Inside the uppermost chamber, where the head of the Syndicate Communist Party held council, two figures sat in the dim glow of a single, antique chandelier. A room that had once been a place of strategic brilliance now stank of miscalculation and unexpected ruin.
Gavriel Elazar sat motionless, his fingers laced together, his jaw clenched so tightly it threatened to snap his own teeth.
The report lay before him, the words etched in ink might as well have been carved into his flesh.
SCP forces—defeated.
The SSCBF—alive and still standing.
The FAC—interfering in places they should not be.
The unknown beast—slain.
And worst of all… Agent-90.
Agent-90—the ghost, the phantom executioner, the weapon that should have been buried years ago.
He had single-handedly dismantled their best operatives at Obsidian Peak.
And now, he had brought destruction to Ashenport.
A slow, ragged inhale. A quiet before the hurricane.
Then, his fist clenched.
CRACK.
The armrest of his chair split beneath his grip, shards of wood splintering to the floor.
“That… insufferable wretch.”
The words slithered from his lips like poison dipped in velvet.
Across from him, Netanyahu Hoffam merely observed.
His posture was elegant, unbothered, as if the failure at Ashenport was but an interesting anomaly rather than a disaster.
The man was a spectre of arrogance, clad in a pristine black suit, his platinum hair slicked back, his gloved fingers resting idly on the arm of his chair.
Then, with an air of detached amusement, he spoke.
“Gavriel, dear, don’t let your temper ruin the furniture. It’s Italian, and I had it imported.”
Gavriel snarled but said nothing.
Netanyahu sighed dramatically, swirling the glass of deep red wine in his hand, the liquid catching the dim light like fresh blood.
“It’s rather intriguing, isn’t it? That Agent-90… manages to stand against us time and time again, and yet, not once, not once, have we uncovered who he is truly working for.”
His cold, pale eyes flickered with intrigue.
“It is no longer enough to assume he is acting alone.”
Gavriel stilled.
Netanyahu leaned forward, resting his chin on his fingers.
“He is part of something. A secret organisation we are yet to unearth. The question is… whom?”
Silence.
A dangerous, brooding silence.
Then, slowly, Gavriel exhaled.
A sharp smirk twisted his lips, but it was not one of amusement—it was one of something far crueler.
“Then we find them.”
He tilted his head, his gaze flashing with murderous intent.
“We find them, and we burn them all.”
The transport vehicle roared through the night, its engine growling like a wounded beast. Inside, the surviving SCP operatives sat in grim silence.
They had returned empty-handed. Humiliated. Stripped of their power.
Elan sat with his arms crossed, his expression dark with failure. His fingers twitched against his gun holster, a silent urge to shoot away his frustration.
Shira’s face was blank, but the way her fists clenched in her lap told a different story.
They had lost.
And the worst part? It wasn’t just to the SSCBF.
The FAC had interfered. The Echo Rebellion had appeared. And, of course, Agent-90 had obliterated them all.
It left a bitter taste on their tongues.
But no one was more furious than Chief Ilse Richter.
Inside the vehicle, Richter sat with her gaze locked on the rain-lashed window, her lips curled back in a sneer.
Her fingers ached from how tightly she had clenched them into fists.
The battle had been humiliating. But that was not what boiled her blood.
It was Wen-Li.
That insufferable woman.
That arrogant, unyielding Chief of the SSCBF.
And worst of all—the slap.
The memory replayed over and over in her head, the crack of skin meeting skin, the way every pair of eyes had turned toward her, had seen her humiliated.
Her pride—shattered.
Her reputation as an iron-willed commander had been stained.
By Wen-Li.
She exhaled sharply, inhaling through her teeth as her nails dug into her palms, nearly drawing blood.
“You will regret that, Wen-Li.”
Her voice was a whisper laced with venom.
A promise.
A curse.
A debt she would see repaid in blood.
She turned toward Elan, her blue eyes gleaming with something dark, something cruel.
“Prepare for the next mission.”
Elan glanced at her, his expression unreadable.
“And what exactly are we targeting next, Chief?”
She smiled.
A slow, vengeful smile.
“Not what.”
Her fingers twitched against the steel baton at her hip, the same baton she wished to use to break Wen-Li’s face.
“Who.”
The air inside SSCBF Headquarters was heavy with unease, an unspoken electricity crackling through the halls, sending ripples of tension through the veins of the organisation.
It was not just another day.
It was the day Wen-Li returned with her brother.
It was the day the ghosts of Ashenport walked among them.
At the forefront strode Chief Wen-Li, her presence a storm cloaked in fabric, her every step a whisper of thunder before the inevitable strike of lightning. Her expression was neutral, unreadable—a porcelain mask concealing a mind sharper than steel.
Beside her, Commander Krieg moved like a predator kept just barely in check, his every motion a restrained act of violence waiting to be unleashed.
Captain Robert’s smirk carried the air of a man who had seen hell and returned amused by it.
Captain Lingaong Xuein exuded an aura of cool detachment, her lips pursed, her dark eyes flicking over the watching faces with veiled amusement, as though they were all pieces in a game she had already mastered.
Lieutenant Nightingale trailed behind, her gaze half-lidded, her fingers tapping idly against her holster—a woman who had expected war and now revelled in its aftershocks.
But the moment the FAC team entered, the very air shifted.
A new presence, an anomaly, a disruption.
Captain Wen-Liao led his team with the quiet force of a hurricane just beyond the horizon.
His presence was different—less like a storm, more like an executioner sharpening his blade. His sharp gaze, mirroring his sister’s, swept across the room with a weight that sent a shiver crawling down weaker spines.
Behind him, his handpicked soldiers followed:
- Kerin Longcutter, a giant of a man with a permanent scowl, his massive shoulders flexing beneath his fatigues.
- Dagdan Leesoney, a wiry figure, eyes sharp as a falcon, his hands twitching as if eager for action.
- Sionola O’Leahy, calm, poised, her every step calculated, exuding an icy precision that made even seasoned officers tense.
As they passed through the immaculate corridors of SSCBF, the weight of countless eyes settled upon them.
Whispers slithered through the air like vipers, words hissed between clenched teeth, exchanged in hurried secrecy.
Behind desks and monitors, officers and scientists alike watched, their gazes flickering between awe and suspicion, reverence and hatred.
Among them:
- Lan Qian, her fingers frozen mid-typing, her sharp mind instantly processing the implications.
- Yuri, his ever-present smirk absent, replaced by narrowed eyes and wary curiosity.
- Karin, arms folded tightly, biting her lip, her mind already composing a thousand questions she dared not ask aloud.
- Sakim, exhaling slowly, adjusting his glasses, his grip tightening on the documents he held.
And then, the scientists—the ones who had worked in secret on projects that they were told to forget. The ones who knew what should have remained buried.
Their eyes betrayed knowledge they could not afford to acknowledge.
Wen-Li gave them all a singular glance.
“Take my brother and his team to the holding lounge. I’ll deal with the rest.”
Wen-Liao nodded but said nothing. He had already anticipated this.
The door to the highest council chamber of SSCBF was shut, but the air behind it seethed with silent war.
At the head of the table, President Zhang Wei sat, his fingers laced together, his expression carved from stone.
Beside him, the Chairmen of SSCBF, the power behind the throne, the ones who dictated who lived, who died, and who vanished into the abyss.
Fahad Al-Farsi, Elizabeth Carter, Selim Kaya, Andreas Karalis, Kim Ji-Soo, Hiroto Nakamura, Aarav Sharma, Rahim Ahmed, The air was thick with dissatisfaction.
The failure at Ashenport had shattered their illusions of control.
The SCP had lost. The FAC had interfered. And now—Agent-90 had walked in, untouched.
It was an insult, a stain, a humiliation.
And the one responsible? Wen-Li.
The knock came.
A single, crisp echo through the chamber, a harbinger of conflict.
An officer entered, his face blank, his posture perfectly rigid.
“Chief Wen-Li has arrived.”
A pause.
The officer’s voice dropped, heavy with an unspoken weight.
“…and Captain Wen-Liao of FAC.”
Silence.
A sudden shift, a tension so sharp it could have split bone from sinew.
The Council masked their expressions well.
On the surface, they remained calm, composed.
But beneath their trained facades—they wanted blood.
They wanted to tear Wen-Li apart, to break her brother before he could become a problem.
They wanted answers.
They wanted retribution.
And as the door opened, and Wen-Li stepped inside, followed by the towering presence of her brother—
The war within SSCBF truly began.
The air inside Wen-Li’s office was thick with the weight of ghosts.
It was not just an office. It was once their father’s domain, a sanctum of steel and ink, where battles had been fought not with bullets but with words, with decisions that carved destinies into the bones of history.
Now, it was hers.
Yet, as Wen-Liao stepped inside, he saw none of his sister’s touch upon the space. No personal artefacts, no warm presence of someone who had claimed it as their own. The room remained untouched, a mausoleum of their father’s reign.
His sharp gaze flickered to the wall-mounted shelves, lined with immaculate dossiers and aged military commendations. The same mahogany desk stood before him, its lacquered surface bearing the faintest scratch marks from their father’s restless fingers.
It was the same room, but not the same home.
He let out a small huff of air, stepping toward the towering bookshelf, running his fingers over the spine of an old tactical manual.
"Still the same as always, eh? You don’t change things, you just fill in the spaces.”
Before an answer could follow, the door creaked open.
Wen-Li entered, balancing a tray of steaming coffee.
Her presence cut through the gloom like a lantern swinging through the fog. She was not the same girl from their childhood, but for a moment, as she nudged the door shut with her foot and muttered about how people at HQ should at least have the decency to knock, she was still his little sister.
The staff behind her briskly excused themselves, not daring to linger in a room where two Wen siblings sat in conversation.
Wen-Liao took a deep inhale, already detecting the rich, dark aroma as she set the coffee cups down.
"You still take it black, don't you?" she asked, sliding the cup towards him.
Wen-Liao eyed the cup suspiciously, lifting it to his lips.
A single sip.
Then, he grimaced.
"Tastes like burnt regret."
Wen-Li scoffed, taking a sip from her own cup before leaning back in her chair.
"You drink military rations, you don’t get to judge."
"Military rations taste better than this, Wen-Li. This? This is war crime material."
She gave him a pointed glare, but a smirk tugged at her lips.
Then, the moment shifted.
The levity drained.
And the silence became heavy once more.
"Wen-Liao.”
Her voice was quiet, but weighted, like a blade resting against the throat of an unspoken truth.
"What did you see at the Wasteland? What was that monster? And why—why did you call Agent-90 ‘Chief’?"
For the first time since entering the office, Wen-Liao hesitated.
His fingers tapped against the ceramic cup, his mind dragging itself through time and memory.
Then, he sighed.
And he began.
The flashback struck like a bullet.
- The air had been thick with the scent of decay.
- The ruins of the old world loomed like skeletons of a forgotten empire.
- The Wasteland was not a battlefield. It was a graveyard that had not yet finished collecting bodies.
Wen-Liao had led a squad of FAC soldiers against outlaws and Sinners who had turned the Wasteland into their kingdom of chaos. The mission was clear—eradication, a clean sweep.
But then—everything went wrong.
Out of the ashen ruins, something inhuman had stirred.
- A shadow too thick to be merely darkness.
- A breath too ragged to belong to anything human.
- A presence that did not belong in this world.
And in that moment, they should have died.
His squad should have perished.
But then, like a god carved from steel and vengeance, someone had stepped forward.
A figure cloaked in black, his spectacles reflecting nothing but death.
Agent-90.
The battle had been brief—brutal, a storm of precision, efficiency, and ruthlessness.
And then, the fight had ended.
And Wen-Liao stood before a man who should not exist.
And he had called him Chief.
Back in the present, Wen-Li’s hands had curled into fists.
"That’s impossible.”
Wen-Liao shook his head.
"Not impossible. Just forgotten."
Then, with a steadying breath, he delivered the final truth.
"Agent-90 was once part of the FAC. At the highest rank. He was appointed by our father."
A crack split through her mind, through the very foundation of what she thought she knew.
She had suspected—but to hear it from Wen-Liao’s lips was something else.
Her mind reeled. Flashes of the past resurfaced.
She had heard it before.
Years ago, in a dimly lit restaurant, Madam Di-Xian had told her the truth.
- Agent-90 had been a part of something monstrous—the Gon-While Experiment.
- Children, broken into emotionless weapons.
- Her father had taken one in.
And then—another memory.
One she had buried so deeply it clawed its way out with jagged nails.
A scream from their mother.
A curse from their grandmother.
A slap from their aunt.
The argument had been about him.
- The child they should not have brought into their home.
- The boy with no past, no future—only a purpose to kill.
And then, the moment everything shattered.
Agent-90 had slaughtered them.
Their grandmother, their aunt—blood splattered against the wooden floors.
He had killed them without hesitation.
And they had screamed at him—
Monster.
Wen-Li exhaled, shaken to her bones.
Then—a sudden grip on her wrist.
She gasped, Wen-Liao’s fingers tightening around the Sentinel Helices embedded in her skin.
His gaze darkened, his voice a whisper that sent shivers down her spine.
"Madam Di-Xian.”
Her breath hitched.
Then, just as suddenly, he released her.
She stared at him, heart pounding.
"Why won’t you tell me everything?”
Wen-Liao’s lips pressed into a thin, unreadable line.
Then, finally—he answered.
"Because you’re already wearing their chains.”
And the room fell into silence.
The silence in Wen-Li’s office was deafening, a void where answers should have been, yet only ghosts remained.
Wen-Li’s wrist still tingled from where Wen-Liao had gripped it, the weight of his words heavier than steel.
"Because you’re already wearing their chains."
She exhaled sharply, pressing a hand against her temple. The Sentinel Helices—**a device meant for monitoring, for control—**and she had worn it without question.
Wen-Liao had not just seen it. He had feared it.
Her eyes flickered up to where her brother sat, his arms crossed, his expression a fortress of restraint.
“What do you mean? Who is watching me?”
Wen-Liao’s gaze did not waver.
“Not who. What.”
She wanted to press him further, to drag every answer from his lips, but she knew her brother well enough—he would not give her the full truth until she was ready.
So she did the next best thing.
She would uncover it herself.
“Get some rest, Wen-Liao. I need to—”
“You need to tread carefully, Wen-Li.”
The warning came with no emotion, no hesitation. It was not a request.
It was the truth.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
Wen-Li did not answer, merely turned towards her console, her fingers already pulling up the classified archives.
The past was no longer buried.
It was waiting.
The air inside Commander Krieg’s office was thick with the scent of burnt cigars, old leather, and the faintest trace of gun oil—an atmosphere befitting a man who had spent more time in battle than in comfort. The dim glow of the desk lamp cast elongated shadows, warping the sharp angles of the room into something almost theatrical.
Yet, despite the military austerity, the mood was anything but tense.
Seated in various positions of undisciplined leisure were **Wen-Liao’s most trusted squad members—**a trio of misfits that FAC had somehow turned into legends.
Kerin Longcutter, a man built like a medieval fortress, had his boots kicked up on Krieg’s desk, arms crossed behind his head as if he were reclining in a sunlit meadow rather than a high-security intelligence outpost.
Beside him, Dagdan Leesoney, the wiry, sharp-eyed tactician, was meticulously stacking paperclips into an intricate tower, as if plotting a way to restructure SSCBF’s bureaucratic inefficiencies.
And standing with an air of disinterest, arms folded across her chest, was Sionola O’Leahy, the team’s cold strategist, who was watching them both with the unimpressed gaze of a mother forced to tolerate her idiotic children.
Krieg, sitting behind his desk, rubbed his temple slowly.
“Do any of you actually understand the concept of military discipline?” he muttered, voice flat as steel.
Kerin grinned, adjusting his posture only slightly.
“Discipline is for the unfortunate, Commander. We operate under ‘strategic flexibility.’”
Dagdan didn’t even look up from his paperclip tower.
“I find that structure is merely an illusion, a fabrication of lesser minds attempting to constrain brilliance.”
Sionola scoffed.
“You two are going to get us all executed one day.”
Krieg exhaled sharply, tapping his fingers against his desk.
"I’ve commanded battalions in warzones, faced death more times than I care to count…” He paused, eyes narrowing. “And yet, dealing with you three is my greatest challenge.”
Kerin beamed.
"That’s the spirit, sir!"
Before Krieg could retort, the door swung open with a crisp, authoritative creak.
A hush fell over the room like a sudden winter storm.
Standing in the doorway was President Zhang Wei.
The man carried an aura of control that was suffocating, like an invisible vice around the throats of all those in his presence.
His expression was neutral, but beneath it lay a predator’s patience—calculated, waiting, ready to strike.
His dark, piercing eyes swept over the room before settling on Krieg.
"Commander Krieg."
His voice was smooth, measured, yet carried the weight of unchallenged authority.
Then his gaze flickered toward the three FAC operatives.
"I see Captain Wen-Liao’s squad is making themselves comfortable.”
Kerin, Dagdan, and Sionola immediately straightened, their previous ease evaporating under the weight of the President’s gaze.
Dagdan, never one to miss an opportunity, muttered just loud enough for Sionola to hear,
"This is what it must feel like to be a fly caught in a spider’s web."
Sionola nudged him sharply with her elbow.
"Shut up before he decides to swat you."
Zhang Wei ignored their exchange, his focus shifting back to Krieg.
"I am here to speak with Captain Wen-Liao.”
Krieg, who had been watching Zhang Wei carefully, did not move immediately.
He had seen this look before—the expression of a man who had already decided the game before the pieces were even moved.
"Of course, sir. I will send for him immediately.”
Zhang Wei smiled, but it was not a friendly gesture.
It was the kind of smile a man gives when holding a knife behind his back.
As he turned slightly, his gaze flickered back toward Kerin, Dagdan, and Sionola.
"You three must be proud to serve under Captain Wen-Liao.”
His tone was neutral, almost pleasant. But the implication beneath it was as sharp as a scalpel.
Kerin tilted his head slightly, his casual demeanor returning.
"**Well, sir, he’s saved our lives more times than I can count, so yes—**I’d say we’re rather fond of him.”
Zhang Wei’s smile did not falter.
"Indeed. Loyalty is a precious thing.”
His eyes darkened.
"Let us see how far yours can stretch.”
With that, he turned on his heel, his footsteps fading down the corridor as he made his way toward Wen-Liao.
As soon as he was gone, Kerin exhaled dramatically, throwing himself back into his chair.
“Alright, that was mildly terrifying.”
Dagdan flicked a paperclip at him.
“Mildly? That was the political equivalent of being locked in a room with a starving tiger.”
Sionola, rubbing her temples, muttered under her breath.
“We should start digging Wen-Liao’s grave now, just in case.”
Krieg, watching the door where Zhang Wei had left, merely exhaled.
"Wen-Liao doesn’t need a grave.”
He narrowed his eyes.
"Zhang Wei is planning something worse.”
As the President of SSCBF walked down the corridors, his mind was already shifting the pieces of his grand strategy.
Wen-Liao’s presence was a threat.
Not just because he was a military asset of the FAC.
Not just because he was respected.
But because he was Wen.
And Wen-Li’s connection to him was the last fragile link holding her back from complete obedience.
If he could turn Wen-Liao against her…
If he could fracture that bond…
Then Wen-Li would have no choice but to submit.
His lips curled into a slow, sinister smirk.
"Let the game begin.”
Wen-Li exhaled slowly, stepping out of her office, her mind a tempest of fragmented thoughts, all circling one unrelenting name.
Agent-90.
The weight of the past had always been heavy, but now, it pressed against her like an iron gauntlet crushing bone.
Her father had taken him in.
He had been one of them.
A Wen.
And yet, he had been forged into something unrecognisable—an emotionless weapon.
A ghost who walked in flesh.
As she walked through the pristine corridors of SSCBF HQ, her steps echoed against the cold marble, a rhythm that matched the storm in her mind.
A soft voice cut through the storm.
“Chief, the journalists are waiting.”
Wen-Li turned slightly, her gaze meeting Nightingale’s calm, expectant stare.
A sharp inhale, a small nod.
"Alright.”
Before she could take another step, a presence loomed behind her.
A familiar one.
“You have a habit of carrying the world on your shoulders.”
Wen-Liao.
His voice was a steadying force, a quiet anchor.
She glanced back at him.
“And you have a habit of watching over me like a damn hawk.”
He smirked, his arms crossed, his stance unshaken.
"It’s a brother’s duty."
A pause.
Then, his expression softened, just slightly.
“You don’t have to face this alone.”
She studied him for a moment, then allowed a small, genuine smile to curve her lips.
A rare moment of sibling understanding, untainted by war or duty.
She inhaled deeply, then steeled herself.
The world was waiting.
The moment Wen-Li stepped onto the stage, a cacophony of voices erupted, cameras flashing like an artillery barrage.
The room was packed with journalists, their pens poised like daggers, their eyes sharpened for blood.
She **stood at the podium, calm, composed—**a woman who had long mastered the art of unshaken authority.
The questions came like a storm.
“Chief Wen-Li, what exactly transpired at Ashenport?”
“Who is responsible for the humanoid creature?”
“How did it die? Who killed it?”
Wen-Li’s expression did not shift.
"The attack at Ashenport was orchestrated by the SCP—by the government’s hidden hand.”
A stunned silence fell over the room.
Even veteran journalists faltered, exchanging wide-eyed glances.
“Are you saying that SCP is experimenting with bioweapons?” one reporter asked, his voice laced with incredulity.
She nodded.
"Not just bioweapons. Genetic corruption. Mind control. Their agents—our own men—were turned into monsters against their will. The SCP is manipulating human biology, and they do not care who pays the price."
Another journalist’s voice rang out.
“Where is your proof?”
Wen-Li’s eyes darkened.
"You want proof? Then let me show you."
She gestured to Nightingale, who activated a holographic projection.
On the massive screen behind her, footage played—
- The mutated agents of SSCBF turning on their comrades at Obsidian Peak.
- SCP operatives ambushing Wen-Liao’s team.
- And finally—the creature, the monstrous humanoid, tearing through their ranks.
A gasp swept through the room.
The truth was no longer a whisper.
It was a roaring fire.
Gavriel Elazar leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping rhythmically against the polished ebony surface of his desk.
The news broadcast played before him, each word from Wen-Li another blade against his patience.
Beside him, Netanyahu Hoffam watched with his usual unreadable smirk, sipping a glass of crimson wine.
A heavy silence.
Then, Gavriel’s voice, low, slow, coiled with venom.
"She dares to lay blame upon us?"
Netanyahu swirled his glass lazily.
"She is becoming a problem, Gavriel. If we let her continue, the world will turn against us."
Gavriel’s gaze darkened.
"Then we must remove the problem."
At SCP’s command center, Richter watched the broadcast in seething silence, her fingers digging into the armrest of her chair.
Her jaw clenched, a muscle twitching beneath her cold, pale skin.
“Wen-Li.”
The name was spat like venom.
Elan and Shira stood beside her, their expressions grim, unreadable.
Elan exhaled sharply.
"If we do not move soon, she will control the narrative. We will become the villains of history."
Richter’s eyes burned.
"Then we do what we should have done long ago. We erase her."
In the heart of the Black Castle, Lady Sin sat in her throne-like chair, watching the broadcast with a gaze of cold amusement.
The firelight flickered against the dark silk of her Victorian dress, casting shadows along the contours of her face.
Beside her, Cinnabar Vinogradova leaned forward, her crimson eyes glittering.
"She is playing with fire."
Lady Sin let out a slow chuckle, dark as the abyss.
"She is not playing, my dear. She is setting the world ablaze."
Cinnabar’s smirk widened.
"Shall we see where the flames lead?"
Lady Sin’s fingers tapped rhythmically against the armrest.
"Yes. Let us see."
At SDF Headquarters, the air was thick with tension.
Madam Di-Xian sat with an eerie calm, her fingers laced together.
Before her, her agents stood in silence.
Jun, arms crossed, his smirk laced with intrigue.
Farhan, serious, his analytical mind already dissecting the implications.
Masud and Roy, their gazes dark, brooding.
Ferro, standing slightly apart, his eyes flickering with silent contemplation.
And finally—Agent-90.
Still. Unmoving. Yet his very presence commanded the room.
Madam Di-Xian’s voice was quiet.
"Ashenport was only the beginning. The world is shifting. The pieces are in play."
She leaned forward.
"And now, we must decide which side of history we stand upon."
A heavy silence.
Then, from Agent-90, a single word.
"War."
On 19th August 2042 a few days later at Amigu-Rumi hideout. The scent of expensive cologne mingled with the air of cold steel and gun oil, an unfortunate combination that should have never existed.
Katoge Nakahara stood before the cracked mirror in his quarters, adjusting the lapels of his tailored black blazer, a deep navy silk tie hanging around his neck like an unfinished thought.
A warrior by trade, a killer by skill—and yet, tonight, he was a man on a mission of romance.
Yes. A date.
With Chelsea Countessa.
A woman as dangerous as she was captivating, a Sinner with a gaze that could freeze hell itself and a reputation for reducing even the most hardened men to trembling messes.
And yet, here he was—Katoge Nakahara, the self-proclaimed heartbreaker, the storm in human form—preparing for a night of fine dining and, possibly, the end of his own life.
The destination?
étoile Sombre, a high-end, candlelit restaurant nestled in the heart of Novigrad District.
He smirked at his own reflection.
"A devil in silk. Let’s see if she can resist."
Then, from behind him—
A low, unimpressed voice sliced through his vanity like a katana through bone.
"What in the hell are you doing?"
Katoge winced.
He turned to find Wanaka standing in the doorway, arms crossed, his ever-present katana sheathed at his hip, his expression one of stoic disapproval.
Wanaka—a man who had never smiled in his life, a silent predator who believed emotions were distractions, a warrior so disciplined that the concept of “romance” was an entirely foreign construct to him.
Katoge grinned, feigning confidence.
"Brother Wanaka, I am engaging in the sacred art of seduction."
Wanaka blinked slowly, as if trying to comprehend such nonsense.
"Seduction?" he repeated, his tone void of amusement.
Katoge straightened his cuffs.
"That is correct. I have a date with Chelsea Countessa."
A pause.
Wanaka tilted his head slightly.
"…You’re going to die."
Katoge snorted.
"Possibly. But if I do, I shall die in style."
Wanaka exhaled through his nose, stepping further into the room.
"You have faced entire battalions without flinching, yet you stand before a mirror adjusting your tie like a nervous fool."
Katoge waved a hand dismissively.
"Ah, but war and romance are entirely different beasts. One requires brutality, the other—finesse."
Wanaka's expression did not change.
"No. They are the same. You are merely bad at both."
Katoge placed a hand over his chest, feigning deep offense.
"Brother, such cruelty."
Before Wanaka could reply, a third voice intruded upon their interaction.
"OI! WHAT’S THIS? IS THE GREAT KATOGE ACTUALLY TRYING TO LOOK HUMAN?"
Katoge groaned.
Standing in the doorway, grinning like a lunatic, was Noda—loud, reckless, and born solely to cause chaos.
He took one look at Katoge, dressed immaculately, hair slicked back, cologne overpowering the room like an aggressive gas attack—and burst into laughter.
"This is beautiful. This is history. I never thought I'd see the day when Katoge Nakahara dressed like a bloody corporate executive."
Katoge gritted his teeth.
"I will gut you where you stand, Noda."
"Please do, but before that—" Noda leaned in, eyes gleaming. "—who’s the lucky victim?"
Katoge smirked.
"Chelsea Countessa."
Noda froze.
The room went silent.
Wanaka and Noda exchanged glances.
Then—
"YOU ABSOLUTE IDIOT."
Katoge barely dodged as Noda threw an empty whiskey bottle at him, the glass shattering against the wall.
"DO YOU WANT TO DIE? DO YOU HAVE A DEATH WISH? BRO, SHE IS A SINNER. SHE HAS KILLED MEN FOR LESS BY MANIPULATIVE WAY AND FURTHER TO ME SHE IS A GOLD DIGGER!!."
Katoge adjusted his cufflinks, entirely unbothered.
"Ah, but you see, my dear friend, that is precisely the appeal."
Wanaka sighed.
"There is no saving you."
"Indeed, there is not."
"I give you an hour before she slits your throat."
"I appreciate the optimism.”
As the mockery continued behind him, Katoge turned back to the mirror, assessing himself one last time.
Black tailored suit—flawless.
Deep navy silk tie—perfectly knotted.
Hair—styled into careful disarray.
Cologne—borderline overkill.
Yes.
A man ready for war.
He smirked.
"Chelsea Countessa, prepare yourself."
From behind him, Noda snickered.
"Oh, she’s prepared, mate. She’s preparing your damn eulogy."
And with that, Katoge Nakahara walked out into the night, stepping towards his date with destiny.
Or, more likely, his funeral.
The night air in Novigrad District carried the scent of rain-kissed cobblestone, the glow of neon signs reflecting off the slick pavement like a river of liquid sapphire.
Katoge Nakahara stood before étoile Sombre, the pinnacle of high society’s dining experience, its golden lettering gleaming beneath the city lights.
Dressed in a sleek black suit that cost more than a government bribe, he adjusted his spectacles with the precision of a sniper calibrating his rifle. His wristwatch gleamed under the dim glow of the streetlamp, reflecting the ever-ticking seconds of his impending fate.
His fingers tapped lightly against his wrist. Where was she?
And then, a voice—silken, playful, yet undeniably laced with something unsettling—called his name.
"Katoge."
He barely had time to raise his head before he found himself in the presence of an entity that defied both common sense and personal safety.
There she was—Chelsea Countessa.
She stood in the lamplight, a vision of curated chaos and effortless seduction.
A pink blazer draped over a glittering top, its cropped hem revealing a toned abdomen adorned with layered jewelry that caught the neon glow like liquid stardust.
Her trousers matched the delicate pink of her cascading hair, her red heels stabbing into the pavement with aristocratic dominance.
And her lips—bold, unapologetic red—curved into a smirk.
With a lazy wave of her bejeweled hand, she greeted him, the bangles on her wrist clinking softly, like chains on an executioner's block.
She was stunning.
Stunning like a city skyline before an air raid.
Stunning like the slow-motion descent of a blade aimed at your throat.
Katoge adjusted his tie, masking his slight hesitation with a composed nod.
"You look... extravagant."
Chelsea’s smirk widened, her red eyes shimmering like the last embers of a dying fire.
"And you look nervous."
Katoge cleared his throat, offering her his arm.
"Shall we?"
She looped her arm through his with a smile that sent alarms blaring through every survival instinct he possessed.
"Let’s."
As they stepped inside, the ambiance shifted from urban chaos to velvet-draped luxury.
The restaurant was bathed in soft golden lighting, chandeliers casting intricate shadows across marble floors. Velvet-upholstered chairs stood against polished mahogany tables, adorned with candles that flickered like whispered secrets.
A grand piano in the corner played a melancholic waltz, the kind that felt like it belonged in the climax of a noir film, just before the gunshot rang out.
Katoge led Chelsea to their reserved seat near the window, where the view of Novigrad’s skyline stretched before them like a city of dying stars.
The waiter—a severe-looking man with a razor-sharp mustache and an air of forced politeness—approached with menus.
The menu in his hand suddenly felt like a eulogy.
Chelsea smiled sweetly.
"My favorite food is fish."
Katoge forced a smile, trying to salvage the conversation.
"Baby, that's my favorite too."
"I love cartoon dogs."
"Baby, I love Scooby Doo."
"Hey, Katoge, what's your favorite film?"
Katoge, still internally recovering from the psychological warfare she had just inflicted upon him, hesitated.
"Uh... something classic. Maybe—The Godfather?"
Chelsea tilted her head.
"Oh, that’s cute. But the best movie of all time is—"
She leaned in, whispering the words like a death sentence.
"Human Centipede."
Nope.
Nope. NOPE. I am going to die.
Katoge let out a dry chuckle, gripping the edge of the table.
"Cool, cool. And, uh… what exactly do you like about it?"
Chelsea’s eyes shimmered with something unholy.
"Here is the costum design highlight." handing the card as Katoge glance at the card written “Do you want sugar mommy?!” with numbers
Katoge’s grip on the table tightened.
"Not ironically?"
Chelsea sighed dreamily.
"No. It was brilliant. I admire the narrative. The character growth."
Katoge’s mind was already running emergency exit strategies.
He tried to get the waiter's attention by blinking in Morse code.
Waiter: Why is this man blinking at me like he’s having a seizure?
Chelsea leaned forward.
"Why are you blinking so much?"
Katoge grinned stiffly.
"Oh, just something in my eye."
Chelsea reached across the table.
"Here, let me get it out."
Katoge, stiffening immediately:
"No, thank you, I don’t wanna die."
The waiter, entirely unbothered by the unfolding horror, merely sighed.
"Monsieur, is this because your date is a freak?"
Katoge, glancing at Chelsea, who was still smiling serenely:
"No. Of course not."
The waiter nodded, handing them their menus.
"Very good then. Bon appétit."
Katoge glanced down at the menu, debating whether he should order something heavy to calm his nerves or simply ask for a shot of cyanide.
Chelsea smiled, resting her chin in her palm.
"So, dessert?"
Katoge, internally screaming:
I think I'm gonna be the dessert.
Meanwhile…
Outside, perched upon a rooftop, Noda squinted through binoculars, his lips twisted into a suspicious pout.
"Something about this doesn’t sit right," he muttered.
Wanaka, standing beside him, arms crossed, remained as unreadable as ever.
"Everything about Katoge doesn’t sit right."
"No, no, I mean the girl." Noda lowered his binoculars. "She’s too pretty. Too smooth. No woman willingly tolerates Katoge unless she’s either dangerously insane or planning something evil."
Wanaka gave him a deadpan stare.
"Or both."
Before Noda could respond, a different movement caught his attention.
Across the street, a group of lethal figures in tailored suits prowled toward the restaurant entrance—each one radiating an aura of impending violence.
The Tanizaki Outlaw Group.
Noda’s jaw clenched.
"Oh, for fu—"
Across the restaurant, the doors swung open with a hush, revealing a tall, lean figure clad in a white cyber-suit with crimson linings.
Fujimura Renji.
His orange hair burned like wildfire, and his eyes—**brimming with arrogance—**locked onto his target: Katoge Nakahara.
Behind him, the other Tanizaki elites followed like wolves scenting blood.
Renji smirked.
"Well, well, well. If it isn’t my dear old friend, Katoge."
Katoge, who had been actively considering an escape plan ever since Chelsea mentioned Human Centipede, slowly turned his gaze toward his unwanted visitor.
His expression soured.
"Ah, Renji. A pleasure as always. I see you’ve finally emerged from the gutter."
Renji chuckled darkly, placing a hand on Katoge’s chair.
"I’d love to catch up, but unfortunately, my boss wants a word. You, outside."
Then, turning to Chelsea, his smirk widened.
"Don’t worry, darling. You’re free to go."
Chelsea tilted her head, eyes flashing.
"Excuse me?"
Renji’s grin faltered.
"I said you’re free to—"
"Oh, sweetie." Chelsea reached forward, gently patting his cheek. "You don’t tell me what to do. I tell you."
The entire restaurant fell silent.
Even Renji’s men shifted uncomfortably.
Katoge, in rare admiration, murmured,
"I think I love her."
Renji clenched his jaw but held his hands up in mock surrender.
"Fine. Have it your way."
With a wave of his hand, he signaled his men to stand down.
Katoge and Chelsea rose from their seats, heading toward the exit with an air of absolute victory.
And then—
The moment they stepped onto the neon-lit streets—
Katoge got blindsided.
A sharp, blunt force cracked against the back of his skull.
Blood trickled down his temple as his vision spun.
Chelsea’s eyes widened in genuine alarm.
"Katoge!"
From the shadows, Renji stepped forward once again, wiping blood from his knuckles.
"Did you think I’d let you walk away that easily?"
Behind him, his crew emerged, neon lights reflecting off their cybernetic augmentations like predators sharpening their fangs.
Katoge groaned, pushing himself up.
"Oh, you son of a—"
And then, the fight began.
Chelsea didn’t hesitate.
She stepped forward, eyes glowing with a mischievous yet deadly light, her ability, Velvet Nightmare, surging to life.
A psychic wave of unseen energy rippled through the street.
The weaker members of Tanizaki’s crew clutched their heads, their minds twisting into hallucinatory torment.
One started screaming about spiders crawling under his skin.
Another fell to his knees, sobbing hysterically as unseen phantoms whispered in his ears.
Renji, though staggered, gritted his teeth, shaking off the illusion.
"Impressive. But I’m not that easy to break."
Katoge staggered to his feet, wiping blood from his forehead.
"Yeah? Well neither is my skull, apparently."
Renji lunged.
Their fists collided in a brutal exchange of blows, cybernetically enhanced reflexes turning the fight into a blur of motion.
Katoge, despite his injuries, dodged a high kick and countered with a sharp elbow to Renji’s ribs.
Chelsea, meanwhile, elegantly sidestepped an incoming attacker, hooking her heel behind his knee and sending him crashing to the pavement.
And then—
"ENOUGH."
The voice boomed like thunder.
Tanizaki Genshiro himself stepped forward, his very presence suffocating the atmosphere.
Renji, still seething, clenched his jaw but backed off.
Tanizaki’s glowing crimson eyes locked onto Katoge and Chelsea.
Then—a smirk.
"We’ll see you again soon."
And just like that—they vanished into the night.
Chelsea knelt beside Katoge, cupping his bloodied face.
"You okay?"
Katoge, eyes half-lidded, managed a grin.
"Define ‘okay.’"
And with that—he passed out.
Pain.
That was the first thing Katoge Nakahara registered.
A dull, throbbing ache pulsed through his skull, as if a jackhammer was tap-dancing on his brain. His entire body felt like it had been tenderized by a meat cleaver-wielding sadist, and judging by the sharp sting every time he breathed, at least one rib was considering early retirement.
The second thing he registered?
The infuriatingly elegant scent of cherry blossoms and expensive perfume.
"You're awake."
A smooth, velvet voice purred beside him, laced with both amusement and something dangerously close to fondness.
Katoge cracked open one eye, vision blurry, greeted by the sight of soft pink and blood-red.
Chelsea Countessa.
She was perched beside his hospital bed, legs crossed, her blazer draped over the chair like she owned the place. Her red lips curled into that signature smirk, equal parts enticing and terrifying.
Her crimson gaze raked over him, analyzing every wince, every shift, every flicker of discomfort.
"You look like a corpse that got rejected from the afterlife."
Katoge groaned.
"And you look like the devil signing my death certificate."
Chelsea chuckled, crossing her arms.
"Flattery will get you nowhere."
Katoge tried to sit up.
Regretted it instantly.
Pain flared through his ribs, and he slumped back with a muted curse, his head spinning.
Chelsea sighed, exasperated, and leaned forward.
"You're lucky they didn't crack your skull open."
Katoge tilted his head slightly, his signature smirk—though weaker than usual—returning.
"What, worried about me?"
Chelsea rolled her eyes.
"Not particularly. But I'd hate to lose such an entertaining dinner companion."
She gestured toward a small side table, where a crushed, blood-stained menu from étoile Sombre sat beside a bouquet of white lilies.
Katoge arched a brow.
"Hospital décor has improved."
Chelsea shrugged.
"The flowers aren’t from me."
"Oh? From who, then?"
Before Chelsea could answer—
The door BURST open.
And in stormed Noda.
Noda stood in the doorway, hands on his hips, eyes gleaming with unspeakable joy.
"YOU SURVIVED."
Katoge groaned.
"Unfortunately."
Noda marched over, grabbed a chair, and spun it around before dramatically straddling it backwards.
"So, let’s review. You got your skull cracked open, Chelsea here apparently saved your life, and oh, I don’t know—YOU NEARLY GOT YOURSELF KILLED BY THE TANIZAKI GROUP."
Katoge sighed, rubbing his temples.
"Can we save the lecture for when I don’t feel like roadkill?"
Chelsea, amused, glanced at Noda.
"He was quite the sight. All bloodied, barely conscious—looked pitiful, really."
Noda grinned.
"Ah, so just his usual state then?"
Katoge glared.
"I will unplug my own IV just to strangle you."
Chelsea chuckled, leaning back in her chair.
"Honestly, I was surprised he managed to hold his own against Renji."
Noda’s expression darkened slightly.
"Yeah, well… Tanizaki Genshiro doesn’t let loose ends dangle for long."
Chelsea’s smirk didn’t fade, but her gaze sharpened, something calculating lurking beneath her playful exterior.
"Let him try."
Katoge, still nursing his headache, sighed.
"Remind me why I ever agreed to a date with you?"
Chelsea grinned.
"Because I’m charming."
Noda snorted.
"Or because he has a death wish."
Katoge shut his eyes, exhaling.
"Both can be true."