New York, Queens — LaGuardia Airport
The night was ink-black, shrouding LaGuardia Airport in oppressive silence.
The wreckage of Wally Airlines Flight 180 lay scattered across the runway and surrounding grass like the skeleton of a fallen leviathan. Twisted metal glinted under the emergency lights—cold, jagged, and menacing.
The air reeked of spilled aviation fuel and the acrid tang of burnt plastic and flesh.
The rescue operation resembled a scene from a warzone. Flashing red and blue police lights pulsed across exhausted faces. Fire trucks, ambulances, and squad cars formed a chaotic perimeter. Firefighters hosed down the smoldering fuselage with high-pressure foam cannons, sending plumes of white steam and black smoke spiraling into the sky.
Paramedics rushed through the debris with stretchers—but soon slowed. All they found were bodies. Mutilated. Lifeless.
"We need more body bags! Now!"
"That's it—we only brought a hundred, and we're already out!"
"Damn it! Damn it—!"
"Command, this is Rescue Team Three. Western quadrant search complete. No survivors."
"...Copy. Send over another hundred body bags."
"...Understood."
Static-laced reports crackled over walkie-talkies.
Outside the police cordon, reporters shouted over each other, camera flashes strobing through the dark.
"—This is the deadliest aviation disaster in New York in nearly a decade. All 189 souls aboard, including crew, are confirmed dead…"
---
On the rooftop of a nearby freight terminal, two figures stood motionless.
Diluc wore a long crimson coat, his scarlet hair rippling faintly in the night wind.
Beside him, Xiao stood clad in white ritual robes, the jade-green strands of his hair catching the moonlight. His golden eyes—keen as a hawk's—fixed on the devastation below.
"I swept the area with my Vision," Diluc said, voice low and steady. "Nothing out of the ordinary."
Xiao's pupils glowed with a sudden, ethereal blue light. The world around him rewrote itself into currents of elemental energy—wind, fire, earth, life, death—all flowing in silent patterns. He scanned every inch of the crash site: the grieving families, the weary responders, the smoldering wreckage.
Finally, the light in his eyes dimmed.
He shook his head. "No anomalies. No malevolent auras. No traces of corruption or demonic energy. It reads… like a mundane accident."
Diluc's brow furrowed. The firelight reflected in his crimson eyes like embers. "Then why does it feel orchestrated? If the Grim Reaper is behind this—and if a boy foresaw it—then this wasn't chance. There's a pattern. A rule."
Xiao's hand brushed the beaded tassels at his collar as the wind picked up. "Finding the boy won't be hard," he said quietly. "But the Grim Reaper… it isn't a being you can fight. It's a concept—an inevitability. It may not even think. How do you reason with fate?"
Diluc's coat flared in the wind. "If death can be foreseen… then it can be interrupted. Rules imply loopholes."
Below, another stretcher emerged from the wreckage. A woman's wail tore through the night—raw, unfiltered grief.
Without another word, the two vanished into the shadows.
---
Meanwhile — LaGuardia Airport, Temporary Interrogation Room
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sickly pallor over the cramped space.
Alex Browning sat hunched in a cold metal chair, fingers knotted together, knuckles white.
Across from him, two FBI agents—suits immaculate, eyes sharp—leaned forward like predators.
The senior agent slapped a file onto the table. "One last time, Mr. Browning. How did you know the plane would explode before it even left the tarmac?"
Alex swallowed hard, throat parched. His voice came out hoarse. "I… had a vision. A dream—so real I could feel the heat. I saw it break apart midair… everyone…"
The younger agent scoffed. "A dream? One hundred and eighty-nine lives—and you expect us to buy that?"
"I tried to stop it!" Alex shot back, voice cracking. "I begged the gate agents, screamed at passengers—anyone! No one listened!"
The older agent exchanged a look with his partner, then leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. "Then tell us—were you under the influence? Hallucinogens? Psychedelics? Something that might explain… prophetic delusions?"
Alex shot to his feet, chair screeching against concrete. "I'm not on drugs! I saw it happen! Why won't anyone believe me?!"
The younger agent just scribbled in his notepad, impassive. "Sit down, Mr. Browning. Without evidence, your story isn't just unlikely—it's impossible."
Alex slumped back, drained. He stared at a water stain on the table, hollow-eyed. They'd never believe him. No one ever did.
Silence stretched. The agents stood, gathering their files.
"If you continue to withhold cooperation," the senior agent warned, "you will be charged with obstruction."
The door clanged shut behind them. The lock clicked.
Then—
A ripple passed through the air.
A cool breeze, though the room had no windows.
Two figures materialized before him as if woven from shadow and moonlight.
One in crimson, eyes like smoldering coals.
One in jade-white robes, gol
den gaze serene yet ancient.
Alex's breath hitched. His pupils shrank.
"W-who… who are you?"
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