Evening had already begun its slow descent when they reached SSCBF headquarters.
The sky above Lóngchāng burned in bruised hues of amber and violet, as though the heavens themselves bore witness to the carnage of the day. The compound lights flickered on one by one, sterile and indifferent.
The gates opened.
They walked in.
Commander Krieg led them, coat torn at the hem, dried blood dark against the fabric. Captain Robert's jaw was set in rigid composure, though a bruise bloomed like storm-cloud ink along his temple. Nightingale moved quietly, her posture upright despite the ache in her limbs; Lan Qian supported Ping Lianhua with one arm, murmuring reassurances under her breath. Lingaong Xuein and Xuemin walked side by side, silent, alert. Feng Shaoyue's expression was carved from frost. Demitin and Tao-Ren carried themselves like soldiers who had seen too much and said too little.
They were fewer than when they had left.
And that absence walked with them.
Inside the atrium, staff members froze mid-step.
Murmurs rippled outward.
"They're alive—"
"Isn't that Commander Krieg?"
"But the reports said—"
Mariana Silva stood near the reception desk, a stack of files slipping from her hands as she saw them. Her eyes widened, glistening.
"Commander…" she breathed, voice trembling between relief and disbelief.
The returning officers looked like revenants—dust-streaked, bruised, but unbroken. Like soldiers risen from their own obituary.
And then—
The sharp cadence of polished shoes striking marble.
Zhang Ji emerged from the inner corridor.
For a fraction of a second—barely perceptible, but unmistakable—his composure fractured.
Shock flared in his eyes.
They're alive.
But it vanished just as swiftly, replaced by practised concern.
"Commander Krieg!" he exclaimed, stepping forward with theatrical urgency. "Thank heavens—you've returned!"
His gaze flicked across the group, assessing. Counting.
"We received fragmented communications," he continued smoothly. "We feared the worst."
Captain Robert's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.
Zhang Ji clasped his hands behind his back, posture straight as a lacquered pillar. "You all look exhausted. Medical staff are on standby—please, proceed at once to the infirmary. That is an order."
He turned slightly. "Escort them."
Then his attention returned to Krieg.
"Commander," he said, voice lowered, measured, "my father wishes to see you immediately. The President's office. We must debrief at once."
Krieg regarded him in silence.
A long silence.
Behind him, Robert stepped closer, speaking under his breath.
"It seems Zhang Ji knows something," he murmured. "Or expected something."
Nightingale's fingers tightened at her sides. "His surprise wasn't relief," she whispered. "It was… disruption."
Lingaong Xuein's gaze sharpened. "He didn't anticipate our survival."
Lan Qian swallowed, nodding faintly.
Krieg's eyes never left Zhang Ji.
"Let's hear what he has to say," he replied quietly.
Then, aloud—
"As you wish."
Zhang Ji's smile widened—polished, immaculate, hollow.
"Good. I knew I could rely on you."
The remaining officers were gently but firmly guided towards the medical wing. Some protested; others were too weary to resist. Ping Lianhua glanced back over her shoulder, confusion clouding her features.
"Commander?" she asked weakly.
Krieg gave her a single nod.
"Rest," he said.
It was both reassurance and command.
Robert lingered half a second longer. "Careful," he muttered.
Krieg allowed himself the faintest curve of a smile.
"Always."
And so the paths diverged.
The wounded and the weary walked beneath fluorescent lights towards antiseptic corridors.
Commander Krieg turned alone towards the President's office.
The evening shadows lengthened across the marble floor like creeping ink, and as he walked, his reflection followed him in the polished surface—distorted, elongated, almost another man entirely.
Above, the last light of day extinguished itself beyond the glass façade.
Night fell.
And with it, whatever illusions remained.
The hydraulic door parted with a restrained hiss.
Commander Krieg stepped into the President's office.
The room was dimly lit, evening pressing its indigo weight against the panoramic glass behind them. President Zhang Wei sat upon a cream leather sofa, posture immaculate, fingers steepled before him. Beside him, Zhang Ji leaned back with calculated ease, one ankle resting over his knee, expression curated into sober attentiveness.
Upon the low coffee table between them stood a crystal vase filled with dandelions.
Their white petals were damp, as though freshly gathered in rain—fragile, tremulous things beneath the office lights. An emblem of the organisation. Or perhaps a warning.
Zhang Wei lifted his gaze.
His eyes were grave, flint-hard.
"You accomplished the mission, Commander?" he asked.
No greeting. No courtesy. Only assessment.
Krieg stood at measured attention.
"Well," he began evenly, "we reached the Shin-Zhang Corporation. Upon entry, we were ambushed."
"By Crimson Lotus agents, correct?" Zhang Wei interjected, his eyes narrowing into sceptical slits. "So, Commander—tell me precisely what transpired. Why are you standing here before me with only fragments of your unit? Where are the remaining officers? And where is Wen-Li?"
The questions struck like measured blows.
Krieg did not flinch.
"We couldn't apprehend her."
A flicker—annoyance, or calculation—crossed Zhang Wei's face.
"Because of Madam Di-Xian, I presume?" he replied, voice edged with cold derision. "That woman thrives in chaos. She always has."
He leaned forward slightly.
"Explain."
Krieg's jaw tightened, though his tone remained composed.
"Allow me to clarify the situation, Mr President."
Zhang Ji's eyebrow twitched almost imperceptibly.
"First—you dispatched us to neutralise the Crimson Lotus, an organisation allegedly led by Di-Xian, and to arrest former Chief Wen-Li.
"Second—during the engagement, a number of our own officers turned hostile. Their movements were aberrant. Coordinated. It appeared they were being controlled."
His eyes sharpened.
"Third—I find it… curious how you came into possession of the intelligence that Di-Xian leads the Crimson Lotus. This information was never public, nor accessible to the general council."
A pause.
"No one knew. So I must ask—who informed you?"
Silence fell.
Not the quiet of peace—but the quiet before detonation.
Zhang Wei's expression darkened.
He rose abruptly, the leather sofa creaking faintly in protest.
"Are you questioning me?" he demanded, voice rising like a blade drawn too quickly. "Are you arguing with me, Commander?"
His hand struck the table.
The vase trembled.
Several dandelion seeds loosened and drifted into the air—white and delicate, like falling ash.
"You presume to interrogate your President? You fail your mission, you return without your objective, and now you cast suspicion upon this office?"
His voice thundered, echoing off the marble and glass.
"Know your place."
Krieg remained still.
Unbowed.
Calm as stone in a storm.
"With respect," he replied quietly, "my place is to protect this organisation. And the men and women within it."
His gaze did not waver.
"If our own officers were compromised, that is not insubordination. That is treachery. And treachery demands inquiry."
Zhang Ji rose swiftly, stepping between them with conciliatory grace.
"Gentlemen," he said, tone measured, palms slightly raised in pacification. "This confrontation benefits no one."
He turned to Krieg, voice lowering into something almost sympathetic.
"Commander, tensions are high. Casualties are fresh. My father's concern is justified."
Then, softer still—
"You must understand—information reaches the High Council through many channels. We cannot always disclose sources. National security necessitates discretion."
His eyes met Krieg's.
"You of all people should appreciate that."
The words were velvet.
The implication was iron.
Krieg studied him.
Zhang Ji's posture was impeccable—shoulders squared, chin lifted. Yet beneath the composure, something flickered. Calculation. Containment.
"I appreciate transparency more," Krieg replied.
Zhang Ji's smile thinned, though it did not disappear.
"The matter will be investigated internally," he assured. "For now, your priority is recuperation and maintaining order within the ranks. The organisation must not fracture."
A subtle emphasis on must not.
Krieg inclined his head fractionally.
"As you command."
He turned.
The hydraulic door began to part once more.
Before stepping through, he paused—just enough for the silence to feel deliberate.
Then, under his breath, scarcely audible—
"Nepotism."
The word hung in the air like a faint odour of smoke.
Zhang Ji's jaw tightened for the briefest second.
Zhang Wei's fingers curled against the table.
The drifting dandelion seeds continued to float, weightless and directionless—like loyalties in a gathering storm.
And Commander Krieg walked out, footsteps measured, expression unreadable.
At Shin-Zhang Corporation, in the living room, the atmosphere, which hours ago had been drenched in gunpowder and betrayal, had now devolved into something utterly absurd.
Chibi absurd.
The once-ominous tactical lounge—lined with obsidian panels and crimson banners—now looked like a battlefield hospital curated by excitable children. Oversized bandages wrapped around tiny chibi foreheads. Ice packs larger than their heads sat atop exaggerated bruises. One could almost see the cartoon "boing" effect when someone shifted too quickly.
Alvi sat cross-legged on the carpet, her usually formidable composure reduced to a pouty, puff-cheeked miniature version of herself. A comically large plaster adorned her temple.
"I cannot believe," she huffed, arms folded, "that someone actually managed to knock me unconscious. Me. Alvi." Her chibi eyes shimmered dramatically. "I had calculated a ninety-seven per cent probability of dominance!"
Elara, delicately dabbing antiseptic onto her own scratch—though in chibi form the cotton bud was absurdly the size of a mop—tilted her head.
"Well," she replied in airy, melodious cadence, "you did fall from a ventilation shaft like an overconfident chandelier." She smiled sweetly. "Gravity remains undefeated."
A thundercloud scribble appeared above Alvi's head.
Naomi, seated on the arm of a sofa far too large for her current chibi proportions, winced as she stretched her shoulder.
"That wasn't gravity," she said dryly. "That was poor timing."
She adjusted the ice pack pressed against her abdomen—where earlier she had been struck—and added with feline composure:
"Next time, we will finish it faster."
Her tiny chibi brows narrowed with dangerous resolve.
Across the table, Hella and Hecate were mirroring one another—synchronised, symmetrical, eerily identical even in miniature.
Hella sipped juice from an oversized straw. "They came prepared."
Hecate nodded solemnly. "But not prepared enough."
Hella's chibi eyes gleamed. "We adapted."
Hecate's lips curved faintly. "We always do."
Meanwhile—
Farhan lay sprawled dramatically across the floor, arm flung over his forehead like a Victorian heroine.
"I have been mortally wounded," he groaned.
Masud leaned over him, poking his cheek with exaggerated suspicion.
"You were grazed," he deadpanned. "By a ricochet."
Roy, sitting upright with impeccable posture even in chibi form, calmly reassembled a dismantled sidearm with meticulous, almost ceremonial precision. Each click was accompanied by an animated spark of seriousness.
Nolan lounged backwards over the sofa, arms dangling upside-down.
"Well," he drawled, "if this is what 'suicidal mission' looks like, I must say—it lacked imagination."
Gonda, massive even in chibi form, sat on a reinforced stool that creaked beneath him. He said nothing. He simply munched on protein bars, the wrappers piling beside him like fallen banners.
His expression was placid. His aura: unbothered titan.
Elara's gaze drifted across the room.
She noticed Jun.
He sat apart on the far end of the sofa, hands resting loosely upon his knees. Even in chibi scale, his white suit remained immaculate. His red eyes—less menacing now, more reflective—gazed at nothing in particular.
She rose and padded over.
"Jun," she said gently, tilting her head. "Why are you sitting alone? Come, join the chaos."
Jun smiled faintly.
"I am… content here," he replied.
His tone was soft, though somewhere behind it flickered memory—
The clash of steel.
Nightingale's eyes.
The hesitation neither of them voiced.
In chibi flashback style, tiny swords clashed with sparkles and dramatic "clang!" captions. A freeze-frame of their locked gazes.
Jun blinked.
"She has grown stronger," he murmured, almost to himself.
Elara observed him quietly—perceptive as ever.
"You respected her," she said.
He did not deny it.
The door slid open.
Madam Di-Xian entered.
Even in chibi distortion, her presence commanded gravity. Crimson hair cascaded like a silk banner; her wine glass—ridiculously oversized—glimmered beneath ambient light.
She surveyed the room.
Bandages. Ice packs. Dramatic poses. Loud chatter.
Her eyebrow twitched.
"So," she said evenly, "where are 90 and Wen-Li?"
A collective pause.
Hecate raised her hand with perfect composure.
"They are on the rooftop."
Nolan's grin slowly widened.
"It seems," he said, voice laced with theatrical implication, "they are having quite… the quiet timing."
He waggled his eyebrows.
The boys leaned in.
"Ohhhhhh," Farhan and Masud chorused in an exaggerated scandal.
Roy cleared his throat, though he did not look up.
Naomi's eye twitched.
She turned her head slowly toward Nolan.
Her smile was thin as a blade.
"Nolan," she said sweetly, "the only 'quiet timing' you've ever had was when your date left halfway through dessert."
Silence.
A crack.
Somewhere, a dramatic glass-shattering sound effect echoed.
Nolan froze.
Tiny chibi lightning struck him.
He clutched his chest.
"Direct hit," Roy murmured without emotion.
"Ooh, emotional damage!" Masud cackled, rolling onto his back.
Farhan slapped the floor laughing.
Gonda blinked once. Then offered Nolan a protein bar in solemn consolation.
Madam Di-Xian exhaled slowly.
She watched them—this improbable assembly of assassins and strategists—reduced to something almost… domestic.
Childlike.
Chaotic.
Alive.
She murmured to herself, almost imperceptibly:
"Broken blades still find mirth."
Her crimson gaze softened for a fleeting second.
"Even in a burning world… they laugh."
She took a sip of wine.
And somewhere above them, upon the rooftop, two figures stood beneath the night sky—unaware that below, their comrades had momentarily traded war for warmth.
The war of flowers continued.
But in this small room, for a heartbeat, there was something gentler than strategy.
There was a family.
Meanwhile, The rooftop of the Shin-Zhang Corporation lay open to the night like a confession left unspoken, its silence heavy with unspoken truths. Beneath them, Zhaoxian shimmered—the city's veins of neon pulsing through the concrete flesh, casting ghostly reflections that drifted like fallen stars abandoned in the darkness. The wind was a restless specter, tugging at coats and hair as if the very air refused to be still, whispering secrets of chaos yet to come.
Agent-90 stood motionless at the parapet, his silhouette etched in silver by the moon's cold gaze. Wen-Li remained beside him, arms lightly folded, her gaze fixed on the distant horizon where the city's endless pulse beat like a living heart. Her voice, soft yet resolute, broke the silence.
"Thank you," she said at last.
He turned his head slightly, eyes shadowed, voice devoid of emotion. "For what?"
She hesitated, then offered quietly, "For saving me from Nahema at Shimmerpoint Quarter. For protecting Nightingale and the others from the ambush."
His expression did not change in the slightest.
"I only followed orders," he replied. "Nahema sought to kill you. I intervened. That is all."
A flicker of exasperation crossed her face—an almost fond expression that betrayed her appreciation. "How did you defeat her? That strike—you concealed it for so long. It distorted the particles, the waves… it was beyond anything I've seen. Like cosmic chaos contained in your hand."
He exhaled—a breath that seemed to carry the weight of galaxies.
"Mass destruction," he said softly. "Malevolent destruction. Yes?"
She nodded, captivated by the abyss in his gaze. "Quantum ability," she murmured. "The manipulation of subatomic particles—paradoxical waves, chain reactions—like rewriting the very fabric of reality."
He shook his head minutely, a gesture of quiet denial. "It's not merely academic. It's primordial—born from the cosmos itself, before the laws of science took shape."
A small, rueful smile tugged at her lips. "I'm no physicist. I won't debate metaphysics with you."
A pause settled—a heavy, unspoken acknowledgment of the vast unknown between them.
Then, his voice dipped lower, almost a whisper of regret. "The world is twisted."
She turned sharply, eyes narrowing. "Not the world—it's humanity."
He studied her, voice edged with quiet disdain. "Explain."
She pressed her lips together, steady. "When you're alive—truly alive—people ignore you. They pass by your pain like shadows in the night. But when you die—suddenly—they mourn. They craft elegies for those they never protected, never loved."
The wind sharpened, biting with a cruel edge, as if mocking their words.
"Long ago," he said, voice hollow, "I learned that as long as we breathe—our existence is inconsequential. Even to those who claim to care. In danger, in humiliation—no one stands beside you. That's the anatomy of humanity: greed, arrogance, hatred—self above all else."
Wen-Li listened in silence, her face a mask of calm.
He continued, voice almost a whisper. "Yet, I believe there are those who care. Who want us to grow—who want us to heal. Even if others wound us—family, colleagues—there remains someone. I will remain. I will help you, be it body or mind. That is my truth."
Her gaze softened, unwavering. "Not everyone is as you claim."
He finally faced her, eyes dark as a storm's eye. "What of your people? Nightingale? Lan Qian? Krieg? Robert? Xuein?"
He stepped forward, voice tense with unspoken emotion. "Did they defend you at the gala? When your integrity was dissected before that crowd?"
Silence.
"No," he said, voice raw. "No one did. Not even I."
A flicker—a shadow—crossed his face. "I owe Madam Di-Xian my existence. I do not know how to repay that. It hurts."
He looked away, shoulders stiffening. "We enter this world with nothing. We leave with nothing. Why cling to pride? To possessions? Death renders all of it meaningless."
Wen-Li's eyes softened further.
"You speak like someone who's never known grief," she murmured gently.
Rain gathered overhead—distant thunder murmured like an unsettled god.
"You're right," he admitted softly. "No one defended me that night. But you—Wen-Li—you did. And that matters."
A faint smile touched her lips. "And one more thing—I've noticed something."
His brow arched.
"You're showing emotion."
"Not exactly," he replied, a hint of a smirk.
"Yes, you are." She chuckled softly, the sound like a gentle ripple. "Slowly. I thought you incapable."
Moonlight shimmered on her face—pale and luminous, like a ghostly petal.
For a fleeting instant, his composure fractured.
"Your face," he said, voice slipping out before he could think, "resembles the petal of a dandelion."
She laughed—light, carefree, immune to gravity itself.
"Oh? Do you think so?" she teased, eyes twinkling.
Before he could respond—
A ripple in the air—a tremor, a shift—like the heartbeat of a predator sensing prey.
"Chief—watch out!" her warning cut through the night.
A gunshot shattered the silence, a burst of chaos tearing through the stillness.
Time fractured.
He spun— but not swiftly enough.
The bullet struck him first, a crimson arc erupting across his arm, then continued mercilessly into Wen-Li's chest.
Her body jerked—stunned, breath catching in her lungs. She began to fall, slow as a leaf drifting in a storm, reluctant to leave the world behind.
Agent-90 caught her just in time, collapsing onto the rain-slick concrete, her blood blooming across her blouse—an unspoken blossom of finality. Below, in the distant room, Madam Di-Xian's hand clenched the wine glass tighter, her eyes narrowing with a steel-hard focus.
Something was terribly wrong.
"Jun! Farhan!" she barked sharply. "Rooftop. Now!"
Back above—
Rain began to fall in earnest—an unrelenting deluge, drowning the night's silence.
"Chief—stay with me!" Agent-90's voice cracked, raw with panic, trembling like a fragile thread. "Nothing will happen to you—I swear! Someone—help!"
Wen-Li's breath grew shallow, labored. Blood seeped from her wound, pooling in the rain—an ominous mirror of a shattered oath.
"90…" she whispered, voice trembling.
Her hand lifted weakly, brushing his cheek—featherlight.
"Staying with you… makes me smile," she gasped, fragile as a moth. "Thank you… for standing beside me…"
"No," he choked, tears blurring his vision. "Don't speak. Save your strength."
Her lips curled into a faint, bittersweet smile.
"See? You do have emotion," she whispered. "I'm grateful… to have met you."
Lightning split the sky, jagged and violent.
Thunder roared like a beast unleashed.
Her hand slipped from his cheek.
Fell.
Still.
"Chief…?" he begged, voice breaking.
Silence.
Rain hammered down—relentless, unyielding. He screamed—a raw, primal cry of grief—shattering the storm's veneer of control. Below, Jun and Farhan burst onto the rooftop, only to stop, frozen in horror at the tableau before them. Agent-90 knelt in the rain, clutching Wen-Li's lifeless form, blood pooling like a dark promise beneath her. The city's distant glow flickered—an ominous heartbeat of destruction. And somewhere, in the vast machinery of existence, another petal fell—the quiet surrender of life amid the storm.
Morning arrived without mercy, the sky a relentless grey curtain that bled rain in unyielding sheets. The cemetery grounds lay soaked, mud oozing between stones, the earth beneath turned dark and heavy with grief. The sky hung low, as if grief itself had settled upon the world, pressing down with weight unseen.
At the center of it all stood a coffin of polished ebony, a silent testament to the fallen. Inside, Wen-Li lay in repose—her face serene, untouched by the violence that had stolen her breath. It seemed unjust—how peaceful she appeared—her features undisturbed, as if merely sleeping beneath a delicate shroud of white dandelion petals arranged as fragile halos against the dark velvet lining. They clung to the rain-damp air, luminous and ephemeral, like memories fading into the mist.
The war had paused, holding its breath. Both flowers had come—those who had fought, those who had fallen.
The officers of SSCBF stood in mournful formation, their uniforms immaculate despite bruises still faint on their faces. Rain streaked down their faces like tears they refused to shed openly. Commander Krieg, Captain Robert, Nightingale, Lan Qian, Lingaong Xuein, Xuemin, Feng Shaoyue, Yang Shaoyong, Gu Zhaoyue, Qu Yexun, Demitin, Tao-Ren, Daishoji, Sakim, Louisese, Ping Lianhua—each one a pillar of silent sorrow.
Behind them, President Zhang Wei and Zhang Ji stood stiffly, flanked by the High Council—Elizabeth Carter, Selim Kaya, Kim Ji-Soo, Hiroto Nakamura, Rahim Ahmed. Dr. Abrar Faiyaz and Anne Parker lingered further back, their expressions clinical, as if observing a distant, necessary ritual.
Opposite, the Crimson Lotus—Madam Di-Xian in mourning black—her crimson hair subdued beneath the rain, eyes dulled by something rare, something unbearably heavy. Her presence, once commanding, now fragile—a shadow of the storm she once was.
Alvi clutched Elara's sleeve, her face an unreadable mask. Hella's levity had evaporated—her gaze fixed upon the coffin, haunted. Hecate stood rigid, lips pressed tight in fragile restraint. Naomi's jaw was clenched, hands folded in silent prayer. Nolan looked uncharacteristically quiet, head bowed. Masud and Roy stared at the ground, lost in their own grief. Jun stood still, like a sentinel carved from stone. Farhan's shoulders trembled once—then stilled—and Gonda's massive hands were folded in reverence.
A murmur broke the stillness as some officers instinctively stepped forward, hostility flickering in their eyes at the sight of Crimson Lotus. Jun moved instantly, raising a hand in peace. His voice, calm and commanding, cut through the tense air.
"It is mourning," he said softly, yet with unassailable authority. "Do not dishonour her with discord."
The officers hesitated, then held their ground.
Nightingale approached the coffin slowly, each step a heavy toll on her spirit. Her fingers trembled as she reached out, gently placing a single, white dandelion atop the polished wood. Her voice cracked—fragile as glass.
"Chief..." she whispered. "You promised you wouldn't leave us."
Her tears mingled with the rain, streaking her face as she looked down at her fallen comrade. Her breath hitched, the ache of loss cutting deep into her soul.
Krieg moved forward, his presence a quiet storm behind the grief. He approached Madam Di-Xian, his voice low, steadier than he felt.
"Di-Xian," he said softly.
She turned, her face a mask of exhaustion—storm-worn and broken. Her voice, usually steel, now fragile, whispered in the rain.
"She died believing in good," Di-Xian murmured. "I wonder if she was naïve—or simply braver than the rest of us." A tear traced a silent path down her cheek. "I brought her into this war. And I could not bring her back."
Krieg stepped closer, without ceremony, and pulled her into a human embrace. Not strategic. Not political. Just two souls clutching at what remains of hope.
"She chose her path," he said softly. "Do not carry what was not yours to carry alone."
Her trembling hands clung to him briefly, like a drowning person clutching a fragile raft. They stood silent amid the downpour, mourning what could never be reclaimed.
He withdrew, standing apart, rain plastering his hair to his face, bloodstains long washed away. His expression was vacant—void of everything but the hollow ache of loss. He did not cry. He did not speak. He simply existed in the frozen moment of grief.
A voice broke softly through the storm—gentle, yet commanding.
"90."
He turned, eyes shadowed beneath rain-slicked hair. Katoge stepped forward—eyes heavy with empathy, understanding.
Without a word, Katoge embraced him. At first, Agent-90 remained stiff—locked in silence. Then, slowly, his hands lifted—a gesture of tentative connection, a fragile thread of human longing.
The coffin was lowered into the earth with creaking ropes, earth swallowing her body, a final farewell. One by one, they stepped forward—each to say their farewell.
Nightingale pressed a single dandelion into the soil. Lan Qian whispered a prayer. Feng Shaoyue bowed deeply. Jun closed his eyes, silent. Madam Di-Xian stood motionless, watching—saving every second in her memory. President Zhang Wei's inscrutable gaze lingered. Zhang Ji's expression was carefully neutral, yet beneath it, a flicker of sorrow.
One after another, they departed—each step heavier than the last.
Rain persisted, relentless, washing away the last traces of her presence.
Only Agent-90 remained. Day turned into night, then into dawn again and again, a ceaseless cycle of mourning. He stood before her grave, unmoving—guarding, mourning, refusing to leave.
Until at last—A voice, calm and measured, broke the silence behind him.
"47," said the man in the black suit and red tie, approaching with precise steps.
90 turned slowly, expression unreadable.
"What do you want?" he asked flatly.
The man in black paused, then spoke with controlled composure.
"I've been tasked with delivering an assignment," he said.
From the shadows of the storm, the words carried weight—an ominous tether pulling at the threads of hope and rage.
"From the High Chaebols," 90 replied, voice cold as steel. "I know."
His eyes hardened—icy, lethal. "I will not work for them any longer. They orchestrated this. The High Council… all of them."
The man in black regarded him carefully.
"You cannot defy the regulations," he said softly.
"Rules?" 90 scoffed bitterly. "Rules are the excuse of cowards."
A pause—thick with unspoken challenge.
"Revenge without structure," 47 replied quietly, "is merely suicide."
Silence stretched between them like a chasm.
Rain eased, a tentative drizzle now. 90 closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them—something had changed.
They burned.
A fierce, deadly blue—an unspoken promise of vengeance.
"Very well," he said softly. "If vengeance requires obedience—"
His jaw clenched.
"Then I'm in."
The wind stirred the fresh earth behind him, whispering secrets. And somewhere beneath that soil, petals lay buried—waiting, silent witnesses to the mourned and the lost.