Psychopath is a person with a personality disorder—often linked to Antisocial Personality Disorder (ASPD)—characterized by a lack of empathy, shallow emotions, manipulativeness, impulsivity, and often, a disregard for moral or social norms. Such as: Lack of empathy, Manipulative, Impulsive & risk-taking, Emotionally cold and often blend in many appear normal or even successful—like CEOs, criminals, or con artists.
After finishing their dinner, Wen-Li and Nightingale strolled down the bustling streets of the Bostonian District. The air was thick with the scent of street food, mingling with the faint trace of expensive perfume. Neon lights bathed the streets in hues of red and violet, casting an alluring yet ominous glow over the tightly packed buildings. Holographic signs advertised everything from bars and lounges to less reputable establishments, their flickering animations adding a surreal charm to the district.
The sidewalks were alive with activity. Groups of people gathered outside clubs, their laughter and music spilling into the streets, while others loitered in shadows, exchanging whispered conversations. Vendors called out to passersby, their carts laden with glowing trinkets and steaming delicacies. Despite the lively atmosphere, there was an underlying tension in the air—a palpable reminder of the district's darker reputation.
As Wen-Li and Nightingale walked side by side, their presence, marked by their authoritative demeanor, drew curious glances but ensured no one dared to approach.
Their casual conversation was cut short by the sharp crack of a gunshot echoing through the narrow streets. Both women immediately tensed, their instincts kicking in.
"Did you hear that?" Nightingale asked, already reaching for her radio.
Wen-Li nodded, her gaze narrowing. "This way," she said, leading them toward the source of the sound.
They followed the echo into a dimly lit alleyway, where the hum of the district seemed to fade into an eerie silence. There, sprawled against a graffiti-covered wall, lay the lifeless body of an old man. The crimson pool beneath him reflected the faint light of a flickering street lamp.
Nightingale quickly raised her radio to her mouth. "Dispatch, this is Lieutenant Nightingale. We've got a homicide in the Bostonian District. Send a team to the alleyway near Lunar Cross Street. Over."
As Nightingale relayed their location, Wen-Li crouched by the corpse, her sharp eyes scanning for clues. The old man's face was pale, frozen in an expression of terror, and his chest bore a single gunshot wound. Her gloved fingers carefully lifted the edge of his shirt, revealing an unusual multiple stabbing wound too, the killing was so precisely calculated way, to her a normal human being won't do such thing
"Interesting," she murmured, noticing faint blood smears leading away from the body. "There's a trail."
She rose to her feet and followed the faint trail of blood, senses sharpened to a razor's edge. Each step deeper into the alleyway felt heavier, the air thick with foreboding. A chill scuttled across the back of her neck—a quiet alarm, an animal instinct: someone was watching.
Gun raised—her MR-165 handgun held in a precise side grip—she edged carefully along the wall, breath measured. She turned the corner swiftly, weapon ready, but what met her eyes wasn't a threat. It was far worse.
A wall, smeared in blood. Letters scrawled in manic strokes. The message:
HI THERE
She recoiled slightly, a gasp escaping her lips.
Wen-Li tapped the comms on her wrist-mounted mobile. "Nightingale, this is Chief Copy. I've found a message in the southern alley off Lunar Cross Street. Marked in blood. Over."
Her watch buzzed. Nightingale's voice came through, calm but brisk. "Chief! We're en route."
The Bostonian District pulsed under the sickly red haze of neon signage. SSCBF officers moved methodically, their shadows stretching against rain-slicked alley walls. The crime scene was cordoned off; yellow tape trembled in the breeze.
Chief Wen-Li stood at the scene, arms crossed, posture rigid. The body of an elderly man lay in the centre, eyes open, vacant.
Captain Robert approached, his boots echoing faintly on the wet concrete. "Chief," he said in his low, even tone. "Any leads?"
Wen-Li didn't look at him. Her gaze remained fixed. "Yes. Come with me."
She led him back to the wall—the grotesque message still glistening under forensic lights.
Robert stiffened at the sight. "Some kind of psychotic game," he muttered, shaken despite himself.
"I think the same," she said quietly. "We've recovered evidence too." Turning sharply, she called out, "Demitin!"
The officer strode forward.
"Take a sample of the blood on the wall," Wen-Li instructed. "Get it to Dr. Abrar—let's see if it matches the victim."
Then, to Robert: "You and Lingaong Xuein—search every crevice of this district. Knock on every door. Find out who saw or heard anything."
Robert nodded, thumping his fist to his chest. "Understood, Chief."
"Nightingale," Wen-Li said into her comms, her voice faltering just slightly, "contact the victim's family. Inform… them."
There was a pause.
"As you command, Chief," came the solemn reply.
In a darkened room, the television buzzed and flickered, casting erratic shadows across cracked walls. From the adjoining washroom came the sound of running water.
A young woman in her twenties stood at the basin, scrubbing her arms raw. Blood smeared her pale skin. She stared into the mirror—long and unblinking.
Then, she smiled.
Not kindly.
The room was cold and sterile. Fluorescent lights buzzed above as Dr. Abrar Faiyaz leaned over the victim's body. Beside him stood Nurse Anne Parker, her pinkish hair tied back, her face unreadable as they examined tissue samples and digital readouts.
Wen-Li entered, coat trailing behind her.
"Dr. Abrar," she asked sharply, "any word on cause of death? Do we know who he is?"
Dr. Abrar looked up. "Yes, Chief. The man was—was killed in a particularly… deranged fashion. His name is Safwan Bin Ahmud. Seventy years of age."
He hesitated.
Wen-Li noticed. "What is it?"
"There's more," he said, adjusting his glasses. "Safwan Bin Ahmud was a retired veteran. Decorated. Served this nation for over three decades."
"What?" Her voice caught—half disbelief, half grief.
"I'm sorry," he murmured. "We confirmed it only minutes ago."
"It matches what Captain Robert suspected. The killer wasn't just violent. He was deliberate. But how can you be certain?"
Dr. Abrar gestured toward the display. "The wounds—precise, surgical, detached. The heart was removed post-mortem. And the writing—"
He held up the analysed sample.
"We ran a DNA test on the blood used on the wall. It doesn't match the victim."
Wen-Li went still. The room fell silent.
"You're telling me… the blood is someone else's?"
"Yes, Chief."
"My God…" she whispered. Sweat traced a line down her temple. "Then that man… killed another person too."
Her heart began to pound, the implications unspooling in her mind like razor wire.
"Keep going," she ordered. "Don't stop until we know everything."
As Wen-Li exited the autopsy room, she met Nightingale in the corridor.
"Nightingale. You spoke to the family?"
"Yes, Chief." Nightingale's expression was grave.
"And?"
"They're devastated. Disbelieving. The victim, Safwan Bin Ahmud, lived quietly with his son and grandchildren. No enemies. No threats. Just a retired soldier living out his days in peace."
Wen-Li let out a long sigh. Her hand lingered at her brow.
"He served his whole life to protect this nation… and this is how he was repaid?" she muttered under her breath.
Her eyes narrowed. She was no longer just chasing a killer.
She was hunting for justice.
However at 9:10 PM, at Bostonian District Captain Robert Voreyevsky and Captain Lingaong Xuein moved through the dense lattice of alleys and tight shopfronts of the Bostonian District, their boots tapping rhythmically on the rain-darkened pavement. Lanterns swayed overhead, casting long, restless shadows.
The district was still buzzing—low voices, market chatter, the occasional hiss of steam rising from street grates—but beneath it all lingered a tension. The kind that clings to places after blood has been spilled.
Robert's voice was steady, clipped. "Start with that lot. Stalls to the left. I'll handle the street vendors by the alley junction."
Xuein nodded. Her eyes were sharp, and her tone carried the edge of urgency. "On it."
One by one, they questioned the locals—tailors, noodle vendors, tech repairmen, the cigarette merchant perched on an overturned crate.
"Did you see or hear anything unusual around 7:45 PM? Screams, running, anyone acting strangely?" Xuein asked a weary old bookseller.
He blinked behind thick glasses. "Nothing, officer. I was in my ledger. Didn't even look up."
Further down, a mechanic shook his head. "Miss, I was under a hover-truck all evening. Barely heard my apprentice, let alone a murder."
Robert encountered the same refrain. "Everyone's busy," he muttered. "Conveniently deaf, blind, or both."
Just then—
"Captain!"
The shout rang out from further down the block. Robert and Xuein turned sharply. It was Sakim Massersi, with a perpetually furrowed brow, waving them over.
They jogged to meet him in a narrow alley tucked behind a shuttered arcade. He crouched near a pile of refuse, holding something with gloved hands.
A knife. Serrated, combat-style. Its blade stained dark and ruddy.
Robert crouched beside him, eyes narrowing. "Where did you find it?"
Sakim gestured silently with his chin.
"Back there. Tucked behind a broken vent, about thirty metres from the crime scene. Out of sight."
Robert studied the weapon. "Still fresh. No rust. They didn't toss this by accident."
He rose, voice clipped with command. "Sakim, get that to HQ. Now. Tell forensics this knife likely holds the killer's DNA. It's the breadcrumb we needed."
"Yes, Captain!" Sakim nodded and vanished into the street like a shadow.
Xuein stood quietly for a moment, eyes on the bloodstained blade as Sakim disappeared into the haze.
Then she turned to Robert, her voice laced with both determination and a hint of dread. "How will we find the culprit in all this, Robert? This place—it's a bloody labyrinth."
Robert gave her a sidelong glance, then cracked a faint, rakish smirk. "We'll find him, my dear."
His eyes gleamed with iron conviction.
"We always do."
Meanwhile at Shin Zhang Corporation Center Office, Madam Di-Xian reads the news about the murder occur in the Bostanian District, were crimson lotus on her table bloom by the wind breeze, then a voice comes from the outside as she order to come in sliding door automatically open and enters Alvi Taslim with her full pinkish hair wearing spectacle as she approach, and says "Madam! You called?!"
Madam Di-Xian looks at her with her crimson eyes and reply "Yes, Alvi" she place the newspaper side on her desk as she cross her fingers and glance at her with determination "gather the information of late veteran Safwan Bin Ahmud's killer, he still out there hunting for his other victims!" as she is rotating the pencil with her fingers "Did the agents are their own positions?"
"Yes, Madam!" she reply as she put her hand to her own chest,
"Good!" reply Madm Di-Xian, "any information from Gonda about who is the psychopathic killer?"
"Not yet, Madam!" she reply "but we'll get information""
In the dimly lit analysis room of the Special Security Counter Bureau Force, the soft hum of data servers blended with the clatter of keystrokes. Lan Qian, sat hunched over her multi-screen terminal, the cool glow of the monitors reflecting faintly in her glasses.
She scrolled through hours of surveillance footage from the Bostonian District, her brows furrowed in growing concentration. Streets flickered past in accelerated motion—pedestrians, market stalls, flickers of neon signs—until something caught her eye.
"Wait…"
Her fingers froze over the keyboard. She rewound, slowed the playback, and leaned in.
The footage displayed a timestamp just before 8:00 PM.
Safwan Bin Ahmud, elderly but upright, was seen exiting a modest food stall—one hand holding a paper bag, the other adjusting his coat collar against the breeze. He turned into the alleyway.
From the opposite side, a woman—late twenties or early thirties—emerged. Slim frame, dark coat, expression unreadable in the grainy footage.
But behind her—shadowed, almost spectral—a figure appeared.
Clad in a black hoodie. No discernible features. Gender ambiguous. Silent as death.
In a sudden, shocking movement, the figure stabbed the woman from behind, then dragged her limp body into the darker recesses of the alley.
Lan Qian's breath caught in her throat.
Safwan, having witnessed the assault, hesitated only a second before giving chase—vanishing into the shadows after them.
Quickly, she switched feeds, shifting to a nearby street camera. She saw Chief Wen-Li and Nightingale entering the scene moments later. A faint, indistinct sound—a scuffle, a thud—caused them both to pause. They rushed down the alley.
Seconds later: Safwan's body. Lifeless.
Lan Qian sat motionless, heart thudding in her ears. Her gaze returned to the earlier footage. The woman—the one who was stabbed.
Where was she now?
What had the killer done with her?
Was the blood on the wall… hers?
She muttered aloud, "But… then whose blood was used for the message?"
At that moment, the door slid open.
Chief Wen-Li entered, coat still damp at the hem from the night air.
Lan Qian swivelled quickly in her chair. "Chief! You need to see this."
Without hesitation, Wen-Li stepped forward. Lan cued the footage and replayed it in real-time, narrating as necessary. When the dragging occurred, Wen-Li's lips parted slightly—not in surprise, but in a cold, simmering fury.
Her eyes narrowed on the shadowed figure.
Silent.
Predatory.
Unfathomably calm.
The playback ended. For a long moment, the room was still.
Wen-Li exhaled slowly. "So he wasn't just targeted... Safwan tried to intervene."
"Yes, ma'am," Lan Qian said quietly. "And the woman—there's no record of her turning up at any hospital or morgue. She's vanished."
Wen-Li turned toward her, and something flickered behind her sharp expression—not just anger, but grief honed into resolve.
"You've done brilliantly, Lan Qian," she said with quiet emphasis. "Well done. This changes everything."
The door slid open again with a hiss.
"Chief!" came a breathless voice.
Louisese Langermans stepped into the room, slightly dishevelled, the collar of his coat askew and a fine sheen of sweat on his brow.
Wen-Li turned, visibly startled. "Louisese? When did you get in?"
"Today, Chief," he replied, panting slightly as he steadied himself. "Apologies—I heard what happened. Seems I missed the bloody curtain-raiser."
Wen-Li's brow arched, her tone cool but laced with a flicker of relief. "Yes, you did. And it was no theatre."
She gestured towards the screen behind Lan Qian, the frozen footage still showing the alley. "We've got a woman missing—dragged into the dark right before Safwan was murdered. Lan Qian will brief you on her last known movements. Go. Now."
Louisese gave a sharp nod. "Understood, Chief."
Just as he turned to move, Sakim Massersi entered briskly, a sealed forensic evidence bag in his gloved hands.
Wen-Li's eyes snapped to him. "Sakim. You're here. Did you find anything?"
"Yes, Chief," he said, lifting the plastic bag. Inside, the blood-stained knife glinted faintly under the overhead lights. "Discovered it tucked behind a broken vent. Approximately thirty metres from the crime scene."
She took the bag carefully, eyes scanning the weapon. Her jaw tightened.
"I see," she murmured, the weight of the object far more psychological than physical. "Get this to forensics immediately. I want a full DNA analysis—blood type, fingerprints, fibre residue, whatever they can extract. If we're lucky, it'll give us both the victim's and the killer's profiles."
"Yes, Chief," Sakim affirmed, already turning on his heel.
"And where are Captain Robert and Lingaong Xuein?"
"Still out in the field. Scouring the district. No word yet," Sakim replied over his shoulder.
Wen-Li exhaled sharply through her nose. Her voice grew taut with urgency. "We need to move quickly. If that woman's still alive, she's on borrowed time."
Her expression hardened—eyes narrowed, lips drawn, panic just beneath the surface.
"We can't afford another body in our conscience."
The automatic doors slid open with a low hiss as Alvi Taslim entered, tablet in hand, her expression composed but tinged with urgency.
Madam Di-Xian stood facing the vast window that overlooked the city skyline. The crimson lotus on her desk swayed gently in the artificial breeze, petals illuminated by the ambient light.
"Madam," Alvi said, approaching quickly, "I've reviewed the surveillance footage from Bostonian District. We have a visual."
Di-Xian turned, her crimson eyes locking onto Alvi with a measured calm. "Tell me."
Alvi activated the tablet, projecting a still from the footage: the cloaked figure dragging the woman into the alley.
"It confirms what SSCBF suspected," Alvi said, her voice steady. "The woman was stabbed—likely non-fatally—and pulled into the shadows. Safwan attempted to intervene, but… only his body was recovered. The woman remains missing."
Di-Xian studied the image in silence, then gave a slow nod. "So the killer may still have her. Or—"
Alvi didn't finish the thought. She didn't need to.
Madam Di-Xian turned back to her desk and tapped the embedded comms unit. "Get me Gonda."
After a beat, the grizzled voice of Gonda came through, distorted slightly by the encryption system.
"Gonda here. Roger, Madam. I'm compiling intel now—cross-referencing the M.O. with previous case files and unsolveds. Might take a few minutes, even—"
"Even what?" Di-Xian interjected sharply, her voice like flint striking stone.
A pause. Then Gonda cleared his throat. "Captain Robert contacted me earlier. Requested the same intel. Seems like your paths are aligning."
Madam Di-Xian smiled faintly, the gesture never quite reaching her eyes. "Good. Then it's time we all met at the same table."
She glanced sidelong at Alvi. "And the Chief?"
A beat of silence.
"…She didn't contact me," Gonda admitted.
Di-Xian's smile faded into a cold neutrality.
"Well," she murmured, almost to herself, "we'll see how long that lasts."
Then, with an elegant flick of her fingers, she severed the call.
Madam Di-Xian turned her gaze toward Alvi Taslim, her eyes devoid of warmth—just gleaming calculation behind crimson irises.
"As soon as Gonda delivers the intel on the perpetrator," she said, her voice low and crisp, "contact the agents—Jun, Farhan, Masud, Roy… and especially Agent-90."
Alvi hesitated. "Madam… if I may ask—why always 90?"
Di-Xian's lips curled into a slight, amused smile—not of joy, but something colder. A prelude to menace.
She gave a delicate chuckle. "Because these sorts of criminals… the ones who believe they transcend morality… who think they can butcher the innocent for their own gratification—" she paused, crossing her fingers slowly atop the desk "—they require a mirror. One not bound by empathy or law."
She leaned forward, her voice silk-laced steel.
"Agent-90 doesn't hesitate. The others, for all their skill, are still shackled by conscience. He is not. He's a sociopath—surgically efficient and entirely void of remorse."
Alvi swallowed softly. The air in the room seemed to thicken.
"If the killer is a psychopath," Di-Xian continued, "then the only equal response… is a sociopath."
Alvi blinked, unnerved. "Madam… how are you so certain the killer is a psychopath?"
Di-Xian stood, the sound of her chair gliding back sharp against the quiet. She picked up the discarded news tablet, eyes scanning it one last time.
"The way Safwan Bin Ahmud was killed," she said, her voice now glacial, "was not done in haste. It wasn't chaotic. It was orchestrated. Controlled. Deliberate. That," she said, her voice dipping into something near a whisper, "is the signature of a psychopath."
She turned to Alvi again and smiled—a slow, precise smirk that lacked all human warmth.
It chilled Alvi to her spine. She instinctively straightened, nodding at the unspoken command.
"Yes, Madam. I'll alert the agents immediately." as she turn back at her and says "Madam you just said it reminds me the Newton's Third Law"
Madam Di-Xian said nothing more—her gaze already drifting back to the skyline, as if watching for the storm she'd just set in motion as she gives smirk and says "Yes, it plays as a reaction if it is equal and opposite reaction for the sociopath is the opposite respond of psychopath"
The sterile hum of lab equipment echoed faintly beneath the overhead fluorescents. On the centre table, under a high-resolution scanner, lay the blood-stained knife, now clean of debris but still carrying silent, brutal testimony.
Dr. Abrar Faiyaz, sleeves rolled to his forearms, moved between instruments with careful efficiency. The blade had been analysed through spectral imaging, DNA sequencing, and fingerprint isolation. Nearby, Nurse Anne Parker, still cross-referencing data, looked up as the latest result appeared on the monitor.
A soft ding confirmed the match.
Dr. Abrar exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Bloody hell…"
Sample DNA recovered from the knife: 100% match to Safwan Bin Ahmud.
He tapped another screen to display the secondary forensic run—fingerprint residue lifted from the hilt. Partial, but viable. He entered the data into the SSCBF's cross-referenced biometric database.
Seconds later: Positive ID – Female carrier. Unknown identity.
He froze.
"That… can't be right."
Abrar stared at the result, his eyes widening slightly. "A woman…" he muttered. "It was a woman who wielded the knife…"
Just then, the door hissed open.
Chief Wen-Li stepped into the lab, her coat trailing behind her, eyes already scanning the equipment. "Dr. Abrar," she said, sharp and direct. "Talk to me. What did you find?"
Abrar gestured toward the main screen. "Chief, the knife recovered from the alley—it's confirmed. Safwan's DNA is all over the blade. He was killed with this weapon."
Wen-Li nodded, her expression grim but unsurprised. "Go on."
He hesitated only a moment before tapping to the next slide.
"We pulled a latent fingerprint from the handle. It belonged to a female—likely the killer. No match in the national or military databases, which suggests she's unregistered, underground, or someone deliberately off-grid."
Wen-Li's brow furrowed, her mind already assembling connections like pieces of a fractured map.
"So… the killer's not just anonymous, but very deliberate," she murmured.
Before Abrar could reply, her comm unit vibrated at her wrist.
Louisese Langermans.
She tapped to answer. "Wen-Li. Go ahead."
Louisese's voice crackled through. "Chief! I've found her. The woman from the footage—the one who vanished after the attack."
Wen-Li straightened. "Alive?"
A pause.
"No. I'm afraid not," he replied, voice low. "Body was found just outside the drainage channel near the southern transport hub. Looks like she bled out. But there's more… you'll want to see it for yourself."
Wen-Li's jaw clenched. "I'm on my way."
She ended the call, turning back to Abrar.
"Send everything you have—DNA, fingerprint data, full report—directly to my secure line. And prepare to liaise with Gonda. We're narrowing the noose."
Without waiting for a reply, she was already out the door, coat flaring like a banner of war.
The night air hung damp and heavy over the industrial fringe of the district. An acrid scent of stagnant water and rust lingered near the old drainage channel, cordoned off by yellow SSCBF tape and flanked by floodlights that cast harsh shadows on the concrete walls.
Wen-Li stepped out of her transport unit, boots crunching on the gravelled verge. Her eyes immediately found Louisese Langermans, standing near the site with arms folded, flanked by Sakim Massersi and Officer Daishoji, who was hunched over the uncovered body, a tablet in hand.
She approached briskly.
"Louisese. Report."
He looked up, his face grim. "She's the one from the footage. Matches the build, clothing—stab wound to the back, consistent with what we saw. Likely bled out not long after being dragged into the alley."
Wen-Li knelt beside the body. The woman's face was pale and slack in death, her coat soaked dark with dried blood. There was a certain stillness in the air—a silence that seemed to press down on the team.
"She wasn't dumped randomly," Wen-Li murmured, scanning the site. "Too clean. Too deliberate."
Daishoji stepped forward, adjusting his gloves.
"Chief," he said in his composed, meticulous tone, "we traced a trail from one of the storm drains further north. Looks like the body was dragged through the maintenance tunnel. Whoever did this knew the underground layout. Might've scouted it beforehand."
Wen-Li stood slowly, her eyes narrowing. "So the killer planned not just the attack—but the disposal route."
Louisese added, "There's no sign of struggle after the initial wound. No defensive marks either. She was probably unconscious or incapacitated before she even reached this place."
Before she could respond, Wen-Li's comms buzzed again—a new transmission. She tapped her wrist.
"Go ahead."
Captain Robert's voice crackled through, low and insistent.
"Chief. Gonda's found something. Odd, but potentially big. We're in Gloombane, one of the alleyways near the old cathedral ruins. You'll want to see this for yourself."
Wen-Li's brows furrowed. "How serious?"
"Let's just say," Robert said, "it's not just about Safwan anymore."
Wen-Li's eyes flicked toward the body at her feet, then back at her team.
"I'm en route. Don't touch anything until I get there."
She ended the call and turned to Louisese.
"Secure the body, have forensics sweep the entire drainage path. Daishoji, I want thermal scans of the tunnels—if someone's been using them, there might be residual heat or track marks."
Louisese gave a nod. "And Gloombane?"
"I'm heading there now."
Her voice was sharper now, stripped of ambiguity.
"Whatever this is—it's escalating."
At Gloombane – East Alley, Near the Ruins of St. Veritas Cathedral, the alley was a fractured artery of urban decay—crooked ferrocrete walls, pulsating with glitching plasma billboards and rusted out ventilation shafts. Neon kanji, half-dead and flickering, crawled across the surface like terminal code bleeding out. Overhead, aerial tram rails creaked on rusted joints, casting crooked shadows over the street below. The scent of ozone, coolant, and rot hung thick in the air.
Chief Wen-Li stepped carefully through the ankle-deep grime, the soles of her boots slick with a foul mixture of oil and blood. Her eyes caught glimmers of artificial light dancing across puddles like spectres from another world—ghosts of luxury, projected above the filth.
Ahead, she spotted them—Captain Robert, Captain Lingaong Xuein, and Gonda, who stood casually with a cigarette dangling from his lips, the glow cutting through the mist like a sullen star.
"So…" Wen-Li said, approaching, her voice dry, "I haven't missed the spectacle, then?"
Gonda glanced over, a wry smirk curling his lips. "Right on time, Chief."
She folded her arms. "What've you got on the killer?"
Gonda exhaled a slow stream of smoke, his eyes narrowing. "We were about to brief. Someone else is joining us."
"Who?" asked Xuein, turning slightly, suspicion tightening her jaw.
From the gloom beyond the neon wash, a figure emerged—heels clicking with slow deliberation.
Madam Di-Xian.
Her crimson hair caught the blue light like living fire, and her coat flowed behind her like liquid velvet. Wen-Li's breath caught as she instinctively stepped back.
"Madam Di-Xian… you—?"
"Yes," she replied coolly, stepping closer, her gaze a dagger cloaked in silk. "You're hunting a psychopath, Chief. So are we."
Lingaong Xuein frowned. "How can you be so certain?"
Di-Xian gave a sidelong glance to Gonda, who sighed as if burdened by the weight of truth.
He flicked the ash from his cigarette. "Name: Jung Yoo-jung. Notorious psychopath. Her record's buried under suppressed files. She murdered a private home tutor in Ravenhollow. Posed as a secondary school student in need of English lessons. She butchered the tutor in her own home… then dismembered the corpse. Carried the remains in a suitcase. Dumped them in an isolated forest by the banks of Ashenports."
Wen-Li's eyes widened in horror. "Why? What could drive her to something so monstrous?"
"She was… inspired," Gonda said bitterly. "Crime dramas, pulp novels—serial killer podcasts. A mind flooded with manufactured carnage. Raised by her grandfather after being abandoned at two. She failed university entrance several times and spiralled into fantasy. Her 'entertainment' rewired her—dopaminergic reinforcement from simulated violence. She didn't just watch these things, Chief. She trained."
"Trained… to kill," murmured Wen-Li, her voice laced with revulsion.
Xuein looked pale. "She's not just mentally unwell—she's methodical. Dangerous."
"No," Madam Di-Xian said, her voice like frost catching flame, "she is a psychopath."
Her expression was void of sentiment—cold, analytical. It made Alvi's earlier discomfort feel justified.
Captain Xuein turned to Robert, who had silently lit another cigarette using Gonda's lighter.
"What do you say, Robert?"
He took a deep inhale, eyes narrowing. "There's one way to end this. You know it, and so does she," he said, nodding toward Di-Xian.
Wen-Li's heart thumped.
"What are you talking about?" she asked, a note of panic in her tone.
"To stop a psychopath…" Di-Xian replied, stepping closer, "you need a sociopath."
Wen-Li blinked. "A sociopath? Who?"
The corner of Di-Xian's mouth lifted into a deadly smirk. She tilted her head slightly.
"Agent-90."
Wen-Li's eyes widened. Her cheeks coloured faintly. "Ninety…?"
"Yes," Di-Xian said, her voice low and absolute. "He doesn't flinch. Doesn't negotiate. Doesn't feel. He's the blade you send when the rules have failed."
She turned to Gonda, her gaze hardening.
"You gave him the full intel?"
Gonda placed his hand over his chest, bowing ever so slightly. "As you instructed, Madam. Everything—pattern analysis, psychological profile, movement prediction grids. Agent-90 is fully briefed."
Wen-Li shivered subtly. A cold sweat pricked the back of her neck.
"She's absolutely terrifying," she thought to herself, the words barely forming in her mind before being swept away by Di-Xian's overpowering presence.
The night had turned colder.
And now, the game has truly begun.
Before turning away, Madam Di-Xian reached into the inside pocket of her tailored coat and retrieved a small, impeccably printed card. With a rare flicker of softness—albeit as controlled as everything else she did—she handed it to Wen-Li.
"Here," she said, her voice low and smooth. "That's my direct line at Shin Zhang Corporation Centre Office. If you find yourself in need—don't hesitate. Just call, Wen-Li."
The way she said her name—deliberately dropping the title—made Wen-Li's spine straighten involuntarily. She blinked once, caught slightly off guard.
"…Thank you, Madam," she replied, tucking the card into her coat, perhaps a touch too quickly.
From behind her, Captain Robert leaned in with a smirk.
"Well, well," he said in a low voice. "Looks like she just gave you her number, Chief."
Wen-Li shot him a sideways glare, the corners of her mouth twitching with barely restrained embarrassment. "It's not like that," she muttered, voice clipped.
Captain Lingaong Xuein chuckled softly, arms folded as she watched the exchange with thinly veiled amusement. "Chief, you've been acting odd ever since she showed up. Especially after she mentioned Agent-90. I could swear your cheeks went a shade pink."
"Or else…" Robert added, his grin widening.
Wen-Li spun on them. "Shut up, you two."
They both laughed—quiet, dry chuckles that echoed lightly in the alley.
Gonda, ever the opportunist, gave a half-wave and turned to leave. "Right, well—I'll be off. I've a sociopath to watch from a very, very safe distance."
Wen-Li stepped forward. "And what about Jung Yoo-jung, Gonda?"
He stopped, glancing back with a glint in his eye. "Chief… you don't trust him?"
There was a pause.
Wen-Li folded her arms. "No. I trust him." Her tone flattened just slightly. "I just don't trust what he might do if left completely unsupervised."
Gonda grinned. "Fair point."
With that, he disappeared into the dark, coat flapping lightly behind him.
Wen-Li sighed and turned to her two captains. "Come on. Let's head back to SSCBF."
Robert gave a theatrical bow. "After you, Chief. Or should I say—Wen-Li, now?"
Wen-Li fixed him with a death stare as Xuein stifled another laugh.
"Not. One. Word."
The three of them walked off, their footsteps echoing softly down the damp alley, just as the last flicker of neon finally sputtered and died.
At Inner Sector – Market Fringe, 10:43 PM, the city roared around her—bright, noisy, overstimulated. Yet she walked through it untouched, a phantom cloaked in anonymity. The hood of her sweatshirt was pulled low, casting a shadow over her features. Her trousers were plain, her posture ordinary. She moved like a smudge in the crowd, blending so seamlessly that eyes simply slid past her.
Jung Yoo-jung was hunting.
Hands buried in her pockets, fingers toying with a thin plastic blade and a small vial of powdered sedative, she wove silently between late-night vendors and flickering holo-ads. Her eyes—cold, predatory—scanned the crowd with precise detachment.
She didn't see people.
She saw patterns. Vulnerabilities. Rhythms to exploit.
Then—there.
A man in a tailored business suit. Expensive, sharp. Walking alone, too confident in his schedule to sense danger.
She peeled away from the flow of pedestrians and followed him as he slipped down a narrow side street—one of those unregistered alleyways where CCTV had long since died, or been silenced.
She trailed him, footfalls soft, the thrum of the city now distant. Her breath came evenly, lips parted ever so slightly, like a wolf preparing to lunge.
The man turned right.
She did the same.
But when she rounded the corner—
He was gone.
The alley was empty. Silent.
Her breath stilled.
Yoo-jung slowed, eyes flicking across rusted dumpsters and collapsed ductwork. Her right hand gripped the blade in her pocket. Something was off.
Too quiet. Too clean.
She took another step, senses bristling—
And then—something moved behind her.
Before she could turn—
A garrotte slid around her neck.
Sharp, metallic wire bit into her throat with surgical precision. Her eyes flared wide as she clawed at it instinctively, but her assailant didn't falter. The grip was impossibly strong, unrelenting. Her heels kicked against the slick ground as she was dragged into the shadows.
Behind her, the figure remained ghostly still—a tall man in a pristine, charcoal gentleman's suit, his gloved hands unshaking. He wore black spectacles, framing pale, cold blue eyes that gleamed in the dark with the hue of controlled malice.
No badge.
No emotion.
No name spoken.
Agent-90.
He said nothing—no threat, no warning, no dramatic declaration. His breathing didn't even change as he tightened the wire with professional grace, dragging her deeper into the alley's abyss.
Yoo-jung choked, her body thrashing—but her mind was fast, calculating. She slipped her blade from her pocket, swinging it back blindly in a last-ditch strike.
Agent-90 caught her wrist mid-air.
Effortless.
She stared into those blue eyes—empty, glacial, inhuman. She had lived her life as the predator, always steps ahead. But now—
She was prey.
And he?
He was the end.
Next, Jung Yoo-jung's eyes flickered open—bloodshot, wild, disoriented. Her breath was ragged, the taste of copper on her tongue. A low, droning hum filled the air, the kind that seemed to rattle from inside the walls themselves.
Her arms were bound tightly to a chair, wrapped in layers of industrial duct tape. Her ankles, too, were pinned. The chair beneath her creaked with every shallow movement. Her surroundings were pitch-black save for a single, naked overhead bulb that flickered intermittently.
Then—footsteps.
Slow.
Measured.
Heavy.
A rhythm that felt rehearsed. Predatory.
From the gloom, a figure emerged.
Agent-90.
Impeccably dressed. Charcoal three-piece suit. Black leather gloves. Spectacles glinting under the failing light. His expression: void. His gaze: cold enough to freeze the blood in her veins.
Jung's lips curled in a snarl that barely masked the fear in her eyes.
"You…" she spat. "Agent-90…"
Her voice wavered beneath forced bravado. "It's a crime, you know. To lay your hands on a woman like me."
Crack.
His gloved hand met her cheek with brutal precision, her head snapping sideways with a sharp gasp. The sound echoed in the room like a gunshot.
He stood over her, impassive.
Then, with voice calm and steady as if reading a clinical diagnosis, he spoke:
"Jung Yoo-jung.
A woman who finds joy in murder.
Who consumes crime dramas and murder stories like a child eats sweets.
And when fiction wasn't enough, you decided to turn fantasy into flesh.
You masqueraded as a secondary student. Lured a private tutor into trust. Killed her. Dismembered her body in your home.
And more recently—Safwan Bin Ahmud. A decorated veteran. You killed him without hesitation.
You murdered Jee Kun Li.
For what? Your amusement? Dopamine?
You crave reward, Jung? Then let me offer it: Death.
For your crimes.
For every life extinguished beneath your ego.
What sort of twisted thing are you?"
She began to laugh—a warped, cackling sound that reverberated in the walls.
"Psychopath?" she echoed, head rolling with a deranged grin. "Oh, please. You're no better than me."
Her eyes gleamed with manic pride as she leaned forward as far as the restraints allowed, whispering:
"You think that suit make you righteous?
You've butchered more people than I ever have.
You kill without flinching, without soul.
You're a ghost in a graveyard of corpses.
If I'm a monster, you're the end that waits for us all.
Humans are parasites. Hollow. Disposable. I just skipped the sentiment.
The truth is—we deserve extinction. And that includes you."
Agent-90 remained perfectly still.
His voice, when it came, was softer. Deadlier.
"Yoo-jung…
I'm not like you.
You delight in death. You do it for stimulation. For kicks.
I…? I kill people like you.
When the law becomes sentimental and the system falters… I respond.
I am the consequence."
He opened a black case nearby. Inside: surgical instruments—razors, clamps, scalpels, syringes. All pristine. All silent.
Jung's eyes widened.
He picked up a scalpel, the blade catching the light.
"Let's begin," he said.
What followed wasn't loud. There were no screams—Agent-90 worked quietly, deliberately. Each incision was methodical, calculated to inflict maximum pain with minimal damage—prolonging her awareness, drawing out the moment.
Her manic grin twisted into shock, then anguish.
He whispered clinical observations as he worked—psychological deconstruction intertwined with physical dismantling.
By the time her body gave in, her mind had broken long before.
The light flickered once.
Then blinked out.
Leaving behind only silence.
And a chair, empty but for blood and wire.