Chapter 1 | The Sinful Savior

1

2024—

Los Angeles, California, USA, Earth—

A hulf-drunken man exited the bar from the back door. His walks stumble and his eyes droopy.

He bumped his head on a light pole in the dimly lit alley. A feeling of vomit nearly reaching his chest.

“Aarghhh!!” The man groaned to hold the rising feeling of vomit. “Shrimp and tequila ain’t the way! Fuck me…”

He nearly lost his footing again before he heard the sound of someone whistling at him.

He turned his head to the direction of the sound…

…there was a girl.

Not much older than his own daughter. She appeared to be around late teens or early twenties.

She wore a black hoodie. A band merch of the death metal band Cannibal Corpse.

On the front side was their third studio album—Tomb of the Mutilated. Such a vile and visceral image printed on the front for anyone to see.

The way she made up her face made him believe that she is this goth.

Pale finish, eyeliner and the amount of piercings on her ears—her Chucks being the only contrasting feature as most goths would wear boots or a Vans.

The weirdest part of her fashion were the red ice box and what appears to be a sword sheath slung around her shoulder. She doesn’t look like she sold ice cream or yogurts nor does she look like a sales rep.

…She walked closer to him with eerily quiet footsteps.

“Hey… I’m” A smile tugged from the corner of her lips. “...Wanna have some fun?”

“...Eh?” The drunken man looked at her in confusion. “What the…” he stumbled back, “...What are you… talki… talking about?”

“Come on. Don’t play dumb with me.”

She began to lift her hoodie with her left hand and lowered her skirt slightly with her right. Showing bits of her underwear and bra.

“Come… Give me company,” She said with a soliciting tone, winking at him.

The man gasped for a moment before he shook his head. Clearing his thoughts of dirty mind.

He rubbed the back of his neck. His face plastered with worry.

“Sorry, kid,” He said softly. “I don’t roll with underaged girls. I mean—you’re practically not much younger than my own baby girl. Imma have to pass—”

Rather than backing down discouraged, the girl seemingly flashed a wicked smile in return.

“It matters not, old man…”

She pulled a Japanese-style single edged shortsword of menacing sharpness.

“My mom and dad always said, ‘If you want shit done, you gotta do it on your own’.” She flashed another smile.

The man gasped in horror. Was he about to get killed? He dragged himself back frantically.

The girl paced towards him while letting out a mad cackle.

“I want to play a game or however John Kramer said it…”

The half drunken man shrieked. His legs moved as fast as they could but the alcohol inside his blood made him stumble again and tripped on an uneven chip on the alley street.

The girl got down and swept him with her leg. He fell forward and butt his face against the ground. His face slightly dipped into the puddle of rainwater.

She twirled the wakizashi then kicked him in the face. He rolled to the side. Pain shooting everywhere on his face as he lay flat on his back.

His eyes shooting towards the sky. Groaning and mumbling incoherently.

The girl held the sword behind her back, wielding it with her right hand. The spine of the blade pressed against her skin.

Its metal was cold and smooth. Like when a sanitizer made contact with a skin.

With a quick downward motion to the left, the razor sharp front end of the blade slashed through his throat.

He gurgled and bleeding uncontrollably. Both of his hands touched his neck, trying hard to press the wound to stop the bleeding.

After a minute of useless struggle the man stopped moving altogether. His body motionless like a statue as he let out his last breath.

The girl quickly gets to “work.”

From inside the fold of her hoodie she pulled a rolled up cloth. Inside it were her tools. Everything she needed was placed inside, ready for use at a moment's notice.

Surgical scalpels of all sizes. All neatly arranged according to their number.

A chisel for bones, also known as osteotomes.

A rib shears and a general use scissor.

And the almighty tool of multiple purposes—the wire saw.

She begins by cutting through his clothes with the scissor. As his abdomen was completely exposed she began to pick the #10 blade.

Lining her dominant hand perfectly on the top of his sternum, she pushed the blade into him, slowly dragging the knife downward.

After the vertical cut was made, she proceeded to make a horizontal incision.

She lined her hand on his left collarbone and dragged the scalpel to the right.

Once she finished the two incisions, she pinched the skin on the edge of the vertical incision and pulled each to the side.

Pulling the skin and fat with her left hand, her right moved the scalpel. The cut begins to widen slowly, cut by cut.

Finally she went through his muscles and tissues, slowly pulling the intestine out. Carefully she severed both of his kidneys ureters then picked the two up and into a plastic bag she filled with ice cubes.

She sighed and wiped her sweat off her forehead.

“...Now THIS is where the hard part begins.”

She took the rib shears and proceeded to cut through all of the bones making his ribcage. The cracking sound they make still hasn’t felt familiar to her even after dozens of times doing it.

Minutes later she finally reached his heart. The most intricate and complex organ in the human body to harvest.

Severing the blood vessels required extremely stable hands. One wrong cut and the entire heart will turn useless.

She sweated through the whole time consuming and mentally taxing process.

But her patience and care paid off. The heart is now finally severed from his body without any damage.

She placed the harvested heart into the red ice box, cooling it in temperature transplant organs meant to be stored.

She took off her gloves and tossed them into a nearby garbage bin.

…Her “work” is now done.

*

She headed straight to her contractor’s base. A storage unit a few blocks away from the alley she harvested the man.

The alley around the unit was dark with zero lamps illuminating it.

Cold breeze of the night blew at her but she was used to the cold night air.

She banged her hand against the rolling door of the unit and whistled. Due to the dangerous work she had, her contractor had to enforce different knocks as signals.

One for a stalker following her.

Two for the police stake out.

Three to ask his men to go full guns blazing to protect her.

Four followed by a whistling of September by Earth Wind and Fire to safely open the door.

The rolling door lifted up and there stood a tall man with a shotgun in his hands.

He peek his head out and look around the alleyway before asking her.

“Password?”

The girl snickered and raised her middle finger at him.

“Go fuck yourself, Hector…”

“What took you so long? The boss is waiting for you.”

“You are very welcome to try harvesting them organs next time, asswipe. Now move.”

He nodded and shook his head, groaning, “Puta madre.”

She continued to follow him inside. “Pendejo,” She whispered to herself in annoyance.

She entered the unit and pulled the rolling door down, closing it. The door automatically locked from the inside.

The interior was barely habitable. Only items or appliances that serve their organ trafficking work are allowed inside.

Inside were multiple professional, restaurant grade coolers, an array of tools for cutting and dismembering hanging on the walls with a magnet, and a map of the city.

Though in the middle sat a cheap PVC desk and two plastic stools.

Nine coolers on each side of the walls, stacked in 3x3 arrangement.

Her contractor, a cruel yet fair man formerly of a mafia family, Bradley, sat behind the cheap PVC desk.

His eyes fixed to Krista the moment she entered the unit.

He gestured at one of the plastic stools. “Krista, sit. Hector, get the ice box and put her merchandise in a cooler.”

Hector nodded and took the red ice box from her hands.

Krista pulled the stool back and sat down, leaning back slightly.

Bradley placed an envelope filled with money and slid it forward to Krista.

“Here,” Bradley said, crossing his fingers, “Your payment as agreed. 20 grand cash, 380 grand wired to your second account, and 52 Benjamins to your Chase main account.”

Krista took the envelope and peered into the inside, shaking it slightly to see the money jiggling.

She nodded and put the envelope into her hoodie front pocket and took her phone out. The sound of her game screen loading blurted out.

Bradley eyed her through his crossed palms on his desk.

“Kris, I gotta ask. Why’re you splitting your stacks into three different pools? What’s a college girl like you doing with that kind of money?”

Krista turned to him and flashed her usual grin, shrugging nonchalantly.

Hector too called out for her.

“Yeah—You are by far the most insane 20-year old I have ever known,” He nodded. “Aren't you a little too young to be in the organ trafficking business? I mean most kids your age don’t even have the balls to cut a fish open during cookouts—And you’re out here killing motherfuckers and taking their innards out. Don't you have an assignment to do? Isn’t engineering a hard major to enroll in? Where the hell are your parents anyway?”

Parents. Such foreign word to her.

Her parents weren't even hers to care about.

They were nothing but absentees who actively ignored their children and gambled their savings. Idiots who thought that they could control how fate really works.

Krista wanted nothing to do with them. They meant nothing to her after what they have done to Olivia. They are dead to her—metaphorically and literally. Though as much as she wanted to despise them, she can't seem to be able to.

Her sister's love for them kept telling her that they were loving parents—just misunderstood. But Krista just doesn’t have the guts to tell her that she’s wrong and they aren’t—They will never be.

She hummed and cupped her chin for a moment, figuring a way to explain it to Bradley without telling too much about herself or her own sister.

…Then an idea grazed her head.

She showed her phone to Bradley and Hector. A highly detailed background from a fictional female anime character.

A smiling girl with orange hair and horns smiling wielding a large lance. To her bottomleft were two symbols.

Six stars in italic and three lines diagonally down to the left.

The two looked at the character on her phone. Wondering why Krista showed them that.

“This is Bagpipe,” Krista gestured at the character, “She is a 6-star vanguard operator and arguably one of the best starter units in the whole game—beating even Siege and maybe even Saga.”

The two men glanced at each other confused.

“This game—Arknights—costs real money.” She waved her hand half-unsure. “I mean technically you don’t have to but many of the skins are locked behind paywall so I’d say it is critical for people to spend their hard-earned money if they want their favorite waifus or husbandos to look cool.”

Bradley curled his brows at her statement.

“So you’re telling me—you pay money for in-game cosmetics…” Krista nodded, causing him to sigh in disappointment. “Your generation worries me, Kris. The things you do to escape reality…”

Krista chuckled but secretly laughing madly that they decided to probe no further than her game addiction answer.

“I appreciate your concern, Danny DeVito, but it’s none of your concern.” She paused for a bit before continuing, “Brad—about the thing I asked you about—”

“I already asked around. Old guys of mine have been doing their diggings. The stuff you're asking about is not out yet—It’s not even out from its prototype stage.”

Krista noticeably snickered again. “How long?”

“I talked with an old pal of mine—Gremlin—he said that he knows a guy who knows a guy who knows another guy who can get a prototype design of the thing.”

“How much?”

“His guy asked for 15 mils. But if you want the company's newer rendition, he wants 25 mils of clean dough. I know his insider—He’s clean. I can vouch for him. But with quality comes cost.”

“That expensive, huh…”

“Listen, Kris…” Bradley turned towards Krista, his eyes curious and confused. “What are you doing with this… inter something something—”

“Inter spinal nerve extension cybernetic replacement implant.”

“Yeah that's the one… What exactly do you want with it? Be honest with me. You've been working for me since you're 15. I deserve at least a portion of your life story.”

“They're none of your concern, B. We agreed to keep things on a need to know basis, ain't we? I'd like to keep it that way.”

She stood up and put on her earphone, plugging the wire to her phone.

“Now if you excuse me—I have places to be, games to play, and sleep to catch.” She winked. “Ciao!”

2

1099—

Cleonic, Eulacyda, Rivens—

In a kingdom in the world not Earth—Rivens, as it was called—There was an urgent and dire assembly.

Under the capital city of the Kingdom of Eulacyda—Cleonic—Countless priests, priestesses, deacons, and deaconesses gathered inside the large and spacious underground church.

Led by the most important man of the night—The High Priest—They knelt on the floor to focus their faith and powers for the prophesied ritual. They crossed their arms and kept their eyes closed.

Their mind thought of one thing and one thing only.

Their supreme goddess and the central figure of their religion—

…Grantora, the goddess and patron deity.

She who blesses their daily lives.

She who grants their wishes.

She who cures the sick and forgives even the most sinful mortal.

For years they have been waiting for her divine order.

For years they have been waiting for her to choose a champion. One that will release them from the hold of the Demon Lord—The vilest of them all, the most corrupted of a demon can be, the darkest of a being can be—Caligo.

For one day the goddess will take a sacrifice to open a portal—A gateway that will connect their world to others.

That day is today.

The hero of the kingdom, Ava, took a look at the nearly countless number of religious figures in the capital’s underground church.

Unlike her companions who all put their faith to the supreme goddess completely and blindly she was not.

She never took religion seriously.

For her—They are all the same.

For her—Only mortals themselves could truly change their own lives.

But after years of unending war between the living and the dead—Caligo’s army of demons and those not touched by the divine—She began to feel some sort of draw towards the religion.

She has seen countless men and women die from the brutal and endless conflict. Every kingdom in Rivens has tried everything to push the Demon Lord’s conquest back or at least to a halt but no effort seems to even slow them.

Caligo and his army have taken nearly four fifths of all lands in Rivens. And it wouldn’t be long before he reached the northernmost and the last remaining human kingdom that still stands—Eulacyda.

One day he will come right on their doorstep.

One day he will put an end on them all—For them they need something to turn the tide of the conflict—fast, if possible.

For her—They would need something else—Something not a native of these lands. Something so unknown that even the Demon Lord himself would be perplexed to comprehend clearly.

A chosen champion of the goddess.

*

Eobard the High Priest took his cane and tapped the bottom at the floor. His face was desperate yet hopeful at the crowd. He announced in a loud voice for everyone to hear.

“Good night everyone! My fellow Grantorarians… It has been an honor to be here in front of you all in this holy night to finally commence the most sacred ritual the goddess has introduced to our knowledge.”

The crowd scrunched their eyes harder and their palms crossed tighter. Their minds share the same thought—the goddess and no one else.

Each of them began to recite their prayers to the goddess in thoughts and whispers.

Eobard turned his back to face the sacred artifact—The dagger the goddess left behind for them—The Bane of All Evil.

A magnificently made double-edged dagger about thirty five centimeters long and decorated with gold and a blue gemstone unlike anyone had ever seen on each side of its crossguard.

An artifact once used by the goddess herself in times of great peril in the old times. Once—She cuts through the undead army of the previous Demon Lord.

Every demon in the ranks was annihilated with only one swing.

Ever since that time thousands of years ago the dagger has been safeguarded by humans. Now sitting behind a safe and unbreachable vault under Eulacyda’s Royal Castle.

Walls of magic rings, enchantments of all kinds, curses and hexes of all severity, and runes so old that they themselves are lost to time prevent intruders from ever wielding it ever again.

But now is not the time.

The dagger needs to be out and ready to be wielded once more by the goddess. They patiently wait for the goddess to descend from heaven and appear before them.

And it happened…

…She manifested from sparks of lights. Slowly taking shape of the most gorgeous woman the mortals have ever seen in their entire lives.

She turned her body gracefully and left everyone in awe.

Even the most agnostic of them like hero Ava was not immune to her divine figure.

All Ava could do once the goddess took shape was gasp with her jaw dropped completely and her mouth agape.

The goddess Grantora walked towards the dagger.

The dagger gleamed with a golden hue once it sat on her hand. Shining bright like the sun itself. Everyone gathered covered their eyes from the blinding light.

With a dignified and divine tone she spoke.

“It is time…” She handed the dagger to the high priest and he bowed deeply, taking the dagger with his two open palms.

“Bring me the virgin,” She continued, reaching her hand out.

From the crowd out comes a young girl still in her teens. She wore an elaborate white dress and a crown made of dried roots wrapped like a bird nest and a single calendula sitting on the top.

She knelt before the goddess, her eyes nothing but reverence.

Eobard took the dagger and held it in his right hand. He began to say his prayers to the girl. Kneeling with her, he made a poking gesture from the center of her chest to her two shoulders in order and her lips.

“Be not afraid, mortal,” Grantora said, her tone calm and serene. “Do it for your people. Your sacrifice must come from your heart. Open your heart to the blade and you will not suffer.”

She looked up at the goddess.

“My god… What of my soul?” She asked.

“Eternal peace awaits you in my kingdom in heaven,” Grantora assured her. “Your name will be remembered by those of your realm and mine.”

She nodded her head and closed her eyes again.

Afraid but relaxed, she laid herself down on the slab of stone in the middle of the church. Every eyes are now looking at her. She put up a face of serene smile as she willingly drew her last breath.

Eobard raised the dagger above his head.

With a final nod from the girl, he pushed the blade down. The dagger went deep into her chest and stopped her heart from beating. Her blood began to flow down from the slab to the goddess’ feet.

“A blood sacrifice from a willing virgin…” Grantora announced loudly then reached her arms out. “...The key to open the hearts of many.”

Then a portal of blinding light opened before her. It looks like an endless space of white and humming sound.

Eobard bowed to the goddess, inquiring of her choice of champion.

“My god… May I, your simple creation. humbly ask you what kind of mortal will you summon to aid us?”

She pushed her hand into the portal before giving him a graceful and beautiful smile.

“Eobard, my mortal… The new Demon Lord is far more dangerous and more thirsty than everyone preceding him,” She said. “This one—Caligo, the 17th of them—would need a new kind of champion to defeat. Not one of pure bravery and mind full of justice. Not one of divine qualities. But one of pure unpredictability and will to commit even the most vile of acts and a heart already numb to pain and hardship. One with hands wet not from tears but of blood.”

Eobard blinked momentarily in confusion. Surely he wasn’t hearing the goddess correctly.

“Pardon me, my god, for my rude inquiry but I have a feeling that from the way you said it you are going to summon a mortal with qualities a jester and an evil equal to the demons themselves. Surely I am hearing these wrongly—”

“You are not,” Grantora cut him off, “This new Demon Lord is not anything you have ever fought. To battle a never seen before evil, one would need an evil of their own to fight him on equal ground. Fighting fire with fire, as you mortals said it.”

“But my god… Is not the chosen champion supposed to guide us and lend their wisdom that would aid us in battling the demons, not being just as worse as they are?”

“No, my dear mortal,” She shook her head. “I have seen a prophecy of my own. This would be the final conflict between mortals and the demons. There will be no more in the future.”

“My god, what do you speak of?”

“For the first time in my existence I cannot see the prophecy, my child. My next champion would be the key to a new age,” The goddess tapped his shoulder in assurance, “Be not afraid. Everything has a reason. And from this portal I opened, I shall summon an angel who knows no fear. An angel with wings made of the blood she spilled. An angel who cares for her loved ones and an unstoppable annihilator for her enemies. An angel with a mind so analytical, strategic yet cold and logical to the feelings around her. A heart made of love yet dark as the darkest of night itself. A creator and a destroyer in one.”

Ava tilted her head in intrigue. What does the goddess mean by a champion of those qualities—Qualities that befits not of heroes but a pragmatic savior.

What does she mean by wings of blood? Mind so analytical and strategic yet so cold and logical? A loving heart yet dark as the darkest night? A creator yet a destroyer? Is that even possible for one individual to have such duality?

Her explanation worried him in a way that he cannot understand. He was both curious and anxious about her supposed final champion. One champion that would bring about a new age for them and Rivens.

“Now let us begin… I hereby summon thee… ”

3

2024—

Los Angeles—

Krista went straight from her base of operation to her apartment.

A refurbished unit formerly of a storage warehouse in the proximity of the various train tracks near Amtrak's Maintenance Facility on 8th Street.

Four bedrooms and two bathrooms. A fully furnished kitchen. A living room. A laundry room. Two multipurpose closets. A fire escape stair outside the windows. And a plastic tree from three Christmases ago that she hasn't taken out yet.

She entered the apartment. Immediately hearing the sound of TV running from inside Olivia’s room.

Usually Olivia would only turn her TV on after she was done streaming. A good distraction for Olivia whenever Krista needed to be out to work.

The first time they moved into their apartment, Krista bought her a decent computer to play with.

She was bored of playing games.

Eventually, Olivia found her calling in learning how computers and programs actually work.

Studying programming in her own free time, she now has reached a point where she can utilize the power of artificial intelligence to the fullest.

Everything in their apartment can be accessed by Olivia from her own phone. From door lock, to light, to control of electricity, security system, etcetera.

Krista tossed her keys to the small bowl on the counter. Olivia heard Krista had come back and asked from her room.

“Sis?” She called out, “Is that you?”

“Yeah, I’m back,” Krista took off her Chucks and entered the unused bedroom near the door.

She took her rolled up tools cloth and opened the hidden compartment under the floor. Filled with cash and her other tools and supplies of gloves and bleach.

Her spare scalpels, chisels, saws, and shears hung on a line of magnets along the side. On the bottom sat a duffle bag.

Inside were the piles of every twenty thousand dollars she collected in cash from her job, now making the pile at least two million dollars in one hundred dollar bills.

But the contents weren't just her cash. Krista also puts weapons inside in case she needs to make a quick getaway with Olivia.

A TAR-21 assault rifle, an M203 with a pistol grip, two M1911s, several grenades, and spare cell phones.

Around the unused room were metal canisters each containing one gallon of napalm. Near the door was a silicone tube hanging on the wall vertically.

Separated into two airtight chambers by a single rubber plug connected to a rope. Inside the two different chambers were calcium metal and water.

Should the rope be pulled, accidentally or deliberately, the apartment will set ablaze and eliminate any trace of Krista and Olivia's existence.

But they aren't everything Krista put strategically.

In the first year, she secretly installed four explosive charges inside the four foundation pillars of the building, each of them weighing twenty five pounds each and are connected to a specially made detector inside her unused room.

Should the detector reach a certain temperature from the chemical reaction and napalm, it will trigger the explosives.

“Are you okay?” Olivia called out again.

“Y-Yeah! Just, uh, tidying stuff up,” She replied, quickly and silently closing the hidden compartment with the panel before rolling the rug back to cover the lines.

She entered Olivia’s room.

She still laid there on her bed. Still unable to move from her paralysis that completely took out her ability to move anything below her waist ever again.

*

2019—

Orlando, Florida—

The car crash that a few years ago caused a complete spinal cord injury to the only person Krista ever cared about.

The moment she woke up a few years ago, her parents still can’t seem to open their eyes and see the fact that one of their children is paralyzed—They only care about when they are gonna be able to make bets again.

Another day.

Another argument.

Another day wasted trying to wake them up from their idiocy.

Olivia—Once a bright and cheerful girl brought down to a paraplegic at the age of ten.

One day Krista snapped out. She showed paralyzed Olivia a newly released song—The Earnest Game by FantasticYouth. Insisting her to listen to the song with her earphones and fully concentrate on the beats.

Once she exited Olivia's room, she plugged rolled up towels to her door and began her revenge.

She knew that her mom and dad would never care for her nor Olivia. She was perfectly fine with only her—But to also include Olivia was her last straw.

Krista paid one last visit to their kitchen. Her hand reached for two knives—A yanagiba and a cleaver. With her first ever sinister smile born from the billowing rage from her heart’s deepest part, she took their lives.

Their smile was all she could enjoy that day.

The day their uselessness decided their fate was the day Krista forced herself as the sole feeder, keeper, and protector of Olivia. She reveled in their agony.

The yanagiba easily goes through the space between their ribs and into their hearts. Their gurgling sounds felt heavenly to her.

But dead they are not.

…It matters not for her.

Fortunately for her, she had just sharpened them merely hours ago.

Each swing dug deep into them. Bits by bits, their limbs disconnected. Swing after swing, their breaths faded. They stopped breathing altogether once she’s done with their heads.

There was only one logical thing left to do.

She dragged their bodies down to the basement towards his table saw. It took her considerable strength to pick each of them up onto the table.

But when they were on it—Everything felt easy, almost effortless for her.

Cutting them in pieces made it easy for Krista to carry.

Reduced weight, reduced size, easier to dispose of.

Krista dumped their parts into a large plastic bag and stuffed them into their car’s trunk. She wishes not for another reminder of their failure of parents.

All of those finished within three repeats of the song.

Going back up, she cut gas pipes and shoved their phones into the microwave.

Her last stop was Olivia.

She carried her in her arms, keeping her eyes closed with her Hello Kitty eye mask. Olivia does not need to see the aftermath of her doing.

But she knows that Olivia sniffed her, she might smell the blood but maybe she did not.

Once they reached the bus stop next block, their house exploded into a giant ball of flame.

Krista—and to extension, Olivia—never looked back ever since.

…Their old lives are gone.

There’s only a bright future waiting for them. They moved from their house in Florida on the East Coast all the way to California on the West.

But Krista needed money.

She was on the verge of selling herself.

In a twisted sense of hope, she was approached by a man when they were in a diner—Bradley.

He knew what she had done and he knew that it wasn't a freak accident that killed their parents.

He offered her a way out.

He saw a horribly efficient potential within her. To kill someone in cold blood and cut them up—He knew that he had struck a gold mine.

Everything else kind of came along perfectly for them.

Krista took on the mask for Olivia’s sake—

*

Krista brought a tray full to the brim with warm food for Olivia. A bowl of hot cream soup with corn and mushrooms, a loaf of garlic bread with melted mozzarella fresh out of the pan, a jasmine tea and a Jell-O.

Olivia greeted her lovely big sister with a smile.

“Here you go…” Krista slowly put the tray on a raised platform she made on the side of Olivia’s bed specially for her. “I call this… the Sister’s Supreme.”

“Thank you!” Olivia took the tray from her hands and slowly inhaled the incredible smell of her cooking. “You know what else is missing—”

Krista quickly cut Olivia off and giggled. “No you’re not getting Cookies and Cream Ice Cream, especially before bed.”

“Aww,” Olivia put up a fake pouting face. “Drats.”

“Don’t think I don’t know your blood sugar, young missy.” Krista smacked Olivia on her forehead playfully. “We will not be eating trash under this roof.”

“You eat protein bars and kale juice… you are in no position to lecture me about food taste,” Olivia threw her stuffed animal at Krista, giggling along.

Krista turned to the TV—

…Everything Olivia watches these days is getting weirder and weirder.

“What the hell are you watching?” She took the remote and scrolled down through the Netflix recommendations. “Restaurant In Another World… Campfire Cooking In Another World… So I’m A Spider So What—Jesus H Christ—You watch this kind of transported to another world or summoned or reborn crap? You know they’re bad for you, right?”

“They’re not bad, you know,” Olivia defended her shows but slowly agreed with Krista. “Well, at least not all of them.”

“Most of this shit is written by idiots who just wanted to insert their teenage self and imagine themselves as the hero with one dimensional fictional girls riding their dicks.” Krista continued to scroll through the endless anime Netflix recommended. “Jesus didn’t die so you could waste your life watching these crap, Liv. Watch some real shows.”

“Like what? Your iZombie? Your Breaking Bad? Your Dexter—”

“I mean I’m glad that you’re not one of those freaks who watch 1000 episodes of One Piece but come the F on. You’re better than this.”

“What’s the big deal?” Olivia flailed her arms in the air. “What’s not to like about isekai anime? You got magic, you got pretty girls, you got hot guys, you got cozy fantasy world feels.”

Krista rolled her eyes, leaning back against the headboard. “Where do I even begin? The whole genre is just a steaming pile of shitty wish fulfillment. Every protagonist is the same dense, clueless, bumbling idiot who somehow ends up being all-powerful. They get an army of one-dimensional girls who fall head over heels for them… or their dicks, which I don’t care, yet the guy couldn’t flirt his way out of a paper bag.”

Olivia chuckled, nudging Krista with her elbow. “Oh, come on. You’re being way too harsh. Not every isekai is like that.”

Krista raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Alright, let’s break this down. First off, the main characters are always OP to the point of being gods. They get summoned to these worlds to save the day, but instead of fixing anything, they waste time bumbling around, gathering a harem, or debating whether or not it’s morally okay to kill monsters that are actively trying to eat them. Like hell yeah it is, bitch. That’s a 100 feet long fire-breathing dragon. You don’t question moral, you fuck its eyes with your sword. Period.”

Olivia opened her mouth to argue, but Krista cut her off, her voice gaining momentum.

“Second, the girls are just tropes. You’ve got the tsundere who can’t admit her feelings, the kuudere who might as well be mute, the ditzy airhead, and the yandere who’s there to spice things up by making the protagonist’s life hell. They’re not characters—they’re cardboard cutouts with big boobs. And don’t get me started on the supposed hot guys. Half of them are there to act as rivals, and the other half might as well have neon signs over their heads saying, I’ll betray you by episode twelve.”

Krista sat up straighter, her tone shifting to one of mockery. “And the worldbuilding? Oh, sure, it’s cozy and cute, but where’s the danger? If there’s a demon lord threatening the world, why isn’t it a hellscape with rotting forests and rivers of blood? Instead, it’s always rolling green hills, cheerful villages, and everyone baking bread like nothing’s wrong. It’s like The Sims: Fantasy Edition. Why don’t they just sing along to country roooooads… take me hooooome… to the plaaaaace… I beloooooong… West Virginiaaaaa—Like, shit. Fuck outta here.”

Olivia couldn’t stop laughing now, clutching her stomach as she tried to protest. “Okay, fine, but there are good ones out there!”

Krista tilted her head, a sly grin forming on her lips. “You mean Overlord?”

“Yeah!” Olivia perked up. “See? Even you like an isekai!”

Krista smirked, shaking her head. “I like Overlord, but only because it actually knows what it’s doing. The world feels real—dangerous, even—and it doesn’t shy away from showing the consequences of power. But even then, I have exceptions.”

“Like what?” Olivia asked, her curiosity piqued.

Krista crossed her arms, her expression turning serious. “I like Momonga. Not Ainz Ooal Gown. Not Satoru Suzuki. Just Momonga.”

Olivia frowned, confused. “But they’re all the same person.”

“No, they’re not. That’s like saying Christianity and Catholicism are basically the same worship God, don’t do sin type of religion. Technically correct, but not really,” Krista said firmly. “Momonga was the guild leader who cared about his friends. The guy who stayed behind in the game, who valued the legacy of the people who made Nazarick what it was. He’s someone you could root for—someone with real connections to the world. Ainz Ooal Gown, on the other hand? He’s a role that Momonga plays—a mask. And Satoru Suzuki? He’s barely a character anymore. He’s just there for the sake of the plot.”

Olivia blinked, taking in Krista’s passionate rant. “Wow. I didn’t know you thought about this stuff so much.”

Krista shrugged, leaning back again. “I don’t like most of the genre, but I respect the few that try to be more than power fantasies. It’s rare, but it happens.”

Olivia chuckled at Krista's sarcasm. She nudged her arm like she wanted her to stop.

“Surely you have an exception,” Olivia said.

“I like LLENN,” Krista replied out loud.

Olivia perked up to her choice and leaned forward. “The pink chibi with the P90 from SAO?” She asked. “What’s so special about her? I think that she’s mid at best and trash at worst.”

“She’s not overpowered in a way that breaks the game. She never tries to be idealistic, optimistic and is majorly flawed. She has genuine connection to her friend—the lunatic who dual wields grenade launchers—and the freaky, bumbling creep—M.”

“Umm…” Olivia recalled the anime from her memories, “Didn’t she annihilate players left and right during that competition? You sound a bit hypocritical here—”

“No she was not. Her only power is being really fast and really small, enough to turn her hitbox into a flying saucer. She’s also not overpowered in the sense that her aims are horrible and she needs to shoot from close range bearing too close for anyone’s comfort, which is why she uses a submachine gun with a high rate of fire and large magazine capacity. She didn’t need to be accurate, she just had to throw enough shit at the wall and some of them would eventually stick.”

“Alright alright, chill.” Olivia pouted. “Isekai is fun for me. I didn’t need to use my brain too hard to understand the premise and concept.”

“I’m fine with the genre, Liv. Don’t get me wrong. It’s the writing, the horribly predictable characters and the god-awful amount of tropes its shows have. The last good isekai we have that I can make exceptions is Overlord—Everything else is shit. Even then I still have sub-exceptions—I like Momonga, not Ainz, not Satoru—The real Momonga that if I’m being honest should be how the story is played out.”

“Alright. Let me ask you something different then—If you were transported or summoned to another world, what power would you want and why that power specifically?”

“I’m not going to another world, Liv. Who would take care of you?”

“It’s just a hypothetical question. Answer it.”

“Alright fine,” Krista sighed then cupped her chin in thought. After a moment she replied, “Logically, the most broken of any fantasy power—summoning.”

“Summoning?” Olivia repeated. “What’s so good about being able to summon something?”

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

“No, not something—anything,” Krista said, “Imagine being able to get anything you want or need at any given moment. Summoning is simple in its face value but unbelievably broken if you break it down to each of its principles and every possible thing one can summon.”

“I don’t get it…”

“Think of it this way—The power of summoning can negate basically any debuff anyone could ever have, can prevent said debuff before it can occur, outright deny the debuff caster from being able to cast said debuff, feed the hungry, alter entire market and economy, educate the stupid, turn entire tide of a battle with just a snap and a thought and permanently change how a world sees itself.”

Krista took her phone out and flashed it to Olivia.

“This is a cell phone. One of the most basic things anyone on Earth has. It has internet that can connect you to Wikipedia—the biggest archive of human knowledge, play music from a library of near infinite song, provide a fully functional map, help people calculate equations beyond their own brains, take picture or video or sound, communicate with other holder, scribble notes down, detect dangerous electromagnetic waves, light a dark room, and many more… and that’s just a basic modern day cell phone—If I’m including AIs like Gemini, GPT—the people from another world are gonna lose their goddamn minds. If we’re talking about modern Earth’s military might, even the most powerful sage, mage or demon wouldn’t survive through sheer firepower and confusion alone. We homo sapiens evolved from throwing rocks at each other to hurling nuclear missiles traveling at several times the speed of sound across the continent. You’d think a fictional character with a summoning power in a fantasy world wouldn’t be a new deity from the amount of things they could do with even the most basic Earth things?”

“Alright alright! Damn… You’re so passionate.”

“I’m just voicing my thoughts.”

“By the way… What took you so long?” Olivia asked Krista curiously. “You said you'd be back before eleven yet it was one twenty five when you stepped inside.”

Krista shrugged as she pretended nothing happened despite just cutting someone up hours ago.

“I had to take out a rat,” Krista smirked, twitching her eyes, “I hung out with my boss and a dick of a coworker after I was done.”

“Must be hard being in a pest extermination business,” Olivia said. “Sudden call in the night before bed.”

Krista let out a side eyed giggle. If only she was taking out a rat. “It is what it is… It paid our bills, your food, my education.”

“Well that's too bad. I was going to ask you to stick around for my stream. Chat has been curious about you.”

Krista then turned to Olivia's still powered computer. Being unable to move around freely like she used to, Krista gives Olivia her support to start streaming.

Going from three viewers to a hundred to now tens of thousands of subscribers and an official partner, sponsored by various gaming brands from the likes of Asus and Razer alike.

When Krista was out, Olivia would stream for hours after she finished her online private school class.

She wanted her to have the necessary twelve years of education before she fully delved into the entertainment world.

“What do they know about me? What did you say to your chat?” Krista asked.

“Just the basics—You taking care of me, your age, your daily routine, the fact that we're California based—Nothing too personal as you told me.”

“I see… Maybe I'll join your stream when I have some free time.”

“Great! By the way…” Olivia turned her TV, switching from the Netflix UI to news channel, “... Somebody got killed near your office. Look—”

Krista watched the news broadcast. The same man she killed and harvested. The same alleyway she committed her deeds.

She carefully observes Olivia's eyes. There was yet a hint of Olivia knowing her work.

“Good night everyone. Breaking news, a man was just recently murdered not hours ago in Werdin on 5th Street. Police report confirmed that he is now the 76th victim of an unknown and illegal organ harvesting in 2024 alone. Forensics are now trying to uncover how the gruesome act was done. In a surprising turn of events, the FBI is now jumping in on the hunt for these individuals who murdered these people and illegally harvesting their organs.”

Olivia wowed in surprise and Krista silently and nervously glanced at her sister's eyes as she kept watching the news.

“Damn! Even the FBI is involved too!” Olivia tapped Krista's shoulder, gesturing at the TV.

The reporter then turned to an elderly homeless man sitting down on the ground and leaning against the garbage.

“We do have a witness here that partially saw the act… Sir, good night, would you explain to our audience at home what you saw?”

“Yeah yeah. So I was just looking at the dump right and this young girl with an ice box slung around her approaching me. She crazy I can tell you, she give me a hundred dollar and a sandwich but only if I stay out of the alley for an hour. I ain't gon’ lie, I thought that she was a gold digger at first but nigga no gold digger carries around no damn ice box and a sword.”

“Wait wait… a sword?”

“Yeah like them swords from old Japanese cartoons and comics. You know, the curvy swords that samurai used…”

“This girl… What does she look like?”

“She young definitely. Maybe 20 or younger, big titties and black hair.”

“What about her face?”

“I don't know man she wears a face mask like them nurses or doctors. She creepy as hell I know for that fact tho.”

“And how did you found the victim?”

“I was going back here from a liquor store down the block. I saw a nigga on the ground I thought that he just another homeless like me. Wasn't until I'm like four-five feet later that I noticed that he dead. A whole cavity on his chest and blood all over the puddle. It was disgusting I tell you.”

“Is there anything else you noticed about the girl?”

“Hmm… maybe an ID or a tag? It looks like a Uni card.”

“What do you think, UCLA?”

“It does look like a UCLA ID, though. She does look young. I wouldn't be surprised if she was a student.”

“Alright. Thank you very much, sir.”

Krista took the remote and turned the TV off. Her eyes twitch slightly. Olivia turned at her sister while taking a bite of her garlic bread.

“That’s a bit close to your place, isn't it? 5th—Isn’t that like five minutes away from your office in Skid Row? I know that bar too… Damn! You're lucky…”

“Yeah,” Krista rubbed her head, “... I'm very lucky.”

Her phone rang as she finished. It was just the letter B—Bradley. Krista was hesitant whether to pick it up or not.

Olivia looked at her ringing phone and nudged Krista. “Are you not gonna answer that?”

Krista stood up from the bed and headed out. “Give me a minute.”

Once she exited Olivia’s room and entered her own. She swiped the animated green button up. Bradley’s voice sounded worried and frustrated.

“Hey.”

“Yeah, wassup?” Krista answered.

“I’m canceling your job next week.”

Krista was surprised as the more time she took between jobs, the less money she would make. She needed all the money she could make, especially considering how costly the implant she sought was.

“You… You can’t do that!” She whispered through her hand covering her mouth. “I need that money—”

“I know, Kris. But the FBI is on the case. I’ve been hearing words that they have begun their investigation. A birdie told me of a whole pack of black SUVs gunning it down I-66 on Gainesville, heading West here to LA.”

Krista went silent for a moment before responding to his information. “Oh, shit…”

“Correct—Oh, shit.”

“So that’s…” Krista made a quick approximation in her head. “—about 40 hours, give or take?”

“They’d be driving much faster than that considering the sensitivity of the case.”

“So… tomorrow night at best?”

“Exactly. They’re gonna be here by Friday.”

“Damn it!” She punched her desk whisperingly. “I have class on Saturday. I can’t skip it if I want to pass.”

“Well you better hope they won't find you…”

“Thanks!” She said, her tone bleeding with sarcasm. “I’ll be sure to grab a lawyer on my way to the campus!”

“Just relax and act like nothing happened.”

“Wha-Wha-What… Have you ever escaped their searches?” She asked Bradley, curious for any tips or tricks.

“No, they definitely will get whoever they’re looking for. You are now on borrowed time… but you just act natural and don’t give them any reason to sniff you, they might back off due to the lack of evidence gathered and they’ll be back to Langley.”

Krista began to sweat. Her mind was wondering about the other result. “What if they sniffed me?” Her tone now dreaded with worry.

“Then you better say your goodbyes—From the amount of people you killed, your charges will most likely result in an instant death penalty. I mean 700+ kills… You surpassed even all US serial killers combined. You should consider yourself a living legend, Kris.”

She hung up the call and looked around her room nervously.

4

2024—

545 Main St, Los Angeles—

Two days later…

The UCLA campus was alive with activity despite the encroaching evening. Students rushed to classes, lounged on the grass, or debated heatedly over assignments on the outdoor benches.

In stark contrast to this bustle, the atmosphere in the FBI’s temporary command center, just a few blocks from the campus, was heavy with tension.

Agents moved in and out of the main room, carrying files and data reports. A corkboard dominated the far wall, covered in photographs, maps, and pinned notes that connected various leads like a massive spider web.

Supervisory Special Agent Lindsay McDermont stood near the center of the room, scanning the evidence in front of her. The image of the “Organ Harvester” loomed large in her mind.

Seven hundred confirmed victims. A five-year spree. Surgical precision. Yet, no trail, no obvious motive, no suspect—until now.

Her attention snapped to the doorway as Agent Schraigg entered, a thick folder in his hands.

His face carried an air of restrained urgency, and Lindsay immediately picked up on the shift in his energy.

“Schraigg,” Lindsay called, motioning him over. “What’ve you got?”

He handed her the folder and stepped closer, lowering his voice slightly to ensure nearby agents wouldn’t overhear prematurely.

“I’ve gone through the profiles of over three dozen potential suspects, but honestly? None of them connect two dots. Their routines, alibis, and histories don’t align with the killings. Not one. However,” he paused, his tone sharpening, “I found something else.”

Lindsay’s brow furrowed as she flipped through the first few pages. “Go on.”

“There’s one name that stood out, but not because of an obvious connection to the murders. Krista Adelaide Morrigan,” he said, gesturing to the photo clipped to the folder’s cover. A young woman with dark hair stared back at them, her expression blank and disinterested. “She’s not in STEM—she’s in engineering—but something about her history gave me pause.”

Lindsay looked up. “What about her?”

“She’s originally from Orlando, Florida. Moved to Los Angeles in 2019. I got curious and pulled her family’s records.” Schraigg’s voice dropped slightly. “Her parents, Nate and Nora Morrigan, were found dead the same year she left Florida. Their bodies were discovered in the trunk of their car, parked in their garage, in pieces and partially burned in what the authorities called a ‘gas leak explosion.’”

Lindsay froze mid-flip. “In pieces?”

“Dismembered,” Schraigg confirmed. “Both bodies showed signs of stab wounds and deliberate cutting. Forensics found two knives suspected to have been used in the murders—a Japanese sushi knife and a cleaver—on the stairs leading to the garage. The thing is, the explosion destroyed most other evidence, and the case was closed due to a lack of leads.”

Lindsay leaned back slightly, processing the information. “What about motive? Anyone with a reason to go after them?”

“Oh, there’s plenty of motive,” Schraigg said with a dry chuckle. “Nate and Nora Morrigan were two million dollars in debt from gambling. Bankrupt. Desperate. From what I could find, they were frequent visitors to underground poker rooms and off-the-books casinos. Not exactly candidates for Parent of the Year.”

“And Krista?” Lindsay asked, her tone even. “Where does she fit into all this?”

Schraigg adjusted his stance, his tone turning grim. “Krista and her younger sister, Olivia, were reported missing by neighbors shortly after the explosion. Four days later, they reappeared—this time in Los Angeles. The timing is suspicious, to say the least.”

“Four days,” Lindsay murmured. “What about the sister?”

“Olivia Morrigan,” Schraigg continued, consulting the file. “She was in a car accident shortly before the parents’ deaths. A bad one. Both parents were in the car with her when it happened. She suffered a major spinal cord injury and has been paralyzed from the waist down ever since. She’s confined to a wheelchair.”

Lindsay rubbed her temples. “So, let me get this straight: two dead parents in debt, their bodies mutilated and burned, and a paraplegic sister. Then Krista and Olivia disappear, only to resurface across the country within days.” She exhaled sharply. “Keep going.”

“I kept digging and found out Krista works part-time at a pest control company called BringEmPain,” Schraigg said, his lips curling slightly at the name. “Their office is located in Skid Row—right near Werdin Place, where some of our recent victims were found. But that’s not even the most suspicious part.”

Lindsay’s eyebrows rose. “There’s more?”

“The company’s work hours are from 9 PM to 4 AM,” Schraigg explained. “It’s not unheard of for pest control companies to operate at night, but the overlap with the murder times is too consistent to ignore.”

Lindsay’s mind raced as she absorbed the details. “What about her academic life? Any insights there?”

“Plenty,” Schraigg replied. “Krista is a junior at UCLA, majoring in engineering. Specifically, she’s focused on robotics. Professors describe her as ‘insanely intelligent’ but extremely introverted. She’s never seen at social events, never interacts outside of academic or professional settings. According to one professor, she’s ‘hellbent’ on robotics and spends her free time studying cybernetic implants as part of her extracurricular activities.”

“And her performance?” Lindsay asked.

“Perfect,” Schraigg said bluntly. “Not just good—perfect. She hasn’t missed a single assignment, and every project has earned her top marks. If she keeps this up, she could be UCLA’s first-ever student to graduate with a flawless academic record since the university’s founding.”

Lindsay closed the folder and crossed her arms, letting the weight of Schraigg’s findings settle over her.

“She’s an anomaly,” she said finally. “From her academic achievements to her work history to her family background, everything about her screams calculated control. If she’s involved in this, she’s unlike any suspect we’ve ever dealt with.”

Schraigg nodded. “That’s my read too. She doesn’t fit the usual profile, but there are too many red flags to ignore.”

Lindsay tapped the folder lightly against her palm, her mind already spinning with strategies. “Alright. Let’s take this to the team. I want surveillance on her starting tonight. If Krista Morrigan is our killer, we need to catch her in the act—or find out what she’s really hiding.”

*

1099—

Heaven, Rivens—

Moritra, the goddess of war of Rivens, watched Grantora and her champion summoning ritual from the height of their heavenly realm.

Like the other deities, she was partially intrigued by who she is going to summon to their mortal world now.

Grantora always followed the same pattern every time—those with hearts of protector, unbreakable will of a wall, and determination that earned them respect even from the deities themselves.

But her champion this time seemed to deviate from her usual pattern. She wanted a champion that can rival the new most powerful Demon Lord yet.

They are all pulled to their interest when she hinted about needing a champion that can go toe to toe with the moral level Caligo is currently sitting on.

Someone with a heart as dark as his, as cruel as his, as analytical yet prefer logic over feeling like him—her new requirement piqued them unlike anything else.

Gellud, the god of wisdom, took a seat beside Moritra. Their legs dangling on the edge of heaven, looking down at the mortal world.

He exhaled audibly. “So what of her choice of champion this time?” He asked Moritra, turning at her.

“I was wondering the same thing myself.” Moritra smirked. Her heart was pounding impatiently as she waited for the champion to be summoned. “I am particularly intrigued by this mortal she is going to summon.”

“You and everyone else, I see…” He smiled at the similar interest. “Do you have any knowledge of the mortal?”

“Only what she does and where she comes from,” Moritra said. “Apparently she is a mortal from some world called… Earth.”

Gellud raised his brows. “Earth?” He repeated. “The world where Yahweh is from?”

“The one and only…” Moritra’s eyes narrowed as her mind traced to a particular subject. “The new champion Grantora chooses is unlike those preceding her, Gell.” She darted down in worry. “She is a sinner… A vile creature.”

“How come?”

“She is what the mortal of her world called an organ harvester. Her profession seemed to revolve around taking innocent lives and cutting their corpses up. In her world, the mortals have no magic, only knowledge and science.”

“Fascinating.” Gellud tilted his head in intrigue. “Did her world have advanced understanding of knowledge in general?”

“It appears so. This new champion… took her victims’ internals and sold them for money.” Moritra slowly turned disgusted. “Gell, I have led tens of thousands of conquests against the demons, blessed mortals and empowered them to defend their fellow man—I have seen a lot of deaths around me yet I found this champion beyond the word repulsive. She has no honor. She has no desire to be a hero. She would not repent if she was threatened to be placed on the hottest stone slab in the underworld for eternity…”

“Moritra…” Gellud turned to her slowly, gauging her reaction. “I have a feeling that you would never support someone like her. Is that how you truly feel?”

“Call it a hunch—Grantora is making a terrible terrible mistake by summoning her. She is the type of soldier that justifies the ends through whatever means necessary. The kind of general who will leave his men behind if it means that his enemies will be stalled even for a second without a second thought. A deity as she is now… she is playing god with a fire not native to her. No chains will ever put a hold on such a chaotic soul like this champion. One day—If the champion finds no more sentiment for our mortals—She would definitely brush her face against Grantora’s.”

Gellud narrowed his eyes even more. His mind raced to only one thing and one thing only. “You are thinking of something else,” He said as he asses Moritra’s eyes, “What are your thoughts, sister?”

“You are as perceptive as always, brother dearest…” Moritra stood up and walked away from the edge, pacing back and forth. “I’m thinking that this new champion is a bad omen… A really really bad omen waiting to happen.”

“What are you saying…”

“As the mortals put it, They who have nothing, fear nothing. I think that Grantora will take someone dearest to the champion as a collateral. One does not simply fear a mortal with qualities befitting those of demons, one does however fear a mortal who can find justification to have said qualities and worries not of their own conscience. The most dangerous people are those who have lost everything. When one has nothing left to fight for, to care for, to live for—one is no longer just one.”

“Hmm…” Gellud pondered her words for a moment. His eyes darted back to Moritra. “The color in life. Purity white, evil black—vengeful red. Is that what you’re trying to imply, dear sister?”

“Grantora is a fool if she thinks she can control someone who doesn’t even care about herself.”

Gellud narrowed his eyes, a smile slowly formed on his face. “Hmm… I have a feeling that you know something more, sister. Care to share?”

Moritra turned towards him, her eyes showing worries. “The mortal champion has a younger sister… She's useless but she's the only one holding this Krita mortal.”

“Ahh, I see,” Gellud giggled. “So she has prepared her own collateral—something to push or… enforce the mortal to do her bidding and actually drove her to pick up arms against this Caligo filth.”

“Which is why it worries me, brother. Something that doesn't come from one's own heart will never be a solid foundation of drive.” Moritra snickered. “This Krista mortal is only as good as her sister is alive. If she is taken out of the picture, the mortal will have no more anchor holding her from going all out. Rage is a drive but not the good ones.”

“You're right.” Gellud nodded in agreement. “Her only allegiance is to her sister. How ironic… the thing that provides her strength is also her own weakness.”

“Such irony…”

5

2024—

University of California, Los Angeles—

The tension in the room remained palpable as Agent Davies stepped forward, clutching her own file.

Her expression was pensive, her lips pressed into a thin line as if hesitant to voice her suspicions. Lindsay immediately noted the unease, nodding for her to proceed.

“Alright, Davies,” Lindsay said, “what do you have?”

Davies hesitated for a beat before speaking. “I’ve been looking into the financial side of things—how Krista Morrigan’s been managing to fund her education and living situation, especially considering her family’s financial ruin before their deaths. And… I think someone might be helping her. Maybe even funding her.” She let the implication hang in the air, giving Lindsay and Schraigg a moment to process.

“Helping her how?” Schraigg asked, leaning forward slightly.

Davies adjusted her stance and opened the file, flipping through several pages. “First, Krista’s tuition at UCLA. Fully paid. Not scholarships, not financial aid, but a single, lump-sum payment made by a man using an alias—James Carrow. No clear ties to Krista, at least not directly.”

“An alias?” Lindsay asked sharply. “Did you trace it?”

“I did,” Davies confirmed, “and it gets weirder. The same alias—James Carrow—also purchased a warehouse on East 8th Street near the Amtrak maintenance facility. That’s the warehouse Krista currently lives in. It’s been converted into a residential space with multiple rooms, modern utilities, and even some high-end security systems.”

Lindsay leaned back, her arms crossed. “So she’s been living in a property bought by this ‘James Carrow.’ Did you get anything on the real identity?”

Davies nodded, her voice dropping slightly. “I reached out to the NSA for help. They ran a facial recognition analysis on a photograph associated with the alias. It came back with a match—a man named Bradley Kinford.”

“Kinford?” Schraigg repeated, his brow furrowing. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

“Because it should,” Davies replied. “Bradley Kinford was a high-ranking member of the Kinford crime family in Chicago. They were one of the most infamous mafia groups in the Midwest for decades—arms trafficking, drug smuggling, money laundering, you name it. Kinford himself was presumed dead in 2017 after a supposed car explosion that left nothing but charred remains.”

Lindsay frowned. “And now you’re telling me he’s alive and somehow tied to Krista Morrigan?”

“Possibly,” Davies said cautiously. “I didn’t stop there. I pulled traffic camera footage from 2019, right around the time Krista and Olivia reappeared in Los Angeles. And guess who I found in a diner in San Marino?” She paused for effect. “Bradley Kinford.”

She placed a printout on the table. It was a grainy image, but the man’s sharp features and distinctive nose were unmistakable.

“This is Kinford, sitting in a booth, having breakfast. But here’s the kicker.” She placed another printout next to it—a wider-angle shot showing Kinford’s booth. In the background, two girls sat at another table, their faces pale and gaunt.

Lindsay leaned in, her eyes narrowing. “That’s them. Krista and Olivia.”

“Exactly,” Davies confirmed. “Krista would’ve been fifteen at the time, and Olivia ten. Look at them—they look lost. Hungry. It’s not hard to imagine they were at the end of their rope.”

Schraigg exhaled slowly, the weight of the images sinking in. “So, what are you suggesting? That Kinford took Krista under his wing?”

“It’s a possibility,” Davies replied. “Think about it. Krista’s parents were dead. She and her sister were effectively homeless, no income, no support system. Then suddenly, their lives take a sharp turn—they end up in Los Angeles, Krista enrolls at UCLA with full tuition paid, and they’re living in a high-end converted warehouse. It all points to someone intervening. And given Kinford’s history, it’s not a stretch to imagine he saw an opportunity.”

“What kind of opportunity?” Lindsay pressed.

Davies hesitated for a moment, then continued. “If we assume Kinford met Krista in that diner, it’s possible he recognized something in her. Something dark. Maybe he already suspected she’d killed her parents.”

Schraigg raised an eyebrow. “You think he knew?”

“It’s not a stretch,” Davies argued. “Consider the circumstances. Her parents were found stabbed, dismembered, and burned—hardly an accidental explosion. If Kinford is who we think he is, he would’ve recognized the signs. And instead of turning her in, he might’ve seen potential. Someone who could be useful in his world.”

Lindsay’s jaw tightened. “So you’re suggesting Kinford groomed her? Taught her how to kill?”

“Not necessarily taught her,” Davies clarified, “but he might’ve opened the door. If he brought her into his network, she’d have access to resources, tools, and most importantly, a reason to keep going. The money she’s making from selling organs—it might not just be for her sister’s medical care. It could be paying off a debt she owes to Kinford. Or it might be something else entirely.”

Lindsay stared at the photographs, her mind racing. “If this is true, it changes everything. We’re not just dealing with a lone killer. We’re dealing with a potential network, and Kinford might be the key to unraveling it.”

Davies nodded. “It’s still speculation at this point, but the connections are too strong to ignore. If Kinford is involved, he’s not just funding her—he’s controlling her.”

*

1099—

Heaven, Rivens—

Far above the mortal plane, the celestial expanse shimmered with divine energy. Clouds of iridescent hues swirled like liquid light, and the ever-present hum of power resonated through the heavens.

On a grand balcony of polished opal, Gellud and Moritra sat, their conversation from days prior still lingering in the air. However, they were no longer alone.

Promini, the goddess of arts and craftsmanship, approached gracefully, her flowing robes adorned with intricate patterns that seemed to shift and dance with every step. Her presence brought a softer, lighter air to the tension between her siblings.

“Still debating Grantora’s choice, are we?” Promini said with a knowing smile, her voice melodic and teasing. “You two have been at this for days.”

Moritra turned to her younger sister with a sharp gaze. “It’s not a debate—it’s a warning. This mortal champion Grantora has chosen will bring nothing but ruin.”

“Ah, Krista Morrigan,” Promini said, her tone contemplative as she joined them on the balcony. “The harvester of organs. The pragmatic survivor. An interesting choice indeed.”

“Interesting is one word for it,” Gellud replied, smirking. “Necessary is another.”

Promini arched an elegant eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. “You seem unusually calm about this, Gellud. Even Moritra’s concerns haven’t swayed you?”

“They are valid concerns,” Gellud admitted, glancing at Moritra, “but I trust Grantora has her reasons. What intrigues me now is what she plans to give the mortal. Have you heard anything, dear sister?” His question was directed at Promini, his tone patient but expectant.

Promini’s expression brightened, her lips curling into a mischievous smile. “As a matter of fact, I have. I’ve... overheard a few things.”

Moritra leaned forward slightly, her curiosity outweighing her irritation. “And?”

Promini’s smile widened. “It seems that Grantora, ever the observant one, took note of something Krista said recently. Apparently, a few days ago, Krista mocked her sister Olivia’s favorite shows—those... what do mortals call them? Ah, yes, ‘isekai’ tales. During this, Krista mentioned that the most broken power in such stories is summoning. She called it ‘by far’ the most versatile and unstoppable ability.”

Gellud chuckled softly. “And Grantora would take her word for it, I presume?”

Promini nodded, amusement twinkling in her eyes. “Indeed. She plans to grant Krista the power of summoning.”

Moritra scoffed, crossing her arms. “Of course she would. Summoning is the ultimate wildcard. To place such a versatile and potent ability in the hands of a mortal with the mental capacity to think beyond her years and circumstances is to invite disaster. This will backfire immediately—on all of us.”

Promini chuckled at Moritra’s indignation, brushing a lock of radiant hair behind her ear. “Perhaps, but Grantora is not without caution. She intends to place a limiter on Krista’s power.”

“Oh?” Gellud said, leaning forward slightly. “Do elaborate.”

Promini raised a finger, emphasizing her point. “Krista will only be able to summon items available through Earth’s online marketplaces—things that are readily accessible to the general populace. No summoning nuclear weapons, advanced military vehicles, or classified technology.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Gellud said thoughtfully. “What about smaller arms?”

“There’s some leniency,” Promini admitted. “She will be able to summon legal and common weapons sold through online firearm retailers in her world—things like Daniel Defense rifles, Kimber pistols, or Springfield handguns. But,” she added with a sly smile, “she will only be able to summon ten items per day.”

Moritra rolled her eyes, her frustration evident. “Oh, yes, what a ‘limiter.’” Her tone dripped with sarcasm. “As if such a rule would be anything more than a minor inconvenience to her.”

“And why do you say that?” Promini asked, her amusement growing.

Moritra stood, her crimson cape billowing slightly as she turned to face her siblings.

“Because Krista’s sister, Olivia, is a prodigy in human computer science. Pair that knowledge with Krista’s analytical mind, and they’ll find a way to game the system. Krista will summon precisely what she needs, when she needs it, and Olivia will ensure that nothing gets in their way. Mark my words—Grantora’s idea will be the end of us all.”

Gellud and Promini exchanged glances before Gellud asked with a raised brow, “Are you joking, dear sister? Or are you... phrasing?”

Moritra smirked darkly. “A bit of both.”

Promini laughed, a melodious sound that echoed through the heavens. “You always were the dramatic one, Moritra. But let’s not forget—Krista may be unpredictable, but that’s precisely why Grantora chose her. Caligo thrives on chaos, and only someone like Krista can match him blow for blow.”

“Or exceed him,” Gellud added, his tone thoughtful.

Moritra sighed, shaking her head. “You’re both far too trusting. I’ll reserve my judgment until I see how this plays out. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when everything falls apart.”

Promini smiled as she gazed down at the mortal plane, where Grantora’s ritual continued to glow with divine light.

“Oh, Moritra,” she said lightly, “sometimes chaos is the only way to restore order. Let’s see how this champion of ours fares.”

Gellud nodded, his eyes alight with curiosity. “Indeed. Let the game begin.”

Moritra turned back to the horizon, her gaze hard and unyielding. “This isn’t a game,” she muttered under her breath. “This is war.”

6

2024—

Los Angeles, California, Earth—

The hum of the temporary operations center was interrupted by the sound of Agent Dirk striding back into the room, a self-satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

He carried a slim folder and his tablet, the telltale signs of someone who had uncovered something big. Lindsay, standing near the evidence corkboard, turned her attention to him immediately.

“Well, Dirk,” Lindsay began, her tone cautious but curious, “you look like a cat who just caught a mouse. What have you got?”

Dirk slid the folder onto the table with a flourish and leaned back slightly, savoring the moment. “I’ve been digging into Krista Morrigan’s financials,” he began, his voice carrying a hint of smugness. “And let me tell you—what I found isn’t just interesting; it’s downright damning.”

Lindsay motioned for him to continue as Schraigg and Davies joined them, their curiosity piqued.

“Krista has two main bank accounts,” Dirk said, tapping his tablet to project a detailed breakdown onto the screen. “One with Capital One and the other with Chase. Her Capital One account is exactly what you’d expect from a part-time working college student. A balance of about thirty thousand dollars, with most transactions being small—groceries from Walmart, some snacks, and recurring payments to a mobile game called Arknights.” He raised an eyebrow. “Pretty normal stuff, all things considered.”

“Go on,” Lindsay prompted, sensing there was more.

“Her Chase account, though?” Dirk paused for emphasis. “It’s suspicious at best and incriminating at worst. The current balance is over twelve million dollars.”

Schraigg let out a low whistle. “Twelve million? That’s a hell of a lot of money for a college student.”

“And it gets better,” Dirk continued, his grin widening. “The most recent transaction—made just 48 hours ago—was a deposit of three hundred and eighty thousand dollars. The sender? ‘James Carrow.’”

Lindsay’s jaw tightened at the mention of the alias. “Our mystery benefactor strikes again.”

“That’s not even the kicker,” Dirk said, his tone shifting to one of grim satisfaction. “I reached out to one of our trusted black-market informants. Let’s just say he’s sold some very interesting items to someone who matches Krista’s description.”

“Interesting items?” Davies asked, leaning forward slightly.

“Oh, you’re going to love this.” Dirk ticked the items off on his fingers as he spoke. “Four one-gallon containers of napalm. One kilogram of calcium metal. An Israeli TAR-21 assault rifle. Two M1911 handguns. A grenade launcher. Several short Japanese wakizashis. A whole array of scalpels, shears, and chisels. And—wait for it—a Browning M2 .50 BMG machine gun with two thousand rounds of ammunition.”

The room fell into stunned silence.

“She bought all of that?” Lindsay asked, her voice sharp with disbelief.

“Not all at once, of course,” Dirk clarified, “but yes. And here’s the kicker: my source said there’s no way a twenty-something slender girl could carry all of that herself. So, she asked him to deliver the items to an abandoned house on Porter Street—150 yards away from her suspected residence on East 8th Street.”

Lindsay exhaled, a mixture of shock and frustration swirling in her mind. “She’s not just an ordinary killer. She’s building an arsenal.”

“And that’s not all,” Dirk said, his tone darkening. “When I asked my source if he recognized her, he said she was wearing a mask during the transactions. But her size, build, and the general description match Krista to a tee. He also mentioned that she was highly specific about her orders—precision tools, military-grade weapons, and explosives. This isn’t someone who’s improvising. She knows exactly what she’s doing.”

Lindsay turned to Davies and Schraigg, her mind racing. “Didn’t we determine that a Japanese-style sword was consistently used in nearly all seven hundred murders?”

Davies nodded, flipping through her notes. “Yes. In most cases, the weapon was either a wakizashi or another Japanese blade. There were a few exceptions—daggers in some early killings—but the pattern has been remarkably consistent.”

“And yet,” Schraigg added, “we’ve never seen any evidence of firearms being used in the murders.”

“Which means,” Lindsay said, connecting the dots aloud, “the firearms and explosives aren’t for her killings. They’re for something else.”

Schraigg nodded grimly. “They’re for a quick escape. If she ever gets cornered—by law enforcement, rivals, or anyone else—she’s prepared to blow her way out and fight back.”

“That makes her even more dangerous,” Lindsay said, her tone tightening. “Not only is she methodical and precise, but she’s also planning for contingencies. This isn’t a desperate killer flying by the seat of her pants—this is someone who thinks ten steps ahead.”

Davies shifted uncomfortably. “And if she’s using that abandoned house on Porter Street as a stash, we might be looking at a fortified escape route. She could have traps, weapons, or worse waiting for anyone who gets too close.”

Lindsay turned her attention back to the corkboard, her gaze locking onto Krista’s photograph.

“This girl has been underestimated for far too long,” she said, her voice steely. “We need to act, but we can’t rush it. If she’s half as prepared as this suggests, a misstep could cost us dearly.”

She turned back to the team. “Dirk, get a surveillance team on that Porter Street property. I want eyes on it 24/7. Schraigg, Davies—start coordinating with bomb disposal and SWAT. If this escalates, I want every possible angle covered—”

Before Lindsay could process the implications of Dirk’s findings, the door to the operations room creaked open, and an agent stepped in, escorting an elderly woman and a younger girl in her early twenties.

The older woman walked with a cane, her face both nervous and resolute, while the younger woman appeared equally uneasy but determined.

The room turned its attention toward the newcomers, sensing that their arrival wasn’t ordinary.

The agent cleared his throat. “This is Mrs. Beverly Grant and her granddaughter, Samantha. Mrs. Grant believes she might’ve seen something—or someone—important. She also took a photo.”

Lindsay straightened her posture and walked over, gesturing for them to sit.

“Mrs. Grant, thank you for coming. I’m SSA Lindsay McDermont. Please, tell us what you saw.”

The older woman fidgeted slightly but spoke with surprising clarity.

“Well, I was on my balcony two nights ago—over on Werdin, you know, right by Skid Row. My stupid cat kept jumping up there, and I was trying to shoo it off before it fell. That’s when I saw her.”

“Her?” Lindsay asked, leaning in.

“Yes, this girl,” Mrs. Grant said, her tone firming. “She had dark hair, young—maybe in her twenties. She was carrying this red ice box, and her hands… her hands were covered in blood.”

The room fell silent for a moment, tension thickening. Lindsay exchanged a glance with Schraigg before nodding for Mrs. Grant to continue.

“She didn’t seem bothered, you know?” Mrs. Grant continued. “Not in a hurry, not panicked—just walking down the street like it was any other day. It was… unsettling. I didn’t know what to do, so I took a picture.”

The agent nodded and urged her to show Lindsay the photo. Mrs. Grant reached into her purse, pulling out a phone and swiping to her gallery. She handed it over, and Lindsay studied the image intently.

There she was—a beautiful young woman with long dark hair, walking down a dimly lit street.

She carried a red ice box in her right hand, and her left hand was visibly smeared with what could only be blood.

Something long and thin poked out from under her hoodie, tucked against her back. Lindsay’s sharp eyes locked onto it immediately.

“Is that…?” Lindsay murmured.

“A stick,” Mrs. Grant interjected, though her tone was uncertain. “Or at least, that’s what it looked like. But now that I think about it, it might’ve been a sword. The way it poked out—it was too deliberate to be just a stick.”

Lindsay’s pulse quickened. A wakizashi. It had to be. She handed the phone to Schraigg, who nodded grimly as he examined it.

“That’s not all,” Mrs. Grant added. “I overheard her talking on the phone. I couldn’t hear everything, but I got a good chunk of it.”

“What did she say?” Lindsay asked, her voice steady.

Mrs. Grant thought for a moment before mimicking the girl’s tone. “‘Hey, B… yeah, it’s done. Yeah, I’m coming over now. Be there in ten. Yeah, fucker… have my money transferred. Yeah, the 380 grand. Alright, see you.’”

The room erupted in murmurs. Lindsay’s mind raced. “B” had to be Bradley Kinford—or “James Carrow.”

The mention of 380 grand matched the exact amount transferred to Krista’s account 48 hours ago. Everything was lining up too perfectly to be a coincidence.

“That’s not all,” Samantha, the granddaughter, chimed in nervously. “I… I think I know her.”

Lindsay’s gaze snapped to the younger woman. “You do?”

Samantha nodded, fidgeting with her hands. “I go to UCLA too. I’ve seen her on campus a few times. She’s insanely smart—like, scarily smart. People talk about her all the time. But there’s one thing that sticks out.”

“Go on,” Lindsay urged.

“It was last year,” Samantha said, her voice faltering slightly as she recalled the memory. “I was in the quad when these guys started harassing me. They wouldn’t leave me alone, and I was starting to panic. That’s when she showed up. Krista.”

“What did she do?” Schraigg asked.

“She… pulled out a sword,” Samantha said, her voice tinged with disbelief even now. “A Japanese sword—a wakizashi, I think. And a gun. A Colt, I think? She pointed both at them and told them that if they valued their lives and didn’t want to end up as ‘props for the Fallout TV series,’ they’d leave. They ran off so fast, they didn’t even look back.”

“She was armed on campus?” Lindsay asked, her voice tight.

“Yes,” Samantha confirmed. “How she got past the metal detectors is beyond me, but she did. And the way she talked—it wasn’t like she was bluffing. She meant every word.”

The room fell silent again, the weight of the testimony sinking in. Finally, Schraigg broke the silence with a half-serious, half-joking comment.

“You know,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “it’s wild. How is it that not one single person called 911 after seeing a girl walk down Skid Row with bloody hands and a red ice box?”

Lindsay shot him a look, but he continued before she could reply.

“I mean, think about it. If you saw someone like that on Skid Row, would you bat an eye? In LA, no less? It’s like seeing someone in a fur suit walking around Times Square with GoPros strapped to their head. You shrug it off. LA’s the new New York—nobody wants anything to do with anyone they don’t know.”

The room’s mood lightened slightly, but Lindsay’s expression remained stern.

“That may be true,” she said, her tone firm, “but that attitude is exactly why she’s been able to operate in plain sight for so long. We can’t afford to be complacent.”

She turned back to Mrs. Grant and Samantha. “Thank you for coming in. Your information is invaluable. If we need anything else, we’ll be in touch.”

As the two were escorted out, Lindsay faced her team, her resolve hardening. “This is it. We have her picture. We have her trail. Now, let’s make sure we don’t lose her.”

Her words still hung in the air when an agent stormed in, panting heavily and clutching a tablet.

“Ma’am!” the agent shouted, drawing every pair of eyes in the room. “We’ve got something. Just hit r/eyeblech—someone posted CCTV footage from the bar in Werdin.”

Lindsay's eyes narrowed, and she motioned for him to bring it over.

The agent quickly plugged the tablet into the large monitor at the front of the room, and a grainy black-and-white video began playing.

The footage showed the street outside the bar where the murder had occurred. The timestamp confirmed it matched the approximate time of the crime.

Lindsay leaned closer as the scene unfolded.

There she was, Krista, walking briskly, her black Cannibal Corpse hoodie standing out under the dim streetlights.

She carried the same, identical and distinctive red icebox in one hand, its metallic latch glinting faintly. Her other hand brushed her long black hair away from her face—an unmasked face.

“Pause it!” Lindsay snapped. The image froze, capturing a clear view of Krista’s features. The room buzzed as agents exchanged knowing glances.

“She’s not wearing a mask yet,” Lindsay noted. “It’s her.”

The footage resumed. Krista stopped next to a pile of garbage bags and knocked lightly on the edge of a makeshift cardboard shelter.

The homeless witness from the earlier news broadcast emerged cautiously.

Krista crouched down, handed him a wrapped sandwich and a crisp $100 bill. As the man examined the money, she stood up, pulled a surgical mask from her pocket, and secured it over her face.

The timestamp showed she moved into the alley moments later—minutes before the murder was believed to have taken place.

Lindsay grabbed the remote and froze the footage again. Her voice was calm but decisive. “The witness’s testimony is now confirmed. This is our killer.”

The room fell silent for a beat before erupting into action. Lindsay turned to Agent Schraigg, her eyes blazing with intensity.

“Get the warrant,” she said firmly. “We’re raiding her place tonight.”

Schraigg nodded, a faint grin tugging at his lips. “Finally,” he muttered, sprinting out of the room.

Lindsay addressed the rest of the team. “I want everyone ready. Once we have the warrant, we’re hitting that East 8th Street warehouse. This ends tonight.”

7

2024—

East 8th Street—

Los Angeles, California, Earth—

The cozy glow of Olivia’s dual monitors filled her room, casting a soft light over her bed and desk.

She was mid-stream, her chat scrolling rapidly beside a gameplay window. Her voice was cheerful, as always, engaging her audience with stories and jokes.

“Oh, c’mon, you guys really think I wouldn’t survive in a zombie apocalypse?” she teased, leaning closer to the camera. Her fingers hovered over her keyboard. “I’d totally be that hacker who saves the day from some bunker. Big sister energy, right?”

Her chat exploded with responses.

“Liv would definitely die in the first 5 minutes lol.”

“Hack the zombies into dancing, please.”

“We need a stream where you try apocalypse survival tips!”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You guys are the worst. I—”

Her words trailed off as a donation alert popped up on her screen. It wasn’t the usual cheerful notification—it was subdued, almost ominous. The amount made her freeze.

$10,000 DONATION

The accompanying message read:

“R U N ⏰⏰⏰”

Olivia’s face contorted in confusion. “Uh... what the heck?” she muttered, glancing at the username, which was simply a string of numbers: 928374.

Her chat exploded.

“Bruh, $10k?!”

“WTF does that mean?!”

“Liv, is this a prank?”

“Guys, I—I don’t know what’s going on,” she said nervously, her laughter fading. “This isn’t funny.”

The donation message stayed on her screen, glowing ominously. Then, as if to compound the unease, another notification popped up.

This time, it was an email alerting her to a new message in her private account. The subject line read: “GET OUT NOW.”

Olivia’s heart pounded. She reached for her phone, intending to call her sister, when she heard the faint sound of sirens in the distance, growing louder by the second.

The door to their apartment slammed open with a thunderous bang, startling Olivia. Krista stormed in, her face pale and her eyes blazing with urgency.

“Olivia!” Krista shouted, her voice a mix of panic and command. “Grab your emergency bag. The one I told you to keep ready!”

Olivia blinked in confusion, still seated in her wheelchair by her desk. Her stream was still running, her chat flooded with questions and panicked emojis.

“Krista, what’s going on?” she stammered, her voice quivering.

Krista didn’t answer. She rushed to Olivia’s desk, grabbed the PC tower, and yanked the power cord out with a sharp tug, cutting the stream instantly. The screens flickered to black, and the faint hum of the computer faded into silence.

“Pack your laptop, your tablet, and grab your jacket and ear muffs. Now!” Krista barked, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Olivia’s hands shook as she tried to process what was happening. The distant sound of sirens grew louder, accompanied by the unmistakable thump-thump-thump of a helicopter overhead. Fear twisted in her stomach.

“Krista, what’s going on? Why are there—?”

“Now’s not the time!” Krista snapped, grabbing a nearby duffel bag and throwing it onto Olivia’s bed.

She turned toward the window, her movements sharp and precise, and pulled the curtain aside just enough to peek outside.

Her worst fears were confirmed.

Eight black SUVs screeched to a halt in the driveway below, their engines growling like predators. Two SWAT APCs rumbled into position behind them, their mounted spotlights cutting through the evening gloom.

A team of heavily armed agents spilled out, their black tactical gear and helmets gleaming under the lights. The helicopter hovered low, its blades kicking up dust and debris.

Krista’s jaw tightened as she released the curtain, her fist slamming against the wall with a loud thud.

“There’s no time,” she muttered under her breath, her mind racing.

Olivia, dragging herself out of her room with trembling arms, froze when she saw Krista crouching by the doorway.

Her sister had torn up the floor panels, revealing a hidden compartment. Olivia’s breath caught in her throat when she saw what Krista was pulling out.

A Browning M2 .50 caliber machine gun, its long, gleaming barrel reflecting the dim light of the apartment. Attached to it was an ammunition belt loaded with massive, brass-tipped rounds.

“What the hell is that?!” Olivia cried, her voice breaking as she stared at the monstrous weapon. “Where did you get that?!”

Krista didn’t look up, her hands working swiftly as she set up the gun.

“We’ve always had it,” she said flatly, not bothering to explain further. “I just never told you.”

Olivia’s heart pounded in her chest, her fear and confusion growing with every second.

“Krista, why the hell do we have a machine gun in the house?!” she demanded, her voice rising in panic.

Krista finally looked up, her expression grim. “For situations like this.”

She stood, her movements deliberate, and positioned the barrel to face the approaching SWAT team outside the door.

The gun’s tripod legs dug into the wood floor, steadying the enormous weapon as Krista adjusted its angle.

Outside, agents moved swiftly, fanning out to secure the perimeter. The sharp orders of team leaders and the crackle of radios pierced the air. The APCs’ mounted turrets swiveled, scanning for threats.

Krista took a deep breath, her finger hovering just above the trigger. Her eyes narrowed as she locked onto the advancing agents through the scope. She didn’t pull the trigger yet—she was waiting, calculating.

“Krista,” Olivia whispered, her voice trembling as she struggled to process the situation. “What are you doing?”

“Getting us out of here,” Krista said coldly, her eyes never leaving the target. “Also… muff them ears.”

The SWAT team moved into position, their movements precise and disciplined. Several agents huddled by the door, one holding a heavy battering ram while others covered the entrance with their weapons.

The team leader raised a hand, giving the signal.

“Breaching in 3... 2...”

The door erupted into splinters as Krista’s Browning M2 roared to life, the thunderous thud-thud-thud of .50 caliber rounds tearing through the night.

The sheer force of the bullets ripped through the door and into the agents behind it. Body armor meant nothing against the high-velocity rounds—those caught in the line of fire fell like rag dolls, their bodies flung backward from the impact.

The agents not directly in front of the door scrambled for cover, some diving behind vehicles while others opened fire at the window Krista had stationed herself by.

Krista ducked just in time, bullets shattering the glass and peppering the walls around her.

She kept her hand on the machine gun’s trigger, the barrel glowing red-hot from continuous fire.

Her sharp focus broke with a sudden, searing pain in her right thigh. A stray bullet had found its mark.

“Shit!” Krista screamed, letting go of the Browning and collapsing to the floor.

Blood poured from the wound, soaking her jeans as she clenched her teeth in pain.

From the corner of her eye, she saw the SWAT team regrouping, inching closer to the house.

Gritting her teeth, Krista tore the rug from the floor and wrapped it tightly around her wounded leg, creating a makeshift tourniquet. Her hands shook as she tied it off, the pain nearly blinding her.

She crawled back to the machine gun, her movements sluggish but determined. With trembling hands, she grabbed a rubber band from her pocket and wrapped it tightly around the trigger and trigger guard, locking the gun into a continuous firing position.

The machine gun roared to life again, the belt-fed rounds spitting relentless destruction at the advancing agents.

Krista didn’t wait to see the results. She staggered to her feet, leaning heavily on the wall for support, and made her way toward Olivia, who had dragged herself halfway down the hallway.

“Krista, what’s happening?!” Olivia cried, her voice high-pitched with terror. “Why are they shooting at us?!”

“No time, Liv!” Krista grunted, pulling Olivia onto her back in one swift motion despite her own injury. “We’re leaving!”

Krista carried Olivia into the unused room, ignoring her sister’s panicked questions. Her escape duffle bag was exactly where she’d left it—hidden in the floor compartment.

he grabbed it and the coil of rope beside it, her movements fueled by adrenaline. The sound of gunfire and the crackling roar of the Browning filled the air.

She ran to the back window, propping Olivia against the wall for a moment. With a quick tug, she yanked a concealed string connected to her PVC tube, dropping the calcium metal into the water.

The chemical reaction was instant. A series of loud bangs echoed through the apartment as the hidden compartments released their volatile mix.

The explosion sent shockwaves through the building, and the fires ignited by the napalm canisters roared to life, engulfing the house in a wall of flames.

The SWAT agents outside recoiled, the intense heat forcing them to retreat. Smoke and fire consumed the house, making it impossible for the FBI or police to approach.

Krista didn’t stop to watch the chaos she had unleashed. With Olivia still clinging to her back, she made her way to the back of the building.

She kicked down the rolling door of the storage unit behind the house, revealing a gleaming black Subaru WRX STI parked inside.

Krista placed Olivia carefully in the passenger seat, tucking her legs in before shutting the door. Olivia stared at her in disbelief, her words tumbling out in a frantic rush.

“Since when do we have a car?!” Olivia screamed. “Do you even have a license? Can you even drive?!”

Krista winced, clutching her wounded leg as she slid into the driver’s seat. She groaned in pain, gripping the steering wheel tightly.

“Shut it, Liv,” she growled, jamming the keys into the ignition. The engine roared to life, the deep rumble reverberating through the storage unit. “Put your seatbelt on!”

Olivia fumbled with the seatbelt, her hands trembling as Krista slammed the gear into reverse.

The tires screeched as the Subaru shot backward, crashing through the storage unit door and out into the alleyway.

As the WRX sped away, the fire in their apartment reached its peak. The intense heat triggered the temperature detectors connected to the four explosive charges buried in the building’s foundation.

The apartment building exploded in a massive fireball, the force of the blast obliterating its structural supports.

The entire structure crumbled inward, burying any evidence of Krista’s escape under tons of flaming debris.

The shockwave rocked the neighborhood, and the pursuing agents were forced to stop, shielding themselves from the inferno.

Smoke and ash billowed into the night sky as the flames roared hungrily, consuming everything in their path.

Krista gritted her teeth, her hands gripping the steering wheel as she sped through the darkened streets.

Olivia stared at her in stunned silence, the gravity of what had just happened beginning to sink in.

“Krista,” Olivia whispered, her voice trembling. “What’s happening? Why are they after us?”

Krista didn’t look at her, her focus locked on the road ahead. “I’ll explain later,” she said, her voice tight with pain. “Right now, we just need to survive.”

*

The Subaru WRX screeched as Krista yanked the wheel, drifting through the intersection at full speed.

The tires howled in protest, and the car barely missed colliding with an incoming sedan that skidded to a halt, the driver blaring their horn in panic.

Krista’s right leg throbbed with pain as blood seeped through the makeshift rug bandage around her thigh.

Every press on the gas pedal sent fresh waves of agony shooting up her leg, but she gritted her teeth and kept driving.

The roar of engines behind them signaled their relentless pursuers: four black FBI SUVs barreling down the street, their lights flashing and sirens blaring.

Through the side mirror, Krista watched the SUVs closing the gap.

“Liv,” she barked, her voice strained. “How good are you at Call of Duty?”

“What?!” Olivia shouted, clutching the armrest with white-knuckled hands as the car swerved dangerously. “What kind of question is that?!”

Krista glanced at her briefly, a wicked grin tugging at the corners of her lips. “How good?”

“I’m—I’m semi-pro!” Olivia stammered, her voice trembling. “Why does that even matter right now?!”

“Good.”

Krista reached into the duffle bag beside her, pulling out an M203 grenade launcher and shoving it into Olivia’s lap. Olivia gawked at the weapon, her eyes wide with disbelief.

“What the hell is this?!” Olivia shouted, her voice cracking. “You’re insane!”

Krista ignored the outburst, her attention split between the road and the SUVs gaining on them.

“Load it with the red-ringed 40mm grenade,” she ordered, her tone sharp. “Now.”

“Krista, this is insane!” Olivia cried, her hands trembling as she fumbled with the duffle bag. “You want me to fire a grenade launcher out of a moving car? I’m not in the goddamn military!”

“Just do it!” Krista snapped, her voice rising. “I don’t have time to argue with you!”

The desperation in Krista’s tone jolted Olivia into action. Heart pounding, she dug into the bag, pulling out a grenade with a red band around its casing.

With shaking hands, she slid it into the launcher’s chamber and locked it into place.

“Here!” Olivia shouted, thrusting the loaded grenade launcher at Krista.

Krista grabbed it with one hand, her knuckles white as she gripped the steering wheel with the other.

She lowered the driver’s window with a quick press of the button.

“Hold on to something,” she warned, slamming the handbrake and spinning the wheel sharply.

The Subaru whipped into a 180-degree drift, tires screeching as the car spun to face the oncoming SUVs. Krista braced the grenade launcher against her shoulder, leaning out the window to take aim.

The lead SUV loomed closer, its grill a snarling maw of chrome and steel.

Krista squeezed the trigger.

The grenade sailed through the air with a soft pop before exploding on impact with the SUV’s hood. The vehicle erupted into a fireball, flipping end over end before crashing into a cupcake shop, scattering glass, debris, and frosting in every direction.

Krista didn’t wait to celebrate. She reached into the duffle bag again, this time pulling out a frag grenade.

She yanked the pin with her teeth, holding it for a beat to "cook" it, then dropped it out the window.

“Brace!” she shouted, slamming the wheel to spin the car back forward.

The grenade detonated behind them, creating a fiery barrier that forced the second SUV to swerve wildly and crash into a parked car.

Krista jammed the stick shift into third gear, the WRX roaring forward as they gained a brief lead.

In the third SUV, Supervisory Special Agent Lindsay McDermont gritted her teeth, gripping the radio as her team’s lead vehicle disappeared in a fiery explosion.

“Suspect is heading south on Alameda!” Lindsay barked into the radio. “Requesting PIT maneuver on Randolph Street. Be advised: they are heavily armed and extremely dangerous.”

The radio crackled with a response. “Copy that. LAPD units are en route.”

Lindsay’s jaw tightened as she leaned forward, scanning the street ahead. The remaining two SUVs swerved around debris, their tires squealing as they struggled to keep pace with the WRX.

“Don’t lose them!” Lindsay ordered the driver, her eyes narrowing. “We’re taking her down tonight.”

*

Olivia sat frozen in the passenger seat, her hands gripping the edge of her seat as the Subaru roared down Alameda.

Her pulse raced as she glanced out her window. In the distance, two LAPD SUVs sped toward them on the opposite side of the road, their sirens wailing.

“Krista!” Olivia cried out, her voice rising in panic. “There are two more cops coming—right side! They’re going really fast!”

Krista’s eyes darted to the rearview mirror, then to the side, her mind racing. It didn’t take long to piece it together.

PIT maneuver.

The LAPD wasn’t just here to chase—they were setting up to box them in.

“Shit,” Krista hissed. She clenched the wheel tighter, the sharp pain in her leg throbbing with every movement. “Alright, Liv. Open the glovebox.”

Olivia hesitated, her fingers trembling. “What? Why? What’s in there?”

“Just do it!” Krista snapped, her voice cutting through Olivia’s panic.

With a shaky hand, Olivia reached for the latch and flipped open the glovebox. Her eyes widened as three mortar shells rolled forward, their dull gray casings glinting ominously in the dim light.

“Are you serious?!” Olivia shrieked, staring at the shells in disbelief. “Why the hell do we have mortar shells?!”

Krista didn’t answer. She grabbed one of the shells with her free hand, hefting it awkwardly due to the pain in her leg.

Rolling the window down slightly, she stuck the tail end of the shell outside, gripping it tightly as the wind whipped around her.

“Hold on,” Krista muttered, her eyes narrowing as they approached Randolph Street.

The LAPD SUVs were closing in, their headlights reflecting off the asphalt. Krista gritted her teeth, timing her next move perfectly.

As they hit the intersection, she slammed the handbrake again, jerking the wheel hard.

The Subaru screeched into another drift, sliding sideways and slowing their speed just enough to throw off the LAPD’s approach.

The two SUVs sped past them, overshooting the intersection entirely.

As the Subaru completed its spin, now facing the correct direction again, Krista leaned out and tossed the mortar shell into the middle of the intersection.

It spun wildly, its sharp tail end embedding slightly into the pavement.

The shell detonated in a deafening BOOM, engulfing the intersection in fire and debris.

Both LAPD SUVs were caught in the explosion, their frames crumpling like tin cans as they skidded to a stop in flames. The shockwave rippled outward, slowing the three pursuing FBI SUVs.

“Goddammit!” Lindsay shouted from the third SUV, slamming her fist against the dashboard as her vehicle skidded to a halt. Smoke and debris filled the air, forcing her team to pause momentarily.

With a brief window to escape, Krista floored the gas pedal, wincing as her injured leg protested against the pressure. The Subaru shot forward, leaving the burning wreckage behind.

Reaching into her pocket, Krista pulled out her phone and tapped a contact. She switched it to speaker mode as the line connected.

“Bradley,” she barked as the sound of static cleared.

“Krista, you’re really in the shit now, aren’t you?” Bradley’s voice came through, tinged with tension.

“Don’t start,” Krista shot back. “I need help.”

Bradley let out a dry laugh. “You and me both, kid. The FBI’s heading my way too. Hector and I are about to torch the place and take a hike.”

“Great,” Krista muttered, glancing at Olivia, who was clutching her knees in terror. “What about us? We need an out—now.”

Bradley hesitated for a moment. “I know a couple of guys at Union Station. They can get you on a train out to Chicago. Quietly.”

Krista’s eyes darted to the road ahead, her expression darkening. “I’m already too far south,” she said. “I’d never make it to Union without running into a dozen roadblocks.”

Bradley sighed heavily, the weight of the situation clear in his voice. “Then you’ve got a choice to make. If you keep heading south, you’ll run out of ground first. And when that happens? You can kiss your sister goodbye while the Feds drag you into a life sentence behind bars.”

Olivia’s head shot up, her face pale. “What?!” she gasped, her voice trembling.

Krista clenched her jaw, her grip on the wheel tightening. “Thanks for the pep talk, Bradley. Really helpful.”

“Relax, kid,” Bradley said, his tone softening slightly. “You’ve been a good worker, so I’ll give you one last parting gift. Head to Las Vegas—there’s a contact there who owes me a favor. You can claim his debt on my name for yourself. Or, if you’re feeling nostalgic, you could go back to Florida. But Orlando PD might have a few questions for you about what happened to your parents.”

The line went silent for a moment, and Krista risked a quick glance at Olivia.

Her sister’s face had gone from scared to something else entirely—confusion and betrayal.

“What does he mean by that?” Olivia demanded, her voice rising.

Krista didn’t answer, her knuckles turning white on the steering wheel.

On the other end of the line, Bradley chuckled. “Oh, boy. You never told her, did you?” he said, his voice dripping with amusement. “That’s awkward.”

“Bradley,” Krista growled, her tone sharp with warning.

“Fine, fine,” Bradley said with a dismissive laugh. “Good luck, Krista. And hey—try not to die.”

The line clicked dead, leaving a heavy silence in the car.

“Krista,” Olivia whispered, her voice trembling. “What did he mean? What happened in 2019?”

Krista didn’t respond. Her eyes stayed locked on the road ahead as the Subaru sped into the night.

Krista gripped the wheel tightly as she took a hard left on Firestone Boulevard, heading east.

The Subaru roared down the road, the engine growling as it pushed past its limits. In the passenger seat, Olivia was anything but quiet.

“What happened in 2019, Krista?!” Olivia screamed, her voice cracking with frustration and fear. “What did he mean about our parents? What aren’t you telling me?!”

Krista’s patience wore thinner with every word. “Liv, now’s not the time!”

“Like hell it isn’t!” Olivia shot back, tears streaming down her face. “What did you do?!”

The barrage of accusations, the insults, the rising hysteria—it all broke Krista. Her hands trembled on the wheel, her injured leg throbbing, her mind barely clinging to focus.

“Fine!” Krista screamed, her voice raw with emotion. “I killed them, alright?! I killed Nate and Nora!”

Olivia froze, the words hitting her like a freight train. “What?”

“They were never going to take responsibility for you, Liv!” Krista shouted, her voice trembling with rage and pain. “You think they cared about your paralysis? You think they were going to help you? No! They were going to leave you to rot, just like they always did! You’d have died alone if it weren’t for me!”

Tears streamed down Olivia’s face as her sister continued, her voice filled with both anger and desperation.

“I never saw you as some accidental pregnancy,” Krista said, her voice breaking. “You’re my sister. My actual sister. And I loved you enough to do what needed to be done. I cut ties with them the only way I knew how. They were dead weight, and I sent them to the afterlife because we could never live free with them around!”

Krista’s chest heaved as she forced the words out. “But I knew I couldn’t take care of you alone after that. We had no money. I hadn’t finished school. We were screwed, Liv. So yeah, I made the call to be a criminal. It was the only way.”

“What kind of criminal, Krista?” Olivia asked, her voice barely above a whisper, dread creeping into her tone.

Krista’s grip on the wheel tightened, her knuckles white. “The kind that kills people for their organs,” she said flatly. “And sells them on the black market.”

The confession hung in the air, heavier than the tension before it.

Olivia clutched her stomach, the words sinking in like a poison. “You—what? You… you’ve been killing people?” she stammered, her voice filled with disgust. “For their organs?”

“It paid for your food!” Krista shouted, her voice rising again. “It paid for our roof, our bed, everything! You think it’s easy to keep you alive? To keep you safe? Stop asking so many damn questions and maybe say thanks for once!”

Olivia turned her head away, her face pale as she fought back the urge to vomit. “You’re a monster,” she whispered.

Before Krista could reply, a police SUV barreled out of a side street, slamming into the Subaru’s side.

The impact was violent, sending the car spinning through the air before it smashed into a concrete barricade.

The airbags deployed, cushioning the sisters from the worst of the impact, but the force was still devastating.

Olivia’s head struck the dashboard, and she slumped unconscious in her seat, blood trickling from her nose.

Krista, dazed and battered, felt shards of broken windshield pepper her face. Her vision blurred, and her eyes burned with every blink.

She tried to move, but her body screamed in protest.

Then she heard it—a faint sparkling sound, like static mixed with chimes. It grew louder, more intense.

Snap!

The sound of fingers snapping echoed in her ears. Krista’s consciousness slipped away as the world around her faded into nothing.

When Lindsay and the remaining SUVs arrived on the scene, they found the wreckage of the Subaru. Or rather, what was left of it.

The car was gone.

In its place was a burning circular mark scorched into the asphalt, strange lettering glowing faintly around its edges. From the still-burning flames, a dark red liquid seeped outward—blood.

Lindsay stepped out of her SUV, her gun drawn, her eyes scanning the eerie scene. Her agents fanned out, searching the area.

“Where are they?!” Lindsay barked, her frustration mounting.

“There’s no trace, ma’am,” one of the agents said, his voice shaky. “It’s like they… vanished.”

Lindsay stared at the burning mark, her mind racing for an explanation. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t make sense of what she was seeing.

“Poofed,” another agent muttered under his breath. “Like they weren’t even here.”

8

1099—

Somewhere in Rivens—

Krista’s eyes fluttered open, pain radiating through every inch of her body. Her vision was hazy, but she could make out the dark, twisted shapes of trees above her.

The air was thick, heavy with the stench of decay. The ground beneath her felt damp and cold, and the sound of distant roars sent a chill down her spine.

She blinked, trying to clear her vision. Three moons hung in the sky, their colors—blue, green, and red—casting an eerie glow over the rotting forest.

Krista groaned, trying to push herself up. Her head throbbed, and her body ached, but something else gnawed at her—a deep sense of wrongness.

As her vision cleared, she realized the Subaru was nearby, battered but intact, half-buried in the thick underbrush, with Olivia still seated in the passenger seat, still unconscious.

Krista took a look at the alien world around her.

“What the fuck?”