As Chief Wen-Li and Agent-90 stepped through the imposing glass doors of the SSCBF headquarters, the lobby—normally buzzing with routine—ground to a halt.
Two front guards flinched instinctively. One of them stepped forward, eyes darting to the dark figure beside the Chief.
"Chief… this man—!" he gestured nervously at Agent-90. "He's dangerous. And he's carrying a bag. We don't know what's inside—he could be armed, or worse."
Agent-90 remained perfectly still, his face expressionless. His piercing ice-blue eyes locked with the guard's, sending a shiver down the poor officer's spine. He said nothing—but his gaze alone was enough to silence further protest.
Wen-Li gave a light chuckle, raising a hand casually. "Oh, come now. Relax. I invited him."
"But… Chief—" the guard stammered, his grip tightening on the handle of his sidearm.
Just then, another voice rang out sharply behind them.
"What's all this fuss?"
It was Nightingale, descending the staircase in full field uniform. She spotted Agent-90 beside the Chief and instantly dropped into a defensive stance, drawing her RG-126 handgun with fluid precision.
"Chief, step back. He's dangerous—he's not supposed to be here!"
"Nightingale, calm down," Wen-Li said firmly, placing a steady hand on her subordinate's wrist and gently lowering the weapon. "He's not a threat. Not today."
Before Nightingale could respond, the heavy footsteps of a senior figure echoed through the hall.
Commander Krieg appeared, flanked by officers and analysts. The tension doubled. Staff stood frozen—others ducked behind desks or placed their hands on their weapons.
Krieg raised a brow. "Well, well… it's been a while, Agent-90."
Agent-90 nodded once, still calm. "Pleasure to meet you again, Commander."
"Wait," Nightingale murmured, her brow furrowing. "What's going on? Why is he here?"
Krieg turned to her, surprised. "Have you forgotten already, Nightingale? He's the one who worked with the late Chief Wen-Luo—helped us eliminate seventy-three Sinners and one hundred and seven outlaws in just under three years."
Nightingale hesitated. "Yes, but… I mean, I've read the reports—but seeing him in person…"
Before she could finish, Wen-Li blinked, visibly confused. "Wait—what is happening right now?"
Agent-90 finally broke his silence, his tone as cold as steel. "Chief… it's not the time."
Wen-Li nodded slowly, her voice barely a whisper. "I see…"
The pair moved forward, but the atmosphere inside the headquarters remained unsettled. As they passed through the main lobby, officers whispered amongst themselves. Some watched Agent-90 with open fear. Others glared with resentment, refusing to look him in the eye.
One officer muttered just loudly enough to be heard, "Look at the beast…"
He gestured at Agent-90's back. "Makes me sick. A guy like him belongs in hell. Probably has a bomb in that duffel."
A tense silence descended like a blade. Even the air felt heavier.
Then Agent-90 stopped.
He turned slowly to face the speaker.
"You're Officer Matthew Rozario, age forty-eight," he said, voice even and precise. "You're married to Helena D'Cruz, and have two daughters. The elder—Sophie—is in her third semester at Chi-Wuxian Medical University. The younger—Irene—just began her first term at Jai-Young High School."
The entire lobby froze.
Rozario's face turned pale. "How… how do you know that?"
Agent-90's eyes narrowed with unblinking certainty. "Because I know everyone's identity in this building. And outside of it."
He didn't raise his voice.
He didn't need to.
Rozario stood motionless, his earlier bravado utterly extinguished.
Wen-Li watched, eyes wide, a chill running down her spine.
"My god… he's as terrifying as Madam Di-Xian," she thought, swallowing hard.
Yet even as fear rippled through the room, something in her shifted—respect, perhaps. Or understanding.
And maybe… just a touch of awe.
The hum of the overhead light was constant—low, steady, just shrill enough to gnaw at the nerves. The sterile white walls closed in like a padded oubliette. On the other side of the reinforced glass, the surveillance team watched in silence.
Jane Hamilton sat chained to a steel chair, her hands cuffed in front of her, bloodied at the knuckles. A split lip still oozed faintly. Despite her wounds, she slouched lazily, her expression hovering between smug amusement and thinly-veiled contempt.
Across the table stood Captain Robert Voreyevsky, arms folded, jaw tight. Beside him, Captain Lingaong Xuein, arms at her sides but eyes razor-sharp, watched Jane with quiet calculation.
Robert broke the silence first.
"Well," he said in a dry baritone, "you've certainly made a name for yourself, Jane. Causing mayhem on public transport. Setting off explosives. Brandishing an MS2 in front of the Chief. Care to tell us what the endgame was?"
Jane smirked, leaning back as far as the restraints would allow.
"Ah, Robert," she said, her voice honeyed and mocking, "still so serious. Always playing the stern soldier. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten me."
He arched a brow. "Trust me, you're not that memorable."
Jane gave a slow clap with her cuffed hands, the sound soft and sarcastic. "Ouch. That stung. A little banter before the usual torture?"
Lingaong Xuein finally stepped forward, voice calm but ice-laced. "No torture, Jane. Not yet. We're just trying to understand why someone like you—S-class Sinner, known for subtlety—decided to pull something so... messy."
Jane's eyes flicked to Xuein, curious now. "You're the clever one, aren't you? I've read about you—former negotiation specialist, flawless record, quite the reputation for emotional composure."
"I don't need reputation," Xuein replied coolly. "I need answers."
Jane shrugged. "Fine. Ask."
Robert leaned in, lowering his tone. "Who sent you?"
Jane tilted her head. "Sent me? Darling, I'm not a dog."
"You don't act alone," Xuein said flatly. "You were the distraction. So who planted the real payload?"
Jane grinned, blood glinting on her teeth. "Oh, she's good."
Robert slammed his fist on the table, causing the metal to rattle. "Enough games! Talk."
But Jane only laughed. It was high, sharp, and touched with madness.
"You really think you're in control of this room, don't you?" she said, leaning forward, voice low. "I wasn't sent to succeed. I was sent to see."
Xuein frowned. "See what?"
"How far you've come from the old regime," Jane whispered. "What your new Chief bleeds for. And whether he is still the monster they say he is."
Both captains stiffened.
"Agent-90," Robert said grimly.
Jane chuckled. "The Velvet Guillotine. The ghost. The spectre. We tell stories about him to frighten recruits. And now—he's yours again."
She looked at Xuein, a glint of something unhinged in her eyes. "You know what that means, don't you? You've taken the leash off something that never needed permission to kill."
Xuein's voice didn't waver. "He's our ally."
"He's a loaded gun with no safety," Jane replied, smiling wide. "And you've just pointed him at the shadows without knowing where they lead."
There was a long pause.
Robert straightened. "You've got one more chance, Jane. Who are the others?"
Jane leaned back again, content. "Oh, they're already moving, Captain. In the ghettos. The spires. In your systems. While you're playing twenty questions here with me."
She closed her eyes, sighing. "Tick-tock."
Behind the one-way mirror, Chief Wen-Li and Commander Krieg stood in silence, watching.
"She's baiting them," Wen-Li murmured.
Krieg nodded. "And she's enjoying every second of it."
The faint hum of filtered air barely disturbed the sanctity of Madam Di-Xian's office. Bathed in soft vermilion hues, the space was minimalist yet ornate—precision meeting artistry. On the corner of her obsidian desk, a crimson lotus, vivid and waxen, bloomed in a delicate crystal vase. The petals quivered slightly as the artificial breeze passed, like the slow breath of something living.
Madam Di-Xian sat poised, eyes flicking across the holographic interface projected above her laptop. A roster of encrypted client data scrolled across the screen. Her long, lacquered fingers danced over the touchpad with the precision of a concert pianist, issuing silent commands to systems only she fully understood.
Then—a knock.
She didn't look up.
"Enter," she said coolly.
The door slid open, and in stepped Jun, unusually tense. His typically unshakable calm was frayed, his brow lightly furrowed, eyes darting to her before settling reluctantly on the lotus.
"Madam," he said, stepping forward with measured deference.
She finally glanced up, her crimson gaze pinning him with mild curiosity.
"What's the matter, Jun? You've the expression of a man who's lost something irreplaceable."
Jun exhaled. "We can't find him. Agent-90. We've searched the perimeter, security logs, every corridor. It's as if he's... vanished."
For a heartbeat, there was only silence.
Then a soft, musical chuckle escaped her lips. It was not cruel, but unsettling in its serenity.
She leaned back in her chair, folding her hands beneath her chin.
"Oh, Jun," she murmured with a faint smirk. "You don't find the Velvet Guillotine. He lets himself be found—when it suits him."
Jun frowned. "Madam, if he's compromised protocol—"
She raised a hand delicately to stop him, then turned her gaze to the lotus, its petals trembling faintly under the light.
"No. He's exactly where he intended to be."
She paused, then spoke with the cadence of someone reciting poetry she wrote herself.
"The Velvet Guillotine is at the petals of dandelion."
Jun blinked, confusion clouding his otherwise sharp eyes. "…Pardon?"
Her smile deepened, enigmatic.
"It means," she said softly, "he's with Chief Wen-Li of the SSCBF."
Jun's eyes widened slightly.
"You knew?"
"Of course I knew," she said, voice like silk across glass. "He walks between institutions like smoke through a broken seal. You don't control Agent-90. You simply release him."
She returned her attention to her screen, flicking a window shut.
"Let him be, Jun. He's in the field now. And if I'm not mistaken… something's already begun to stir."
Jun hesitated, then bowed. "As you say, Madam."
As Jun turned to leave, Madam Di-Xian spoke again, her voice a melodic purr.
"Oh—and Jun."
He paused mid-step and turned back, awaiting her words.
"The Nihari you lot brought from Lahoraka..." she said, eyes briefly softening as she gazed at the lotus beside her, "...was marvellous. The aroma, the depth, the marrow—absolutely sublime. It was the finest breakfast I've had in years."
A rare smile flickered across Jun's face—genuine and boyish, the kind that seldom broke through his composed exterior.
"It was Farhan and Masud, Madam," he replied, the corners of his lips twitching upward. "They picked it up for you and Alvi—and us, of course. Though… I suspect the 90's portion went untouched."
She arched an eyebrow with a knowing glint. "Naturally. He eats like a machine—only when necessity demands it."
Jun chuckled softly. "Still, it was nice to feel… human for a moment."
Madam Di-Xian tilted her head slightly, her smile lingering in the shadows of her expression.
"And that," she said gently, "is why I keep you a lot closer."
She returned to her screen, her expression once again unreadable, but the faint scent of cardamom and marrow broth still seemed to linger in the air—an echo of warmth in a cold, calculated world.
At 08:10 AM, the morning sun filtered through the reinforced porthole window of the President's Office, casting long streaks of golden light across the polished marble floor. The air inside was still, almost solemn, save for the faint hum of the filtration vents.
President Song Louyang stood near the window, his posture ramrod straight, hands clasped behind his back. His eyes scanned the skyline—Lahoraka's towers piercing the mist like ancient spears. His brow was slightly furrowed, lost in thought, tension simmering beneath the surface of his otherwise composed expression.
A knock interrupted the silence.
The door eased open and Lieutenant Nightingale stepped in, her salute crisp.
"Mr President," she said, "Chief Wen-Li has arrived."
Without turning, he nodded once. "Let her in."
Nightingale dipped her head and withdrew. Seconds later, the door opened again—this time with measured confidence—and Chief Wen-Li stepped inside.
"President," she said, her tone respectful yet calm. "You called for me?"
Song Louyang turned slowly, his face impassive but his eyes razor-sharp.
"Yes, Chief. I did."
He walked towards his desk, standing at its edge, not sitting. His voice was low but stern, carrying the weight of reprimand.
"Would you care to explain," he said, "why Agent-90—a man who escaped this very organisation, who took you hostage in front of half the command deck—is now striding about these halls like a welcome guest?"
Wen-Li met his gaze unflinchingly. "I haven't forgotten what he did, sir. I remember it perfectly."
Her voice remained steady, though a faint shadow crossed her face at the memory.
"But I also know what he's capable of. I invited him for a specific reason—to help us."
President Song's tone spiked with disbelief. "Help?!" he snapped, stepping forward. "What possible 'help' justifies bringing a sociopath back into the most secure building in the world?"
Wen-Li drew in a quiet breath and stood her ground.
"There are twelve critical cases in our books that remain unsolved—some spanning months, others years. Files marked as cold, assets lost, leads gone dark. He isn't conventional, and he certainly isn't clean… but he has the one thing we don't, sir—results."
She continued, her voice firmer now. "I've given him one assignment. One. And that's all I'm asking for. Let him finish the case the rest of us couldn't."
There was a pause.
Song Louyang stared at her, jaw clenched, clearly battling between principle and pragmatism.
Finally, he exhaled sharply and looked away toward the porthole again.
"Very well. One task. That's all. And when it's done, I don't want him on our property. I don't want him in the lift, let alone walking the halls. Is that understood?"
Wen-Li gave a tight, formal nod, a trace of wry amusement tugging at the corner of her mouth.
"One task is enough, sir," she said. "Don't worry."
Her eyes flicked to the window momentarily, the city skyline burning gold in the morning haze.
Inwardly, though she stood firm, her pulse was rising. She had just staked her career—and her credibility—on a man no one trusted.
But in her gut, she knew it was the right call.
Even if it cost her everything.
08:22 AM, the fluorescent lights above flickered faintly as Agent-90 wandered through the south wing corridor of SSCBF headquarters, his movements unhurried, almost casual—yet there was an unsettling grace in the way he carried himself. He looked, at a glance, like a man aimlessly drifting through a shopping centre—hands tucked behind his back, gaze flicking across plaques, floor plans, and the occasional wall-mounted news feed.
But those who watched him knew better.
Behind him, at a discreet but steady distance, trailed Daishoji, Sakim, and Louisese Langermans—the unspoken trio tasked with keeping an eye on the walking enigma in a suit.
Agent-90, of course, was already aware.
He paused mid-step near a display case of retired combat gear and turned ever so slightly, his piercing blue eyes cutting straight through the corridor like twin blades of frost.
His voice came low, level, and without warmth.
"What do you need?"
There was a beat of silence.
Sakim cleared his throat awkwardly. "N-nothing. Just passing by."
Daishoji stammered, "We were just… y'know… routine patrol."
Louisese chimed in, attempting a neutral tone. "Standard protocol. Nothing personal."
Agent-90 raised a brow ever so faintly, as if humouring them for a moment.
Without another word, the trio turned and promptly walked away, shoulders unusually stiff, their pace unintentionally synchronised.
They all knew.
You don't trail a ghost without him knowing.
From the adjoining corridor, a voice called out with surprising familiarity.
"Ninety."
Agent-90 turned.
Captain Robert Voreyevsky approached with his usual confident stride, a man who commanded presence—but even he kept a respectful distance from the man in black.
"So, Captain," Agent-90 said, tone quiet, unreadable. "Did you gather the information Madam Di-Xian requested?"
Robert nodded and pulled a small silver pen drive from his coat pocket. He handed it over with a subtle frown.
"These are the open cases. All unsolved during late Chief Wen-Luo's tenure. Even with outside agencies and third-party analysts involved—no one's cracked them."
Agent-90 took the drive and pocketed it without looking. "Then I'll do what no one else could."
As they spoke, Captain Lingaong Xuein appeared at the far end of the corridor. Her boots echoed softly on the polished floor as she passed by—or pretended to. The rhythm of her steps slowed as she approached a nearby junction.
She was listening.
Agent-90's eyes flicked sideways—he clocked her immediately. But he said nothing. Didn't glance. Didn't betray the slightest change.
Instead, he continued, voice calm and deliberate.
"Don't worry. Justice will be served—for the missing, the forgotten… and the dead."
As the conversation drew to a close, Agent-90 leaned slightly towards Robert's ear, his voice low and dry, like ice cracking under pressure.
"Your Miss Captain seems rather fond of our discussions."
Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked away, disappearing into the shadows at the end of the hall, as if the building itself had swallowed him.
Robert blinked. Then turned sharply.
Xuein, now halfway behind a column, froze.
They locked eyes.
Robert raised an eyebrow, his expression an exquisite mixture of amusement and disappointment.
She stepped out reluctantly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, composing herself.
"I was… just passing through."
Robert let out a slow breath through his nose, giving her a long look. "If you're going to eavesdrop on him, at least try to not get caught."
She looked away, faint colour rising in her cheeks. "He's unnerving."
Robert chuckled under his breath. "That's putting it mildly."
At 09:06 AM, the soft hiss of the ventilation system filled the quiet of Chief Wen-Li's office, a sanctuary of order and calm. Light filtered gently through the frosted windows, casting clean lines across the dark oak floor.
Seated on the leather sofa, legs crossed with mechanical poise, was Agent-90. His black satchel—ominous to most—now sat innocuously atop the coffee table. In his hand, his mobile wrist device projected a translucent interface. A discreet pen drive had been slotted into its side.
His expression was unreadable as he flicked through files with methodical precision. Names. Case numbers. Photographs. Autopsy reports. All dismissed without a blink… until one file appeared.
Case 0416-B: Amayosaki Prefecture Murder Incident
For the first time, something flickered in his eyes—faint, sharp, fleeting.
Then—
The door opened.
In a blur, Agent-90 moved with startling speed—like a system purging data in panic. He unplugged the drive in a blink, slid it into his inner pocket, and retracted the display. By the time Chief Wen-Li stepped in, he was already seated again, perfectly composed, as if nothing had happened.
She paused, raising a brow. "Something wrong?"
His voice came cool and flat. "Nothing."
Her gaze narrowed slightly. She didn't push—yet.
Her eyes then drifted to the black satchel on the table.
"…What's that?" she asked, curiosity edging her tone.
He didn't even blink. "Nihari. From Lahoraka. For you."
Wen-Li stared at him for a long second.
"…Wait, what?"
"Nihari," he repeated, unfazed. "Gifted as gratitude."
She blinked again. "You brought me breakfast?"
"Yes."
Her eyes narrowed further, both amused and vaguely suspicious. "You're telling me the man known as the Velvet Guillotine wandered through a volatile city, carrying a pot of stew?"
He said nothing.
Wen-Li's lips twitched, torn between confusion and laughter.
"I've already had breakfast, 90."
He gave the faintest nod. "Noted."
A silence followed. Heavy, but now touched with faint absurdity.
She moved to her desk, sitting down while still side-eying the bag.
"Does this mean," she said dryly, "you're going to start baking next?"
Agent-90 didn't react.
But for the briefest moment, Wen-Li could've sworn she saw the corner of his mouth twitch.
A moment of silence hung in the air—quiet, but full of weight.
Then Agent-90 broke it, voice low and utterly devoid of inflection.
"I'm rather fond of unsolved cases."
Chief Wen-Li, mid-sip from her water glass, choked suddenly, coughing into her palm with uncharacteristic inelegance.
"What—what did you just say?" she managed between coughs, blinking at him.
He didn't move.
"I said," he repeated calmly, "I'm rather fond of unsolved cases."
Wen-Li leaned back slowly in her chair, brows slightly raised in disbelief. "Well… I was going to give you one. But it appears you're already enthusiastic about mystery-solving."
She crossed her fingers atop her desk, adopting a more serious tone.
"As you're aware, 90, there are twelve unresolved cases that the SSCBF—alongside nearly every other enforcement agency in the Tri-Zone Accord—have failed to solve."
Agent-90 cut in without blinking.
"Out of twelve, three remain."
Wen-Li frowned. "I beg your pardon?"
"You've solved nine?"
"Yes."
Wen-Li blinked in pure bafflement. "When?! How?!"
He stood up without answering directly, moving with unnerving fluidity to the edge of her desk. His eyes briefly flicked upward, clocking the CCTV camera discreetly nestled in the ceiling corner. He said nothing of it—just noted it.
Then, he placed one gloved hand firmly on her desk, leaning in.
"It doesn't matter, Chief. I'm not here for credit. I'm here because there are still some criminals out there—people you haven't caught. People even Chief Wen-Luo couldn't."
His gaze locked with hers—cold, clinical, but not entirely without weight. For a long beat, she held his stare, then let out a slow, steady exhale.
"You're something else," she murmured under her breath, more to herself than him.
She straightened.
"So... which case are you interested in?"
He didn't miss a beat.
"Case 0416-B: Amayosaki Prefecture Murder Incident."
Her expression shifted.
"Amayosaki Prefecture…" she echoed thoughtfully, activating her desk terminal and pulling up the map overlay. "That's located in—"
"Akihabara Nexus. Amayosaki District," Agent-90 replied flatly, eyes nowhere near the screen. "Grid reference ND-14-C. Former experimental housing sector. Disbanded seven years ago."
Wen-Li stared at him for a long second.
"Alright then. If you say so."
She pressed a small button on her desk. Moments later, a junior staffer entered. Wen-Li gestured to the bag on the coffee table.
"Could you heat the food Agent-90 brought, please? Nihari, apparently. And bring some naan if the kitchen has any."
The staffer nodded wordlessly and left with the bag.
The door opened again—Lan Qian, data specialist, stepped in, tablet in hand. She halted mid-stride the moment she spotted Agent-90, her expression briefly betraying surprise… and a flicker of unease.
"Oh… he's here."
Wen-Li gave a small smile, raising a hand in reassurance. "It's alright, Qian. He'll be working with us—for a short while."
Lan Qian gave a stiff nod and approached the desk.
"Lan Qian, I want you to pull all archived surveillance from the Amayosaki District—especially related to the Prefecture Murder Incident. Anything from seven years ago to the present."
Qian looked uncertain. "Chief… that case has been cold for years. We've had analysts from three bureaus attempt it. No leads. No matches. It's a statistical black hole."
"I know," Wen-Li replied calmly, glancing sideways at Agent-90. "But we've got something they didn't."
She gestured with her chin. "We've got a weapon."
Agent-90 stood as still as sculpture, eyes fixed on the centre of the room. He gave no reaction. No acknowledgment.
Just presence.
Lan Qian nodded slowly, casting one last glance at him before turning. "Yes, Chief."
She exited briskly.
Wen-Li leaned back, rubbing the bridge of her nose, half amused, half exhausted.
"God help whoever's guilty in that district," she muttered under her breath.
Agent-90's eyes flicked toward her just once.
"They'll get no help at all."
He excuse himself and steps out from her office room and contact with Gonda, then a few seconds later Gonda receive the call and ask "What is it 90? Do you need something?' lighting up the cigarette
"Yes," reply Agent-90 in cold tone "I want some intel about the Case 0416-B: Amayosaki Prefecture Murder Incident"
"Wait!" reply Gonda in surprise tone "it seems like Robert give it to you, the unsolve cases, okay don't worry I will manage to gather the intel about Amayosaki Prefecture Murder Incident." as smoke comes out from his mouth "do Madam Di-Xian knows about this?"
"Not yet!" he reply "she will"
"Okay Roger that it will take a few times, and it's critical I will inform you later when I gather" reply Gonda and hang up the call.
The hum of servers echoed softly within the dimly lit surveillance suite, screens casting a pale bluish glow over Lan Qian's face. Her eyes, slightly red from prolonged focus, flicked rapidly across frame after frame of archived footage—her fingers gliding across the touch interface, zooming, adjusting, rewinding.
She'd been combing through hours of data from the Amayosaki District, narrowed to the approximate window of the original crime seven years ago. Most of it was grainy, much of it degraded. Still, she pressed on—frame by frame.
Then something flickered into view.
Timestamp: 01:12:37 AM – April 19th, Year 2035
A lone black sedan crept into frame, headlights dimmed, its windows tinted beyond regulation. It rolled to a stop outside the decaying perimeter of Amayosaki Prefecture, long since abandoned. The car's registration plates were intentionally obscured—clearly deliberate.
The rear doors opened.
Four figures emerged, clad head to toe in black tactical clothing, their faces completely hidden beneath masks and visors. Moving with synchronised precision, they opened the rear boot and retrieved an elderly woman—blindfolded, hands bound in front. She was frail, shuffling on unsteady feet, yet there was no visible resistance.
They led her into the darkened complex.
Lan Qian's lips parted slightly, breath catching in her throat.
She fast-forwarded the footage.
Three hours later—the same figures exited the building. The old woman was no longer with them.
Dragging behind them was a makeshift barricade, wrapped hastily in tarp and held together with metal fastenings. They loaded it onto a rusted pick-up truck that appeared from off-camera.
The footage cut to a nearby road junction, further down the grid.
Same vehicle. Same group.
They drove to a bridge over the Kuroshio River, where the barricade was hoisted from the truck bed and hurled into the water. One of the masked figures—noticeably older, with a slight stoop in posture—took the lead in this final act. His body language was distinct from the others. Authoritative.
Lan Qian's fingers hovered, frozen above the screen.
She clicked open the incident report from the following day.
"Remains of Hajimie Watashi, age 78, discovered inside barricade retrieved from Kuroshio River. Victim dismembered post-mortem. No clear evidence of forced entry into Prefecture premises. Case unsolved. No witnesses. No identified suspects."
Her jaw tightened.
But that wasn't all.
Lan pulled up cross-referenced footage from municipal traffic cams and dormant private security nodes. In total, 16 separate locations, all within a 16-mile radius of the Prefecture, showed dumped bodies—each left in alleyways, loading docks, or under collapsed signage.
The methods were varied, but the timing matched. And so did the silence.
Not a single angle caught a clear face. Not one trace of identity.
She leaned back in her chair, visibly exasperated, running a hand through her fringe.
"Bloody ghosts…" she muttered under her breath.
Just then, the door opened.
Nightingale stepped inside, her brow creased in concern.
"Lan? You alright? You've been in here ages."
Lan Qian didn't look up at first. Then, slowly, she swivelled in her chair, frustration written plainly across her face.
"The Chief gave me a task," she said, gesturing to the active monitors. "She wants intel on the Amayosaki Prefecture murder. Seven years old, zero surviving witnesses, and footage so cleverly scrubbed it might as well have been filmed by phantoms."
Nightingale walked closer, peering at one of the paused frames.
"That the suspects?"
Lan nodded. "Four of them. All masked, coordinated, calm. They knew exactly where the blind spots were. Moved like a unit."
Her voice dropped slightly, more thoughtful now.
"But one of them… one of them was different. Older. His posture, his movements—he led them. Might've even orchestrated the whole thing."
Nightingale squinted at the image, her jaw tightening.
"An older one...?"
"Could be our linchpin," Lan Qian murmured. "If we can find him, we might finally unravel this whole wretched mess."
She looked to Nightingale, her expression one of fierce determination now layered atop fatigue.
"We've been circling a void for seven years. But Agent-90's watching now. If anyone can tear through the dark—it's him."
The soft whirring of monitors and the faint hum of processors filled the subterranean workspace of Crimson Lotus. Rows of sleek desks lined the dimly lit chamber, illuminated by the glow of holographic displays and scattered blue task lights. It was a haven of quiet efficiency—until the stillness was broken.
At his station, Jun leaned back in his chair, stretching with an audible groan, arms flung above his head.
"This is dead dull," he muttered. "Agent-90's out in the field helping SSCBF, and here we are, shackled to desks with our backsides slowly fossilising."
Across from him, Roy gave a languid smirk, legs crossed, clearly unbothered. "Sounds like someone's feeling left out."
"Jealousy, Jun?" Farhan added, flashing a mockingly innocent grin. "Oh dear, say it isn't so."
Jun rolled his eyes, huffing. "It's not jealousy. I'm just saying…"
His voice trailed off, his eyes shifting to the floor, then glancing up again—slightly sheepish.
"…I met someone. Yesterday."
That got their attention.
Roy raised a brow. "A someone?"
Jun cleared his throat. "She's with SSCBF. High-profile. Silver-greenish hair."
Farhan's grin broadened like a man about to land a perfect punchline. "Nightingale! Bloody hell—you're done for, mate."
Jun flushed. "Shut up!"
Roy, catching the heat of the moment, leaned forward, arms folded. "Well now, this escalated. Nightingale, is it? And while we're exposing secrets—shall we mention how Farhan met Lan Qian?"
Farhan, caught mid-sip of coffee, spluttered. "Oi! Leave me out of this."
Right on cue, the sliding doors parted, and Masud and Alvi entered, both instantly clocking the shift in atmosphere.
"Ohhhh?" Alvi cooed, her voice drenched in mischief. "Farhan? In love? I never thought I'd see the day."
Masud grinned. "Look at him, all flustered. He's completely smitten and hasn't a clue what to do with himself."
Farhan threw his arms up. "For the love of—can we not do this right now?"
Roy chuckled, clearly enjoying himself. "Come on then, Masud. Alvi. Since we're oversharing—what about you two? Met anyone interesting lately?"
Masud shrugged, deadpan. "Nope. My affections are reserved for tactical briefings and silence."
Roy followed suit with mock seriousness. "I'm in a committed relationship with my cup of tea and trust issues."
The group chuckled, the tension ebbing into something lighter—until Alvi, arms crossed, tilted her head in curiosity.
"What about Agent-90 then?" she asked. "I saw him sneak off with Nihari, and later found out he was hand-delivering it to the SSCBF Chief. For someone supposedly emotionless… that was oddly thoughtful."
"Chief Wen-Li," Farhan added knowingly, folding his arms. "He's got a soft spot for her."
Jun frowned. "And how exactly do you know that?"
Farhan leaned forward, voice low and certain. "Remember when Chief Wen-Li was captured by Munafiq—Lee Jong Suk? It wasn't a strike team that rescued her. It was him. Alone. He walked in, tore the place apart, and carried her out like some bloody knight."
The room went still for a second.
"He didn't flinch. Didn't smile. But his movements were—different. You could tell. Cold on the outside… but the man was burning beneath."
Alvi smirked. "So, the sociopath has feelings after all."
Masud blinked. "How's that possible?"
Alvi turned to him, voice gently matter-of-fact. "It's the universal truth, Masud. Every man—no matter how hardened—has a weakness. Sometimes it's family. Sometimes a comrade. And sometimes…"
She trailed off with a teasing glance.
"Love," she finished.
Masud looked unconvinced. "Agent-90 doesn't feel. He calculates."
"Not always," Alvi replied, her tone softening slightly. "Feelings can be buried so deep, even the person doesn't realise they're there."
Jun smirked, latching onto the moment. "Alright, clever words, ma'am. But what about you? Any secret admirers in your files?"
Alvi gave a dismissive wave. "No, thank you. I've no interest in that nonsense."
But her voice wavered just enough. And her cheeks… turned a suspicious shade of pink.
Farhan raised a brow. "Your ears are red."
"They are not."
"They are."
Alvi huffed, turning towards her terminal. "I'm more interested in my work. Unlike the rest of you, who gossip like pensioners at a tea shop."
As they all broke into laughter, the camaraderie in the room warmed the chill of the underground—a fleeting reprieve from the shadows they'd soon return to.
In the synthetic twilight of Akihabara Nexus, where the sky was devoured by data clouds and the streetlights pulsed like arterial beacons, Agent-90 moved like a silhouette etched in chrome. His footsteps made no sound on the rain-slicked ferrocrete, his black coat flaring slightly with each purposeful stride.
The deeper he walked, the louder the city's heartbeat throbbed. Neon kanji bled across the walls, and the distant whir of hoverbikes echoed above the walkways. Below, among the neglected side-streets where surveillance was sketchy and reputations came with blood tags, a lone figure waited—leaning casually against a rusted support pillar beneath a flickering sign that read: RAMEN ∞ DREAMS.
Gonda, dressed in his usual battered overcoat, lit a cigarette with the sort of practised indifference only seasoned informants possessed.
"You're late," he said, smoke curling lazily from his lips.
"I'm never late," Agent-90 replied evenly, stepping into the halo of sickly neon.
There was a beat of silence before he added, "Gonda-san, did you gather the information I requested?"
Gonda tapped ash onto the pavement, then reached into his coat and produced a thick file—clasped shut with a rusted clip.
"Amayosaki Prefecture Murder Incident," he said, handing it over. "All roads lead to a particular group… the Y Family."
Agent-90 opened the file, eyes flicking across the scanned documents, grainy photographs, and half-redacted testimonies.
"There are no names listed," he said flatly.
"Nope," Gonda replied, dragging from his cigarette. "But that's the point. Family Y never operated in the open. They were shadows moving within other shadows. Interwoven with other families—A, B, C, D, E—you name it. Old bloodlines. Quiet alliances. Plenty of skeletons."
Agent-90 said nothing.
Gonda continued, his tone darkening. "But there was one constant. Their matriarch. Head of the family. A real piece of work. Master manipulator. Knew how to twist desperation into loyalty, and loyalty into murder."
He exhaled slowly, smoke rising in a ghostly coil.
"She orchestrated arranged marriages between rival families to control their heirs. Turned kin against kin. Convinced victims' own relatives to carry out the killings. And when that wasn't enough—she got her hands dirty herself."
Still flicking through the file, Agent-90 responded without inflection. "Efficient."
"Psychotic," Gonda countered. "Between 1990 and 2035 she was tied to over two dozen mass killings—all camouflaged by misdirection, inheritance disputes, or so-called family honour. Not to mention theft, fraud, and... oh yes, murdering her own children. Her eldest son, second son, and eldest daughter—all dead by her hand."
Agent-90's thumb paused mid-turn. "And her name?"
Gonda's eyes gleamed beneath the brim of his cap. "Miyoko Amazaki. Aged 52."
Agent-90's tone didn't change. "And the rest of her family?"
Gonda gave a humourless chuckle. "Scattered. Some in juvie. Others are doing life. A few suicided. The rest—well, bodies don't float when they're sunk deep enough."
"And Miyoko?"
Gonda's smirk returned, wider now.
"Reported dead. Suicide. Apparently leapt from the Yubisaki Transit Tower two days before her final hearing. Case closed. Public outcry. Big media theatre."
Agent-90 closed the file slowly.
"But you don't believe it."
"Nope," Gonda said simply. "Because that body was never confirmed. No retinal match. Dental records inconclusive. It was... convenient."
He flicked the last of his cigarette into a drain and stepped forward, lowering his voice.
"She's alive, 90. Changed her name. Pulled strings through corrupt bureaucrats, burned paper trails, bribed morticians. Typical cloak-and-dagger."
Agent-90's gaze darkened. "What's the name?"
Gonda grinned.
"Sato Nami. Registered as a private midwife and herbalist. Operating out of Sector 9—Yamigawa Strip, under a false identity. Keeps a low profile. No digital footprint. Lives in a tenement near the border of the abandoned dome wards."
"And the authorities?"
"Either bought off or too terrified to touch it."
Agent-90 turned slightly, eyes scanning the glowing skyline above, where holographic billboards flashed anime idol concerts against the polluted dusk.
"I'll pay her a visit."
Gonda raised a brow. "Careful. Woman like her? She won't go quietly. She's not just a relic of the past—she's the rot that survived it. Even she is also known as Queen of Terror"
Agent-90 didn't respond.
He turned on his heel and disappeared down the alley, his shadow stretching long under the cold shimmer of neon.
Yamigawa Strip, the outer fringe of Sector 9, was a desolate slice of the Akihabara Nexus underworld. Dilapidated buildings loomed over oil-stained alleys, where neon had long stopped caring to shine. The air reeked of coolant, damp paper, and failed ambition. Most surveillance units were patched-together relics—easy to fool, easy to bypass.
Perched in the dark behind a rusted service vent, Agent-90 watched—still as a gargoyle carved from the city's bones.
Ahead, a janitor stepped out of the tenement's service hatch, dragging two bloated sacks of medical waste toward the industrial garbage trunk. His uniform was grey, smeared with grime, and his gait sluggish from exhaustion. The man never even saw the figure emerge from the shadows.
In one clean, swift motion, Agent-90 slithered behind him, wrapped his carbon fibre cord around the janitor's throat, and yanked. The body jolted once—then went limp.
No scream. No struggle. Just silence.
With clinical efficiency, Agent-90 stripped the uniform and transferred it to himself. He rolled the lifeless body into the refuse trunk and shut the lid. Not a trace left.
The fluorescent lights inside buzzed and flickered overhead. The corridors smelt of bleach, rust, and the faint sting of iodine. Agent-90, now dressed as the janitor, wheeled a mop bucket across the scuffed tiles, eyes casually surveying the layout. No one paid him any mind.
Surveillance nodes blinked faintly in the corners, but he'd already rerouted their feeds. His wrist device ran silent, broadcasting a false loop of archived footage back to the building's central hub.
He passed open doors—rooms dimly lit where patients lay sedated, recovering from procedures. It was all a convincing facade.
At the far end of the corridor stood the woman herself—Sato Nami, known once as Miyoko Amazaki.
She looked older than her file suggested. Grey streaks in her tied-back hair, yet her posture remained upright, composed. She spoke softly to a patient, her tone maternal—almost saintly.
Deceptive. Controlled. Calculated.
Once her tasks concluded, she disappeared into the restroom, closing the door behind her.
Agent-90 paused briefly—then rolled his mop bucket closer.
He checked the corridor.
Still clear.
Still silenced.
In one fluid motion, he opened the restroom door and entered.
Sato Nami stood at the sink, washing her hands. Her sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, her focus on the mirror.
Agent-90 entered quietly, mop in hand, head bowed.
She didn't turn.
Just another cleaner. Just another shift.
He began mopping the far end of the floor, methodical. Closer. Closer still.
Then, without pause or warning—
THWACK.
He swung the mop handle upwards with brutal force, the base cracking hard against the back of her skull. The sound echoed off the tiles—wet, final.
She collapsed instantly, crumpling onto the floor like a puppet with severed strings.
He stood over her motionless body, eyes devoid of expression. Then he knelt, checked her pulse—still alive, barely.
Good. Not yet.
With zero hesitation, he wrapped her in the emergency cleaning tarp he'd hidden inside the bucket, slinging her across his shoulder with the ease of lifting a kit bag. Her arms dangled limply, her hair soaking with water and blood.
Agent-90 emerged from the service entrance, wheeling the mop bucket with the body concealed inside. No one questioned him. No one saw him.
The building's surveillance flickered momentarily—then resumed their true feed just as he vanished down the alley.
In the forsaken bowels of an abandoned factory warehouse, where rust and decay clung to every surface like a malady, Miyoko awoke to a nightmare made flesh. Her senses reeled as consciousness clawed its way back, her body suspended upright, bound by coarse ropes that bit into her wrists and ankles. Her mouth hung agape, a gag forcing her jaws apart, rendering her voice a prisoner. Before her, glinting malevolently in the dim, flickering light of a single overhead bulb, lay a monstrous contraption—a rotating saw machine, its serrated blades poised like the jaws of a primordial beast.
Panic surged through her, a visceral torrent that set her heart hammering against her ribcage. Her eyes darted wildly, taking in the cavernous warehouse, its walls pocked with grime and its floor strewn with detritus. The air was thick with the stench of oil and abandonment. Then, a voice—cold, precise, and laced with a chilling gravitas—pierced the silence from unseen speakers.
"Miyoko Amazaki," it intoned, each syllable a lash. "Do you recall the blood you've spilt? The family you extinguished in your perfidious act? Do you feel even a scintilla of remorse for your heinous deeds?"
Miyoko's breath hitched, her body trembling as the voice invoked her true name, stripping away the veneer of anonymity she'd clung to. Tears welled in her eyes, her chest heaving with sobs that could not fully form. "I'm sorry!" she managed to choke out, her words muffled and raw. "I'm so sorry… I didn't mean… Who are you? You're not police, not law enforcement! Who are you?"
From the control room, shrouded behind reinforced glass, Agent-90 watched her with the dispassion of a deity passing judgement. His voice returned, unyielding. "I am the Angel of Death, Miyoko. And you stand at the crux of your reckoning. Before you and behind you lie twin rotating saws. When I activate them, they will converge, squeezing your wretched form until your blood paints this forsaken place. Speak now—do you feel guilt for what you've done?"
Miyoko's scream was a primal thing, a keening wail that echoed off the warehouse's skeletal rafters. "I'm guilty!" she cried, her voice fracturing under the weight of her terror. "I'm so sorry! I was wrong, I was broken! Please, don't do this! I beg you!" Her body thrashed against the ropes, but they held fast, her desperation a futile offering to an uncaring void.
Miles away, in a dimly lit office, Chief Wen-Li stared at her monitor, her face a mask of horror. A small camera, affixed to Agent-90's machination, transmitted the scene in stark clarity. Her hands trembled as she gripped the edge of her desk, her voice cracking as she spoke into her comms. "Agent-90, this is too far! Let her go! This isn't justice—it's barbarity!"
Agent-90's response was a low, sardonic chuckle that slithered through the line. "Justice, Chief? This is absolution. She chose her path, and now she reaps its harvest." His tone brooked no argument, his resolve an adamantine wall.
Without another word, his finger descended upon the button. A low hum filled the warehouse, growing into a malevolent roar as the saws sprang to life. Their blades spun with relentless fury, inching closer to Miyoko's suspended form. Her screams reached a fevered crescendo, a symphony of despair that seemed to shake the very air. The saws met her body with a sickening whine, and in that moment, time seemed to fracture.
The violence was swift, the blades tearing through flesh with mechanical indifference. Blood erupted in a crimson deluge, spraying across the warehouse floor, pooling in the cracks and crevices of the concrete, and splattering the rusted machinery until the room was awash in a macabre sheen. The once-silent factory now bore the mark of her demise, its walls and floor drenched in the scarlet testament of her end.
Chief Wen-Li, her face ashen, slammed her laptop shut, unable to bear the sight any longer. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her hands shaking as she pressed them to her face, willing the images to vanish from her mind. The silence that followed was shattered by the shrill ring of her phone. She answered, her voice barely a whisper.
"It's done," came Agent-90's voice, clipped and final. The line went dead before she could muster a response, leaving her alone with the weight of what she'd witnessed.
In the warehouse, the saws fell silent, their work complete. The bulb flickered once, then died, plunging the blood-soaked chamber into darkness
The digital clock atop the SSCBF command tower struck 00:00, its numbers glowing like cold embers against the velvet night. The courtyard below, normally quiet at this hour, thrummed with the murmurs and camera shutters of clustered media personnel.
Press drones hovered, lens-eyes blinking red, while old-world cameras stood on tripods like anxious soldiers. The faces of reporters were taut with anticipation—this wasn't just a murder investigation anymore. It was a scandal poised to detonate.
The woman standing at the heart of the storm, beneath floodlights and flanked by two armed SSCBF officers, was Chief Wen-Li.
She looked composed—elegant in her midnight-blue overcoat, hair pinned back, face unreadable. But her eyes, beneath the calm veneer, held the brittle fatigue of someone who'd stared too long into the abyss.
She stepped forward as the reporters surged.
"Chief Wen-Li," one called out, jostling for space. "Can you confirm the identity of the woman killed tonight in Yamigawa Strip?"
Wen-Li's voice, when it came, was clear and measured.
"Yes. After a joint investigation led by SSCBF intelligence, the individual operating under the name Sato Nami was confirmed to be Miyoko Amazaki—a fugitive linked to multiple counts of inter-familial homicide, manipulation of bloodline dynasties, and organised subversion of justice."
There was a collective intake of breath. The name carried weight, infamous in old files and whispered legends.
"Chief—how did she die?" another reporter pressed. "Who carried out the execution? Was it sanctioned?"
A pause.
The courtyard seemed to hold its breath.
Chief Wen-Li's eyes flicked towards the skyline, just for a second.
"The details surrounding her death remain classified. What I can confirm is that she posed a clear threat to public safety and had evaded capture for over seven years. Tonight, she was neutralised before she could disappear again."
"But who neutralised her, Chief?"
Another silence. Her jaw tensed—but she remained poised.
"No comment
High above the plaza, standing on the edge of a shadow-wrapped rooftop, Agent-90 watched the scene unfold below like a silent observer at the theatre.
The wind tugged at the hem of his coat. His deadly blue eyes reflected the floodlit figure of Wen-Li. She stood like a statue of control, fielding questions with care. Shielding him.
He tapped the side of his wrist comm, voice low.
"Madam Di-Xian. Mission accomplished."
Her reply came moments later, crisp and velvet-smooth.
"Good. The past has a way of screaming when buried alive. Let her stay buried now."
"Understood."
He ended the transmission.
Behind him, the sprawling neon canopy of Akihabara Nexus continued its endless buzz—unconcerned, unfeeling. Below, the world demanded answers. But none would come.
He stood for a moment longer, then turned, vanishing into the dark as silently as he came.
Inside, away from the lights, Wen-Li sat alone.
Her coat was folded neatly beside her. Her gloves lay untouched on the table. She stared at the wall for a long while—no blinking cameras, no questions. Just silence.
She knew she had protected the system.
But she had also protected him.
And that truth weighed more than all the questions they'd thrown at her outside.
With a sigh, she whispered softly to no one as chills run down to her spine:
"This is what justice looks like now."