The safehouse wasn't a fortress. It was a ghost.
Perched precariously on a ridge in the Nantou mountains, the structure had once been a processing facility for high-altitude oolong tea. Now, it was a skeleton of rotting cedar wood and rusted corrugated iron, swallowed by the creeping bamboo forest and the perpetual mist that rolled off the peaks.
Isolde parked the van under the canopy of a massive banyan tree. She killed the engine. The silence that followed was heavy, amplified by the dripping of rain from the leaves.
"Home sweet hellhole," Isolde muttered, checking her mirrors. "Ren, scan the spectrum. If there's a drone within five miles, I want to know before I step out."
Ren was already typing furiously on his wrist computer, his face bathed in the pale green glow of the screen. "Passive scan is clear. The heavy mist is scattering thermal readings. It works both ways—they can't see us, but we can't see them."
"Good enough," David said, sliding the side door open. The damp mountain air rushed in, smelling of wet earth and decay. "Let's move. We need to secure the perimeter before nightfall."
Saya was the last to move.
She unbuckled the seatbelt holding the cello case. She lifted it with a tenderness that was painful to watch, ensuring it didn't bump against the door frame as she stepped out into the mud. She didn't look at the mountains or the facility. She looked at the latch on the case to make sure it was still locked.
"Move it, Princess," Isolde snapped, grabbing her sniper rifle case from the back. "You're blocking the tactical line."
Saya stepped aside without a word, her eyes vacant. She walked toward the rotting porch of the tea house, her footsteps silent in the mud.
Isolde watched her go, shaking her head. "David, are you sure about this? She's catatonic. If we get hit, she's going to curl up in a ball and die."
"She's a Queen, Isolde," David said, leaning on his cane as he surveyed the tree line. "Instinct doesn't need a conscious mind. It just needs a trigger."
"I prefer triggers I can pull myself," Isolde grumbled, racking the bolt of her rifle.
Inside, the safehouse was a dusty cavern of old drying racks and rusted machinery. Ren set up a command post on a sturdy wooden table, deploying a small array of signal jammers. David began boarding up the ground-floor windows with loose planks.
Saya found a corner furthest from the door. She sat on the floor, placing the cello case across her lap. She took a handkerchief from her pocket—one Ren had given her—and began to wipe moisture from the leather that wasn't even there.
"You're cold," she whispered to the case. "I know. It's the mountain air. Hagi... do you remember the winter in Russia? 1918?"
She paused, tilting her head as if listening to a response.
"Yes," she murmured, a faint, ghostly smile touching her lips. "The train ride. You played the Bach suite to keep us warm. The conductor thought you were crazy."
Isolde walked past, carrying a box of ammunition. She stopped, staring down at Saya.
"Hey," Isolde said sharply.
Saya didn't look up. She continued polishing the latch.
"I'm talking to you," Isolde said, kicking the toe of her boot against the floorboard near Saya's leg.
Saya's hand stopped moving. She raised her head slowly. Her brown eyes were dull, like muddy water. "Quiet. He is resting."
"He's dust in a box," Isolde said brutally. "And you're a liability. Chimera isn't sending the police, Princess. They're sending kill squads. When they get here—and they will get here—what are you going to do? polish them to death?"
"Isolde, back off," Ren warned from the table, looking up from his screens.
"No," Isolde countered, her voice rising. "We're risking our necks for her. I want to know if she's worth it." She reached down and grabbed the handle of the cello case. "Let's see what's in here. Maybe a weapon you can actually use?"
The reaction was instantaneous.
Isolde's hand hadn't even fully closed around the handle before Saya moved.
It wasn't an attack. It was a rejection. Saya's hand shot out, slapping Isolde's wrist away with a speed that produced a sharp crack of air. It was a warning swat, like a tiger checking a cub, but it had enough force to knock Isolde's hand back against her own chest.
Isolde stumbled back a step, eyes widening. She rubbed her wrist. It was already turning red.
Saya pulled the case tighter against her chest. Her eyes flashed a warning red before fading back to brown.
"Don't," Saya whispered.
Isolde stared at her for a long moment, then let out a short, impressed huff. "Alright. So there is a pulse in there."
"Isolde, sector scan!" Ren shouted, panic cracking his voice. "I have a spike!"
The banter vanished instantly. David spun around, drawing his pistol. "Where?"
"South ridge," Ren said, fingers flying across his keyboard. "It cut through the jamming signal. It's not a drone. It's... oh god. It's a seismic sensor. They felt us walking."
"They're already here," David realized. "Lights out! Defensive positions!"
Ren killed the lantern. The room plunged into the gray gloom of twilight.
"They're breaching the east wall!" Isolde hissed, sliding into position behind a stack of tea crates. She raised her rifle, peering through the thermal scope. "I see heat signatures. Four... no, six. Stealth camo."
CRASH.
The boarded-up window on the east side exploded inward. A stun grenade rolled across the floor, hissing.
"Cover!" David yelled.
BOOM.
The flash was blinding, the sound deafening.
Before the ringing in their ears stopped, the shadows moved. Chimera soldiers vaulted through the window, their movements fluid and unnatural. They didn't shout commands. They moved in perfect silence, weapons raised.
Isolde fired. The boom of her sniper rifle was thunderous in the enclosed space. A soldier dropped, his chest armor shattered.
"Contact front!" David fired his pistol, suppressing the entry point. "Ren, keep your head down!"
Ren was cowering under the table, clutching his tablet.
Saya hadn't moved.
She was still sitting in the corner, clutching the cello case. The chaos erupted around her—gunfire, shouting, the smell of cordite—but she remained frozen, curled around the black box like a child hiding from a thunderstorm.
"Secure the Queen," a synthesized voice commanded from the smoke.
Two soldiers broke off from the firefight, sprinting toward Saya.
"Saya! Move!" Ren screamed from under the table.
Saya looked up, her eyes wide with confusion. The noise was too loud. It hurt. It was waking Hagi up.
The first soldier reached her. He didn't shoot. He reached out with a grapple-claw—a mechanical restraint designed to lock onto limbs.
"Target acquired," the soldier droned. He grabbed Saya's arm, jerking her upward.
Saya stumbled, but she didn't let go of the case. She clung to it with one hand, dragging it with her.
"Let go," she whimpered. "You're making too much noise."
The soldier raised a baton to strike her, to force her to drop the luggage.
"Release the object," the soldier ordered. He kicked the cello case.
His heavy boot connected with the black leather. Thud.
The sound was dull, insignificant in the middle of a gunfight. But to Saya, it was the sound of the world ending.
She stopped struggling.
She looked down at the boot print on the leather. A smudge of mud on the pristine case. A violation.
The soldier raised the baton again. "Comply."
Saya's head snapped up.
Her eyes weren't just red. They were glowing like dying stars, two points of crimson fury in the dark room. Her mouth opened, and a hiss escaped—a sound of pure, ancient malice.
"You kicked him," she said.
The soldier paused. His threat analysis subroutine blinked red.
Saya's hand released the handle of the case. She didn't drop it. She balanced it perfectly on her knee. With her free hand—the one the soldier wasn't holding—she reached for the latches.
Click. Click. Click.
She popped the locks with a speed the human eye couldn't track.
She threw the lid open.
Inside, resting on a bed of black velvet and a pile of shimmering blue dust, lay a katana. The scabbard was simple, black lacquer. The hilt was wrapped in sharkskin.
Saya grabbed the hilt.
She didn't just draw the sword. She exploded into motion.
SHING.
The blade cleared the scabbard, dragging a cloud of blue dust with it. The crystals glittered in the air like diamond rain.
The soldier holding her arm didn't even see the cut. He just felt the world tilt. His arm—still holding her shoulder—detached from his body.
He fell back, blue hydraulic fluid spraying from the stump.
The second soldier raised his rifle.
Saya stepped forward. She didn't use a stance. She didn't use a technique. She used brutality. She swung the sword horizontally, cleaving through the rifle, through the armor, through the man.
The blade sang. It was a high, clear note, cutting through the gunfire.
David stopped firing. Isolde lowered her rifle.
They watched.
Saya stood over the fallen soldiers. She was breathing heavily. The blue dust from the case swirled around her feet, settling on the floor. Her sword was dripping with oil and synthetic blood.
She turned to the remaining soldiers near the window.
They hesitated. Even their suppressed emotions felt fear.
"Get out," Saya whispered.
Then she screamed. It was a war cry, but it was also a cry of grief. "GET OUT!"
She charged.
She crossed the room in two strides. The soldiers opened fire, but she wasn't there anymore. She was low, sliding across the floorboards. She came up under their guard.
A flash of silver. A spray of black fluid.
One soldier down.
She pivoted, using the momentum to spin. The flat of her blade smashed into another soldier's helmet, shattering the sensor array. He stumbled blind. She thrust backward, driving the blade through his chest plate.
It was over in ten seconds.
Six elite Chimera soldiers lay dead or dying on the floor of the tea house.
Saya stood in the center of the carnage. Her chest was heaving. Her uniform was splattered with black oil.
She held the sword out to her side, flicking the fluid off the blade with a sharp snap of her wrist—chiburi.
Silence returned to the safehouse, broken only by the heavy breathing of the survivors.
Isolde slowly stood up from behind the crates. She looked at the bodies. She looked at the clean cuts through the advanced composite armor.
"Okay," Isolde said, her voice lacking its usual sarcasm. "Point taken."
Saya didn't acknowledge her. She didn't check on Ren or David.
She turned around and walked back to the corner.
The cello case was open. The blue dust inside had been disturbed by the sudden movement; it was piled unevenly against the side walls.
Saya dropped to her knees. Panic flooded her face.
"I'm sorry," she gasped, sheathing the sword and placing it gently back into the case, right on top of the dust. "I'm sorry, Hagi. I had to move you. Did I hurt you?"
She began to frantically smooth the dust with her hands, trying to pile it back into the shape of a person, or perhaps just trying to comfort the ashes.
"They kicked you," she sobbed, tears cutting tracks through the grime on her face. "I told them to be quiet. Why wouldn't they be quiet?"
Ren crawled out from under the table. He looked at the girl weeping over a box of dust in the middle of a slaughterhouse.
"She's..." Ren started, his voice shaking.
"She's a weapon," Isolde finished quietly. She walked over to one of the dead soldiers and kicked his rifle away. "But she's pointing the wrong way."
David limped into the light. He looked at Saya. He saw the way she fought. It wasn't the disciplined style of the Red Shield. It was wild. Desperate. She hadn't fought to save them. She had fought because someone touched the case.
"Ren," David said wearily. "Pack the gear. We can't stay here. They know where we are."
"Where do we go?" Ren asked. "We just got here."
David looked at the map on the wall. "Deeper into the mountains. If she can fight like that... maybe we stand a chance."
Saya closed the lid of the case. She locked the latches. Click. Click. Click.
She stood up, lifting the case. She wiped the smudge of mud from the leather where the soldier had kicked it.
She turned to them. Her eyes were brown again. Empty.
"It's quiet now," she said softly. "Can we go?"