"Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster, and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you." — Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil
Date: December 11th, 9 PM, the Year 2050
Location: Fate City (Capital)
Code: J.H.
Screen flickered. Cigarette smoke hung thick as fog.
"This is Fate's Freedom Fighter News. We are the only source of news that provides unfiltered information to the public; please consider donating to our cause by visiting FFF.com." Same practiced bullshit every night. "Now... back to the news."
I nursed my drink. Watched the usual crowd—outcasts, drifters living in the shadows of Fate City's shiny towers. My people. Used to be, anyway.
"Yesterday, the President addressed the 'Leak Incident.' Earlier this week, classified documents were exposed to the public by someone calling themselves 'Phantom.' The document labeled 'Crime Report 2023' revealed a 40% increase in crime rates over the last decade—while official news networks conveniently reported on everything but: the latest campaign, the opening of a new sports hall."
Screen showed the President. Stone face. Dead eyes. Same puppet who read whatever script the generals handed him. Real power wasn't in that chair—it was in the war rooms, the briefings he wasn't invited to. Peace Walkers answered to different masters now.
"The public shouldn't worry about crime rates; it will only cause chaos. We have already set up the required systems to tackle the problem."
I snorted. Required systems. Like me. Fresh-minted Special Investigator with the Peace Walkers Unit. Traded my spine for clearance and a paycheck. Shit deal.
"You seem distant all of a sudden," said Grey.
Turned to face him. Same perfect grey suit, same controlled calm. Only guy in this shithole who looked like he belonged somewhere else, but owned the room anyway. Grey beard, age spots, looked like easy prey.
Wrong. Nobody fucked with Grey. Ever.
"Been feeling off," I said. "Like I'm wearing someone else's skin. Can't tell if I'm me, or just the guy on the payroll."
Grey's eyes crinkled. "Surprised you think you know 'who you are.' When I was your age, I was nowhere close." Leaned in. "Think you're lying to yourself."
"What's that mean?"
"Jack," the bartender cut in, wiping down his counter with a rag that'd seen better decades. "Sorry, but you asked me to track time. Almost midnight. You guys should bounce. It's been crazier than usual around here."
Grey nodded. "Our friend's right. We'll continue this another time."
"Appreciate it," I said. "Hope the place's still standing next time."
Sharp ringing cut through my skull—my new receiver. First assignment.
Shit.
"Sorry," I said, standing. "Gotta take this."
Outside. Night air bit cold, winter coming fast. Tapped my ear.
"Jack. Correct?" Voice sounded mechanical, stitched together from different recordings.
"Yeah. Who's asking?"
"Oracle. You have been. Selected. Target Site: York Building. Your receiver contains. Required data. Specter Mode. Cyber Armor. Access granted." Each phrase dropped like a hammer. "Proceed. Special Investigator Jack."
Line went dead. Grey stepped out, neon lights cutting his silhouette sharp.
"Be careful out there, Jack," he said, hand extended. "See you around."
"You too." Shook it. "Gotta run."
We split. That familiar dread crawled up my spine—same fear that ate at me in Hope City. Swore I wouldn't let it consume me again.
Not this time. This time, I'd face whatever came at me head-on.
York Building. One of three towers that owned Fate City's skyline. Government meets crime families here. Neutral ground, they called it. Safe space for dirty deals.
Yeah, right. Safe.
Rain hammered down as I approached, wind cutting through my jacket like a blade. Cold bit deep. Behind me, a crowd had gathered—faces blank with shock and disbelief. Hours since it happened. Evidence collected.
Nothing found.
Nothing. That part made my gut twist.
New recruit leading a high-profile massacre? Please. Either the experienced guys were buried in other shit, or someone wanted a disposable investigator. Someone who'd stumble around, ask the wrong questions, maybe catch a bullet for his trouble.
"Such a mess," I muttered. "Joined at the absolute worst fucking time."
As I crossed the threshold into York Building, my vision blurred then refocused, revealing a simulation of the crime scene. A soft female voice spoke directly into my ear.
"The latest technology from the science department. What you are seeing are snapshots of the crime scene. If you wish to learn more about any elements, announce 'Augmented Mode,' which will connect your lenses to the PW database. If you wish to simulate the smell of the scene or any other sensory input, announce 'Senses.' If you announce 'Senses' without specifying a particular sense, the system will activate all senses. For more information about available commands, announce 'Assistant: Command List.' Thank you, and good luck with your mission."
I sighed. "Great. Another voice in my head. Just what I needed." Pause. "Least you sound better than the shit storm outside."
"Thank you, Jack. That's considerate of you."
Christ. It talks back.
"How do I turn off the interactive mode?"
"It's quite simple. Just announce 'Solitude with functionality setting turned on.'"
"No hard feelings, sweetheart."
"Yes, Jack. I understand."
"Solitude with functionality setting turned on. Augmented Mode activated."
The banquet hall materialized. Labels floating above everything. Massive space—big as the parking lot outside. Ancient dining hall vibes, complete with a chandelier that could crush half the room if it dropped.
"Jesus. This place is huge."
Started walking the perimeter. Standard shit—map the exits, understand the layout.
Except nothing felt standard. Nothing felt right.
Bodies. Everywhere.
The scene hit like a sledgehammer. Blood on marble. Twisted limbs. Panic frozen in time. I'd seen this dance before—different stage, same choreography. Same hollow silence after the music stopped.
"So many..."
But something was off. The arrangement—too clean. Too... deliberate. Bodies didn't fall like this naturally. Someone had moved them. Positioned them.
Blood patterns weren't random either. They told a story. Someone wanted this to look like chaos, but there was order underneath. A message written in corpses.
Just like Hope City.
Memories bled through the simulation. Empty halls. Running feet. Explosions. The ghosts wouldn't stay buried.
"Enter Peace Simulation."
Fireplace. Benches. Grass field under stars. Warm breeze.
"Turn on Lullaby."
Soft humming. Breathing slowed. Heart rate dropped.
"Get your shit together," I told myself. "First real mission and you're falling apart like a rookie. Move."
Minutes passed. Control returned. But I'd learned something—whoever did this knew about Hope City. Knew it'd fuck with my head. This wasn't random. This was personal.
"Turn off Peace Simulation and Augmented Mode. Visualize the crime scene without the victims. One hundred percent accuracy."
Empty hall. Clean. Pristine.
Now I could see what those other teams missed. Blind bastards.
Paintings on the walls. Untouched. Perfect. In a massacre this brutal, nothing stays clean. Nothing gets protected.
Unless someone wanted them protected.
Had to work for it though. Walked the entire perimeter twice before I spotted the tell—micro-scratches in the marble beneath each frame. Mounting hardware had been adjusted. Recently.
Three paintings. Three messages waiting to be read.
One painting dominated the wall. Massive thing. Showed a city in ruins, buildings crumbling, fire everywhere.
"Hope City."
Pieces clicked. This wasn't just a massacre. It was an art show. A fucking gallery. Someone turned York Building into their personal message board.
But I needed more than hunches. Time to dig deeper.
"Give me information on all the paintings."
Waited. Let the system work while I studied the blood patterns again. No rush. Good investigators don't jump at the first shiny object.
"There are a total of three paintings," the assistant's voice replied.
"The Cycle, 1999, by G.F.; meaning of the initials unknown and not present in existing databases. The painter left a small note: 'There is no black and white, only grey. The cycle of mankind keeps going forever. The cycle of destruction and creation. Whoever gains knowledge and mastery over these two fields will become equal to god.' Valued at 200 million."
"The Saviours, 2005, by Isabella F.; last name unknown and not present in existing databases. The painting depicts two babies facing each other. According to J.J. of the Fate City Art Society: 'The painting beams with life; it gives you the feeling of comfort; it gives you faith in everything good.' Valued at 400 million."
"The Fall of Hope City, 2010, painter unknown. Depicts the destruction of the city caused by a massive explosion. J.J. of the Fate City Art Society writes: 'A snapshot of the moment when what used to be the science and technology hub of Destiny, The Hope of Destiny, died.' Valued at 200 million."
Three paintings. Destruction and creation. Hope and despair. Birth and death. Someone telling a story in blood and canvas.
"Any damage on the paintings?"
"Running diagnostic... No damage on any paintings due to protective frequency field set to prevent physical and Cyber Armor attacks."
Bingo. These weren't preserved by luck—they were protected on purpose. Killer had military-grade tech. Maybe Peace Walker tech.
Which meant someone with serious clearance.
"Was the frequency field altered on any object?"
Long pause. System working hard on this one.
"There is a slight change in the frequency of the field on the painting titled 'The Fall of Hope City.'"
Pulse spiked. Course it fucking is.
Nothing's coincidence. Not the Hope City painting. Not the altered frequency. Not me getting assigned to this clusterfuck. Someone was pulling strings. Someone wanted me here, staring at this specific piece.
I moved toward the painting. Step by step. Let the tension build. The air shifted as I got closer. Reality bent at the edges.
The world warped and faded, pulling me backward through time and space.
Someone left this door open. On purpose.
And I just walked right through it.