The city was still, save for the low howl of wind slipping through fractured windows.
Harlekin sat perched on a rusted stage beam, high above the crumbling ruins of what was once a grand theater. Below him, rain dripped steadily from the open ceiling, painting the forgotten velvet chairs with new stains.
His mask was tilted just enough to see the smile etched beneath it.
A smile that never faded.
In his hand, a single red card—
Drawn from a pack that didn't exist.
Harlekin (softly): "Neoterra…you hide your fear behind steel and neon."
He flipped the card into the darkness. It vanished mid-air, like it had never been.
He swung his legs playfully.
Harlekin (mockingly elegant): "The great Ronnie saw me tonight. Oh, how those sharp little eyes must have twitched behind all that power and pride."
The knife at his side shimmered, cleaned, yet still humming with the memory of what it had done.
He whispered to it.
Harlekin: "Did you enjoy the dance, little blade? The heart was so fragile tonight… And the scream? Hah—! A perfect note."
A faint echo—laughter—but not his.
A presence moved in the shadows behind him.
But he didn't turn.
He knew who it was.
Harlekin (with sudden chill): "You're late. I thought shadows moved faster than this."
A silent figure stepped from the darkness—hooded, masked. A messenger of the Syndicate. No words. Just a black envelope, sealed with a wax emblem shaped like a cracked crown.
Harlekin took it, twirling it like a toy.
Harlekin (singsong): "A new assignment already? Tsk tsk… You barely gave me time to change into something more festive."
He flicked the envelope open.
Read. Stopped.
Silence.
The smile remained, but his aura shifted—slightly. Enough for the shadows in the room to feel it.
Harlekin (quietly): "She's here…"
A low whistle. Then—
Harlekin (dark and slow): "Fog princess… You really should've stayed gone."
The rain outside intensified, hammering the broken roof. Thunder rolled far in the distance.
Harlekin (thinking loud): "But if you are here, then…the heavenly boy must be here too. This must be my lucky day!"
Harlekin laughs. Then he stops. His smile fades instantly.
Harlekin (disgusted): "That means I have to report it to my boss. Blah."
He shakes his head violently.
Harlekin (stands up): "Let the others play with Henry and the dragon-boy…"
He raised his head. The slits in his mask glowed faintly crimson.
Harlekin: "…but you? You're mine."
He vanished in a flick of the curtain.
The city's neon lights still bled through the reinforced glass walls of the Bureau's upper floors, even in the daylight. The fog hadn't lifted since dawn.
Ronnie stood by the window, arms crossed behind his back, his sharp black suit glowing faintly in the soft blue ambience of Neoterra's skyline. His bald head gleamed in the ambient light, but his expression was dark, thoughtful—thunderous.
Behind him, holographic monitors blinkered alive—crime reports, surveillance anomalies, internal memos—all leading to one point of convergence:
Theatre Ruins. Sector Nine. 02:19 AM.
His assistant, Mira, a no-nonsense analyst, approached cautiously.
Mira (firmly): "Still no confirmation, sir. The footage was corrupted mid-transmission. Audio—garbled. Visuals—interference. But…"
She tapped the console.
Mira (grim): "One witness—a junk scavenger—described a 'laughing man in white.' Masked. Cloaked. And… red eyes."
Ronnie didn't move.
Ronnie (quietly): "…Harlekin."
Mira blinked.
"Sir?"
He turned, his tone colder now.
Ronnie: "I've seen that name scribbled on too many walls. Whispered in too many dead men's last breaths. And now he's here."
He pressed a button. A glowing map of Neoterra Prime lit up, with dozens of red nodes scattered across its surface.
Ronnie: "Ten high-profile disappearances in the last six weeks. Three bodies found without blood. Five left with a carved smile."
Mira: "That's not the Crimson Court's signature."
Ronnie (nodding): "Exactly."
He stepped closer to the center table, tapping a case file.
One that had been closed.
Ronnie (coldly): "They called it the Shadow Society. Dead. Gone. Buried under history. But I don't believe in ghosts."
He looked up at the flickering screen. A heavily distorted image paused mid-glitch—barely visible, the outline of a jester hat and a gleaming blade.
Ronnie (grim): "I believe in monsters."
He scratches his head, getting even closer to the screen.
Ronnie (thinking loud): "I studied every known Soul Reaper, but this one…makes me believe that some people never have been humans to begin with."
Silence. The city breathed behind them.
Then, without turning:
Ronnie: "Activate Protocol HADES. I want every street in Sector Nine under watch. No masks. No clowns. No more shadows."
Mira nodded, backing away.
Mira: "Yes, sir."
Ronnie leaned in, eyes still on the glitching screen. Then, almost to himself:
Ronnie: "If the Soul Reapers are involved in this…then he is, and if he is…I need to know why."
It wasn't listed in any city registry.
No signs. No markings.
Just a steel door beneath a forgotten metro tunnel, guarded by two silent sentinels in matte-black suits.
Ronnie entered without a word.
Inside, a dozen terminals blink, manned by operatives off the books, hand-picked by Ronnie himself. Some were former soldiers, others ex-hackers, and a few… reformed criminals who owed him.
A woman in a leather trench coat stepped forward. Her grey-streaked braid swung over one shoulder.
Operative Z (gruff): "Didn't think we'd light this place up again, Ronnie."
He didn't answer. He simply walked to the round table in the center and dropped a thin metal case.
It opened with a hiss.
Inside: holographic photos, corrupted audio logs, unsolved murder reports… and a single, high-definition image of Harlekin, blurred but distinct.
Ronnie (low voice): "I want him tracked."
The room fell still.
Z (quietly): "…The Soul Reaper? Number 7? You're serious."
Ronnie (flat): "I've never been more serious."
He pressed a button.
A second image appeared: a teenage boy with flaming red eyes, caught years ago on camera, standing beside Ronnie at a podium.
Ronnie (softer now): "My son. He disappeared years ago. Rumors say Number 4 came from the underground, raised in fire… and one name kept popping up in those early files."
He zoomed in on the background of Harlekin's image—a blurred silhouette of a small figure with matching red eyes in the corner.
Ronnie (darkly): "Harlekin knows where he is. Maybe he trained him. Maybe he turned him into a weapon. Maybe he is just a psycho in a mask. Either way…"
He paused. Then:
Ronnie: "I want Harlekin alive."
The operatives exchanged glances. Z crossed her arms.
Z (carefully): "And the official reason, sir? We can't exactly post a wanted poster on a Soul Reaper."
Ronnie's eyes narrowed. The steel returned to his voice.
Ronnie: "Official reason: rogue agent disrupting Neoterra's public security. Behind the scenes? He's a motherfucking Soul Reaper. And I'm tired of ghosts haunting this city."
He turned to leave but added, almost as an afterthought:
Ronnie (quietly): "If we find the clown… we find my boy."