The world around her was a hush of gold and white.
Wen-Li slowly opened her eyes, her lashes glistening faintly with dew, and found herself standing in a vast open meadow where the earth itself seemed to breathe. Petals of dandelion drifted weightlessly through the air — little lanterns of light carried upon invisible tides of wind. The sky above was crystalline, vast and tender, painted with delicate shades of amber and porcelain blue. The wind, gentle yet wistful, swept across the plain like a sigh from heaven, setting the petals alight in a shimmering dance.
She walked slowly, her bare feet brushing against the soft grass, her right hand gliding through the air where dandelion seeds mingled between her fingers — ephemeral, tender, ungraspable. Each step she took sent a faint ripple across the landscape, as though the earth itself recognised her touch.
Then — faint at first, then growing richer, more melodic — she heard it.
A voice, singing a lullaby she hadn't heard since childhood. The sound was soft, haunting, wrapped in melancholy and warmth, like sunlight filtered through distant rain.
"Hush now, my little stars,
The world outside still weeps,
Close your eyes, let the silence mend
The dreams the dawn shall keep.
Soft winds hum your name,
Through the rusted city's sigh,
Even where the shadows fall,
Our hearts will learn to fly.
Petals of dandelion, drift through the glow,
Carry our hopes where lost lights go.
If the world burns, if the sky fades thin,
Find your way home — let the stars pull you in."
Her breath caught. That voice — that lullaby. Her heart faltered like a fragile wing.
She turned her gaze toward the melody and saw a woman standing amidst the drifting petals. The woman's face was still turned away, obscured beneath cascades of silken ebony hair that flowed down her back like an ink river. Her gown — long, white, untainted — swayed with the rhythm of the breeze, as though woven from moonlight.
Wen-Li took a step forward, then another. The closer she came, the louder her heartbeat became — a fragile drum beneath her ribs.
And then the woman turned.
Wen-Li froze. Her eyes widened, her lips parted soundlessly, the air in her lungs turning weightless.
"Māmā…" she whispered, her voice trembling, fragile as spun glass.
Standing before her, radiant and impossibly real, was Lieutenant Ren-Li — her mother. Her expression was gentle, her eyes dark and gleaming with warmth. She opened her arms in welcome, her smile like a sunrise after an endless night.
"Come here, my little one," Ren-Li said softly, her voice threaded with love and longing.
With a broken gasp, Wen-Li rushed forward — her tears finally breaking free. She buried herself in her mother's embrace. The world seemed to stop as Ren-Li's arms wrapped around her — familiar, protective, tender. She could smell the faint trace of jasmine that had always lingered on her mother's uniform.
"My daughter… Wen-Li," Ren-Li whispered, pulling back to cup her daughter's face. "You've grown so beautifully. Just as I hoped you would."
Wen-Li tried to smile through the tears, her voice quivering. "Māmā… I missed you so much. Every day… every breath."
Ren-Li's fingers brushed away her tears with the gentleness of memory. "Shh… no more crying, my little star. I wanted to see you live happily — to see the woman you'd become. To see your future, your home, your family… all the love you deserve."
Wen-Li laughed weakly through her sobs, her shoulders shaking. "You always say that, Māmā… I'm still hopeless in the kitchen, you know. I think any husband would flee within a week."
Ren-Li's laugh rang soft and clear, like wind chimes beneath sunlight. "Then he shall learn to cook for you — as your father once did for me."
"Bàba…" Wen-Li whispered, looking around suddenly. "Where is Bàba?"
And then, behind her, a familiar voice — warm, steady, impossibly near — answered, "Right here, my little moon."
She turned sharply. Her father, Chief Wen-Luo, stood a few paces away, hands tucked in his coat pockets, that same calm smile softening the edges of his stern face.
"Bàba!" she cried, running to him.
He opened his arms, and she collided into his chest — the embrace strong, grounding, the scent of rain and smoke and home surrounding her.
He rested a hand atop her head. "You've become everything we hoped for, Wen-Li. Strong, kind, brave — your mother and I… we're proud."
She smiled, eyes brimming, her face pressed against his chest. "I just wanted to see you both again… even once."
But as she blinked through her tears — the warmth faded. The meadow dimmed. The figures of her parents began to blur into the golden haze. She reached out, desperate, her voice cracking with grief. "No… please— don't go!"
Yet the wind carried only petals. They dissolved between her fingers as her knees buckled beneath her.
She fell to the ground, sobbing — raw, unguarded. The dandelion petals swirled around her like snowflakes of memory, blooming briefly before fading into the wind.
Then, silence.
Her eyes fluttered open. The golden light was gone. The soft hum of reality returned — faint, sterile. She was back in her dimly lit room.
Her breathing trembled. Beside her, curled in perfect stillness, her snow-white cat, Wen-Mi, slept soundly — a soft rhythm of life beside her. She was dressed in a simple black tank top; her hair spilled across the pillow like threads of midnight.
For a long moment, she stared at the ceiling, her eyes glassy with the remnants of the dream. Her voice came out in a whisper — fragile, aching:
"Māmā… Bàba… I still miss you."
Her hand rose to wipe the tears slipping silently down her cheeks. She exhaled shakily, turning on her side to face the cat. Wen-Mi stirred faintly, letting out a small, contented purr.
A faint smile, tender and weary, curved Wen-Li's lips. "You still keep me company, don't you, Wen-Mi?" she murmured softly.
She gently drew the cat closer, pressing her forehead against its soft fur. The warmth, the pulse, the quiet breathing — it grounded her, wrapped her in a fragile peace.
"Good night," she whispered. "Let's dream somewhere better this time."
The wind outside rustled faintly against the glass.
As she drifted back to sleep, the faintest shimmer of dandelion petals seemed to fall through the moonlight — ghostly, luminous, like blessings from a world beyond reach.
The morning sun glistened faintly through the half-drawn blinds of Chief Wen-Li's office, streaking the glass panels with a gentle amber glow. The air hummed with the faint scent of roasted coffee and the soft tick-tick-tick of the wall chronometer. Wen-Li, poised and meticulous, sat at her desk — a bastion of composure amidst the chaos of paperwork and holographic briefings. Her fingers glided deftly over the digital keyboard, her brow furrowed with quiet concentration.
Then — ping!
A small, bright notification popped up on her screen, blinking with obstinate insistence.
The chibi form of a digital alert mascot bounced up and down cheerfully, waving a tiny red flag.
⚠ URGENT: TIER SINNER SIGHTED!
LOCATION — NORTH-EAST KHÜITENHOLD: "FROZEN FORTRESS."
CLASSIFICATION — CODE AZURE. RESPONSE REQUIRED.
Her black eyes widened slightly, her expression stiffening for half a second before she exhaled through her nose — calm, calculating, yet faintly exasperated.
"Frozen Fortress, again?" she murmured, resting her chin on her clasped hands. "Why is it always somewhere freezing before breakfast…"
Her chibi thought bubble above her head (in adorable form) appeared, showing a tiny Wen-Li wrapped in blankets beside a mug of cocoa, glaring at an icy tundra labelled 'Nope'.
Shaking her head with a sigh that was half professionalism and half reluctant amusement, she pressed the call button on her comms interface.
Within moments, the door slid open with a soft hiss. Lieutenant Nightingale stepped in — the sunlight catching her sky-blue-green hair as it flowed in gentle waves past her shoulders. Her eyes, of the same ethereal hue, flickered like polished opal glass — sharp, intelligent, yet holding that soft mirth that only she could carry into a battlefield.
"Yes, Chief!" she said crisply, standing at attention — though her chibi version behind her mimed a salute that sent her oversized hat slipping down over her eyes.
"Nightingale," Wen-Li began, folding her fingers together, her tone poised but warm. "There has been news of an abrupt disturbance at the North-East of Khüitenhold — at the 'Frozen Fortress'. The report suggests that it's being led by a Tier Sinner."
Her tone darkened slightly as she leaned back in her chair, her crimson jacket catching the morning light like lacquered silk. "It's been a while since one of them made a move. I want to give this task to you. Can you handle it?"
For a heartbeat, silence reigned — then Nightingale's expression sharpened with fierce determination. Her chibi counterpart popped up behind her with an exaggerated salute and fiery eyes.
"Of course, Chief!" she declared with a grin. "I'll clip this Sinner's wings before the ice melts!"
Wen-Li's lips curled into a faint chuckle — rare and genuine, the kind that softened the iron edges of her composure. "I knew you would."
As Nightingale turned to leave, her hair fluttering lightly in the air-conditioning's current, Wen-Li called after her.
"Oh, and one more thing—"
Nightingale paused mid-stride and looked over her shoulder, one brow arched, curious.
"After your mission," Wen-Li said, tapping her stylus against her chin, "I want you — along with Lan Qian and Lingaong Xuein — to go for karaoke… and, well… spend some time together. We've all been far too absorbed in work lately."
She cleared her throat, attempting a casual tone, though a faint blush crept up her cheeks — her chibi avatar hiding behind a stack of paperwork with a shy look. "Are you interested?"
Nightingale blinked once — then her lips curved into a radiant smile, a mischievous sparkle igniting in her eyes.
"Interested?" she said with a light laugh. "Chief, I live for karaoke nights. But only if you promise to sing this time — no 'urgent paperwork' excuses."
Wen-Li gave a mock gasp, feigning indignation. "Excuse me, my singing is classified."
Chibi Wen-Li appeared in a tiny animation bubble beside her — attempting to sing, only for the glass to shatter dramatically as Chibi Nightingale clutched her ears and rolled away.
Both women laughed softly, the sound light and warm amidst the cold efficiency of the office.
"Understood, Chief," Nightingale said finally with a salute, her tone sincere again. "I'll report back once the Sinner is neutralised — and then I'll make sure to reserve the loudest room in town."
"Good," Wen-Li replied, smiling faintly. "Dismissed."
Nightingale bowed her head slightly before turning and exiting the room, the hydraulic door sliding shut behind her with a soft pshhk.
Now alone, Wen-Li let out a slow sigh and leaned back in her chair. She stared at the holographic map of Khüitenhold, the frost-blue contours glowing across her desk. Her reflection shimmered faintly on the glass — calm, but weary.
She reached for her cup of coffee, found it cold, and grimaced. "Figures," she muttered.
Her chibi version popped up above the mug, tiny mittens on, trying to reheat it with a lighter.
With a small, tired smile, Wen-Li began typing again — her screen filling with tactical updates and personnel logs. The faint hum of the office returned. Outside the window, the wind carried soft clouds over the city skyline.
Yet behind her calm façade, a flicker of unease rippled through her — like the ghost of that dandelion dream still clinging to her consciousness.
She looked briefly toward the framed photo on her desk — a faded image of her parents. Her gaze softened.
"Another day," she whispered quietly. "Let's make it count."
Then her chibi self saluted the photo, tripped over a stack of files, and face-planted — leaving a tiny "oww!" bubble as the camera panned back to the real Wen-Li smiling faintly, sipping the last of her cold coffee before diving back into the storm of work.
Khüitenhold lay carved into the bones of the Khüiten Range, a citadel of frost and iron clinging to the edge of extinction. The horizon was a blade of light — cold, metallic, and merciless.
From above, the city resembled a colossal snowflake forged in steel, its towers spearing the heavens while geothermal smoke whispered from the depths below. Every surface shimmered with a pale cyan frost; every breath was a cloud that refused to linger.
They called it "The Fortress of Still Breath." And indeed, even the wind itself seemed to hesitate — as if afraid to disturb the sleeping giant of civilisation beneath the ice.
The streets were a cathedral of silence and order. Soldiers in glacial armour marched in measured rhythm, their visors glowing faint blue under the Dominion banners that cracked stiffly in the frozen gusts. Children, muffled in thermal cloaks, chased old service drones — laughter forming brief clouds before vanishing into the cold. Vendors shouted softly through masks, selling steaming broth in titanium flasks, and trinkets carved from glacial resin.
And through this world of frost and discipline strode Lieutenant Nightingale — her sky-blue-green coat fluttering behind her, boots crunching over snow like crystal glass. She inhaled once, exhaled steam, and muttered under her breath, her tone both amused and miserable.
"–32 degrees, and my eyelashes are freezing… Brilliant start to the day."
Her eyes, the hue of arctic jade, scanned her surroundings with instinctive alertness — though a faint puff of air escaped her lips when she saw a child sculpting a snow-drone from slush. For a heartbeat, the city didn't seem so lifeless.
Then— bonk!
She collided head-first into someone's shoulder. "Ow—!" she squeaked, rubbing her forehead. "I'm terribly sorry!"
Two female Dominion patrol guards turned toward her. Their visors gleamed with a frosty blue, and from behind their masks came a muffled scoff. They were tall, statuesque — and carried that uniquely military kind of arrogance that came with standing guard in the cold for too long.
"Who are you?" demanded the first, her tone sharp enough to cut the air.
"I apologise for the disturbance," Nightingale said evenly, though a twitch of irritation tugged at her lips. "Lieutenant Nightingale, Security Counter Bureau Force. I'm here under official directive."
The second guard tilted her head. "For what purpose?"
"For investigation."
"What investigation?"
There was a long pause. The wind whistled past, carrying the faint sound of machinery humming underground. Nightingale's smile froze like her breath. Her right eye twitched.
Chibi Nightingale, in her mind, appeared atop a snow pile with comically oversized boxing gloves, shouting in tiny fury: "For the purpose of KNOCKING SOME SENSE INTO YOU TWO!" — followed by exaggerated punches and spinning anime effects.
Back in reality, she only sighed, forcing a calm tone. "I have no time for twenty questions. Let me through before I lose my—"
A voice interrupted her from behind, warm, lazy, and annoyingly familiar.
"Oi! Ladies!"
The guards stiffened. Nightingale turned, squinting through the snowlight — and there he was, emerging from the frost with his signature swagger. Agent Jun.
His coat was unbuttoned (as always), scarf half-draped, grin sharp enough to melt ice. His hair was tousled by the wind, and his eyes gleamed with that mixture of charm and menace he carried like a badge.
He gave the guards a two-finger salute and said, "Sorry to interrupt your chilly interrogation, but that lady happens to be one of the best officers SSCBF's got. So unless you'd like to file a disciplinary report in triplicate under 'wasting government time', I suggest you let her pass."
Guard 1 blinked. "And who exactly are you?"
Jun's grin widened dangerously. "The guy whose job it is to make your next performance review disappear."
A brief pause — then both guards' faces turned crimson beneath their visors. One coughed, the other mumbled something about "official clearance," and within seconds they stepped aside.
"Apologies, sir! Please proceed!"
As they walked off, their chibi forms in Nightingale's head were shown giggling behind helmets, whispering: "He's kinda handsome, right?" — while Chibi Jun struck a ridiculous pose with sparkles.
Jun smirked. "Well! That was efficient customer service."
Nightingale turned toward him, her expression a storm of exasperation. "I could have handled that myself."
"Of course you could've," Jun said smoothly, brushing snow from his sleeve. "But then we'd have two frozen guards and a diplomatic incident. You're welcome."
She folded her arms. "Why are you even here?"
"Mission," he said simply, eyes glinting.
"What mission?"
"The same one you're on, apparently. Heard there's a Tier Sinner throwing a tantrum up north. Madam Di-Xian sent me to check it out."
"Without your comrades?" she asked, eyebrow raised.
He shrugged, smirking. "They'd only slow me down. Besides—" He leaned slightly closer, voice dropping to a teasing drawl. "What if you needed saving?"
Her chibi self appeared instantly — eyes wide, cheeks pink, dramatically imagining Jun catching her princess-style as explosions bloomed in the background. She snapped back to reality, shaking her head.
"I can handle myself."
"Sure," Jun said, stepping past her, "until that Tier Sinner decides to turn you into a snow sculpture."
Her chibi form again reappeared — frozen mid-battle like a popsicle, with Jun holding a hairdryer. "Told you so," his chibi self said smugly.
"Ugh," Nightingale muttered under her breath.
Jun extended his gloved hand toward her, his grin softening just a little. "Come on then, partner. Let's make this quick."
She looked at his hand, hesitating — then sighed. "Fine. But if you get in my way, I'll push you into the nearest glacier."
He laughed, low and teasing. "Deal."
Their chibi versions clasped hands, only to immediately start bickering — "You're pulling too hard!" "No, you are!" — as tiny snowflakes fell dramatically around them.
Back in reality, Nightingale allowed the faintest ghost of a smile to curl on her lips as they began walking toward the north gate. Jun caught it — of course he did — and grinned wider.
"Well, would you look at that," he said lightly. "You do smile."
She rolled her eyes, cheeks warming faintly beneath the cold. "Don't get used to it."
And as the two vanished into the shimmering snow, the great city of Khüitenhold loomed above — silent, breathless, and waiting for the storm to begin.
The day in Khüitenhold died quickly — not with a sunset, but with a dimming, as if the heavens themselves were exhaling the last warmth from the world.
When night came, it did not fall — it descended, slow and spectral. The sky turned the shade of bruised indigo, and the aurora spilled across the heavens like phosphorescent ink, veining the horizon in serpentine ribbons of turquoise and violet. Beneath that ghostly glow, the city stirred into its nocturnal metamorphosis.
The streets pulsed faintly from within, as geothermal veins illuminated the ice — streams of electric cerulean threading beneath transparent walkways. The air was viscous with frost; each exhalation drifted upward like lost spirits. Searchlights cut through the fog in rhythmic sweeps, throwing moving pillars of light over the towers, so that their shadows seemed alive — whispering, watching.
And beneath it all, there was sound. Not the hum of machinery, not the clank of armour, but the low moaning of the wind moving through the skeletal towers — a dirge too human for comfort. The locals called it "The Whispers of Khüiten."
Down below, the city lived on in fragments:
Miners in exo-armour descended into Cryo-Core shafts, torches glimmering like miniature stars in the frost; crimson-robed Priests of the Old Flame murmured benedictions before tiny fires at the city gates, embers flickering against the snow. Refugees gathered in underground canteens, sipping broth from metal cups while the radios above whispered static-laced songs from the old world.
And at the stroke of midnight — the wind ceased. The city stilled utterly. Even the aurora seemed to pause its motion.
That was when the people of Khüitenhold would whisper, almost reverently:
"When the wind sleeps… the dead walk home."
Jun exhaled softly, breath misting into the air. "Time runs fast in this city," he muttered, hands tucked into his pockets. "It's like the night stretches just to mock you."
"Yeah," Nightingale replied, her voice steady though her lips trembled slightly from the cold. The fog of her breath mingled with his in the lamplight. They had reached the North-East sector, where frost coated the signboards, and the glass panes of taverns glowed amber against the eternal blue.
They slipped into one — a weathered bar tucked between a cryo-generator and an armoury.
The interior was dim, warm, almost sepulchral. Holo-lamps flickered in shades of copper and teal, illuminating tables built from salvaged reactor plating. Patrons huddled close: soldiers off-duty, miners with soot-smeared visors, refugees whispering rumours over crystal glasses. The air smelled faintly of iron and ethanol — the perfume of exhaustion and survival.
At the corner, beside a rusted heat-vent, sat an old man, wrapped in a patched wool coat and fur-lined gloves. His beard was a glacier of white, curling down to his chest, and his cap — once military — was frayed by time. His eyes, however, were lucid, like two shards of blue ice reflecting memory too sharp to fade.
Nightingale approached gently, lowering her hood. "Sir, can you tell us what happened here?"
The man inhaled slowly, the sound brittle, like paper tearing. "Aye… I saw her," he said, voice crackling like old radio static. "A young woman — not from here. She stepped into this city like a phantom born of surgery and sin."
His gaze drifted somewhere distant, as though watching her again. "She wore a coat unlike any I've seen. Half white as purity, half drenched in dried blood. Tailored like it belonged to an angel who'd gone mad in the operating room."
He gestured faintly with trembling fingers. "Underneath, she had… contraptions. Tubes and cords woven through her corset — like veins she built herself. And her mask—" his voice faltered, "—glass, cracked right across the mouth. When she spoke, the words came out melodic… too calm, too kind, as though she was soothing her victims while tearing them open."
Nightingale's expression tightened; Jun's usual grin faltered.
"She had long hair," the man continued, "pale as surgical thread. Eyes — one gold, one glass-white, the latter glowing faintly. You could see the scars on her skin. She made them herself, she said… to understand pain."
Jun exhaled sharply, the humour gone from his tone. "What did she do?"
The old man's hand trembled. "She… operated. Not to heal. To change." His voice was a whisper now. "She injected folk with microscopic things — machines, she called them. Nanites. They rearranged their flesh while they were still alive. And she'd release this mist — sweet-smelling, like lilies — made you feel calm, even as your body twisted itself apart."
The silence that followed was thick and claustrophobic. Only the hum of the heat-vent remained.
"What's her name?" Jun asked quietly, his hand slipping into his coat pocket.
The old man hesitated, then whispered: "Xiēzhǐ. That's what she called herself."
Nightingale froze. "Xiēzhǐ…" she repeated under her breath. "She's a Tier-Two Sinner."
Her voice carried weight now — authority tempered with unease.
"Where did she go?" she asked, leaning closer.
The man shook his head. "Vanished into the ice. The last I saw, she walked north — toward the old cryo-clinics beneath the ridge. The snow swallowed her whole. Some say she's still there, mending the dead."
"Thank you," Nightingale said, bowing her head slightly. "That will be enough for us."
Outside, the cold slammed into them again — sharp, crystalline, alive. The aurora above rippled like liquid silk as they stepped into the empty streets.
Jun spoke first, his tone low but laced with thought. "Xiēzhǐ, huh? Real name's Xiēzhǐ An-Lan. Used to be a medical prodigy under the Dominion Health Directorate. They said she was brilliant — reforming regenerative biotech — until she lost her research team in a lab fire. Something snapped after that. She rebuilt herself… piece by piece."
Nightingale's eyes darkened. "So the healer became the butcher."
"Or both," Jun replied grimly, snow dusting his shoulders.
For a moment, neither spoke. The world around them was soundless but for the crunch of their boots over ice.
Then, faintly — almost imperceptibly — Nightingale exhaled through her nose, her breath forming a brief cloud. "You think she's really here?"
Jun smirked, though his voice was quieter than usual. "With our luck? Definitely."
Their chibi versions flickered in the air like thought bubbles — Chibi Nightingale scowling, Chibi Jun grinning as he held a cartoon scalpel labelled "Tier Sinner Finder 3000."
Back in reality, Nightingale rolled her eyes, pulling her scarf tighter. "Let's find her before she finds us."
Jun chuckled, walking beside her as the aurora painted their shadows long across the snow. "You make it sound romantic."
"Try 'fatal,'" she muttered.
And beneath that dancing sky of spectral green and violet, the two figures walked deeper into the sleeping heart of Khüitenhold — where frost met blood, and a woman called Xiēzhǐ waited among her creations.
The abandoned cryo-clinic lay on the northern fringe of Khüitenhold, buried beneath a tomb of glassy ice. Once, it had been a marvel of medical science — a sanctum where the dying slept in frost until cure or mercy found them. Now, it was a cathedral of silence, its corridors veined with frost and whispering vents, every surface lacquered with the breath of long-extinguished machines.
The outer doors, warped and rimed with ice, had long ceased to function. Only one narrow gap remained, through which a thin light pulsed — a cold, surgical luminance that seemed to breathe in rhythm with something alive inside.
Within, Xiēzhǐ An-Lan worked.
The air was sterile and metallic, sharp with the tang of antiseptic and ozone. The broken ceiling lamps flickered in arrhythmic spasms, casting shadows that rippled like the ghosts of scalpel cuts. She stood in the centre of the old operating theatre, the only moving thing in a room frozen by time.
Her figure was spectral — half angel, half automaton — framed by the iridescent haze of drifting vapour. Her attire, that dissonant garment of white and red, glowed faintly in the cold light. The once-immaculate half of her gown caught the luminescence like porcelain, while the blood-stained fabric drank the darkness whole. Each motion she made was deliberate, choreographed, almost ritualistic — the artistry of a surgeon who had long abandoned patients for canvases of living flesh.
A half-dismantled android torso lay upon the surgical slab before her — neither dead nor truly artificial. Its chest was open, ribs of carbon fibre spread like the petals of a steel flower, and within pulsed a cluster of biological tissue — grafted muscle, twitching faintly as if remembering pain.
Xiēzhǐ leaned forward. Her pale silver hair slid over her shoulders like thawing mercury. Her one golden eye gleamed with analytic hunger; the glass-white one whirred faintly, recording, reflecting, dissecting every detail. Her breath misted behind her cracked glass mask — a phantom smile traced across the fracture as she whispered,
"You see, perfection requires suffering. Even machines must ache to learn what it means to live."
She adjusted a dial on her injector gauntlet — a thin, needle-laden bracer pulsing with inner light. The nanite reservoir within shimmered, a microcosm of swirling silver motes. When she pressed the injector against the synthetic flesh, the torso convulsed — a shuddering gasp of half-life escaping its lungs. The nanites slithered beneath the surface, reshaping sinew, knitting artificial veins into the circuitry.
Xiēzhǐ watched with rapture. Her expression was not cruelty, nor pity, but devotional fascination — like a priestess watching her deity bleed.
"The Dominion feared entropy," she murmured softly, voice resonant and melodic through the glass. "But entropy is the truest cure. Every organ decays, every structure fails — unless one teaches it to rebuild itself, again and again, through pain."
She moved to the wall, where rows of cryo-pods stood shattered. Inside some, forms still lingered — bodies preserved mid-agony, their faces smooth and glassy from ice burn. Xiēzhǐ brushed her fingers against one of them, the ice cracking beneath her touch.
"Do not mourn," she whispered to the frozen corpse, her voice trembling with an odd tenderness. "You are my prototypes — each one teaching me a lesson the world refused to share."
Her hand trembled slightly — almost humanly. Then she clenched it, steadying her breath.
Behind her, small drones hovered like surgical cherubs — spindly, many-eyed machines that carried trays of tools: scalpels of photon light, syringes of liquid code, mechanical wings humming faintly. They responded to the tilt of her head, arranging instruments with the precision of thought.
One of the drones faltered, emitting a dying buzz. Without turning, Xiēzhǐ reached for a scalpel and, with surgical grace, slit open its hull. From the wound poured a stream of nanite mist, dissipating like breath in the cold. She exhaled, her voice a lullaby.
"Even failure can be beautiful if it dies elegantly."
For a moment she stood there, back straight, head tilted, the light reflecting off the cracks in her mask. Her silhouette looked like a stained-glass saint disassembled by time.
Then the lights above her flickered again — a subtle warning. Her golden eyes narrowed. She sensed something beyond the clinic walls: movement, heartbeats, two presences stepping into her dominion.
She smiled faintly beneath the fractured glass.
"Visitors…? How quaint."
Her hand drifted toward the tray of surgical tools. The scalpels rose, orbiting her like metallic petals around a living core.
The entire clinic seemed to awaken with her — the walls sighing, pipes rattling, frost sliding off consoles like old skin. The surgical slab behind her pulsed faintly, the android corpse twitching its fingers as if summoned from sleep.
She looked toward the doorway, her voice calm but threaded with ecstasy.
"Then let us begin the next operation."
Her tone was tender, reverent — as though she were about to welcome not enemies, but subjects.
The snow fell in thin, whispering veils as Nightingale and Jun approached the derelict cryo-clinic — a mausoleum of steel entombed in frost, its façade lit faintly by the lunar pallor. Every step they took echoed through the ice-veined floor, the sound dull and hollow, like heartbeats heard underwater.
Jun's breath clouded in the air. "Place gives me the creeps," he muttered, adjusting his collar. His tone was flippant, but his eyes darted with an instinctive wariness.
Nightingale's gaze was sharper — calculating. Her sky-blue hair, tucked beneath her winter hood, shimmered faintly in the ghost light. "Focus, Jun," she said quietly, her voice measured but carrying a subtle quiver. "Something's alive in there. I can feel the neural interference — like static… whispering through my mind."
The door ahead — half-collapsed, rimmed with frost — hissed open as they approached, exhaling a plume of sterile vapour.
They entered.
Inside, the clinic was a cathedral of decay — pale light fractured through frozen glass, illuminating shadows that seemed to pulse and shift. Old cryo-pods lined the corridor, their contents warped silhouettes trapped beneath translucent ice. Some looked human. Others did not.
A faint humming began — low and harmonic, like the sound of medical machinery remembering its purpose. Then, from the deeper chamber, a voice floated through the chill — serene, melodic, inhumanly calm.
"Two hearts… beating irregularly. How delightful. I've missed the sound of panic."
Jun's hand darted to his weapon. "Doctor Xiēzhǐ, I presume?"
"Oh," the voice replied, smooth as anaesthetic, "you make it sound so formal. But yes — Xiēzhǐ An-Lan. Former healer. Current artist."
The operating theatre lights flared alive in a sudden blaze.
There she stood — Xiēzhǐ, her pale silver hair flowing like liquid mercury, her asymmetrical gown catching the light in split tones of white and crimson. The cracked glass mask upon her face refracted her golden eye into shards of brilliance. Around her, scalpels floated in orbit, suspended by invisible filaments of nanite threads that writhed like metallic ivy.
Nightingale's pulse quickened. "You've turned this place into a morgue of machines," she said, her voice trembling between pity and fury.
"Morgue?" Xiēzhǐ tilted her head, the movement elegant, unnatural. "No. A chrysalis."
The lights dimmed — and the walls began to move.
From the cryo-pods burst shapes — amalgamations of flesh and metal, former patients reshaped by her nanites. One had no face, just a ring of surgical masks stretched across where features should have been. Another's spine arched outward into gleaming needles, twitching with residual life.
Nightingale activated her Crimson Shroud, her eyes glowing in psychic resonance. "Jun — keep your distance!" she warned.
Her voice trembled through the air, warping reality itself — whispers multiplied, cascading around the monsters in auditory hallucination. The abominations staggered, their movements jerky, their minds unravelled by phantom screams.
Jun seized the moment — sliding across the floor, twin pistols drawn. His bullets cut through the air like silver comets, tearing through sinew and circuitry alike. Each shot reverberated in the tight space, sparks reflecting in his narrowed eyes.
Xiēzhǐ moved like a phantom. Her scalpels spun outward in a spiral, slicing through the air in perfect synchrony — a ballet of precision and death. Jun ducked, one blade grazing his cheek, drawing a thin line of blood that hissed as it met the cold.
He grinned despite himself. "Guess she's not the type to negotiate."
Nightingale's psychic aura flared again — a bloom of crimson resonance — sending spectral distortions rippling through the room. The abominations shrieked, their bodies fracturing under the psychic weight. Yet Xiēzhǐ remained unshaken, her tone almost tender.
"Beautiful… even your agony sings."
She raised her arm — the injector gauntlet pulsed. From its reservoir erupted a swarm of silver nanites, cascading like a metallic storm, devouring the floor and walls in an instant.
Jun leapt, grabbing Nightingale by the wrist, dragging her away as the nanite tide consumed the ground where they'd stood. The metal corroded, reshaped — forming spindly limbs that reached for them, shrieking like tearing metal.
Xiēzhǐ's golden eye glowed brighter. "Let me rewrite you."
Jun's retort was cut short by a psychic blast from Nightingale, her Crimson Shroud focusing into a single resonance pulse. The nanite limbs shattered into dust, scattering through the blue light.
Jun steadied his breath. "You've got a scary singing voice, you know that?"
Nightingale didn't answer — she was already running, eyes locked on Xiēzhǐ. Her hand ignited in a swirl of psychic flame as she lunged, striking toward the doctor. But Xiēzhǐ moved like a reflection, bending back with impossible grace. Their eyes met for a breathless instant — the golden and the sky-blue — predator and empath, healer and executioner.
Then Xiēzhǐ smiled beneath her cracked mask.
"Enough for today."
She pressed a small detonator in her hand — a single click echoing like a heartbeat.
A deep rumble rolled through the floor. The cryo-pods flashed red, their cores overloading. Xiēzhǐ's scalpels fell, dissolving into dust as she stepped backward — into the thickening mist — her form flickering like a dying hologram.
"Let the clinic bury its secrets," she whispered, vanishing.
"Run!" Jun shouted.
The explosion came not as a sound, but as a devouring light. The entire structure convulsed, metal shrieking as the geothermal lines ruptured beneath it.
Jun grabbed Nightingale, his arms locking around her waist. "Hold on!"
The next instant, they were thrown through a collapsing window. Glass exploded outward in a storm of diamond shards. The freezing night wind howled as they plummeted through the air — the clinic erupting behind them in a blinding bloom of blue-white flame.
Jun twisted mid-fall, pulling Nightingale close, his body wrapping protectively around hers. They crashed into the snow below — rolling through frost and debris, the shockwave flattening the snowfields around them.
For a long moment, there was only silence. Then, Jun groaned softly, breath visible in the freezing air. "Told you… not to skip cardio."
Nightingale blinked, her hair dishevelled, flakes of ice glimmering in it like glass petals. Her heart pounded beneath his armoured chest. She realised — he hadn't let go.
Her cheeks flushed crimson. "Jun…"
He looked down at her, half-smiling despite the soot on his face. "What? Making sure you're still breathing."
"Get off," she muttered, though her voice wavered.
He chuckled, rolling onto his back beside her as the ruins of the clinic burned against the frozen horizon — the aurora above reflecting in the inferno below, a sky of fire and ice.
Nightingale exhaled slowly, her eyes following the rising smoke. "She got away…"
Jun smirked faintly. "Yeah. But next time, Doc Frankenstein won't have a clinic to run back to."
Nightingale turned her head slightly, the faintest trace of a smile ghosting across her lips. "You're insufferable."
"And alive," he said, winking. "Which is a good start."
The wind howled through the ruins like a requiem, carrying with it the faint echo of Xiēzhǐ's voice — a whisper caught between the auroras.
"Perfection… requires destruction."
Jun exhaled softly, the faint fog of his breath curling through the frozen air like a ghost reluctant to vanish. He lowered his weapon, its edge catching the dying glint of neon-blue light from the ruined cryo-clinic behind them. His voice came low — steady, but touched with fatigue.
"So," he murmured, brushing a fleck of frost from his shoulder, "that's enough then…?"
Nightingale turned sharply, her hair whipping across her face like silk caught in the wind. Her eyes — aquamarine and alive with fury — burned against the pallid night.
"She escaped!!!" she snapped, her voice trembling between anger and disbelief. "We were this close!"
Jun's expression softened; a shadow of dry amusement ghosted across his lips. He tilted his head, tucking his hands into his coat pockets, his tone somewhere between irony and resignation.
"Let her go. One day, she'll meet the fate she's carved for herself."
He turned his gaze toward the horizon — the aurora spilling across the indigo sky like a slow, bleeding wound. "Besides," he added, voice quieter now, "we both know some monsters prefer to cage themselves. The world just has to wait for the moment they bite their own tail."
"But—" Nightingale began, frustration flaring again, her fists clenched tight enough to whiten her knuckles. "You're just letting her go? After what she's done?"
Jun's eyes met hers then — calm, almost disarmingly so. The storm in her expression reflected in the mirror-still surface of his. He took a step closer, his voice lowered, earnest beneath its usual drawl.
"Nightingale… not every battle is meant to be won in the first strike. Sometimes," he said, glancing at the fading lights of the clinic, "the blade must wait until the wound forgets it exists."
The words lingered in the frigid air between them — cryptic yet oddly comforting. Nightingale's shoulders eased slightly, her breath misting in a trembling sigh.
She looked away, muttering under her breath with a reluctant smile tugging at her lips,
"You really do love to sound poetic when you're avoiding responsibility, don't you?"
Jun smirked, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. "What can I say? It's a curse — being this profound and good-looking."
She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. "I see the frost hasn't frozen your arrogance yet."
"Never will," he quipped lightly, the teasing tone wrapping around his words like a lazy grin.
They stood for a moment longer beneath the dancing lights of Khüitenhold's eerie sky — the city humming softly around them, its mechanical heart still beating beneath the ice. Then, Jun adjusted his scarf and began to walk down the frost-laden road.
"Come on," he called back without turning. "Let's head home before the wind starts singing again."
Nightingale hesitated for a heartbeat, watching his silhouette fade into the mist — shoulders relaxed, gait confident, a figure both infuriating and reassuring.
Finally, she sighed, half-exasperated, half-amused, and followed him.
"You're impossible, Jun," she murmured softly, a small smile breaking through the cold.
The two of them walked side by side through the frozen streets — their shadows stretching long beneath the pale aurora, blending into one as the city's whispers rose once more, gentle and haunting, like the ghosts of unfinished stories.