Meanwhile, on the other side of the world, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed down a long, grand corridor. Not quite running, but fast—almost like a rush. The corridor was eerily pristine, stretching endlessly, giving off an otherworldly vibe. The polished floors reflected the faint glow of chandeliers above, and the walls were adorned with tapestries depicting forgotten battles and unknown worlds.

A pair of beautiful legs, toned and swift, darted down the hall. The woman wore shorts and a simple top beneath a half-jacket, her every movement full of energy. Her short, tousled hair bounced as she moved, her eyes gleaming with excitement. She had a tomboyish charm about her, the kind of confidence that drew attention. She reached the end of the corridor and burst through the large doors with a loud thud, the sound like thunder reverberating through the space.

"Scarlet!" she shouted with enthusiasm, storming into the room.

The room was neat, almost unnervingly so. A single bed, made perfectly without a wrinkle, sat against one wall. A simple desk, a lone lamp casting a soft light on an open book. A long mirror stood to one side, and a wardrobe held what few clothes there were. Minimalist, cold, yet organized.

Seated on the chair by the desk was Scarlet, legs crossed, a book in hand. She looked up slowly, her eyes betraying a mixture of surprise and boredom. Her every movement was poised, elegant, and she exuded the grace of someone highborn—a woman of privilege, of power. Her raven hair, neatly tied back, framed her sharp features. She was the picture of control.

The newcomer, a young woman named Jonna Miles, didn't hesitate to rush forward, flinging her arms around Scarlet from behind. "How are you, Scar?" Jonna beamed, her playful tone echoing through the quiet room.

Scarlet, still seated, didn't flinch, though her expression hardened slightly. She stood up, slipping out of Jonna's embrace with a graceful, practiced motion, and bowed formally. "Welcome, Fifth Manager Jonna Miles. How may I assist you?" she said, her tone cold and professional.

Jonna wrinkled her nose in mock annoyance, her tomboyish demeanor unshaken. "Why so formal, Scar? I hate it when you act like this." She leaned lazily against Scarlet's shoulder, her energy bright and carefree.

Scarlet, ever meticulous, brushed off her jacket and straightened her skirt, as if dusting off an invisible speck. Her eyes darkened for a brief second before her tone shifted to something sharper. "Why are you here?" she asked, her voice cold and bossy, like a ruler questioning a servant.

Jonna blinked in surprise, then broke into a mischievous grin. "Ahh, there's my Scarlet," she laughed, leaning back. "I heard you got assigned recently."

Scarlet didn't meet her gaze, instead walking over to her desk and resuming her reading. Her voice was tinged with disdain. "Yes. Assigned to some trash bag," she muttered, her lips curling slightly, as if even thinking about it disgusted her.

Jonna raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Oh? Where is he?" she asked, scanning the room, curious.

"He's already chosen a story and gone with it," Scarlet replied with a smirk, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Jonna's eyes widened, her excitement shifting to surprise. "What?! He picked a story already? But… wasn't he supposed to submit something next month? The first month was just supposed to be practice!" she exclaimed. "Didn't you tell him?"

Scarlet's eyes glinted with malice. "Why would I care?" she said dismissively. "If that piece of trash dies, it's no loss to me. Let him burn for all I care."

Jonna blinked, stunned. "Which story did he choose?" she asked cautiously, sensing that something wasn't right.

Scarlet's smirk grew into a wicked grin. "He chose The Baby."

Jonna froze. Her usually carefree demeanor evaporated as a heavy silence fell between them. Her eyes widened in shock. "The Baby? That unfinished novel? You didn't tell him what kind of story it is, did you?" Her voice wavered. "Scar, you do know that story isn't finished… it has no ending. No one ever chooses it because it's impossible to clear. He'll be stuck there until the rescue team picks him up!"

Scarlet laughed, a cold, mocking sound. "Exactly," she sneered. "And I didn't tell him anything about it. Why would I? Let him suffer. He's just another worthless pebble in my way."

Jonna stood, speechless. "But… that's cruel, even for you."

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Scarlet's eyes darkened. "I don't care if he lives or dies. I want him to feel the agony. How dare he be assigned to me of all people? He'll soon realize how futile his life is. I didn't even bother teaching him how to properly use his time stop. Let him rot in that unfinished nightmare." Her lips curled into a vicious grin.

Jonna exhaled slowly, shaking her head in disbelief. "You're ruthless, Scar. But… what if he does clear it? He'll be the first to do so. What then?"

Scarlet scoffed, rolling her eyes. "As if. He's a weak, clueless fool. He'll break long before that ever happens. I'm just enjoying the thought of him suffering—struggling with every moment, knowing he's trapped." She smiled darkly, her words venomous.

Jonna leaned back, crossing her arms. "Well… it's his bad luck, I guess."

The two women laughed, chatting casually, oblivious to the cruelty they had set in motion.

Meanwhile, far above in the sky, a lone figure sat at a small table, sipping tea. The man stirred sugar into his cup and glanced at a newspaper in his hand, the headlines blurring in the breeze. He looked out over the horizon with a calm, knowing smile.

"Turbulent times lie ahead," he muttered quietly to himself, taking a long sip of tea, his eyes twinkling with something that could only be described as… amusement.

Just as the knife was about to press against Rade's neck, a piercing sound shattered the silence—a glass hitting the ground, rolling as the two identical white flowers tumbled out. The sharp clink of the glass cut through the quiet like a lifeline. Rade's eyes flicked up, and for a moment, his hand froze. His grip on the knife slackened, his movements halted by the strange noise.

The flowers—white, fragile, delicate—rolled towards him, mirroring the one he had placed in his sister's hands. His breath caught, and his body went numb. The knife slipped from his hand, falling to the floor with a dull clatter.

Tears began to pour from his eyes as he collapsed to the ground, his body shaking with uncontrollable sobs. He clutched the flowers in his small, bloodstained hands, curling into himself, crying until his voice became hoarse. The MC, watching from the shadows, exhaled in deep relief. His heart had been pounding in his chest, sure that he had just failed. But somehow, in this world, a miracle had happened.

How did the glass fall? The thought nagged at him for a brief moment, but he brushed it aside. He didn't care. Rade was alive. Maybe his luck had finally kicked in.

Days passed. The MC continued to follow Rade, floating above, observing him as the boy moved through the world of despair. Ten days had slipped by since the incident, and the MC had spent every moment processing everything he'd learned about this broken world. The full moon came every three days, and each time, there was a noticeable change in Rade's behavior. His senses heightened, his movements sharp, but underneath that power was a boy spiraling deeper into his grief and anger.

Every morning, without fail, Rade wandered the town's alleyways, searching for any sign, any clue, that might lead him to the people who had destroyed his life. He was convinced that The Baby, the organization that had tortured and killed his sister, was behind everything. And he wouldn't stop until he had his vengeance.

The MC, though, found himself lost. He had no idea how to complete this story. The weight of his mission was pressing down on him as each day slipped by. He knew he was running out of time. And in the midst of all this, he couldn't stop himself from visiting the brothels to escape reality for a brief moment, watching the depravity unfold before him, feeling disgusted with himself afterward but not knowing what else to do.

Then, one day, high noon, something changed.

The MC was floating on the roof of the broken house, deep in thought, when a noise below caught his attention. Two men had arrived, their steps heavy and deliberate. He floated down to observe more closely, feeling an unfamiliar tension creeping up his spine. Rade was hiding under the table in the kitchen, his small body trembling, but his eyes sharp with fear and anger.

The two men looked dangerous—both with the same tattoo on their backs, a half-cross. It caught the MC's attention. The men stood near the doorway, talking in low voices, but the sound carried.

"Yeah, that bitch died before we were done with her," one of them grunted. "I heard she had a little brother, though. Maybe we can snatch him up. The boss might be pleased."

Rade's eyes widened in realization. These were the men responsible. These were the ones who had tortured and killed his sister. His breath hitched, and tears welled up in his eyes again—tears of rage, not sorrow. He reached for the knife he had stashed under the table, his hands shaking as he wrapped his fingers around the handle.

The MC, watching from above, felt panic bubble up inside him. Don't do it, kid. Don't be stupid. You can't win this fight. Don't— But no one could hear him. No one ever could.

With a scream of fury, Rade charged at the men, the knife held tightly in his small hands. He slashed wildly, managing to cut one of them across the hand. "Ouch, this little piece of shit!" the man yelled, clutching his bleeding hand.

The men turned on Rade, surrounding him, amused at the sight of the furious boy. "So, you're that bitch's brother, huh? Capture him. The boss will be thrilled."

Rade's eyes were red with rage, his body trembling as he pointed the knife at them. "You did this to my sister," he hissed, his voice shaking with fury.

The men chuckled darkly, one of them stepping closer. "Let me tell you something, kid," he sneered. "Your sister… tasted amazing. Soft, tender. We had a lot of fun with her. One by one, until she couldn't scream anymore." He licked his lips with a sick grin, his words dripping with sadistic pleasure. "I was gonna go for one more round, but… well, she didn't make it. What a waste."

Rade's whole body shook with rage. His grip on the knife tightened, but his hands were trembling. The MC's nerves were on fire, every fiber of his being screaming to help, to stop this nightmare from unfolding any further. But time was running out. He had to act.

Plot Armor Genius activated.

The MC snapped into action, stopping time just as the men began to move toward the boy. His eyes darted around the room, frantically searching for something—anything—that could help.

There it was. The broken glass from the night Rade almost took his own life. It was still scattered on the floor, untouched. The MC grabbed the shards and carefully placed them between the men's feet, setting the stage. He hovered the knife just a little higher, aiming it at the right spot.

This has to work.

He resumed time, holding his breath.

The men rushed toward Rade, but their feet caught on the glass, slipping. One of them stumbled, falling straight into the pointed knife. The blade slashed across his throat, blood spraying from the wound as he clutched his neck in shock. "W-Where did this glass come from?" he gasped, his voice garbled as blood poured from his mouth. He collapsed, gurgling, and died within minutes.

The second man, enraged, lunged at Rade. "You little bastard, I'll kill you!" he roared. Rade's hand shot up, driving the knife into the man's eye. The man screamed in agony, clutching at his bloody eye socket, his rage turning into a feral howl.

The MC was about to stop time again when a red warning window flashed in front of him.

Warning: The story's main turning point cannot be altered. You cannot interfere.

Panic surged through him. He couldn't stop time. He couldn't protect the boy. What am I supposed to do?!

The second man, blind with rage and pain, charged at Rade, knife in hand. The boy stumbled, tripping over the body of the first man, falling to the ground. The man slammed the hilt of the knife into Rade's back, knocking him unconscious.

The MC's heart sank as he watched, helpless, his body trembling with fear and anger.