CHAPTER 1.8 MR. STRATEGIST

Monica walked with Mefiel toward the exit of Alexander Voss' apartment, her steps calm and deliberate as they moved through the decaying hallways and down the crumbling stairs. She didn’t seem worried at all about what had just transpired, her composure unnervingly serene.

Mefiel, fluttering in the air beside her, cocked his head curiously. “I know I treated the matter with humor at the time—after all, an angel and your… friend has to find humor in these things—but why did you let yourself get away so easily?”

Monica smirked, pulling a holographic pendrive out of her pocket. The faint glow reflected against her cool, calculating gaze. “That’s why, baby.” She winked playfully. “When you spend enough time with men, you learn how to twist them around your little finger. A couple of fucks, some sweet nothings, and poof—what you want is yours.” Her grin sharpened, voice lowering to a sly whisper. “But let’s get out of here before Mr. Vossy notices how much smarter I really am, hehehe.”

Mefiel narrowed his eyes skeptically but nodded, following her down the steps. The stairs, chipped and crumbling, seemed to groan under every step. Mefiel took note of their terrible condition and sighed. Of course Alexander Voss would leave this place to rot—makes it look like the perfect hideout. He glanced at Monica, her calm demeanor unshaken by the ominous setting. A thought crept into his mind: She and Voss really aren’t so different after all.

The Horses Of Trade

Suddenly, a figure appeared ahead—another police officer.

Monica froze, her reflexes lightning-fast. With a practiced movement, she turned Mefiel into a coin and slipped him into her pocket. Her eyes darted toward the officer’s badge: Ramirez. He walked up the stairs casually, as if oblivious to the tension in the air. Monica exhaled, about to step past him when—

“Freeze!”

Before she could react, another officer—Juarez—came from behind, grabbing her arm. Monica twisted instinctively, her hand inching toward the activation button of her suit, her face a mask of frustration. “Let go of me, you bastards!” she growled, though her movements remained precise and calculated. Think, Monica, think.

Before she could activate her suit, an energy blast struck her squarely in the back.

Monica’s world went black.

The Cell of The Predecessors

When she woke, Monica found herself in a strange energy cell. Her armor was gone, replaced with a sterile prisoner’s suit that made her feel uncomfortably exposed. Worse still, Mefiel—the coin—was nowhere to be found. Panic flickered in her chest for the first time. The coin… my coin… She swallowed hard, forcing herself to breathe. “Don’t lose it, Monica. Stay calm,” she whispered to herself, but her hand instinctively clutched at the empty spot in her pocket.

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Lifting her gaze, she spotted a familiar figure in the cell across from hers—Alexander Voss. He was seated on the floor, smiling. Not just any smile—that smile, calm and knowing, as though none of this fazed him.

“What the hell is going on?” Monica muttered under her breath, her eyes scanning her surroundings. The cell’s ceiling was lined with strange devices, their mechanical hum filling the silence. Before Monica could process it, the devices powered on.

A wave of unbearable energy coursed through her body. Monica gasped, her knees buckling as an unnatural sensation gripped her—her skin wrinkling, her bones aching, as if she were aging decades within seconds. She managed a glance toward Voss, who sat there—unbothered, untouched. His smile lingered, mocking her suffering.

And then, mercifully, the darkness took her again.

The Brillaintmind Of Red:

When Monica’s eyes fluttered open, the first thing she noticed was red. The room around her radiated a deep, suffocating red glow, offset by black shadows. She was no longer in the cell—now seated in a luxurious office. Her prisoner’s suit was gone, replaced by a crisp secretary outfit that felt foreign against her skin. Every nerve screamed at her to stay calm, but her hand instinctively went to her pocket.

The pendrive. Still there. She exhaled shakily. But the coin… Mefiel… still gone. Panic stirred again, but she fought to suppress it, her fingers clenching the pendrive as if it were her only lifeline. I need to find him.

A voice broke the silence. “Those are your next jobs.”

Monica’s heart skipped a beat. She looked to her right, her left, even up at the ceiling, but found no one. Her hands trembled as she finally looked straight ahead—only to see nothing. For minutes, the silence dragged on. And then, a figure appeared—a shadow coalescing into a man watching her intently.

Monica stumbled back, her voice breaking. “Who… who are you?”

The figure smiled faintly, his presence more unsettling than comforting. “I know you have many questions, Monica. But let’s start with the first one. Who am I? You can call me Mr. Red… the original Alexander Voss.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “Original? What the hell does that mean?”

“It means,” Mr. Red continued, “the Alexander Voss you met in the apartment was one of hundreds of artificial bodies I have at my disposal.”

Monica’s brow furrowed. “So… that Voss wasn’t even real? Why send a fake body there in the first place?”

“Because of the show, my dear. You saw the two cops, didn’t you?” Mr. Red’s voice dripped with amusement.

“Ramirez and Juarez?” Monica’s voice was cautious.

“Exactly.” Mr. Red chuckled darkly. “They and I have a deal. I send an artificial body to a random location, they arrest it, bask in the fame, and then pay me handsomely for my trouble. Corruption of the highest order. Hahahaha!”

Monica’s mind raced, piecing the puzzle together. “And the missions? What about them?”

Mr. Red leaned forward, his red-tinted figure growing more menacing. “The missions are presented as evidence—proof of Voss’ ‘capture.’ But once the world lowers its guard, you will complete them.”

Monica stiffened, her mind torn. She clutched the pendrive tightly, her thoughts spiraling. They took Mefiel… I’m alone in this. The urge to scream, to resist, boiled inside her. But her face remained calm—outwardly composed. “And if I refuse?”

Mr. Red’s grin sharpened. “Let’s just say… I hope you endure better than your predecessors.”

The words sent a chill down her spine. Monica’s heart pounded as she forced herself to smile, masking her turmoil. “Fine… I’ll do it. But don’t think I’m your puppet.”

Mr. Red chuckled, leaning back into the shadows. “We’ll see.”

Monica stayed frozen, her mind reeling, her grip tightening on the pendrive as if it were her last hope. I’ll play your game… for now. But I’m getting out of this. And I’m getting Mefiel back.