Perched nonchalantly on the edge of a polished, extravagant desk, I wait in the now-quiet room. This space, a sanctuary for the elite, is nestled in the heart of the organization's headquarters. To gain entry, one must possess the highest level of authorization — a privilege reserved for the chosen few.

An advanced screen rests in my hand, its sleek surface reflecting the unfolding drama in the meeting room. Accusatory tones and palpable tension crackle between the five directors, revealing deep cracks within our system.

"How predictable," I muse, "that power should breed such discord."

Judge's fist connects with the table, his face flushed with aggravation as he demands answers no one seems willing to provide. Witch's venomous voice cuts through the air, advocating for extreme measures—a toxic call for drastic action. Fed up with the endless bickering, Eidolon rises silently and exits. Horizon, once our beacon of optimism, now sits defeated, shoulders slumped under the weight of our failures. And Sage? He remains stubbornly silent, eyes fixed on the table, refusing to engage.

Once again, the weekly meeting concludes in disarray. No consensus reached, critical issues left unresolved. As the room empties, unspoken tension thickens the air — a heavy reminder of their indecision.

I observe intently as the directors file out. One by one, they vanish from view until only my target remains. His movements, measured and deliberate, carry him towards me. The door slides open with a mechanical hiss, admitting Director Sage.

Impressive in stature, he exudes an air of wisdom that belies his youthful appearance. His attire, understated yet impeccable, speaks of refined sophistication. As he strides in, his presence demands attention.

Little does he know, his carefully crafted facade is about to crumble.

"Who are you? What do you think you're doing here?" Sage's voice, a blend of surprise and indignation, betrays his startled state.

"Last night, you fell asleep at precisely 23:05:14. Your heartbeat was 62 bpm, lowest body temperature 36.2 degrees Celsius, and highest 37.1 degrees Celsius. You certainly love tracking your own vitals. Scared to die?" The words roll off my tongue, each number a carefully placed piece.

"How did you—" Confusion contorts his face, alarm growing in his eyes.

"I also happened to notice the broken security system of your home. More specifically, the camera model XS-900 on the front yard malfunctions once every 10 hours 21 minutes for 2 minutes and 13 seconds when nothing is recorded. You should get someone to check it out." My voice carries a hint of mockery, thinly veiled as concern.

He lunges for the emergency button, desperate for backup. His finger meets the switch, but nothing happens. Unresponsive. The door behind him seals shut with a simple click of a button.

"The room has been isolated from the network, Director Sage." I twirl a key idly around my finger, cold amusement lacing my words. "Or would you prefer I address you by your true identity, Mask?"

Silence ensues. His face remains impassive, yet his eyes flicker with recognition — and acceptance. This acquiescence is... unexpected. I had anticipated resistance, perhaps even futile denial. Instead, he seems almost... prepared. A peculiar reaction, likely stemming from an awareness of my capabilities.

I click my tongue disapprovingly. "Did you think your schemes would remain hidden forever? Orchestrating our missions to fail, ensuring none of our agents return?"

Putting the key back into my pocket, I continue, "Allow me to introduce myself properly. Most know me as Violet — an assistant unworthy of a title. But you? You can call me Architect."

At the mention of 'Architect', the infiltrator exhales tiredly and slowly makes his way to the couch, his shoulders slumping as he sits down.

My hand instinctively moves towards the concealed firearm at my sid e —a precaution I'd hoped unnecessary. But observing his defeated posture, I reconsider. There's no need for such drastic measure, not yet. His compliance, while surprising, negates the immediate threat.

"You! Why are you here? How did you know?" Mask's tone shifts, indignation giving way to curiosity. He leans forward, elbows on knees, ready to engage.

I smirk, my voice dripping with condescension. "It's elementary. Every device within this organization is infected with my custom-designed bug. Self-replicating, spreading to any connected network. That device in your pocket, as well as the other 61 burner devices, have been quite... informative."

"If you know all this, why am I still breathing? What do you want from me?"

My response comes slow, deliberate, voice as cold as arctic ice. "Retribution isn't on today's agenda. Not yet. There are secrets beyond any database. Let's start with Kronus. Why him?"

A scoff escapes Mask as he leans back, arms crossed. "Isn't it obvious? He can take down your agents. Enough with the charades, Architect. What's your real angle?"

My eyes narrow, venom seeping into my words. "You're in no position to make demands or assumptions, vermin. Though I'll admit, climbing to directorship without bloodshed — save for Sage — that's impressive."

"Spare me your backhanded compliments," Mask sneers, reaching into his pocket. I tense, but he withdraws only a small candy. Popping it into his mouth, he explains, "Keeps the voice clear. Shapeshifting's hell on the vocal cords." His eyes flick to the sealed door. "What's your game, Architect?"

"Clarify your connection with Kronus," I demand, glancing at the vitals displayed on my wrist screen.

Mask's lips curl into a wry smile. "Would you believe me if I said I want him dead as much as you do?"

To my utter surprise, the biometrics confirm: He's not lying.

"Enlighten me. Why are you, the orchestrator of these murders, suddenly so eager to take down Kronus?"

"Kronus is a blight; his existence brings nothing but suffering," he states, a casual veneer barely masking his familiarity with such pain."He's been in the shadows long enough. You should thank me for dragging him out front and center."

I arch an eyebrow. "And what led you to this grim assessment?"

"Necessity birthed our partnership," Mask admits, his gaze distant. "He found me useful, spared my life. But his true nature..." He trails off, shaking his head. "A sadist, reveling in the torment and demise of those I hold dear."

"Elaborate," I command, genuinely intrigued by his contempt.

"Tsk. You wouldn't be so quick to judge if you'd witnessed what I have. He meticulously ripped open a friend of mine with his shiny surgical knife. Her screams were... excruciating. Yet, he laughed, delighted at the sound, the sight." His expression contorts into a pained grimace, eyes clouded with memory. "He knows exactly where to tear people apart to maximize agony while ensuring they remain conscious as they bleed to death."

"And this companion's name?" I ask, my voice uncharacteristically gentle.

"Inconsequential. It's not like she'll ever return." Mask's reply is curt.

"Why not eliminate Kronus yourself? Your alliance and disguise skills must have presented ample opportunities."

"Why risk my neck?" Disdain drips from every word. "If he dies in your crusade? So be it."

"We are not murderers," I counter, voice tight with controlled anger.

"Oh, please. Spare me the sanctimony. You command a legion of assassins, yet parade as saviors. You've killed so many innocent lives, yet you act all righteous. This is why I loathe Judge the most out of the five." He scoffs, spreading his hands in a mocking gesture of inclusion. "Your agents or Kronus — all the same to me. The fewer of your kind, the better for this world."

I rise, my stance taut with tension. "Your attempt to equate us with Kronus is misguided. Our actions serve a purpose beyond mindless carnage."

"Is that your bedtime story, Architect?" Mask's tone turns mocking. "Is this truly what Seer envisioned?"

He shakes his head slowly, disappointment and respect mingling in his voice. "Now I see what they mean about losing one's sight. It's not the same without Seer by your side, is it, Architect?"

The invocation of Rose's title, spoken with such evident reverence, catches me off guard. An ache intensifies in my chest, his knowledge of her easing my tension slightly. Still, wariness lingers. "Don't you dare speak of her so casually."

Mask grits his teeth, a sharp crack echoing as the candy in his mouth shatters. "Let me tell you a story, oh mighty Architect," he begins, voice raw with emotion. "When I eliminated Sage and took his seat, I uncovered old documents confirming my suspicions. The catastrophe that befell my family? Courtesy of your esteemed organization." His voice rises, accusing. "Do you have any idea how many lives Blaze claimed in a single night? An entire field turned funeral pyre, countless innocents incinerated. Children, Architect. How are you any different?"

"Those people were plotting a coup," I respond, voice steady and measured. "Without Blaze's intervention, the entire nation would have plunged into civil war of unimaginable magnitude. You simply lack the necessary foresight."

"And pray tell, what granted your organization the right to intervene?" His voice rises with each accusation, challenging me with every word. "These people sought autonomy, not your 'salvation'. Their only sin was desiring a fate of their own choosing."

I counter swiftly, "They were blind to the ramifications of their actions. Someone needed to protect them from themselves. Preventive measures were the only course."

"No," Mask's voice cracks, his pain palpable. "They just wanted to live on their own terms, make their own decisions. You stole that from them. 4,347 perished that night. I alone survived."

Maintaining clinical detachment, I respond, "Those 4,347 willingly accepted the risks of their revolutionary movement. They pursued an idealistic, improbable objective. Negotiations were attempted, albeit futilely. Blaze's actions, while regrettable, were necessary. I'm sorry for your loss, but the implication that these operations were conducted without due diligence is unfounded."

Mask's hands clench into fists. "I don't need your condolences, neither do my dead. We wanted a chance to win. We had hope. You... you snatched it away from us."

I tread the room, arms crossed. "We did not snatch hope, we preserved it. In the absence of this organization, chaos is bound to ensue."

Pausing, I lock eyes with Mask. "Consider Operation Orchid Scythe," I continue, my voice low but intense. "An entire database: undone, years of scientific research: lost. But in doing so, we prevented a cyberattack that would have crippled national infrastructure. Lives were saved, though history will never know it."

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I take a step closer. "Then there's Winter Night. We dismantled an entire country's communication network, leaving millions without contact for almost a week. A drastic measure, yes, but it thwarted a coordinated terrorist attack that would have claimed hundreds of thousands of lives."

My tone softens slightly, but remains firm. "Most of our missions end with zero casualties. But there are outliers, like your community, where an iron fist becomes necessary to prevent greater future suffering."

"You're no god," Mask scoffs, his skepticism palpable. "Even the most meticulous operation can yield unintended consequences. Operation Deep Sea. Need I remind you?" His critique cuts sharp, a clear rejection of my justifications.

I pause, Mask's accusatory tone seizing me like a vise. The memory of that ill-fated mission — the lives lost, the consequences that rippled outward — remains an indelible stain on our record.

With a curt wave of my hand, I dismiss his concern. "One mistake does not negate ten successes. The losses were compensated and remedied to the best of our abilities."

"Are you even hearing yourself? Some things in life are irreplaceable and you know it. Without her, you've changed." His words cut deep, a bitter condemnation of my chosen path.

"And this is without addressing your filthy 'bug'. What kind of savior resorts to such violation? You make MAZE look virtuous with your despicable, underhanded tactics." His disgust is palpable, challenging me to confront the moral cost of my actions.

"Spare me the sanctimony, imposter," I demand, my voice low and measured. "Your actions threatened the legacy Seer and I built together. The implementation of surveillance was not a choice, but an imperative necessity. It is a small price to pay."

As the words leave my mouth, I feel a familiar ache in my chest. Mask's earlier mention of Seer is still echoing in my mind. I turn away, my gaze falling on the sleek surfaces of the room, so different from the warm, cluttered lab where Seer and I once worked side by side.

My fingers brush against the edge of my sleeve, where I know a small, faded photograph is hidden. A habit I've never managed to break. I take a deep breath, steadying myself.

I despise to admit it, but maybe he's right. Without her, I am not the same. The Violet she knew, the one who dreamed of a better world with unbridled optimism, seems like a stranger now. I've become harder, colder, more willing to cross lines she might have balked at. But what choice did I have?

Every decision, every compromise, every dark deed — I've justified them all in the name of our shared vision. But would she recognize that vision now? Would she recognize me?

Yet, I can't afford to second-guess myself. Not now, not ever. I have to believe that she would understand, that she would see the necessity in my actions. Because if she wouldn't... if she wouldn't... No. I can't entertain that thought.

When I speak again, my voice has softened. "Seer and I crafted this system to prevent the catastrophe that once ravaged her homeland." I pause, a fleeting memory of happier times — her radiant smile illuminating the lab — dancing across my mind's eye.

The weight of the present fades as I allow myself to be pulled into the past, to a moment that defined our path...

.

.

.

"Should we name our organization 'Angel'?" Rose suggested, her voice brimming with optimism, her eyes sparkling with a childlike wonder that never failed to take my breath away.

I couldn't help but laugh, the sound echoing through the lab, a moment of levity amidst the gravity of our work. "No way. That sounds so cheesy," I teased, my grin wide and unguarded. It was a rare moment of lightness, one I cherished even then.

She pouted, her lower lip jutting out in an exaggerated display of disappointment. "Hey, you're the Architect. So, architect me something!" Her challenge was playful, but beneath the surface, I could sense the genuine desire for my input, for my approval. It was moments like these that reminded me of the depth of our partnership, how seamlessly we balanced each other.

I hesitated, my mind racing through a myriad of possibilities, each more grandiose than the last. But nothing seemed to fit, nothing captured the essence of what we were trying to build. "I don't know," I admitted, my brow furrowed in thought. "What's with the name 'Angel' anyway?"

Her expression shifted, a cloud passing over the sun. She paused, her gaze growing distant, as if she were looking into a past long forgotten. Slowly, she set down the tool she had been holding, her hands coming to rest on the workbench before her. When she spoke, her voice was soft, tinged with a melancholy that I had never heard before.

"When I was young, my family lived in a place of endless conflict. It's a miracle that I managed to scrape by." Her words were packed with unseen grief, each syllable a struggle against the beast of emotion that should have remained dormant. "What we lacked in material, we made up in stories. Every day, I gazed upon the sky, wishing for an angel to come rescue me. But, there were none. If only..."

She trailed off, and I felt a pang in my chest. It was a rare moment when her eyes stared at the past, not the future. I wanted nothing more than to gather her in my arms, to shield her from the pain that still lingered after all these years.

"So now, the place I once called home is but a wasteland, devoid of any life. I wonder how many Roses are out there begging for the same thing." Her voice was barely above a whisper, a confession meant only for my ears.

I reached out, my hand finding hers, our fingers intertwining in a silent gesture of support. The warmth of her skin against mine grounded me, reminding me of the tangible connection we shared. "And so, this is the name you choose to honor your childhood and the innocence you once had?" I asked, my voice gentle, understanding.

She nodded, a single tear trailing down her cheek. In that moment, I saw her not as the brilliant mind that had captivated me from the start, but as a child, lost and alone, seeking solace in a world that had shown her nothing but cruelty. The depth of her pain, the weight of her past, hit me with full force.

I pulled her close, my arms wrapping around her slender frame, offering what little comfort I could. She clung to me, her face buried in my chest, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. We stayed like that for what felt like an eternity, two souls bound by a shared purpose and a love that transcended words.

I was blessed to have had a 'normal' childhood, so I could never truly understand her misery. But in that moment, I knew with absolute certainty that I would do anything to protect her dream, her vision for a better world, a place where needless suffering would cease to exist.

As she finally drew back, her eyes — though rimmed with red — shone clear, a fierce resolve kindling in their depths. "We'll become the angels," she declared, her voice unwavering despite her trembling form. "We'll answer the silent prayers of the hopeless. Like the sun, unasked yet relentless, we'll illuminate the world below."

Her words resonated within me, igniting a fire of determination that I knew would never be extinguished. I nodded, my heart swelling with pride, with love for this incredible woman who had chosen to share her life, her dreams, with me. "Angel it is," I agreed, my voice thick with emotion. "And together, we'll build a world where no child ever has to wish for an angel again."

She smiled then, a smile that lit up the room, that banished the shadows of her past. And in that moment, I knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, no matter what sacrifices we would be called upon to make, we would face them together, united in our purpose, in our love.

It was more than a name, more than an organization. It was a promise — to each other, to the world, and to every child who had ever gazed at the sky, hoping for salvation. We would be that hope, that light in the darkness. Whatever it took, whatever price we had to pay, we would see it through.

.

.

.

The memory fades, the warmth of her smile lingering like a ghost upon my skin. I am back in the present. But I am not alone. Her strength, her conviction, lives on in me.

I am aware that the methods I employ, the decisions I make, are far from the pure ideals we once envisioned. This world is not a fairytale, and I am no longer naive enough to believe that good intentions alone can save it.

"I harbor no illusions about the nature of my actions," I admit, my voice low and measured. "The path I tread is stained with blood and marred by questionable choices. I do not seek your acceptance, nor do I require your permission. I am simply stating a fact: these are the measures I deem necessary."

I take a step closer to Mask, my voice gaining intensity. "This is the legacy we built together, Rose and I. It may not be perfect, it may not be pure, but it's all I have left. Under my watch, Angel is inviolable. I will do whatever it takes to protect it, to honor her memory, and to fulfill the promise we made all those years ago."

As the words escape my lips, Mask looks away. I feel a slight loosening in my chest, muscles relaxing that I hadn't realized were tense. For the first time since our confrontation began, he breaks eye contact, his gaze drifting to the wall.

In the stillness that enfolds the room, the crackling tension begins to dissipate. In its wake, an emerging sense of mutual recognition takes hold. Mask is silent, heavy with contemplation. This confrontation, once fraught with contempt, has unfolded into something far more complex.

The hostility between us softens, making room for a cautious exploration of common ground. In revealing our truths, we've inadvertently illuminated the lines that connect us. This newfound clarity neither erases our history nor absolve our sins, but it sketches the outline of a shared path forward.

Mask looks up, his eyes back to mine. There's a newfound depth to his gaze, a sparkling of something that wasn't there before. Perhaps it's respect, or a grudging acceptance. Whatever it is, it's a start, a fragile foundation for a new understanding.

We stand as products of our pasts, each sculpted by losses and choices. Unbidden, I find myself cataloging our similarities and differences, a habit ingrained too deeply to shake. At this crossroads, two paths stretch before us: retreat into familiar ideologies, or venture into the uncharted territory of mutual understanding.

I suppose it's time for a new path, one that serves both our interests and the greater good. For a fleeting moment, I wonder what Rose would make of this unexpected turn. Would she see it as a step towards the world she envisioned?

"I shall take my leave," I declare, my voice chilled. Rising from my seat, I move to the door.

Mask reaches into his pocket, retrieving another piece of candy. "Just like that? No execution?" He pops the candy into his mouth, disbelief and suspicion evident in his words.

"Don't flatter yourself. Your usefulness outweighs your transgressions. For now."

"What's your endgame, Architect?" Bitterness seeps into his tone as he crunches the candy.

I pause, weighing my next words carefully. "The council teeters on the brink of collapse, thanks to your machinations. A fact you're well aware of. My system is deteriorating; I need a stabilizing force, someone who can navigate the treacherous waters of politics and power."

"Am I to be your proxy, then?" Mask sneers. "I think not."

"I'm not asking for permission." I state coldly. "It would be unwise to underestimate the extent of my reach. And I assure you, I am exercising considerable restraint."

Mask scoffs, a harsh sound that echoes through the room. "Collaborating with murderers doesn't quite align with my principles."

"And yet, you're no stranger to murder yourself. Your hands are far from clean, Mask."

He shrugs. "At least I don't command an army of killers."

"Despite your disdain, our objectives align," I remind him. "Cleanse the council, and that 'army of killers' becomes your asset."

Stepping closer, I lower my voice. "I'm offering you an opportunity, Mask. But it comes with conditions."

"Go on."

"You're under my constant surveillance. Any missteps will not be tolerated," I warn, my words sharp as a blade. "First, you report directly to me. All decisions and actions must have my approval. Second, you will work to reunite the fractured council. And third, you will sever all ties with Kronus. Permanently."

"Fine. I accept your terms. But know this, Architect. I'm not doing this for you."

"I wouldn't expect you to."

And with that, a new alliance is forged, a fragile truce born of necessity and shared goals. It is far from a perfect solution, but it is a beginning.

As I turn to leave, I pause, looking back over my shoulder. "Don't disappoint me, Mask."

But instead of a simple affirmation, he utters words that shatter my world. "A0112.C2104.E0106.D2003.B2013. A sequence she said only you would understand."

The moment those familiar numbers grace my ears, my body goes rigid, breath catching in my throat. A violent tremor runs through me, and for a moment, the room spins. I struggle to maintain my composure, cracks forming like fissures in ice.

Confusion, anger, and desperate longing war within me. My heart pounds erratically, each beat a painful reminder of her absence — and now, her inexplicable presence. Rose came back? And Mask, her messenger?

I inhale deeply, the air shuddering in my lungs as I fight for control. The ground beneath me suddenly feels unstable, and I have to brace myself against the desk to keep from stumbling.

With monumental effort, I steady myself, but my voice betrays me, coming out hoarse and strained. "You will speak of this to no one. The consequences of any indiscretion will be swift and severe. Am I clear?"

I turn to leave, each step a struggle against the urge to collapse. She's back. The thought whispers hope. Yet with it comes a fresh wave of pain, of betrayal. Why Mask? Why not come to me directly? What game is she playing? The questions burn on my tongue, acid-sharp, but I force them back, tasting the bitterness of uncertainty.

No matter how hard I try, one question persists, demanding an answer. I turn back, fixing Mask with a piercing gaze, searching for any hint of deceit. I find none.

"How," I begin, my voice a taut wire of barely restrained emotion, "did you acquire information that eluded me?" It's not the question I want to ask — not really. But it's the only one I can bear to voice right now.

Mask considers his response, the silence stretching between us like an eternity compressed into seconds.

"She contacted me," he finally says, words measured, carefully chosen, yet woefully insufficient.

Before I can voice my dissatisfaction, he continues, "And I signed her contract."

The world tilts on its axis. My knees nearly buckle, forcing me to grip the edge of the desk to remain upright. With my vision growing blurrier, for a moment, I think I might actually faint. I know, beyond a shadow of doubt, that Rose is near. Only she would use such a term, would operate in such a manner.

"That's all I could say according to her... script."