The sterile lights of the SSCBF medical faculty hummed with a faint, clinical susurrus overhead, their pallid luminescence washing the chamber in an antiseptic calm that felt almost indecent after the inferno of the previous evening. An eerie pallor, like a ghostly shroud, cloaked the room—an antiseptic sanctuary in stark contrast to the chaos that had just transpired. Yan Zhang Yan's eyelids fluttered open with a sluggish reluctance. For a fleeting moment, his vision blurred—a mosaic of shadowed figures standing like silent sentinels carved from quiet vigilance. Then clarity returned, slicing through the haze like a scalpel.
Marguerite was nearest, her composure still intact, though the delicate veneer of her elegance was frayed by fatigue—eyebrows slightly furrowed, lips pressed in a tight line that betrayed her exhaustion. Behind her, Commander Krieg, Lieutenant Nightingale, Lan Qian, Captain Robert, and Lingaong Xuein formed a semicircle of palpable relief—yet their eyes flickered with disbelief, as if the night's horrors refused to be wholly dismissed. Yan Zhang Yan shifted with a wince, pain pulsing sluggishly through his torso—a dull, persistent throb that seemed to mock his dry wit.
"The pain… is most discourteous," he muttered with a faint, sardonic smile, voice gravelly yet dry as parchment.
Marguerite exhaled a breath of relief, her shoulders relaxing in a subtle gesture of release, though her eyes betrayed lingering worry.
"You're alive," she murmured softly, the words slipping out like an unspoken prayer, "which is a far nobler courtesy than we dared to hope tonight."
Krieg stepped forward, his stance firm and respectful—yet there was an undercurrent of urgency beneath his calm veneer.
"The bullet did not penetrate deeply, sir," he said, voice measured but resolute. "The blood loss appeared dramatic—yet most of it was ink."
Yan Zhang Yan lifted an eyebrow, the faintest trace of amusement flickering across his features.
"Ink?" he echoed, voice tinged with dry incredulity.
Lan Qian nodded, arms crossed with contemplative precision.
"The ceremonial pen you kept in your inner pocket shattered when the bullet struck," she explained quietly. "It burst like a wounded squid—an explosion of ink and shattered wood."
Faintly, Robert chuckled, a low, amused sound.
"A rather poetic accident, sir," he said, a hint of admiration in his tone. "Had that pen not been there… the outcome might have been rather grim indeed."
Yan Zhang Yan regarded Lieutenant Nightingale with measured interest.
"Then I believe gratitude is owed," he said softly, almost reverently. "Thank you."
Nightingale inclined her head with composed restraint.
"You're welcome, sir."
A flicker of memory—an echo from the night's shadows—flashed across her face.
—Flashback—
The grand ballroom brimmed with dignitaries, their conversations a murmur of importance. Amidst the throng, a woman brushed lightly against Nightingale near the entrance. A subtle bump. A whisper of silk. A folded note slipped deftly into her hand before the woman melted seamlessly into the tide of guests—an apparition slipping through the fabric of the crowd.
Curiosity prickled within Nightingale.
She unfolded the note with deliberate care.
Inscribed in careful, cryptic script were the words:
"The star shall fall by the hand of the scorpion."
Her turquoise eyes narrowed, sharp as a diamond's edge.
The metaphor was unmistakable.
A star—an emblem of authority, a figure of leadership.
The scorpion—a silent, lethal assassin.
Assassination.
Yan Zhang Yan.
Her pulse quickened, a bead of apprehension threading through her veins.
Without hesitation, she left the ballroom, her footsteps silent but purposeful, and proceeded directly to Yan Zhang Yan's private chamber.
When she knocked, Marguerite answered, a faint arch of her brow.
"Lieutenant Nightingale?" she inquired, voice mild but tinged with surprise.
"I apologise for the intrusion," Nightingale said, voice calm and measured, "but I believe your lives are about to be targeted."
Moments later, the three convened within the chamber.
She placed the note on the table.
Yan Zhang Yan studied it once, then again, his brow furrowing.
Marguerite's eyes widened with dawning comprehension.
"You believe this is a warning?" she asked, voice trembling with disbelief.
"Yes," Nightingale replied, her tone even and unwavering. "And if the metaphor holds true, the 'star' refers to you, sir."
Yan Zhang Yan leaned back slowly, a faint smile touching his lips—more contemplative than triumphant.
"A curious omen," he murmured, voice low with thought.
Nightingale folded her hands behind her back, her posture impeccable.
"My recommendation is simple: wear concealed ballistic protection beneath your attire tonight. Something discreet. No one must notice."
Marguerite regarded Yan Zhang Yan with a mixture of concern and respect.
After a silent moment, he nodded.
"Prepare it," he commanded softly.
Nightingale inclined her head.
"Understood."
—End of flashback—
Back in the present, the room's atmosphere was taut with unspoken dread.
Lan Qian crossed her arms, her brow furrowing.
"Who would have guessed Agent-90 intended to assassinate Yan Zhang Yan?" Her tone was laced with suspicion and intrigue, a whisper of admiration for the clandestine game.
Robert leaned casually against a nearby counter, his expression relaxed yet alert.
"I believe he meant to warn us," he said quietly, voice a murmur of insight.
Lingaong Xuein shook her head slightly, a delicate gesture of disbelief.
"But you saw what happened," she said softly. "Our own guards fired upon us."
Krieg's face darkened, a shadow flickering across his features.
"They were not our men," he stated grimly. "They were SCP operatives—disguised as SSCBF personnel."
Yan Zhang Yan's brow furrowed, a flicker of concern crossing his face.
"How can you be certain?"
Krieg folded his arms, a gesture of unwavering conviction.
"Their formation tactics, weapon discipline, and insignia stitching were wrong—subtle errors, but unmistakable to someone who has fought them before." He paused, voice dropping to a grave tone. "And Agent-90 was deployed as the instrument meant to kill you… and Miss Marguerite."
Yan Zhang Yan's gaze sharpened, a flash of icy suspicion.
"You mean the same man who shot me?"
Krieg nodded slowly.
"The very same."
Marguerite tilted her head, contemplative.
"At least he attempted to save us," she murmured, a trace of curiosity flickering in her voice.
Yan Zhang Yan's lips curved into a peculiar, contemplative smile—neither joy nor despair, but the smile of a man observing a complex puzzle rather than celebrating victory.
"Then perhaps this assassin possesses a conscience," he said softly, leaning back slightly. "If true, I would very much like to meet Agent-90—to thank him for his… unconventional bravery."
Nightingale cleared her throat gently, a flicker of unease passing across her face.
"Sir… we've searched the entire building," she said softly, eyes lowered. "He is gone."
A heavy silence descended.
"And the High Council?" Yan Zhang Yan asked, voice strained with concern.
Nightingale hesitated, her gaze flickering.
"…Dead."
Shock rippled through the room—an almost tangible wave of disbelief.
Krieg exhaled slowly, a flicker of relief—or was it something darker?—passing over his features.
At that moment, the doors swung open with brisk authority.
Captain Lingaong Xuemin and Feng Shaoyun entered swiftly.
Xuemin's voice cut through the silence.
"Yes. They are."
He approached the bedside with purpose.
"When we confronted Agent-90 and ordered him to surrender… he refused."
Lingaong Xuein's face tightened sharply.
"What are you saying, Xuemin?"
Xuemin met her gaze, unwavering.
"It's true, sister." He gestured toward Feng Shaoyun.
"She saw it as well."
Feng Shaoyun nodded solemnly.
"Chairman Rahim Ahmed tried to shoot Xuemin from behind," she said quietly. "Agent-90 shot him first."
The room fell into stunned silence.
"And he said something afterwards," Feng Shaoyun added, eyes flickering with memory. "He said—"
She paused, voice deliberate.
"I eliminate threats. Yours included."
Marguerite's brow rose slowly—an expression of sardonic curiosity.
"Enemy… saviour… executioner," she murmured, a sly smile creeping across her lips.
"What an intriguing man," she added softly, almost admiring.
Yan Zhang Yan nodded, contemplative.
"At the very least," he said quietly, "he preserved our lives tonight."
He cast a wary glance around.
"And perhaps… he is not the villain the world believes him to be."
Yan Zhang Yan questioned, "So why Chairman Rahim tries to kill you, Captain?" he asked Lingaong Xueimin
"I don't know why sir and what's his motivation!" reply Xuemin
Nightingale had remained silent, but her expression betrayed a tumult of emotion—tension beneath calm, curiosity intertwined with concern, and perhaps a hint of suspicion. She stepped forward slightly, posture poised and deliberate.
"Sir, if I may be excused."
Yan Zhang Yan nodded.
"Of course."
She bowed respectfully and withdrew.
Outside, in the corridor, the distant alarms had faded into an uneasy quiet—a stillness after the storm, like a battlefield at the moment of retreat, waiting for the next assault.
Nightingale stopped before a tall window, rain streaking the glass like silver tears over a fractured mirror. Her reflection stared back at her—pale, composed, yet shrouded in unspoken questions. She exhaled slowly.
"To warn us… then attempt the assassination anyway…" she murmured, voice heavy with revelation.
Her turquoise eyes narrowed, sharp as a dagger.
"You're not merely a killer, Agent-90," she whispered into the rain.
A faint breeze stirred the hem of her gown, whispering secrets.
"You're playing a deeper game. And I intend to discover why."
On 4th January 2050, Agent-90 entered Gavriel's office with measured purpose, standing silently before the man who was leisurely smoking a cigarette, the smoke curling lazily in the air like tendrils of a serpent. Gavriel, eyes half-lidded, saw him approach and broke into a smirk.
"I thought you wouldn't come, dog," Gavriel said, his voice laced with a sardonic warmth, a smile curling across his face as he regarded the stoic figure before him.
Agent-90 remained impassive, his expression unreadable, hands clasped calmly behind his back. He offered no reply, only a steady, unwavering gaze that seemed to pierce through the veneer of civility.
Agent-90 says., "So, what do you want me to do next, sir?" His tone was casual, yet beneath it lurked a sharp edge—an unspoken challenge.
Gavriel's eyes widened briefly in surprise, as if the words had struck him like a thunderclap. "Sir, when did you address me as an 'expert'?"
He scoffed, a sound like gravel shifting underfoot. "Oh, I know—that reminds me. Did you finish the task I gave you?"
Agent-90's voice was calm, polite, almost deferential.
"Yes, sir," he replied succinctly.
Gavriel's gaze sharpened, a flicker of suspicion igniting behind his eyes.
"Then why did Yan Zhang Yan survive your bullet? And further, you also murdered the High Councils I ordered you to eliminate. It appears you've disobeyed my commands, the ogre. What if Yan Zhang Yan discovers I sent you to kill him?"
Agent-90's expression remained impassive, his eyes steady.
"He won't," he said quietly, voice devoid of doubt.
Gavriel's smile twisted into something darker—sinister, predatory.
"How certain are you of that?" he murmured, voice silky yet menacing. "You do understand what will happen if you disobey my directives, don't you? The consequences—dire, unforgiving—will befall you like a shadow at dusk."
He stepped closer, a predatory glint in his eye, his movements deliberate as a serpent winding through grass.
"Look, I know you're seeking assistance from Velgrave and Zoyah—to warn them at the feast," Gavriel continued, voice low and gravelly. "You've also slain my law enforcement officers, SCP operatives, and their captain, Elan. He was a dead weapon—like you—capable of manipulating his suspects, his enemies. Do you understand why you and he are merely fragments of a larger experiment called Gon-Whiel Orphanage?"
Agent-90's eyes flickered with a muted irritation, but he said nothing.
Gavriel pressed on, voice dropping to a whisper that felt like cold steel.
"It seems you act as if you're unaware. Further—where you go, where you hide, where you live—my eyes are everywhere. Do you understand? If you want to avoid further harm, I suggest you obey me."
A cruel smile curled across Gavriel's lips as he leaned slightly closer.
"Let me tell you something, then. You are wasting your potential. You believe you can save those you hold dear, but you cannot. I've known you since your days in the Dominion Accord. When you were barely in your nineteens, you succeeded in your first mission—assassinating Yang Xiao Lang at the tender age of twenty, while working for Madam Di-Xian. Now you're grown; so, tell me—how far can you go?"
He poured a glass of wine, swirling it lazily, and continued.
"You need someone to guide you, someone to control you. Speaking of control, consider this: whether there's freedom or order, one cannot exist without the other. Without order, freedom is a fleeting illusion—priceless and fragile as glass. Without freedom, order is graceless—rigid and oppressive, like a cold iron cage. Do you see? Without balance, the world collapses into chaos. The land and water—without land, Earth would be a vast, featureless ocean; without water, it would become a barren, scorched wasteland. Everything in nature is a delicate symphony, a balance struck over eons, teetering on the edge of catastrophe—just like mankind's own social fabric."
He paused, eyes glinting with a hidden fervour.
"Can a man live without a woman? Can a woman survive for a hundred hours without a man? No. Women—creators of life—offer depths of empathy, reservoirs of emotional strength. Men, too, have their role—yet many today distrust their spouses, confiding instead in friends or social circles. And they like to dominate each other by using excessive force they have such as abuse and violence whether its physical or emotional or mentally. Is this a systemic failure? Or a fault of the individual? No—it's a reflection of a fractured society, a wounded beast struggling to mend itself."
Gavriel's voice grew softer, almost hypnotic, yet beneath it lurked an undercurrent of menace.
"Radicalisation, gender conflict, depopulation—these are the symptoms of a society unraveling at the seams. Fear of marriage, fear of parenthood—these are the chains we've forged ourselves. The narrative is manipulated, the psyche weaponised. Do you understand?"
He paused, eyes narrowing.
"You can fix anything," Gavriel whispered, voice dripping with conviction. "But in the end, no one truly can—only the illusion of control sustains us. The chaos always lurks beneath, waiting to devour us whole."
Agent-90's response was measured—his voice calm, yet imbued with restrained steel.
"Your words are... elaborate, Gavriel. But I prefer actions over rhetoric."
Gavriel's smirk returned, a predator's grin.
"Enough of this second-hand philosophy," he snapped, voice sharp as a blade. "Let's get back to business."
He stepped back, voice turning cold, commanding.
"I give you a task. You're going to Jīngyào City—one of the most ancient Chinese cities, steeped in history and power. You will go there, and you will serve your purpose for thirty-five days. You will complete your mission within that time. Fail, and you know what awaits you."
Agent-90's face remained impassive, but his posture straightened, alert and ready.
"Understood," he replied quietly, voice firm.
Gavriel's smile stretched wider, a predator satisfied with its prey.
"Good. Now, leave before I change my mind."
Without glancing back, Agent-90 turned on his heel and departed.
Gavriel watched him go, a sinister smirk curling his lips.
"Remember," Gavriel called after him, voice echoing like a warning in the shadows, "my eyes are everywhere. You cannot hide from me, and you cannot escape my reach."
The door closed behind Agent-90 with a decisive hiss—a silent promise that the game was far from over.
As Agent-90 stepped out into the bustling street, the cacophony of voices—men and women engaged in heated discourse—became an oppressive symphony of discord. The gender conflict roared like a tempest, swirling in the air with bitter accusations and defensive retorts, each side entrenched in their own conviction. Women lamented the perceived dominance of men, their voices edged with frustration and distrust; men, in turn, responded with veiled resentment, asserting their own version of authority and control. The atmosphere was thick with tension, each argument a dagger stabbing at the fragile fabric of society.
Agent-90's shoulders tensed, his jaw clenched as if to contain an impending eruption. His eyes, normally sharp and unwavering, now flickered with a flicker of despair—an ache of helplessness beneath his stoic veneer. The street's chaos was a reflection of a world unravelling, a delicate balance shattered like glass falling from a high shelf.
His hands trembled slightly as he pressed his palms firmly against his ears, fingers splaying and curling over the edges like a fortress, attempting to drown out the relentless din. The noise was a tempest—deafening and unyielding, a relentless storm battering his senses. It was as if the very air crackled with the static of discord, a metaphorical thunderclap echoing within his mind.
His body hunched forward, shoulders rolled inward—a figure seeking refuge from the storm. His face, usually composed and stoic, wore an expression of profound weariness. The world's chaos pressed down on him like a collapsing edifice, threatening to crush the fragile resolve he fought so hard to maintain.
The animated characters around him reacted with a mixture of concern and confusion. A nearby passerby, noticing his distress, hesitated—eyes wide with empathy—before stepping back, giving him space. An old woman, observing his silent agony, clasped her hands tightly, her face etched with quiet understanding. A young man nearby paused, his brow furrowed, as if sensing that beneath the stoic exterior lay a man on the brink of breaking free from the storm.
Yet, Agent-90 remained steadfast, his body a vessel of silent rebellion against the tumult. His fingers pressed harder against his ears, willing the deafening chaos to fade into the background—a distant thunder muffled beneath layers of resolve.
In that moment, he was an island amid a raging sea, isolated and battered but unyielding. The metaphor of the storm—symbolising societal discord and internal turmoil—clashed with his silent plea for peace, a desperate attempt to find sanctuary amid the chaos.
Gradually, he lowered his hands, shoulders heaving with a silent, trembling exhalation. His eyes, now unveiled, shimmered with a quiet resolve—weariness mingled with a flicker of hope. The storm persisted, but within him, a fragile ember of calm flickered to life, promising that perhaps, amidst the chaos, there was still a sliver of clarity waiting to be grasped.
Later that night, long after the alarm bells had fallen silent and the corridors of the SSCBF headquarters had been reclaimed by an investigative hush, the city lay beneath a shroud of cold, silvery luminescence. The streets, now deserted, shimmered like a field of fractured glass beneath the indifferent stars.
Agent-90 stood alone upon an ancient iron bridge that arched across the river like the spine of some primordial leviathan, its rusted ribs echoing silent stories of ages past. The water below moved sluggishly, reflecting the scattered constellations of urban light—twinkling fragments of a fractured cosmos, fragmented and flickering like memories of a vanished dream.
The night air was biting, as if the world itself had been dipped in ice. Each exhalation emerged as a pale, ghostly plume, drifting upward like a whisper relinquishing its final confession before dissolving into the darkness.
His hands rested upon the cold, weathered railing—fingers numb yet steadfast. For the first time in many years, he was still. No mission. No target. No orders echoing in the recesses of his mind—only the wind. An unspoken lullaby, untainted by purpose or obligation.
Suddenly, footsteps approached behind him, breaking the silence like a blade slicing through silk. A familiar voice—soft yet carrying the weight of countless unspoken truths—broke the stillness.
"You called me?"
Agent-90 turned slightly, his profile a silhouette against the star-studded sky. From the dim halo of a streetlamp, Zoyah emerged—her coat brushing softly against the cold stone, her expression a mixture of curiosity and guarded resolve. A subtle smirk lingered upon her lips—an irreverent curve she wore like a shield against the world's cruelties.
"Thank you for coming," Agent-90 said softly, his tone subdued, almost reverent.
Zoyah folded her arms, her gaze assessing yet unreadable.
"Well," she replied with a faint shrug, "when the most notorious phantom in the underworld requests a clandestine meeting, one does become rather intrigued."
For a fleeting moment, the corners of his lips nearly lifted—an almost imperceptible quirk of the mouth, like dawn threatening to break through night's grasp.
Then, he spoke, voice unsteady but resolute.
"I'm leaving."
Zoyah blinked once, the surprise evident in her widened eyes.
"To where?"
He cast a long, contemplative glance over the river below, his eyes shimmering like fractured glass reflecting distant, flickering lights—remnants of a city that refused to sleep.
"I don't know," he replied quietly, voice lightened by a strange, almost lyrical serenity. "But I intend to discover who I truly am."
He turned fully toward her, shoulders squared beneath the weight of unspoken burdens.
Then, in a gesture that defied all expectations, he bowed—not a mere nod, but a genuine, respectful bow. His head lowered with humility, a silent offering of remorse and gratitude.
"I am sorry," he whispered, voice thick with sincerity. "For the chaos I have wrought upon you… and upon others."
The wind whispered across the bridge like a witness, carrying away his words.
"And I am grateful," he added softly, "that you chose to help me."
Zoyah froze, her breath catching in her throat. For several seconds, she simply stared—her eyes wide with astonishment, as if witnessing a myth made flesh. In exaggerated chibi fashion, a tiny Zoyah appeared beside her, clutching her cheeks in dramatic disbelief while lightning bolts struck behind Agent-90 like a thunderclap of the heavens.
The feared assassin. The spectre who had haunted generals' nightmares. Bowing. To her.
Her gaze shifted awkwardly aside, cheeks flushing with embarrassment—a rare vulnerability breaking through her usual veneer of bravado.
"Tch… honestly…" she muttered, rubbing the back of her neck, her voice trembling with awkwardness. The faintest blush glowed beneath the lamplight, a delicate blush that betrayed her usual cynicism.
"You're making this rather… awkward, you know," she admitted, voice softer than usual.
Agent-90 straightened slowly, a rare, genuine smile—small but sincere—growing on his face, like the first bloom of spring after a long, cold winter.
"You deserve the truth," he said quietly.
Zoyah glanced at him again, her gaze lingering on that uncharacteristic expression. The sight of the rare smile struck her with a quiet, almost reverent force—like witnessing winter's icy grip momentarily surrender to the tender promise of spring.
Her blush deepened, and she looked away almost immediately, as if embarrassed by her own vulnerability.
"Well…" she murmured, her voice tinged with reluctant honesty, "perhaps redemption suits you better than murder."
She took a soft breath, the air heavy with unspoken sentiments.
"Good luck… wherever you wander," she said, voice gentle and contemplative. "And try not to get yourself killed."
She folded her arms again, though the gesture lacked its usual sarcasm—an unspoken acknowledgment of respect.
Agent-90 nodded once, a silent accord passing between them.
No words were necessary. He turned, his footsteps slow but purposeful, fading into the darkness like a shadow dissolving into shadow.
He did not glance back. Not once.
Behind him, Zoyah remained rooted beneath the lamplight, watching—her eyes following his retreating form until the silhouette was swallowed entirely by the night.
The wind carried his departing breath across the river, a final echo of a life left behind—an elegy whispered into the void.
A scorpion had shed its venom, and somewhere beyond the restless horizon, a man had begun his quiet, uncertain journey toward rediscovering his humanity.