Standing around him were Jun, Farhan, Masud, and Roy, each wearing their trademark spectacles, their sharp eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and malice. Behind them, Elara Kennedy leaned against the wall, her arms crossed, observing the scene with an expression that hovered between bemusement and irritation.
“Alright, Ferro,” Jun began, pacing dramatically in front of him. “You’re Italian, right?”
Ferro’s lip curled in disdain, his accent thick as he muttered, “What of it?”
Jun snapped his fingers, grinning like a man who had just uncovered a brilliant plan. “Farhan, Masud, bring in the props!”
Farhan and Masud exchanged a look before exiting the room. A moment later, they returned, each carrying a plate piled high with spaghetti and marinara sauce, the steam wafting tantalisingly through the air.
“Behold,” Masud said with mock gravity, placing one plate on the table before Ferro, just out of his reach. “Your national treasure. Spaghetti.”
Ferro’s eyes narrowed, confusion flickering briefly before his expression settled into a grimace.
“And this,” Farhan added, placing a bowl of penne arrabbiata beside the spaghetti, “is penne. Also sacred, isn’t it?”
Jun leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Now, Ferro, here’s the deal. You tell us everything you know about the SCP—operations, plans, passwords, you name it—or...”
Roy, ever the stoic, stepped forward and lifted a forkful of spaghetti, holding it menacingly over the edge of the table. “Or we spill the marinara,” he said, his tone as flat as stone but his eyes glinting with mischief.
Ferro stared at the food, then at the agents, his expression shifting from disbelief to outrage. “You think this is funny?” he spat, his accent thickening with his anger. “You mock Italian cuisine to get me to talk?!”
Jun shrugged nonchalantly. “Well, it’s either this, or we start discussing the superiority of pineapple on pizza.”
Ferro’s face twisted in horror, and he shouted, “Basta! You wouldn’t dare!”
Roy leaned in closer, twirling the fork ominously. “Oh, we would. And we’ll put ketchup on spaghetti next. So... talk.”
From her spot against the wall, Elara watched the spectacle unfold with a raised eyebrow. The scene was absurd—grown men using pasta as a weapon of psychological warfare—and yet, there was an undeniable effectiveness to their unorthodox methods.
Beside her, Alvi, ever curious, glanced at Elara and asked in a soft voice, “You’re very composed. Does this kind of... chaos not bother you?”
Elara smirked faintly, her piercing grey eyes flicking to Alvi. “When you’ve worked where I’ve worked, this is nothing.”
Alvi tilted her head, intrigued. “And where exactly did you work before this?”
Elara’s gaze drifted for a moment, her voice low but steady. “I worked in a hostess club. Not the glamorous kind, mind you. It was a place where people came to drown their sorrows, and others came to inflict them. My job was simple—listen to their secrets, separate the victims from the monsters, and deal with the latter.”
Alvi blinked, her interest clearly piqued. “So you gathered intel?”
Elara’s smirk deepened, but her tone grew colder. “Something like that. Let’s just say I learned quickly that some men talk too much when they think they’re in control. Others... need a little persuasion.”
Jun tapped the table, breaking the tension. “Alright, Ferro, last chance. Spill the beans, or we spill the pasta.”
“You’re insane,” Ferro growled, his defiance faltering.
Farhan picked up the penne and held it threateningly close to Ferro’s shirt. “Oh, this isn’t insanity. This is culinary warfare.”
Finally, Ferro’s composure cracked. “Fine!” he shouted, his voice ragged. “I’ll tell you what you want to know. Just stop this... this sacrilege!”
The agents exchanged triumphant grins.
As Ferro spilled the information—details about SCP operations, hidden caches, and encrypted codes—the agents worked quickly to document everything.
Elara, watching from her corner, finally spoke, her voice cutting through the levity like a blade. “You got what you needed. Now stop playing games. He’s still SCP, and he’ll turn on you the moment you give him the chance.”
Agent-90, silent until now, stepped forward. His piercing blue eyes locked onto Ferro, and in a voice devoid of emotion, he said, “You live because you’re useful. The moment that changes, you won’t.”
Ferro swallowed hard, his bravado crumbling under the weight of Agent-90’s icy stare.
From the observation deck above the interrogation chamber, Hella and Hecate stood side by side, their faces pressed lightly against the reinforced glass. The dim light above cast faint reflections of their curious expressions, blending with the bizarre scene unfolding below.
Hella, her auburn hair tucked behind her ears, squinted down at the agents, her lips parting in astonishment. “I’ve seen some unconventional tactics in my time, but this?” she whispered, her voice tinged with both awe and disbelief.
Hecate, ever the composed one, folded her arms, her pale eyes narrowing as she observed Jun twirling his fork theatrically, his expression one of mock menace. “This,” she said in a dry tone, “is what happens when you give amateurs too much creative freedom.”
Hella pointed as Masud, with painstaking deliberation, poured tomato sauce over the plate of spaghetti, his expression grim and serious, as though performing a sacred ritual. “Look at that,” Hella said, her voice rising with incredulity. “They’re treating food like it’s a weapon of mass destruction!”
Hecate tilted her head, her voice laced with sardonic humour. “For an Italian like Ferro, it might as well be. Look at his face.”
Below, Ferro looked utterly defeated. His dark eyes darted between the agents, his lips curling in a mixture of horror and disdain as Jun mockingly sniffed the spaghetti and made a grand show of tasting it.
“Mmm,” Jun hummed, dragging the moment out. “Perfectly al dente.” He waved the fork in Ferro’s direction, his grin mischievous. “Now, if you don’t spill what we need to know, this beautiful creation is going to meet a terrible, terrible end.”
Ferro’s jaw tightened, his expression a mix of disbelief and despair. “You’re barbarians,” he muttered, his Italian accent thick with contempt. “Absolute savages.”
Hecate raised an eyebrow. “Savages, he says, while tied to a chair and at their mercy.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “It’s almost poetic, really. The predator reduced to prey. A tale as old as time.”
Hella snorted, trying to hold back her laughter. “I can’t believe they’re getting to him with pasta. Actual pasta. What’s next? A threat to overcook the penne?”
As if on cue, Farhan picked up the pot of tomato sauce and held it aloft, his expression solemn. “This is your last chance, Ferro,” he said, his voice heavy with mock gravitas. “Tell us what we need to know, or the sauce goes everywhere.”
Hella gasped, clutching Hecate’s arm. “No. They wouldn’t.”
But Farhan, with exaggerated slowness, began tipping the pot. Ferro’s eyes widened, and he let out a strangled cry. “Stop! Fine, I’ll talk!”
Hella clutched her stomach, doubling over with laughter. “Oh my god. It worked! It actually worked!”
Hecate’s lips twitched into the faintest of smiles as she watched Ferro reluctantly spill his secrets, his pride crumbling with every word. “Fear is a universal language,” she said coolly. “And it seems they’ve found his particular dialect.”
Below, Jun set down the fork with a flourish, grinning triumphantly. “See? This is why I’m the brains of the operation.”
Masud rolled his eyes. “You’re not the brains, Jun. You’re just the one who comes up with the most ridiculous ideas.”
“But they work!” Jun shot back, throwing his arms out dramatically. “And that’s what counts.”
Hella wiped tears of laughter from her eyes, her shoulders shaking as she turned to Hecate. “I take back everything I ever said about them being boring. These guys are insane.”
Hecate nodded slightly, her expression thoughtful. “Insane, perhaps. But effective. Though I wonder how long they’ll survive with methods like this.”
Hella grinned. “Long enough to make Ferro question every life choice that brought him here. And honestly? That’s enough for me.”
The Black Castle, shrouded in eternal twilight, stood like a phantom against the horizon. Its jagged spires clawed at the sky, and the soft hum of arcane energy thrummed through its obsidian walls. In the grand hall, Lady Sin, the enigmatic leader of the Sinner, reclined in her high-backed throne, her dark gown pooling like liquid shadow around her feet. Her face was a mask of detached authority, but her piercing gaze betrayed the tempest within her mind.
The heavy doors creaked open as Garofano and her squad entered, their movements purposeful yet laced with subtle tension. Garofano, draped in her signature crimson cloak, stepped forward, her expression composed but wary. The flickering torches lining the walls cast ominous shadows over her face as she approached Lady Sin.
“Agent-90,” Lady Sin said, her voice smooth yet sharp enough to cut glass. “Where is he?”
Garofano reached into her cloak, retrieving an envelope, its edges slightly weathered. “He gave me this,” she said, her tone measured, “along with a display you might find... memorable. Obsidian Peak was chaos, my Lady. The SCP operatives failed, and the SSCBF barely survived. As for Agent-90, he handled it all with precision. He’s... unique.”
Lady Sin’s fingers tapped rhythmically against the armrest of her throne as she considered Garofano’s words. Her gaze lingered on the envelope before she took it, her movements slow and deliberate. “Leave me,” she commanded, her tone imperious. “I will deal with this alone.”
Garofano nodded, her expression unreadable. As she and her squad turned to leave, the heavy doors closed behind them with a low, resonant thud.
In the quiet solitude of her office, Lady Sin examined the envelope. The stark white of the paper contrasted sharply with the dark elegance of the room. Her fingers traced the edges before she carefully broke the seal.
The moment the envelope opened, a sudden, loud pop echoed through the chamber. A plume of black smoke erupted, engulfing Lady Sin’s face in an instant. She staggered back, coughing as the acrid scent of burnt paper filled the air. When the smoke cleared, her once-impeccable visage was now smeared with soot, her elegant appearance reduced to a comical disaster.
Her fingers trembled as she pulled out the contents of the envelope. It was a chibi anime drawing of Agent-90, exaggerated in its features, flipping the middle finger. Below it, in bold, childish letters, was scrawled: “Fuck You!”
The explosion had not gone unnoticed. Within moments, the Sinner gathered outside the door, curiosity etched on their faces. The first to push through was Zoyah, her brow furrowed in concern. She was followed by Shalom, Rahu, Adela, Bai-Yu, Chelsea Countessa, Wolverine, Roulecca, Don, Deren Barnette and the rest of the others.
As the smoke began to dissipate, they all caught sight of Lady Sin standing at the centre of the room, her once-perfect countenance now smeared with soot, her expression one of simmering rage.
Shalom, let out a soft giggle, quickly stifling it behind her hand. “Well,” she whispered to Rahu, her voice barely audible, “I think the blackened look really suits her.”
Rahu shot her a warning glare. “Shalom, not now,” she hissed under her breath.
Chelsea Countessa, standing at the back, arched a perfectly sculpted brow. “Is that... a cartoon?” she asked, her tone incredulous as her gaze landed on the offending drawing still clutched in Lady Sin’s trembling hand.
Zoyah, standing near the front, shook her head slowly, her expression both exasperated and unsurprised. “I told you about him, didn’t I?” she muttered, her voice carrying the weight of prophecy fulfilled. “Agent-90 is chaos incarnate.”
Lady Sin’s glare was a weapon in itself, sharp and scorching as it swept over her assembled Sinner. She held up the drawing, her hand trembling with fury.
“Do any of you,” she began, her voice low and dangerous, “find this amusing?”
A heavy silence fell over the room. Shalom coughed, her gaze fixed firmly on the floor, while Wolverine scratched the back of his head awkwardly. Roulecca bit her lip to keep from smiling, and Don quietly adjusted his gloves, refusing to meet Lady Sin’s gaze.
Zoyah finally stepped forward, her voice calm but firm. “Lady Sin,” she said, “this is exactly what I warned you about. Agent-90 doesn’t play by anyone’s rules. Not yours, not theirs, not even his own. He’s... unpredictable.”
Lady Sin’s eyes narrowed, her fingers tightening around the drawing until the paper crumpled. “Unpredictable,” she repeated, her tone venomous. “No, Zoyah. He’s an insolent child who thinks he’s untouchable. But I will remind him—no one humiliates Lady Sin and walks away unscathed.”
As the Sinner filed out of the room, the tension finally broke, replaced by soft murmurs and barely stifled chuckles.
Shalom leaned toward Adela as they walked. “Honestly,” she whispered, “did you see her face? She looked like she got into a fight with a chimney and lost.”
Adela shot her a warning glance, but her lips twitched upward. “Careful, Shalom. She’ll hear you.”
Wolverine, walking ahead, muttered under his breath, “Agent-90’s got guts, I’ll give him that. Or maybe he’s just suicidal.”
Zoyah, bringing up the rear, sighed deeply. “This isn’t the end of it,” she said softly. “He’s lit a fire in her and knows Lady Sin... she’ll burn until she gets her revenge.”
The air inside Madam Di-Xian’s office was heavy with incense, its calming tendrils curling upward into the dim light. Yet, the serenity of the atmosphere did little to match her current expression—an amused, exasperated smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she reviewed the latest report.
Sitting before her were Farhan, Jun, Roy, and Masud, their faces ranging from smug to sheepish. Hecate and Hella stood nearby, both of them trying (and failing) to stifle their giggles at the recounting of the spaghetti interrogation.
“So,” Di-Xian began, her voice calm but with an edge of incredulity. “Let me summarise: you decided to break Ferro with... pasta?”
Jun leaned back in his chair, grinning ear to ear. “Not just pasta, Madam. It was about the emotional weight. The cultural insult.”
Farhan groaned, pushing his glasses up. “What he’s trying to say is... yes, we used pasta.”
Hella burst out laughing, her voice ringing like a bell. “You should’ve seen his face! He looked like someone insulted his entire bloodline!”
Madam Di-Xian shook her head, her fingers lightly massaging her temples. “I suppose unconventional methods work for unconventional enemies. But next time, Jun, perhaps less culinary theatrics and more professionalism?”
Jun nodded solemnly but muttered under his breath, “I still say it was genius.”
Madam Di-Xian caught the comment, her lips twitching into a reluctant smile. “Genius or not, Ferro is now in our custody. We need answers, and this isn’t the time for games. Understood?”
Far across the globe, in the SCP’s central citadel, Gavriel Elazar stood before a wall of holographic screens in his private chamber. Each screen displayed live feeds, encrypted reports, and surveillance images. His eyes narrowed as one of the screens displayed a message from Chief Ilse Richter.
“She failed again,” Gavriel hissed, his voice low and venomous. He clenched his fists, his knuckles whitening as he read the report of Ferro’s capture.
The sound of approaching footsteps echoed behind him. Netanyahu Hoffam, the towering, intimidating figure who held sway over the SCP, entered the chamber with slow, deliberate strides. His presence was magnetic, his gaze piercing as he studied Gavriel.
“Speak,” Netanyahu commanded, his voice a deep rumble that seemed to reverberate through the room.
Gavriel turned to him, his anger simmering beneath a thin veneer of control. “Ferro has been taken by Agent-90. Chief Richter confirms it. That man has failed us three times now.”
Netanyahu’s expression darkened, his eyes narrowing into slits. “And what does Chief Richter propose?”
“She suggests interrogation,” Gavriel replied, his tone laced with disdain. “But Ferro knows too much. If he talks, the SSCBF and Agent-90 will learn about our operations—our Fourteenth Society, our plans. Everything.”
Netanyahu’s gaze turned glacial, his voice quiet but menacing. “Then he cannot be allowed to talk. Eliminate him.”
Gavriel hesitated for only a moment before nodding sharply. “I’ll inform Richter. Ferro’s failure will cost him everything.”
Back at her post, Chief Ilse Richter received Gavriel’s orders through an encrypted feed. Her expression didn’t flicker as she read the command: "Terminate Ferro immediately."
Standing beside her, Elan Mordecha leaned in, his sharp eyes scanning the same message. “So,” he said, his voice edged with dark humour, “Ferro gets the axe?”
Richter gave a cold, humourless smile. “Failure isn’t just punished here, Captain. It’s eradicated.”
In the sterile, windowless interrogation room at SSCBF headquarters, Dr. Abrar sat at a plain metal table. His lab coat was gone, replaced by a simple shirt that did nothing to hide the beads of sweat forming on his brow. Across from him stood Captain Robert and Captain Lingaong Xuein, both with arms crossed and expressions sharp as knives.
Robert was the first to speak, his tone firm but not unkind. “Dr. Abrar, we need answers. The enhanced agents—Kyra Lang, Aymeric Moreau, Elias Kovach—what happened to them?”
Abrar shook his head, his voice trembling. “I don’t know! I swear to you, my enhancements were designed for optimisation, not... whatever that was!”
Lingaong Xuein leaned forward, her tone gentler but no less probing. “But they turned on us, Doctor. Their eyes, their movements—they were like machines. Something went wrong, and we need to know what.”
Abrar’s voice rose slightly, his desperation evident. “You have to believe me! I don’t know who interfered with my work. I never intended for this to happen!”
Behind the one-way glass of the observation room, Chief Wen-Li stood with her arms folded, her sharp eyes fixed on the scene below. Beside her, President Zhang Wei entered with his usual air of authority, his footsteps deliberate and his expression unreadable.
“What’s he saying?” Zhang Wei asked, his voice calm but heavy with expectation.
Wen-Li glanced at him, her jaw tight. “He’s denying responsibility. Claims his work was tampered with.”
Zhang Wei’s brow furrowed slightly. “Tampered with by whom?”
“He doesn’t know,” Wen-Li replied, her tone clipped.
Zhang Wei’s eyes darkened, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Then he’s either lying or a fool. Either way, he’s dangerous.”
Back in the interrogation room, Robert exchanged a glance with Lingaong Xuein before leaning forward, his voice softer now. “Dr. Abrar,” he said, “we believe you. But we need proof. If someone tampered with your work, give us something to go on.”
Abrar looked up, his eyes filled with a mixture of hope and despair. “I’ll try,” he said. “But I don’t know where to start.”
In the observation room, Zhang Wei’s gaze didn’t leave Abrar as he turned to Wen-Li. “Keep him under observation. If he slips, eliminate him. I won’t have the SSCBF compromised further.”
Wen-Li’s jaw tightened, but she nodded, her expression unreadable.
The air inside Madam Di-Xian’s office was unusually heavy, a tangible weight pressing down on the four agents—Jun, Farhan, Masud, and Roy—who stood before her like chastened schoolboys awaiting judgment. The flickering lanterns on either side of the chamber cast long shadows, giving the scene an almost theatrical intensity.
Madam Di-Xian sat behind her ornately carved mahogany desk, her fingers steepled beneath her chin, her gaze fixed on the quartet with a sharpness that could cut steel. She exhaled slowly, her composure betraying the storm brewing beneath.
“You imbeciles,” she began, her tone low but seething with controlled fury, “have you any idea the magnitude of what you’ve done?”
Jun, ever the bold one, opened his mouth, but a single glance from Di-Xian silenced him. He quickly adjusted his glasses, his face a picture of contrite panic.
“You dare,” she continued, her voice rising slightly, “to insult another’s culture, another’s tradition, and for what? To intimidate a man already tied to a chair? Do you think yourselves clever? Humorous?”
Farhan shifted uncomfortably, his spectacles slipping slightly as he muttered, “Well, it did work...”
Madam Di-Xian’s glare could have frozen the sun. “Oh, it worked, did it? And what happens when word gets out that the SDF—a force meant to uphold justice—resorts to mocking a man’s heritage? Do you think that enhances our reputation?”
Masud, his arms crossed defensively, mumbled, “It was Jun’s idea.”
Jun immediately shot back, “Don’t drag me under the bus, mate! You poured the sauce!”
“Enough!” Madam Di-Xian snapped, her voice cutting through their bickering like a blade. “I care not whose idea it was. You are a team, and you will answer as one.”
She rose from her chair, her movements deliberate, like the gathering of storm clouds before a tempest. Her gaze swept over them, her words striking like thunder.
“Do you understand what culture represents?” she asked, her voice quieter now but no less biting. “It is a tapestry, woven with threads of history, sacrifice, and pride. By mocking Ferro’s heritage, you did not just insult him; you spat on a thread in that tapestry. You shamed yourselves and, by extension, the SDF.”
Her words hung in the air, a heavy silence falling over the room.
Madam Di-Xian exhaled deeply, her anger ebbing into something softer but no less resolute. “And yet,” she said, “even storms pass. You are human, flawed as the rest of us. Mistakes are part of learning, but make no mistake—this cannot, will not, happen again.”
Jun, Farhan, Masud, and Roy exchanged glances, their faces etched with a mixture of guilt and relief.
“I forgive you,” Madam Di-Xian said, her tone measured, “but only because I believe in your potential. However, let this be the first and last time you bring shame to this organisation. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Madam,” they chorused, their voices subdued but sincere.
As they turned to leave, Jun couldn’t help himself. He adjusted his glasses and muttered under his breath, “Well, at least she didn’t throw the spaghetti at us.”
Farhan snorted, quickly covering his mouth, while Masud rolled his eyes. Roy, however, gave Jun a sharp elbow to the ribs, muttering, “Do you have a death wish?”
Madam Di-Xian’s voice, sharp as a whip, called after them. “Jun.”
Jun froze, his face pale as he turned back. “Yes, Madam?”
She raised an eyebrow, a faint, sardonic smile playing on her lips. “Next time you feel the urge to be clever, direct it at your enemy’s strategy, not their cuisine. Dismissed.”
The Obsidian Peaks loomed ahead, jagged and unwelcoming, shrouded in an oppressive mist that clung to the shattered ruins like the ghosts of fallen warriors. The remnants of conflict were evident even from a distance—the acrid scent of blood still lingered in the cold air, a silent testament to the violence that had unfurled here.
Wen-Liao, leading the Federal Army Corporation (FAC) investigative team, stepped onto the scorched ground, his boots crunching against the debris of broken firearms and shattered armour plating. The sky above was an unforgiving abyss, rolling clouds of charcoal grey stretching endlessly, blocking the sun from casting its righteous light over the battlefield. Thunder rumbled in the distance, a low growl echoing the warning that danger had not yet fully departed from this wretched place.
His sharp eyes immediately caught the smears of blood across the gravel. Some dried into blackened streaks, others still fresh enough to glisten under the faint illumination filtering through the storm clouds. His jaw tightened as he knelt, running his gloved fingers through the bloodstains, feeling the congealed remnants against his fingertips.
"There was a fight here. Not long ago."
A soft shuffle of boots on the dampened ground made him glance up. Commander Eleanor Vance, her sleek combat gear hugging her form, approached with careful steps. Her platinum-blonde hair was tied back into a neat ponytail, the cold wind tugging at the loose strands around her face. Despite the steel in her posture, there was a gentle edge to her voice as she spoke.
“Wen-Liao,” she murmured, her tone quiet but firm, the way a seasoned soldier might whisper to a brother-in-arms before stepping into an ambush. “Be careful.”
He looked up at her, his lips curving into the faintest smile—a rare ember of warmth in the frozen wasteland of war.
“I always am,” he replied, though the smirk he wore didn’t quite reach his eyes.
She huffed, unimpressed by his attempt at humour, but nodded nonetheless. Wen-Liao was meticulous, but this place had the feel of a hunting ground where the predator still lurked in the shadows, watching.
Atop the highest skeletal remains of a collapsed building, Gonda Subuchi stood like a sentinel of death, his long coat fluttering in the biting wind. His dark eyes surveyed the battlefield below with the sharpness of a hawk tracking prey, but behind him—hidden from the view of the FAC agents—lay the aftermath of his own work.
The bodies of SCP operatives were stacked in a grim tableau of carnage, their corpses twisted in unnatural angles where he had cut them down. The scent of iron and gunpowder still clung to the air, a symphony of death that only he could fully appreciate.
"The mission was simple. Remove all traces of SCP interference. Erase the SSCBF’s compromised officers. Make sure the battlefield told only one story—one where neither side held victory."
It hadn’t been difficult. The moment he arrived, he had moved like a shadow through the ruins, his blade striking with the finality of a guillotine, silencing screams before they had the chance to pierce the air. No hesitation. No mercy. Just the efficient extermination of liabilities.
Now, watching Wen-Liao and his team move cautiously across the field, he felt a flicker of intrigue. He had cleared the stage, but what play would they uncover in his absence?
Would they sense the deception woven into the remains?
Would they see the false trail carefully crafted to mislead them?
Gonda exhaled, his breath curling like smoke in the cold air. It didn’t matter.
By the time they uncovered the truth, it would already be too late.
Wen-Liao signalled for his team to spread out. Kerin Longcutter, ever the methodical tracker, moved toward the perimeter, his rifle raised, scanning the rubble for disturbances. Dagdan Leesoney crouched near an overturned transport, pressing his fingers against bullet holes that had torn through the steel plating.
Sionola O’Leahy, always light on her feet, stepped carefully through the mess of bodies, her sharp green eyes scanning for inconsistencies.
“This doesn’t feel right,” she muttered.
Wen-Liao turned his gaze toward her. “Explain.”
She nudged a corpse with the tip of her boot. “The wounds. Some were shot, but others—” She pointed toward a cleanly severed head, the edges too precise to be from shrapnel or blunt trauma. “—were cut. A blade, not a bullet, did this.”
Kerin, overhearing, added, “Most of the fighting happened in one direction. But these bodies—” He gestured to a set of fallen SCP operatives lying in a staggered formation. “—they were moved here. Someone staged this.”
Wen-Liao’s jaw tightened.
This wasn’t just an ambush. It was a cover-up.
Eleanor Vance, who had been observing the way the bodies lay, turned her gaze toward the ruined skyline, her fingers flexing slightly. Her instincts were screaming at her.
“This place is compromised,” she stated, her voice as smooth as cut glass. “Someone was here before us.”
Wen-Liao exhaled slowly, his breath misting in the cold air, before responding. “Then let’s make sure we find out exactly what they were trying to hide.”
Above them, perched in the ruins like a spectre of unfinished war, Gonda Subuchi smirked.
The SSCBF headquarters stood in eerie silence, its grand halls dimly illuminated by the cold glow of digital screens and the muted hum of surveillance systems. Chief Wen-Li, ever poised yet restless, strode through the corridors with purpose, her long silk-black hair swaying behind her like a banner carried by the wind. Her expression was unreadable, though a storm brewed beneath her composed fa?ade.
As she reached the Data Analysis Division, she found Lan Qian, her most trusted analyst, hunched over an array of monitors, her delicate fingers dancing across the keyboard with meticulous precision. The room smelled faintly of freshly brewed tea and machine oil, an odd yet familiar combination that came with working tirelessly in the digital trenches of SSCBF intelligence.
Lan Qian barely glanced up as Wen-Li entered, her amber eyes reflecting the flickering blue light of multiple surveillance feeds.
“Lan Qian,” Wen-Li’s voice was calm but firm, “I need a full forensic analysis of the Obsidian Peak battle. Cross-reference all surveillance from satellite imaging, Sentinel Helices feedback, and recovered drone footage.”
Lan Qian nodded once, her focus razor-sharp. “Already on it, Chief.”
Lan Qian’s fingers moved like a pianist’s across the keyboard, her mind processing a torrent of encrypted data with surgical precision. Multiple screens bloomed before her, displaying an array of chaotic scenes from Obsidian Peak—gunfire lighting up the night like falling meteors, bodies strewn like discarded chess pieces, and shadows moving too quickly for standard tracking systems to register.
Her brows furrowed as she ran a secondary decryption protocol. The footage jittered before stabilising, revealing clearer imagery.
First, the SSCBF officers—Commander Krieg, Robert, Nightingale, Tao-Ren, and Demitin—arrived in formation, their weapons raised, their postures tense. Then came the ambush—SCP operatives emerging like spectres from the fog, striking with deadly precision.
A second layer of heat-mapped imaging showed something even more disturbing.
Lan Qian’s breath hitched slightly. The SSCBF agents—Kyra Lang, Aymeric Moreau, Elias Kovach... they weren’t just enhanced. They moved like marionettes with severed strings reattached. Erratic. Unnatural.
She leaned forward, magnifying the details of their movement. Bloodshot eyes, delayed reaction times, yet heightened combat efficiency. Hypnosis? Neural manipulation? No... something deeper. Something mechanical and organic.
“This...” she murmured under her breath, her mind racing. “This isn’t enhancement... this is puppetry.”
Just as she was about to run another diagnostic scan, something else appeared on the feed. A dark silhouette, emerging through the chaos with deadly elegance.
Lan Qian’s heart almost stopped. Him.
Agent-90.
He moved through the battlefield like a phantom, his blade-nunchaku a silver blur, disarming and incapacitating enemies with cold, surgical precision. Beside him, the Sinner squad—Garofano, Blaze, Syntara, and Xira—joined the fray, their deadly efficiency overwhelming the SCP operatives.
Her fingers stilled for just a moment as she watched Agent-90 battle Ferro. The two warriors clashed with the kind of brutal grace only honed killers could wield—steel biting through air, fists cracking against flesh, the battlefield bending to their will.
The footage flickered to another angle, capturing a moment that sent an involuntary shiver down her spine.
Amidst the raging chaos, amidst the bodies and the smoke, Agent-90 turned his head ever so slightly—just for a fraction of a second—and looked straight into the surveillance drone.
Not at it. Into it.
As if he knew she was watching.
Lan Qian swallowed hard and turned to Wen-Li, whose gaze was locked onto the screen with quiet intensity. The chief’s lips parted slightly, but instead of her usual unreadable expression, there was something softer there—something unspoken.
A small, fleeting smile of gratitude.
Lan Qian tilted her head slightly. “You’re smiling, Chief.”
Wen-Li exhaled through her nose, her fingertips grazing the edge of the desk as if grounding herself in reality. “He was there.” Her voice was quieter than usual, but firm nonetheless. “They all were.”
Lan Qian studied her for a moment before returning her focus to the screen. “He never fails, does he?”
“No,” Wen-Li whispered. “He doesn’t.”
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the soft hum of the monitors. Wen-Li straightened, her gaze sharpening once more. The moment of reflection had passed.
“Save the footage,” she ordered, her voice regaining its authoritative edge. “Cross-reference it with any anomalies in SCP’s cybernetic experiments. If those agents were being controlled, I want to know how and by whom.”
Lan Qian nodded, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “On it.”
Wen-Li turned to leave but paused at the door. Without looking back, she added, “And Lan Qian... good work.”
A rare flicker of warmth passed through Lan Qian’s chest, but she kept her expression neutral as she smirked slightly at the screen.
"Of course he was there."
She pressed a button, pausing the screen on Agent-90’s masked face, illuminated in the cold glow of war.
"And of course... he saw us first."
The SCP headquarters was a monolithic structure of steel and glass, an architectural fortress designed not just to shield secrets but to bury them beneath layers of shadows and silence. Deep within its labyrinthine halls, in a room illuminated only by the spectral glow of surveillance screens, Chief Ilse Richter sat at the head of a long, obsidian conference table. Her cold, calculating eyes flickered across the digital projections of Ferro’s last known engagements—the battle at Obsidian Peak, his clash with Agent-90, and then... nothing.
Ferro had vanished.
Her fingers drummed rhythmically against the armrest of her chair. Her movements were meticulous, each tap a metronome of growing impatience.
Across from her, standing with his usual arrogance, was Elan Mordecha, his crisp uniform immaculate despite the storm brewing in the room. Beside him, ever the cruel spectre, Shira Malachai leaned against the wall, her arms folded, a smirk playing on her lips as if she relished Ferro’s impending demise.
Richter exhaled, her voice slicing through the tension like a scalpel. “He has failed three times.”
Shira scoffed, her icy-blue eyes gleaming with amusement. “Three times is generous, Chief. Ferro was SCP’s pride, wasn’t he?” She clicked her tongue in mock pity. “Now he’s nothing but a loose end waiting to be tied off.”
Elan nodded, his expression unreadable. “Gavriel has given the order. Ferro is to be eliminated before he compromises everything.”
At the far end of the chamber, surveillance and encryption specialists worked tirelessly, their screens displaying endless streams of classified intelligence.
Among them, Eitan Shalom, an elite cyber-thief, adjusted his headset, his fingers flying across a holographic keyboard as he executed an invasive breach protocol. At Elan’s command, his next target was clear: Chief Wen-Li’s private files.
Elan stepped up behind him. “Find everything you can. Gavriel wants leverage.”
Eitan smirked, the light from the screen reflecting in his dark eyes. “This will take time, but I’ll crack it. No system is perfect.”
From across the room, Zhao Chun, the enigmatic engineer of SCP’s high-tech weaponry division, remained seated in the shadows, sipping tea with an unsettling calm. Without lifting her gaze, she murmured, “You won’t need to hurry. Kenji Nakamura is already inside SSCBF.”
Elan turned sharply. “What do you mean?”
Zhao Chun finally looked up, her expression unreadable. “Kenji’s infiltration is nearly complete. SSCBF won’t make a move without us knowing.”
Shira smirked, her gaze flickering towards Elan. “Looks like Ferro’s replacement is already doing better than he ever did.”
Somewhere unknown, far from SCP’s grasp…
Ferro blinked against the harsh light glaring down at him. His wrists were bound to a cold steel chair, and his body ached from the brutal beating he had suffered at Agent-90’s hands. The air in the room was thick with something more suffocating than humidity—the weight of inevitability.
Before him, standing with his perpetual air of detachment, was Agent-90. The nameless spectre, the emotionless executioner, his face unreadable beneath the dim light.
“I should kill you,” Agent-90 said flatly, his voice as void of warmth as the steel walls enclosing them.
Ferro let out a dry chuckle despite himself. “You should, yes,” he admitted, shifting against his restraints. “Yet, here I am.”
“Because you’re more useful alive than dead,” came another voice—Madam Di-Xian, who stepped into the room with the measured grace of a queen surveying a prisoner. Her sharp gaze bore into Ferro, scrutinising him as though she could unspool his secrets with a mere glance.
Ferro sneered, defiant. “I have nothing to say.”
“Really?” Di-Xian arched a delicate brow before gesturing toward a tablet screen brought forward by Alvi. “Then allow me to educate you on your situation.”
The screen displayed encrypted transmissions, intercepted directly from SCP headquarters. Ferro’s own execution order was written in cold, professional efficiency. The words were sterile, clinical, lacking any sentiment beyond ‘immediate termination recommended.’
Ferro’s smirk faltered. His dark eyes flickered over the text again, and this time, disbelief laced his features.
“This is a lie.” His voice lacked conviction.
“Is it?” Agent-90 stepped forward, his piercing blue eyes never once leaving Ferro’s. “Tell me, Ferro. If SCP wanted you back, why have they sent no one to retrieve you?”
Silence.
Ferro clenched his jaw.
Gonda’s voice, cool and detached, drifted from the shadows. “I killed the ones they sent.”
Ferro’s fingers twitched against his restraints. The weight of betrayal settled like lead in his gut.
Di-Xian watched him carefully. “You can keep pretending you matter to them, or you can be useful to me.”
A long silence stretched between them before Ferro finally exhaled, his head dipping slightly forward.
“…What do you want to know?”
Agent-90’s gaze remained unreadable, but something in the room shifted.
The monster had been unleashed against his former masters.
Kenji Nakamura—or as he was known inside the SSCBF, Yamazi Ryo—moved through the sterile corridors with the effortless grace of a shadow, his presence barely registering among the bustling agents and officers. His disguise was meticulous; a low-ranking systems technician, clad in a standard-issue SSCBF uniform, his credentials forged with such precision that even the most advanced biometric scanners registered him as authentic.
The humming servers of the cybersecurity wing pulsed around him as he entered the restricted data encryption chamber, the cold glow of the holographic terminals reflecting off his thin, wire-rimmed glasses. He exhaled softly, flexing his fingers before setting to work, his movements precise—a maestro conducting an orchestra of deception.
Kenji’s fingers danced over the keyboard, lines of encrypted code spiralling into submission under his touch. The SSCBF network firewall, reinforced with military-grade encryption, was formidable—a fortress of data, an unbreakable chain of ones and zeroes—but Kenji had unravelled stronger defences before.
Using a custom bypass tool embedded in his watch, he injected a cloaked data spike into the network, feeding a silent stream of classified intelligence directly to SCP’s underground servers.
"Twenty percent… thirty percent…"
The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
Each passing second brought him closer to the core files—mission logs, classified agent profiles, internal memos from Chief Wen-Li—the very lifeblood of SSCBF’s operations.
"Seventy-five percent…"
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. Almost there.
But then—
A voice. A familiar one.
“Yamazi, what are you doing?”
Lan Qian stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her sharp amber eyes narrowing as she took in the scene. The glow of the monitors illuminated ‘Yamazi’s’ face, the sudden tension in his posture betraying a moment of hesitation.
Kenji barely resisted the urge to curse. He turned, schooling his features into something halfway between surprise and mild indignation, adjusting his glasses in a practised gesture of feigned nonchalance.
“Lan Qian,” he said smoothly, his voice carrying just the right amount of nervous sincerity. “I, uh… something’s wrong with the system. I think we’re under some kind of cyber-attack.”
Lan Qian raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Really?”
“Yes,” he nodded, turning back to the console as if analysing the data on screen. “I noticed anomalous traffic patterns in the firewall logs—activity that doesn’t match our usual parameters.”
Lan Qian sighed, rubbing her temple. “You always find a problem, don’t you?”
Kenji gave a sheepish smile. “I like to think I’m thorough.”
Lan Qian stepped closer, peering at the screen. “Let me see.”
Kenji subtly moved his hand, pressing a hidden key that switched the primary feed to a benign security protocol analysis, masking his actual infiltration logs.
Lan Qian squinted at the screen. “This just looks like an outdated packet filter diagnostic.”
Kenji gave a small laugh, a nervous, perfectly calculated chuckle. “Ah! Yes, that’s what I meant to say. I was testing your attention to detail. You passed.”
Lan Qian stared at him, unamused.
Kenji forced a casual shrug. “I mean, it could be an anomaly, but maybe I’ve been staring at the code for too long.”
Lan Qian sighed. “I swear, Yamazi, if you weren’t so good with data, I’d think you just like making my life harder.”
Kenji grinned, raising his hands innocently. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She rolled her eyes. “Just don’t fry the mainframe like last time.”
Kenji chuckled, giving her a mock salute before she turned and walked away, muttering something under her breath about ‘data gremlins in human form.’
As soon as she disappeared, the humour drained from Kenji’s face.
Kenji tapped a hidden command on his wristwatch, triggering a silent data purge that erased his digital footprints from the system logs. Then, with the ease of a seasoned infiltrator, he disconnected his data spike, shut down the console, and adjusted his uniform.
As he stepped out into the corridor, his movements were casual, effortless—a chameleon blending seamlessly into the shifting tide of SSCBF personnel.
He walked at a steady pace, not too fast to draw suspicion, not too slow to seem hesitant. The weight of the stolen classified intelligence nestled in his covert data drive was a ticking bomb in his pocket.
As he neared an exit, he allowed himself the faintest of smirks.
Gavriel was going to be pleased.
But more importantly—no one, not even Chief Wen-Li, had any idea the snake was already inside their walls.
The autopsy room was a cathedral of silence, its walls lined with steel, its air thick with the sterile scent of disinfectant and something darker—the lingering trace of death. The overhead lights cast a pale glow over the bodies laid upon cold slabs, their faces frozen in unnatural grimaces, as if even in death they had not escaped the horrors they had endured.
Chief Wen-Li, clad in a white medical coat over her standard uniform, stood over the lifeless form of Kyra Lang, one of the SSCBF agents who had turned against their own at Obsidian Peak. Her expression was unreadable, yet her keen eyes missed nothing. A scalpel in her gloved hand glinted under the harsh fluorescent light as she made precise incisions, peeling back layers of flesh with the detached efficiency of a scientist, not a soldier.
Beside her, nurse Anne Parker, a diligent woman with sharp green eyes and auburn hair tied in a practical bun, worked in tandem, handing instruments and making notes as Dr. Abrar had once trained her.
Wen-Li’s gaze narrowed as she reached deeper into the cavity. Something was wrong. The organs, though still recognisable, bore subtle mutations—tissue too dense, muscle fibres unnaturally reinforced, as if engineered for something beyond human endurance.
Then, as she pressed further, her fingers met something foreign.
Metal.
Anne, observing the shift in Wen-Li’s posture, murmured, “Chief?”
Wen-Li didn’t answer. With slow precision, she extracted the object, her breath still as the truth began to unfold before her. A small, glistening implant, embedded near the spinal column, its intricate wiring fused to the nerve endings.
It wasn’t a cybernetic enhancement in the traditional sense—this was something more invasive. Something designed to override will.
Anne’s hand covered her mouth as she whispered, “Good God… they were controlled.”
Wen-Li’s grip on the scalpel tightened, her eyes flashing with something cold, something dangerous.
“This isn’t augmentation,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper yet brimming with rage. “It’s puppetry.”
Far from the sterile confines of SSCBF, within the nerve centre of SCP’s dominion, Gavriel Elazar sat before a grand, obsidian table, his fingers steepled as he listened to the heavy, measured footsteps approaching.
Standing before him, draped in a presence as heavy as his reputation, was Netanyahu Hoffam, the unseen hand guiding the shadowed fate of nations.
Gavriel exhaled, tilting his head slightly. “Why are you so calm, sir?”
Netanyahu’s lips curled into a devilish smirk, his dark eyes gleaming with a secret yet to be spoken.
“Our ship,” he said smoothly, “is coming into Ashenport.”
Gavriel’s brows knitted together. “And what exactly is inside this ship?”
Netanyahu let the silence stretch for a moment, revelling in the tension before he finally spoke. “Our future.”
Gavriel’s fingers tapped against the table, a slow, rhythmic sound—a war drum in the quiet.
The heavy doors swung open, and in strode Chief Ilse Richter, her uniform impeccable despite the simmering frustration barely concealed beneath her sharp features.
Gavriel did not so much as glance at her before speaking.
“Order your operatives to patrol Ashenport. I want no interference when the ship arrives.” His voice was a command, not a request.
Richter blinked once, thrown off by his preemptive dismissal of whatever she had intended to report. But she swallowed her irritation and nodded. “Understood.”
Then, after a beat, she added, “And what of Ferro?”
Gavriel finally turned to her, his dark gaze sharp as a blade. “He is dead to us.”
Richter smirked, understanding the implication all too well. “Then I’ll ensure that becomes a reality.”
She turned on her heel, the cold authority of her presence rippling through the chamber as she left, her mind already calculating the deployment of operatives to hunt down the traitor.
Back in the autopsy chamber, Wen-Li’s fingers tightened around the cold edge of the metal table. The implant in her gloved hand felt heavier than it should, though it was barely the size of a coin.
She turned to Anne Parker, her voice as cold as steel drawn from its sheath.
“Alert the Field Operations Unit,” she said, her expression unshaken, her resolve unyielding. “We are at war.”
As Anne hurried to comply, Wen-Li allowed herself one deep breath. The pieces of the puzzle were falling into place—but who, in the end, was pulling the strings?
Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden, flashing red alert on the console screen nearby. Her eyes flicked to the report.
—Unmarked vessel approaching. Unknown cargo. High-security escorts detected.—
Her lips pressed into a firm line.
She knew where her next move had to be.
The Arctic winds howled like wailing phantoms, their frozen breath seeping into the seams of their gear, biting at the exposed skin beneath their helmets. Obsidian Peak was behind them now, but its shadow still clung to their bones—a lingering spectre of what they had uncovered, what they had barely survived.
Captain Wen-Liao walked at the head of his unit, his breath curling into the frigid air like ghostly tendrils. His boots crunched against the ice-laden gravel, his every step measured, his mind a battlefield of calculations. The truth they had unearthed at Obsidian Peak was only the beginning.
Ahead of him, a crude landing strip stretched out against the white abyss, where a black FAC dropship awaited their departure. But Wen-Liao wasn’t ready to leave—not yet.
Beside him, Lieutenant Jared Colt, ever the sceptic, studied the frost-rimmed terrain with wary eyes. “We’re walking a line thinner than a razor’s edge, Wen,” Colt muttered. “And sooner or later, we’re going to fall off.”
Wen-Liao didn’t look at him. Instead, he turned his gaze toward the distant scarred remains of the battlefield. The bodies had been cleared, but the earth still reeked of blood and cordite, as if it remembered the carnage too well.
“We’re not falling anywhere,” Wen-Liao said, his voice steady as the steel in his grip. “We’re moving forward. The only question is where.”
Sergeant Davis Washington stood near the cargo hold, arms folded, his muscles tensed beneath his tactical vest. He was watching the others, but more than that—he was watching the silence.
There was something unnatural about it.
The battlefield behind them had been a place of gunfire and screams, of dying breath rasping through shattered lungs. Now, there was only the whisper of the wind, the occasional groan of the dropship’s cooling systems, and the soft murmurs of the FAC officers discussing what came next.
Davis had been in too many wars, too many clean-up operations, and this felt wrong. Too quiet. Like a beast still lurking beneath the ice, waiting for them to turn their backs.
“Something’s coming,” he muttered under his breath, barely audible.
Colt, standing beside him, exhaled sharply. “Yeah, and it ain’t good.”
Commander Eleanor Vance had always believed in strategy over impulse, calculation over recklessness. But what they had seen at Obsidian Peak? That changed the rules of engagement.
Standing atop a jagged outcrop, her keen blue eyes scanned the far horizon, where the Arctic mist obscured what lay beyond. Somewhere out there, past the blizzards and the frozen wastelands, the answers waited.
Answers that someone didn’t want them to find.
She activated her comms.
“Wen-Liao, Colt, Davis,” she said, her voice even, but with an edge of command. “We have new orders.”
Wen-Liao approached first, followed by Colt and Davis, their faces hard with expectation.
Eleanor exhaled, her breath curling like frost against the air. She wasn’t going to like what she had to say, and neither were they.
“We’re heading to Ashenport.”
Colt’s jaw tightened. Davis cursed under his breath. Wen-Liao simply nodded.
Eleanor glanced between them, her voice lowering. “Something is being moved through that port—something SCP doesn’t want the world to see.” Her gaze met Wen-Liao’s. “And I need my best eyes on it.”
Wen-Liao didn’t hesitate. “Then we leave now.”
The storm was coming. And they were about to step into the heart of it.
The Black Castle, a monolithic structure of gothic spires and shadowed corridors, loomed beneath an eternal twilight, its obsidian walls swallowing the pale moonlight. The scent of aged parchment and burning incense filled the air, a place where whispers carried weight, where every breath held secrets untold.
Seated upon her high-backed throne of onyx and carmine velvet, Lady Sin exuded an aura of quiet dominion, her presence commanding without the need for theatrics. Her raven-black hair, streaked with silver, cascaded over one shoulder, her crimson lips poised in thought as she studied the parchment before her.
Before her knelt Gonda Subuchi, ever the shadow in the light, his trench coat still dusted from his latest excursion into the world beyond the Castle’s reach. His keen eyes, like a predator in the dark, gleamed with information.
“The situation in Ashenport is shifting,” Gonda reported, his voice a gravelly murmur. “The **SCP is mobilising. Their ship is en route, carrying something… veiled, something they don’t want seen.”
Lady Sin tapped a gloved finger against the armrest of her throne, contemplating. “And the SSCBF? The FAC?”
“They’re both converging.” A smirk played at the edge of Gonda’s lips. “They smell the blood in the water.”
A silence stretched, heavy with unspoken conclusions.
Then, with deliberate grace, Lady Sin reached for the rotary phone at her side, a relic of old power wrapped in modern influence. She lifted the receiver, her voice an elegant whisper of command.
A moment of silence.
Then, from the other end of the line, a voice—smooth, tempered, edged with the weight of experience. A voice that carried like the slow draw of a blade against its sheath.
“I assume this is urgent, Ma’am?”
Lady Sin allowed a ghost of a smile. “Cinnabar, my dear. You and your team are needed at Ashenport. SCP’s hands are tightening. Their secrets are about to surface, and I want you there when they do.”
A brief pause. Then, the voice answered, firm, unwavering.
“Understood. We move immediately.”
Lady Sin’s tone dropped an octave, carrying an edge of caution. “Be vigilant, Cinnabar. The storm is thick, and wolves prowl within it.”
A chuckle from the other side—rich, knowing. “Then we shall hunt the wolves, Lady Sin.”
A click. The line went dead.
Beneath the industrial glow of a hidden subterranean stronghold, Cinnabar Vinogradova stood at the heart of the Echo Rebellion, her crimson gaze sweeping over the figures before her—warriors not of mere brute force, but of refined devastation.
Her Crimson Dominion flickered around her fingertips, a silent pulse of power, the air around her crackling with a barely-contained inferno.
“Ashar. Kaoru. Eliora. Diego.” Her voice cut through the air like a war drum at dawn.
They lifted their gazes. No words were needed—they knew their orders before they were spoken.
Ashar Iqbal, his fingers twitching as if strumming invisible chords, smirked. Sound waves hummed around his form, a breath away from chaos. “Time to make some noise, then?”
Kaoru Takahashi, ever the enigma, merely flicked his wrist, his form flickering for a moment—disappearing, reappearing, the manifestation of his Phantom Code disrupting the surrounding light for mere milliseconds. “Sabotage and subterfuge. Right up my alley.”
Eliora Steinberg rolled her shoulders, her Kinetic Ward shimmering in translucent ripples around her as she tested the tension in the air. “Shields up, weapons primed. Let’s not waste time.”
And then, standing at the rear, cracking his flaming knuckles with deliberate force, was Diego Ramirez, his Infernal Gauntlet glowing like smouldering embers beneath his skin. “Finally. Something worth punching.”
Cinnabar’s gaze settled on them, sharp as a dagger’s edge.
“We leave now. Ashenport awaits.”
The flames surged. The rebellion moved.
And the world would burn in their wake.
The air at Ashenport was electric, thick with the weight of impending violence, as two forces stood in rigid formation—the elite operatives of the SCP and the relentless officers of the SSCBF.
The cold rain fell in silver spears, soaking the cracked concrete of the dockyard as tension coiled through the assembled ranks. The SSCBF’s arrival was not subtle—it was a declaration, a show of force that demanded reckoning.
Leading the charge, Chief Wen-Li moved through her officers with an air of untouchable authority, her presence exuding composure honed from a lifetime of commanding warzones cloaked in diplomacy.
Beside her, Lieutenant Nightingale, Captain Robert, Captain Lingaong Xuein, and Commander Krieg held their ground, their eyes scanning the SCP operatives who had begun to mirror their aggression, raising their weapons in defensive formation.
From the other side, Chief Ilse Richter stood at the heart of the SCP forces, her pale features as cold and unyielding as the steel of the cargo containers towering behind her. Captains Elan Mordecha and Shira Malachai flanked her, their gazes unwavering, their fingers hovering ever so close to their triggers.
For a moment, the only sound was the rhythmic drumming of the rain against metal and concrete.
Then, Wen-Li’s voice sliced through the storm like a scalpel.
“I assume we are both aware why I’m here.”
Richter’s blue eyes flickered with a dangerous glint, but she remained composed. “Is that so? Because to me, it appears the SSCBF has come uninvited into territory that does not belong to them.”
Wen-Li’s jaw tensed. “You know exactly what I mean. Your operatives attacked my officers at Obsidian Peak.”
A smirk ghosted over Richter’s lips. “Your officers entered our zone without permission.”
Wen-Li’s eyes narrowed like a blade glinting under the moonlight. “So you’re telling me that justifies killing them? And yet—when they arrived, there were no men of yours in sight.” She took a slow, deliberate step forward, each movement a quiet thunderclap of power. “And then, out of nowhere, your operatives ambush them?”
Her voice dropped a degree colder.
“It’s almost as if you knew they were coming.”
Richter’s smile did not falter, but her fingers curled ever so slightly at her sides.
Behind Wen-Li, SSCBF officers stiffened in rising anger, their hands tightening around their weapons, their knuckles pale with restrained fury.
Commander Krieg’s expression was unreadable, but his piercing glare spoke volumes, his fists twitching at his sides, barely resisting the urge to lash out.
Robert exhaled through gritted teeth, his posture tense. He had seen enough of SCP’s games to know where this was leading.
Lingaong Xuein, ever perceptive, noted the shadows shifting behind the SCP ranks, her instincts screaming that something was being concealed beneath the surface of this encounter.
Wen-Li held up a hand, a silent command for patience.
Then, her gaze cut through Richter with the weight of a guillotine blade descending from its perch.
“The contract between our forces—our so-called ‘alliance’—is officially severed.”
A hush fell upon the gathering.
Richter’s icy mask finally cracked, but only for a fleeting second before she recovered. She tilted her head, amusement curling at the edges of her lips, but her eyes burned with something far more lethal.
“Bold of you, Chief. But consider this—your own agents turned against your officers. They were not mine. They were yours. Perhaps you should reconsider which side you’re truly on.”
A ripple of unease spread through the SSCBF ranks. Anger burned like wildfire in their eyes, but Wen-Li remained as still as a marble effigy carved for war.
Silence thickened between them before Wen-Li’s gaze drifted, ever so briefly, toward the looming cargo containers, the colossal iron beasts standing sentinel behind the SCP forces.
She returned her stare to Richter.
“Tell me, what exactly is inside that container? And why is it so valuable to you?”
Richter’s smirk did not fade. “Business.”
Wen-Li took another step forward, her voice laced with unspoken accusation.
“Business... or something else entirely?”
Richter’s smile turned sharp.
“You ask too many questions, Chief. You should concern yourself with your own operations. Wouldn’t want you overstepping into matters you cannot comprehend.”
Before Wen-Li could retort, Richter lifted a hand—sharp, commanding.
“This conversation is over. Take your men and leave. Now.”
The finality in her voice was a challenge wrapped in authority.
The air grew heavier, the tension reaching its breaking point.
The officers of SSCBF did not lower their weapons.
The operatives of SCP did not lower theirs.
Elan stood in measured silence, his gaze flickering between Richter and Wen-Li, his mind running through every possible outcome.
This was the moment before war began, the moment before trigger fingers tensed and blood painted the docks red.
He should have been used to it—to the weight of almost-battles, to the silent tension that begged to be unleashed. But something in the way Richter dismissed Wen-Li so openly felt... off.
This wasn’t just about territory.
It wasn’t just about alliances fractured by betrayals long set in motion.
This was about something far more dangerous.
Elan’s fingers twitched against the holster of his firearm. Would the next words spoken here dictate the opening act of a war neither side was prepared to fight?
Robert’s hand tightened around the hilt of his holstered blade.
He had seen Chief Wen-Li stand before giants and command the storm to kneel.
She did not need weapons to conquer. Her will alone was enough to crack empires.
And yet, this time, the enemy did not yield.
His breath was slow, steady, but his heart hammered against his ribs. If Richter spoke one word too many, if one SCP operative so much as twitched toward a trigger, Robert would not hesitate.
Not when his loyalty to Wen-Li burned brighter than reason.
His fingers itched.
Waiting.
The dockyard stood still, a frozen painting of impending violence, awaiting the first stroke of crimson.
The rain poured harder, the mist curling around the barrels of raised rifles, waiting, waiting.
Wen-Li held Richter’s gaze, neither blinking, neither willing to yield.
Then, from the shadows beyond, something shifted in the mist—a presence neither SCP nor SSCBF.
And the night erupted into motion.
The dockyard mist coiled like living spectres, curling around the silhouettes of two opposing forces locked in a silent, suffocating tension. The air, thick with rain and the scent of corroded steel, crackled with the weight of unspoken threats.
On one side, SSCBF officers, their hands poised over their weapons, their bodies taut with restraint. Chief Wen-Li stood at their helm, her piercing gaze unshaken, her silk-black hair dampened by the storm, yet her composure remained untouched—an empress among soldiers.
Facing them, SCP’s elite enforcers, veiled in the darkness of their uniforms, standing in unrelenting formation, their every breath a silent warning. Chief Ilse Richter, ever the cold spectre of command, met Wen-Li’s stare with a glacial stillness, her presence exuding the authority of an executioner standing before a condemned throne.
The only sound was the distant rumble of waves against the port’s underbelly, the hollow groan of the cargo ship’s hull, and the rhythmic tapping of Wen-Li’s gloved fingers against the polished leather of her belt.
Then, with a voice like sharpened glass, Wen-Li broke the silence.
“I analysed the bodies.”
A flicker of movement—the SCP officers stiffened, their fingers twitching ever so slightly over their weapons.
Richter, however, remained unmoved, but Wen-Li did not miss the way her jaw clenched ever so slightly.
“The bodies of my agents who turned against us at Obsidian Peak.” Wen-Li’s voice was calm but cutting, the kind of quiet that unsettled more than an outburst ever could. “I examined them myself, with my own hands. And what I found...” she exhaled, slowly, deliberately, “…was control. Not free will. Not treachery. Control.”
A ripple of unease spread through the SSCBF officers behind her. Commander Krieg’s fists clenched. Captain Robert shifted his stance. Captain Lingaong Xuein’s eyes narrowed like a hawk tracking its prey.
Across the divide, even the SCP operatives exchanged quick, cautious glances, their disciplined rigidity faltering for the briefest second.
Wen-Li took a step forward, her boots clicking against the rain-slicked concrete.
“External manipulation,” she continued, her gaze cutting through Richter like the first crack in an ice sheet before it shatters. “Something beyond augmentation. Beyond cybernetics. Their neural pathways were hijacked. Their minds were not their own.”
Another shift in the SCP ranks. A ripple of discomfort, of awareness.
Richter, however, remained eerily still, cold, calculating. Then, with the practiced ease of a woman who had spent years maneuvering through the treacherous halls of power, she let out a soft breath and tilted her head.
And she smiled.
A slow, measured smirk, the kind that bleeds deception beneath a mask of indifference.
“A fascinating claim, Chief Wen-Li.” Her voice was smooth as blackened silk, wrapping around a dagger. “But I fail to see how that concerns me.”
Wen-Li’s expression did not waver. “Does it not? Because the source of this manipulation—” she paused, letting the weight of her next words settle over the dockyard like a guillotine blade poised mid-fall.
“—was not from within SSCBF.”
Silence.
A single droplet of rain slid down the bridge of Richter’s nose, but she did not move to wipe it away.
Wen-Li’s voice was barely above a whisper now, yet it carried through the salt-laden air like a death knell.
“Tell me, Chief Richter. Should I consider the possibility that your operatives had a hand in it?”
A spark of something flickered in Richter’s eyes—not shock, not anger, but calculation. She weighed her next words with meticulous precision, her mind moving like a chess master two moves ahead of the battlefield.
And then, she spoke.
“Nothing of the sort.”
Flat. Unflinching. A denial carved from ice and iron.
Yet, the weight of it did not settle. Because Wen-Li saw it—just for a fraction of a second.
The tiniest hesitation, the faintest ghost of a falter beneath Richter’s carefully curated armour.
The moment passed, but Wen-Li had seen through the fissure in the mask.
She took another step forward, closing the space between them, her presence now a quiet tempest before the storm’s descent.
And then, softly, deliberately, dangerously, she spoke again.
“Are you sure?”
The air crackled like a live wire.
SCP operatives bristled, their grips tightening on their weapons. SSCBF officers stood their ground, waiting for the call to fire or stand down.
But between the storm, between the poised guns and sharpened words, it was no longer about alliances.
It was about who would break first.
From the sidelines, Elan Mordecha observed the silent war unfolding between Wen-Li and Richter, his instincts thrumming with an awareness few possessed.
The way Richter smiled—that was not amusement. That was deflection.
The way Wen-Li pressed—that was not suspicion. That was certainty.
And the way the SCP officers around them stood—not in arrogance, but in waiting.
There was something buried here.
Something deeper than politics. Darker than mere power plays.
Elan exhaled slowly.
If Wen-Li kept pushing, Richter would retaliate.
And then?
Then hell would follow.
Robert had fought in enough wars, enough conflicts, enough blood-drenched streets to recognise when the match was about to be struck against dry kindling.
His grip on his sidearm tightened.
He glanced toward Krieg, toward Lingaong Xuein, toward Nightingale. They all felt it. The tension thick enough to carve through with a blade.
One word.
One twitch of the trigger.
And this dock would drown in blood.
He exhaled. His fingers hovered over his weapon, yet did not draw.
Because despite the storm raging within his veins, he knew one thing—Wen-Li was not done yet.
And when she was?
God help whoever stood on the wrong side.
The air was thick with rain and unspoken threats, the cold wind snapping against the banners of two opposing forces standing at the precipice of war. Ashenport, a land of shadows and smuggling, now stood as the stage for a reckoning long overdue.
The floodlights from the SCP cargo freighter cast eerie reflections off the slick concrete, illuminating the tense figures standing in rigid formation. On one side, the SSCBF stood their ground, unwavering, unyielding. On the other, SCP operatives mirrored them, their presence a silent testament to the depths of their reach.
And between them, two titans clashed—
Chief Wen-Li, whose name was etched in the annals of control and precision, and Chief Ilse Richter, a woman whose existence was forged in deception and calculated brutality.
Wen-Li folded her arms, her amber gaze drilling into Richter’s frozen blue stare, unrelenting as the tide upon jagged cliffs.
"I analysed their bodies."
Silence. Tension rippled through the air like a taut wire ready to snap.
Richter's expression did not shift, but Wen-Li saw the way her jaw clenched ever so slightly, the way her fingers twitched at her sides.
"My officers at Obsidian Peak. They weren't defectors." Wen-Li's voice was sharp, scalpel-like, slicing through the storm like a blade honed against bone.
"They were controlled."
A subtle but visible ripple of unease passed through both sides.
"Not coerced. Not bribed. Not convinced." Wen-Li took a step forward, her voice now a whisper of fire.
"Controlled."
She let the word linger, watching as it coiled around Richter like a serpent tightening its grip.
"Their neural pathways were hijacked. Their minds no longer belonged to them."
A few of the SCP operatives exchanged glances. Some masked it well; others… less so.
"And there are only a handful of organisations in this world with the capabilities to orchestrate such an atrocity."
Wen-Li's head tilted, her voice laced with steel.
"And wouldn't you know it? SCP is at the top of that list."
For the first time, Richter moved.
She took a step forward, closing the space between them, her cold blue eyes flashing with unbridled rage.
"Enough of your blabbering, Wen-Li!" Richter snapped, her voice cutting through the night like a gunshot.
Her presence was a storm unleashed, a force no longer contained behind a veneer of diplomatic restraint.
"You dare stand here and accuse us? You parade your righteousness as if your own hands aren’t drenched in blood! You think you are untouchable? That SSCBF is free from sin?"
Her lips curled into a sneer, venomous and sharp.
"Your arrogance blinds you. You see enemies where there are none. You bark at shadows and expect the world to kneel."
Richter's voice dropped to a quiet, lethal whisper.
"You are no different from us, Wen-Li. You just lack the courage to admit it."
Then, Wen-Li moved.
A blur of black silk, a flick of her gloved hand—
CRACK!
The sound echoed through the dockyard, rippling like a gunshot in dead silence.
Richter’s head snapped to the side, her cheek blossoming red from the force of the strike.
A moment of stunned disbelief.
Then—chaos erupted.
SCP operatives bristled, their hands flying to their holsters, their bodies tensing for retaliation.
Elan stiffened, his fingers twitching near his firearm. He had seen war start for less.
Shira exhaled sharply, her eyes wide in shock. "This just turned to hell," she muttered under her breath.
On the SSCBF side, fury ignited.
Robert stepped forward instinctively, his expression a storm of unspoken rage.
Krieg tilted his head, his lips twitching into a smirk. He had wanted to hit Richter himself.
Lingaong Xuein’s eyes widened, a slow exhale slipping past her lips. "Oh, Chief... that was bold."
And then, Richter moved.
Her hand flew toward her weapon.
In that instant, every operative on both sides tensed, their hands flying to their weapons, safeties flicked off, barrels raising.
This was the moment before war
Then—BANG!
A single gunshot sliced through the storm, cutting through the moment like a blade through silk.
Every head snapped toward the source.
Through the mist and the towering crates of the shipping yard, figures emerged from the fog—their movements sharp, disciplined.
And at the front of them stood Wen-Liao.
For a moment, Wen-Li forgot about Richter.
Forgot about the slap, the tension, the poised weapons.
Because standing at the edge of the dockyard, framed by the industrial glow of floodlights and the swirling storm, was her brother.
Wen-Liao.
His stance was calculated, poised between dominance and restraint.
And beside him—Kerin Longcutter, Dagdan Leesoney, and Sionola O’Leahy.
A moment passed.
A moment where everything else ceased to exist.
SCP operatives hesitated. Some took instinctive steps back, sensing the shift in power.
SSCBF officers straightened, a different kind of tension gripping them.
Elan felt his stomach twist. "Oh, this just got worse."
Shira muttered a curse, her grip tightening on her gun.
Robert’s jaw clenched. Krieg exhaled sharply. Lingaong Xuein blinked twice.
And Richter?
Richter locked eyes with Wen-Liao.
Her lips curled into a snarl, her fingers twitching at her side.
And Wen-Li?
Wen-Li exhaled slowly, a quiet breath that carried years of unspoken things.
Because no matter the battle, no matter the distance, no matter the lines drawn between them—
She and Wen-Liao would always find their way back to each other.
The dockyard stood frozen, poised on the edge of destruction.
Weapons were drawn, threats were silent, and the night had yet to decide whose blood it would drink first.
And at the heart of it all—two siblings reunited in the eye of the storm.
The air inside Madam Di-Xian’s office was thick with anticipation, charged like a storm hovering just before the first crack of lightning. The dim glow of the room’s antique lanterns barely pushed back the shadows curling along the walls, giving the space an eerie, otherworldly quality—a chamber of whispers where the fate of nations was quietly reshaped.
Madam Di-Xian stood at the centre, a queen in her war room, her presence commanding without effort. Her fingers drummed lightly on the surface of her desk, each tap a silent countdown to impending destruction.
Across from her, her agents stood in disciplined silence, but beneath the stillness, tension coiled like vipers waiting to strike.
- Alvi, the ever-cunning data analyst, her sharp eyes flickering between the monitors displaying live satellite feeds.
- Farhan, arms crossed, his body language loose yet coiled for action.
- Jun, adjusting his glasses, an air of mischievous bravado masking the sharp intellect behind his gaze.
- Masud, exhaling slowly, his fingers twitching against his gun holster.
- Roy, his jaw clenched, a quiet tempest brewing behind his usual nonchalance.
- Elara, standing like a phantom in the corner, her arms folded, the dim light casting her angular features into something almost spectral.
- Agent-90, motionless, his cold blue eyes reflecting nothing but pragmatism honed to a razor’s edge.
- Hecate and Hella, the two Sinners, their twin smirks barely concealing the thirst for chaos simmering beneath their skin.
And then there was Ferro.
The former SCP operative stood at the very edge of the gathering, an outsider among them. Though his body had healed, the scars of his past still lingered—etched into his skin, carved into his soul.
Breaking the tension, Jun adjusted his glasses and spoke, his usual playful tone edged with genuine curiosity.
“What exactly is inside that cargo ship, Madam?” His brow furrowed. “That much security means something worse than just weapons, doesn’t it?”
Madam Di-Xian's piercing gaze met his, her voice a whisper of steel.
“The future.”
A ripple of unease moved through the room.
She continued, her words measured, deliberate.
“The future to control the world and make people into slavery. The future that will not only tear humanity apart but reshape it into something unrecognisable. A future that will drown entire nations in blood and chaos.”
The weight of her words settled heavily on them all.
A long, measured silence.
Then, Agent-90—the ghost among them, the man untouched by emotion, unmoved by horror—spoke.
“Then we burn their future before it takes root.”
His voice was devoid of hesitation, a blade unsheathed in the dark.
Madam Di-Xian’s lips curled into a faint, knowing smirk.
“Exactly.”
A slow breath. A shifting of shadows.
Then, her gaze turned to Ferro.
“Will you still serve SCP?”
Ferro tensed.
A thousand memories slammed into him at once—ghosts of agony, the weight of failure, the sharp scent of blood.
He was back in that cold, sterile room, stripped of his dignity, reduced to something less than human.
Gavriel Elazar, standing before him, his smile as hollow as his heart.
Yuan Meiling, watching from the side, her clinical detachment even worse than her cruelty.
A voice like rusted metal. “You have failed the SCP more than once, Ferro. Tell me… why should I let you live?”
The first blow was swift. Then the next. His ribs cracked. His vision blurred. His screams were stolen before they could form.
Pain became his world.
They did not see him as a soldier. Not even as a man.
Just a thing.
A tool that had outlived its usefulness.
Back in Madam Di-Xian’s office, Ferro exhaled slowly, his gaze burning with something raw. Something new.
Vengeance.
A slow smirk curled his lips—not of mirth, but of something far more dangerous.
“No.” His voice was hoarse, but steady. “I don’t serve them anymore.”
A ripple of approval moved through the SDF agents.
Masud clapped him on the shoulder, grinning. “Welcome to the club, traitor. We’ll treat you better than your old friends ever did.”
Hecate tilted her head, her violet eyes gleaming. “Look at him. Finally realising he’s one of us.”
Ferro felt something unfamiliar stir in his chest.
Not just revenge.
Something else.
Belonging.
Before another word could be spoken, Ferro’s expression darkened.
“It’s too late.”
Madam Di-Xian’s eyes narrowed. “Explain.”
Ferro turned toward the screen, where the live satellite feed flickered.
“The ship has already docked. They’re here.”
A hush fell over the room.
Then—the door burst open.
Gonda entered, his expression unreadable, his coat still dripping from the storm outside.
He barely glanced at Ferro before he spoke, his voice a low murmur of impending war.
“SCP is already there. SSCBF is already there. FAC is already there.”
A pause.
His next words sent a pulse of electricity through the room.
“And Echo Rebellion has arrived.”
Silence.
Then, Madam Di-Xian smiled.
Slow. Lethal.
A smirk so sharp it could carve through flesh.
“Lady Sin’s hidden hand… so she sends her shadows to play.”
She exhaled, as if amused, then turned her gaze back to her agents.
“Then go.”
Her voice was a whisper of command, a promise of devastation.
“Destroy their cargo. And leave nothing standing.”
Weapons were loaded. Plans were discarded—only action remained.
And as the SDF moved, as the ghosts of vengeance and rebellion descended upon Ashenport, the storm overhead roared—
Not in warning.
But in anticipation.
The night at Ashenport reeked of impending catastrophe. The scent of salt and iron clashed with the metallic tang of gunpowder, the air thick with the distant echoes of conflict. The rain lashed against the cold steel of shipping containers, drumming an ominous war rhythm.
Three factions stood poised for violence—SSCBF, SCP, and FAC.
But now, another force had arrived.
Through the shifting mist, Agent-90 emerged, his presence alone commanding a silence more deafening than gunfire. He moved like a phantom carved from dusk, his black attire merging into the storm’s embrace, his deadly blue eyes hidden behind his reflective spectacles.
Beside him, his team of relentless warriors, their expressions mirroring spectres from a forgotten war.
Wen-Liao’s eyes flickered with recognition as he stepped forward.
“Chief!”
But his gaze shifted, catching sight of Agent-90, and his breath stilled.
An entity, not a man. A blade, not a soldier.
The SSCBF officers tensed. The SCP operatives stiffened. The FAC soldiers reached for their weapons.
A collective hesitation. A shared dread.
Agent-90 tilted his head slightly, adjusting his gloves with meticulous precision before offering a cold smirk.
“It’s a pleasure to meet with you, Captain.”
His voice was devoid of warmth, a whisper of steel sliding from its sheath.
But before a response could leave anyone’s lips, a deafening screech tore through the night.
The night at Ashenport reeked of impending catastrophe. The scent of salt and iron clashed with the metallic tang of gunpowder, the air thick with the distant echoes of conflict. The rain lashed against the cold steel of shipping containers, drumming an ominous war rhythm.
Three factions stood poised for violence—SSCBF, SCP, and FAC.
But now, another force had arrived.
Through the shifting mist, Agent-90 emerged, his presence alone commanding a silence more deafening than gunfire. He moved like a phantom carved from dusk, his black attire merging into the storm’s embrace, his deadly blue eyes hidden behind his reflective spectacles.
Beside him, his team of relentless warriors, their expressions mirroring spectres from a forgotten war.
Wen-Liao’s eyes flickered with recognition as he stepped forward.
“Chief!”
But his gaze shifted, catching sight of Agent-90, and his breath stilled.
An entity, not a man. A blade, not a soldier.
The SSCBF officers tensed. The SCP operatives stiffened. The FAC soldiers reached for their weapons.
A collective hesitation. A shared dread.
Agent-90 tilted his head slightly, adjusting his gloves with meticulous precision before offering a cold smirk.
“It’s a pleasure to meet with you, Captain.”
His voice was devoid of warmth, a whisper of steel sliding from its sheath.
But before a response could leave anyone’s lips, a deafening screech tore through the night.
A metallic groan shuddered through the docks, the sound of something awakening.
From the belly of the ominous cargo container, something shifted, something primal, something not meant to exist.
A flesh-ripping snap echoed through the mist—a scream, abruptly silenced.
One of the SCP operatives disappeared into the dark void of the container, dragged without resistance.
Then, silence.
Then, a wet, sickening thud.
The operative's body landed before them, headless, the stump of his neck gushing crimson onto the rain-drenched pavement.
A collective gasp rippled through the factions.
Then, from within the cargo's shadow, it came.
It emerged like a nightmare given flesh, its towering form a grotesque amalgamation of sinew and steel.
- A humanoid, yet not human. Its torso twisted unnaturally, elongated limbs adorned with grotesque spikes of bone.
- Its eyes—bulbous, black pits of endless hunger, absorbed the light and gave nothing back.
- Its mouth split into a gaping maw, serrated rows of fangs glistening with blood.
- Clawed hands twitched, the nails longer than daggers, dripping with the remnants of its last victim.
- A spine lined with jagged, protruding spurs, shifting with every grotesque movement.
It exuded malice. Hunger. An intelligence devoid of humanity.
Wen-Liao's face darkened. He had seen this before.
Back in the abandoned military base… the Cries of the Bells… the shadows had whispered, and now, they had come to collect.
Hella’s eyes widened in excitement. She grinned, licking her lips.
“Ohhh… now this is interesting!”
The monster hunched, muscles tightening like coiled steel.
Then it moved.
With unnatural speed, the monster lunged, its claws slicing through the air.
Jun, smirked and raised his hands.
“Oi, big guy, ever heard of personal space?”
The creature turned its head—unnaturally fast.
Jun's smirk faltered.
Then it vanished.
A blur of movement, an unnatural sprint that left the human eye struggling to keep pace.
Before Jun could even blink, death was upon him.
But Agent-90 was faster.
His nunchaku sliced through the darkness, meeting the monster’s face with a force that sent flesh and bone splintering into the air.
The creature reeled, shrieking in agony.
It slashed back, claws seeking Agent-90’s throat.
He twisted—faster than thought, dodging by a hair’s breadth.
But then, a mistake.
The creature’s other hand shot forward, gripping his skull in a vice-like grip.
Agent-90’s glasses cracked under the pressure.
The monster lifted him off the ground.
Before it could crush his skull, a single gunshot rang out.
Wen-Li.
Her bullet lodged into the beast’s side, but it did not die—it howled and hurled Agent-90 away.
The executioner became the ragdoll.
His body slammed into a tower of cargo supplies, the metal buckling under the impact.
“90!” Masud yelled.
The SDF, SSCBF, FAC, and Echo Rebellion all charged in.
Steel met steel. Ferro and Elan clashed, their blades reflecting the eerie red glow of emergency dock lights.
Elan dodged a killing blow, twisting under Ferro’s strike, retaliating with a precise slash that cut into Ferro’s side.
Richter watched from the shadows.
SCP was losing.
Her face twisted in fury.
“Retreat!” she barked.
The SCP forces began their withdrawal, abandoning their cargo.
But the others? They had a monster to kill.
The creature lifted an entire cargo supply crate, its muscles flexing unnaturally.
Then, with one hand, it hurled it straight at Wen-Li.
She didn’t have time to move.
Then—impact.
But not with her.
Wen-Liao threw himself in front of her, shielding her with his body.
But the blow never came.
Because another hand had caught the falling supply.
Agent-90 stood, holding the massive crate aloft with a single hand.
A slow exhale.
A shift in the air.
Then his voice, lower, more commanding, laced with something ancient.
“Stand back.”
A shiver ran through the air.
His eyes glowed, the Emperor had awakened.
He hurled the cargo aside, the impact creating a shockwave that shattered glass.
The beast turned, sensing the change.
And the Curse Emperor smiled.
“Come then, creature. Let us dance.”
The battle that followed would leave Ashenport in ruins.
The air quivered with unnatural energy, the very fabric of the battlefield bending beneath the weight of two unnatural forces colliding. The night had been thick with blood and shadow, but now… now the dawn would break upon something far more terrifying.
The Curse Emperor had awakened.
Agent-90—no, the being that now stood in his place—exuded a presence unlike anything the soldiers had ever felt. His aura was heavy, suffocating, regal in its dominion.
His eyes glowed with an unholy reversal—black sclera, white irises—a mark of something ancient, something divine and malevolent intertwined. His posture was no longer one of a man but of a sovereign, a ruler seated upon an invisible throne, presiding over the battlefield like a god surveying his kingdom.
And before him stood the monstrosity that had crawled from the bowels of the cargo container.
A grotesque amalgamation of flesh and steel, the beast stood as a defiance to nature’s design, its elongated limbs twitching, its serrated mouth snapping with hunger.
And yet, for the first time, it hesitated.
It recognized something in the Curse Emperor.
Something older.
Something worse.
Hella’s entire body shuddered in excitement, her wide, manic grin splitting her face like a child given an early present on the eve of destruction.
“Ohhh, ohhh, OH! Look at this! Look at HIM!” she shrieked, clapping her hands together. “Did you SEE that? Oh, this is gonna be SO much fun!”
Hecate, by contrast, frowned. Unlike her sister-in-chaos, she felt the shift in power, the unnatural hum in the air that made her teeth clench.
"This… this isn’t just some technique.” Her violet eyes narrowed. “This is something far worse.”
Echo Rebellion’s Response
Cinnabar Vinogradova, the infamous leader of Echo Rebellion, watched from the shadows.
Her crimson gaze flickered with intrigue as she folded her arms, her presence an unwavering sentinel against the storm that was about to unfold.
“This… is beyond the power of mortals.” She murmured, a smirk tugging at her lips. “I wonder… just what are you, executioner?”
FAC, SSCBF & SDF’s Reaction was a collective silence fell upon the soldiers, the warriors who had fought against empires and revolutions, now standing as mere witnesses to something greater.
Krieg, normally so quick to react, merely tightened his grip on his weapon.
Robert exhaled slowly, shaking his head in disbelief.
Nightingale, ever the observer, let out a slow chuckle. “Now this… this is something worth watching.”
Wen-Liao?
Wen-Liao stared at the being that wore his brother’s face and knew—the truth was about to be revealed.
The humanoid beast let out a guttural shriek, its jagged body convulsing as it lunged, moving faster than the human eye could track.
But the Curse Emperor?
He did not move.
Not at first.
He merely raised a single hand, fingers curling as if gripping the very air itself.
The instant the beast was within reach—a single snap of his wrist.
BOOM!
The very ground cracked beneath them as the creature was sent hurling backward, smashing through crates, metal, and stone as if it were weightless.
The force rippled outward, a shockwave strong enough to send even seasoned warriors stumbling.
The beast screeched, not in pain but in fury, in defiance.
It rose, bloodied but unbroken.
It charged again.
This time, the Curse Emperor moved.
He met the beast head-on, a blur of supernatural speed and terrifying precision.
Nunchaku clashed against claws, the sound of impact shattering the air like thunder.
Every strike landed with the force of an executioner’s axe, each blow more brutal than the last. The creature flailed, lashed out, but nothing could break through the Emperor’s defenses.
A flash of motion—
The beast swiped, its razor-sharp claws aiming straight for his throat.
But the Emperor vanished.
Reappeared behind it.
And then—
A single strike to the base of its skull.
CRACK!
The monster staggered, its body faltering.
The Emperor raised his nunchaku, its chains glowing with a spectral energy that crackled like chained lightning.
And then—the final blow.
The nunchaku slashed through the beast's body, severing it in two.
The torso fell first.
The head rolled a second later.
And then—stillness.
The beast was dead.
The rain continued to fall, but the battle was over.
The cargo yard was in ruins, steel and stone shattered from the impact of the titanic fight.
The silence stretched.
Then, at last, the Curse Emperor… breathed.
The glow in his eyes dimmed.
His shoulders relaxed.
And just like that—Agent-90 was himself again.
Wen-Li stepped forward, her amber eyes narrowing as she regarded the executioner before her.
Her fingers twitched slightly—not in fear, but in curiosity. In caution. In something that felt like disbelief.
She had suspected before. She had theorised. But now?
She knew.
This man—this weapon in human skin—
He was something else entirely.
Her lips parted.
And for the second time, she asked:
“Who are you?”
Before Agent-90 could respond, another voice cut through the air.
“I’ll explain everything later.”
Wen-Liao stepped beside his sister, his face unreadable.
But Wen-Li saw it—the weight behind his eyes. The things he wasn’t saying.
For now, that would have to do.
The night was fading.
The dawn was breaking.
But one thing was certain.
Whatever secrets had been buried—they would not remain in the dark for much longer.