"Why are you staring at me? Didn't you intend to command my obedience? Ensure your safety?" She suddenly asked, her voice grim.
Mr. Valen simply sighed and looked above, his eyes squinted instinctively as to protect him from the receding raindrops.
"I've had a change of heart," he suddenly spoke looking back to Carla, "I like my cat with claws; it enhances the feeling of conquest."
"..." Carla gazed at him, a strange look appearing on her face, "so you do feel emotions; I almost couldn't tell," she spoke, her tone sarcastic as she added. "Who knows if you're still fooling me with your person suit, even now."
"That would be pointless, you are one of my things now," Mr. Valen responded, a smile appearing on his face, but it never reached his eyes as he continued, "Plus, I value your therapeutic prowess; it would be nice to own a therapeutic cat."
"Ha! You've stripped me of all agency inside that twisted mind of yours, reducing me to nothing but a cat?" Carla spat her form straightening slightly. "One would argue that such childish behavior is to make up for your own insecurities, your fragile masculinity, but those are human qualities. Tell me, do you think it's even ethical for something non-human to keep a pet?"
"But you 'are' my pet; I believe I've made that abundantly clear," Mr. Valen said, tilting his head as he saw Carla's state, flushed skin, building vein, and this tremulous feel about her. "Are you alright? Your skin seems quite flushed, you're sweating, and your veins are bulging. Is it because I didn't let you finish before?"
Carla went quiet for a bit, but her brows soon furrowed into a look of disgust, "Are you stupid? Or are you just trying to annoy me?"
"A bit of both, yet nothing at all," Mr. Valen responded, "I might understand female biology, but normal human females don't have tails. I truly do not know what is wrong with you. I suppose it has something to do with your abilities. Or is this some kind of nasty period cramp?"
"Argh!" Carla suddenly gasped and began coughing, her knees dropping to the ground as blood dripped from her nose, "I've absorbed too much foren energy; I need a few hours to refine it."
'Oh,' Mr. Valen thought, understanding dawning. 'That is why she didn't use this method when she was being chased before.' "Are you some kind of cultivator or something?" he asked.
"What are you talking about? I need you to watch me!" Carla grunted, closing her eyes.
Squatting to match her gaze, Mr. Valen began speaking, "Cultivation is simply a fantasy. I believe many young people use it as an escape mechanism, though I could never understand its addictive quality. It lost its appeal and became repetitive after my 476th novel; someone always seemed to be courting death... You're not listening, I see. Well, I'll just wait here then."
-------
Meanwhile, back at the club, Police officers in uniform moved swiftly, their heavy boots crunching on shattered glass.
They cordoned off areas with yellow tape, creating a generic cross pattern across the messy room.
The flash of evidence cameras popped intermittently, freezing moments of violence in place: a handgun, shell casings, along with broken bottles and shattered pieces of glass.
'But no bodies, where did all the agents go?' One of the police officers on sight thought to himself as he observed the officers work.
The man was Sergeant Henry, the familiar dark-haired, burly man who led the five-man team into Carla's office.
After leaving, he picked up another case the next day, completely refusing the leave of absence given to him.
Sergeant Henry frowned a bit when he remembered what he saw in that office, 'And to think she escaped,' he thought grimly, wondering what the NIU were doing about it.
Multiple distress calls came from this location last night, but the NIU restricted all police personnel from offering aid, with the exception of a few special forces units.
'But said agents went quiet after a period of time,' Henry shook his head. No one could indeed reach the agents, and because of this, the NIU lifted the ban this morning, allowing police and the media to flood the scene. Luckily, the police arrived first.
There was a lot of work to do, but of course, he didn't have much work on his hands; he had officers for that.
Sergeant Henry then turned to a rookie officer standing by his side, his voice grim, "Let's get a canvas started. I want statements from every 10-48 in a three-block radius."
"Yes sir," the rookie nodded and moved, his eagerness inciting a nod from Sergeant Henry.
Suddenly, a low rumble began to build from outside, (a dissonant chorus of shouts and media cars that grew louder by the instant, pressing against the club's walls).
Henry's second-in-command, Jessica, approached, her gaze turned towards the entrance, "The wolves are getting restless, Sarge. They're smelling blood."
She then looked back at him, her eyes slightly narrowed. "Are you sure it's ok to be back on the field, sir? With what happened and all?"
"I'm fine," Henry grunted, adjusting his vest. "Hold the perimeter. I'll give them their soundbite."
"But sir-" Jessica tried to intervene but cut herself short, letting out a resigned breath as she shook her head.
Meanwhile, upon stepping out of the oppressive atmosphere of the crime scene Henry was welcomed by the cool morning air, but this peace lasted for only a moment.
In the next second, camera flashes erupted, blinding him for a moment as reporters strained against the perimeter trying to push the officers aside.
Their microphones were thrust forward like a bouquet of metal flowers, pointing at him.
"Sergeant! Sergeant Henry! Over here!"
"Can you confirm a fatality?"
"Is this linked to the incident at Binland Hospital?"
"What is the official statement concerning Dr. Carla is this some supernatural power or science?"
At those flooding questions, Sergeant Henry held up a hand, his face expressionless as he began. "We are conducting a full and active investigation. That's all I can-"
A reporter cut him off at that instant, her voice sharp and clear. "Sergeant, about the accident last night directly in front of this same club. Can you comment on the victim's condition?"
Sergeant Henry's jaw tightened at those words, caught off guard by the question, but he answered anyway. "The individual struck was an off-duty police officer who loathes publicity of any kind," he stated, the words heavy and deliberate. "He is currently in stable condition and receiving treatment. Our thoughts are with him and his family."
A brief lull followed the somber news, but it was quickly filled by another voice, this one laced with confusion and a hint of theatrical intrigue. "Sergeant! What about the object on the roof? What is that?"
All eyes, including Henry's, tilted upward. There, silhouetted against the hazy morning sky, was the roof of the nightclub.
Perched at the very edge was a large, rectangular object, impossibly tall and draped in what looked like a blood-red bedsheet.
The cheap fabric flapped weakly in the wind, creating a mysterious air about it.
It looked like some kind of signboard, but there was a problem; there was something unsettling about it, something out of place, and the more one observed, the more evident it became.
'Why didn't I notice this before?' Sergeant Henry thought, a sinking feeling growing in his chest.
At that moment, like some kind of sick joke, the bedspread flew open, pushed away by a strong gust of wind.
And what he saw, (what they all saw) shocked and disgusted him greatly.
Limbs, multiple limbs, dismembered from the whole of their bodies, could be seen hung against this cage, bent in odd angles to portray letters.
It was sickening; he could make out arms, legs, thighs, and other, less identifiable segments, all bent at grotesque angles to form letters.
Some were clearly dismembered joints; others were bloodied, carved-out pieces of flesh that he could only assume were from torsos.
"Hello 42," one of the reporters began to read amid flashing cameras, his eyes narrowed in disgust. "Let's play a game, find the killer at RD university, love your Artist."
Those words were punctuated with a smiley face, in this case the literal smiling face of a dismembered head.
"Shiii!" Sergeant Henry's comms began hissing at this point, the startled voice of one of his officers breaking through, "Sir, there's a cage-"
"I see it," Sergeant Henry growled before asking. "I assume the other body parts are up there as well?"
"No, sir, I can only see the body parts in the cage; the entirety of the upper floor is clean," the police officer said.
"You've gotta be fucking kidding me," Sergeant Henry muttered before thinking, 'Where the hell did the body parts go?'
"It's not good to be startled, Sergeant, you don't want people to think you're incompetent," a voice suddenly sounded out beside him, making Sergeant Henry aware of a woman beside him.
She looked like some kind of hippie to him, black blue hair, blood red eyes, and all black attire.
"How the hell did you make it past the perimeter," he spoke before yelling. "Someone escort this lady out of here-"
"No need, I'll see myself out," the woman smiled, a kind of knowing smile that made Sergeant Henry's heart skip a beat, her voice trailing off as she disappeared into the sea of reporters fighting back police officers, "whoever could the killer be?"
By now, the reporters were barely paying attention to Sergeant Henry, all focused on the spectacle above, so he swiftly moved back into the club, his voice sounding out loudly, "How the hell did no one notice a cage of limbs up on the roof till now!"