The night glimmered in Akihabara Nexus like a fever dream dipped in neon. Chief Wen-Li led her retinue of operatives through the crowded artery of Otaku Core Block, where every holographic sign screamed in radiant colour and every step seemed to hum with artificial warmth. The air itself shimmered — thick with incense-sweet electricity, laughter, and the faint tang of ozone.
Wen-Li, wearing a simple black trench over her pearlescent camisole, looked almost out of place amid the parade of cosplayers, idol projections, and mechanical mascots spinning holographic ribbons. Yet there was a rare softness in her demeanour tonight — her shoulders relaxed, the faintest hint of serenity beneath the usual frost of command.
"Well, ladies," she said, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek as they crossed beneath a hovering screen where an AR idol sang in a voice of static and sorrow, "tonight, there will be no reports, no ranks, and no recriminations — only the tragedy of karaoke."
The women burst into laughter. Lan Qian, petite and precise even in casual clothes, adjusted her glasses and grinned faintly. Nightingale, her cyan hair glowing faintly under the violet signage, gave a small smirk — the kind that masked amusement behind her usual restraint.
Behind them trailed Demitin, Tao-Ren, Ping Lianhua, Gu Zhaoyue, Feng Shaoyun, and Lingaong Xuein — a constellation of different temperaments orbiting their commander.
As they wove through the maze of AR cafés and gacha stalls, Demitin leaned toward Lan Qian, her voice a conspiratorial whisper.
"Lan Qian, remember when Chief took us to Shuǐzhì Chǔ at Yǔlíng's Rain Spirit? That was chaos incarnate."
Lan Qian's eyes glimmered in recollection, her breath misting in the chilly air as she suppressed a giggle.
"Oh yes… I heard Captain Robert was already there — along with Gonda, and even Madam Di-Xian's agents."
Demitin nodded vigorously, her cheeks colouring as she fought laughter.
"Exactly! And then that tough guy showed up out of nowhere — all muscle, no mind — shouting about his drunken girlfriend!"
At that, Lan Qian's composure cracked; she pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle the laugh. The memory replayed vividly — the berserker girl launching herself across the table, knocking Farhan got beaten, while Gonda got scratch at his face from with her. Captain Robert, noble as ever, had been knocked out by the kick.
"I can't—" Lan Qian gasped between laughter, "I still remember Robert's face — like a malfunctioning android about to short-circuit!"
"What are you two whispering about?" asked Tao-Ren, her crimson ponytail swaying as she turned sharply, narrowing her amber eyes with mock suspicion.
Demitin straightened instantly, her expression the picture of innocence — which only made it more suspicious.
"Nothing! Absolutely nothing!" she stammered, waving her hands in exaggerated denial.
Lan Qian, still giggling, added with a sly glint,
"It remains between us."
Demitin nodded, her lips twitching as she whispered,
"Yep! Forever sealed in the vault of classified embarrassment."
Tao-Ren raised an eyebrow, though her lips betrayed a reluctant smile. Feng Shaoyun chuckled quietly behind her hand, while Gu Zhaoyue sighed, muttering,
"We haven't even reached karaoke and you're already conspiring."
As they approached the Kara-Kyuubi Lounge, the building itself pulsed like a living organism — panels of shifting neon glass, shaped like petals of a techno-lotus opening in perpetual bloom. Through the transparent walls, they could see holographic koi swimming through the air, transforming into lyrics as singers performed within.
Chief Wen-Li stopped at the entrance, folding her arms as she surveyed her team — her lips curving into the faintest, knowing smile.
"You all look far too serious for a girls' night," she said, teasingly. "Inside, I expect chaos, laughter, and at least one tragic rendition of a love ballad."
Nightingale smirked, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face.
"Careful, Chief. I might just take that as an order."
"Good," Wen-Li replied dryly. "Consider it a mandatory morale operation."
Their laughter spilled into the night like champagne fizzing under moonlight. For a fleeting moment — in this kaleidoscopic sanctuary where the world outside could not reach — they were not soldiers, nor operatives, nor weapons of state.
They were simply women reclaiming a fragment of forgotten humanity beneath a sky of artificial stars.
Inside the Kara-Kyuubi Lounge, the air was a prism of colour and melody.
Soft holographic lanterns floated above the booths like luminous jellyfish, swaying gently to the rhythm of music. Each table shimmered with low violet light, while translucent koi still drifted lazily through the air, their tails dissolving into ripples of glowing lyrics. The scent of warm plum wine and candied sake drifted in soft waves, blending with laughter that felt, for once, entirely human.
Chief Wen-Li sat with her legs crossed at the head of the booth, one arm resting elegantly upon the curved seat as her subordinates — her sisters-in-arms for tonight — took turns commanding the stage.
First was Tao-Ren, all fiery defiance and theatrical flair, gripping the microphone as though it were a blade.
She sang a frenetic rock anthem, her voice fierce and raw — the sound of wildfire breaking through snow.
Behind her, animated flames danced across the holographic wall, painting her silhouette in molten amber.
"Who needs romance," she declared between lyrics, "when you can obliterate it with rhythm!"
The others roared with laughter, pounding the table in applause. Demitin almost choked on her cocktail, tears forming in her eyes as she doubled over, while Ping Lianhua clapped off-beat, giggling so hard her earrings jingled like tiny bells.
Next came Lan Qian, who — after much coaxing — stood shyly with the mic in hand.
Her song was soft, almost whispering; a melancholic ballad about lost stars and found courage.
Her voice, clear as frost-melt, shimmered through the neon haze. The others fell silent — her melody curling around them like mist through dawn-lit glass.
Even Nightingale's usual stoicism melted into admiration. "You've been hiding that voice all this time?" she murmured, genuinely impressed.
Lan Qian, cheeks scarlet, waved a dismissive hand. "It's… just an old hobby," she said bashfully, sinking back into her seat.
Then, chaos incarnate arrived — Lingaong Xuein.
She bounded onto the stage with the reckless energy of a comet, selecting an absurdly upbeat pop song and throwing herself into a hyperactive dance routine.
Her voice cracked in places, her rhythm questionable, but her spirit was undeniable — arms flailing, hair bouncing, eyes glittering like twin novas of mischief.
Even Wen-Li — refined, collected, ever the paragon of poise — couldn't restrain herself. A clear, melodious laugh escaped her lips, genuine and unguarded. For a moment, the weight of command slipped away, replaced by radiant warmth.
"Bravo, Xuein," she managed between laughter. "I believe you've broken the sound barrier — and possibly a few laws of rhythm."
"Chief!" Xuein pouted dramatically in chibi form, her head comically enlarged and eyes wobbling. "That's so mean!"
The table burst into peals of laughter again.
As the songs continued — Nightingale's hauntingly soulful piece, Zhaoyue's elegant classical tune, Feng Shaoyun's jazzy improvisation — Wen-Li sat quietly with her cup of plum wine, a faint smile hovering upon her lips.
The laughter blurred into a soft hum, and her mind wandered — unbidden — to a memory steeped in smoke and crimson.
The day at Eidolon Park.
The world fractured by screaming metal and monster's roar.
The moment Zhai Linyu became something inhuman — and he was there.
Agent-90.
She remembered the flash of blue — his eyes, cold as mercury, yet alight with a terrifying resolve.
How he had caught her as the chaos erupted when Zhai Linyu consumed her — his arms steady, his chest hard beneath her trembling hands.
The blood in her mouth, the taste of ozone, the blur of red lights and snowfall.
And his voice — low, calm, deadly precise.
"I've got you, Chief. Don't move."
It wasn't the first time. Nor, perhaps, the last.
Even now, she could see that fleeting morning at the subway — both of them, strangers in uniform, crossing paths under pale light, nodding without words.
Each time, he'd looked at her not as a subordinate, not as a superior — but as an equal.
And that was what disarmed her.
Her cheeks flushed before she realised, a delicate rose blooming upon porcelain.
"Chief," said Nightingale softly, tilting her head, her teal hair falling like river-silk over her shoulder. "Something wrong?"
Wen-Li blinked, returning to the present with a flustered laugh.
"Oh—no, nothing at all!"
Lingaong Xuein leaned in from the side, mischievous glint in her eyes. "Then why are your cheeks glowing like reactor cores, Chief?"
"It's… just…" Wen-Li hesitated, brushing a lock behind her ear, "because I'm spending time with all of you."
She chuckled, trying — and failing — to mask her embarrassment.
The group awwed in unison, some in chibi form with sparkly eyes.
"Awwww~ Chief Wen-Li's going soft on us!" sang Demitin dramatically, pretending to wipe tears.
"Impossible," said Nightingale dryly, though her smirk betrayed affection.
Wen-Li laughed, the sound clear and crystalline. "Don't get used to it."
"Oh! I almost forgot," she added, setting her cup down. "Isn't tomorrow the gala night at our organisation?"
Nightingale nodded. "Yes, Chief. President Zhang Wei has already announced it. The whole executive council will attend — even the international divisions."
Wen-Li smiled faintly, her eyes softening. "Then enjoy tonight, all of you. Camaraderie like this…" — she lifted her cup slightly — "is rarer than peace itself."
"Here, here!" shouted Xuein, raising her own drink with reckless enthusiasm, sloshing it slightly onto the table.
Then, Lan Qian leaned forward mischievously. "Chief, why not you sing for us?"
"Me?" Wen-Li blinked, startled.
Every face turned to her — and in that instant, they all transformed into chibi mode, eyes enormous and shimmering with anticipation, mouths round as marbles.
"Please, Chief!" they chorused, bouncing in exaggerated excitement.
Wen-Li sighed, setting her cup aside, but her smile betrayed her defeat. "Alright, alright… if you insist."
The lights dimmed to a soft sapphire hue as she took the microphone. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.
Then her voice — low, velvety, and ethereal — flowed like moonlight over water.
She sang of distant winters, of faith unbroken, of hearts that never truly meet yet never truly part.
Her tone shimmered with fragile grace, carrying a melancholy too refined to be called sadness.
Her team listened in silence, their expressions softened by awe. Even the holographic koi paused mid-swim, as though the song itself had stilled the air.
When the last note faded, Wen-Li exhaled slowly, lowering the mic.
There was a heartbeat of quiet — then a rush of applause, cheers, and laughter bursting like starlight around her.
Nightingale raised her glass, smiling. "To our Chief — and her hidden talent!"
Wen-Li chuckled, a faint blush lingering still. "To all of us," she replied, raising her cup. "To tonight — where duty forgets to breathe."
Their cups clinked, a crystalline harmony amid the hum of neon and distant digital song —
and for that brief, fleeting hour, the women of the SSCBF were not warriors.
They were a family, stitched together by laughter, melody, and the fragile beauty of being alive.
Deep beneath the surface world — beneath the manicured façades of power, beneath even the buried guilt of governments — the SCP underground facility pulsed like a cold, metallic heart. Its corridors were a labyrinthine necropolis of intelligence, where the walls themselves seemed to hum with restrained omniscience. Everything breathed in rhythm with the servers — a mechanical respiration of secrets, of surveillance, of absolute control.
The deeper one descended, the more the light grew untrustworthy — sterile green hues dripping from suspended lumens like liquid poison. The hum of the reactors reverberated through the reinforced floors, a mechanical lullaby to madness.
And at the nerve centre of this vast, humming abyss sat Eitan Shalom — the quiet conductor of this symphony of data. His form was silhouetted against an ocean of monitors, their screens flickering in rhythmic dissonance, like the pulse of a living creature. His eyes, sharp and colourless as steel shavings, reflected the endless code cascading across them.
Fingers darted across the keyboard — elegant, precise, surgical.
Every keystroke was deliberate; every motion, an incision into the digital anatomy of the world.
"Initiating Phase Two. Proxy shields activated, gateways breached. Commencing data retrieval on Subject Wen-Li."
His voice was steady — clipped and professional, but laced with a quiet, sacerdotal reverence for the machine he commanded.
Before him, lines of code unfurled like strands of fate, weaving themselves into a living tapestry of stolen truth.
He murmured softly, as if to himself:
"Show me your soul, Chief Wen-Li… let me peel away the myth you've built."
A storm of data bloomed upon his central screen — SSCBF archives, personal logs, biometric trails, encrypted transmissions trailing across the map of the neon world. Each file was a pulse of stolen intimacy. Every folder he opened bled like a wound from another life.
A faint smile ghosted across his lips as he decrypted another firewall.
"There you are," he whispered. "Every heartbeat, every whisper… every unguarded thought."
For a brief instant, he hesitated — her image flickering on a side monitor, Wen-Li, her expression calm yet unyielding, her eyes bearing that unbreakable light that haunted even her enemies. The moment hung like a blade suspended above his conscience.
Then, as if remembering his creed, he muttered,
"Loyalty is not belief… it is obedience."
From the corner of the room, another presence stirred — silent until now.
A woman stood there, half-shrouded by the electric shadows — Katarina Sten, the data analyst whose intellect was whispered to border on clairvoyance. Her hair glimmered faintly beneath the sickly light, and her eyes — glacial grey, untouched by mercy — studied the streams of code as though reading divine scripture.
In her hands, she held a sleek tablet, its holographic interface alive with predictive graphs and algorithmic spirals.
"The Chaebol predictive matrices are ready," she said, her accent thick with Scandinavian precision. "Projected stability index for Gavriel's dominion — seventy-one per cent, assuming Wen-Li's networks are neutralised."
Eitan did not glance up. "And if she resists?"
"Then the index drops to forty," she replied evenly. "But she will resist — she always does. That's what makes her dangerous."
Eitan smirked faintly, the expression not of amusement but of clinical appreciation.
"Then we dismantle her… one layer at a time."
Katarina stepped closer, the faint perfume of ozone and cold air trailing her like a spectral veil.
Her eyes flicked to the main display, where Wen-Li's encrypted communications bloomed like constellations in the void.
"Careful," she murmured. "She's not unaware of us. Her encryption cycles have changed — someone's warned her."
"Impossible," Eitan said coldly, his hands still moving with mechanical assurance. "No one breaches my nets."
But before the words had fully left his mouth — the sound arrived.
A soft, rhythmic beeping — not from his system, not from hers.
A warning.
An intrusion.
On the central screen, a single sentence bled across the digital haze —
"Beware, Eitan Shalom. The eye that watches is also watched."
The hum of machinery seemed to deepen into a growl.
Eitan froze. His reflection on the screen was pale, the green light accentuating the veins under his eyes. For a moment, the grand maestro of the digital abyss looked human. Fallible. Mortal.
He rose slightly, gaze flicking to the shadows that pooled beyond the monitors.
"Who… who dares breach this system?"
Katarina's expression remained unreadable, though her eyes narrowed — cold calculation in motion.
"You've drawn attention," she said quietly. "Perhaps too much."
The lights flickered once — twice — the entire facility exhaling like a slumbering titan.
Eitan clenched his jaw, forcing the tremor from his voice.
"No matter. Gavriel's directive must proceed. Wen-Li's silence will not be left to chance."
He bent forward once more, fingers resuming their furious symphony upon the keys.
Every command was a defiance of the whisper that had invaded his mind.
The code scrolled faster, the air thickening with static as data lines converged into a singular purpose — eradication by precision.
Katarina stood behind him, arms folded, her gaze fixed upon the fractal chaos of data streams.
In her eyes flickered a hint of something almost — imperceptibly — human. Pity, perhaps. Or prophecy.
"Careful, Eitan," she said softly, almost like a prayer. "The abyss you read is starting to read you back."
But he didn't answer.
The hum of the servers rose — a crescendo of electric devotion.
The shadows lengthened, and the green glow rippled like serpentine breath upon his face.
In the heart of the machine, two predators watched each other —
and neither knew who was still in control.
Gavriel Elazar lingered at the panoramic window of his office, a colossus silhouetted against the city's phosphorescent web; the metropolis sprawled beneath him like an illuminated brain, every synapse of neon and glass beating to the tick of commerce and conspiracy. He turned slowly when Chief Ilse Richter entered — her footsteps clipped, each heel-stroke a metronome of authority — platinum hair knotted tight, hands folded behind her back like a general awaiting orders. Her face was an inscrutable ledger: no tremor of surprise, only the calm arithmetic of someone well practised in calamity.
"Sir! It's all prepared," she intoned, the words falling with military crispness.
Gavriel inclined his head, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smile as thin and precise as a razor's edge. He decanted wine into a crystal glass, the ruby liquid catching the office light and throwing it back in small, deliberate pyres. "Tomorrow is the gala night at the SSCBF," he said softly, his voice silk over iron. He set the glass down and, as if to sharpen his point with culture, added, "Chief Richter, have you read Dostoyevsky's Insulted and Humiliated?"
Richter's lips barely twitched. "I have read it, sir. It is a study in wounded dignity and social stratagem."
"Precisely." He took a sip, eyes half-closed as though tasting not only the wine but consequence. "Vanya and Natasha become instruments of humiliation, manoeuvred by forces both petty and monstrous. They are exposed, discredited, unmade in public. We shall perform an analogue of that theatre — only our stage is far grander, and the audience is the world."
Richter's posture did not change; she was a column of ice. Yet there was the merest narrowing of her gaze, a professional appraisal. "And Wen-Li is to be your… Natasha?"
Gavriel laughed once, a soft, contemptuous sound that did not reach his eyes. "Humiliation is surgical when precisely applied. We will expose her; we will erode the faith others place in her; we will make her flail in front of the very people whose loyalty she commands. Pride, when punctured, ruptures into distrust. It is exquisite economy."
A faint ripple betrayed Richter's disquiet — the merest flicker in a glassy pool. "If Madam Di-Xian intervenes, sir? If she dispatches her agents to upset your calculus?"
Gavriel's fingers drummed against the mahogany with the metronomic patience of a predator. "I have considered that contingency. Di-Xian is obstinate, but predictable. She will not risk her entire cadre — not her treasury or her theatre — on a single gala." He fixed Richter with a look like a cold sun. "One of her instruments, however — Agent-90 — he is likely to attend. He is the only variable who might step into the light."
"Agent-90," Richter repeated, the name a blade sheathed in ice. "He is… troublesome."
"He is useful to us when misdirected," Gavriel said. He leaned forward, palms splayed on the desk as if feeling for veins of power. "We will bait Wen-Li. We will contrive an exhibition of supposed proof ― supposed perfidy. The spectacle will be so blatant, so incontrovertible, that friends will recoil and colleagues will clutch at plausible deniability. Her reputation will disintegrate like a bad alloy."
Richter's expression was unreadable, but the slightest furrow of her brow suggested she weighed the ethics of the plan in the same breath as its utility. "And if Di-Xian attempts to shield her agent?"
Gavriel's smile turned from coy to sanguine. "Then we dismantle Di-Xian's scaffolding in the same tidal sweep. Once Wen-Li is discredited, the social architecture that props up her allies becomes brittle. Agent-90 and Di-Xian will be collateral in a larger excision. Slowly, methodically — we will excise dissent as one cuts rot from timber."
Richter steepled her fingers, the quintessential portrait of composure, yet there was a glitter of something not wholly professional in her eyes: anticipation, perhaps, or the cold thrill of power. "Understood, sir. The adjudicators and the media operatives are aligned. The narrative will fold precisely as you require."
Gavriel set his glass down with the soft click of finality. He cast one last, slow glance over the glittering city as if he could see the web of his strategy thread itself through every streetlight and council chamber. "Tomorrow, Chief Richter, we will not merely humiliate; we will convulse the system until loyalty becomes a currency we can buy and sell. Wen-Li will fall from a height such that no sympathies can catch her."
Richter inclined her head, a single, immaculate bow. "You will be served, sir."
As she left, her heels tapping a receding staccato, Gavriel watched her go and allowed himself the smallest indulgence: a whisper to the empty room, the private benediction of the architect of calamity. "Let the dandelion petals scatter," he murmured, the metaphor as cold as the glass he drained. "Let her faith flutter away on the wind."
Madam Di-Xian sat behind her mahogany desk like a sovereign at the heart of a smouldering empire; the lamplight licked the lacquered grain and set her crimson hair ablaze in a slow, deliberate flare. The crimson lotus in its obsidian vase unfurled petal by petal as though the flower itself conferred counsel, and the room smelled faintly of tea and old paper—a comforting lie in a world of knives. She was reviewing encrypted transcripts with the habitual precision of a surgeon when the soft click of the outer door announced a visitor; she did not look up, merely inclined an imperceptible nod.
"Enter," she commanded, voice cool as a metal tray.
Agent-90 crossed the threshold with the economy of motion that had become his signature: no flourish, only purpose. He held an envelope between thumb and forefinger like a small accusation. His face was the habitual mask of equanimity; the crystalline blue of his eyes betrayed little, but his posture was a tight, coiled thing—an instrument kept in tune.
"What is it, Agent-90?" Madam Di-Xian asked, one eyebrow rising with a cultivated nonchalance that nevertheless betrayed curiosity.
"Madam." He extended the envelope with a motion as matter-of-fact as placing a file upon a desk. "This arrived."
She took the paper; the seal was embossed with the SSCBF crest. Her fingers—long, practised, and not given to trembling—split the flap and drew forth the invitation. The words inside were embroidered with official varnish: Gala Night, SSCBF, Tomorrow.
An absolute stillness leased the room for a heartbeat. Madam Di-Xian's mouth became the shape of a coin flipped and caught. "An invitation to a gala?" she repeated, the tone brittle yet composed, as if she had stumbled across an unexpected stratagem in the folds of court intrigue. "Why would they invite me?"
Before Agent-90 could answer, Gonda Subuichi came in, white hair conspicuous against the dusk beyond the window, carrying his own identical envelope like a talisman of an old life. He set it gently on the desk and offered a rueful half-smile that did not reach his eyes.
"I received one too," he said, voice threaded with a memory of corridors lined with badges and the ghosts of old loyalties. "From my former organisation—SSCBF."
Madam Di-Xian regarded him as one might regard an old knife: useful, familiar, potentially dangerous in the wrong hands. "For what purpose?" she asked, the words small but edged.
"I do not know," Gonda answered frankly. "Perhaps a reunion. Perhaps a trap. Perhaps a pretext for performance."
Her mouth quirked—half amusement, half calculation. "And your health, Gonda? Are you fit enough to attend? These affairs often demand more than pleasant conversation; they demand stamina and the capacity to look at your adversary and smile while holding a blade behind your back."
"I am well, Madam," he replied with the ritual deference of a man who had learned the geography of caution.
Madam Di-Xian folded the invitation, her fingers lingering upon the embossed crest as if feeling for veins beneath ivory. She tapped the envelope once against the desk, a ministrant percussion that spoke volumes. "You will go," she decided, her voice the low percussion of an order fashioned into velvet. "If I decline the invitation, they will wonder. If I attend in person, I expose myself to their theatre. You, Gonda, will be my emissary. You will meet Captain Robert and Agent-90 there; you will represent me."
Gonda inclined his head, a soldier's assent. "Yes, Madam."
She leaned back and regarded them both with the mild cruelty of one who reads the future like a ledger. "Be vigilant. The gala is theatre and trap in equal measure—satin curtains hiding barbed wire. Keep your senses honed to skittering shadows and the faintest whiff of deceit."
Both agents nodded; Agent-90's motion was a subtle, mechanical acknowledgement, Gonda's was steadier, more human—an oath given in plain air.
As they prepared to leave, Madam Di-Xian murmured to herself, not quite a prayer and not quite a benediction, the sort of aphorism whispered by generals before a campaign: "Dandelion petals scatter at the merest puff of wind; do not let them mark you." Her voice was soft, almost private, but there was steel hidden in the syllables. The lotus on her desk seemed to tilt, as if inclining to hear.
The moonlight poured through the tall lancet windows of Black Castle, silvering the walls like a benediction upon old sin. The chamber was a theatre of shadow and stillness—where silence lingered like perfume and every corner seemed to breathe. At the centre sat Lady Sin, her form half-enshrouded by darkness, the faint gleam of her crimson eyes flickering like embers beneath a veil. Upon her mahogany desk, a single black rose unfurled within a crystal vase—its petals heavy, glistening faintly as if steeped in ink.
Her voice, when it came, was a satin thread drawn over the edge of a knife.
"Well," she murmured, her tone carrying the soft amusement of a spider addressing a trembling fly. "It seems you've received an invitation… to the gala night of your former organisation."
From the far corner, the darkness stirred. A low, indifferent voice answered, "Yeah."
Lady Sin leaned back, her silhouette languid yet commanding, like a queen half-reclined upon her throne. "Won't you go, General Velgarave Prystowsky?" she asked, letting his name linger in the air like incense.
Footsteps echoed—measured, deliberate. The man emerged from the umbral corner, the silver trim of his uniform catching the light as he crossed his arms across his broad chest. The moon, fractured through the window's stained glass, carved blue shards across his face—stoic, scarred, and unwilling to yield.
"Well, I won't," he said at last, his tone clipped, each word weighted with fatigue and disdain.
"Oh?" Lady Sin's brow arched faintly, her lips curling into an ambiguous half-smile. "Why not?"
"Because," Velgarave replied, his eyes narrowing, "that place is full of hypocrites—parading in masks of righteousness while their hands are steeped in filth. They sip wine and call it virtue. I have no patience for pageants."
Lady Sin tilted her head, the black rose trembling as though it too were listening. Then, softly, she said, "I want to see this gala of yours." She traced the rim of her teacup with a pale finger, her nail gleaming like a sliver of moonlight. "You'll take me with you."
Velgarave's eyes flicked up, a frown darkening his face. "Why?" he asked, suspicion threading through his tone.
The room grew still, the silence stretched taut as silk. Slowly, Lady Sin leaned forward, the moonlight unveiling her features—a visage at once exquisite and disquieting. Her crimson eyes gleamed like rubies drowned in blood, her smile was a slow incision across porcelain.
"Because," she said softly, her voice sliding through the air like velvet smoke, "I wish to see how the righteous celebrate beneath chandeliers… before I crush the illusion that keeps them standing. I want to see their smiles before I break them."
The words slithered into the air, each syllable deliberate and venomous. The black rose beside her shuddered, shedding a single petal that fell soundlessly onto the desk.
Velgarave's jaw tightened; his gaze, once impassive, now flickered with reluctant intrigue. "You're dangerous, my lady," he said at last, half-admiring, half-wary. "Every word of yours sounds like a promise wrapped in poison."
Her smirk deepened, her chin tilting ever so slightly. "Then consider me your toxin, General. You'll take me to the gala, won't you?"
A long pause hung between them—his breath visible in the cold air, her patience coiled and waiting. Finally, Velgarave exhaled through his nose, a sound halfway between surrender and amusement. "Fine," he said, his baritone low and resonant. "But don't say I didn't warn you when the masks start cracking."
Lady Sin rose gracefully, the hem of her dark gown whispering across the marble like spilled smoke. "Oh, Velgarave," she murmured, crimson eyes glinting as she passed him. "I don't wear masks… I make others take theirs off."
He allowed himself the faintest ghost of a grin, one that never reached his eyes. "Then I suppose," he said quietly, "this gala will be far more entertaining than I imagined."
And as the two figures stood bathed in fractured moonlight, the black rose upon the desk shed another petal—dark as ash, silent as prophecy.
The gala night unfolded beneath the shimmering vaults of the SSCBF Grand Ballroom, a structure so vast and luminous it seemed carved from the bones of the future itself.
The ceiling, a translucent dome of refracted glass and nanofibre, shimmered with shifting constellations — artificial auroras blooming and fading like breathing light. Hovering drones drifted like metallic fireflies, their soft radiance mingling with the crystal chandeliers that floated freely, suspended by invisible magnetic fields. The air hummed faintly with orchestral resonance — a synthesis of violins and digital harmonics that reverberated like a living pulse through the marble floor.
Everywhere, elegance and order danced together, a paradox of grace and control — the embodiment of the SSCBF's ethos.
On the dais at the far end stood the High Council, resplendent beneath banners bearing the emblem of the organisation — a phoenix woven in threads of gold and light.
Each council member appeared more like an avatar of their nation's pride than a mere dignitary.
Fahad Al-Farsi, in an immaculate white thawb with carbon-thread embroidery, his golden sash glimmering faintly under the lights, stood with the quiet dignity of a desert sovereign.
Elizabeth Carter, statuesque in an emerald gown of nanoweave silk, her shoulders crowned with mirrored pauldrons — a fashion of polished restraint.
Selim Kaya, sharp as a sabre, wore a hybrid tuxedo lined with calligraphic circuitry of bronze and indigo — geometry reborn in fibre optics.
Andreas Karalis, ever the philosopher, stood in slate-grey velvet, a laurel pin upon his lapel glinting with holographic olive leaves.
Kim Ji-Soo, sleek and minimalistic, wore a high-neck obsidian hanbok infused with faint neon threads that pulsed to her breath.
Hiroto Nakamura, dignified in charcoal-grey with a silver mon of his family crest glowing faintly over his heart.
Aarav Sharma, regal in a navy sherwani whose embroidery shimmered like flowing Sanskrit — gold fractals blooming across the cuffs.
Rahim Ahmed, in a deep olive uniform trimmed with silver epaulettes, his bearing both militant and poetic.
At their centre stood President Zhang Wei, clad in a white ceremonial coat streaked with threads of scarlet light — symbol of peace through vigilance. Beside him, his son Zhang Ji, the C.E.O., wore a contemporary fusion of corporate sharpness and imperial luxury — a black suit lined in red luminescent circuitry, his composure polished, his smile as measured as a diplomat's blade.
At one corner of the ballroom, the Celestial Unit officers gathered like a constellation of quiet power.
Captain Lingaong Xuemin, dressed in an obsidian-tailored coat with a sleek, high collar and bronze filigree along the cuffs. The inner lining glowed faintly crimson when he moved, casting a whisper of firelight across his otherwise composed face. His posture was impeccably soldierly — shoulders broad, jaw set, eyes reflecting the chandeliers above like twin shards of tempered glass.
"You'd think," he murmured, "with all this splendour, they'd serve something stronger than fruit champagne."
His voice was low, a velvet growl beneath the din.
Captain Feng Shaoyun, resplendent in a snow-white gown with faint cyan luminescent folds that rippled like frozen waterfalls. Her hair, silver-blue and tied in a looping braid, shimmered beneath the drone-lights. "Be grateful, Xuemin," she said with a teasing smirk. "Some of us look stunning even without liquor."
Qu Yexun, the strategist, opted for a subdued gunmetal tuxedo with minimal ornamentation — his tie a narrow strip of reactive fibre that glowed with faint pulse-like rhythm. He adjusted his glasses with habitual precision, eyes calm and analytical.
"A spectacle to remind us that hierarchy still matters," he said dryly.
Yang Shaoyong, ever boisterous, had chosen a steel-grey suit with an asymmetrical cloak pinned at his shoulder. "Hierarchy?" he laughed, swirling his glass. "You mean the kind where we stand guard while the council feasts."
Ping Lianhua, in a delicate gradient gown of rose-gold and pale cream, leaned against the marble pillar. "You men talk too much," she said sweetly, eyes glinting like mischief made flesh.
Gu Zhaoyue, tall and graceful, wore an elegant black slit gown, its sides patterned with faint geometric lines of amber light. Her jewellery — a single crystalline pendant — refracted soft aureate beams as she moved. "You'll all behave," she said in her calm, honeyed voice. "Tonight is for diplomacy, not bruised egos."
At a nearby table sat Demitin, dressed in a glistening bronze suit that shimmered with subtle rose-tinted light. Her hair was styled into a low chignon pinned with holographic petals, giving her a touch of sophisticated playfulness.
Beside her, Sakim wore a futuristic black-and-silver tuxedo with a narrow transparent lapel etched with faint runes — his expression calm, yet his eyes surveyed the room like a predator behind glass.
Daishoji, always eccentric, wore an ivory suit with asymmetrical embroidery that resembled ancient kanji, his red scarf thrown dramatically over one shoulder.
Louise Langermans, with her platinum curls, had gone full gala regalia — a pearl-white gown accented with violet geometric sequins that caught the room's shifting lights, giving her the illusion of being wrapped in constellations.
At the entrance, Captain Voreyevsky made his appearance — a shadow sculpted in obsidian.
His high-collared uniform coat shimmered like liquid night; every angle was deliberate, from the sharp shoulders to the faint blue blaze-stripe that mirrored the frost in his gaze. The silver tracery on his cuffs glinted like circuitry from another world. He moved with the precision of a man who had never stumbled — a presence honed, controlled, dangerous.
As he crossed the floor, conversations muted briefly — his boots struck the marble with slow, heavy authority.
"Typical Captain Voreyevsky," murmured Lianhua, amused. "He wears darkness as though he invented it."
At the same moment, Captain Lingaong Xuein descended the steps — poised, commanding, and devastating in her austerity.
Her gown, deep black trimmed with gold military cords, clung to her with sculptural precision. The mandarin collar framed her neck like armour; the fabric gleamed like midnight velvet. Long gloves traced up to her elbows, and ruby earrings flickered faintly against her pale throat.
Her presence was magnetic — a disciplined beauty sharpened by authority.
She passed Voreyevsky, exchanging a fleeting nod that carried both rivalry and respect.
Then came Lan Qian, the quiet brilliance of the group, in her midnight cyber-silk gown, the electric-blue seams glowing softly like veins of data beneath moonlight. The asymmetrical neckline sculpted her silhouette, her movements smooth and calculated.
As she adjusted her luminous clutch, Yang Shaoyong whispered, "Careful, Lan Qian — you might outshine the chandeliers."
She glanced at him sideways, a faint, knowing smile touching her lips. "That's the idea."
And finally, Commander Krieg made his entrance — a towering figure clad in an elegant, armoured tuxedo of matte graphite fabric. The design echoed military precision: wide shoulders, high neck, and an inlaid crest of silver across his chestplate-like vest. His gloves were carbon-leather, his boots mirror-polished. Yet despite his severity, there was an air of nobility about him — a relic of discipline in a world of decadence.
As he joined Voreyevsky, he remarked dryly, "The council loves their theatre."
Voreyevsky smirked faintly, swirling his drink. "Every empire falls dancing, Commander. We're just here for the overture."
Across the ballroom, laughter mingled with diplomatic murmurs, and holographic flutes refilled themselves with liquid crystal.
"Enjoy the night," murmured Lianhua, raising her glass, her reflection shimmering across Lan Qian's glowing gown.
"Because," said Xuein, eyes narrowing faintly, "something tells me this one won't end in music."
Through the glimmering throng strode Dr. Abrar — the polymath physician and psychological tactician of the Bureau — a figure of intellect wrapped in immaculate sophistication. His attire, though understated, radiated the kind of prestige that whispered power rather than shouted it.
He wore a tailored storm-grey ensemble, its surface threaded with iridescent silver fibres that shimmered faintly beneath the artificial aurora overhead. His coat, cut long and slim, featured lapels embroidered with micro-circuit filigree — more aesthetic than functional, yet suggestive of his technocratic mind. Beneath it, a high-collared vest of gunmetal satin caught the light like liquid mercury, and his shirt, black as lunar glass, framed his countenance with almost priestly austerity. His gloved hand — soft carbon weave — occasionally adjusted the slim monocle interface resting before his right eye, which flickered with faint data streams invisible to all but him.
Beside him, Nurse Anne Parker, his ever-efficient assistant, matched his poise with quiet radiance. Her gown of pale argent and obsidian mesh was cut with surgical precision — elegant yet pragmatic. The bodice hugged her form with corseted discipline, while the lower half flowed in a cascade of sheer metallic silk, each fold moving like liquid shadow. Around her throat, a silver torque bore the insignia of the Medical Division — subtle yet sovereign. Her auburn hair was drawn into a sleek coiled bun, a single strand escaping to brush against the faintest trace of rose-gold along her jawline.
"Dr. Abrar," she murmured, her tone a polished whisper, "you realise this entire spectacle is less about diplomacy and more about theatre."
He gave a faint, sardonic smile — the corner of his mouth curving as if he'd heard this sentiment a hundred times before. "Ah, Miss Parker," he replied softly, "theatrics are the bloodstream of politics. It's only the bloodletting that changes."
Her lips curved faintly, and the two continued their measured stride into the heart of the gala, their every motion synchronised — surgeon and scalpel, intellect and elegance.
And then, as the orchestra modulated into a haunting waltz of synth and string, Lieutenant Nightingale made her entrance — a vision of sleek dominion and restrained sensuality.
Under the dome's refracted light, her asymmetrical gown of nanofibre silk gleamed with iridescent undertones — hues of cobalt and gunmetal flowing like liquid steel across her form. The dress was armour masquerading as couture: the bodice sculpted like ballistic plating, its metallic seams tracing the lines of her strength rather than her fragility. The slit skirt, carved to precision, revealed the gleam of her knee-high heeled boots, fashioned of matte synth-leather that reflected just a ghost of blue luminescence along the edges — restrained yet undeniable.
The faint hum of conversation dulled as she passed, as though the very air acknowledged her dominion. Officers inclined their heads in wordless respect; diplomats turned subtly to glimpse her — and then looked away, afraid of the glacial intelligence behind her turquoise eyes.
Her choker, thin and dark as graphite, bore microcircuit etching — at once ornament and relay, elegance concealing vigilance. A concealed sidearm holster rested at her hip beneath a decorative sash wrought in blackened steel thread, bearing the SSCBF insignia that gleamed like a sigil of silent oaths. Draped over her shoulders was a short tactical cape, its reflective nanothreads glimmering faintly like constellations across a night sky — a metaphor for the paradox she embodied: the unity of grace and lethality.
Her silvery-aqua hair, drawn back into a low braided ponytail clasped by her squad insignia, rippled faintly when the artificial wind from the ventilation vents stirred it — a motion almost symbolic, as though her very aura commanded the air. Her makeup, minimal and precise, accentuated the sharp geometry of her face: blue-grey shadows framing eyes that shimmered with unspoken stories, lips tinted the colour of rose steel — beauty honed to a blade's perfection.
She paused momentarily near the grand dais, surveying the expanse of the ballroom — the slow rotations of holographic displays, the ripple of laughter laced with subtext, the orchestral rhythm pulsing like the heartbeat of a machine. Every movement of hers, every subtle tilt of her chin, exuded control.
"Lieutenant," came Dr. Abrar's voice behind her — courteous, edged with admiration. "One might almost believe you've been forged for such splendour."
Without turning, she replied coolly, "I was forged for survival, Doctor. Splendour is merely the aftereffect."
He smiled faintly, folding his gloved hands. "As ever, a masterpiece of understatement."
Nurse Anne gave a quiet, amused hum — her eyes studying Nightingale's poise with a mixture of reverence and envy.
"Strength in silence," Anne murmured. "She doesn't need to command the room. The room bends to her presence."
Indeed, as Nightingale moved through the hall, her cape caught the light in a cascade of spectral shimmer, and whispers followed her like a tide drawn to the moon. Diplomats leaned to one another; soldiers straightened their backs.
She passed Captain Xuemin, who inclined his head slightly — an unspoken salute between warriors. Her lips curled into a faint, knowing smirk.
"Captain," she said softly, "I trust you've found the evening tolerable."
"Barely," he replied, his tone granite. "Too much gold, too little honour."
"Then perhaps," she murmured, eyes gleaming, "we shall give them a lesson in both before the night is through."
And as she turned, the light glanced off her choker, sending a brief glint across her throat — like the flash of a blade unsheathed beneath velvet.
In that moment, beneath the symphony and the shimmer, Lieutenant Nightingale stood not merely as a soldier among dignitaries — but as the embodiment of the SSCBF's creed itself:
"Discipline in silence. Power in elegance."
Even amid the glamour of empires, she was a storm disguised as starlight.
Lan Qian turned at the glint of motion, her eyes widening in quiet admiration.
"Nightingale," she said with genuine warmth, "you look exquisite tonight — and your hair… it shimmers like starlight caught in silk."
Nightingale's lips curved into a faint smile — the kind that was more acknowledgment than vanity. A flicker of amusement softened the steel of her expression.
"Thank you, Lan Qian," she replied, her voice carrying its usual cool composure but tinged with rare gentleness. "I thought a change might remind them that even armour can gleam."
As she spoke, her gaze drifted across the ballroom — assessing, calculating — and then briefly faltered. Wen-Li was nowhere in sight. A faint line formed between her brows.
"Where is the Chief?" she asked at last, her tone low but edged with expectation.
Lan Qian, ever composed, adjusted the luminous clasp of her gown. "She said she would arrive within the hour. But—"
A deep, sardonic voice cut across her words. "Well, the main act always enters last," said Captain Robert, a smirk ghosting his lips as he folded his arms, his posture all swagger and self-assurance.
Lingaong Xuein, standing nearby, cast him a sidelong glance. Outwardly, her face remained impassive, yet her eyes glittered with playful derision.
"Careful, Captain," she said evenly, the faintest lilt of mockery threading through her tone. "Your envy's showing — perhaps you should've worn humility instead of arrogance tonight."
A ripple of chuckles passed through the gathered officers.
Robert placed a hand theatrically over his heart, feigning injury. "Ah, struck down again," he said, sighing as though mortally wounded. "You wound me, Xuein — and I had only come armed with charm."
Xuein allowed herself the barest tilt of a smile, her crimson-lined eyes gleaming like embers under glass. "Then consider this a tactical response," she murmured. "Next time, bring armour instead of attitude."
Before the laughter could fade, a subtle change rippled through the air — the shift of attention so tangible it felt like gravity itself had turned.
The sound came first: a measured rhythm of heels striking marble, each step echoing like a herald of authority. The ballroom's hum dulled, conversations tapering into reverent silence as every gaze turned toward the grand stairway.
And there she was — Chief Wen-Li.
She descended the steps with the poise of one who had long since mastered the art of command and grace. Her gala attire radiated a harmony of strength and serenity, as though discipline itself had been tailored into silk.
She wore a sleek, two-piece ensemble of midnight black — a fusion of tradition and futurism. The top, modelled after the qipao, was a cropped design of silk and satin that clung with elegant precision. Diagonal frog-button clasps crossed her chest, merging antique refinement with modern audacity. The neckline, asymmetrical and deliberate, left one shoulder bare — vulnerable yet victorious — while the other bore a sheer, translucent sleeve that floated like mist whenever she moved.
The cropped cut ended just above her midriff, revealing a hint of her toned abdomen, a quiet testament to endurance and control. A slender gold chain looped delicately around her waist, its links glinting like sunlight scattered across still water.
Her skirt — long and flowing to her ankles — swayed with every measured step. The high slit along her thigh revealed glimpses of strength beneath refinement, the contrast between duty and desire embodied in every motion. Around her throat, a black velvet choker gleamed with a single pearl at its centre, the lone moon upon her night sky.
Silver earrings framed her jawline, and thin bracelets shimmered with each subtle gesture. Her hair, long and sable, cascaded down her back in a silken waterfall, catching threads of blue sheen beneath the artificial auroras above.
For a moment, time itself seemed to pause.
The officers — men and women alike — stood transfixed, caught between reverence and disbelief. It was not merely her beauty that ensnared them, but the equilibrium she carried — that rare alchemy of authority and allure, intellect and intimacy.
Lan Qian's eyes widened slightly; admiration softened the edges of her usual composure. "By the heavens," she whispered, "she's luminous."
Lingaong Xuein folded her arms, a teasing smirk tugging at her lips despite the awe in her gaze. "Remind me never to stand beside her in a photograph," she muttered under her breath.
Nightingale, composed as always, inclined her head subtly — an acknowledgment of a superior, yet also of a kindred spirit. Her turquoise eyes flickered with faint amusement. "Fashion," she murmured softly, "finally met command."
Ping Lianhua clasped her hands together, eyes bright with delight. "Our Chief could silence wars with that entrance," she said dreamily.
Even Captain Robert, usually irreverent, could not summon a jest. His smirk softened into something like respect — or perhaps quiet astonishment.
As Wen-Li reached the final step, she paused. Her expression was calm, yet a faint tremor of nerves flickered beneath the façade — the slightest quiver of breath, quickly tamed. She exhaled, lifted her chin, and allowed confidence to reclaim her.
Every motion she made was poetry in restraint.
The chandeliers reflected in her eyes like distant galaxies, and as the orchestra swelled behind her, the Chief of the SSCBF stood radiant — not as a monarch of glamour, but as a symbol of command refined into grace.
In that instant, even Nightingale — a woman sculpted from discipline — thought silently to herself:
This is what power looks like when it remembers its humanity.
As she walk onto the marble floor, the last note of the orchestra seemed to linger just for her — a delicate tremor of sound that faded into reverent silence. The ballroom's artificial constellations shimmered above like celestial witnesses to her arrival.
Lan Qian was the first to approach, her eyes bright with warmth and admiration. "Chief!," she said, dipping her head slightly in respect, "you look resplendent tonight. I daresay even the stars might envy your composure."
Wen-Li's lips curved into a soft smile, the kind that balanced grace with gratitude. "You flatter me, Lan Qian. But I fear it's the uniform that lends me strength — without it, I'd be just another weary soul trying to hold this world together."
Lan Qian laughed lightly, her shoulders relaxing. "Then may we all borrow a thread of your resilience, Chief. It seems the fabric of this world needs mending."
Before Wen-Li could respond, Captain Robert interjected, arms still crossed but his smirk now disarmed by genuine admiration. "You've outdone us all, Chief. I was about to propose we dim the chandeliers — they're hardly competing."
Lingaong Xuein gave him a sidelong look, her tone smooth as silk but sharp as a blade. "Careful, Captain. If you're attempting flattery, you're stepping into uncharted territory."
Wen-Li allowed herself a quiet chuckle — a rare, disarming sound that seemed to soften the air. "Let him speak, Xuein. For once, he's not entirely wrong."
Robert placed a hand over his heart with mock reverence. "Then I'll take that as my promotion for the evening."
"Promotion?" said Xuein dryly. "You'd need to survive the paperwork first."
A ripple of laughter followed, lightening the formality of the hall. Even the hovering drones seemed to dim their lights, as though indulging in the moment.
Then Lieutenant Nightingale stepped closer — poised, deliberate, her every movement an articulation of precision. "Chief," she said in her cool, crystalline tone, "the council will soon commence the address. But I suspect their smiles tonight are as synthetic as the chandeliers."
Wen-Li met her gaze with quiet understanding. "Perhaps," she replied, voice steady and measured, "but even artificial light can reveal the cracks in darkness."
A flicker of approval passed through Nightingale's eyes — faint, but unmistakable. "You always did find poetry in pragmatism."
"And you," Wen-Li said gently, "always found discipline in silence."
Their exchange carried the mutual recognition of two women forged by the same fire — different metals, same flame.
Ping Lianhua joined them next, her rose-gold gown catching the soft glow of the chandeliers. "Chief," she said with her usual teasing lilt, "I must confess, you've managed to silence even Robert. That alone deserves commendation."
Robert scoffed, feigning offence. "I wasn't silenced — merely… momentarily dazzled."
Wen-Li's gaze softened. "Then I'll consider that the first victory of the night," she said, her voice laced with mirth.
Gu Zhaoyue approached with her calm poise, hands clasped before her. "Chief, it's an honour to have you among us again. The room feels… anchored now."
Wen-Li inclined her head. "Anchored or weighted, Zhaoyue? Sometimes I fear my presence drags more shadows than light."
"Perhaps," Zhaoyue said softly, "but even shadows need form to exist. Without you, there would only be chaos."
The words struck something quiet within Wen-Li — a note of melancholy swiftly hidden beneath composure.
Just then, Commander Krieg and Captain Voreyevsky approached from the periphery, their towering forms parting the crowd like twin sentinels.
"Chief Wen-Li," Krieg greeted with a curt nod, his baritone voice echoing faintly. "The council seems particularly self-satisfied tonight. I presume there's an agenda beneath the champagne."
"There always is," Wen-Li replied, her expression serene but her eyes sharp. "They toast to order while stirring the pot beneath the table."
Voreyevsky tilted his head, his icy gaze narrowing slightly. "You speak as though you've already read their hand."
"I haven't," she said, lifting her glass to her lips. "But I know the scent of deceit — it lingers even through perfume."
Robert let out a low whistle. "And here I thought this was going to be a simple party."
"It never is," murmured Nightingale, glancing toward the grand dais where the High Council stood. "Not in Nin-Ran-Gi."
A hush fell again as the orchestra transitioned into a slower, more deliberate melody — the prelude to the Council's address.
Wen-Li turned to her comrades, her composure absolute, her voice calm yet commanding. "Whatever unfolds tonight," she said, "remember who we are — not the symbols they parade before the cameras, but the sentinels behind the curtain. The city may be gilded in light, but it bleeds in the shadows."
Each officer held her gaze — Nightingale's eyes glinting with quiet assent, Xuein's mouth curving in restrained admiration, Lan Qian's expression serene yet resolute. Even Robert, ever the rogue, stood a little straighter.
And for a fleeting instant — amid the music, the shimmer, the theatre of power — the team of the SSCBF felt united not by uniform, but by purpose.
Then, from the far end of the ballroom, the voice of President Zhang Wei echoed, calm and grand:
"Ladies and gentlemen — the dawn of a new era is upon us."
The lights shifted. The drones aligned. The music faded into silence.
And beneath the shimmering dome of glass and nanofibre, Wen-Li's eyes narrowed slightly — not in awe, but in anticipation.
For even amid splendour, she could smell the storm approaching.
A new ripple passed through the crowd — a change in the rhythm of laughter, a quiet shift of breath that travelled like a current through the ballroom.
Gonda appeared at the edge of the light. His white hair, tousled yet deliberate, caught the luminescence from the chandeliers and fractured it into spectral threads. He wore a tailored navy coat with faint golden piping tracing the seams, a subtle nod to old military regalia. Beneath it, a black shirt open at the collar revealed a thin silver chain. His boots bore the polished fatigue of travel, and his eyes — pale grey, sharp as glass — held that familiar gleam of trouble half-invited, half-survived.
"Gonda!" exclaimed Robert, his voice breaking the soft murmur of the orchestra.
"Robert!" Gonda replied with equal fervour, striding forward before the two clasped shoulders in an unabashed embrace. "It's been too long, man!"
"Yeah," Robert chuckled, patting his back with brotherly warmth. Then, stepping back, his brow furrowed as he noticed a thin scar running diagonally across Gonda's cheek. "What happened to your face?"
Gonda brushed the mark with a faint, careless smirk. "Never mind that, mate — long story. And you wouldn't believe half of it."
"Gonda!" called Lingaong Xuein, her voice smooth yet edged with amusement.
He turned, his grin widening. "Xuein! Still the sharpest tongue in the division, I see."
She arched an elegant brow, the corner of her mouth curving upward. "And you still find new ways to get yourself nearly killed, apparently."
Gonda chuckled, raising both hands in surrender. "Some habits, my dear, are harder to exorcise than ghosts."
At that moment, Chief Wen-Li approached, flanked by Nightingale and Lan Qian, their presence commanding but poised. The soft flutter of her translucent sleeve caught the light as she drew near, her expression composed yet inquisitive.
"Gonda," Wen-Li greeted, her tone calm, but her eyes alight with curiosity. "It's been some time. You look… more reckless than ever."
"Chief Wen-Li," Gonda said with an easy grin, bowing his head slightly. "Still as graceful as frost and twice as formidable. I almost didn't recognise you without your tactical aura blazing."
Nightingale's gaze narrowed, amused. "Careful, Gonda. The Chief's aura is never truly dormant — only disguised."
Gonda laughed, running a hand through his hair. "Noted, Lieutenant. I'd rather face a firing squad than her disapproval."
Lan Qian smiled faintly, adjusting her silver earring. "And yet you always return for more. I wonder if that's courage or compulsion."
Gonda chuckled, shrugging with theatrical resignation. "A touch of both, perhaps."
Wen-Li folded her arms lightly, tilting her head. "Tell me, then — where is Madam Di-Xian? She was to attend this gathering herself."
Gonda's smile faltered just slightly, and he scratched the back of his neck in mild embarrassment. "Ah, well…" he began, his tone evasive. "She won't be coming. Sent a representative instead."
Robert blinked. "You?!"
Gonda scoffed, rolling his eyes. "No, you fool. Her man."
Before anyone could inquire further, the rhythmic click of polished boots echoed through the ballroom — slow, deliberate, a cadence of command that silenced conversation mid-sentence.
The crowd turned.
He emerged from the far side of the hall like a vision conjured from the interplay of shadow and light — a man of immaculate menace.
His black velvet tailcoat shimmered faintly under the chandeliers, its satin sheen softening the severity of his form. Silver embroidery, woven in serpentine and mechanical motifs, coiled across his lapels — a tapestry of control and inevitability. Beneath, a charcoal-grey brocade waistcoat fastened with engraved silver buttons, each bearing the sigil of intricate clockwork.
A white high-collared shirt, pristine as untouched snow, framed his throat, while a midnight silk cravat, pinned by an obsidian raven, lay perfectly knotted against it.
When light struck him, faint shadows rippled through the folds of his attire, giving him an almost spectral presence. His tailored trousers, lined subtly with vertical patterning, allowed movement as fluid as water.
Polished leather boots, buckled with silver runes, glinted with every step — a rhythm that resonated through the marble like the ticking of fate. His obsidian gloves gleamed faintly; their seams reinforced — elegance engineered for violence.
And atop his silver hair — immaculate, pale as frost — rested a black Victorian top hat, encircled with a crimson ribbon and marked by a silver insignia of an eye: the emblem of one who sees everything, and forgives nothing.
Tucked into his vest pocket, a silver watch ticked softly — In silence, all fall engraved across its casing. A whisper among operatives claimed that when the watch ceased, death was never far behind.
The room itself seemed to hold its breath.
Even the High Council, accustomed to splendour and spectacle, found their composure subtly disturbed. Conversations faltered. Glasses hovered mid-air. The man's presence bent the ambience around him — like gravity intensified by intent.
Wen-Li's breath caught, though her face betrayed only stillness. Something in his gaze — those piercing blue eyes, glacial yet fathomless — stirred both caution and recognition.
"Who is that?" whispered Ping Lianhua to Lan Qian. "He looks like a painting that could kill you."
Robert, eyes wide, muttered, "Saints above… that's a face card if I've ever seen one."
Gonda clapped his hands lightly, grinning. "Ladies and gentlemen — this is Madam Di-Xian's representative."
The man halted before them, his movements calculated to the heartbeat. When he spoke, his voice was smooth and controlled — neither loud nor soft, but absolute.
"Good evening," he said with a faint inclination of his head. "It is a pleasure to meet you all."
Then his gaze met Wen-Li's. The faintest shadow of a smile crossed his lips.
"Chief Wen-Li," he said, his tone a mixture of reverence and ice. "An honour, at last."
She blinked, her composure flickering for only an instant. "You're…"
Gonda, ever the dramatist, spread his hands. "You mean to tell me you lot don't recognise him?"
"Nope," said Robert bluntly. "Who the hell is he?"
Gonda grinned like a man revealing a loaded secret. "He's Ninety. Agent-90."
A collective gasp — small, sharp — rippled through the group like the recoil of memory.
"By the heavens," murmured Lan Qian. "That's him?"
Even Nightingale's usually stoic mask trembled faintly, her turquoise eyes narrowing with intrigue.
Lingaong Xuein exhaled slowly, her smirk returning. "Well, no wonder we didn't notice — he's without his usual spectacles."
Robert, unable to help himself, whistled low. "Spectacles or not, that man's got the kind of face that could make a straight man reconsider his life choices. Damn — look at him!"
Laughter broke like scattered pearls — startled, unwilling, but real. Even Wen-Li's lips threatened a reluctant curve, though she masked it with a sip of her drink.
Agent-90 stood unmoved, the faintest glimmer of amusement flickering in his eyes.
"Still the same, I see," murmured Gonda, clapping him on the shoulder. "Always calm, always colder than a winter sermon."
"Calm," Agent-90 replied evenly, "is a weapon, not a virtue."
Wen-Li's eyes softened — intrigued, cautious. "Then tell me, Agent," she said, her tone low yet commanding, "does that weapon ever rest?"
He inclined his head slightly, his voice smooth as obsidian. "Only when justice does, Chief."
For a heartbeat, silence fell again — thick, electric, reverent.
The gala's lights shimmered above, and beneath them stood the world's most dangerous man dressed as its most perfect gentleman — elegance made lethal, civility sharpened into a blade.
And across from him, Chief Wen-Li, poised and unyielding, regarded him not with fear — but with recognition.
Like two storms measuring one another's strength beneath a ceiling of light.
The Council, radiant in attire yet restless in spirit, looked down upon the sea of officers and guests — and then upon him.
Agent-90.
The air grew heavier, denser, like glass before it fractures. Beneath the polished murmur of strings and soft laughter, whispers began to slither among the Council members — a ripple of low, fevered conjecture.
"That man—Agent-90. They said he was gone."
"Gone, or buried. Yet here he stands."
"Di-Xian's representative, they say… but why him?"
"An assassin among dignitaries — how poetic, how perilous."
The murmurs twisted through the air like smoke through silk. Some Council members concealed their unease behind their champagne flutes; others simply stared, as if caught between admiration and fear.
Agent-90, for his part, stood motionless beneath the chandeliers, every inch of him a paradox — elegance masquerading as death, civility forged in blood. His gloved hands rested lightly behind his back, and though his lips held the ghost of a smile, his eyes betrayed nothing but fathomless stillness.
When the silence began to ache, Zhang Wei's chuckle broke it — low, controlled, carrying the resonance of command. He leaned ever so slightly toward the Council, his voice a velvet whisper that trembled with concealed satisfaction.
"Just wait," he murmured, the corners of his mouth curling with deliberate precision. "Watch. It is all prepared."
His son glanced sideways, brow creasing faintly. "Father… you mean—?"
Zhang Wei's gaze lingered on Agent-90, then drifted across the room — to Wen-Li, to Gonda, to the assembled operatives of the SSCBF. "You'll see soon enough," he said, voice dipped in dark amusement. "The stage has been set. The players are in position. All that remains is the fall of the curtain."
Around him, the Council members exchanged wary glances — the elegant façades cracking ever so slightly. Elizabeth Carter's lips parted as if to protest; Selim Kaya's eyes narrowed in suspicion; Kim Ji-Soo's fingers tightened around her glass until a faint crack traced its rim.
None spoke. None dared.
For in the silent theatre of politics, Agent-90's presence was not merely an inconvenience — it was a tremor beneath the marble foundation of their carefully engineered order.
He was not a guest. He was a variable, and variables had a habit of rewriting equations.
Wen-Li, watching from her vantage near the dais, caught the faintest glint of tension in Zhang Wei's posture — the way his shoulders squared not in pride, but in preparation.
Something unspoken thrummed in the air — a prelude to chaos dressed in silk and etiquette.
The orchestra resumed, too quickly, too perfectly — an artificial calm.
And beneath that polished music, as glasses were raised and smiles resumed, the world of Nin-Ran-Gi turned imperceptibly toward its next fracture.
The room dimmed to a muted glow as President Zhang Wei ascended the dais. The holographic chandeliers above adjusted their luminance, cascading soft aureate light upon him, as if the very architecture bent to frame his presence. His movements were deliberate — a choreography of calm dominance.
He paused at the podium, gloved hands resting lightly upon the transparent surface. For a moment, silence ruled; even the orchestra stilled, their instruments poised mid-air, strings trembling faintly as though aware of the gravity about to be spoken.
Then his voice — refined, resonant, and carved in dignity — carried through the hall like the measured toll of a great bell.
"Thank you, everyone, for coming together in this splendid evening," he began, each syllable shaped with meticulous eloquence. "Tonight, we celebrate not only our perseverance, but the indomitable spirit that keeps this organisation steadfast amidst the chaos of our time."
He paused — his gaze drifting across the crowd: operatives, commanders, scientists, dignitaries. The golden light painted shifting patterns across his face, half-illumined, half-shadowed — a portrait of a man who had seen both glory and ruin.
"This event," he continued, voice softening, "is not mine alone. It is for you — for your unyielding labour, your devotion, and your resolve to preserve the sanctity of order. We honour those who gave their all so that our civilisation might not crumble into oblivion."
The mention of the fallen drew the room into a reverent hush.
"We shall remember our late President, Song Luoyang," Zhang Wei intoned solemnly, "whose wisdom guided us through darkness. We shall remember Chief Wen-Luo, and Lieutenant Ren-Li, who met their tragic end in the line of duty — as well as the countless others who perished serving the cause of justice."
At those names, Wen-Li's heart faltered. The weight of memory pressed against her chest — the ghosts of her parents flickering like soft phantoms in her mind. Her eyes shimmered faintly, reflecting the candlelight upon the long tables, and though she straightened her posture with soldierly resolve, her lips trembled in quiet gratitude. Nightingale, standing just behind her, noticed the faint quiver and rested a gloved hand briefly upon her arm — a gesture of silent solidarity.
Zhang Wei's tone lifted again, warm yet edged with conviction.
"We will not forget them — nor the sacrifices that forged the peace we now cherish. They stood as sentinels against the abyss, and it is by their legacy that we endure. Justice," he said, the word echoing like a psalm, "is the power that sustains humanity. Without it, the world descends into the tyranny of chaos. So let us remain vigilant, honourable, and unyielding — the keepers of order amidst the storm."
He stepped back slightly, his eyes gleaming beneath the crystalline lights.
"Let this night remind us that peace is not gifted — it is guarded. Thank you."
A moment of silence followed — a fragile, crystalline stillness — before the hall erupted in resounding applause.
The sound swelled like a living tide. Operatives and officers stood to their feet, some cheering, others wiping discreet tears from their eyes. The orchestra resumed with a soft, solemn refrain, underscoring the catharsis in the air. Lan Qian clapped gracefully, her face lifted in quiet admiration. Captain Lingaong Xuein, though composed, bowed her head slightly in respect, her golden cords glinting beneath the light. Robert let out a soft whistle of approval, while Gonda patted his shoulder, murmuring something about honouring the fallen properly at last.
Even the High Council, usually statues of political restraint, joined in applause — though some of their eyes remained calculating, weighing Zhang Wei's words against their hidden agendas.
But one figure did not move.
Agent-90 stood utterly still amid the sea of motion — hands clasped neatly before him, his expression carved in impassive calm. The soft aurora-light slid over the fine black velvet of his coat, outlining the faint scars at his jawline. His gaze was fixed upon the President, unwavering — neither approval nor dissent, only the stillness of a predator that measures the air before a strike.
The contrast was almost surreal: the multitude applauding in euphoric unity, and him — a single, unmoving silhouette amidst the motion, the eye of a storm wrapped in silk.
Those who noticed him felt a faint unease stir in their chest — a dissonant chord beneath the harmony of the moment. Even Nightingale's eyes flicked briefly toward him, reading the tension beneath his restraint.
Wen-Li, still touched by the President's words, caught sight of Agent-90's composure and frowned ever so slightly. There was something unreadable in his silence — reverence, perhaps, or quiet defiance. She couldn't tell.
As the applause waned and the echo faded into the golden air, Zhang Wei looked down from the dais and allowed himself the faintest of smiles — elegant, inscrutable.
He knew exactly who had clapped, and who had not.
And in that knowledge, beneath the brilliance of the chandeliers, a shadow began to coil quietly around the heart of the celebration.
The orchestra's melody swelled again, but this time, beneath its beauty, one could almost hear the whisper of inevitability — the slow tightening of fate's invisible thread.
The music of the gala drifted softly through the vast hall — muted by distance, muffled by glass and memory. At one corner of the marble corridor adjoining the ballroom, Captain Lingaong Xuemin leaned against the wall, his posture rigid yet weary.
In his right hand, he held a glass of deep scarlet wine, the surface trembling faintly with the rhythm of his breath. His eyes, usually sharp and unyielding, were clouded tonight — haunted by the ghosts of comradeship turned to treachery. The light from the chandeliers fractured across the glass, scattering crimson flecks upon his face like silent wounds.
His thoughts circled the same name again and again — Zhai Linyu. Once his right hand, once his brother in arms, now nothing but a scar in his memory.
His jaw tightened. Betrayal, he thought, is a wound that never closes; it merely learns to bleed in silence.
"Man, you look sad," came a voice from behind.
Captain Robert approached, his usual swagger tempered by concern. He carried his glass loosely, the amber liquid within catching a faint golden glint as he halted beside Xuemin.
Xuemin gave a faint, hollow laugh — one without mirth. "Well, yes, Captain," he murmured, eyes never leaving the glass in his hand.
Robert tilted his head. "You still can't forget about Zhai Linyu, can you?"
Xuemin nodded slowly, his voice low and taut. "I feel… pathetic towards myself, Captain Robert."
Robert frowned, the levity fading from his face. "Why's that, brother?"
Xuemin exhaled, long and heavy, the sound almost like a sigh through steel. "Because Zhai Linyu was one of my own — my team, my blood. We fought side by side, shoulder to shoulder. And for what? For him to betray us all… for him to attempt to kill Chief after becoming that thing." His grip tightened around the stem of his glass until his knuckles whitened. "If it weren't for Velvet Guillotine—Agent-90—she'd be gone. I owe that man my gratitude, though I hardly understand him."
Robert nodded slowly, his expression softening with empathy. Then, unexpectedly, he chuckled — not mockingly, but in a quiet, knowing way. "Well, Xuemin, I was in the same pit once."
Xuemin turned to him, brows rising. "Really?" he asked, disbelief flickering through the haze of melancholy.
Robert nodded, his eyes distant — a man revisiting the ashes of his past. "Yeah. I had one of my officers — Lee Jong Suk. Fine lad. Bright, loyal, sharp as a dagger. Or so I thought. Turns out, he wasn't Lee Jong Suk at all. The real one had been murdered and replaced by a serial killer — Munafiq, the man with a hundred faces."
Xuemin's brows drew together, intrigue and disgust mingling. "Then what happened?"
Robert took a slow sip, the wine dark against his lips. "We didn't realise it until too late. That monster kidnapped Chief Wen-Li. Tortured her. Poured acid into her abdomen." His voice trembled slightly — a rare fracture in his composure.
Xuemin's eyes widened, horror flashing in his gaze. "Good heavens… did you manage to save her?"
Robert shook his head slowly. "No. When we arrived, he was already dead. His spinal cord and brain torn out, his remains strung up on the wall like a grotesque painting. Whoever did it… left no trace."
For a long moment, neither man spoke. The corridor seemed to grow colder, the echo of laughter from the ballroom fading into a hollow hum.
Xuemin finally whispered, voice laced with disbelief, "Who… who could've done something like that?"
Robert's expression turned grim, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond memory. "That's the thing, Xuemin. No one knows. Some say it was divine punishment; others… something far darker. It was the thirty-first of January, 2042. I'll never forget the smell of that room."
Xuemin looked down, the crimson liquid in his glass trembling again. "You were expelled after that, weren't you?" he asked quietly.
Robert gave a wry smile. "Aye. Late President Song Luoyang expelled me. Said I failed my duty. He wasn't wrong. But the Chief — bless her — she brought me back. Said even a tarnished sword still cuts true if wielded with conviction."
He turned his gaze to Xuemin, his expression softening into something brotherly. "Listen, Xuemin," he said, voice steady, "we all carry ghosts. You lost a brother-in-arms, I lost my honour. But we're still standing. You can't let guilt carve your soul hollow. The past is a teacher, not a jailer. Don't bury yourself in it."
Xuemin looked up, his eyes glinting faintly under the ambient light. "You really believe that?"
Robert smirked, clinking his glass lightly against Xuemin's. "I do. Because if the Chief can rise after everything — after betrayal, torture, and loss — then so can we. Don't let the dead keep you company when the living still need your strength."
A silence lingered, warm this time — not heavy, but filled with unspoken gratitude.
Xuemin's lips curved faintly into a smile. "You know, Captain Robert," he said softly, "you're wiser than you look."
Robert chuckled, tipping his glass. "And better-looking too, don't forget that."
Xuemin laughed quietly, a sound rare and genuine, the weight upon his chest easing just a fraction. He raised his glass. "To the fallen," he said.
Robert raised his own, meeting his gaze. "And to the ones still fighting."
Their glasses touched with a soft chime — a fragile note of brotherhood amid the distant echoes of the gala.
For a brief moment, the ghosts were silent.
Without warning, the grand ballroom was plunged into shadow.
The symphonic hum faltered mid-note, chandeliers flickered like dying stars, and the auroral dome above dimmed to a pallid ghost of its former brilliance. A single, merciless beam of light snapped into existence — striking Chief Wen-Li like a divine accusation.
Her pupils constricted beneath the blinding glare; the sudden heat of a thousand eyes upon her felt like the sting of molten glass. She took an instinctive step back, her breath catching between her ribs.
"What… what's going on?" she asked, her voice fragile yet commanding, the sound slicing through the hush like a tremulous chord.
Around her, the assembled officers and dignitaries shifted in confusion — a wave of murmurs rolling through the hall. Crystal glasses trembled upon tables. Even the drones, caught in their programmed orbits, faltered in hesitation as if uncertain whether to flee or record.
President Zhang Wei rose slowly from his dais, the scarlet threadwork of his ceremonial coat gleaming like arterial fire under the faltering lights. His brows furrowed in regal displeasure, while beside him his son, Zhang Ji, leaned forward with the calculating poise of a serpent about to strike — eyes gleaming with cold amusement behind the veneer of concern.
The High Council, arrayed like celestial statues, exchanged uneasy glances.
Fahad Al-Farsi's hand tightened upon his golden sash; Elizabeth Carter's lips parted in disbelief. Selim Kaya's circuitry-lined suit glowed faintly in response to his quickened pulse, while Andreas Karalis's philosophical calm fractured into visible alarm. Kim Ji-Soo's expression hardened — a glacial mask of judgment; Hiroto Nakamura adjusted his collar with a tense, deliberate motion; Aarav Sharma's eyes darkened beneath their contemplative lids; and Rahim Ahmed's fingers drummed faintly against his goblet, a soldier's rhythm for impending ruin.
And then, the holographic screen above the dais flickered alive.
The air itself seemed to hold its breath. A cascade of distorted light danced across the transparent panels, and then — silence. The kind of silence that screams louder than any orchestra.
Wen-Li's eyes widened — twin oceans reflecting incomprehension, then dread. Her lips parted slightly, words dying before they reached the air. For a heartbeat, her composure shattered; she stood motionless, as though struck by an unseen bullet. Her breath grew shallow, her fingers trembling where they clutched at the hem of her sleeve.
Across the room, Lieutenant Nightingale stiffened. Her turquoise eyes narrowed like blades of tempered glass; a flicker of disbelief flashed through them before discipline reclaimed her expression. She exhaled slowly, her jaw tightening — not in judgment, but in controlled fury at the scene's indecency.
Lan Qian, normally reserved, froze mid-motion, the luminous veins of her gown pulsing faintly with her racing heartbeat. Her eyes darted toward Wen-Li — disbelief, pity, and silent horror etched upon her face.
Commander Krieg, stalwart and stone-like, pressed his lips together, the muscles in his jaw working as though suppressing a curse. His knuckles whitened around his glass, which cracked faintly under the pressure.
Even Agent-90, whose composure was that of an immortal statue, revealed the smallest fracture. His left eye twitched imperceptibly — a telltale signal of irritation or recognition. He said nothing, his gaze fixed upon the screen, as unreadable as a shadow that breathes.
A strangled gasp rose from the audience. A murmur swelled — first a whisper, then a tide of uneasy voices.
"What is this—?"
"Impossible…"
"Surely not the Chief…?"
Their words slithered through the crowd like serpents of scandal, their venom quick and merciless.
"Turn it off! Turn it off!" cried one of the younger officers, voice trembling with outrage and disbelief. The screen flickered, faltered, and then died — leaving behind only darkness and the echo of collective shame.
The lights rose again, revealing Wen-Li at the epicentre of silence. Her eyes glistened under the illumination, and a single tear traced a clean path through her meticulously applied makeup. Her chest rose and fell unevenly, the edges of her lips quivering in disbelief.
President Zhang Wei's voice shattered the hush.
"CHIEF WEN-LI!" he thundered, his tone reverberating like the strike of a gavel. "What is the meaning of this outrage?!"
"President, it's not what you think— I can explain…" Her words wavered, stumbling over panic, her voice choked with disbelief.
"Explain?" Zhang Wei repeated, incredulous, his anger radiating like heat from a forge. "Explain this?"
"Please, believe me— I didn't—"
But her words drowned beneath a sea of whispers. The ballroom, once filled with elegance and music, had become a tribunal. Diplomats bent their heads together in hushed gossip; officers exchanged glances of pity and disbelief. The murmurs were soft but merciless — razors wrapped in silk.
Her vision blurred. The sound of her own breathing grew heavy in her ears. One hand went to her abdomen, pressing lightly as nausea coiled within; the other covered her trembling lips. With the last vestige of dignity, she turned and fled the hall, her heels echoing against marble like the tolling of a funeral bell.
In the solitude of the restroom, she gripped the sink and splashed water over her face. Her reflection swam before her — eyeliner running like ink across parchment, lips trembling as the dam of composure broke. A sob escaped her throat — small, shattering, unrestrained. She pressed a hand to the mirror, her palm leaving a wet imprint against the glass.
A soft sound — footsteps. The door creaked open. Agent-90 entered, silent as a phantom, his reflection materialising behind hers.
Wen-Li turned sharply, eyes blazing through tears — sorrow curdled into fury.
"You…" she hissed, voice breaking. "It's you… you're behind all of this!"
She rushed at him, fists striking against his chest and shoulders — not to harm, but to purge her grief. Her blows were desperate, trembling, human.
Agent-90 bore them without resistance, his expression unreadable. Then, with a swift, practised movement — precise as a surgeon — he touched a concealed point at her neck. Her body slackened, her lashes fluttered. The room spun, her breath caught midway.
He caught her before she fell — arms strong yet almost reverent, cradling her as one might a fallen queen. His voice dropped to a whisper, velvet and venom intertwined.
"Now, Chief," he murmured close to her ear, "I told you once — when the hour comes, you shall understand the truth."
Her breathing slowed, consciousness fading. He lifted her easily into his arms — a dark knight bearing a broken sovereign — and vanished down the corridor with measured, spectral grace.
Far across the city, in a high tower where glass met stormlight, Gavriel Elazar, the cold architect of the Chaebol's dominion, reclined in his armchair. His silhouette glowed faintly against the neon skyline.
He spoke into the telephone, voice a low, silken drawl.
"Did everything proceed as planned?"
Zhang Wei's voice replied, tight with satisfaction. "Yes, sir. The gala was theatre — and Wen-Li was the spectacle. She is undone before their eyes."
"Good," murmured Gavriel, his fingers tracing idle circles upon the desk's surface. "Slowly… we shall pluck the petals of the dandelion, one by one."
When he hung up, the faintest smile ghosted his lips — cold, deliberate, serpentine.
"The world remembers only perfection," he whispered to the dark, "and she was far too flawless to live unbroken."