Sinn wasted no time. The moment he entered the bathroom, he was struck by its breathtaking fusion of elegance and technology.
Soft, ambient lights glowed from behind frosted glass panels, casting gentle reflections across sleek marble floors veined with silver.
Chrome fixtures gleamed beneath the illumination, and the air carried a faint scent of lavender and ozone—a promise of cleanliness and comfort.
The controls for the shower were so intuitive that even a child could master them with a single curious touch.
Sinn moved quietly, almost reverently, as if afraid to disturb the serenity of this sanctuary. He pressed his palm to the digital panel, and warm water began to cascade from the rainfall showerhead above, sending up clouds of fragrant steam.
He shed the coarse, institutional clothes of the asylum, letting them fall in a crumpled heap on the tiles.
Stepping into the shower, Sinn closed his eyes as the hot water poured over him, washing away years of grime, dried blood, and memories best left behind.
He scrubbed every inch of himself, working the lather through his tangled hair and around the horns that curved from his scalp.
The stubborn stains—remnants of other people's suffering and his own long captivity—finally surrendered to the relentless flow.
For fifteen minutes, Sinn let the water work its magic. Despite the raw patches where skin had been lost, the heat did not burn his red flesh; instead, it soothed him, easing aches he hadn't realized he carried. It was a sensation so exquisite, so deeply comforting, that he felt reborn beneath the steady stream.
When at last he stepped out, he wrapped a towel around his waist, relishing the softness against his newly cleansed skin.
Another towel found its way to his hair, which he dried with slow, deliberate motions. He paused for a moment, savoring the feeling of being clean—truly clean—for the first time in years.
In the living room, neatly folded on a chair, awaited a set of fresh clothes: a black T-shirt and matching pants, both stretchy and smooth, hugging his form without constriction. The fabric was cool and luxurious, fitting him perfectly, as if tailored just for him.
Drawn by the promise of open air, Sinn slid open the glass door to the balcony. The city sprawled before him, a living tapestry of light and motion. Towers of glass and steel pierced the sky, their windows catching the first hints of dawn.
Vehicles soared between buildings, their engines humming softly, while below, rivers of people flowed along the streets—each one a story, a life, a mystery.
He leaned on the rail, breathing in the crisp morning air, and gazed upward. The sky was painted in shades of indigo and gold, and far above, the stars still lingered, fading reluctantly before the rising sun. For a long while, Sinn simply watched, drinking in the sights and sounds of a world that was finally his to experience.
No memory, no matter how vivid, could compare to this—the thrill of living, of seeing with his own eyes.
This was one of Sinn's deepest beliefs: true beauty could only be known through experience. Words and memories were pale shadows compared to the richness of reality.
In his mind, nearly everything held fascination, but nothing rivaled the majesty of the stars and galaxies above.
This new world belonged to him now.
Moments later At the break of dawn, sunlight spilled across the city, awakening thousands of civilians who poured into the streets to begin their daily routines.
The metropolis buzzed with life—a safe haven for many. Overhead, cars soared gracefully between skyscrapers, while those less fortunate navigated the roads below in wheeled vehicles.
The wealthiest citizens flaunted their status with unique designs, their cars hovering just inches or a meter above the ground, never deigning to touch the street—a subtle display of superiority.
In this world, fortunes could be made and lost in an instant; a single misstep or wrong word could strip anyone of their possessions. Most of the population were half-lings, though strength varied greatly among them.
Nearly sixty-eight percent were only marginally stronger than humans, who themselves made up a mere ten percent of the populace—a sobering statistic.
Amidst the towering buildings of the district, one skyscraper stood out, drawing envious glances from passersby below. This was the headquarters of Jenny's company—a beacon of ambition and power in the heart of the city.
Sinn left the balcony and made his way to his room, exhaustion weighing heavily on each step.
He had been awake for what felt like an eternity, his body aching for rest. The thought of retrieving his belongings could wait until after he woke up in the afternoon.
As he entered his bedroom, he was greeted by a sense of tranquility. The space was elegantly furnished—a plush bed with crisp white linens stood at its center, flanked by sleek nightstands and softly glowing lamps.
Heavy curtains framed the windows, muting the city's distant hum and casting gentle shadows across the room.
Though the room's beauty deserved admiration, Sinn was far too tired to linger. He slipped beneath the cool sheets, sinking into the mattress as if it were a cloud.
Within moments, the world faded away, and he surrendered to the deep, dreamless sleep his weary body so desperately needed.
…
In the middle of the afternoon, Sinn awoke, the lingering haze of sleep slowly fading as he stretched beneath the soft sheets.
After freshening up, he descended the quiet hallways toward the third-floor lounge. Thanks to Reta's arrangements, the upper floors were nearly deserted, granting Sinn an uninterrupted path to his destination.
He moved with purpose, each step echoing softly against polished floors.
The air was cool and still, sunlight filtering through tall windows and casting geometric patterns on the walls. At last, he reached a special section marked by a pristine white door
bearing a simple sign: Meeting Rooms.
Sinn knocked lightly, and almost immediately, someone opened the door for him.
There was no need for identification—Jenny had made sure everyone knew who he was.
He entered, navigating a series of corridors that twisted and turned, passing numbered black steel doors guarded by vigilant security personnel.
Their eyes followed him, but none dared to stop him; Jenny's instructions were clear.
He stopped before Door Number Three, its surface matte and imposing, flanked by uniformed guards.
Without hesitation, Sinn pushed it open and stepped inside.
The room was spacious, bathed in soft light from overhead fixtures. Jenny sat elegantly at a sleek table, her posture poised and commanding.
Across from her lounged a young man in his thirties, his receding hairline and thick glasses lending him an air of nervous authority.
Gold ornaments glinted from his wrists and ears, and even a few golden teeth flashed when he spoke.
His pale skin was drawn tight over a thin frame, deep shadows under his eyes betraying sleepless nights.
Sinn barely spared the agent a glance, instead striding directly to Jenny.
In the corner stood Luna and Luther, while Max and Rebecca lingered quietly behind Jenny, their expressions unreadable.
He hadn't bothered to knock—he simply entered, catching fragments of heated conversation.
The sudden intrusion drew startled looks from those present; some gaped in shock at his abrupt arrival.
Jenny, unfazed, rose smoothly and retrieved a briefcase from beneath her chair, ignoring the argument she'd been having with the government agent. She approached Sinn, her voice calm and measured.
"Sinn, you're awake. You came just in time—the item you requested is ready."
Without a word, Sinn accepted the briefcase and flipped it open. He wasn't surprised how Jenny knew his name, he had long told her in the negotiations room.
Nestled inside was a mask, crafted from the finest materials—a flawless, featureless black, like a shard of midnight.
As he reached out, a chill ran through his fingers, hinting at the advanced mech technology woven into its design.
Ignoring the agent's curious stare, Sinn lifted the mask and pressed it to his face.
The cold surface settled over his features, concealing every trace of his former self. Relief washed over him; the mask would hide his disfigurements and allow him to interact with others without fear or shame.
Though he cared little for beauty, he loathed being remembered as one of the ugliest beings—a secret insecurity he rarely admitted.
With his face hidden, Sinn finally met the agent's gaze. The man seemed eager, almost desperate to speak, and Sinn recognized him instantly as one of the government's operatives. Several other agents lingered in the background, their presence palpable.
Before Sinn could utter a word, the agent approached, inspecting him as if he were a rare artifact.
A smile flickered across his lips, but Sinn's eyes grew cold, their gleam fading to icy indifference.
His voice, low and resonant, cut through the room like a blade:
"May I ask what you find amusing?"
The words carried a chilling weight, sending shivers down the spines of everyone present. Even Jenny, accustomed to Sinn's temperament, felt a ripple of unease.
Unbeknownst to most, Sinn had already woven his illusion ability throughout the room, subtly altering perceptions.
Those with power or strong wills might resist, but for now, reality bent to his will.
Within this altered space, people found themselves double-breathing, convinced it was perfectly normal.
If questioned, they would dismiss any concerns with irritation, insisting they simply needed more oxygen. The illusion was seamless—no one realized their senses were deceived.
Yet, such abilities had limits. Stronger beings could be fooled, but if the spell caster's intent to kill surpassed a certain threshold, instinct would break the spell.
For now, though, Sinn's presence dominated the room, and the fragile balance of power held steady, teetering on the edge of revelation.
It would be disastrous for Sinn if anyone ever discovered that their reality was nothing but an illusion. Should the truth come to light, it would become nearly impossible to ensnare them again in this fabricated world.
Concealing the manipulation—making everything appear perfectly natural—was far wiser than admitting his limitations.
The young agent, who had moments ago been eagerly scrutinizing Sinn, suddenly recoiled, his face contorted in terror. Such a reaction could not have been provoked by words alone.
He was not alone in his fear; the other agents, Luna, and even Jenny instinctively stepped back, eyes wide with shock.
In their vision, a monstrous serpent coiled around Sinn, its form both ethereal and translucent, yet undeniably present. The creature's scales shimmered like moonlight on water, its massive body undulating with silent menace.
But what truly froze their blood was the skeletal colossus looming above—a gigantic skull crowned with twisted horns, its cavernous eye sockets glowing a hellish red. Blood dripped from jagged teeth, pooling onto the floor in thick, crimson waves.
From the darkness, void-like skeletal hands emerged, their tendons straining as they clawed at the serpent, tearing flesh and scale with grotesque precision.
Each heavy thud of the serpent's body against the ground sent tremors through the room, rattling nerves and shattering composure.
To everyone's horror, the skeletal head began devouring the remains, its maw opening impossibly wide to consume what was left.
The apparition hovered behind Sinn, a spectral guardian or perhaps a manifestation of his power.
Before anyone could muster the courage to speak, Sinn's voice cut through the air—darker and more demonic than before, making every soul present wish they were anywhere else.
"May I ask what you find amusing, boy?"
The mask's eye slits glowed with a piercing red light, focusing solely on the young agent.
Relief swept through the others, each silently grateful that Sinn's attention—and the wrath of whatever haunted him—was not directed at them.