? It all seems so… surreal."
At the Tower of the Black Castle, Lady Sin and her Sinner companions—Zoyah, Adela, and Bai-Yu—gathered in their chamber, their reactions a mirror of their ruthless nature. Lady Sin's eyes flashed with a mixture of disdain and contempt, her lips curling into a sardonic smile. "So, Wen-Li and her pet assassin are implicated. How utterly convenient for them to fall so dramatically. They're no different from monsters lurking in the shadows," she hissed, her voice dripping with venom.
Zoyah leaned forward, her expression a scowl of contempt, "The world is a chaos of their making. Let us see how they dance when the music turns deadly."
Adela and Bai-Yu exchanged glances, their faces masks of icy indifference—yet beneath that veneer lurked a dangerous curiosity about the unfolding chaos.
The news then shifted, revealing a shocking claim: the perpetrator was none other than Wen-Li, the once-dignified Chief of SSCBF, and the notorious assassin Agent-90. The screen branded Wen-Li as a "psychopath," her image distorted in a montage of past deeds—an image as cold and unforgiving as a winter's night.
The reactions across the board were electric. Nightingale's mouth parted slightly, her eyes wide with disbelief, her voice barely a whisper, "This cannot be… Chief? The protector turned predator?" Her hands clenched into fists, knuckles white with shock.
Lan Qian, standing beside her, froze in shocked her eyes wide as well, "They must be mistaken. It's a ruse—an elaborate ploy to distract us from the real instigators." her voice can't bear it.
At Shin-Zhang Corporation, Madam Di-Xian's gaze sharpened. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes flickering with suspicion. "This situation demands immediate scrutiny. We must uncover the truth—fast. If Wen-Li has truly turned, an entirely new chessboard is in play."
Meanwhile, Lady Sin and her Sinner companions exchanged glances, their expressions a mixture of dark amusement and calculated intrigue. Lady Sin's voice was silky, yet laced with menace. "So, the legend of Wen-Li and Agent-90 has become legend in its own right—only now, it's a nightmare spun into reality. The question is—what's next?"
Her Sinner counterparts nodded silently, their eyes gleaming with anticipation. They knew that the game had entered a perilous new phase, and they intended to watch it unfold, like predators waiting in the shadows
Nightingale and Lan Qian's reactions were a mirror of their shock—disbelief etched into every line of their bodies. Nightingale's voice was hushed, trembling with incredulity, "This… this is beyond anything I could have fathomed. Chief? It's as if the very fabric of trust has been torn asunder. No way it's not her!"
Lan Qian couldn' believe it either, her heart seems shattered, "Chief can't do such thing." she murmur, "And now, the world's chaos is spilling over, threatening to drown us all."
At Shin-Zhang, Madam Di-Xian's agents debated furiously, their voices a tumult of concern and speculation. "It seems like the High Chaebols went too far!" Farhan asked, his eyes of anger reflected by the spectacle of his, "Now, what are we really going to do, madam?"
Hella's expression was grim, "We must act swiftly. The chaos is spreading—fast and relentless."
"Calm down my agents, do not act rush, be patience! Well Patience is bitter but fruit is sweet" she says in a calm tone, as Madam Di-Xian glance at them says, "We will act wisely. First Agent-90 and Wen-Li must arrive first then""
Across the city, screens continued to glow, voices continued to speculate, and belief—once seeded—began to take root.
Agent-90 stood unmoving before the television, its cold glow washing over him as the reflected flames writhed across his spectacles like captive phantoms. He neither flinched nor breathed any deeper; only the tightening of his jaw betrayed that the images had struck their mark.
Behind him, Wen-Li laughed.
It was not the laugh of irony, nor of defiance. It was low, fractured—threaded with grief and something far more perilous. A sound born where exhaustion and betrayal converged. The kind of laughter that surfaced when despair had nowhere left to go.
"So," she said softly, her voice curling at the edges, "it seems the table has turned."
Her shoulders lifted in a slow, almost theatrical breath, then fell again. "The world has decided we are its monsters."
Her face, half-lit by the flicker of the screen, was terrifying in its stillness. Her eyes gleamed—not with panic, but with a lucid, almost funereal clarity. The corners of her lips trembled between a smile and a snarl, as though grief itself were struggling to choose a form. It was the expression of someone who had lost everything—yet found something sharper in its place.
Agent-90 turned at last.
"Not for long, Chief," he said evenly. His voice was calm, but it carried an undercurrent of iron resolve. He reached for his coat, movements precise, economical. "Get ready."
Wen-Li tilted her head, studying him, that dreadful mirth fading into something colder, more focused. "Ready for where?" she asked.
He met her gaze without hesitation.
"To the Crimson Lotus."
Meanwhile, at SSCBF Headquarters, the grand assembly hall lay taut with anticipation—rows of officers standing at rigid attention beneath the pallid, institutional lights. The very atmosphere seemed to bristle with suppressed tension, as if the air itself were charged with imminent thunder.
President Zhang Wei strode purposefully to the centre dais, his footsteps measured and authoritative. He halted, squared his shoulders, and allowed his piercing gaze to sweep across the room like the blade of a tribunal's verdict.
"Look at your Chief," he intoned, his voice resonating with practiced gravitas. "Look at what your Chief—Wen-Li—has done."
A murmur stirred, quickly stifled by the weight of his presence.
"She has murdered the Chairman of our organisation," Zhang Wei continued, raising his hand slightly as if weighing an invisible verdict. "Not one. Not two. Three."
He lifted a finger with each name—deliberate, precise, unambiguous.
"Fahad Al-Farsi."
A second finger.
"Andreas Karalis."
A third.
"Aarav Sharma."
The silence that ensued was oppressive, like the heavy stillness before a storm.
"And now," he said coldly, "she seeks to make us pay for what she claims was done to her." His eyes hardened like forged steel. "Tell me—was it our fault?"
He leaned forward, palms braced against the podium, voice lowering with a gravitas that brooked no dissent.
"Is it our fault?"
For a heartbeat, no one dared to speak. Then, a tentative voice emerged from the ranks.
"No, sir," it whispered.
Another voice, louder, followed.
"It was her choice."
"She crossed the line."
Soon, the replies overlapped—swelling into a grim chorus of condemnation.
"It's her fault."
"She betrayed us."
"She became the monster."
Zhang Wei straightened, lifting a commanding hand.
"That will suffice," he declared. Instantly, the hall fell silent. "Let me be unequivocally clear."
His tone sharpened, every word honed to wield authority.
"Any officer who attempts to contact Wen-Li—or the killer at her side—will be treated as an accomplice." His lips curled into a faint, disdainful smile. "That dog has slaughtered seventy-three Sinners and one hundred and seven outlaws. Including our Chairman."
A ripple of unease spread through the assembly.
"He sold them out," Zhang Wei continued, voice edged with venom. "For the deaths of the late Chief Wen-Luo, Lieutenant Ren-Li, and President Song Luoyang."
He pointed sharply at the assembled officers.
"If you so much as speak their names in loyalty—if you associate with them—you will learn firsthand what consequences truly are. Do not connect. Do not sympathise. Do not even entertain the thought."
A hand rose from the back—voice tight with uncertainty.
"Sir… are you saying Chief Wen-Li was responsible for the deaths of Chief Wen-Luo, Lieutenant Ren-Li, and President Song Luoyang?"
Zhang Wei's response was immediate—without hesitation.
"You may interpret it that way."
A collective intake of breath followed.
"So," he continued smoothly, "consider why she stands beside criminals, outcasts—beside a weapon that threatens all law enforcement."
The hall erupted into whispers—each word sharp and accusatory.
"She was always dangerous…"
"I knew she couldn't be trusted."
"A traitor cloaked in honour."
"Psychopath…"
Each syllable hit like a thrown stone, echoing in the charged silence.
At the side of the hall, Nightingale's hands curled into fists, her jaw clenched so tightly it trembled. She took a step forward—and Commander Krieg caught her arm gently, yet unyieldingly.
"Not now," he said quietly, voice low but unwavering. "Not yet."
"This is a lie," Nightingale hissed, her eyes burning with fury. "You know her. You know she would never—"
Krieg held her gaze, his expression stern yet weighted with restraint. "Patience, Nightingale. This is a battle of endurance. We must weather it."
He turned slightly, addressing Lan Qian, "Lan Qian—review the surveillance footage from last night. Aarav Sharma's residence. Cross-reference with any data on Fahad and Andreas."
Lan Qian nodded immediately, fingers already moving with urgent purpose as she activated her interface.
"I'm on it. Now."
Krieg then looked back to Nightingale. "You're coming with me."
Her eyes widened, "Where, Commander?"
"To the site," he replied grimly. "Chairman Aarav's house. We'll see the truth with our own eyes."
As they turned to leave, the whispers behind them persisted—venomous, unchecked—while the shadow of Wen-Li's name spread through SSCBF like a slow, deliberate contagion.
"Agent-90 waited at the edge of the alley, posture relaxed yet vigilant, one gloved hand resting near his sidearm. Time ticked on with a muted impatience. He glanced at his watch—09:30 a.m.—precise, unforgiving.
Then—
"Hey."
The voice cut cleanly through the morning air.
He looked up.
For the first time in a long while, his composure fractured—just barely. His eyes widened a fraction before instinct reclaimed him, and he turned his head away almost at once, jaw tightening as though the reflex were self-imposed discipline rather than surprise.
Wen-Li stood before him—changed.
She wore a modern gothic ensemble that spoke not of exhibition, but of intent—urban danger tempered by meticulous self-command.
A fitted black cropped top lay beneath a short leather jacket, tailored close and structured at the shoulders. The jacket remained open, not to invite attention, but to grant freedom of movement. Its leather caught the city's light with discretion, never gleaming, merely acknowledging it. The silhouette it framed conveyed authority rather than allure—confidence without performance.
From across the shadowed lounge, she stood in profile against the low amber light, and every detail arrived like a private revelation meant only for the man who dared to truly look.
The high-waisted tactical trousers rose clean and unapologetic, hugging the elegant flare of her hips before falling in disciplined lines to her boots. The broad utility belt cinched her waist with quiet authority, silver chains and small charms swaying faintly with each measured breath—each one chosen, not worn. They were not decoration; they were history, memory, function made intimate. A gentleman notices such things without staring, appreciates the care behind what others might dismiss as mere ornament.
At her throat the dark choker rested like a velvet promise, the single crimson gem at its center catching light only when she turned her head—a deliberate, fleeting signal rather than an invitation. The matching drop earrings framed her jaw without competing for attention; they simply completed the symmetry of a face that needed no embellishment.
Her cropped top ended precisely where restraint demanded, revealing the toned plane of her midriff—not as display, but as testament. And there, across the smooth expanse just below her ribs, the scars told their own silent story: thin, jagged webs of old acid burns from Munafiq's cruelty layered over the deeper, stitched betrayal of Zhāoyè's blade. The marks curved naturally with the architecture of her body, some faded to pale memory, others still carrying a muted crimson shadow. They were not hidden, yet they were not flaunted. They simply existed—proof of violence survived, of a core that refused to shatter. A gentleman does not pity such scars; he honors the quiet strength that wears them without apology.
At her navel a small crimson gem rested, almost concealed unless the light willed otherwise. It gleamed once, softly, like a sealed vow rather than an advertisement. The sight stirred something protective and reverent at once: this was no accidental exposure, but a boundary she permitted to be seen, sovereignty claimed in stillness.
Her posture was faultless—shoulders relaxed yet aligned, spine straight without rigidity, weight balanced so perfectly that gravity seemed to defer to her. The handgun rested against her thigh with the same natural ease one might accord a trusted companion; it belonged there, an extension rather than an addition.
And then her face.
Sculpted quietly, pale against the dark fall of hair that framed it without effort. Eyes cool, intelligent, unhurried—measuring the room, the people in it, and perhaps the man watching her, all without haste or heat. Lips composed, neither inviting nor forbidding, simply present. Every line of her expression spoke control, not severity; precision, not coldness.
She did not demand attention.
She simply commanded it—by being utterly, deliberately herself.
A gentleman does not leer.
He does not catalogue her like a possession.
He simply sees—fully, respectfully, with the quiet awe reserved for something rare and unbreakable—and then looks away again, carrying the image like a secret kept in trust.
Because some beauty is not meant to be consumed.
It is meant to be witnessed.
And remembered.
Agent-90 realised he had been looking a moment too long.
He turned his head away at once, sharply, as though correcting a lapse in protocol rather than desire. A gentleman's reflex—acknowledgement without indulgence.
Wen-Li noticed.
"What's wrong with you?" she asked, one brow lifting, not accusing—merely curious.
He cleared his throat, composure reasserted. "You've… chosen a gothic aesthetic."
A flicker of amusement crossed her eyes, restrained but unmistakable. "Is that a problem?"
"No." He gestured towards the motorcycle. "Let's go."
"I'll ride," she said flatly. "It's mine."
He nodded without protest.
They halted beside the Arashi Vektor-V8—a predator of a machine, its mirror-polished chassis drinking in the city lights, adaptive plating whispering faint calibrations as it cooled. Wen-Li reached for her matte helmet with habitual economy, then paused, producing a second—black, unadorned—and extended it towards him.
"Put it on," she said evenly. "I don't intend to slow down."
Agent-90's brows lifted a fraction. "Why don't I drive?"
She shot him a sidelong glance as she swung astride the bike, the motion fluid, assured. One boot planted, the other resting lightly on the peg. "No, thank you. I know how you drive," she replied, dry as winter air. "Don't even entertain the notion."
The engine answered her touch before the thought had finished forming—a low, restrained growl, as though the machine had merely been roused from a vigilant sleep. Agent-90 mounted behind her, movements precise, yet his hand faltered—just a breath—before settling at her waist. The hesitation was infinitesimal, but not lost on her.
She tilted her head slightly. "What's wrong?"
"Nope. No. Nothing," he said too quickly, shaking his head once, as if chastising his own nerves.
A faint curve touched her lips—not a smile, but something adjacent. She reached back, caught his wrist with unceremonious confidence, and placed his hand firmly where it belonged. "Hold on properly," she said. "You'll fall otherwise." A beat. Softer, but no less certain: "I'm used to it."
For a moment, he stiffened—an animated stillness, eyes widening behind the visor—then his grip tightened, measured and secure. Resolve replaced hesitation; his posture aligned with hers, as if some invisible metronome had synchronised them.
Wen-Li twisted the throttle.
The Vektor-V8 surged forward, tyres biting into the asphalt as the city blurred into streaks of neon and shadow. Wind tore at them, a howling benediction, and the bike threaded through the streets like a blade through silk.
And just like that, they were gone—two figures fused by velocity rather than comfort, hurtling headlong into the city's labyrinth, towards whatever reckoning waited at the terminus of the road.
At the Surveillance Control Room of the SSCBF, Lan Qian sat perfectly aligned with her console, spine straight, fingers moving with disciplined exactitude across the keys. Her expression was composed, almost ascetic—yet her eyes betrayed a relentless focus, the kind sharpened by years of intelligence work and unspoken doubt.
She was tracing the final hours of Chairman Aarav Sharma—time stamps, camera angles, thermal overlays—unspooling the night frame by frame. The footage should have been there. It had been there.
Then, without warning, the interface stuttered.
A thin distortion rippled across the screen, like a breath passing over glass. Data blocks stalled. Timecodes froze mid-second.
Lan Qian's fingers halted.
Her pupils constricted as lines of code began to misalign—metadata corrupting itself in real time. A faint alert chimed, too soft, almost apologetic.
Her breath caught.
"What…?" she murmured.
She attempted a manual override. Denied.
A second attempt—root credentials. Denied again.
Her jaw tightened; shoulders stiffened. This was no ordinary system lag. The architecture itself was being rewritten, quietly, surgically. Someone had breached not just her terminal, but the core repository where immutable archives were stored.
Her eyes widened—an animated flicker of disbelief, followed by sharp calculation.
"Hacked…" she whispered, the word tasting wrong in her mouth.
She pivoted swiftly, coat flaring as she stood. Her steps were brisk, controlled, but her mind was already racing ahead—branching possibilities, threat vectors, names she did not yet dare to articulate.
Moments later, she entered the SSCBF networking room felt less like an office and more like the agency's beating synapse — a cavernous chamber of humming servers, braided fibre looms, and banks of monitors that glowed with a cold, clinical light. Racks of equipment marched in neat rows; status LEDs blinked in an inscrutable Morse. Acoustic dampening panels swallowed footsteps; the air tasted faintly of ozone and burnt coffee. Each terminal was a window into the private neural map of the Bureau: mission manifests, personnel biometrics, encrypted comm logs — the entire organism of the SSCBF digitised and catalogued.
The air carried a sterile tang of ozone and burnt coffee.
Every terminal here was a window into the SSCBF's nervous system: mission manifests, biometric feeds, encrypted command lattices—the organisation reduced to data and pulse.
Lan Qian moved with purpose.
She ran diagnostics at three separate nodes. Checked packet logs. Verified firewall integrity.
Nothing.
No breach signatures. No forced entry. No residual malware.
Too clean.
Her brow furrowed. That unsettled her more than chaos ever could.
She returned to her workstation, seated herself, and attempted once more to access the surveillance files.
The folder opened.
Empty.
Not deleted. Not corrupted.
Gone.
Her lips parted slightly. Her pulse quickened.
At that moment, a soft voice cut through the hum of servers.
"Something wrong, Jiějiě?"
Lan Qian turned. Ping Lianhua stood a few paces away, tablet tucked under her arm, head tilted with gentle concern. Her posture was relaxed, but her eyes were sharp—curious in the way only gifted analysts ever were.
Lan Qian exhaled, a controlled release. "The surveillance archives," she said quietly. "Aarav Sharma. Fahad. Andreas. They've been… excised."
Ping's brows knit together. "Excised?"
"Yes. No trace access. No logs. No alarms."
"May I?" Ping gestured towards the console.
Lan Qian nodded once and shifted aside.
Ping Lianhua's fingers danced across the keys—lighter, faster, almost playful, yet precise. She toggled system layers, peeled back permissions, attempted a deep-cache recall. Her expression shifted from curiosity to something closer to bemused disbelief.
"…That's strange," Ping murmured, a crooked smile tugging faintly at her lips. "It's like someone reached into the system and plucked the memories out. Not burned. Not overwritten. Just—removed."
Lan Qian's hands clenched slowly at her sides.
"This shouldn't be possible," she said, her voice low, taut. Her mind raced—faces, factions, ghosts from old intelligence reports. "This level of access… this kind of erasure…"
She looked at the blank screen again, as though willing it to confess.
"…Someone is rewriting the narrative," she finished quietly. "And we're already behind."
The servers continued to hum, indifferent and inexorable, as if the SSCBF itself were holding its breath—unaware that a scalpel had already passed through its spine.
The Arashi Vektor-V8 tore through Zhaoxian City like a scalpel through silk.
Wen-Li rode with unerring precision, her posture forward yet composed, spine aligned with the machine as though woman and engine shared a single nervous system. The city unfurled before her in stratified layers—neon arteries, elevated transit veins, security gantries blinking with cold vigilance. She neither hurried nor hesitated. Speed was not recklessness in her hands; it was intent made kinetic.
Behind her, Agent-90 sat anchored and silent.
One gloved hand rested lightly at her waist—not possessive, not hesitant—merely pragmatic, a stabilising point against the velocity. The other hovered near his thigh, close enough to his weapon to be instinctive. His gaze flicked constantly: rooftops, overpasses, reflective glass, shadowed junctions. Every passing reflection was assessed. Every moving silhouette measured.
The wind roared, yet between them there was an unspoken synchrony—no wasted movement, no needless adjustment. When Wen-Li leaned, he followed without thought. When she accelerated, his grip tightened imperceptibly, not in fear but readiness. They moved like parallel lines—distinct, yet perfectly aligned.
Zhaoxian City announced itself not with grandeur, but authority.
Corporate towers rose like obsidian sentinels, their façades etched with light-glyphs and legal insignia. Surveillance drones drifted lazily in regulated arcs, indifferent yet omnipresent. The air itself felt adjudicated—every breath catalogued, every motion inferred.
Ahead, the Shin-Zhang Corporation complex emerged.
It looks a loomed like a cathedral of chrome and silence, its halls alive with the hum of circuitry that coursed through its semi-organic walls. The air tasted faintly metallic, as though the building itself inhaled and exhaled.
As Wen-Li decelerated, the motorcycle's growl softened to a predatory purr. She guided the bike through a security approach lane with surgical calm, cutting the engine just beyond the perimeter sensors.
Silence followed—thick, expectant.
She dismounted first, removing her helmet in one fluid motion. Her hair fell free, stirred briefly by residual heat from the engine before settling against her shoulders. Her expression was composed, but her eyes—sharp, assessing—betrayed no illusion about where they stood.
Agent-90 stepped off behind her, rolling his shoulders once, subtly recalibrating muscles stiffened by speed. He removed his helmet more slowly, gaze already sweeping the structure before them. The Shin-Zhang complex reflected faintly in his lenses, fractured into a dozen overlapping geometries.
"Here we came!" he murmured, voice low, measured, "just at time."
Wen-Li exhaled through her nose—something between a scoff and a breath of resolve. "No," she said. "It's merely learned how to hide its teeth."
She glanced sideways at him—not for reassurance, not for permission—only confirmation.
He gave a single nod.
Around them, corporate security units shifted subtly, animated reactions flickering behind visors: recognition delayed, uncertainty blooming, protocols quietly recalculating. Whispers rippled through internal channels like disturbed water.
Wen-Li stepped forward, boots striking the polished ground with deliberate cadence.
She did not look back.
Agent-90 fell into step beside her.
Together, they advanced towards the Shin-Zhang Corporation—to meet Madam Di-Xian.
At KaoSec-07 Township, the cordon around Aarav Sharma's residence was already in place—floodlights glaring like interrogators' eyes, armoured transports idling, rifles held at that peculiar angle that suggested readiness rather than restraint. The house itself loomed behind the perimeter, blackened and skeletal, its windows hollow sockets staring back like dead eyes.
The SSCBF SUV rolled to a halt.
Commander Krieg stepped out first, his boots meeting the wet concrete with measured weight. Nightingale followed, her coat snapping in the artificial wind stirred up by hovering drones. Her eyes were already aflame, jaw clenched as she took in the sight of SCP officers barring the entrance—heavily armed, faces hidden behind visors that reflected authority without a hint of humanity.
They had barely taken three steps forward when an SCP officer raised a gauntleted hand.
"Halt. You are not authorised to proceed."
Nightingale stopped short, incredulity flashing across her face like lightning. "What the hell is this?" she snapped, voice sharp enough to cut steel. "Our Chairman—Aarav Sharma—is dead. He's SSCBF High Council. And you're telling us we don't have the authority to investigate?" She leaned forward, eyes blazing. "Who the fuck gave you the right to decide that?
A figure moved from behind the line.
Captain Shira Malachai emerged with deliberate slowness, her posture rigid, chin lifted, eyes cold as polished obsidian. Her uniform was immaculate—far too immaculate for a crime scene.
"I did," she said evenly.
Her gaze slid between them with thinly veiled contempt. "Nightingale. Commander Krieg. The SSCBF arrives unannounced, uninvited. For what purpose, exactly? To trample jurisdiction?"
Krieg stepped forward, placing himself half a pace ahead of Nightingale—subtle, protective. His voice was calm but iron-hard. "To establish the truth. To investigate the death of one of our own. Allow us entry, Captain. We're not here to provoke. We're here to do our duty."
Shira let out a soft laugh—a sound without warmth. "Commander," she replied, tone sharpening, "you will not cross that fucking line. This site is under SCP control. One step further, and you'll be in violation of CSJ law. Any attempt to proceed will be met with… fanatical force."
Nightingale stared at her, disbelief flickering through her eyes, breath hitching. "Fanatical force?" she echoed. "This is the fucking agreement we made with you? Is this how you honour inter-agency cooperation?"
Shira tilted her head, eyes glinting with mockery. "Agreements change," she said lightly. "Much like allegiances. Much like reputations." Her smile turned venomous. "After all, your beloved Chief Wen-Li has proven herself quite adept at betrayal, hasn't she? Murdering chairmen, consorting with killers—
"What the fuck did you just say?" Nightingale exploded.
She lunged forward, fury fueling every movement. "You don't get to say her name like that. You don't get to insult our Chief— you motherfucker!"
Krieg caught her arm instantly, gripping hard enough to stop her without hurting her. "Nightingale," he said sharply, then lower, firm. "Stand down."
She shook with rage, eyes never leaving Shira. "She's lying," she spat. "You know it. You all do."
Krieg looked back at Shira, his gaze suddenly ice-cold. "This is familiar," he said quietly. "You barred us from President Song Luoyang's residence, as well. Prevented an investigation. Silenced witnesses. And now you're doing the same." His voice dipped to another" degree. "Tell me, Captain—what are you so fucking afraid we might find? Or is it simpler than that? Are you the common denominator in this chaos?"
For the first time, Shira's composure cracked. Her jaw tightened. A muscle twitched in her cheek. Her eyes darkened, fury coiling like a struck serpent.
"That's enough," she snapped, turning sharply, she commanded, "Officers. Remove them. Now."
The SCP unit moved as one.
Hands seized Nightingale's arms; another officer shoved Krieg back with the blunt force of a riot shield. Nightingale resisted, twisting, shouting—her movements sharp and defiant.
"Let go of me!" she yelled. "You're obstructing justice!"
Krieg braced himself, absorbing the impact, his expression grim but controlled. He did not strike back—only endured, as if filing every detail away for later reckoning.
They were forced back step by step, the house receding behind a wall of rifles and authority, until they were thrown clear of the perimeter.
The SUV door slammed shut behind them. Inside the vehicle, silence fell—thick, suffocating.
Nightingale's chest rose and fell rapidly, hands trembling with barely leashed fury. "They're hiding something," she hissed. "I know it. They always are."
Krieg stared straight ahead as he started the engine, his reflection flickering briefly in the darkened glass—eyes hard, thoughtful, unyielding.
"Yes," he said quietly, pulling away from the cordon. "They are."
The house of Aarav Sharma vanished behind them, swallowed once more by floodlights and lies.
"And that," Krieg continued, voice low and ironclad, "is exactly why we're not stopping."
High Chaebol Tower rose above the city like a sanctified blade—polished, untouchable, and stained only by the sins it concealed. Inside its upper sanctum, where glass walls gazed down upon the metropolis as though upon a conquered kingdom, Gavriel stood with his hands clasped behind his back, silhouette carved against the nocturnal glow.
He did not turn as he spoke.
"Nahema," he said softly, with the indulgent cadence of a man addressing inevitability itself, "the design we set in motion is unfolding precisely as ordained. Every variable bends. Every piece moves." A thin smile touched his lips. "Tell me—what do you think?"
From the shadowed recess near the panoramic window, Nahema inclined her head.
She wore the shape of a woman flawlessly—human skin draped over something older, more patient. Her appearance was immaculate: porcelain complexion unmarred by time, raven-black hair falling in languid waves, eyes a luminous amber that glimmered like fire seen through honeyed glass. She moved with unnatural poise, each gesture deliberate, economical, as though gravity itself had learned to yield to her will. Yet beneath that perfection lay an unsettling dissonance—a sense that her body was a borrowed garment, worn with expert mimicry rather than comfort.
Her lips curved faintly. Not a smile—an approximation of one.
"The threads tighten," she replied, voice smooth yet resonant, like silk drawn across a blade. Her eyes narrowed, studying the city below as if it were a living map. "Fear ripens. Distrust ferments. Mortals turn upon one another exactly as you predicted." She glanced at him sideways, expression unreadable. "Yes. The plan… progresses."
Gavriel finally turned to face her.
"No, Nahema," he said calmly, almost fondly. "No one suspects you. No one perceives what you truly are." His gaze lingered on her face—not with desire, but with reverence and calculation. "To them, you are merely another woman of influence. Another shadow among many."
He stepped closer, his presence radiating a quiet, abyssal confidence. "If our design—one hundred thousand years in the making—continues with such precision, then Nin-Ran-Gi will kneel. Not in chaos, but in perfect order. A world remade in our image."
Her brow lifted a fraction. "You mean," she corrected coolly, "brought to its knees."
"Yes," Gavriel murmured. "Voluntarily, if possible. By force, if required."
Nahema's gaze darkened, something ancient stirring behind her eyes. "Then the first obstacle must fall." She tilted her head. "Wen-Li."
Gavriel's smile sharpened. "Precisely. She is the splinter in the path—small, defiant, and capable of festering into catastrophe." His voice lowered. "She carries within her the Crimson Shackle. An aberration. A counterweight to our dominion."
"And Agent-90?" Nahema asked, curiosity flickering like a predatory spark. "He complicates matters. I find him… intriguing." Her lips curved again, this time with genuine interest. "What is he, Gavriel?"
Gavriel exhaled slowly, as though savouring the question.
"He is an echo," he replied. "A consequence, not a cause. A blade forged by suffering and sharpened by justice." His eyes hardened. "Dangerous—not because he understands what he is, but because he does not. He believes in balance. In restraint."
Nahema's expression cooled. "Belief is fragile."
"Indeed," Gavriel said. "Which is why he will break—either by standing against Wen-Li… or by standing beside her." He turned back to the window, the city reflected in his eyes like a field of dying stars. "Whichever path he chooses will decide his end."
Nahema stepped closer, her shadow stretching unnaturally along the floor, like wings unfurling.
"Then let us see," she whispered, voice a velvet blade, "how long the moth resists the flame."
At Shin-Zhang Corporation, the transition from corridor to command was seamless—sound dampened, light softened, intent sharpened. Agent-90 and Wen-Li entered Madam Di-Xian's office together, the door sealing behind them with a pneumatic hush that felt like a held breath.
The room was already occupied. Alvi, Jun, Masud, Roy, Farhan, and Gonda stood arrayed in a loose semicircle around the mahogany desk, their postures alert, their expressions a mosaic of controlled anger and disciplined resolve. Screens along the walls pulsed with data-streams—logistics, intercepted comms, predictive lattices—each a shard of the same looming truth.
Madam Di-Xian stood at the centre, crimson eyes luminous beneath the room's low light. When she spoke, it was not loud; it did not need to be.
"Gavriel is not improvising," she said, fingers resting lightly on the desk's edge. "He is executing a design older than any of us—one that thrives on erasure. Names. Truth. History itself." Her gaze swept the room. "He manufactures villains so that tyrants may appear virtuous by contrast."
Jun folded his arms, jaw set. "He's framed Wen-Li and 90 as the spark. The city is already choking on the smoke."
Masud exhaled sharply. "If the narrative hardens, the Bureau will turn feral. Law will become licence."
"And that," Di-Xian replied, "is precisely his intent."
Wen-Li stood silent, arms at her sides, shoulders squared. Her expression was carved from restraint—anger banked, grief disciplined. Agent-90 remained half a step behind her, still as a sentry.
"We stop him," Roy said simply.
"Yes," Di-Xian agreed. "But not by charging the gate. We cut the hinges."
The discussion unfolded with surgical clarity—supply chains mapped, proxies identified, false trails prepared like caltrops in the dark. Each agent contributed with economy, their words falling into alignment like pieces of a well-worn mechanism.
When the meeting fractured into smaller exchanges, Agent-90 turned to Alvi.
"Alvi," he said quietly, voice low enough to be private. "I need a favour. Something… unregistered."
Her brows lifted, surprise flashing across her face before resolve settled in. "For you?" She nodded once. "Say it."
"I'll need a shadow-route scrubbed. No echoes. No witnesses—even the machines forget."
Alvi's lips curved into a thin, knowing smile. "I can do that. Consider it gone before it ever existed."
Before more could be said, Madam Di-Xian's voice cut through the room—measured, absolute.
"Agent-90." Her eyes shifted to Wen-Li. "And you as well."
They turned.
"I am assigning you a mission," she said. "Together."
Wen-Li's chin lifted. "What's the objective?"
"Shimmerpoint Quarter." Di-Xian's gaze sharpened, crimson irises glinting like cut glass. "You will meet our intel there. They see what the city refuses to. They remember what Gavriel is trying to erase."
Agent-90 inclined his head. "Understood. We'll make contact."
Di-Xian nodded. "Good. Move lightly. Shimmerpoint listens even when it pretends not to."
As they turned to leave, she added, softer now, "And Wen-Li—trust your instincts. They have not failed you yet."
In the corridor beyond, Jun stepped forward and halted them with a raised hand.
"Wait." He glanced around, then produced a compact case from beneath his coat and pressed it into Agent-90's palm. "Prototype. Quiet. It won't announce itself unless you ask it to." His eyes flicked to Wen-Li. "For emergencies."
Agent-90 met his gaze and nodded once. Wen-Li inclined her head in thanks. Without another word, they moved on.
Back in the office, Madam Di-Xian remained standing, fingers closing around a crimson lotus resting beside the desk. The petals caught the light, dark and luminous all at once.
"There is something about her today," she murmured, more to the flower than to the room. "Wen-Li's aura… it presses upon the air. Rebellious. Dangerous. Like a storm that has learned patience."
Jun blinked. "O-okay, Madam," he said, a touch startled.
Di-Xian's lips curved faintly. "When the petals of the dandelion lose their lustre," she said, voice drifting like incense, "the crimson lotus does not mock their fading. It teaches them how to burn brighter."
She looked toward the closed door.
"And fire," she added softly, "when guided, becomes light."
At SSCBF Headquarters, the automatic doors sighed open to admit Nightingale and Commander Krieg. Their steps were measured, yet the weight in their shoulders betrayed the failure they carried back with them. The usual hum of the Bureau felt sharper tonight, like a place that had already chosen its side.
Lan Qian approached from the corridor, tablet hugged to her chest. Her composure—normally immaculate—was fractured; her eyes were dulled by frustration, her mouth set in a thin, uneasy line.
Commander Krieg spoke first, his voice low but edged.
"Lan Qian. Were you able to retrieve the surveillance?"
She hesitated. Her gaze drifted aside, as though the walls themselves were listening.
"I… I tried," she said carefully.
Nightingale frowned. "Tried?" She stepped closer. "Lan Qian, what happened? You look… undone."
Lan Qian exhaled, the breath trembling despite her discipline.
"I accessed the system. Multiple times. The files won't open. The surveillance data is gone."
Nightingale's eyes widened. "Gone?" Her voice rose despite herself. "Do you realise what you're saying?"
"Yes," Lan Qian replied, swallowing hard. "Someone removed it. Not corrupted. Not encrypted. Removed." She clenched her jaw. "I double-checked. Ping Lianhua verified it twice. There is nothing left to retrieve."
A silence fell, heavy as poured concrete.
Commander Krieg's brow furrowed. "Then this was deliberate." His voice dropped. "But by whom?"
Lan Qian shook her head. "I questioned everyone with clearance. No one admits to it. No access logs remain. It's as if the footage never existed."
Before another word could be spoken, the intercom crackled overhead, sharp and intrusive.
"NIGHTINGALE. REPORT TO THE C.E.O. OFFICE IMMEDIATELY."
All three froze.
Nightingale's jaw tightened. Lan Qian's fingers curled reflexively around her tablet. Commander Krieg's eyes hardened—he knew that tone.
"I'll handle this," Nightingale said quietly. Then, after a beat, "Don't stop digging."
The C.E.O. Office was immaculate, cold, and oppressive—mahogany desk polished to a mirror sheen, dandelion petals scattered upon it like a mockery of gentleness.
Nightingale stepped inside and came to attention.
"Chief. You called for me?"
Zhang Ji stood with his back to her, gazing out over the metropolis. Slowly, deliberately, he turned.
"Yes, Lieutenant." His smile was thin, practised. "Come in. There are matters to address."
She advanced with controlled precision, hands clasped behind her back, posture flawless.
"I hear," he said, voice sharpening, "that you and Commander Krieg attempted to investigate Chairman Aarav Sharma's residence."
"Yes, sir."
"But why?" His tone snapped like a whip. "Do you comprehend the damage you have caused to the printsipial'nyy foundations of our agreement with SCP?"
"Sir, we went there to establish the cause of Chairman Aarav's—"
"I do not wish to hear your buts," Zhang Ji cut in, slamming his palm against the desk. The petals shivered. "When you act independently, when you disregard protocol, you jeopardise everything."
Nightingale's restraint cracked. Anger surged, molten and raw.
"So what now?" she shot back. "You'll fire me? Go on. Do it. I don't care."
Zhang Ji's eyes flared.
"This is how you address your prevoshodnyy?" He struck the desk again, harder. "One more misstep—one—and I will see you stripped of rank and relevance. And do not delude yourself with loyalty to Wen-Li. She has fallen, and those who cling to her will fall with her."
His voice dropped into something venomous.
"You are dismissed."
Nightingale stood rigid, fury roaring behind her eyes. She said nothing—because to speak would be to explode. She turned on her heel and left, every step echoing with unspoken defiance.
Behind her, Zhang Ji remained at his desk, fingers brushing the damp petals of the dandelion.
They lay there still—fragile, scattered—like truth itself: bruised, but not yet erased.
Unbeknownst to the city above, night fell like a held breath—and the rain came with it, thin at first, then merciless.
Somewhere beneath a lattice of flyovers and dead signage, a man ran for his life.
His shoes slapped against flooded concrete, lungs burning, panic chewing holes through reason. He burst into a cul-de-sac of shadow and steel—a dead end. He spun, hands raised, voice cracking as he begged for mercy that had already been priced and refused.
Behind him stood a figure swallowed by shadow, rain sliding off a silhouette that did not hurry.
The gun came up.
A single shot split the night.
The bullet tore forward—
and the world slowed.
Its passage dissolved into the rain itself: lead becoming water, violence becoming weather. Droplets flared white as they were struck, each one a fleeting mirror of the man's terror before the sound was swallowed by the storm.
A red-black Koenigsegg Agera cut through the deluge like a predator loosened from its leash. Taillights burned through rain in violent streaks, the engine's snarl muted only slightly by the downpour. Water sheeted off the carbon body as the car surged forward, fast enough to make the city blink.
Inside, Agent-90 drove with preternatural calm, hands light on the wheel, eyes unreadable behind rain-flecked glass. Beside him, Wen-Li sat braced, one hand steadying herself against the door, the other resting loosely at her side. Streetlight strobed across her face—resolve carved where exhaustion had once lingered.
She glanced at the speedometer, then out into the torrent.
"You do realise," she said dryly, "that subtlety has long since abandoned us."
"Subtlety," he replied without looking at her, "is for people who still believe they have time."
A corner came too fast. He took it anyway—tyres screaming, rain exploding outward like shattered crystal. Wen-Li's shoulders tensed, then eased. Trust, once earned, was hard to dislodge.
"Shimmerpoint," she murmured as the skyline ahead began to rise. "Always looks like it's drowning… and thriving at the same time."
Agent-90 allowed the barest ghost of a breath. "Places like this survive by learning how not to sink."
Shimmerpoint Quarter rose before them like a vertical reef of steel and light—a city that had abandoned the horizontal out of necessity and ambition in equal measure. Towers were not built so much as accreted, layers grafted onto layers: cylindrical spines fused to rectangular bones, modular habitats bolted on like afterthoughts that became permanent.
The lower tiers were dense and industrial—reinforced concrete veined with rust, transit pylons, service ducts sweating steam. Mid-levels bloomed with life: neon signage humming in teal and vermilion, open-air walkways slick with rain, hanging gardens clinging stubbornly to ledges where the sun was a rumour. Above, the upper reaches dissolved into mist—antennae and data spires needling the clouds, sky-terraces glowing faintly like private constellations.
Rain was Shimmerpoint's constant covenant. It did not fall; it persisted. Every surface became a mirror, every sound amplified—footsteps on metal grates, generators thrumming, voices drifting and vanishing between levels. At night, the Quarter ignited: windows stacked like stars, holographic adverts slicing through vapour, shadows pooling beneath overhangs where figures moved with intent.
From a distance, it looked like a living circuit board—alive, exhausted, luminous.
The Koenigsegg slowed at last, engine purring down as they slipped into a sheltered platform between towers. The rain drummed on steel above them, a relentless applause.
Wen-Li stepped out first. The damp air kissed her skin; neon reflected in her eyes. She took it in—the height, the hum, the beautiful suffocation of it all—and let out a quiet breath that was half memory, half resolve.
"So," she said, straightening, rain threading through her hair like silver wire. "This is where truths come to barter… and lies come to hide."
Agent-90 joined her, closing the door with a muted thud. His gaze swept the tiers above, calculating angles and exits.
"Then let's not linger," he said softly. "Shimmerpoint watches those who hesitate."
Together, they moved forward—two figures swallowed by rain and light, stepping into a district that shone not because it was clean, but because the storm had taught it how to glow.
They slipped into the bar as though the rain itself had decided to take human form.
Inside, Shimmerpoint's underbelly breathed.
The air was thick with heat, alcohol, and ozone—old circuitry and newer sins sharing the same lungs. Neon tubing ran along the ceiling like exposed nerves, flickering between sickly teal and bruised magenta. Condensation clung to every surface; the floor was perpetually damp, boots sticking for half a heartbeat before lifting free. Music throbbed low and industrial, less melody than pulse, vibrating through ribs rather than ears.
The clientele was a study in controlled decay. Couriers with data-implants glowing faintly at their temples. Off-shift enforcers hunched over glasses, weapons never quite out of reach. Hackers and information-brokers sat in half-light, faces obscured by steam and shadow, eyes sharp as broken glass. Laughter burst occasionally—too loud, too abrupt—then died as quickly as it came, like sparks drowned in rain.
The bar itself was a slab of scarred alloy, its surface etched with old burn marks and newer knife scores. Behind it, bottles glimmered like captured fireflies, their labels peeling, their contents potent enough to cauterise memory.
Wen-Li paused just inside the threshold.
For a fraction of a second, her shoulders tightened—not fear, but recognition. Places like this never forgot you; they only pretended not to know your name. Her gaze swept the room with surgical precision, cataloguing exits, angles, reflections in mirrored steel. The noise washed over her, but none of it touched her spine.
She leaned closer to Agent-90, her voice reduced to breath.
"This place smells like old gun oil and bad decisions," she murmured. "Tell me this is your idea of subtle."
His spectacles caught a sliver of neon as he scanned the crowd. "It's neutral ground," he replied quietly. "Which means it's honest about being dangerous."
Her lips curved—not a smile, but something adjacent. "I've missed honesty."
They took two steps further in—
—and the room shifted.
Not visibly. Not dramatically. Just enough. A pause in conversation here, a chair scraping back there. Like an animal lifting its head because the wind had changed.
Then a voice cut through the din, rough-edged and unmistakably amused.
"Oi, Ninety—"
a beat, thick with recognition
"—is that you?"
Agent-90 stopped.
Wen-Li turned with him.
From a corner booth emerged two figures.
The first rose slowly, coat falling open to reveal a lean frame and the casual posture of someone who had survived too much to bother posturing anymore. His hair was cropped short, eyes sharp with the kind of intelligence that never slept. A half-smile played at his mouth—crooked, knowing.
Agent Nolan.
Callsigned Agent-N.O.
Beside him stood Naomi, fluid and alert, one hip resting against the table, fingers already drifting near her sidearm without conscious thought. Her gaze flicked to Wen-Li, assessed, recalibrated—respect surfacing before suspicion had time to object.
The music continued to thrum. Glasses clinked. Rain hammered the roof above like impatient fingers.
For a moment, everything held.
It was, Wen-Li realised, the precise point where fate inhales— where the echo of a gunshot meets the rain, and decides whether it will fall as water… or blood.