"Erebos," Ren's voice was a low vibration, as if carving the name into the frozen air. His right hand—the one not bound by the arm sling—was steady and cold as he drew the black blade from his harness. He pressed the tip of the dagger slowly against Erebos's left shoulder. It wasn't a killing thrust; it was a weight of absolute authority.
"The 'Master Ren' you once knew died four years ago," Ren whispered. "He's buried on Higanbana Hill, right alongside Lady Luna."
He leaned in closer, his shadow looming over the kneeling man. "But the debt for my mother's life is far from settled." Ren stood over him, the slender black blade now the arbiter of fate and honor. Faint moonlight filtered through the window slats, glinting off the steel. "Erebos... swear your life to me."
Erebos did not waver. With his forehead still pressed against the floorboards, he raised a gaze heavy with years of regret, now replaced by total devotion.
"I swear it, Master Ren. Until my last drop of blood, I am yours. Faithful to the mission, faithful to the cause, and faithful to your secrets. Your command is my honor."
Ren withdrew the blade with a fluid, rhythmic motion, sheathing it back into the harness with a faint shick. He did not offer a hand to help him up.
"Good," Ren said, his voice returning to a flat, professional chill, as if they had just concluded a mundane business transaction. "Now. Stand up and earn that oath."
Erebos rose. He no longer moved like a shifty mafia underling; he stood like a knight reborn.
THE STEAM DISTRICT CATHEDRAL | APRIL 2324
Ren sat in the center of the pews, feeling the chronic, nagging ache in his splinted left arm. The cathedral was Santino's secret artery—vast, hollow, and silent, illuminated only by the kaleidoscopic glow of stained glass catching the streetlights outside. It was a place for ghost transactions, far beneath the neon rot of Rich City. The scent of ancient dust and damp stone hung heavy in the air.
Soon, the rhythmic click of heels echoed off the stone walls. Ren didn't bother turning around. They were past the point of coded verses and formal introductions. Clarissa, draped in an elegant black silhouette that traced every curve of her body, slid into the pew beside him. She maintained a professional distance.
"Your master is in the ground," Ren began, his tone sharp and cynical, referring to the late Baron Frey. "Why is a courier still haunting the drop-off point?"
Clarissa crossed her legs, her expression resigned but her eyes sharp as a hawk's. "Isn't it natural for a worker who loses their job to go looking for another, Sir?" she countered with effortless grace.
"Naturally." Ren gave a minimal nod. "But before I hire anyone, there's the matter of the interview."
Clarissa exhaled—a controlled, elegant surrender. "Ask away. I have nothing to hide."
Ren's eyes measured her. "First, I need to ensure you've passed your vicenarian." Though Ren was still months away from twenty himself, he needed to know his staff were seasoned.
Clarissa offered a ghost of a smile. "Don't worry. But if you think I'm still seventeen, I'll take it as a compliment."
"Good." Ren's gaze hardened into that of a predator. "As a former courier for the Royalist Faction, you must have heard the whispers. Tell me... how did the others react to Baron Frey's execution?"
Clarissa looked at the floor, sorting through her mental files. "One of my contacts mentioned a secret meeting. The Loyalists gathered at a private villa immediately after the news broke. I don't have the coordinates."
Ren raised an eyebrow, a silent command to continue.
"They're talking about carving up Frey's assets—the ones currently seized by the government. They're already planning the spoils."
Ren let out a soft, mocking snort. "Vultures. A predictable reaction for greedy aristocrats."
Clarissa leaned in, her voice dropping to a cautious whisper. "There's one more thing. I didn't quite catch the significance, but my friend mentioned they're throwing their weight behind a new corporation. Something called... Clo... Clover?"
The word CLOVER hit Ren like a high-voltage shock. It wasn't just a name; it was a confirmation of his darkest predictions. Zero. The corporation under Prime Minister Daniel. An organized, surgical enemy. Ren felt a cold shiver trace the length of his good arm.
"CLOVER," Ren repeated, his voice turning to ice. He had to move faster.
He turned back to Clarissa, seeing her now not just as a courier, but as a priceless node in his network. "As a courier, you're trained in infiltration, aren't you?"
"Of course. How else do you think I walked away clean after witnessing the Eye Tower incident?" Clarissa smirked, pride glinting in her eyes over her successful perjury.
"You were a witness?" Ren's voice was like a blade.
Clarissa caught the shift in tension. She had said too much. "I—well, yes! I was scheduled for a drop-off that morning. By the time I arrived, Eye Tower was in lockdown. It would have looked more suspicious if I hadn't reported it to the police, wouldn't it?"
Ren went silent. It was logical. But her ability to deceive the authorities was a useful trait. So she's the one who leaked it, he realized. No wonder CUBE didn't have to trigger Plan B.
"Then you'll be my eyes and ears." Ren named a salary figure that was nothing short of astronomical. "Your job is to filter every rumor involving the Loyalists and CLOVER. This work... it will likely cost you your life."
"I trust my new master provides excellent insurance." Clarissa nodded, her eyes bright—not just at the money, but at the realization that she was now part of a game far larger than delivering packages.
The pieces were set. Clarissa, twenty-five, was no longer a dead Baron's errand girl. She was the official intelligence for the assassin in the suit. To his rear, Ren had Santino as his bridge to the elite and Erebos as his loyal knight. In his shadow, he had CUBE providing the digital backbone.
Ahead, the name CLOVER loomed—a threat fueled by noble greed and the Prime Minister's cold-blooded politics. The chess match had left the board. The reckoning had begun.
CLOVER QUARANTINE FACILITY | JULY 2324
Blinding morning light flooded the VIP conference room. Thirteen idol candidates were gathered there—young girls with eyes full of manufactured hope and makeup designed to project an aura of porcelain innocence. They sat in leather chairs that were far too expensive, waiting for the announcement they believed would be the final detail of their long-awaited debut.
Rena sat in the front row. She felt a dull, thrumming irritation; the atmosphere was too sterile, too fake. But she had to endure it. She needed that center position. She needed the leverage to find her mother's killer.
The double doors at the end of the room slid open with a soft electronic hiss.
Zero stepped inside.
He was the image of the perfect young politician. His posture was flawless, dressed in a light grey suit tailored to perfection, radiating a quiet authority and a razor-sharp charisma. He wore a thin smile that didn't reach his eyes, but it was polished so well it was convincing. His presence immediately sucked the air out of the room.
Zero stood before the projector, his gaze slow and clinical as he appraised each girl.
"Good morning," he said. His voice was smooth, carrying a resonance that demanded silence. "I am Zero, the Lead Operator of CLOVER. I know how hard you have all prepared for your debut."
The girls nodded, the anticipation reaching a fever pitch.
"However," Zero paused, letting the hope hang in the air for a agonizing second before he cut it down. "Your debut next month..."
"...is cancelled."