It occurs whilst humans lie in the oblivion of slumber, their senses dulled and awareness shrouded in darkness. During these nocturnal hours, the devils—those sinister masqueraders—conceal their true nature behind the guise of ordinary folk. They weave seamlessly into society, their presence as insidious as shadows blending into the night. With eyelids closed, humanity remains blind—unable to discern the predator from the prey, the deceiver from the deceived.
If one dares to unveil their counterfeit faces, to expose their hidden identities—know this: the repercussions will be swift and unforgiving. Like a spider guarding its web, they will retaliate, ensnaring anyone who disturbs their sinister masquerade. To unmask these entities is to walk a perilous tightrope, where the slightest misstep invites the wrath of the unseen.
Their true nature is a master of disguise—an illusion woven with threads of darkness—lurking silently, waiting for the unwary to reveal themselves. The night is their realm, and those who seek to pierce the veil do so at their peril, for the consequences are often as devastating as a storm breaking upon a fragile vessel.
At Wen-Li's residence, precisely at 6:00 a.m. on the frosty morning of January 2nd, 2050, Agent-90 was roused from his slumber by the insistent chime of alarm. Wen-Li's sleek cat, Wen-Mi, sat alert by his side, eyes gleaming with expectancy, as if silently urging him to rise. Slowly, he pushed himself from the sofa, his movements sluggish and deliberate, before stepping into the cold embrace of the shower.
The water cascaded over him like icy needles, each drop a dagger of clarity piercing through the fog of his mind. Silence enveloped him; he bowed his head, eyes closed, drowning in the torrent of memories. The haunting sound of a gunshot echoed in his mind—a spectral scream that refused to fade—reminding him of her tragic gone. It was as if the echo had become etched into his soul, a perpetual scar that refused to heal.
In that moment of solitude, a storm of conflicting emotions roared within him. He had sworn an oath to Chief Wen-Luo—to safeguard his daughter, Wen-Li, and to seek retribution against those responsible for her parents' slaughter. Yet now, he found himself poised to serve the very architects of her pain, their dark puppeteers pulling the strings of his destiny.
His jaw clenched, and with a surge of fury, he slammed his fist against the cold, tiled wall—an act of defiance against fate itself. The water dripped rhythmically over him, each droplet a reminder of his fractured resolve, mingling with the tempest of his thoughts. His body trembled, not from the cold, but from the tumult of his conscience—an unyielding tempest threatening to drown him in despair.
Later, he gently fed Wen-Mi a bowl of milk, her whiskers twitching as she lapped contentedly, before settling down for a quiet breakfast. Once finished, he moved to the window, peering out with a keen, calculating gaze. His eyes narrowed as he observed a black SUV parked ominously at the front of the house—like a shadow poised to strike.
Suddenly, a knock at the door snapped him alert. His senses sharpened instantly. Without hesitation, he reached for a pistol from the drawer, the cold metal familiar and reassuring in his palm. He crouched momentarily, checking through the keyhole. Standing there was a man in his forties—his eyes dark, glossy, and unreadable, yet oddly luminous—locked in a cold contact that sent a shiver down Agent-90's spine.
With slow, deliberate movements, he unlatched the door. The man before him, masquerading as a police officer, held out an envelope with a measured, almost mechanical precision. His voice was smooth, yet laced with an underlying authority: "Sir Gavriel requests a meeting with you."
Agent-90 nodded silently, his face an unreadable mask, and closed the door with a quiet click. He retrieved the envelope, unfolding it with a practiced hand. Inside, lay an invitation card—its elegant script promising a rendezvous at the renowned 'Reddie Roses'.
He took a moment to prepare himself. Methodically, he donned a tailored black gentleman's suit, the fabric whispering against his skin like a second shadow. He adjusted his spectacles, the lenses gleaming with a faint sheen, transforming his visage into that of a composed, calculating man—a predator cloaked in civility. Before stepping out, he cast a glance back at Wen-Mi. The feline stared at him nonchalantly, her gaze cool and inscrutable—an unspoken challenge. He caught her stare, unconcerned, and offered a subtle wink, whispering softly, "I'll be back soon, little one."
As he moved outside, he became acutely aware of the piercing gazes fixated on him—silent witnesses lurking in the shadows, their eyes like predatory insects. Agent-90 understood all too well: he was under constant surveillance, every movement beneath a watchful eye.
He approached his crimson-black Koenigsegg Agera, the sleek curves of the vehicle gleaming like a predator's fang. With a measured grace, he slipped into the driver's seat, the engine purring to life—a beast awakened. The car roared to life, and with a calculated precision, he drove towards the 'Reddie Roses,' each mile a step closer to the enigma that awaited him.
As the engine's purr deepened into a throaty growl, Agent-90 eased the Koenigsegg Agera onto the deserted lane, the sleek machine responding with a seamless surge of power. The road unfurled before him like a ribbon of obsidian, winding through the awakening cityscape. His hands, steady and precise, gripped the steering wheel with a quiet authority, each movement deliberate, as if conducting an orchestra of mechanical grace.
Outside, the world blurred into a streak of muted colours—grey dawn bleeding into the early morning haze—every passing shadow and flicker of light a fleeting whisper of reality. The car's acceleration was a predator's pulse, a relentless heartbeat echoing within his chest, propelling him forward with unyielding resolve. The engine's growl was a symphony of purpose, resonating like a primal call beneath his fingertips.
He watched the city's awakening—silent skyscrapers standing as monoliths of ambition, streets still veiled in a fragile silence, broken only by the hum of his machine. The sleek curve of the vehicle mirrored his own calculated calm, a vessel of precision designed for the relentless pursuit of truth and vengeance.
Within the cocoon of leather and steel, Agent-90's mind was a tempest—thoughts swirling like a storm at sea, each mile a step further from the past, yet drawing him inexorably toward his destination. His gaze remained fixed ahead, eyes sharp as a hawk's, scanning the horizon for any sign of threat or opportunity. Every nuance of his posture bespoke a man who had mastered the art of patience and control—a shadow navigating through the labyrinth of shadows.
The road stretched ahead, silent and unyielding, much like his own resolve. The sleek silhouette of the car cut through the morning mist, a blade poised to dissect the mysteries that lay at the end of his journey—each moment a calculated move in the game of espionage and deception.
In the neon-bathed underbelly of Nin-Ran-Gi, Reddie Roses stands as both an opulent sanctuary and a clandestine sanctuary of decadence—a veritable palace cloaked in shadows where luxury and peril entwine like lovers in a forbidden embrace.
It is not crude, nor vulgar. It is curated—an exquisite tapestry woven with deliberate precision. Rising six stories high, the edifice is fashioned from deep crimson stone and black glass, a monolith of seductive elegance. Every evening, a colossal holographic rose unfurls above the entrance, its petals blooming in slow, hypnotic motion—like a siren's call, beckoning the unwary into its intoxicating depths.
Gold-trimmed balconies overlook the street, veiled in semi-transparent silk curtains that flutter softly in the night breeze. The sign glows in a gentle, understated crimson neon script—more refined whisper than boast. Discreet security drones hover silently near the roofline, their unblinking eyes ever vigilant, their presence an invisible shield of assurance.
Reddie Roses exudes a polished allure—its luxury meticulously designed to cocoon clients from the chaos of the outside world, wrapping them in a velvet chamber of seduction and secrecy.
As Agent-90 reaches to the Reddie Roses and went inside
Inside the ambiance shifts to a realm of hushed intimacy. The lighting is dim and warm, reminiscent of a secret garden at twilight: velvet lounges in a rich burgundy and ebony, their surfaces gleaming with understated elegance. Gold-accented railings and mirrored hallways reflect flickering candlelight, creating illusions of infinity. Soft ambient music—slow jazz remixed with digital undertones—drifts like a gentle fog, caressing the senses with a blend of nostalgia and futurism. The air is perfumed with the delicate aroma of roses and expensive incense, an olfactory symphony that whispers of clandestine pleasures.
Private suites are sanctuaries unto themselves—soundproofed chambers of bespoke design. Silk drapery cascades over plush furnishings, while mood-adjustable lighting bathes the rooms in hues of desire or discretion. Interactive holo-projectors flicker with promises of intimacy, and the bedding is as plush as clouds—an invitation to surrender.
Reddie Roses operates on multiple levels: a high-end companionship venue, a discreet forum for political and corporate intrigues, a nexus where the powerful convene away from prying eyes. Here, the elite seek refuge, whether for clandestine negotiations, fleeting escapes, or whispered alliances.
Entry is rigorously controlled—identification scans are obligatory, and privacy agreements are enforced with an iron fist, backed by both legal and less reputable means. The entertainers are not caricatures of victimhood, nor mere objects of lust—they are trained professionals: masters of conversation and performance, educated in etiquette and the art of corporate secrecy. Many work here for the leverage of wealth or the shield of protection; others are whispering spies, gathering secrets for unseen patrons.
Discretion is the currency of survival—Reddie Roses is whispered to be neutral territory, a velvet shield where no violence dares intrude. To breach its sanctity—violence within these gilded walls—is to invite disappearance, swallowed by the shadows like a star swallowed by night.
It is not merely a brothel. It is a sanctuary of power—a place where weakness is hidden behind layers of velvet and silence, and where true strength is wielded in whispers and glances. A haven where the mighty can relax, cloaked in veneer, and never show their vulnerability. Even it is the place to fulfill their fantasies.
As he strolled through the labyrinthine corridors of Reddie Roses, Agent-90 moved with a measured, unwavering composure—an indomitable statue amidst the hum of whispered conversations and soft movements. His gaze remained fixed on the horizon of his purpose, his eyes deliberately avoiding the glint of distraction or temptation that flickered around him like fleeting shadows. He was a pillar of calm, unshaken, as if he carried an invisible shield that deflected the seductions of the environment.
Suddenly, from behind, a figure materialised—a woman of exquisite allure, her presence as inevitable as the dawn. She was clad only in a delicate bra and a pair of tight jeans exposing her belly, her short bob cut framing her face with a reckless charm. Her amaranth hair cascaded over her shoulders like a waterfall of fire, and her eyes shimmered with a mischievous glint, laced with daring and intent.
She approached him with a catlike grace, her steps silent but purposeful. Without a word, she reached out, her fingers curling around his tie, and her lips curled into a subtle, seductive smile. Her hand lingered, as if daring him to surrender to temptation, her body leaning slightly into his space, a silent invitation wrapped in silken allure.
But Agent-90 remained utterly composed. His eyes, averted and cool, did not betray any flicker of interest or distraction. His voice, low and measured, broke the silence like a chime in a still cathedral.
"Please, ma'am," he said softly, "I came here for business."
The woman's lips twitched into a knowing smile, her eyes shimmering with both mischief and respect. She withdrew her hand gently, her expression a blend of grace and calculated professionalism.
"I apologise for the intrusion," she murmured, her voice velvety and smooth. "You must be Mr. Velvet Guillotine, correct?"
"Yes," he nodded, his tone calm but firm—a touch of steel beneath the veneer of civility.
"Very well, then," she continued, her gaze assessing yet respectful. "Allow me to escort you. Who is it you wish to meet?"
"I am here to meet Gavriel Elazar," he replied succinctly, his voice as steady as a mountain's foundation.
A flicker of admiration—or perhaps intrigue—crossed her face. With a graceful nod, she said, "Alright, then. Come with me. Mr. Elazar is waiting for you"
Her body language conveyed both deference and a subtle sense of challenge—an unspoken dance of power and submission, cloaked in the velvet of her charm. Her eyes lingered for a moment longer, as if she recognised the impenetrable fortress behind his calm exterior, and she moved beside him with a purposeful stride, the promise of secrets hidden in her smile.
They entered the secluded sanctum of the V.I.P. chamber, the door sliding open with a whisper of velvet. Inside, Gavriel sat in his customary immaculate white suit, exuding an air of effortless dominance, his eyes glittering with amusement and anticipation. Beside him, Nahema—an alluring demoness clad in a revealing, provocative ensemble—wove her fingers through her long, flowing silver hair, her gaze flickering with mischievous intent as she regarded the newcomer.
At the sight of Agent-90, Gavriel's lips curled into a sardonic smile. With a theatrical gesture, he beckoned, "Please, my dog—do come in!" His voice was smooth, layered with both invitation and mockery.
Gavriel gestured towards a sleek chair, his tone silkily commanding. "Sit, if you will. I've heard quite the tale—about your success in eliminating Selim Kaya, not to mention wiping out Kim Ji-Soo with the aid of your informant, Gonda. And, of course, the demise of the Tier Sinner Ash-Sark, courtesy of Zoyah. So, tell me—did you leak our little arrangement to them?"
Agent-90's jaw tightened, his posture rigid yet composed—like a fortress standing firm against an oncoming storm. His voice was calm but unwavering, edged with steel.
"No," he replied succinctly, "I gave you my word. I won't break that promise. I've been fortunate—blessed, even—to deal with you, Gavriel."
Gavriel chuckled softly, a sound like the tinkling of glass in a darkened cellar. His eyes gleamed with a mixture of satisfaction and curiosity. "Good, good, good," he said, leaning back with an air of satisfaction. "Now, here's something I'd like to share—would you like to know how?"
A slow, predatory smile spread across Gavriel's face as he poured a glass of vodka, the liquid shimmering like liquid moonlight. He brought the glass to his lips and took a measured sip, savouring the burn of it.
"Oh, 90," Gavriel murmured, voice low and velvety, "I'm about to share a bit of philosophy with you. Come—have a drink."
Agent-90's expression hardened. He shook his head gently, his stance still poised and unwavering. "No, thank you," he replied, his tone cool and decisive. "I don't drink alcohol. Even all the vodka in the world—none of it suits me."
Gavriel's lips twitched into a sardonic grin as he chuckled, the sound resonating with a faintly mocking tone. "What a man-lady you are, eh, Nahema?" His eyes flicked to her, a glint of amusement dancing in their depths.
Nahema's lips curled into a playful, almost conspiratorial smile—her cheeks barely lifting as she responded softly, "Yeah, he's really a gentleman," her tone dripping with irony, yet her eyes sparkling with amusement.
Gavriel's voice was like the whisper of silk sliding over steel as he leaned forward slightly, his eyes gleaming with a predatory gleam. "You are pondering, aren't you? Why I shattered your skull in such a particular place," he said, a sardonic smile curling at the corners of his mouth.
Agent-90's jaw clenched, his expression stoic yet tinged with a flicker of suspicion. "I don't know what you're plotting. I don't—really—know what you are," he replied, voice low and measured, yet edged with an unmistakable undercurrent of wariness.
Gavriel chuckled softly, a sound that echoed like the tinkling of darkened bells. Then, with a voice as smooth and dangerous as velvet draped over a dagger, he said, "Ah, my boy, let me share with you a fragment of philosophy—an insight into the abyss. Do you know which creature is the most perilous on this living planet? The most insatiable, the most treacherous?"
The room grew silent, charged with anticipation.
"Tell me," Gavriel murmured, his smile widening like a predator's trap. "Which creature—on this mortal coil—is the most dangerous, the most unfulfilled?"
Agent-90's gaze was unwavering, his tone calm but firm. "Humans," he said simply.
Gavriel's eyes sparkled with approval, a predator pleased with its prey. "Exactly," he whispered. "Humans. And why? Because they are the most insatiable, the most destructive of all beings. Driven by greed, by avarice, by a relentless hunger for wealth and power. They are, quite literally, the architects of their own destruction. Unlike the rest of creation—beasts, animals—they follow their instincts; they accept what is given. But humans? Ah, humans are different."
His voice grew more fervent, almost a sermon. "They are utterly indifferent to the suffering of others; their hearts are cloaked in cold calculation. Their desires—oh, their desires—are rooted in selfishness and greed. A craving for dominance, for riches, for recognition. Even the Devil himself fears humanity, for they wield a corrupting power that even he trembles before. Not merely for selfishness or ambition, but for a filth-ridden desire that poisons the soul—a desire so base, so vile, that it can erode morality itself."
"When humans are born they are pure and innocent and when they turn to monsters…... .when? They reached their adulthood" He paused, eyes narrowing as he gestured around. "Look around you. Do you see any semblance of true humanity? No. People manipulate, exploit, and betray. They abandon their kin, their communities, their very morals—anything that might stand in the way of their greed. They are the architects of chaos, the masters of hypocrisy. Two-faced, duplicitous—masking their true selves behind a veneer of civility, only to backstab once the opportunity arises. They even hurt others for their own satisfaction"
Gavriel's voice turned darker, more resonant, like the tolling of a death knell. "They perform acts so heinous, so inexplicable, that even the Devil fears what mankind is capable of. For they are the masters of chaos, the architects of sin, and they do so with a smile on their face. They commit sins that would make even the most depraved sinner recoil in horror."
He leaned back, a slow, calculated gesture. "The Devil, you see, merely offers the invitation. It is we who choose to accept. And at the end of days, when the judgment comes, who will be blamed? The Devil? Or those who heed his call?"
Gavriel's lips curled into a sardonic smile. He chuckled softly. "Humanity—nothing but an illusion. A grand delusion, a shadow cast upon the void. There is no morality left—just colossal selfishness, and the filthy desire that fuels it. They only concern themselves with their own existence: how they live, how they sleep, what they take. Money, money, money—an opiate that promises happiness but delivers only despair. They believe that wealth equals love, that riches can buy salvation. But it's all a lie—a mirage in the desert of their own making.'"
His tone grew sharper, almost bitter. "Money is the first desire—an insatiable beast that devours everything in its path. And the second? Desires and adultery—satisfying needs, hearts, and souls alike. To hurt others, whether consciously or unconsciously, they wound themselves in the process. It's a tragic comedy, a farce played out on the stage of a broken world. Don't you agree?"
Gavriel's voice softened, yet carried the weight of nihilism. "And me? I am the devil incarnate. I give the invitation—you, the foolish mortal, accept it. Whose fault is it, then? Yours? Mine? Or—"
He paused, his smile darkening into a grin so sinister it seemed to flicker like a shadow at the edge of perception. "—the fault of the universe itself?"
Nineteen remained silent, absorbing the poisonous truths like a sponge soaking up ink. Then, softly, he asked, "So… this is why you summoned me—just to hear your nihilistic sermons?"
Gavriel's eyes twinkled with dark amusement. "No, no, my boy," he replied with a sly grin. "I know you're interested in psychology—the abyss that is the human mind. I understand it well. Some are truly kind—souls that seek to serve others, not devils. But you and I? We are the devils. Up above, angels watch, their wings shimmering with righteousness. And down here? We dance in the shadows, in the chaos."
He leaned forward, voice dropping into a whisper of promises and peril. "There's a game—a dance of shadows—one that's about to unfold. You know what I mean? The 'cat and mouse' chase. The angels hunt us, and we, in turn, must hide in the darkness until dawn breaks. One of us—the devil—will be hunted, pursued across the world, until the light finally claims us."
Ninety's eyes narrowed, a flicker of recognition. "The 'cat and mouse' game," he echoed.
Gavriel's grin stretched wider, a predator's smile. "Yes, yes, Ninety. That's precisely it. Now, shall we proceed to the place where our fantasies are realised? Did you bring your masquerade mask?"
Agent-90 nodded, a quiet resolve settling over him as they headed toward their dark destination—shadows cloaking their steps, their motives as inscrutable as the night itself.
In the depths of a clandestine chamber, shrouded in shadows thicker than ink, the elites gathered beneath a pallid, flickering candlelight. Their faces were masks of cold anticipation, eyes gleaming with a sinister hunger that knew no bounds. The air was heavy with the scent of burnt offerings and ancient incantations, a putrid perfume that clung to the damp stone walls.
At the center of the chamber, an altar dripped with dark, viscous substances—remnants of sacrifices long past—each drop a testament to their unquenchable depravity. The elites, draped in opulent robes embroidered with arcane symbols, moved with a predatory grace, their gestures deliberate and ritualistic.
In unison, they chanted words lost to time—an unholy liturgy that summoned eldritch forces from beyond the veil. Their voices, a chorus of corrupted souls, echoed like the rasping hiss of serpents coiling in the shadows, weaving a spell of wickedness and desire.
The scene unfurled like a grotesque ballet: hands reaching out, forming symbols of dark power, as if weaving threads of chaos into the very fabric of reality. The air thickened, pulsating with malevolent energy, as if the chamber itself was alive—breathing, writhing with the collective lust for dominance, for power, for the corrupt pleasures that defiled both body and spirit.
Suddenly, a figure emerged—cloaked in darkness, eyes burning with infernal fire. This was the moment of consummation; their ritualistic hunger reaching its fever pitch. They knelt, heads bowed in reverence to the unholy entity they conjured, offering not only sacrifices but their very souls, all in pursuit of carnal, blasphemous fulfilment.
The chamber trembled as a shadowy presence coalesced—an embodiment of the abyss—its tendrils curling around the sinners, feeding on their filth and greed. It was a perverse symphony of corruption, a dance of the damned, indulging in their unholy desires beneath a sky of eternal darkness.
In that forsaken place, the elites reveled in their depravity, their lusts satisfied only when the darkness devoured all remnants of purity, leaving behind naught but a void of corruption and chaos.
Then, the figure in red stepped forward, his voice resonant and commanding. He called out to Agent-90, "Remove your mask—show your face," his tone brooking no defiance, yet tinged with an almost ritualistic gravitas.
Slowly, deliberately, Agent-90 lifted the mask, the fabric slipping from his face like a shroud being peeled away—unveiling the resolve etched into his features, a mask of stoic resolve masking the tumult beneath
The crimson-robed figure studied him with a piercing gaze, then turned to Gavriel, who still wore his fox-mask, a sly, cunning expression playing beneath the guise. "Fox," the Grand Master's voice was low, yet commanding, "are you aware that this man"—he pointed a gloved finger at Agent-90—"is the one?"
Gavriel, beneath his fox-mask, bowed his head slightly with a predatory smile, his voice smooth as silk yet edged with malice. "Yes, Grand Master. He is our instrument—our tool in the shadows."
The Grand Master's eyes narrowed, his expression inscrutable. "Good," he said, voice dripping with authority. "You have done for us for fulfill our ritual by sacrificing to those who tried to stops us" and also gives a stern warning, "Keep this in mind, that Agent-90: Should you dare to speak of this gathering—any detail, any whisper—you shall face the most dire consequences. Your life itself will be forfeit—an offering to the abyss."
Agent-90's posture remained impeccable—calm, respectful, yet every muscle tensed beneath his composed exterior. He inclined his head slightly, an acknowledgment of the warning, his expression unwavering, like a stone carved by time and resolve.
The silence stretched thick and heavy, thick with unspoken threats and silent oaths, before the chamber returned to its ritualistic rhythm, the shadows whispering secrets only the darkness dares to keep.
As Gavriel prepared to depart, a sinister smile curled across his lips—a smile that was as cold and sharp as a dagger glinting in shadow. His voice, laced with dark promise, drifted like a whisper through the chamber. "Remember this, Agent-90," he said, voice low but resonant with menace. "The shadows are always watching. Cross me, and the darkness shall devour you whole."
His words hung in the air, a silent threat cloaked in ominous finality, like a black fog seeping into the corners of the night.
Agent-90 said nothing. His jaw clenched tightly, muscles taut like steel cables straining against their limits. His fingers curled into a death grip around the steering wheel—so fierce, so relentless—that his knuckles blanched. His face was a mask of calm, yet beneath it, turmoil churned—an tempest of nausea and dread. His stomach lurched, a visceral reaction to the grotesque tableau he had just witnessed, as if he were about to vomit his very soul onto the cold, unforgiving floor.
In silence, he turned away from the mansion's dark threshold, the engine's roar like a beast awakening. As he drove through the winding roads, a prickling sensation crept up his spine. A faint, sinister feeling prickled beneath his skin—like shadowy fingers trailing along his back—warning him.
Then, as he glanced into the rearview mirror, he noticed it: faint traces of movement. Shadows—subtle, almost imperceptible—lingering just beyond the edge of his vision. There were still people following him.
His heart pounded like a war drum inside his chest; his mind raced with a surge of adrenaline. Instinct urged him to act. His hands gripped the wheel tighter—his knuckles white as bleached bone—his mind a tumult of conflicting thoughts. Should he confront them? Escape? Or hide in the darkness, like a fox slipping into its burrow?
A cold, calculated decision formed within him. He slowed the vehicle just slightly, eyes darting from the mirror to the road ahead. His jaw set, his expression a mixture of resolve and loathing. Whatever game was being played—whatever shadows lurked in the darkness—he would not be a pawn for long.
The night stretched before him, thick as ink, hiding secrets and dangers yet unseen. And he knew—deep within—that this was only the beginning of a far darker pursuit.
Midnight draped the city in sable hush.
Nightingale trudged down the corridor of her apartment building, heels clicking in fatigued cadence. The fluorescent lights above flickered with bureaucratic indifference.
In chibi form, her mind was absolute pandemonium.
Tiny chibi-Nightingales ran in frantic circles inside her imagination—one drowning beneath teetering paperwork, another being chased by an oversized rubber stamp marked URGENT, while a third wailed dramatically, "Lan Qian, why must your reports resemble abstract poetry?!"
A miniature chibi-Lan Qian appeared, shrugging sheepishly as files combusted behind her.
Back in reality, Nightingale exhaled sharply, massaging her temple. "Heavy workload, insufferable politics, and now I am unofficially Lan Qian's governess," she muttered in impeccable British restraint.
She reached her door.
Paused.
Something was… amiss.
Her gaze lowered.
There, illuminated by the pallid hallway light, sat a small cardboard box.
And within it—
Two luminous eyes blinked up at her.
Her own eyes widened.
"Wen-Mi?"
The cat let out a soft, plaintive mrrp.
Nightingale crouched at once, fatigue evaporating like mist before dawn. The box was lined with an old navy scarf—one she recognised instantly.
It had belonged to Wen-Li.
Her breath caught.
"Who brought you here?" she whispered, glancing up and down the corridor, but it remained empty—mute, conspiratorial.
She noticed an envelope tucked beneath the scarf.
With delicate fingers, she retrieved it.
The handwriting was firm. Unadorned.
Inside, the letter read:
Nightingale,
I am entrusting Wen-Mi to you.
She prefers warm milk before sleep and dislikes thunder.
She will wait by the window at dusk.
Please take care of her.
— A friend
The words were sparse, yet laden with something unspoken—like a wound stitched without anaesthetic.
For a moment, Nightingale simply stared.
Her lips parted slightly.
Wen-Mi shifted, paw reaching up to bat gently at her sleeve.
In chibi form, Nightingale froze dramatically, eyes enormous, sparkles quivering at the edges as an emotional orchestra swelled absurdly in the background.
"She entrusted me…?!" chibi-Nightingale gasped, clutching the letter as if it were a royal decree.
Back in reality, her composure fractured.
"Wen-Li…" she breathed, "After she gone her spirit left this poor creature to look after"
The corridor blurred faintly as moisture gathered in her eyes.
She gathered the cat carefully into her arms. Wen-Mi immediately nestled against her chest, purring—a soft, tremulous vibration that seemed to mend something torn.
"Oh, you poor darling," Nightingale murmured, voice trembling despite her effort to maintain dignity. "You have lost your sun."
Wen-Mi pressed her head beneath Nightingale's chin.
And for the first time since the funeral—
Nightingale smiled.
Not broadly.
Not brilliantly.
But gently—like the first fragile bloom after winter's tyranny.
In chibi form, she held Wen-Mi with exaggerated tenderness while pastel petals floated around them, the heavy paperwork monsters fleeing into oblivion.
"I suppose," she said softly, unlocking her door, "we shall look after one another, shall we?"
The apartment lights flickered on, warm and amber.
She stepped inside, cradling the small creature as though carrying a relic.
Grief had been a storm within her—relentless, unforgiving.
Yet now—
In the quiet cradle of midnight—
It softened into something survivable.
Like a dandelion petal drifting through darkness, refusing to surrender to the wind.
Agent-90 stood motionless outside the smoldering ruin of Wen-Li's dwelling. He did it. He burned the house. The house had been reduced to a charred carcass, ash and debris smothered in flames that licked hungrily at the night sky, devouring what remained with ravenous ferocity. The fire's glow cast an eerie, flickering pallor over the destruction—an infernal maw swallowing all in its path, leaving nothing behind but suffocating silence and ashes.
Through the thick haze, he discerned the faint silhouettes of figures—spectral shapes lurking just beyond the periphery, their eyes like cold, unblinking orbs of predatory patience. They watched him with an unearthly stillness, their presence as unnerving as tendrils of darkness curling in the corners of his mind.
Through the thick haze, he discerned the faint silhouettes of figures—spectral shapes lurking just beyond the periphery, their eyes like cold, unblinking orbs of predatory patience. They watched him with an unearthly stillness, their presence as unnerving as tendrils of darkness curling in the corners of his mind.
Time was a luxury he could ill afford. The shadows behind him hinted at imminent pursuit, at a danger that slithered and writhed just beyond sight. His jaw clenched, muscles taut with resolve, as he realised he could not linger in this cursed place.
With a deliberate, measured motion, he stepped back from the ruin, his posture rigid as steel. His voice, low and deliberate, cut through the night like a blade. "I am the devil you have made," he declared, each word dripping with icy conviction. "And you—those who watch from the shadows—you will face the consequences of your treachery."
His words echoed in the silence, a warning as unyielding as a thunderclap in an empty sky. His eyes burned with a fierce conviction, reflecting the flames that still danced behind him—an unspoken vow that he would confront the darkness, no matter how serpentine or insidious it may be He made his move, retreating swiftly into the shadows, knowing that this encounter was but a prelude to a far more sinister game. The night swallowed his silhouette, yet his resolve burned brighter than the fires behind him—an indomitable flame in the suffocating gloom.