XLIX

Dr. Yamada fiddled absentmindedly with the edge of his lab coat, his tone light yet laced with genuine curiosity. “What’s he trying to achieve by joining the Dogs? Seems like a death wish if you ask me.”

Tori adjusted her glasses, her expression composed, though her sharp eyes betrayed her focus. “From my sources, it seems he’s fighting an organization called the Elsewhere Cult.”

Atropos, seated silently, felt her attention snap to the conversation. Her sharp gaze flitted across the room, assessing reactions as Tori continued.

“Two years ago, the Bright family was attacked,” Tori said, her voice clipped and professional. “During the incident, the only son of Leora Bright and Reynard Bright was reportedly critically injured—or dead. ‘Reportedly,’ because it’s likely misinformation spread by Leora herself. Shortly after, Reynard disappeared.”

Atropos kept her expression impassive, though the mention of the incident struck a nerve. She had followed that tragedy closely, chasing every lead she could find. Yet, no matter how hard she searched, the trail had gone cold, leaving a lingering frustration she could never quite shake.

Tori tapped her fingers on the desk, her tone darkening. “Not long after, Leora annihilated the mercenary group known as the Oval. And I don’t mean a small skirmish—she completely dismantled them. Fast forward two years, Reynard resurfaces as an unofficial hunter. He infiltrates a gala, kills multiple attendees, and wreaks havoc. My team is still piecing together the connections, but there’s a strong likelihood Reynard’s targets had ties to the Oval or the attack on his family.”

She paused, letting the weight of her words settle. “What remains unclear is what he hopes to achieve by joining the Hunting Dogs. However, my team traced several offshore accounts linked to the gala’s victims. They all lead back to one entity: a cult.”

Atropos finally spoke, her voice calm yet decisive. “The Elsewhere Cult. For some reason, they want Reynard’s son dead.”

Klein tilted his head, his white hair catching the light. “What’s that?”

Tori’s frown deepened, her irritation barely concealed. “An urban legend,” she said tersely. “They’re rumored to be a shadowy organization promising immortality to the wealthy through secretive, likely unethical, means. If they exist, they fall under the jurisdiction of the World Order, not ours. Hunters deal with cryptids, rogue hunters, and phenomena classified as the Strange—not cult conspiracies. Especially not ones rumored to practice unsanctioned aura experiments or connected to the old nobility.”

By “Strange,” Tori referred to rifts, floating islands, peculiar phenomena, and knowledge that defied conventional understanding. And Reynard, Atropos realized grimly, was strange in his own right.

Tori’s gaze sharpened. “Reynard’s fight with Gerry Mansel presents an opportunity. Whatever technique Reynard used to force a confession, it’s rare. That ability could make him an excellent interrogator or spy under my staff.”

Klein chuckled softly, his voice tinged with sarcasm. “And the fallout? Don’t forget the Mansel Household. Exposing Gerry’s involvement with the cult would break our promise to Reynard to cover up Gerry’s death. The Mansels would retaliate—against both him and us.”

Tori pressed her lips into a thin line. “If we suppress the recording, we risk damaging our credibility. Instead, we could spin the narrative—frame the Elsewhere Cult as a dire threat. Reynard becomes a harmless pawn in the story. Or,” she added with a shrug, “we could erase his existence altogether.”

Bob’s voice cut through the debate, casual but weighted. “That’s not an option. Transparency isn’t just a buzzword. The old nobility would demand an investigation, forcing us to hunt Reynard down. At this point, compromise is our only path forward, limited by what Reynard himself wants.”

He surveyed the room, his jovial demeanor replaced by something more somber. “Some of you want him in your departments. But let me remind you—the darkness of this world runs deeper than you can imagine. The Elsewhere Cult is just one thread in a vast, dangerous tapestry. And we rarely get involved for a reason. That’s the World Order’s job.”

Dr. Yamada snorted, tossing a pen onto the table. “The World Order. What a joke. A secretive organization supposedly on par with us and the mundane government? Ridiculous. What do they even do?”

Bob chuckled dryly, his eyes sharp. “What they must. And so will we.”

The meeting adjourned, leaving Atropos feeling more conflicted than ever. She returned to the Command Center, a sterile room bathed in the cold glow of countless monitors. The faint hum of machinery filled the air as her dolls—artificial constructs of her own design—scurried around, performing routine maintenance on the systems.

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She worked alongside them, her mechanical fingers deftly repairing a malfunctioning terminal. The repetitive motions offered her a fleeting sense of control, a distraction from the turmoil churning in her mind.

The soft ding of the elevator broke her concentration. She turned just in time to see Bob step into the room, his imposing figure casting a long shadow across the polished floor. He walked with an air of casual authority, taking his place in the throne-like chair at the center of the Command Center.

Atropos straightened, brushing off imaginary dust from her coat. “Where’s Maurice?” she asked, her tone sharper than she intended. Bob rarely moved without his ever-present bodyguard.

Bob leaned back in his seat, his fingers drumming on the armrest. “You’re sulking.”

Atropos narrowed her eyes. “Of course I am. My brother—you’re putting him in danger.”

Bob tilted his head, studying her with a faint smirk. “You’re right,” he said, his voice calm yet deliberate. “I want him as a hostage. But not against you.”

Her synthetic heart, encased in layers of steel and regret, tightened. “Who, then?” she asked, though she already had a sinking suspicion. “Leora?”

Bob chuckled, a low, almost fatherly sound. “Leora’s good, but not that good.”

Atropos clenched her fists, her voice barely above a whisper. “Then who?”

Bob’s smirk faded, replaced by a calculating expression. “The Elsewhere Cult.”

Atropos froze, her mind racing. “You’re using Reynard to bait them?”

Bob chuckled, the sound laced with a strange mix of amusement and gravity. “Bait? Oh no~! A hidden knife? Yes.” He leaned back, folding his hands behind his head. “I cashed in a favor from the World Order. Borrowed their precogs for a little peek into the Elsewhere Cult. Fascinating stuff, really. Turns out they’re one of the few remnants of the Old Nobility’s pet projects.”

Atropos’s frown deepened. She caught the capitalization in his tone—Old Nobility. Capital O. Capital N. It wasn’t just a title; it was a distinction that carried weight, history, and secrets. Atropos wasn’t privy to the full extent of what the Old Nobility represented, but the mention alone was enough to capture her full attention.

“Care to elaborate?” she asked, her voice carefully neutral.

Bob grinned, as if relishing the opportunity to lecture. “The Old Nobility,” he began, “weren’t just aristocrats with big estates and deeper pockets than sense. They were the ones who thought they could save humanity—often from itself. When the end of the world seemed inevitable, they threw everything they had at solving it. Wealth, intellect, influence. The works.”

“And the Elsewhere Cult is one of their solutions?” Atropos asked, her voice laced with skepticism.

Bob nodded, his expression turning serious. “One of the last surviving ones. Humanity devised all sorts of methods to cheat extinction. Genetic modification, artificial immortality, creating sanctuaries in inhospitable places. You name it. Of course, most of them failed spectacularly. Jumping into another reality? That was among their more… tame ideas.”

Atropos’s synthetic fingers paused mid-motion as she absorbed his words. “Another reality?”

“Yep,” Bob confirmed, his tone light but his gaze sharp. “The Elsewhere Cult’s obsession with the concept of immortality stems from one of those failed experiments. They believe they can escape death by stepping into a parallel dimension. Theoretically, they’re not wrong—alternate realities do exist. But the methods they’re using? Completely unhinged.”

“And Reynard fits into this… how?” Atropos asked, her voice low, almost hesitant.

Bob’s smirk widened, his sharp gaze glinting with a mixture of amusement and intrigue. “In the beginning, the reason the Cult got in touch with the Bright family was because of a prophecy. A precog within their ranks saw Reynard’s son as the one destined to destroy them. They didn’t take that lightly, of course. They went after the boy with everything they had.”

Atropos’s chest tightened. The thought of Reynard’s son—her nephew—being hunted down by a cult sent a pang of anger and dread through her. “Leora must’ve fended them off… or they’ve been misinformed? But that was too much of a coincidence, considering they had a very powerful preg,,,”

Bob leaned back in his throne-like chair, exuding a calm that only served to stoke Atropos’s frustration. “Desperation has a funny way of bringing out the extraordinary. After the Cult’s first attack on his family, Reynard woke his aura. And not just any aura—his attributes strongly resonate with other worlds. That’s rare. Extremely rare. The Elsewhere Cult couldn’t resist the allure of that kind of power.”

Atropos’s fingers tightened into fists. “They wanted to use him,” she said, her voice flat.

Bob nodded, his expression serious now. “Exactly. To them, Reynard is a key—or at least a potential one. If they could harness or replicate his ability, they might finally achieve what they’ve been chasing for decades: a way to traverse parallel worlds. But replicating it perfectly? Impossible. Even for them.”

“Then Reynard should be dead by now,” Atropos said bitterly.

“By all accounts, yes,” Bob replied, his tone unusually solemn. “But he’s not. And that’s what makes him so dangerous—to them and to anyone who gets in their way.”

Atropos narrowed her eyes. “And what do you get out of all this, Bob? What’s your reward? Surely, the World Order didn’t lend you their precogs for free.”

Bob’s smirk returned, sly and self-assured. “Ironically enough, the ‘target’ the Cult’s been chasing has been provoking them right to their faces. Reynard’s presence in the Dogs? It’s a chess move. They’re forced to react, to reveal themselves. And when they do, we’ll be ready to strike.”

Atropos stared at him, her mind churning with questions and doubts. Bob’s plan was audacious, reckless even. But it was also undeniably clever. The question was whether Reynard—or any of them—could survive the game Bob was playing.

“You’re still gambling with his life,” she said, her voice cold.

Bob shrugged, unbothered by her accusation. “Life is a gamble, Atropos. The only question is whether you’re playing to win—or to survive.”

~049