Announcement: The first half of Volume 2 is available on Webnovel under the same title. This continuation is being published on Royal Road for broader access.
In the depths of the R&D division, the air hummed with the electrifying murmur of innovation. The lab's walls gleamed like mirrors of ice, their cold sterility both mesmerising and oppressive. A forest of wires dangled from the ceilings, swaying imperceptibly like the tendrils of a deep-sea leviathan, while monitors blinked in synchrony, casting a flickering azure glow upon the polished floors. Amid this cathedral of technology, Dr. Abrar stood, his figure hunched over a console, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow betraying the intensity of his focus.
Before him, a test subject—a young agent named Ryan—sat upon an ergonomic chair that resembled the throne of a futurist king. His right arm had been replaced with a sleek cybernetic limb, its metallic surface shimmering with a brilliance that seemed to defy the stark fluorescent lighting. As the final calibration took place, the limb moved with a feline grace, its joints whirring softly, like the whisper of silk against stone.
"Increase neural feedback synchronisation by twelve per cent," Abrar commanded, his voice clipped yet melodic, a cadence that danced between precision and impatience. His assistants, a gaggle of white-coated scientists, scrambled like ants to obey.
Ryan flexed his fingers, the cybernetic appendage responding with uncanny alacrity. A gasp rippled through the room as he gripped a steel rod and bent it effortlessly, the metal screeching in protest before yielding to his will.
"Superb," murmured Abrar, his eyes alight with a mixture of pride and awe. "The interface is seamless. He feels it as his own."
Before he could bask in the moment, the soft chime of approaching heels interrupted the sanctity of the lab. Lan Qian entered, her presence like a blade of light cutting through shadow. She was garbed in an immaculate suit, her dark hair bound tightly in a bun, and her eyes glimmered with an intensity that rivalled the machinery around her.
"Dr. Abrar," she began, her voice as precise as a scalpel, "Chief Wen-Li, Commander Krieg, and President Zhang Wei require your presence immediately."
Abrar frowned, glancing at the monitors one last time before nodding curtly. "Let us proceed," he said, gesturing for Lan Qian to lead the way.
The elevator was a capsule of gleaming steel, its walls reflecting the tension between its two occupants. As it ascended, Lan spoke, her words deliberate.
"Do you realise what this means, Dr. Abrar? If this succeeds on a larger scale, it could redefine warfare—reshape humanity."
Abrar’s gaze remained fixed on the illuminated floor indicator. "Redefine humanity, or destroy it? The line grows thinner every day."
Lan Qian allowed herself a rare smile, though it did not reach her eyes. "Perhaps destruction is the price of evolution."
The elevator doors parted with a soft hiss, revealing a corridor that stretched like an artery through the heart of the SSCBF headquarters. The walls, adorned with holographic displays of past missions and the organisation's emblem—a silver phoenix encircling a fractal globe—seemed to shimmer as Abrar and Lan strode through. Their footsteps echoed in synchrony, a cadence that hinted at the unspoken tension between them.
The conference room itself was a marvel of minimalist design. A long, obsidian table occupied its centre, its surface so polished it mirrored the room's subdued lighting. Around it sat the titans of the SSCBF: Chief Wen-Li, her sharp features framed by a cascade of silver hair; Commander Krieg, a monolithic figure clad in a uniform bedecked with medals; and President Zhang Wei, whose steely gaze could pierce through the most fortified of defences.
As Abrar and Lan entered, all eyes turned to them. The air seemed to thicken, the weight of expectation pressing down like an invisible force.
“You’re late,” Krieg growled, his voice a low rumble that carried the authority of a storm.
“Apologies,” Abrar replied, his tone measured, almost detached. “The experiment required my immediate attention.”
“And did it succeed?” Wen-Li interjected, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade.
Abrar placed a data pad on the table, activating its holographic interface. Images and videos sprang to life, depicting Ryan’s transformation in vivid detail: the cybernetic limb responding flawlessly, his physical capabilities augmented to superhuman levels.
“Not only did it succeed,” Abrar said, his voice tinged with pride, “but it exceeded our projections. The neural implant allows for real-time adaptation, and the prosthetic integrates seamlessly with the subject’s natural physiology.”
A murmur rippled through the room. Even Zhang Wei’s stoic expression softened, his lips curling into the faintest of smiles.
“Impressive,” Zhang Wei said finally, his voice calm yet commanding. “But the question remains: at what cost?”
Commander Krieg scoffed, leaning forward. “The cost is irrelevant if it ensures our dominance on the global stage. We cannot afford to hesitate.”
“Dominance?” Wen-Li retorted, her eyes narrowing. “What about the moral implications? Are we to turn our agents into machines, sacrificing their humanity in the name of progress?”
Abrar remained silent, his gaze flickering between the two leaders. Lan Qian, however, stepped forward.
“With respect,” she said, her tone calculated, “this isn’t merely about progress. It’s survival. Our enemies are already developing similar technologies. If we don’t act now, we risk falling behind.”
Zhang Wei raised a hand, silencing the brewing argument. “This is not a decision to be taken lightly. Dr. Abrar, I want your honest assessment. Do you believe this technology is ready for deployment?”
Abrar hesitated, the weight of the question settling on his shoulders. “The technology is ready,” he said finally. “But the ethical ramifications… they are not so easily resolved. We tread a fine line between innovation and hubris.”
The room fell silent, the gravity of his words hanging in the air like a storm cloud.
After a long pause, Zhang Wei stood, his presence commanding the attention of everyone in the room. “We will proceed,” he declared, his voice resolute. “But under strict oversight. Dr. Abrar, you will lead a specialised team to refine the technology further and address the ethical concerns raised. Commander Krieg, I expect your operatives to be briefed on the limits of this programme. We are not creating soldiers; we are enhancing them.”
The decision was final, and though the tension lingered, the room began to empty as the leaders filed out, their expressions a mix of resolve and uncertainty.
As Abrar and Lan Qian exited the conference room, the latter broke the silence. “That went better than expected.”
“Did it?” Abrar replied, his voice tinged with doubt. “We’ve set a course that could either save humanity—or doom it.”
Lan Qian shrugged, her expression unreadable. “Perhaps both are necessary.”
The conference room emptied with the slow, deliberate exodus of the SSCBF's elite, their footsteps fading into the cavernous silence like echoes in a forsaken cathedral. President Zhang Wei lingered, his silhouette framed against the glimmering cityscape beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. His expression, carved in stoic resolve, belied the tempest roiling within—a storm of conscience and calculation.
When the room was finally bereft of intruding eyes, Zhang Wei retrieved a sleek communicator from the folds of his tailored coat. Its metallic surface gleamed like liquid mercury under the muted light. He pressed a sequence of encrypted commands, and the device pulsed with life, casting an eerie, cerulean glow onto his visage.
Moments later, the image of Gavriel Elazar materialised—a spectre of menace wrapped in silk. His face was chiselled with sharp lines, a visage that seemed carved by shadows rather than light. His dark eyes, devoid of warmth, held a glint of malevolence that coiled like a serpent ready to strike. Behind him, the faint hum of Syndicate operations echoed—a distant symphony of chaos being orchestrated.
“Ah, Zhang Wei,” Gavriel drawled, his tone as smooth as polished obsidian, yet laced with venom. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this clandestine communication?”
Zhang Wei’s voice, though steady, carried an undercurrent of weariness. “The experiment has succeeded. The enhancements performed beyond expectations. The SSCBF is on the brink of a new era.”
For a moment, silence reigned, as Gavriel’s expression morphed into a sinister smirk. His lips curled like the edge of a dagger, and a soft chuckle escaped him—a sound as chilling as the creak of a coffin lid.
“Splendid news,” Gavriel purred, his words dripping with sardonic delight. “Yet, you sound troubled, old friend. Is it the ethical dilemma gnawing at your conscience? Or perhaps the thorn in your side that is Wen-Li?”
Zhang Wei’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. “Wen-Li’s idealism is... problematic. She questions every decision, resists every innovation. It is a wonder the organisation has thrived under such discord.”
“Indeed,” Gavriel replied, his tone as sharp as broken glass. “She is an anchor dragging your ship into the abyss. But fret not—soon, the SSCBF will face a reckoning. And when it does, her voice will be but a whisper drowned in the cacophony of progress.”
Zhang Wei hesitated, the weight of his next words palpable. “Gavriel, the Syndicate’s agenda—what assurance do I have that it aligns with my vision?”
Gavriel’s laugh was a dark melody, resonant with unspoken truths. “Assurance? My dear Zhang, control is assurance. And once the Syndicate possesses the means to control these enhancements, the SSCBF will be obsolete—a relic of outdated morality.”
Zhang Wei’s expression flickered with unease. “And Wen-Li?”
“Wen-Li,” Gavriel intoned, his voice now a venomous whisper, “will be silenced. Permanently. Her obstinance has no place in the world we are forging.”
The silence that followed was heavy, pregnant with unspoken implications. Zhang Wei’s hand clenched around the communicator, his knuckles whitening like frost creeping over stone.
“You tread a dangerous path, Gavriel,” he said finally, his voice a brittle shard of restraint.
“As do we all,” Gavriel replied, his smirk widening into a predatory grin. “But the rewards are worth the risk, are they not?”
With that, the transmission ended, leaving Zhang Wei alone in the darkened room. The communicator’s glow faded, and the room seemed to contract around him, the shadows pressing closer as if conspiring to smother him. Outside, the city lights twinkled like shards of broken glass scattered across a void, their beauty marred by the ugliness of hidden truths.
A faint chime broke the stillness of Gavriel’s sanctum, a sound as delicate as the first note of a requiem. The dim light of the chamber caught the crystalline decanter on his desk, refracting it into a fleeting spectrum of colours across the black marble surface. He leaned back in his high-backed chair, its dark leather creaking softly, and turned his gaze to the glowing panel before him.
With an elegant flourish, he tapped the console, and the screen flickered to life. The figure of Ilse Richter appeared, her countenance as unyielding as granite. She was the embodiment of precision, her platinum hair swept into a severe bun that seemed almost sculptural in its perfection. Her features were sharp, every angle crafted with deliberate austerity, and her pale eyes held a glacial intensity that seemed to pierce Gavriel through the screen.
“Gavriel,” she began, her voice clipped and efficient, carrying the weight of both intellect and authority. “The question remains: do we proceed with the removal of Wen-Li?”
For a moment, Gavriel did not respond. Instead, he allowed his gaze to wander to the sprawling vista beyond the reinforced glass wall behind Ilse. The Syndicate’s headquarters towered above a labyrinthine metropolis, its spires stabbing at the heavens like the spears of a conquering army. Below, a web of shadows moved—a city alive with secrets and ambition.
Finally, Gavriel’s lips curled into a smile, slow and deliberate, like the first glint of a blade drawn from its sheath. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, his fingers steepled as he regarded Ilse with something approaching amusement.
“Wen-Li,” he drawled, his tone languid but laced with menace, “is an obstacle. Obstacles are meant to be removed, are they not?”
Ilse inclined her head slightly, a gesture that could have been agreement or impatience. “And who shall handle this... removal?”
At this, Gavriel’s smile widened, his teeth glinting like the edge of a guillotine. He turned his chair slightly, his gaze falling on a dossier resting on the corner of his desk. Its surface bore a single name in bold, precise lettering: Luciano Ferro.
“Luciano Ferro,” Gavriel said, his voice soft yet resonant, like the rumble of distant thunder. “He is already well-versed in eliminating the Syndicate’s political inconveniences. Wen-Li will be no different.”
Ilse’s expression remained unreadable, though a faint flicker of approval danced in her eyes. “He is reliable, if... unconventional.”
Gavriel chuckled, the sound low and sardonic. “Unconventionality is a virtue in this line of work. Ferro understands the art of subtlety—and the value of finality. Wen-Li will not live to see the fruits of her resistance.”
For a moment, neither spoke, the weight of the conversation settling between them like an executioner’s axe poised above its mark. Then, with a sharp nod, Ilse broke the silence.
“Very well. I shall make the necessary arrangements. Ferro will be briefed and deployed at once.”
“Do that,” Gavriel said, his voice a silken command. “And Ilse—ensure there are no loose ends. Wen-Li’s death must not ripple too far, lest it complicate our greater ambitions.”
“As always,” Ilse replied, her tone clipped and precise, before the screen darkened, her image fading into nothingness.
Gavriel sat back once more, a quiet satisfaction settling over him. His fingers idly traced the edge of the decanter on his desk, his thoughts already moving beyond Wen-Li to the grander chessboard of his design. For Gavriel Elazar, every obstacle was merely another piece to be sacrificed, every death another step towards his ultimate vision. And in this, he was unrelenting.
“She will fall,” he murmured to himself, his voice a whisper of finality. “They all will.”
At Chief Wen-Li’s office, the atmosphere exuded an air of disciplined intensity. The walls were adorned with framed maps and operational charts, while her sleek laptop hummed softly as she scrolled through confidential dossiers. Each keystroke was a precise motion, unlocking intelligence reports and security feeds from across the metropolis. Her brows knitted slightly as she analysed potential threats to the city, her mind a kaleidoscope of strategy and foresight.
Taking a brief pause, Wen-Li leaned back in her chair, her gaze shifting toward the portholes that framed the sprawling cityscape like a living masterpiece. The bustling metropolis, bathed in the golden hues of daytime, thrived with a pulse that mirrored her own. Her long, jet-black hair flowed like a silk ribbon, caught by the gentle breeze from the slightly ajar window. She let out a sigh—a fleeting moment of peace shattered by a thunderous explosion that reverberated through the air.
The tremor rattled the glass and jolted her upright. The distant wail of sirens soon followed, slicing through the hum of urban life like a scalpel through flesh. The cacophony of chaos was unmistakable.
Lan Qian burst into the room, her expression a blend of urgency and composure, her tablet clutched like a lifeline. "Chief Wen-Li," she began, her voice steady despite the turmoil, "an explosion has occurred at the Federal National Bank."
Wen-Li’s sharp eyes met Lan Qian’s as she rose from her chair. "Contact Captain Robert and Captain Lingaong Xuein immediately," she ordered, her voice carrying the weight of command. "Inform them of the situation and have them deploy with their team. We cannot afford any missteps."
Lan Qian nodded and swiftly began tapping on her tablet, relaying the message with the efficiency of a machine. Wen-Li, ever watchful, returned her gaze to the porthole, now marred by a faint plume of smoke rising in the distance—a dark blemish against the city’s bright skyline.
The team cruised through the city streets in a sleek, armoured SUV, its engine a low growl beneath the murmur of the crew’s chatter. Captain Robert, ever the composed leader, leaned against the window, his piercing eyes scanning the crowded streets with the vigilance of a hawk.
Captain Lingaong Xuein, seated beside him, was scrolling through tactical data on a handheld device. Tao-Ren, her expression ever calm, occupied the back seat along with Daishoji, whose fingers drummed an impatient rhythm on his knee. Sakim and Demitin exchanged light banter, their camaraderie a momentary reprieve from the tension that always loomed over them. Labibah Ahmed Bashar sat quietly, her observant eyes taking in every detail of their surroundings.
The vehicle’s communication system crackled to life. Lan Qian’s voice came through, steady but urgent. "Captains Robert and Lingaong Xuein, this is an emergency. A large explosion has been reported at the Federal National Bank. Chief Wen-Li has ordered you to secure the area and assist with the situation immediately."
Robert straightened, his hand instinctively reaching for the radio. "Acknowledged. We’re en route. ETA, five minutes," he replied, his tone calm but commanding.
Lingaong Xuein glanced at Robert, her lips pressing into a determined line. "It seems the calm has been shattered," she remarked, fastening the straps of her tactical gear. "This day just got a lot more interesting."
"Interesting isn’t the word I’d use," Robert quipped, his voice tinged with dry humour. "But let’s see if we can’t turn their day upside down."
As the SUV accelerated, the team readied themselves, each person falling into their role with the precision of gears in a well-oiled machine. The city blurred past them, the rising plume of smoke from the Federal National Bank growing larger—a beacon of chaos drawing them closer to the storm.
The Federal National Bank’s facade stood in ruins, a gaping maw of shattered glass and pulverized stone, billowing smoke like a monstrous chimney. Amidst the rubble, Roulecca Lucija emerged—a silhouette against the inferno—her appearance as defiant as a phoenix risen from the ashes. The ouroboros tattoo on her forearm gleamed faintly, as though alive, and her lips curled into a sardonic grin.
"Catch me?!" she taunted, her voice laced with disdain, slicing through the chaos like a blade.
As Captain Robert and Captain Lingaong Xuein arrived with their squads, weapons raised, an eerie stillness fell before the tempest. Robert's instincts prickled, goosebumps rippling across his skin like icy warnings. He barked an order, "Stay sharp! She's no ordinary foe!"
With a guttural roar, Roulecca activated her Seismic Havoc, slamming her foot into the ground. The very earth rebelled at her command, shockwaves surging outward in violent ripples, shattering concrete and throwing officers into disarray. Vehicles toppled like dominos, and the air itself seemed to vibrate with an ominous hum.
Labibah Ahmed Bashar stepped forward, her expression steely, her dark eyes narrowing with resolve. "Enough of this chaos!" she muttered, activating her Chrono Anchor. Time seemed to hesitate, as though caught in a spider’s web. The debris hung suspended, the tremors subdued into muted ripples.
Roulecca sneered, her piercing gaze fixed on Labibah. "Slowing time won’t save you," she spat. "You’re a fly in my web, caught in the wake of inevitability!"
Tao-Ren joined Labibah, her blade drawn and glinting like liquid silver. “Your arrogance blinds you, Roulecca,” she retorted. “This ends here.”
But Roulecca, unfazed, raised her hand, sending a concentrated shockwave toward Tao-Ren. The latter somersaulted mid-air, narrowly dodging the seismic blast, landing gracefully on the smouldering pavement.
Daishoji and Sakim flanked Roulecca, their synchronized attacks testing her dexterity. Daishoji’s twin daggers flashed, aiming for precise strikes, while Sakim’s brute force sought to overwhelm. Yet Roulecca danced between them with an almost balletic grace, her movements fluid yet devastating.
"You lot are pitiful," Roulecca taunted, her voice dripping venom. "Just puppets in this grand charade."
Her provocations sparked an ire in Labibah, who unleashed a field of temporal stasis, freezing Roulecca momentarily. Tao-Ren seized the opportunity, her blade striking true, only for Roulecca to shatter the stasis field with a violent tremor, her rage fuelling her power.
The battlefield became a symphony of destruction—shockwaves clashing with frozen moments, creating a chaotic rhythm of fragmented time and seismic chaos. Smoke and dust swirled like malevolent spirits, obscuring vision and choking the air.
Roulecca, blood trickling from a cut above her brow, glared at Labibah and Tao-Ren. “You think you can beat me? This world thrives on destruction, and I am its harbinger!”
Despite the officers’ valiant efforts, Roulecca unleashed a massive quake, collapsing a nearby structure to create a diversion. She leapt into the chaos, vanishing into the labyrinth of rubble with the stolen money in tow.
"She’s escaped!" Robert exclaimed, his voice tinged with frustration.
Lingaong Xuein clenched her fists, her voice low but resolute. “This isn’t over. She’s Roulecca Lucija, a Sinner with nothing to lose and everything to destroy.”
As the dust settled, the Battle of Tremors and Time had left the SSCBF shaken but not broken. The officers regrouped, their determination reignited despite the devastation. Somewhere in the distance, Roulecca’s laughter echoed—a haunting reminder that the fight was far from over.
The atmosphere within Madam Di-Xian’s office exuded an austere elegance. Bookshelves laden with tomes of history and strategy framed the room, their spines whispering tales of ages past. The heavy scent of sandalwood lingered, mingling with the faint hum of an air purifier. Madam Di-Xian sat poised at her mahogany desk, her visage serene yet commanding, like a tempest veiled in calm.
Alvi entered with purposeful strides, her movements imbued with an urgency that betrayed her disciplined exterior. She carried a leather-bound dossier, its edges worn yet meticulous, a testament to its contents' gravity. Bowing slightly, she placed the files on the desk.
"Madam," Alvi began, her voice measured yet underscored with unease, "here are the documents you requested. They detail the SSCBF's latest alliances and operations."
Madam Di-Xian’s almond-shaped eyes, sharp and discerning as an eagle's, flicked toward Alvi before settling on the dossier. She opened it with delicate precision, revealing reports laced with government seals and cryptic annotations. The words within painted a troubling picture: the SSCBF’s clandestine pact with the SCP secret police force, the implementation of the Sentinel Helices Bracelets, and their encroachment into the lives of their operatives.
Alvi continued, her tone acquiring an edge of vehemence, "The Sentinel Helices Bracelets—an abhorrent innovation. These devices entwine themselves with the wearer’s DNA, forming a third helix. Through this grotesque amalgamation, the SCP gains unfettered access to every facet of an operative’s existence, both private and public."
Madam Di-Xian’s gaze hardened, her expression a mosaic of stoic composure and latent disdain. "The overreach of their ambition is both audacious and reckless," she murmured, her voice as cold and incisive as a blade drawn in the dead of night.
"Madam," Alvi pressed on, her voice lowering, "even Chief Wen-Li has succumbed to this measure. She wears the bracelet as well."
Madam Di-Xian’s fingers stilled over the papers, her silence more eloquent than words. Finally, she spoke, her voice imbued with a chilling finality. "A tree that roots itself in poisoned soil will bear bitter fruit. Chief Wen-Li’s decision is one of desperation, not foresight."
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Alvi, emboldened by her indignation, asked hesitantly, "Madam, should we consider aligning with the SSCBF to mitigate this growing threat?"
"No." Di-Xian’s response was delivered with the resolute force of a guillotine's fall. Her tone brooked no argument.
"But, Madam—"
"Enough," Di-Xian interjected, her gaze piercing through Alvi like an arctic gale. "The SSCBF has chosen a path fraught with peril. They transform their agents into unfeeling automata, unaware that dandelion petals, once consumed by the voracious maw of industry, can never again dance freely in the wind."
Alvi inhaled sharply, her voice now tremulous with unease. "And yet, Madam, the spectre of their alliance looms ever larger. What of their intent to reforge humanity into weapons of war?"
Madam Di-Xian’s lips curled into a faint, sardonic smile, akin to the shadow of dusk over a battlefield. "Intentions are but arrows shot into the void, Alvi. They cannot see that the bowstring of their ambition is frayed. Let them march forward, blind to their folly. We will remain the whisper in the storm, the unseen hand that guides destiny."
The room fell silent, save for the faint rustle of the dossier’s pages. Alvi lowered her gaze, retreating slightly as the weight of Di-Xian’s words settled upon her.
"Maintain vigilance, Alvi," Di-Xian added, her voice softer now, though no less commanding. "The time will come when the winds shift, and we must act not out of reaction, but precision."
With a bow, Alvi stepped back, leaving the office with her thoughts a tempest of conflicting resolve. As the door clicked shut, Di-Xian leaned back in her chair, her eyes narrowing as though peering into the labyrinthine depths of the future. "The SSCBF," she muttered to herself, "has become the architect of its own undoing."
The washroom was a sanctuary in name alone, a sterile chamber of porcelain and steel where the echoes of running water filled the emptiness with a mocking cadence. Luciano Ferro stood beneath the relentless spray of the shower, his lean, sinewy frame illuminated by the cold fluorescent light above. Water streamed over his skin, carving rivulets through the grime of his last mission, each droplet stinging as it passed over the latticework of bruises and scars that marred his body like the remnants of a battlefield.
His breath came in shallow, deliberate rhythms, his mind replaying the memory of Yuan Meiling’s scorn. Her words, sharp as a blade honed to perfection, had cut deeper than the wounds her underlings had inflicted.
"You brought shame to the SCP."
The accusation lingered in his mind like a dark cloud, thick with the thunder of humiliation. He could still feel the cold precision of her gaze as she stood over him in that clinical chamber of hers, her silhouette framed by the sterile glow of monitors displaying incomprehensible streams of data. Yuan Meiling—the technocrat who held power as though it were a scalpel, dissecting weakness with a surgeon’s detachment—had made her displeasure abundantly clear.
When he had failed to eliminate Agent-90, the shadowy nemesis who danced through the darkness like an uncatchable phantom, her wrath had descended upon him with the force of an avalanche. He had endured her calculated torment, her methods as cold and unyielding as the algorithms she commanded. Every blow, every laceration, every searing lash of her words was delivered with surgical precision, designed not to break his body but to scar his pride.
Now, as the water cascaded over his face, Luciano leaned against the tiled wall, his hands splayed against the surface as though steadying himself against an invisible weight. He tilted his head downward, watching as the remnants of blood and sweat swirled down the drain, vanishing like the fleeting remnants of his failure.
The mirror awaited him, its polished surface a window to the truths he could not evade. When at last he stood before it, he did so with trepidation. The reflection that greeted him was both familiar and alien—a man whose sharp cheekbones and angular jaw were marred by fresh contusions and long-healed scars, each one a monument to the life he had chosen.
His eyes, dark and brooding, burned with an anger that simmered just beneath the surface. His fists clenched at his sides, the knuckles whitening like frost creeping over stone. Through the fogged glass, he could see the scrawled tattoos on his forearms, faded and distorted by years of combat and consequence.
“This time,” he muttered to his reflection, his voice low and venomous, “I will not fail.”
The ritual of preparation was as much mental as physical, a series of deliberate actions that steadied his resolve. He retrieved a razor from the countertop, its blade gleaming like a predator’s fang, and dragged it across his jaw with the precision of a surgeon. Each stroke was measured, each movement purposeful, as though carving away the remnants of his humiliation along with the stubble.
Next came the scars, those uninvited guests upon his skin. He applied a salve to the angry welts on his torso, the cool balm hissing against the heat of his flesh. Every motion was a reminder—a tether to his resolve—that he could not afford another failure.
From the wardrobe, he donned his attire with the care of a soldier armouring himself for battle. The black tactical suit hugged his frame, its reinforced fibres whispering of stealth and resilience. A belt of sleek tools encircled his waist: garrottes as fine as spider silk, blades honed to molecular sharpness, and compact devices of his own design that could disrupt the most advanced security systems.
Finally, he retrieved the files Gavriel had given him, laying them out across the desk like a cartographer studying a map of treachery. The pages detailed his next target: Chief Wen-Li of the SSCBF. The woman was a fortress, her movements meticulously documented, her habits analysed to the finest detail. But a fortress, no matter how impregnable, could be breached with the right combination of cunning and ruthlessness.
Luciano’s gaze lingered on the photograph of Wen-Li—a candid shot of her standing by a porthole, her long black hair flowing like ink spilled across parchment. She exuded an aura of authority, her expression calm yet piercing, as though she could discern one’s soul with a glance.
As he studied her, the anger within him solidified into a cold determination. Failure was no longer an option; it was a spectre he could not afford to entertain. His body bore the scars of Yuan Meiling’s wrath, but his mind carried the deeper wounds of humiliation. This mission was no mere assignment—it was an opportunity for redemption, a chance to reclaim his place within the SCP’s hierarchy.
Luciano turned back to the mirror, his reflection now a portrait of grim resolve. “Wen-Li,” he murmured, his voice a whisper of steel and shadow, “you may be the fortress, but I am the storm that will dismantle you, brick by brick.”
With that, he extinguished the light, leaving the room in darkness save for the faint glow of the files on the desk. The storm within him had been unleashed, and it would not rest until its purpose was fulfilled.
The Black Castle loomed against the velvet night like a brooding monolith, its spires reaching for the heavens as though they could pierce the stars themselves. Its shadow stretched long and unforgiving across the barren landscape, a harbinger of the secrets it held within. Within the castle’s sprawling gardens, a solitary black rose blossomed defiantly amidst a sea of thorns, its petals gleaming like obsidian under the pale moonlight. The air was thick with the mingling scents of decay and allure, as though nature itself conspired to reflect the duality of beauty and menace.
Roulecca stepped into the dim corridor leading to the inner sanctum, her boots clicking softly against the cold, polished stone. Her Victorian gown—an intricate weave of dark lace and deep crimson silk—flowed around her like liquid shadow, trailing behind her in a whisper of movement. She pushed open the heavy wooden door and entered the chamber, where darkness reigned supreme save for the faint glow of a single candelabrum.
At the centre of the room sat their leader, her face obscured by shadow. She was a figure of elegant menace, draped in a high-collared black ensemble that seemed to consume the light around her. Her hands, adorned with rings that glinted like the eyes of predators, rested lightly on the armrests of her throne.
“Roulecca,” the leader intoned, her voice low and commanding, each syllable weighted like a judge’s gavel. “Come forward. Have you brought the task to its conclusion? And the money—did you retrieve it, or must I send someone more competent?”
Roulecca hesitated, the weight of failure pressing down upon her like an iron yoke. She stepped forward, the flickering candlelight casting fleeting glimpses of her face—a sharp jawline marred by a fresh wound across her cheek, her lips drawn into a tight line, her violet eyes clouded with a mixture of defiance and remorse.
The leader leaned forward, her face emerging from the shadows like a spectre revealed. Her features were striking and severe, her expression a mask of cold fury. Her piercing gaze bore into Roulecca, as if peeling back the layers of her soul.
“You failed,” the leader said, her tone a scalpel slicing through the air. “The SSCBF routed you, did they not? You stand before me, wounded and empty-handed, a testament to your ineptitude. Do you comprehend what your failure has cost us? Resources squandered, trust diminished, opportunities lost!”
Roulecca dropped to her knees, her gown pooling around her like spilled ink. “I accept your reprimand, my lady,” she said, her voice steady despite the weight of her shame. “It will not happen again.”
The leader rose, her movements fluid and deliberate, the hem of her gown sweeping the floor like a phantom’s touch. “See that it does not,” she said, her tone ice incarnate. “You will return to the field. You will retrieve the funds, eliminate the obstacles, and reclaim what is ours. Do not return until the task is done, or do not return at all.”
Roulecca bowed her head deeply. “As you command.”
As Roulecca exited the chamber, the tension clinging to her like a second skin, the dimly lit hallway stretched before her, its flickering torches casting shifting shadows against the stone walls. She walked with measured steps, her thoughts swirling with the weight of her leader’s words.
Midway through the corridor, she caught sight of Zoyah leaning casually against the wall, her arms crossed and her posture relaxed. Zoyah’s lips curved into a sly grin as her sharp eyes took in Roulecca’s expression.
“Ah, scolded again, weren’t you?” Zoyah quipped, her voice lilting with amusement as she pushed off the wall with a fluid motion.
Roulecca glanced at her with a weary sigh, the corner of her mouth twitching in reluctant acknowledgment. “What gave it away?”
“The look on your face,” Zoyah said, gesturing vaguely. “Like someone just told you the rose you’ve been tending is actually a weed.”
“It feels about right,” Roulecca muttered.
Zoyah stepped closer, her grin widening. “Well, don’t let her words get under your skin. You’re tougher than that. Come on, stand tall, shoulders back—”
Before Roulecca could respond, Zoyah clapped her firmly on the back, the resounding smack echoing through the hallway. Roulecca winced, her eyes narrowing as a flush of red blossomed across her shoulder.
“Zoyah!” she hissed, half in annoyance, half in pain. “Was that really necessary?”
“Absolutely,” Zoyah replied, a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. “Think of it as a reminder: you’re not just anyone, you’re Roulecca. Now get out there and prove her wrong. Or at least don’t come back with another fresh wound, yeah?”
Despite herself, Roulecca let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “Fine, fine. But next time, warn me before you decide to cheer me up with brute force.”
“No promises,” Zoyah said with a wink, turning on her heel and sauntering off down the hallway.
Roulecca watched her go, a small smile tugging at her lips. The weight of her failure still lingered, but Zoyah’s words—and her less-than-gentle encouragement—had kindled a spark of determination. She straightened her posture, adjusted her gown, and strode down the corridor, her resolve as unyielding as the stone walls around her.
Wen-Li stood by the expansive glass portholes of her office, a sentinel overlooking the labyrinthine sprawl of the metropolis. The city's undulating skyline glimmered under the noonday sun, its countless spires piercing the heavens like celestial harpoons. Below, the streets writhed with a chaotic harmony, like veins coursing with the lifeblood of urban existence. Her long, obsidian hair cascaded down her back, swaying gently with the artificial breeze from the room’s silent air conditioning. She was the picture of calm authority, yet her eyes betrayed the weight of a thousand untold burdens.
Her laptop, a sleek monolith of technological precision, displayed an array of encrypted files and surveillance feeds. She had been poring over intelligence reports: coded transmissions, anomalies in trade routes, and a pattern of disruptions linked to syndicates operating under enigmatic aliases. Her meticulous fingers danced across the keyboard, decoding with the deftness of a pianist summoning melody from keys.
As she paused, letting her gaze drift back to the city, the door behind her creaked open. Nightingale entered, her presence like the whisper of midnight—unassuming yet laden with gravitas. Her movements were as precise as a hawk gliding on thermal currents, and her crisp uniform was a testament to her exacting standards.
“Chief,” Nightingale began, her voice a sonorous alto that carried the weight of formality yet was tempered with an undertone of concern. “The latest reconnaissance from our eastern outpost has arrived. There’s... an anomaly. Something that demands immediate attention.”
Wen-Li turned, her sharp eyes meeting Nightingale’s with an intensity that could cleave through steel. “An anomaly?” she echoed, her tone measured yet carrying an implicit demand for elaboration.
Nightingale nodded, stepping further into the room, her boots producing a soft staccato against the polished marble floor. “Yes, ma’am. A cluster of seismic readings near the old docks—intensities that align unnervingly with those generated by Roulecca Lucija’s known abilities.”
A shadow of recognition flitted across Wen-Li’s features. Her expression tightened, the calm façade giving way to the storm beneath. “So she dares to resurface,” Wen-Li murmured, her voice laced with quiet fury. “And the timing is no coincidence.”
As she moved to her desk, the cityscape behind her seemed to ripple, the sunlight now harsh, like the judgmental gaze of an unyielding deity. “Nightingale, summon Captains Lingaong Xuein and Robert. Prepare the Rapid Response Unit. If Roulecca is involved, this cannot be mishandled.”
Nightingale inclined her head in acknowledgment, but before she could depart, Wen-Li added, her voice softer, as though speaking more to herself, “She moves like a phantom of vengeance, tearing at the fragile threads of order. But even the most tempestuous of spirits can be caged... if we are swift enough.”
Nightingale lingered for a moment, catching the flicker of something deeply personal in her superior’s words. Then, like a shadow melting into darkness, she exited.
Wen-Li returned her gaze to the city, now shrouded in a faint haze. The metropolis seemed to pulsate with anticipation, as if aware that a clash of titanic forces was imminent. It was a game of hide-and-seek no longer; the hunter and the hunted were on the precipice of a reckoning.
The quiet of the SDF hideout was broken by the soft creak of a door opening. Agent-90 stepped into his room, his icy blue eyes scanning the space with the precision of a machine. His presence was an unsettling contradiction—poised and deliberate, yet exuding an almost inhuman detachment. The faint glint of his spectacles caught the dim light as he adjusted them, his face betraying nothing more than its usual mask of stoicism.
What awaited him inside, however, was entirely unexpected.
The room, usually austere and meticulously arranged, had been transformed into a battleground of frivolity. Farhan, Jun, Roy, and Masud were sprawled across the room, shouting over each other as they engaged in a heated match of Battle Beasts Arena on a console connected to the wall monitor. Hecate and Hella, the two teenage Sinners Agent-90 had brought from the SSCBF HQ, sat cross-legged nearby, observing the chaos with a mix of amusement and bemusement.
Agent-90 paused, his piercing gaze sweeping over the scene. A faint twitch of his eyebrow might have betrayed surprise, but his face remained as emotionless as stone.
“Yo! Agent-90!” Jun called out, grinning as he slammed a button on his controller with the enthusiasm of a child. “Didn’t think you’d show up. Come join us. Or are you too cool to game with us mere mortals?”
Agent-90 ignored him entirely, stepping further into the room and closing the door behind him.
“Farhan, stop hogging the power-ups!” Roy barked, leaning so far forward that he was nearly nose-to-screen.
“It’s strategy, mate,” Farhan replied smugly, narrowly dodging an on-screen attack.
Masud sat nearby, arms crossed, glaring at Hecate. The young Sinner was hunched over a handheld console, utterly ignoring his hostile gaze as she deftly manoeuvred through a puzzle game.
“You’re such a know-it-all,” Masud muttered, his tone dripping with irritation.
Without looking up, Hecate quipped, “I can’t help it if I know more than you.”
Jun, who had been listening, seized the opportunity. “Masud, you’re glaring at her like she stole your last brain cell.”
The comment hit like a match to kindling. Masud’s face turned crimson as he whipped around to face Jun. “You want to say that again?”
Jun smirked, leaning back with exaggerated ease. “I said, you’re glaring at her like she stole your last brain cell. Which might explain why you’re so slow on the battlefield.”
Masud lunged, toppling Jun off the couch in a flurry of flailing limbs and half-hearted punches. Farhan, not one to miss a chance to escalate the chaos, leapt into the fray, aiming a playful jab at Masud.
“Can’t let you hog all the fun!” Farhan declared, grinning.
“Oi! Not fair!” Roy yelled, diving into the skirmish with a theatrical battle cry.
What followed was a ridiculous display of chaos: four grown men, all wearing spectacles, tumbling over one another in a tangled heap. Elbows flew, glasses were knocked askew, and unintelligible insults filled the air as they wrestled like schoolboys in a playground brawl.
Hecate and Hella watched the spectacle with unimpressed expressions.
“They’re like toddlers with glasses,” Hecate muttered, deftly completing another level on her console without glancing up.
Hella snorted. “Toddlers are quieter.”
Alvi entered the room at that moment, taking in the scene with wide eyes. “What in the world is going on here?”
“Four idiots trying to prove who’s the dumbest,” Hecate said dryly, finally setting her console aside.
“Stop them!” Alvi ordered, stepping forward.
The three women attempted to intervene, but their efforts were met with limited success. Alvi tried pulling Masud away, only to be dragged into the chaos when he stumbled backward. Hella grabbed Roy’s arm, but he shrugged her off in his zeal to tackle Farhan. Hecate, ever the pragmatist, simply stood back, her expression a mixture of amusement and resignation.
Through it all, Agent-90 remained perfectly still, his face impassive. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching the pandemonium unfold as though it were a mildly interesting science experiment.
“Agent-90,” Hella called out, exasperation colouring her voice as she struggled to separate Jun and Masud. “Are you seriously just going to stand there?”
He adjusted his spectacles with a deliberate motion, his voice calm and devoid of emotion. “They appear to be expending unnecessary energy. It will resolve itself.”
The others froze for a moment, stunned by his response, before resuming their antics with renewed vigour.
Eventually, exhaustion claimed its toll, and the skirmish dissolved into breathless laughter and sheepish grins. The room was a mess of dishevelled cushions, bent glasses, and a lingering sense of camaraderie.
“Next time,” Alvi said, glaring at the men as she straightened her jacket, “try not to act like feral children.”
Jun adjusted his glasses, smirking. “No promises.”
Agent-90 turned and exited the room without another word, his figure disappearing into the dim corridor as if he had never been there.
Hecate shook her head, muttering, “Emotionless, as always.”
Hella grinned. “I think he enjoyed it, in his own weird way.”
The group shared a brief chuckle before settling back into their usual dynamic—chaotic, mismatched, and somehow perfectly in sync.
The room had finally settled into an uneasy truce, the chaos ebbing away like the tide after a storm. Pillows lay askew, glasses were hastily realigned on faces, and the air was thick with the lingering hum of laughter and embarrassment. Alvi stood in the centre of the mess, hands on her hips, her expression hovering somewhere between exasperation and amusement.
“Do any of you actually think before starting a brawl?” she asked, her voice sharp but not unkind. “This place isn’t exactly soundproof, you know. If Madam Di-Xian heard this racket, she’d have you all scrubbing the training room floors with a toothbrush.”
Jun, slouched against the armrest of the couch, gave her a lopsided grin. “Oh, come on, Alvi. It wasn’t a brawl. It was... spirited bonding.”
Masud snorted, rubbing his shoulder where Roy had landed an overzealous elbow. “Yeah, ‘bonding.’ Tell that to my bruises.”
“You deserved it,” Roy shot back, adjusting his glasses with a smug expression. “You were glaring at Hecate like she kicked your dog.”
Masud opened his mouth to retort but caught Hecate’s smirk from across the room. She was back to her handheld console, her expression as cool and detached as ever. “I didn’t even look at him,” she said without glancing up. “He’s just mad that I exist.”
This earned a chuckle from Hella, who was perched on the edge of the couch, idly twirling a strand of her dark hair. “To be fair, your existence is a little irritating sometimes.”
Hecate rolled her eyes, though the faintest flicker of a grin tugged at the corner of her lips. “Thanks, Hella. Always a pleasure.”
The group fell into a brief silence, and all eyes turned toward the door where Agent-90 had exited just moments before. His absence seemed to leave a void, a stark contrast to the chaos that had just unfolded.
Farhan leaned back, rubbing his chin in mock contemplation. “Do you think he even noticed what was going on? Or was he just staring at us like some kind of lifeless statue?”
Jun grinned. “Oh, he noticed. I swear I saw his eyebrow twitch. That’s like a full emotional breakdown for him.”
“Maybe he’s rethinking why he puts up with any of us,” Alvi muttered, though her tone was more amused than critical.
Masud shook his head, leaning forward with a thoughtful expression. “Nah, he’s probably cataloguing the whole thing in his weird brain library. You know, filing it under ‘Team Morons: Volume 3.’”
Hella, still focused on her console, chimed in without looking up. “If he didn’t leave, I bet he’d have found some way to stop you all without lifting a finger. Like making you all feel so dumb with one sentence that you’d just... give up.”
Jun raised a brow. “And what would that sentence be, oh great and wise Hecate?”
Hella paused, her lips twitching into a sly smirk. She looked up briefly, mimicking Agent-90’s cold tone with startling accuracy. “‘Expend your energy on something productive, or continue wasting oxygen. Either choice amuses me equally.’”
The room burst into laughter, even Alvi unable to suppress a chuckle.
As the laughter faded, Roy straightened, his expression turning unusually serious. “You know, we probably should do something to make it up to him. I mean, the guy did walk into his room only to find us turning it into a warzone.”
“Like what?” Masud asked, his scepticism plain. “He’s not exactly the flowers-and-thank-you-note type.”
Jun snapped his fingers. “Food. Everyone loves food. Let’s make him dinner.”
“You mean burn him dinner,” Hecate interjected, arching a brow.
Jun shrugged, undeterred. “I’ll have you know I make a mean grilled cheese. That’s universally appreciated, right?”
Hella laughed, shaking her head. “We’ll leave the cooking to Alvi. She’s the only one who won’t set the kitchen on fire.”
Alvi crossed her arms but smiled despite herself. “Fine. But you’re all helping clean up first. And if anyone starts fighting again, you’ll be eating instant noodles for the next month.”
“Deal,” Farhan said with a grin, already gathering cushions from the floor.
“Hold on a second” says Jun “today we will head to go out for dinner”
“So who gonna pay?” ask Roy
“You, me and we boys” reply Jun
“What about them?” ask Farhan pointing at the girls
“They will join too but not pay for the fee” reply Jun
“You, bastard that’s insane” says Masud as he, Roy and Farhan kicking him as Jun kneedown for cover
“I thought that Madam Di-Xian’s agents are deadly but reality is different” reply Hella as she sees the chaos
Unbeknownst to the group, Agent-90 stood in the adjacent hallway, his back resting against the wall. His sharp ears had picked up every word, though his expression remained as impassive as ever.
Folding his arms, he stared into the distance, his mind dissecting the scene with the cold efficiency of a machine. Their antics, their bickering, their laughter—it was all unnecessary noise. And yet, somewhere in the depths of his mind, a faint flicker of something stirred. Amusement? No, he dismissed the thought immediately.
Still, as he turned and walked away, there was the faintest glimmer of light behind his icy blue eyes. Perhaps chaos had its uses after all.
The sterile lighting of the SSCBF prison corridor cast long, foreboding shadows along the steel walls. The air was thick with an oppressive silence, broken only by the occasional murmur of the guards or the faint clinking of chains. The facility housed the most vicious outlaws and Sinners—those whose very existence defied the natural order.
Wen-Li’s boots echoed sharply against the cold floor as she strode purposefully through the dimly lit passageway. Her expression was unreadable, her sharp eyes scanning each cell with an unwavering gaze.
Finally, she came to a stop before a reinforced cell shrouded in darkness. Her presence alone seemed to draw the attention of its occupant. A faint shift of movement came from within.
“Ninety-Nine,” Wen-Li said firmly, her voice cutting through the oppressive stillness. “This is Chief Wen-Li.”
For a moment, there was no response, only the faint sound of measured breathing. Then, the figure stirred, stepping into the dim light filtering into the cell.
A woman with stark white hair and alabaster skin emerged, her glowing cyan eyes locking onto Wen-Li. She was a figure of unnatural elegance and menace, wearing a sleek, militaristic jumpsuit in shades of black and deep crimson. Reinforced plates adorned her shoulders and legs, while faintly pulsing blue veins traced patterns across her suit, mirroring the energy coursing through her altered body. Over the jumpsuit, she wore a high-collared, asymmetrical coat that fluttered with her movements, casting shadows that seemed almost alive.
Her short, asymmetrical silver hair framed sharp, angular features, giving her a haunting beauty. A barcode tattoo ran along the side of her neck—a stark, inescapable reminder of her experimental origins. Her hands, clad in fingerless gloves, flexed subtly, as if testing unseen restraints, and a utility belt at her waist bristled with tools whose purposes were likely as dangerous as they were mysterious.
When she turned fully, the monstrous protrusions on her back—fleshy, grotesque extensions resembling skeletal wings—came into view. A faint hum of energy seemed to emanate from her, sending a chill down Wen-Li’s spine.
“I’ve heard of you,” Wen-Li began, her voice measured. “Ninety-Nine. Experimentation. Modification. A failed attempt to harness the monstrous. They say you were their greatest achievement… and their greatest mistake.”
Ninety-Nine stepped closer to the reinforced barrier, her glowing eyes narrowing slightly as she studied Wen-Li. “Failed? No, Chief,” she said softly, her voice smooth yet laced with menace. “They succeeded… more than they ever intended.”
Wen-Li held her gaze, her expression unyielding. “Then you know why I’m here.”
Ninety-Nine’s lips curved into a faint, humourless smile. “To ask about your pet project… Agent-90.”
The mention of him sent a flicker of tension across Wen-Li’s features, though she quickly masked it. “You know who he is.”
“I know what he is,” Ninety-Nine corrected. “The psychological experiment—the mind shattered and pieced together into something... inhuman.” She tilted her head slightly, her cyan eyes glinting. “We were part of the same programme, after all. They called him their ‘blade,’ finely honed and precise. And me?” She gestured to herself mockingly. “Their ‘beast.’ Unleashed to destroy whatever the blade couldn’t cut.”
Wen-Li crossed her arms, her tone steady but probing. “Then tell me—what connection do you share with him? Did you work together? Fight together?”
Ninety-Nine let out a low, hollow laugh, the sound echoing faintly in the cell. “Connection? Chief, we were experiments, not comrades. They pitted us against one another, over and over, until we both broke… and became what they wanted us to be.” She stepped closer, her monstrous wings shifting slightly, casting twisted shadows on the walls. “You want answers about Agent-90? Ask yourself—what did they make him for?”
Wen-Li took a step closer to the barrier, her voice dropping. “I need to know who’s behind all of this. The mastermind pulling the strings—the leader of your programme. Who is it?”
Ninety-Nine’s expression darkened, and for a moment, her glowing eyes flickered with something akin to fear. She said nothing.
“Ninety-Nine,” Wen-Li pressed, her tone sharp. “You will answer me.”
The silence stretched, tense and oppressive, before Ninety-Nine finally spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.
“The Lady Sin.”
Wen-Li’s brow furrowed. “Who is Lady Sin?”
Ninety-Nine’s gaze bore into Wen-Li, her expression hardening. “You’ll find out soon enough when you meet her. She’s ruthless… dangerous beyond imagination. The kind of woman who sees lives as pieces on a board—and she’s always ten moves ahead.”
Wen-Li’s voice grew colder, her tone relentless. “You don’t strike me as the loyal type, Ninety-Nine. Why not tell me now? Give me what I need to stop her.”
Ninety-Nine’s humourless smile returned. “Stop her? Chief, you’re playing a game you don’t even understand. You think saving these children will end it? You’ve only scratched the surface.” She leaned closer to the barrier, her cyan eyes glowing brighter. “The Lady Sin isn’t just a person—she’s a force. She’s everything you fear and more. And if you’re smart, Chief… you’ll run.”
Wen-Li’s jaw tightened, but her gaze didn’t waver. “Running isn’t an option. Not for me.”
Ninety-Nine leaned back, folding her arms. “Then you’re braver than most. Or more foolish. Either way, you’ll meet her soon enough. And when you do… I hope you’re ready to face the truth about Agent-90.”
As the words hung in the air, Wen-Li turned sharply, her coat billowing behind her. “We’ll see,” she said quietly, her voice resolute.
As she walked away, Ninety-Nine’s laughter echoed faintly from the cell—a sound filled with equal parts amusement and foreboding.