On the 3rd of January, 2050, it was a hot atmosphere, within the austere confines of the SSCBF headquarters, the bustling hum of activity persisted—officers immersed in their duties, reports exchanged like hushed secrets in a cathedral of steel and glass. Yet amidst the chaos, one figure moved with a restless disquiet—a palpable ache that lingered beneath her composed exterior. Nightingale, her silvery-aqua hair braided into a low ponytail, felt the weight of grief pressing down on her like an unyielding shroud. Wen-Li, their erstwhile Chief—an exemplar of discipline, serenity, and unshakeable resolve—was no longer among them.
Wen-Li had been a paragon of measured action—her every movement, every decision, a calculated brushstroke on the canvas of command. Though she could be surprisingly whimsical and imbued with dry humour, her absence now carved a void deeper than mere emptiness.
Nightingale's gaze lingered on her captain's empty chair, her heart aching with a silent, unspoken plea. Yet she clung to the hope that Wen-Li's indomitable spirit still watched over them, a silent sentinel in the shadows.
Across the room, Captain Lingaong Xuein stood with her commanding presence—a deep reddish-brown gaze sharp and piercing, reflecting vigilance and tactical acuity. Her eyebrows, straight and slightly angled downward, reinforced her no-nonsense demeanor, a fortress of discipline. Her lips, a neutral line of resolve, betrayed no emotion as her dark, flowing hair tumbled past her shoulders in calculated elegance. Her uniform—a black officer's jacket with gold lining, red trim, and a ceremonial cape—exuded authority, her stature crowned by the insignia and epaulettes that proclaimed her rank.
Nightingale hesitated briefly, then approached cautiously.
"Ying Zheo Lin, are you alright?" Her voice was laced with concern, her eyes searching her comrade's face for signs of distress.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," came the quick, almost startled reply. Nightingale's brow furrowed, her instinct overriding her restraint.
"Lieutenant," Xuein's voice was calm yet commanding, "Perhaps you should head home and get some rest?"
"What? Why?" Nightingale's eyes widened in bewilderment, her voice tinged with a mixture of confusion and lingering worry.
Lingaong Xuein's gaze hardened, her tone steady. "Just because I've seen you push yourself too far sometimes. Since Wen-Li's passing, everything feels… different. The humour, the calm, even the very air around us seems altered—like a ship lost in a storm, adrift without its steadfast captain."
Nightingale's voice cracked with vehemence. "Yeah! Thanks to that bastard Agent-90! Because of him, she was pinned as a murderer—he didn't let us see her, and he killed her! Don't you think, Xuein?"
Xuein's eyes flashed with a mixture of sympathy and resolve. "You're right," she said quietly, "he's responsible. But we have to stay vigilant. We can't let our grief blind us."
Her gaze then drifted downward, settling on Xuein's midsection—a lean, athletic abdomen that bespoke rigorous battlefield training rather than softness. The subtle contours of her core muscles hinted at discipline and resilience, a testament to endurance and strength. Her navel, small and delicate, rested at the centre—a quiet symbol of her unyielding control.
Nightingale's eyes unconsciously flicked to her abdomen, a blush creeping into her cheeks. Xuein caught her glance, a knowing smirk curling at her lips as she remarked, "What are you looking at?"
Nightingale's cheeks flushed deeper, and she averted her gaze, cheeks burning with embarrassment. "Nothing," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
Xuein's smile was cheerful, teasing, yet tinged with warmth. "Just making sure you're paying attention," she quipped, her tone lightening the mood.
Suddenly, the room's atmosphere shifted as Chief Zhang Ji entered, clapping his hands loudly—a commanding, almost theatrical gesture that silenced the murmurs and stirred the air with anticipation.
"Dear officers and staff," his voice boomed, rich with gravitas, "I am fully aware of your unwavering dedication. Your resolve has propelled our organisation forward through trials and tribulations. And in recognition of your relentless effort, we shall hold a grand feast—a celebration of resilience, a toast to our collective spirit! It will be in tomorrow"
His tone grew somber, yet resolute. "In particular, we gather here to honour Wen-Li—a leader of unwavering integrity who sacrificed everything for justice. Her memory shall forever be etched in our hearts, and her spirit remains among us, guiding our every step."
The officers responded with subdued applause—claps that echoed like distant thunder—yet beneath the veneer of reverence, a sense of dread simmered beneath the surface.
Robert leaned toward Commander Krieg, whispering under his breath, "Did you hear that? They've announced a feast just days after Wen-Li's passing… it feels… wrong."
Krieg's expression darkened, his arms crossing with a slow, deliberate motion. "I've got that same feeling," he muttered, voice grave. "Like some dreadful storm brewing beyond the horizon."
Robert's eyes widened as he caught sight of the absence of Chairman Selim Kaya and Chairwoman Kim Ji-Soo—missing from the gathering, their places conspicuously vacant.
"Don't tell me…," Robert began, suspicion creeping into his voice.
Krieg's jaw clenched, a shadow passing over his features. "It's him," he said coldly. "The one pulling the strings. I reckon this is revenge—something far darker than we dare imagine."
"What if he attacks us now?" Robert's voice trembled with concern.
Krieg's expression hardened, his eyes gleaming with resolve. "I don't know what fate has in store, but I'd rather see these politicians of the High Council rot in their graves than give them the satisfaction of victory."
His words, sharp as a dagger, hung in the air—a grim prophecy of chaos lurking just beyond the veneer of civility.
Meanwhile, at the Hollowpoint, precisely at 10:00 a.m., Agent-90 moved with deliberate purpose along the deserted street. His awareness was razor-sharp, as though he carried a sixth sense attuned to every surveillance camera's pivot and lens tracking his every step. The cameras—like silent predators—tracked him with unwavering focus, their mechanical eyes glinting like predatory insects in the gloom.
Within the subterranean depths of the SCP Headquarters, the officers and staff toiled with relentless focus. Among them, Eitan Shalom—an expert in hacking and data theft targeting the High-Chaebol's sprawling, clandestine network—watched intently from his console. His eyes darted across multiple screens, each a window into the unseen web of digital espionage. As Agent-90's silhouette approached, Shalom's gaze remained fixed, his expression a mask of concentration—a predator watching its prey with clinical precision.
"There he goes," Shalom muttered softly, voice edged with a mixture of intrigue and wary admiration. "The devil himself, wandering unscathed through the chaos." His tone was hushed, yet imbued with a quiet reverence—like a scholar contemplating a mythic creature.
Outside, the spies and agents stationed in their vantage points fixed their eyes upon him, their bodies tense as coiled springs. He approached a juxtaposition of infrastructure—an architectural paradox—an edifice wrought in symmetrical chaos, a monument to industrial artistry. Constructed from iron, copper, and bronze, the building's brutal, almost organic geometry seemed to pulse with life—a living organism of steel and circuitry. It was a sprawling megastructure, a labyrinthine colossus rising fifteen stories high, its construction an unplanned symphony of squatter's rights and improvisation. Narrow alleyways and tangled corridors wove through the dense vertical sprawl, housing over thirty thousand souls within a mere 2.6 hectares—a testament to humanity's capacity for resilience, or perhaps, reckless abandon.
As Agent-90 moved through this vertical jungle, the foundations beneath his feet were a chaotic patchwork of reused bricks, concrete scraps, and scavenged materials—an architecture of necessity, where every inch was a testament to improvisation, a living mosaic of daily decisions. Wires hung like tangled vines overhead, crackling with raw electricity—a testament to the relentless, unpolished life that thrived in this unplanned metropolis.
The inhabitants paused in their hurried routines, instinctively recoiling as he passed—every eye a dagger of suspicion. A mother clutched her child tightly, her knuckles blanching, her gaze a mixture of fear and defiance. An old man's stare was a razor-sharp blade, unwavering and serious, whispering in the silence—"Here walks the devil—do not engage, do not speak, do not approach." Yet Agent-90 paid no heed; his focus was unwavering, like a predator stalking its prey.
He reached a battered door, knocking with measured authority. The response was immediate—a voice from within, rough and unyielding.
"Wait a moment!" came the reply, a gravelly voice echoing from behind the threshold. The door swung open to reveal Valkyra Ashborn.
She stood like a fortress—tall, broad-shouldered, her presence commanding and unassailable, as if gravity itself bent slightly around her formidable frame. Her long granola-brown hair tumbled in thick, slightly unruly waves down her back, often tied loosely when engaged in combat. Strands framed a face marked by scars—a history etched into her battle-worn visage, each line a testament to countless conflicts endured.
Her attire was utilitarian—a fitted black crop top, revealing her toned, scarred abdomen, faintly glowing with suppression lines and restraint sigils. Her long, reinforced trousers, built for impact resistance, hugged her muscular limbs, while heavy combat boots and wrist restraints, etched with arcane sigils, completed her formidable appearance. Her stance was grounded—predatory—every movement deliberate, as if she were a coiled spring ready to strike.
She spoke little, her voice blunt, direct—an unvarnished blade. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, conveyed a guarded hostility, yet beneath the surface lurked a fierce protectiveness for the weaker Sinners she fought for. Her disdain for confinement systems was palpable—her every action a silent rebellion against the chains that sought to enslave her.
Her abdomen, like a fortress of steel and sinew, housed vital organs—powerful core muscles that generated explosive force and stability. The faint glow of suppression lines across her skin hinted at biomechanical enhancements—limiter seals, neural stabilisers, emergency shutdown nodes—yet her navel, a small, unassuming scar from birth, remained a silent reminder of her humanity amidst the chaos.
Her surprise was evident as she stared at the visitor, her voice a low, incredulous echo. "You?!"
Agent-90's tone was urgent, unwavering. "I need to speak with you—immediately."
At precisely 10:30 a.m., the fluorescent lights of SSCBF headquarters hummed with a quiet, bureaucratic indifference—an almost clinical rhythm that seemed to flatten emotion into routine. Near the east corridor, a vending machine rattled as Captain Robert pressed his selection. The spiral turned with a hollow clack, releasing its prize like a reluctant confession.
He stood at ease, yet not unguarded—his posture relaxed, but his awareness sharp, as though even stillness required vigilance. A soldier, after all, did not unlearn alertness; he merely learned to wear it lightly.
"Robert."
The voice arrived before the woman did—clear, composed, and unmistakably self-possessed.
He looked up.
Lingaong Xuein approached with her measured, unhurried stride, each step deliberate without being ostentatious. Her attire bore the mark of discipline—functional, precise—yet unshielded at the midsection. Her abdomen, toned and unhidden, was not displayed but declared: a testament to endurance, to training, to a body honed by survival rather than ornament.
Robert's gaze flickered—brief, instinctive—before he redirected it with quiet restraint.
She noticed.
She always did.
"What is it, Robert?" she asked, stopping before him. Her brow lifted slightly—not in accusation, but in gentle inquiry. "Why do you look away?"
He did not evade.
"I respect you."
There was no hesitation in his tone, no awkwardness to dilute its sincerity. It was not an excuse—it was a choice.
For a fleeting moment, her expression softened—like frost yielding, just barely, to morning light.
She stepped closer, lowering her voice.
"I saw Nightingale this morning," she said. "She's… not herself. Since Chief Wen-Li left, it feels as though something essential has fractured. Like a constellation undone—the stars remain, but the pattern is lost."
Robert exhaled slowly, his gaze steady.
"Some bonds don't dissolve," he replied. "They persist. And sometimes… persistence becomes pain."
Her eyes drifted, thoughtful, tracing something invisible between memory and meaning.
"May I spend time with her?" she asked. "She's my friend as well."
A faint scoff escaped him—not dismissive, but lightly amused.
"You don't require my permission to care," he said. "Your loyalties are your own."
There was no claim in his voice. No ownership. Only recognition.
She glanced about—the corridor was empty, save for the low hum of machinery.
Then, with a subtle hesitation, she reached for his hand.
There was a tremor in her fingers at first—fragile as a note struck too softly—but once she held him, her grip steadied.
Her voice lowered.
"What if we lived together?"
She turned her face aside, a faint flush colouring her cheeks—not from embarrassment, but from the courage it took to ask.
"Would that be… possible?"
Time seemed to pause—not dramatically, but gently, as though the world itself were holding its breath.
Robert shifted closer—not imposing, not overwhelming—simply closing the distance between uncertainty and reply.
His hand moved, rising from her abdomen to rest over her heart, feeling the steady cadence beneath.
"Why wouldn't I want that?" he said softly.
Then, quieter still—
"But we inhabit uncertain times. A world where sincerity is questioned, where silence is misread. I don't fear commitment, Xuein… I fear failing you."
Her gaze shimmered—not with fragility, but with clarity.
"If we struggle," she said, "then we struggle together. That is the point."
She studied him, searching not for perfection, but for truth.
"Why are you afraid now?"
He glanced aside briefly.
"The unrest. The fractures beyond these walls. I cannot promise safety."
She stepped closer, closing the last of the distance herself.
"You already gave me safety," she replied. "When no one else did. You stood between me and harm—without obligation, without hesitation."
There was no embellishment in her tone. Only memory.
And recognition.
He looked at her differently then—not as someone to shield, but as someone who had chosen him.
Then—
Footsteps.
Both turned instinctively.
Xuemin stood at the corridor's bend, having halted mid-stride. His expression was carefully neutral—too carefully.
"I may have miscalculated my timing," he muttered, suddenly fascinated by the vending machine.
"It's not what you think," Robert said, a dry note of humour threading through his voice.
Xuemin extended a file.
"Captain. Documentation."
Robert accepted it.
"And?"
"Western sector audit."
His tone was even—deliberately so.
Xuein narrowed her eyes at her brother.
"You didn't come here merely for paperwork."
A faint smirk tugged at Xuemin's lips.
"I came for exactly that. Interpret the rest as you wish."
Her cheeks warmed again.
"If you so much as—"
He was already walking away.
Silence returned, settling softly between them.
Robert's amusement lingered, then softened into something quieter.
This time, when he reached for her, it was intentional.
His hand rested at her waist—not claiming, but steadying. Hers remained lightly against his chest.
"Xuein," he murmured, "when did you become so daring?"
She met his gaze without flinching.
"When I realised fear wastes time."
A faint smile touched his lips.
"You just sometimes wierd and funny Xuein"
She inhaled, steadying herself.
"That wasn't seduction," she said. "It was trust."
Her voice held no ambiguity.
"My centre. My strength. I let you there because I believe you will not misuse it."
He studied her—not as an officer, not as a protector—but as a man recognising the gravity of what had been given.
"That," he said quietly, "is why you're so difficult to understand."
"Did you say something?" she asked.
"Nothing."
He brushed a strand of hair from her face—slowly, almost reverently.
"I don't want to confine you with protection," he said. "I want to stand beside you."
Her lips curved faintly.
"Then stand."
And so he did.
She stepped into him—not collapsing, not yielding—but leaning, by choice.
He did not enclose her.
He simply remained.
For a fleeting, almost whimsical instant, one might imagine a softer echo of them—tiny, chibi-like reflections—Xuein holding a sign that read "CONFESSION: SUCCESSFUL", while a miniature Robert blinked in delayed comprehension.
Back in reality, he exhaled a quiet laugh.
"You are trouble," he murmured.
"Only when necessary," she replied.
And beneath those sterile lights—amid humming machines and unseen observers—they stood not as roles defined by duty, but as two individuals choosing something rarer than certainty.
Not possession.
Not protection.
But partnership.
Inside Valkyra Ashborn's compact residence—an enclave that seemed more like a fortified alcove than a home—Ashborn stood like a bastion of unyielding resolve. Tall and broad-shouldered, her presence was as commanding and unassailable as a mountain peak resisting the storm. The very air around her seemed to bend subtly, as if gravity itself recoiled at her formidable silhouette.
Ashborn's gaze sharpened as she fixed her eyes on Agent-90, her voice as cold as steel. "What do you want to discuss about?"
The agent, a nervous tremor in his posture, responded hurriedly, "I need help!"
She scoffed—a sound like gravel grinding beneath a bootsheel. "Help?" Her tone dripped with scorn. "So the Velvet Guillotine has come knocking, asking for my aid? Well, then—out with it. Tell me what it's about."
Agent-90 cast a cautious glance through the window, ensuring no prying eyes or ears were lurking outside. The silence stretched between them, tense as a bowstring pulled taut. Then, in a hushed voice, he whispered, "It's about… something I can't say openly."
Ashborn's eyes narrowed, her brow furrowing like a storm cloud gathering on the horizon. "What is it, then? Why the secrecy?"
He hesitated, then leaned in slightly, voice dropping even lower. "I can't reveal too much, but I need to see Velgrave Prystowsky—take me to him."
Before Ashborn could respond, a firm, resonant knock echoed against the door—like the crack of thunder splitting the sky. Her instincts flared—her body tensing like a coiled serpent about to strike. Her sharp gaze snapped to Agent-90. "Don't open it," he commanded, his tone clipped and unwavering, "they're following us."
The agent nodded, eyes flickering with suspicion. "Stay alert," he advised, voice strained with caution. "They're here."
Hearing his words, Ashborn stepped back, her senses on high alert. She peered through the narrow keyhole, her eyes narrowing as she observed the two men in sleek, black suits—tall, imposing figures, their presence as silent and ominous as shadows cast by a dying fire. Her breath caught briefly—her instincts whispering danger.
Without hesitation, she beckoned him to follow her, her movements fluid and precise—like a panther stalking its prey. But just as they moved to slip away, the door burst open with a violent shove, the hinges protesting loudly. The two men surged forward—searching frantically—yet the house was eerily empty. No signs of life, no trace of their target.
They scoured every corner—cabinets, hiding spots, beneath furniture—like hunters chasing ghosts. But, in the end, they found nothing—just the echo of silence and the faint scent of vanishing footsteps. The house had been abandoned, the intruders having vanished into the shadows as swiftly as a mirage dissolving at dawn.
They walked beneath the sewer vault in near-total darkness, boots striking against damp stone with a hollow cadence. The air was brackish — metallic with decay — and each breath felt siphoned through rusted lungs of the city itself. Water trickled along the curved walls like nervous perspiration. Overhead, old service pipes groaned intermittently, as though muttering secrets no one wished to inherit.
Then — a ladder.
A hatch.
A flicker of jaundiced light.
They emerged.
Before them stretched the Garden of Sinner.
It was not a garden in the pastoral sense. It was an amphitheatre of ruin sculpted into grandeur. Gothic arches intertwined with brutalist spires; stained glass panels depicted not saints, but crimes. Iron trellises bore no roses — only blackened thorns fashioned from scrap metal and bone. The pathways spiralled inward like a labyrinthine mandala, converging at a central dais carved from obsidian stone.
Bioluminescent ivy crept along cracked marble columns, glowing faint violet. Above, an artificial sky dome shimmered with fractured constellations — constellations rearranged to resemble shackles.
It was beautiful.
In the way a guillotine is beautiful.
"So this is the Garden of Sinner?" Agent-90 asked, voice flat, devoid of awe.
"Yes," Ashborn replied, her lips curling with impish satisfaction. "So what do you think?"
"Nothing unusual."
Silence.
In exaggerated chibi form, a tiny Ashborn stomped furiously, cheeks puffed, a cartoon thundercloud crackling above her head labelled 'UNGRATEFUL!'
Back in reality, her smirk faltered.
"Nothing… unusual?" she echoed, affronted. "Do you require fireworks and a brass band, Velvet Guillotine?"
He did not answer. He simply walked forward, coat swaying like a pendulum counting down.
"Oi— wait!" Ashborn snapped, striding after him.
They were not alone.
Tier Sinners lingered across the terraces and platforms — some seated upon fractured statuary, others suspended along catwalks like carrion birds awaiting spectacle.
Dhalmora stood near a fractured fountain. Pale as unfinished porcelain, her broken halo flickered faintly above her crown. A young initiate knelt before her, trembling. She touched his temple gently.
"Tell me your name," she murmured.
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came.
His face collapsed into confusion — then terror.
"She doesn't kill you," someone whispered. "She erases you from yourself."
Across the courtyard, Charnel V adjusted a hovering drone camera, crimson circuitry pulsing along her exposed cybernetic torso. A bound traitor knelt before her livestream rig.
"The camera blinks," she said coolly, red eye lens narrowing, "and you are already dead."
Elsewhere, Mireya the Scourged Saint knelt among fevered followers, pressing her plague-scarred hand to a man's brow.
"I pray you are worthy of purification," she intoned serenely.
He wept.
High upon a suspended rail stood Noctis Bell, fingers brushing silent chimes strung between girders. Even the air recoiled from him.
Near a cracked monolith, nanodrones shimmered like silver gnats around Yuexin-9, who hummed a corrupted lullaby in fractured binary tones.
From the misted colonnade emerged Gravemother Solene. Soil shifted with each step. Behind her, silhouettes rose — obedient, silent.
By a mirrored pillar, Yīnluò (阴落) dissolved into reflection and reappeared elsewhere, shadow slipping through light as though it were water.
Then—
A figure stepped forward in asymmetrical white and blood-red.
Xiēzhǐ (邪执).
Her golden eye gleamed; the glass-white one recorded. Surgical tubing coiled along her corseted silhouette like patient serpents. She adjusted her silver laryngoscope pendant thoughtfully.
Beside her stood Zhāoyè (朝夜) — fox mask dangling at her hip, amber eyes shifting slowly to violet as recognition dawned.
She froze.
Her breath caught.
As if she had seen a revenant.
"It's Velvet Guillotine," she said quietly.
The name travelled through the Garden like a dropped blade.
Every Sinner ceased motion.
Predators pausing mid-feast.
Zhāoyè leapt from the rack scaffolding, landing before Ashborn and Agent-90 with feline precision.
"Ashborn," she demanded, voice calm but edged in frost, "why is this devil here?"
Agent-90 regarded her without hostility.
"I have not come for blood," he said evenly. "I am here to meet Velgrave Prystowsky."
A scoff escaped Zhāoyè's lips.
"Oh? How civilised," she replied mockingly. "Shall we offer tea? Or will you decapitate us between pleasantries?"
Behind her, Dhalmora drifted closer.
She stood like a memory half-remembered — exquisite and remote.
Her fractured halo hummed faintly.
"Velvet Guillotine," she said softly. "Do you remember your first victim's name?"
Her eyes bored into him, searching.
Agent-90 did not blink.
Gravemother Solene approached next, the dead assembling behind her in mournful symmetry.
"So," she said in a voice like wind through crypt doors, "the butcher walks among the bereaved."
A corpse's head tilted unnaturally beside her.
Charnel V's mechanical fingers flexed.
"You trend well," she said coolly. "Audience metrics spike at your mention."
Mireya lifted her staff gently.
"Peace," she urged, serene despite the rot upon her skin. "Violence here would be inelegant."
The tension tightened.
Like wire drawn across a throat.
Xiēzhǐ tilted her head.
"How curious," she murmured. "The man who separates flesh with such precision now seeks audience rather than incision."
Nanodrones gathered overhead.
Shadows deepened.
In chibi cutaway, tiny Sinners circled a stoic mini Agent-90 holding a sign that read 'Unbothered.'
Then—
Footsteps.
Measured.
Unhurried.
The Garden stilled as if gravity itself had recalibrated.
From the upper dais descended Velgrave Prystowsky.
Tall. Immaculate. His attire fused aristocratic decadence with militant austerity — a tailored longcoat of deep charcoal trimmed in silver filigree resembling thorned laurels. Beneath, a high-collared waistcoat fastened with onyx buttons. Gloves of fine black leather concealed his hands, yet suggested latent violence. His hair, dark and brushed back with meticulous care, caught the artificial starlight like polished obsidian.
His eyes — steel grey.
Calculating.
Amused.
When he walked, even the dead parted.
When he breathed, the Garden listened.
He descended the final step and regarded Agent-90 with a faint, knowing smile.
"Welcome," he said smoothly, voice resonant yet restrained, "Velvet Guillotine."
No one spoke.
Not Dhalmora.
Not Solene.
Not even Charnel V's drones dared hum.
The Garden of Sinner — that cathedral of ruin and reclamation — had found its axis.
And it stood between two men who carried execution in different languages.
One by blade.
One by belief.