Turnstiles were supposed to look like this—plain, rectangular, no-nonsense. Pei Ran had merely returned it to normal.
In this insane, chaotic world, normalcy had become a luxury.
When the turnstile clamped shut moments ago, the middle-aged woman had already regained consciousness. She'd been struggling wildly in panic, but now that the machine had suddenly released her, she just stood there, frozen.
She looked ahead, then back over her shoulder—her feet planted like nails in the ground.
A girl in a red wool hat saw what happened and darted over, yanking the woman out of the turnstile's path.
Smart move.
Because Pei Ran had noticed it too—the turnstile only stayed "normal" for a few seconds before it started to writhe again.
The leftmost metal console was the first to move.
Bubbles bulged out across its smooth steel surface, swelling larger and larger. The entire unit twisted and warped as if something restless were trapped inside.
One especially massive bubble suddenly surged upward, forming not a smooth curve—but a head.
A human head, with distinguishable features: eyes, nose, mouth—all there.
It twisted, craned upward, bared two rows of teeth in a silent howl, then slipped back into the box.
The grotesque sight sent the college students and the middle-aged woman stumbling backward in terror.
Then, the rest of the consoles followed suit, swelling and shifting, belching out semi-metallic, semi-organic bubbles like some diseased organism.
Just like the deranged fusion workers, the turnstile system was recovering far faster than any human. Black Notebook had only managed to suppress it for a few seconds before it sprang back to life.
Suddenly, an entire skyscraper exploded behind them. Flames blasted out of broken windows, belching scorching heat. Shards of glass rained onto the street like deadly hail.
The sea of night was becoming a sea of fire. Time was running out.
Pei Ran clicked the pen shut and tucked the Black Notebook away, stepping out from behind the corner of the building.
"What are you going to do?" W asked.
Pei Ran pulled off her leather gloves and flexed her mechanical fingers. "Violent disassembly."
W: "…"
Pei Ran added, "Here's your mission. If I start looking off—like I'm sleepwalking—use your claws. Trip me, grab my leg, whatever it takes. Stop me. Wake me up."
The people who'd flung themselves at the turnstiles earlier—something had been wrong with them, like they were hypnotized. Luckily, the trance wasn't deep. A slap to the face had been enough to snap them out of it.
W's folding limbs had already been repaired—strong and precise. If anyone could knock Pei Ran flat with a well-aimed swipe, it was him.
"Got it," W agreed calmly.
As she walked, Pei Ran scanned the crowd near the turnstiles.
Whoever hypnotized those two college students and the middle-aged woman—it wasn't the deranged turnstile fusion itself.
Their zombie-like march toward death looked like someone was using them to run experiments. Especially the woman—she'd been compelled to pick up a Night Sea Station No. 7 employee badge off the ground and scan it at the gate. It didn't work. The turnstile didn't accept it.
Someone was trying to figure out how to get through by using other people as lab rats.
That kind of hypnosis pointed toward an Order-type fusion being—one with unique abilities.
If such a hypnotist existed, they were probably across the street, near the last turnstile box.
That employee badge had been tossed to the ground right in front of that box, lost amid a sea of scattered documents—easy to miss unless you had zoom vision like W's metal sphere.
Assuming the hypnotist didn't have superhuman eyesight, the college students on this side of the street were less likely suspects.
Near the final turnstile stood a small crowd—fifteen to twenty people. A family of three with a child. An elderly couple leaning on each other. A few young men and women standing apart, keeping their distance. Four or five tall, burly men clustered together. One of them wore a doctor's white coat—impossible to miss.
Pei Ran gave them a glance, then walked directly up to the first turnstile box.
This one had undergone the most dramatic transformation. It was the first to sprout the head—perhaps it was the central node.
She stopped just a couple steps away from the gate, slung off her large backpack, set it down, and placed the metal orb on top.
Everyone else was dazed.
Especially the college students. They'd seen a classmate sliced in half and two more stumble toward the machine in a trance. Now, unbelievably, someone else was walking right up to it.
But this one was different.
She had sharp, lucid eyes. Quick, deliberate movements. No sign of possession. Yet she was heading straight for the gate all the same.
Two thousand kilometers away—
Blackwell Underground Base.
Fifty-one hours since the shutdown.
Crisis response at Blackwell was running nonstop. More personnel, gear, and manufacturing equipment were arriving every hour.
Still, humans need sleep. It was daytime now, and more people had returned to the main command hall.
Only Agent W didn't sleep. Tireless and ever-alert, he handled Blackwell's internal and external operations without pause.
The Federation's top executive—Chief Officer Bathaway—was also in the command center.
Bathaway was a man in his forties, in remarkable shape. Broad-shouldered, long-legged, immaculately groomed. Even here, in a fallout shelter, his suit was crisp and flawless.
Everyone in the Federation agreed—Bathaway had an undeniable presence. Especially when he spoke. During the elections, all it took was a live broadcast and the votes poured in.
He sat now in a high-backed chair, posture straight, brows furrowed just the right amount.
"As Chief Officer, I'm less concerned with military assets right now," he said, "and more with how we're going to receive ordinary Federation citizens. Agent W, where do we stand on that?"
On this point, W agreed.
"According to my calculations," W said, "Blackwell is ready to begin accepting civilians. Our supplies can sustain the base until production lines are online. An influx of refugees won't exceed capacity."
Someone asked, "But how do we determine who gets in and who doesn't? Space is limited."
Marshal Weiner replied, "The Decision Committee has a meeting this afternoon to discuss exactly that."
W interjected, "Let's hope they decide quickly. Thousands are dying out there. If they wait too long…"
A faint note of sarcasm entered his voice. "There may not be many left to choose from."
General Delsa glanced at the main screen, frowning. "That didn't sound much like an AI…"
But W's voice had already returned to its usual calm. "I will prepare several screening protocols based on different criteria and submit them to the committee for reference."
Marshal Weiner nodded. As always, W was the first to offer multiple viable options, ready for the humans to pick from. With an AI like this, life was far easier.
After the main discussion ended, the Minister of Culture chimed in.
"What about the Federation Digital Library? You mentioned it was en route?"
W responded, "The materials have arrived in Night Sea."
The screen switched views.
The camera angle was low, looking up from ground level. Towers in Night Sea burned like torches, black smoke streaking the sky. Families fled through the streets in chaos.
The room went silent.
The camera panned. A row of turnstiles appeared. There was the Silent One—Unit 1593—Pei Ran, walking toward the gates. Above her, half an advertisement had burned away, exposing the nose of a vintage locomotive.
"Night Sea Station No. 7," someone murmured.
W confirmed, "Yes. We're trying to board a train from there and head to Blackwell. But the entryway is blocked by a deranged fusion."
No need to explain further. The footage spoke for itself.
A body lay on the ground—cleaved clean in two. Blood pooled in thick, horrifying puddles.
"Did… did that machine cut someone in half?"
"Down the middle—yeah."
The turnstile could bisect a human being. Everyone in the room went cold.
And yet, the girl on-screen didn't hesitate. She stepped forward, right between the metal gate's jaws.
The instant she approached, the turnstile swelled. Its metallic surface turned semi-transparent, revealing grotesque, pulsing veins beneath.
Bathaway, who had been doing his best to remain composed since the bisected corpse appeared, couldn't help but gasp at the sight.
"The fusion… it's evolved into this?"
W answered, "Yes. It's in a deranged state. Likely due to increased energy release from the Fifth Rift. We've seen a sharp rise in mutations among external fusion entities."
On screen, the box ballooned to over two meters tall, expanding like twin metallic blisters. It was about to crush Pei Ran.
She didn't flinch.
She waited—watched for the exact moment it bulged to its limit, pulsing veins exposed. Then she rolled up the sleeve of her right arm and punched straight in.
Splat.
The hybrid flesh-metal skin burst open under her fist. A gaping hole tore through the surface, exposing the twisted internals.
The machine's insides were a tangled fusion of mechanical parts and organic tissue—blood vessels coiled around rainbow-colored wires, all twitching together, indistinguishable.
The turnstile recoiled in pain, curling up.
Its transparent panels buzzed angrily like insect wings, then jerked sideways, aiming a sharp edge at Pei Ran's waist.
But it wasn't faster than her mechanical arm.
She caught the blade mid-swing, twisted hard—and snapped it off at the base. Another grab, another twist—the other wing broke too.
Expressionless, Pei Ran reached into the gash she'd made and began pulling out parts.
Clumps of tissue and wire came flying out—bloody, tangled, unrecognizable.
She was gutting it.
Everyone in the command room had the same thought: she was like a wolf, ripping open its prey.
Pei Ran was searching for something—and then, she found it.
She pulled her hand free. In it, she held something grotesque.
A heart.
Human in shape, but far too large. Blueish veins and electric wires still pulsed from it, twitching in her metal hand.
Pei Ran's black fingers clenched. With a wet crack, the heart exploded in her grip.
The moment it burst, the entire row of turnstiles shuddered in unison, then stopped moving completely.
They were dead.
W cut the video feed.
The command center was silent as the grave.
It took Chief Officer Bathaway a long moment to recover. "That, uh… mechanical arm of hers—isn't it illegal?"
W replied calmly, "No. It's completely legal. She participated in an experimental program as a child—developed by the Vorin Group for the Department of National Defense. The program was later investigated for ethical violations, specifically for recruiting infant and toddler volunteers. Because this particular prosthetic can't be replaced with standard models, those who participated were granted a special federal exemption. Would you like me to retrieve the exemption order?"
Bathaway hesitated, then said, "I see… no, that won't be necessary."
Night Sea City.
Pei Ran stood before the turnstile.
As she had expected, the machine was fused with a human being. Its internal structure was just like those three deranged pipe workers—twisted, mutated, with a grotesque heart lodged inside.
Stop the heart, and the fusion died.
Also as expected, her mind had remained entirely clear throughout the process. No sign of possession or mental disruption.
Even under attack, the turnstile hadn't triggered any hypnotic function. Which confirmed what she'd suspected—it wasn't the one doing the hypnotizing. It was just a mechanical guillotine that killed anything passing through.
The real culprit was still hiding among the crowd. The one who had been using others to test the gate—compelling them forward like lab rats.
Whoever it was, they'd obviously seen her approach the turnstile and wouldn't dare interfere now. In fact, they'd be thrilled to see her destroy it—less risk, more reward.
She still had no idea who it might be.
Inside the turnstile fusion, a small cluster of green light flickered—not far from the heart. It was tucked deep inside the metal box, nestled at the mouth of a thick, coiled pipe—just barely out of reach.
Suddenly, a hand reached toward her.
The cuff was clean and crisp. The fingers long and well-kept. Neatly trimmed nails. In the hand was a pack of tissues, held out toward Pei Ran.
She turned.
It was the man she'd seen earlier—the one in the white lab coat.
He looked to be under thirty. Tall. Wearing a pale blue surgical mask. His hair was a soft shade of ash-brown. Above the mask, his eyes were clear and gentle—blue irises tinged with smoky gray.
From head to toe, not a speck of dust on him. His white coat was so pristine it almost glowed. In a city burning to the ground, he stood out like a snowflake in fire.
Pei Ran thought, This is the third day of the Silence, and he's still wearing hospital gear. Is he still working? Then again, even during the Silence, you couldn't just abandon patients.
He wasn't alone. A few others stood nearby, all dressed in casual clothes.
The doctor extended the tissues again. His gaze dropped to the bloodstains on Pei Ran's mechanical hand. He didn't say a word, but his meaning was clear.
His eyes said: Whatever this thing is, its blood might not be clean. Better safe than sorry.
Pei Ran accepted the tissues. She wiped her fingers casually, then dabbed at the blood spattered across the front of her jacket.
Just then, the doctor's wristband buzzed. A small virtual window popped up in front of him—a new message, image attached.
Pei Ran caught a glimpse. The sender's icon was a man with curly black hair. The picture showed a roughly sketched street map. Judging by the layout, it was nearby. One intersection had been marked with a bright red dot.
The doctor glanced in that direction, nodded at Pei Ran, then turned and quickly jogged away.
The turnstile was still. Other people were starting to inch closer, testing whether it was safe. But the crowd was dense—and somewhere among them, the hypnotist still lurked.
Now was not the time to try reaching for the green light hidden inside the machine.
Pei Ran turned and slung her heavy pack over her shoulder, scooping up the metal sphere as well.
The fusion was dead.
It was time to find Night Sea Station No. 7.
Pei Ran stepped through the turnstile and entered the tunnel leading to the underground station.
"No green light following me, right?" she asked.
W blinked. "None."
The tunnel was old—who knew how many years had passed since it was built. It resembled a metro station. Though the power was out, backup lighting still worked. Small lamps lit the path every few meters. Not quite bright, but not pitch black either.
The floor sloped downward—an escalator, motionless now without power. Pei Ran walked down the steps by foot.
W suddenly spoke. "Yulienka."
Pei Ran blinked. "What?"
"The man who smiled at you earlier," W said. "I scanned his eyes and matched them to a citizen registry. His name is Yulienka."
Pei Ran frowned. "He was wearing a mask. Covered most of his face. I couldn't even tell if he was smiling."
W was insistent. "From the way the shape of his eyes changed, the creases at the corners, and subtle movements in the mask's fabric, I can model the movement of the muscles beneath. He smiled."
Pei Ran: "…Oh."
Pei Ran: "Does it matter if he smiled?"
W didn't answer that. Instead, he continued: "Yulienka. Twenty-eight years old. A not-very-successful veterinarian in Night Sea."
So he wasn't a doctor for humans after all—just for animals.
Pei Ran: "…"
Pei Ran: "Not very successful? Was that really necessary?"