The lab looked quite alive and entertaining with the holograms floating in the air, showing streams of data, while the machines filled the room with a low, constant buzz.

  Dr. Abbadon stood at the center, fidgeting with his last research. His white hair was tied back, his skin pale under the light. Red eyes were squinted, focused on the small orb of light that didn’t want to grow. He wasn’t alone on his job this time, so his attention was divided.

  Across from him, Lamia leaned on a console. Her red hair stood out against the cold lab, falling down over her crossed arms.

  “I don’t get why everyone’s making such a big fuss about this,” Lamia said, her voice tinted with frustration. “We’ve all been putting our lives on the line since day one. Security mechanism or not, this job has always been a fucking gamble.”

  Dr. Abbadon hummed softly a he managed the orb, finally managing that it shifted its color to a vivid orange… which wasn’t what he was looking for. “And yet,” he replied, his voice smooth, “the psychological impact of this failure cannot be underestimated. It’s not merely about the amount of person who won’t come back—it’s about trust in the system.”

  Lamia snorted, rolling her eyes so hard it was almost audible. “Trust in the system? Please. We’re dealing with interdimensional anomalies, Doc, not some corporate flowchart. People knew what they signed up for when they walked through that door.” She frowned. “Besides, this isn’t the first time. You know that. I hate everyone is acting like it is some one-time thing.”

  “You know we cannot make mention of that,” the man murmured softly, a hint of reprimand on his voice. Lamia scowled, looking at her nails. “Now, speaking of people… Have we received many resignation letters?”

  “A few. Nothing HR can’t handle.” She tapper her nails against the console. “They’ll recruit more rookies in two weeks.”

  Abbadon nodded absently, his gaze drifting to a holographic display next to him. With a gesture of his hand, the stream changed from numbers to a graphic. “I understand that it will put additional strain on you all. Fewer personnel for an overwhelming number of missions. I hope the recruitment goes well.”

  “You and me, doc.”

  There was a moment of silence before he asked, “What about the teams? Any updates?”

  “The Gamma team didn’t return from the Hotel mission. No survivors. And Beta’s still stuck in their mission—early phase, no word yet. But there’s a chance they’ll make it out. The alternative exit’s tricky, but they’re good enough to pull it off. We’ll know in a week.”

  Abbadon paused, his brow furrowing slightly. “Ah, yes. Time equivalence varies so drastically between Mystery levels. It’s easy to lose track.” Then, after a moment, he added, “The Beta Team—isn’t that the one with the recruit Lorenzo seems so enamored with? Lanlong, I believe?”

  “Exactly. If anyone can drag them out of there alive, it’s that girl.”

  “What about the new five-star?” he asked quietly, his tone betraying a hint of concern beneath his usual calm. “I heard there have been… complications.”

  “Hell,” Lamia spat, her voice flat and bitter. “Absolute hell. We’ve lost three teams already, and the fourth is barely hanging on. Whatever’s in there, it doesn’t play by the rules.” She gave a grim, humorless smile. “Big surprise for a fucking five-star world. I swear, sometimes I think the higher-ups are completely delusional.” She muttered under her breath, “Probably drunk when they approved this shit.”

  Abbadon’s expression remained impassive, but his fingers tightened slightly around the orb, betraying a flicker of tension. “I see. I suppose they haven’t learned much from the other two attempts. How many tries did it take to complete the Garden of Eden?”

  “Nine,” Lamia answered briskly, pressing her lips together. Then, abruptly changing the subject, she continued, “Speaking of troublesome worlds, there’s one that’s embarrassing our Delta teams right now. Supposed to be a one-star—a cooking show. You’d think people who run from giant insects or dinosaurs, survive yeti attacks, and sleep in cursed catacombs wouldn’t break a sweat here. You’d think. But we’ve sent four Agents already, and none of them came back.”

  Abbadon turned at her, raising a delicate white eyebrow. “A cooking show, you say? How… quaint. What makes it so deadly for our poor agents?”

  Lamia sighed, pushing off the console and pacing the room. “It’s not just about cooking, alright? Everyone except the first one knew their way around the kitchen. But the ingredients are straight-up monstrous—the kitchen’s basically Australia condensed into a death trap. And the judges? Jesus Christ. If you don’t impress them, you’re dead. If you do impress them, you’re probably still gonna die in the next round.” She then continued, “but the White Team wants that damn Youth Fountain at the end, so we won’t stop until someone wins first prize.”

  Abbadon smiled. “How delightfully macabre. And how unexpected of the White Team to obsess with this. Dr. Cylles must be so eager.”

  Lamia stopped mid-pace and shot him a glare. “Yeah, real funny. Sounds like something you’d come up with.” She sighed. “But seriously, Doc, we need to do something. It’s a goddamn one-star world! It shouldn’t be this hard. Something that Dr. Cylles concurs, considering the missive she sent to the Manager.”

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Abbadon set the orb down on the console, where it floated gently, spinning slowly and displaying patterns that made him frown. “Ah. Of course. How expected of her.” He then stopped. “But your Manager…?”

  “He’s under surveillance. You know what Tiberius is like. So Mimir is who has control now. He’ll probably take care of this.”

  “Don’t fret. I’m sure someone will solve it eventually. In the meantime, keep me updated on the five-star. And…” He paused, giving her a pointed look. “…do try to keep morale up. We need every hand we can get.”

  Lamia smirked, though it lacked any real humor or warm. “Morale’s not my alley, you know. But I’ll try. For you.”

  Abbadon let out a small sigh, amused, and watched her strode out of the lab.

  Once she was gone, he turned back to the hologram, his fingers dancing across the holograms until they faded, leaving a single one floating in front of him. When he touched it, the orb increased its size and spun, spreading a tendril that seemed to want to connect with something.

  “A cooking show,” he murmured to himself. “How… unexpected.”

  He figured he would have more answers in the following days. There was someone who had made quite the rictus as a miracle worker. It should be enough for Mimir, then.

  Luca woke with a gasp, his heart jumping against his ribs. It felt as though he’d been fighting the current again—kicking, hitting the water, so useless; drowning, desperate for air—and had only just managed to break free of its greedy grip. His clothes clung to him, soaked through with sweat, and the sheets were no better.

  He had better mornings, so to speak.

  His eyes closed, and he let out a long sigh. The nightmare lingered—a cacophony of sounds, blurred images flashing too fast to make sense of. Smells. Smells that clung to him. But it wasn’t the scent of burning wood or scorched metal that haunted him. Not even the metal. The coppery scent.

  No.

  It was the water. The fucking water.

  Dragging himself out of bed, Luca refused to let his mind linger on the fragments still clinging to him. He stumbled into the bathroom, turning the faucet until steam began to rise in white curls of mist. Stepping into the shower, he let the heat wash over him, but it did little more than dull the ache. His thoughts kept circling back to that last moment—the suffocating weight of water filling his lungs—and suddenly, he couldn’t stay under there any longer.

  It was shameful.

  A grown-ass man fleeing the shower because of nightmares.

  A man who had lived through worse. Survived worse.

  Rubbing his skin raw with the towel, Luca dressed in fresh clothes and glanced around the apartment. His eyes drifted to the window. Outside, the sky hung gray —how unusual—but clear enough to see that the sun must have rose up already. Picking up the medallion from the bedside table, he noticed the time: nine in the morning.

  No new messages blinked on the screen.

  He sighed. Relief seeped into his shoulders as he hung the medallion around his neck, tucking it gently under his t-shirt.

  Checking his bracelet, he found there was a message. From Michael. “Promotion talk. My office. 1100. Don’t be late.”

  Luca snorted. How nice of him to wait until to middle morning. He recalled his –and Minerva’s- presence after leaving the capsule and smiled a bit. He had not been unlucky when it came to direct superiors, at least.

  There was still time before the meeting, but the apartment felt too small, too quiet. Too suffocating. After stripping the bed and tossing the sheets into a pile, Luca left a small note along with a handful of coins—useless trinkets now, but pretty ones nonetheless. Then he left, the door hissing shut behind him with a faint echo.

  As he made his way to the staircase, his gaze flickered briefly toward the kitchen. So far, he hadn’t touched a single pan or bothered buying anything beyond ready-to-eat meals. Maybe later, he thought vaguely, he could take a look at the market in town.

  And he had still to explore the ‘inner market’. But later.

  Stepping outside, the cool morning air greeted him. He hadn’t taken more than a few steps onto the road when a familiar voice called out.

  “Mithras! Over here.”

  Luca turned, spotting Mars leaning casually against the wall near the entrance. His dark hair was tousled, his grin sharp and knowing—but there was something else in his eyes today, something that made him recall the creatures from his first mission. Pushing off the wall, Mars approached, hands stuffed lazily into the pockets of his jacket.

  “Heard you made it back in one piece,” he said, his tone light, though his gaze swept over Luca. Evaluating. Then he smiled. “Congrats, Agent. Two missions under your belt and a shiny new promotion. Not bad for a rookie.”

  Of course Mars already knew. Pendulum’s rumor mill moved faster than lightning while everyone else was still stumbling or even crawling.

  “Alive is good enough for me,” Luca replied dryly.

  Mars snorted, shaking his head. “So humble. But that’s alright—you’ll have plenty of time to get cocky by the end of the month. The celebrations will be something else. You’ll meet all sorts of people.” He paused, his grin sharpening further. “And speaking of people… They’re talking.” He gave Luca a pointed look.

  “People talk too much,” Luca shot back, his tone dismissive. He didn’t like being the center of attention—it wasn’t safe, especially not here. But what choice did he have? Shawn was his priority, and if breaking records and stepping into the eye of the storm was what it took, then so be it.

  Mars chuckled, clapping Luca on the shoulder with just enough force to make him stumble without causing him pain. “Maybe. Just watch your back—there’s a lot of piranhas circling. They don’t like it when someone new makes waves. And those who do like it…” He trailed off. “…well, they’re usually the worst kind.”

  Luca nodded, his expression sobering. “Thanks for the heads-up.” After a beat, he added, “Breakfast?”

  Mars tilted his head, a playful gleam flashing across his eyes. “If my junior asks me so nicely, how could I possibly disappoint him?”

  As they headed toward the dining hall, Luca caught a flicker of movement at the edge of his vision—a flutter of wings, a flash of black feathers. But when he turned to look, it was gone. Probably just a trick of the light.

  Probably.