Both Wen-Li and Agent-90 walked out of the hospital into the sodium-lit night. The air was cool, yet neither spoke. Silence stretched between them, taut as a drawn wire.
At last, Agent-90 broke it.
"How is the Captain?"
Wen-Li slowed her stride. Her eyes flickered—just once—before she answered. "She is fine." She stepped forward again, her tone steadier than her thoughts. "She will recover. Slowly, but surely."
"Captain Robert will take care of her," he said, voice even, observational rather than reassuring.
She nodded. "Yes."
After a pause, he added, "Captain Xuein appeared… lighter after seeing you. As though her pain had receded."
Wen-Li allowed herself the faintest exhale. "It has been many days since we last met," she replied. "They were beautiful." Her mind, unbidden, replayed the scene in the ward—Robert's devotion, Xuein's fragile smile, the quiet gravity of their bond. It lingered like a bruise and a blessing all at once.
Agent-90 turned his head slightly. "Something troubles you, Chief."
She shook her head, strands of black silk hair catching the light. "Nothing. Nothing at all."
They reached the kerbside where the jet-black 1954 Mercedes-Benz 300SL Gullwing waited, immaculate and still, its polished curves reflecting the city like obsidian glass. Wen-Li reached for the door handle——and in that infinitesimal instant, Agent-90 felt it.
A rupture in the air. A prickle like lightning crawling beneath the skin.
"Chief—!"
He seized her arm and wrenched her backwards.
The explosion tore through the night.
Fire blossomed outward with a concussive roar, metal screaming as the Gullwing was consumed in flame. The shockwave hurled heat and debris across the pavement; windows rattled, alarms howled, and the world fractured into firelight and thunder. Wen-Li stumbled hard, the breath knocked clean from her lungs, while Agent-90 shielded her instinctively, his frame absorbing the worst of the blast.
Elsewhere, far removed from the chaos—
Sir Gavriel stood before a panoramic window, the metropolis sprawling beneath him like a living circuit board. Chief Richter faced him, arms folded, jaw set.
"It appears Wen-Li eliminated Chairman Fahad and Chairman Andreas at Qal'at al-Raqsa," Gavriel said calmly. "A vendetta, by all accounts. She has entered her revenge arc."
Richter's eyes narrowed. "If she continues to hunt the High Council, we may be next. What is your directive?"
Gavriel smiled faintly. "Let her hunt them."
Richter stiffened. "You would allow that?"
"Oh, yes," he replied softly. "And when she believes herself untouchable, we shall show her the cost of defiance."
"So you are authorising us to pursue her?"
"No." His smile sharpened. "You and the SCP will not touch her. I have… other instruments."
"Agent-90?" Richter asked.
"Precisely."
Gavriel turned his head. Nearby stood Nahema, idly tracing a finger through the air. Her long ash-blonde waves spilled down her back, disordered and elegant, her fringe casting her eyes in shadow.
Nahema smiled, slow and knowing. "It seems like a hunter being hunted"
"That's right, my dear Nahema!" says Gavriel as he inclined his head. "Observe. Interfere only when the blade must turn."
Richter said nothing more. She nodded once and departed.
Back on the street, fire crackled and smoke clawed at the sky.
Agent-90's vision swam as he pushed himself up from the ground. The ringing in his ears faded just enough for him to hear Wen-Li gasping. He dragged himself towards her, ignoring the pain flaring through his limbs.
"Chief… Chief," he called urgently. "Wen-Li, look at me. Are you conscious?"
She coughed, drawing a sharp, burning breath, and forced herself upright with trembling arms. "What… what just happened?" she rasped.
He scanned the wreckage, eyes cold and calculating. "The High Chaebols," he said. "This bears their signature."
He turned back to her, already reaching for her arm. "We must leave. Now." His grip tightened as he hauled her up. "Can you walk?"
"My leg—" she winced, then clenched her jaw. "I can. I can."
Her steps were unsteady, numbness creeping up her thigh, but she moved.
Agent-90 spotted an Audi A-359 parked nearby. Without hesitation, he struck the window, shattered glass cascading inward, and reached for the ignition. The key was already there—fate, or negligence.
They climbed in. The engine roared to life.
As the burning wreck of the Gullwing shrank in the rear-view mirror, Wen-Li stared ahead, face pale but resolute. Agent-90 drove with ruthless precision, jaw set, eyes reflecting the city lights like shards of ice.
The Audi A-359 cleaved through the night like a fugitive shadow, tyres whispering against rain-slicked asphalt. Neon signage bled across the windscreen in smeared ribbons of cobalt and amber, the city stretching and warping as though unwilling to let them pass.
Agent-90's hands were locked around the steering wheel—immaculate, unwavering. Too steady. His knuckles were drained of colour, his jaw set with the inflexibility of quarried stone. He drove as if precision alone could keep the world from collapsing.
Wen-Li sat beside him, one arm braced against the door, the other pressed lightly to her ribs. Her breathing was shallow but disciplined, measured like a soldier counting steps under fire. Pain throbbed through her leg in dull, insistent waves, yet her face betrayed nothing. Pride, habit, and willpower held the line.
For a long while, silence ruled—dense, unspoken, heavy as fog.
Then she spoke.
"That explosion…" Her voice was low, hoarse, scraped raw by shock and smoke. "It was meant for both of us."
"Yes," Agent-90 replied at once, without ornament or hesitation. "The timing was exact. Proximity-based detonation. They wanted certainty."
He continues. "Just like they did when Late Chief Wen-Luo and Lieutenant Ren-Li were killed—"
He turned his head a fraction, catching the way her expression folded inward, grief surfacing like a submerged fault line. Realisation struck him a heartbeat too late.
"Chief," he said quietly, "I apologise. I should not have—"
"Don't," she interrupted, lifting a hand. Her voice steadied itself by force alone. "It's all right. It's not your fault." She released a breath that carried no humour. "So Gavriel has finally stopped pretending."
Agent-90's eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror, then back to the road. "This was not SCP protocol. Too crude. Too public." A fractional pause. "It was a message."
Wen-Li turned her head slightly, studying his profile—the faint cut along his temple, the blood already drying. "A warning?"
"A declaration," he corrected. "They are no longer content to move only in the dark."
The city thinned as they drove, skyscrapers giving way to industrial arteries and sleeping districts. Sodium lamps strobed across Wen-Li's face, illuminating the quiet storm gathering in her eyes.
"They will come for the others," she said. "Robert. Xuein. Anyone connected to me."
Agent-90 tightened his grip on the wheel. "They already tried."
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "This is my fault."
He answered at once, his tone unyielding. "No."
She looked at him then, sharply. "You cannot deny causality, 90. I pulled the thread. Now the whole tapestry is unravelling."
"You exposed rot," he said. "Rot does not become less guilty because it is revealed."
For a moment, only the engine spoke.
Wen-Li's shoulders sagged, the weight she had been carrying finally showing. "I am tired," she admitted quietly. "Not of fighting. Watching people bleed because they stand beside me."
Agent-90 exhaled through his nose—a sound almost like restraint. "You are not alone."
She gave a faint, bitter smile. "You always say that."
"And it is always true."
Another silence fell, thicker than the last.
"…Where are we going?" she asked.
"To a fallback safehouse," he replied. "Pre-registered under a dead logistics shell. No surveillance. No digital footprint."
"And after that?"
He did not answer immediately. The road curved ahead, disappearing into darkness.
"After that," he said at last, "we stop running."
Wen-Li's eyes hardened, crystallising like frost. "Good," she murmured. "Because I am done being hunted."
The fallback safehouse revealed itself as an abandoned warehouse squatting at the edge of nowhere—an industrial carcass marooned amid scrubland and skeletal trees. Its corrugated iron skin was dulled by time, graffiti half-erased like a forgotten language, the wind threading through broken vents with a low, funereal moan.
They stepped out of the Audi together.
Wen-Li surveyed the structure, one brow arching despite the ache still coiled in her body. "This is a warehouse," she remarked flatly, incredulity sharpened with fatigue.
Agent-90 closed the car door and turned to her. The pale glow from a distant floodlight caught his spectacles, turning his eyes into cold mirrors. "Yes. The warehouse is also used as a safehouse."
She folded her arms, annoyance bleeding through her composure. "I fail to comprehend your logic."
"It's 90's logic," he replied evenly, already moving towards the side entrance. "Now—come along."
"Honestly," she muttered, hobbling after him, "you could try not to sound so insufferably curt."
"I am not rude," he said without breaking stride. "My voice simply sounds like this."
Before she could retort, a sharp rustle cut through the air—the unmistakable whisper of disturbed undergrowth.
Agent-90 stopped dead.
In one swift motion, he seized Wen-Li's wrist, his grip firm but protective. "They are here."
Her breath caught. "What—"
He did not wait. Pulling her with him, he slipped through a concealed service door, the shadows swallowing them whole. Somewhere behind, footsteps faltered, then resumed—deliberate, patient.
Inside, the warehouse was cavernous and cold, a cathedral of rusted beams and echoing emptiness. Agent-90 guided her through a labyrinth of crates and steel partitions until they reached an unassuming wall panel. With a precise movement, he pressed, twisted—click. A hidden door slid open.
They entered a compact, dimly lit room—clean, reinforced, alive with a faint electronic hum.
"Lock this," he instructed, pressing a key into her palm. "From the inside."
Wen-Li's eyes widened. "Wait. What about you?"
"I will return shortly," he said, already backing away. He gestured to a terminal on the desk. "There is a computer. Surveillance feeds—every sector of the warehouse. Watch. I'll handle the guests who have been so keen to follow us."
"90—" Her voice wavered despite herself.
He met her gaze, unwavering. "Trust me."
Then the door closed.
The lock turned with a decisive clack.
Alone, Wen-Li stood frozen for a heartbeat, worry and dread coiling tight in her chest. She swallowed, forced herself to move, and sank into the chair before the terminal. Her fingers trembled as she powered it on.
The screens flickered to life—multiple angles, stark monochrome views of the warehouse interior.
Her breath hitched.
On one feed, Agent-90 emerged into the open central floor, his silhouette solitary beneath the skeletal rafters. He walked to the centre and stopped—utterly still.
Then, one by one, figures bled into view.
From the left.
From the right.
From the shadows behind stacked containers.
Encirclement.
Wen-Li's heart thundered against her ribs. Her hand rose to her mouth as she whispered to herself, scarcely audible, "No… this is a trap. This is a war, and he is standing alone."
On the screen, Agent-90 did not move.
He simply waited.
Then he brings out his silence pistols—Phantom Blade at the same moments the agents bring out their pistols as well pointing at him while Agent-90 pointing at them, he glance to the agents they are all the same part of the project he was in as a test subject to emotionless monsters and ruthless assassin, "It seems like you guys are really like to die with dignity, don't you?"
his eyes catch one another as they all nods in agreement.
Seeing this Wen-Li ask to herself, "What are they doing?"
In a heartbeat, chaos erupted like a tempest unleashed. Agent-90 and the other assassins, driven by feral resolve, simultaneously discharged their pistols. The deafening crack of gunfire echoed through the cavernous warehouse, shells ricocheting and ricocheting like metallic raindrops scattering across the concrete floor. The barrage painted a grisly rain of brass, shimmering momentarily before vanishing into the shadows.
The air grew thick with acrid smoke and the scent of burnt powder, yet amidst the cacophony, a strange stillness fractured—an ominous silence as the adversaries, eyes blazing with purpose, reached for their melee weapons. Each figure drew from their back and side with a fluid, predatory grace: blades flashed, axes gleamed, and spears shimmered in the dim light, each weapon an extension of their menacing intent.
One by one, they brandished their formidable arsenal—swords with razor-sharp edges like surgical blades, jagged daggers that seemed hungry for flesh, axes as heavy as a man's despair, machetes that gleamed with deadly promise, clubs and maces that crackled with menace, war hammers with the weight of centuries of violence, bats and brass knuckles clenched in grim determination, crowbars and steel batons like implements of brutal finality, spears and lances poised to pierce, pikes that seemed to thirst for blood, bayonets glinting with cold precision, and even kusarigama—chains and sickles coiled in deadly ballet—rising from their backs.
As they pointed their weapons at Agent-90, a collective predatory gleam in their eyes, he responded with a rare calm—an almost meditative focus—as he drew his nunchucks. With a swift, practiced motion, he spun them in a wide arch, one end swinging like a pendulum of retribution, the other gripping his hand with unwavering resolve.
The tension was palpable; it crackled in the air like static before a lightning strike. The assassins moved as one, a deadly ballet choreographed by instinct and training, their bodies tense with anticipation. Their faces, masked in shadows, betrayed nothing but the cold certainty of their purpose.
Agent-90's eyes gleamed beneath his spectacles, his jaw clenched like a steel trap. His body coiled with latent energy, ready to strike with the precision of a surgeon and the brutality of a beast. His grip on the nunchucks tightened, muscles rippling beneath his tailored suit, veins standing proud like cords of steel.
In a blur of motion, the first assassin lunged, a dagger aimed straight for his throat—a serpent striking with venomous intent. Agent-90 responded instantly, twisting his torso with balletic grace, his nunchucks arcing outward. The blade clanged against the chain, sparks flying as metal met metal in a shower of sparks. His other hand shot out, delivering a swift, calculated palm strike that sent the attacker stumbling backward.
Meanwhile, another swung a war axe with a roar of ferocity—its blade slicing through the air with a thunderous whine. Agent-90 sidestepped, the axe's edge grazing past him, and countered with a brutal kick that connected with the attacker's knee, forcing him to stagger. Without hesitation, he spun his nunchucks in a tight circle, the chain whirling like a deadly pendulum, aiming for the attacker's weapon-hand.
The combat was a visceral dance—an intricate tapestry woven with swift strikes, calculated parries, and kinetic energy. The assassins, driven by relentless fury, closed in, their weapons slicing through the gloom with deadly precision, each blow a testament to their lethal mastery.
One assassin swung a crowbar with a savage snarl, the weapon smashing down in a brutal arc. Agent-90 deflected with his forearm, the impact reverberating up his limb, then countered with a lightning-fast strike of his nunchucks, the chain wrapping around the weapon like a serpent constricting its prey before snapping it aside.
A dagger flashed at his side, seeking flesh. He evaded with a sharp sidestep, then delivered a sweeping kick that knocked the attacker's feet from beneath him. The man fell hard, and Agent-90 pressed his advantage—his nunchucks whirling again, blurring through the air with deadly purpose.
Meanwhile, the other assassins pressed in, their faces masks of grim determination, their bodies moving with the precision of a well-oiled machine. Each flick of their weapons was a calculated threat—each strike, a deadly message.
Agent-90's expression was unreadable—almost serene—yet beneath it, his muscles rippled with controlled fury. His movements were fluid, almost balletic, yet brutal—an elegant but merciless dance of death. His body shifted in perfect harmony, a master of combat, each strike designed to incapacitate and disarm.
The soundscape was a symphony of violence—metal clashing, bodies striking flesh, the crack of gunfire still echoing faintly in the background. The fury of the melee was relentless, a grindstone of chaos and precision.
Suddenly, a spear hurled toward him, its tip gleaming like a serpent's fang. Agent-90 ducked just in time, the spear piercing the air where his head had been moments before. Without hesitation, he spun his nunchucks, aiming for the spear's shaft—breaking it like brittle twigs.
The fight was far from over. The assassins, undeterred, pressed their assault, their weapons a storm of steel and fury. Agent-90 responded in kind, a whirlwind of calculated violence, each movement a testament to his lethal artistry.
In the shadows, Wen-Li watched, her breath hitching in her throat. Her eyes widened with a mix of awe and dread—this was no ordinary skirmish; it was a symphony of brutality, a ballet of death played out with ruthless elegance. The scene was alive with raw energy, a visceral tableau where every strike, every parry, was imbued with purpose and pain.
The battle raged on, unyielding and brutal—a testament to the ferocity of those who refused to yield, and to the indomitable will of the man who stood at its eye.
The clash intensified, a storm of steel and sinew, as Agent-90 spun his nunchucks like a pair of deadly pendulums—each swing a calculated stroke in this brutal ballet. His body moved with near-supernatural grace, a predator in its prime, eyes sharp and unyielding beneath the reflection of shadows cast by the flickering warehouse lights.
The assassins, relentless and unbroken, advanced in coordinated chaos. One swung a machete with a roar, its blade slicing through the air like a curse. Agent-90 ducked low, the blade narrowly missing his head, then retaliated with a swift, punishing kick that sent the attacker stumbling backward. With a fluid motion, he snapped his nunchucks outward, the chain whipping through the air, striking the attacker's weapon hand and forcing him to drop his blade with a clang.
Another assassin lunged, wielding a pair of brass knuckles that gleamed like jagged teeth. His fists clenched with lethal intent. Agent-90 sidestepped with a dancer's precision, the knuckles grazing past his ribs—had he been slower, the impact could have shattered bone. He spun around, delivering a crushing blow with the blunt end of his nunchucks to the attacker's temple, knocking him senseless.
However, a figure wielding a crowbar raised it high for a savage downward blow. Agent-90 dodged, the weapon smashing into a steel beam with a deafening clang, sparks flying. Without hesitation, he closed the distance, his body a blur of motion, and delivered a devastating elbow to the attacker's gut. The man doubled over, gasping, as Agent-90's free hand shot out to grasp the crowbar, yanking it from his grip with a sharp twist.
A second wave of chaos rippled through the shadows. From behind a stack of crates, another assassin emerged—this one armed with a spear, his face hidden behind a black mask. He thrust forward with deadly precision. Agent-90 parried with his nunchucks, the chains ringing loudly as he deflected the blow, then countered with a quick, precise strike to the attacker's wrist, causing him to stumble back, clutching his bleeding hand.
The air was thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and the metallic tang of violence. Every movement was deliberate—each strike calculated to incapacitate, every dodge a matter of life and death. The combat was a brutal symphony—an unrelenting ballet where grace met brutality.
Amidst the chaos, a sharp, savage cry pierced the din. An assassin swung an axe with a wild, primal fury, aiming to cleave Agent-90 from shoulder to hip. The assassin's face was twisted in savage determination, eyes blazing with fanaticism. Agent-90 responded instinctively, ducking low, his body twisting like a serpent. The axe's blade bit into the concrete where he'd been a heartbeat before, sending a shower of debris into the air.
In that split second, Agent-90 delivered a swift, precise strike—his nunchucks crackling through the air to catch the attacker's wrist, then spiraling inward to connect with the man's ribs, knocking the wind from him. As the attacker doubled over, he delivered a brutal knee to the chin, sending him crashing to the ground, unconscious.
The fight was a relentless storm—movement and violence flowing like a river of steel and fury. Each combatant was a master of their deadly craft, bodies moving with a lethal poetry that was almost hypnotic in its precision.
Suddenly, from the darkness, a figure surged—another opponent, wielding a war hammer with arms like iron bands. He swung downward with a ferocious roar, the hammer crashing down in a devastating arc. Agent-90 sidestepped, the chain of his nunchucks swirling in a deadly arc, catching the hammer's handle and halting it inches from his face.
With a snarl, he twisted the chain, yanking the attacker's grip, then struck with a rapid succession of blows—an elbow, a palm strike, a spinning kick—each landing with brutal effectiveness. The attacker staggered, blood streaming from a cut along his temple, but he fought on, eyes blazing with fury and madness.
The melee raged on—each side exchanging blows, parries, and swift counters. The warehouse echoed with the clatter of steel, the grunts of exertion, and the shouts of combatants—though few grew louder than the silent fury in Agent-90's eyes.
A sudden shift—an opening—when one assassin, in a moment of overconfidence, lunged with a pair of short swords. Agent-90 anticipated the move, spinning his nunchucks in a tight circle, then launching forward with a calculated strike. The chains wrapped around the attacker's wrists, yanking the blades free from his grip and sending them skittering across the floor.
The scene was relentless, an exquisite brutality—each man and woman fighting with the ferocity of cornered animals, driven by desperation, duty, or dark purpose. The air crackled with their raw energy, a visceral dance of violence that refused to yield.
And yet, beneath the chaos, Agent-90's expression remained cold, precise—his body a lethal instrument, his mind sharp and unflinching. Every movement, every strike, was a testament to his mastery—a brutal artistry forged in the crucible of countless battles.
The fight was nowhere near over. It was a storm that refused to subside, a tempest of steel and shadows—an eternal dance of death that would only end when one side was broken.
A soft, uneven knock sounded at the door.
Wen-Li rose at once, her chair scraping faintly against the floor. Her breath caught as the door opened to reveal Agent-90 standing in the threshold. He was upright, composed as ever, yet the details betrayed the truth—small tears in his suit, blood seeping from shallow cuts along his arm and shoulder, darkening the fabric like spilled ink.
Her composure fractured.
She hurried to him, worry naked in her eyes. "You're injured!"
"It is negligible," he replied calmly, his voice as level as still water. "Such occurrences are… customary in combat."
"That is not an excuse," she said sharply, already guiding him inside. Relief washed over her face now that he was here—alive. "Sit. Now."
He did not argue. He lowered himself onto the couch with controlled stiffness.
Wen-Li turned at once, rifling through a steel cabinet with restless urgency. "Where is the medical kit?"
"Lower drawer. Left compartment," he said, watching her movements with quiet precision.
She found it quickly and knelt before him, her hands deft despite the tremor in her breath. She cleaned the wounds with practised care, dabbing away blood, applying antiseptic. Her fingers were gentle but resolute, as if daring pain itself to protest.
As she worked, moonlight filtered through the narrow window, catching the smooth fall of her long black hair, turning it into a river of onyx. Her face—intent, luminous with concern—was framed by that silver glow, every line softened, every emotion laid bare.
Agent-90 watched her.
Not as a leader. Not as a mission variable. But as Wen-Li.
She felt his gaze and looked up. "What is it?" she asked quietly.
"Nothing," he replied at once, turning his eyes away.
She studied him for a moment, unconvinced, then returned to her task. After securing the final bandage, she leaned back slightly. "There. That should hold—for now."
Then her expression hardened, worry sharpening into reproach. "And do not ever do something like that again. Standing alone against them like that—do you understand me?"
He met her eyes and nodded once. "Understood."
A brief silence settled between them, no longer heavy—merely intimate.
He rose carefully. "Are you ready to go home?"
She exhaled, a soft chuckle escaping her, tension loosening its grip at last. A faint smile curved her lips. "Yes. Let's go."
She paused, then added with gentle insistence, "This time, I'll drive."
He inclined his head, accepting without protest. "Very well."
Together, they moved towards the door—two figures scarred by fire and shadow, yet still standing, still moving forward.