At the pinnacle of the radio tower, Agent-90 stood alone, a solitary figure shrouded in the haze of smoke curling from his cigarette. The city sprawled beneath him—its neon veins pulsing like the heartbeat of a slumbering beast. As he exhaled, wisps of smoke drifted from his lips, dissipating into the cold, twilight air. He sighed—a long, heavy breath—as if the weight of the world pressed upon his shoulders.
.
A measured footstep echoed behind him, deliberate and quiet, like the soft tread of a predator stalking its prey. Without turning, Agent-90 spoke, his voice gravelly yet calm, "You came at last," glancing over his shoulder with a gaze as sharp as a blade slicing through darkness.
Gonda approached cautiously, his eyes flickering with concern and curiosity, his posture tense but respectful. "Why, you call me at this hour, 90? Even if you didn't receive the usual summons. Everyone's fretful—worried stiff—since the Chief's demise."
Agent-90 took another drag, the ember glowing ominously in the shadows. After a moment, he answered, voice low and measured, "I know…." His eyes flickered with something unreadable—like a lantern flickering in a storm—before he continued, "But there's something I must tell you. I've decided… I shall leave the Crimson Lotus."
Gonda's eyes widened, his body stiffening as if struck by an invisible blow. "What?" he blurted, voice trembling with disbelief. "Are you mad, man? What in the name of all that's sacred are you saying?"
"You heard right," said Agent-90, voice cold as steel, his eyes gleaming with a flicker of resolve. "No one knows the true reason why I'm leaving—no one but us. That secret remains locked away, buried deep where no light can reach." His tone was as cryptic as a shadow's whisper, cloaked in secrecy. "But, I need your help. I want you to gather intelligence on Chairman Kim Ji-Soo—the cybersecurity mogul, the espionage queen—the puppet master pulling invisible strings in this game we're caught in."
Gonda's brows knitted in suspicion. "Wait, you mean the High Council of the SSCBF? Why on earth would you want to dig into that lot? What's your game?"
Agent-90's face was inscrutable, yet beneath the stoic veneer, a flicker of something darker danced—perhaps regret, or the fire of a clandestine purpose. "Because I've made a deal," he stated simply, voice unwavering.
Gonda's voice quivered with a mixture of concern and curiosity. "With whom, then? Who's the puppet behind your puppet?"
"I can't tell you," replied Agent-90, his tone almost contemplative, as if weighing the words on the edge of a knife. "But tell me—how are they all? The others—how's everyone holding up?"
Gonda hesitated, his expression flickering with unease. "Well… everyone's in mourning, really. Hella and Hecate, especially Hella—she's been crying her heart out over the Chief's death. Alvi, Elara, Naomi—they're all in tears. And your brothers? They're asking after you—searching for you like lost souls in the fog."
"And Madam?" Agent-90's voice was almost gentle, tinged with a hint of longing.
"She's in her room—shut off from the world, like a fortress within a fortress. She hasn't spoken to anyone. But she did ask about you—said to find you and inform her. She's worried—more than she's willing to admit."
Agent-90's jaw clenched. He exhaled slowly, a breath heavy with unspoken burdens. "Just tell her… tell her that 90 is fine. I will tell her I am fine. Say nothing—do nothing. I don't want anyone falling into the pit where I am. I want to keep them all safe—far from the darkness I walk into."
Gonda's voice softened, layered with concern and a touch of despair. "And what's your destination? Where are you headed, old friend?"
Agent-90 paused, his gaze distant, as if staring into the abyss of his own mind. "I'm going down a path wrought with regret—a road I've forsaken, littered with the wreckage of what once was. I've left behind the path of this family—the one that promised constant suffering. That's where I'm headed."
He took a step closer, voice lowering to a whisper like a secret clawing its way out of the shadows. "I don't want anyone with me—no one. Not even you, Gonda. I only need your trust, your silence. This must remain between us; a secret as dark as the void in my soul. Can I count on you?"
Gonda's face was a picture of conflicted emotion—his eyes flickering with hesitation, then resolve. "Nighty," he said softly, voice thick with disbelief, "you've changed beyond recognition. It's like I'm talking to a ghost—someone I barely know. But… I'll do what I can. I'll try to gather whatever evidence I can—anything that might help you. I swear it."
His fists clenched, a silent vow of loyalty amid the shadows, as his gaze lingered on the figure before him—half a hero, half a specter, shrouded in the fog of his own anguish.
Later, Gonda, with a look of grim determination etched into his face, handed Agent-90 a data pad. His hands trembled subtly—an unconscious tremor of trepidation—yet his voice remained steady, tinged with a quiet resolve.
"Here," he said softly, voice gravelly with the weight of secrets. "This is what I could find on Kim Ji-Soo. She's embezzled—what, forty-five million ₴Z of the organisation's funds. Vanished into the shadows, used for her own luxury and excess. No one suspects a thing. She owns a lavish estate at Obsidian Relay, of all places—an island of silence in a sea of chaos. After the death of Chief Wen-Li"
Agent-90's eyes flickered as he took the data, his expression unreadable but his jaw tightening like a steel trap. He studied the information, as if weighing the very essence of her treachery—each figure, each secret a shard of glass piercing his resolve.
Then Agent-90 nods and walks by before Gonda says, "Be careful!" 90 just nods and went to hunt his next target.
Obsidian Relay isn't a city. It's a wound carved into the earth—a jagged scar across the western deadlands. Where Seoryong gleams with polished steel and relentless dominance, Obsidian is raw, silent, watching—waiting. Its primary purpose is long-range communications interception, signal manipulation, and covert intelligence routing. A ghost town turned rogue signal hub, now a semi-autonomous shadow of itself. It trades in information—an insidious currency—rather than goods.
It sits atop a volcanic plateau—ancient black basalt flows, cracked and jagged as if lightning once froze the earth mid-scream. The sky above is perennially overcast, a relentless shroud of gloom. Static storms roll across the horizon like restless phantoms. Magnetic anomalies distort compasses, confound drone navigation—nature's cruel joke. At night, the plateau hums faintly, as if the earth itself whispers secrets no one dares to understand.
A colossal obsidian tower rises from the centre—built from adaptive carbon-steel lattice, spiralling antenna arrays wrapping around like the tendrils of some predatory sea creature. It glows faint violet when intercepting encrypted military signals, a spear stabbing into the earth—an ominous monolith of silent power. The top section houses quantum signal decryptors, weather-manipulating electromagnetic emitters, and—rumour has it—a dormant war-AI, lying in wait like a sleeping predator.
The housing is embedded directly into the plateau's rocky face—brutalist geometries of reinforced concrete and black steel plating. Narrow slit windows, barely enough to see through, reduce surveillance exposure. The rooftops are cluttered with homemade antenna dishes, pirate broadcast rigs, solar scavenger panels—an anarchic tableau of ingenuity. Most buildings are modular, stacked haphazardly—like signal debris fossilised into architecture, remnants of a forgotten war zone turned sanctuary of secrets.
Beneath the surface, the true Obsidian Relay lies in the labyrinth—cold fibre-optic corridors, cable catacombs stretching for kilometres, data vaults guarded by climate-controlled cores and EMP-resistant chambers. Whispers say certain corridors are sealed—locked tighter than a vault— not to exclude outsiders, but to contain something far more sinister.
It operates within a 'Signal Economy'—where information is currency, encryption keys traded like the rarest gold, black-market satellite access a common commodity. The town flickers with holographic static, fragments of intercepted broadcasts bleeding through the air like ghostly spectres. Streets are lit by dim amber lights, dust storms sweeping through open corridors, neon signs buzzing irregularly—an unsettling symphony of chaos and concealment.
Surveillance drones patrol in silence, their eyes unseen, yet no one truly knows who pulls their strings. There's no government—only network administrators called Channel Keepers—guardians of the digital crypt, masters of misdirection. The town's defence is not in brute force, but in the art of vanishing: signal scrambling fields, ghost heat signatures, decoy towers, and hidden turret clusters nestled within fissures in the rocks.
If attacked, it doesn't fight openly. It simply disappears—like a mirage evaporating in the heat. Every midnight, the central tower emits an encrypted pulse—like a heartbeat—sending out static-filled transmissions. The locals gather silently in the open plazas, listening intently, ears pressed to the wind—some say they hear lost war signals, corporate secrets, the whispered names of the dead. But no one can confirm what lies within those static echoes. It's a place where silence is not empty—it is full of secrets.
People wear dark matte clothing, minimising their reflection, their visors like mirrors—meant not for vanity, but for evading predatory optics. Children grow up learning code before handwriting—an entire generation born into the digital shadows. Obsidian Relay is the Dragon's Shadow—silent, patient, waiting. Not roaring, but listening. It does not conquer, only observes. And in Nin-Ran-Gi, the quietest places—like this—are often the most perilous.
The apartment she inhabited was a citadel of opulence, perched atop the highest tier of the skyscraper—an oasis amidst the chaos of the metropolis. Kim Ji-Soo lounged in her plush leather armchair, a delicate porcelain cup of coffee cradled in her hand. Through the expansive portholes, she gazed out at the sprawling cityscape—its glittering lights and distant hum a lullaby of modernity. For the moment, she felt a rare semblance of serenity, the calm before the inevitable storm.
Her sanctuary was fortified with meticulous precision—surveillance systems that blinked and whispered in the shadows, and her personal bodyguard, Siegfried Bauer, a man forged in the crucible of espionage. Once an espionage handler from the SCP, now he stood as the unyielding sentinel of SSCBF's Chairwoman. His eyes, ice-cold yet observant, flicked over the room with a predator's patience, muscles tense beneath his tailored coat.
He was currently inspecting the perimeter, every movement deliberate, like a hawk scanning the horizon. His gloved hand brushed over a control panel, ensuring all systems were functioning seamlessly—until, suddenly, a sharp, shattering sound pierced through the silence—a window's glass breaking like a lightning strike in a storm.
Kim Ji-Soo's head jerked up, her eyes wide with alarm. "What's happening?" she demanded, voice trembling just enough to betray her composure.
Siegfried's expression was unreadable, a mask of calm forged through years of discipline. "Stay here," he commanded, his tone steady and authoritative, "I'll check it out. Do not come out—stay behind cover."
Without hesitation, he moved swiftly, every step precise and silent, like a shadow slipping into darkness. His eyes, trained for detection and deception, scanned the room for the source of the attack. As he neared the window, a flicker of movement caught his gaze—an imperceptible shadow, a fleeting ghost cloaked in darkness.
Suddenly, from the shadows emerged Agent-90—like a spectre conjured from the abyss. His figure was a silhouette of lethal intent, limbs moving with predatory grace. Siegfried's instincts flared to life—his body tensed, reflexes sharpened into steel.
The fight erupted in a whirlwind of brutal efficiency. Agent-90 lunged forward with lethal resolve, a wire rope coiled in his hand—a weapon of silent execution. Siegfried pivoted, instinctively raising his arm to block, but the assassin was quicker. With a swift, merciless motion, Agent-90 looped the wire around Siegfried's neck, tightening with a deadly precision. The wire's cruel edge bit into his flesh, slicing into his windpipe and strangling the very breath from his lungs.
Siegfried's eyes bulged—his face contorted in a mixture of shock and fury—as he clawed at the wire, his legs flailing in a desperate attempt to break free. His hands grasped at the wire, but the assassin's grip was like iron, unyielding and relentless. The life drained from him, his body slumping forward as the world faded into darkness. With a final, shuddering gasp, he collapsed—a fallen sentinel.
Kim Ji-Soo, her heart pounding like a war drum, slowly rose from her seat. Her fingers trembled as she moved cautiously towards her safe, her mind racing with dread. She fumbled with the keypad, her hands trembling as she unlocked the vault. Her pulse hammered in her ears—this was her last bastion of security.
But before she could retrieve her weapon, a cold, iron grip seized her from behind. A hand pressed firmly over her mouth, muffling her cry. Her eyes widened in terror as Agent-90's shadowy form loomed over her, deadly and silent as the night itself. Her world went dark, the last thing she saw was the cold, unyielding resolve in his eyes—her fate sealed beneath the shadow of the assassin.
The chamber was a subterranean oubliette—windowless, airless, its concrete walls weeping with cold condensation, as if the very stone mourned its prisoners. A solitary industrial lamp swung gently overhead, casting a jaundiced, flickering halo of pallid light that danced like a dying flame in a shadowed hearth.
Kim Ji-Soo awoke with a strangled gasp, her senses awaking like a hunted animal, her body stiff and trembling beneath the weight of her bindings.
Her wrists were shackled to the arms of a brutal metal chair; her ankles encased in cold iron. The chains clinked ominously with her every futile wriggle—sharp, metallic sounds, like a judge's gavel delivering a final, irrevocable sentence.
Across the chamber stood a solitary figure—Agent-90. He was like a statue carved from obsidian, unmoving, inscrutable. His eyes, cold and relentless, fixed upon her with the patience of a predator watching its prey.
He did not speak at first. He simply observed, as if weighing her in a silent balance.
"Where… where am I?" Kim demanded, her voice brittle, cracking like fragile porcelain, yet she mustered a semblance of authority. "Untie me at once. Do you understand who I am?"
Her eyes, wide with fear and defiance, flickered in the pallid glow, recognition dawning like a slow, deadly sunrise.
"You," he acknowledged, voice like the echo of a distant tolling bell.
He stepped forward, his boots echoing softly, deliberate as a pendulum swinging into its final arc.
"You embezzled forty-five million ₴Z from the SSCBF operational coffers," he said, his tone as level as a blade's edge. "Diverted wealth into offshore accounts. Acquired estates, jewellery, private security—luxuries that hung like gaudy scars upon your soul."
Her jaw clenched, defiant, yet her fingers curled into fists as if to deny the truth.
"You lived opulently," he continued, voice devoid of malice yet unwavering, "while Chief Wen-Li was murdered—her death a silent testament to your treachery."
Kim's chin lifted, her defiance a fragile veneer. "Mind your language," she snapped, voice trembling with suppressed fury. "You have no proof."
He halted an arm's length away, silent as the grave.
"I require no proof," he said softly. "Only truth." The lamp swung again, its oscillation slicing his face into stark shadow and pallid light—a chiaroscuro of morality and madness.
"What was your purpose in ending her life?" he asked, voice low but resolute. "What motive drove you to such depths? And tell me—do you feel remorse?"
She stared at him, her eyes like twin coals, and a venomous flicker ignited behind her gaze.
"No," she replied coldly. "I feel none."
The word fell, heavy and obscene, like a curse. A silence, thick and suffocating, enveloped the chamber—an oppressive press of unspoken truths. Agent-90 did not waver. Instead, he turned with measured purpose. From a battered metal container beside the wall, he lifted a jerrycan—an ominous vessel of volatile fury. Kim's composure fractured, her breath hitching in her throat.
"What are you doing?" Her voice, trembling now, betrayed her terror. "This is madness. You'll be no better than me if you—"
He approached her again, slow and deliberate.
Without haste, without theatrics, he unscrewed the cap. The scent of petrol hit her first—sharp, acrid, like the breath of a beast awakening from slumber.
"No—wait—" she implored, voice quivering. "We can negotiate. I can bribe you. Influence, protection—anything!"
He tilted the can, and the liquid cascaded over her shoulders—soaking her silk blouse, her tailored jacket, streaming down her hair and pooling beneath her chair. The shimmering liquid reflected the dim light like some obscene baptism, an unholy ritual of destruction.
Her body convulsed instinctively against the restraints, trembling as the petrol seeped into her skin.
"Stop! Are you insane?!" she shrieked. "You think this will bring her back?"
He set the can aside, slow and deliberate, and from his coat pocket, he produced a lighter—metallic, cold, and deadly in its silence. The flick of his thumb, and a tiny flame blossomed into existence—a spark of hell.
Her bravado crumbled. "I—I regret it!" she cried, hysteria rising like a flood. "I was coerced! Political pressure—she was collateral! I never wanted her dead! Please—please—I feel remorse—"
Tears streaked down her face, mingling with the petrol, shimmering like diamonds of despair.
"Forgive me!" she sobbed. "I beg—"
Agent-90 crouched until his face was level with hers—cold as winter's heart, merciless as the abyss. For the first time, she looked directly into him—not merely the operative, not just the assassin. She saw something else—something darker, something unyielding.
His eyes were an inferno, icy and burning simultaneously—like glaciers that had learned to hate. He leaned close, his voice a whisper of death:
"She died believing humanity could be redeemed. I am here to correct her miscalculation."
A shiver ran through her spine, her skin erupting in gooseflesh. "No—please—" she whimpered, voice barely more than a breath. He straightened, the motion as precise as a guillotine's fall. He released the lighter.It hovered in midair—a tiny, deadly star.Then— Ignition.
A roaring inferno erupted upward, devouring her with a ferocity that defied nature—tongues of incandescent flame licking hungrily at her flesh, her hair, her very soul. The chamber filled with a violent, living predator—fire that consumed and obliterated everything in its path. Her scream tore through the chamber—raw, animalistic, primal in its agony. She writhed and thrashed, chains clanging like the final toll of a death bell, as flames claimed her silhouette, shadows twisting and writhing along the walls in grotesque parody.
"Help me! HELP—!" Her voice dissolved into shrill agony, swallowed by the roaring maw of destruction.
Agent-90 stood unmoving, as the inferno raged around him—his eyes reflecting the blaze like twin furnaces of cold resolve. There was no triumph, no satisfaction—only the abyss staring back. Her figure convulsed once more—then slackened, consumed by smoke and shadow, swallowed whole by the infernal maw.
He turned, methodical and unhurried, and strode toward the iron door. Behind him, the flames continued their ruthless litany, a symphony of destruction. He did not look back. Not when her screams faded into silence. Not when the fire died down. The door clanged shut with a heavy, final clang. And in the silence that followed, Agent-90 continued his relentless march—an agent no longer governed by grief, but by the cold, unyielding conflagration of his purpose.