The office of Madam Di-Xian was half-consumed by darkness — the kind that breathes with quiet authority. Only the soft hum of smart lighting disturbed the stillness, flickering intermittently upon the polished mahogany desk where she worked.
Papers, holographic files, and encrypted dossiers lay spread before her in geometric precision. The faint aroma of crimson lotus perfumed the air — subtle yet intoxicating — its bloom glowing faintly in the glass vase beside her.
Madam Di-Xian sat poised, her back straight as an unsheathed blade. Her long crimson braid fell elegantly over one shoulder, the strands glinting like molten wine under the dim light. Her expression was focused — calm, analytical — as she reviewed a classified document projected above her wrist console.
Then — a ring broke the silence.
The sound was sharp, metallic, echoing against the glass walls like a drop of mercury striking marble.
She lifted her gaze, irritation flickering briefly through her scarlet eyes. Her slender fingers, gloved in obsidian mesh, reached for the receiver. "Hello," she said — her voice low, velveted, yet edged with command.
On the other end, a man's voice — deep, steady, unmistakably authoritative — reverberated through the line.
"Is this Madam Di-Xian, Executive of Shin-Zhang Corporation?"
The timbre of that voice made her heart still for half a second. Familiar. Unmistakable. A voice she had not heard in years — one that carried the echo of battlefields and briefings under blood-red dawns.
Her eyes widened — a flash of crimson astonishment.
"Krieg…" she breathed, the name slipping through her lips like an invocation.
A quiet chuckle hummed from the other end, rich and grounded. "I knew you'd still recognise my voice," said Commander Krieg, and for a moment, the distance between them seemed to collapse under the gravity of memory.
Her composure faltered — just slightly — as she leaned back in her chair, the leather creaking beneath her. "How did you…" she began, but her question was swiftly intercepted.
"I got your number from Gonda," Krieg interrupted, his tone firm, clipped with military precision. "I need to speak with you. Urgently."
Madam Di-Xian inhaled slowly, regaining her poise. Her crimson eyes glinted beneath the flickering light as she replied, "Fine then. Meet me at Faso Restau—"
"No." His refusal cut clean through the line. "I'm right in front of your building."
Her pupils dilated. She froze. The receiver trembled faintly in her hand. Slowly, she turned her gaze towards the porthole window behind her.
Outside, amidst the amber mist of the lower city, stood a tall silhouette — broad-shouldered, immovable, unmistakably Krieg. He was staring up, his face shadowed beneath the dim glow of a flickering streetlight, the cold rain painting streaks across his black coat.
"How did you—?" she whispered, more to herself than the phone.
Krieg's voice came calm, resolute. "I'll tell you everything," he said.
Then — click. The line went dead.
Madam Di-Xian remained seated for a moment, the silence now heavier than before. Her eyes lingered on the faint reflection of herself in the porthole — the crimson of her braid, the lotus blooming beside her, the storm of unease beneath her tranquil exterior.
She rose slowly from her chair, her heels clicking against the marble floor, and whispered to the empty room,
"Krieg… What storm will you bring this time?"
The living room was washed in amber light, the sort that seems half-asleep — a quiet lull between midnight and dawn. The rain outside murmured against the glass in rhythmic persistence, while the hum of old circuitry traced through the walls like a mechanical heartbeat.
Hecate Jones sat cross-legged on the tatami mat before a low table, her posture curled in quiet concentration. The air around her smelled faintly of ozone and graphite. Her hooded coat — a strange hybrid of dystopian streetwear and runic glamour — shimmered faintly as the embedded circuitry flickered in restless intervals. One sleeve hung loose, frayed with coded embroidery that pulsed like veins of dying light.
Her heterochromatic eyes — one silver, one violet — glowed faintly, reflecting the tiny constellation of drawings that lay scattered before her. Crayons and inksticks littered the tabletop. Her movements were delicate, child-like even, as though she were trying to recall a forgotten innocence through pigment and line. She sketched in silence, her expression a still sea: unreadable, timeless, slightly melancholic.
The door hissed open. Agent Masud stepped in, his brown eyes gleaming behind the faint reflection of his spectacles. He paused — a flicker of curiosity softening the habitual sternness of his features — and tilted his head.
"So, Hecate," he began, his tone edged with humour, "what are you doing there?"
Without looking up, she replied simply, "Drawing."
He took a few steps closer, the floor creaking beneath his boots. "And what are you drawing?"
She hesitated. Her pencil hovered mid-stroke. "Nothing," she murmured, almost defensively.
Masud smiled faintly and crouched beside her. "Come on," he urged in a teasing lilt, "let me see."
She sighed — a tiny sound of surrender — and slid the paper toward him. Masud adjusted his glasses and studied the piece, brow furrowing in a mixture of confusion and amusement. It was a kaleidoscope of shapes, vivid and abstract — like a child's imagination breaking through the greys of adulthood.
"Is it… a dolphin?" he ventured.
"It's a bird," she corrected flatly.
He squinted again, trying another. "Then this must be a dog."
"No," she said, flicking her fringe aside with mild annoyance. "It's a cat."
Masud gave an exaggerated groan of defeat. "All right, you win."
A faint flush coloured Hecate's pale cheeks as she hid her face with her hand. "You're the worst," she muttered through her fingers.
He chuckled softly, guilt and warmth intertwined. "I'm sorry — I didn't mean to mock it." He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Honestly, Hecate… it's adorable. I mean that. Your art's got something… I just couldn't catch it at first glance."
Her silver eye flickered towards him, cautious but curious. "Oh?" she said, her tone dipping into fragile humour.
"Yes," he replied with a grin. "Completely disarming."
For a moment, silence settled between them — not awkward, but comfortable. The kind that only forms between two people learning to trust.
Then Masud leaned back, his voice softening. "You know, back at the Twin Cities… during the fight against the Sinner… you saved me. If you hadn't, I'd have been swallowed by that collapse." He paused, his gaze distant. "You were part of the Sinner once, weren't you?"
"Not anymore," she said, her tone level yet weighted by quiet conviction. Her eyes lowered, shadowed by memory. "That was six years ago."
"I know." Masud chuckled faintly, scratching his head. "Still, I'm curious about your ability — Foresight Echo, right? You can see five seconds into the future?"
She nodded.
He hesitated, glancing aside awkwardly. "Then maybe you already know what I'm about to say."
She tilted her head, intrigued.
"I… want to know you," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper, eyes averting to the floor as a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Hecate blinked — surprise and softness glinting in her mismatched gaze. Her violet iris shimmered like candlelight before she exhaled quietly, her tone a slow release of guarded air.
"I wasn't always like this," she began. "Once, I was just… no one. A nameless orphan. I scavenged datachips from the ruins of warzones — bits of code, memories, anything I could sell." She traced a faint line on her drawing, as if sketching her own past. "Then, one day, the Central Tech-Reform Bureau caught me. They were running psychic experiments — artificial foresight, they called it."
Masud's eyes narrowed, his curiosity sharpening into concern.
"They forced me into simulations," Hecate continued, her voice thinning to a whisper. "Each test rewired something inside me. Until one day, during the revolt in the lab, I saw too much. My foresight overloaded their network — every system in that facility crashed. I escaped through the chaos."
"And that's when Nightingale found you?" Masud asked, almost in disbelief.
Hecate nodded. "Yes. She caught me. I thought she'd kill me… but she didn't." A faint smile ghosted her lips. "Instead, she gave me a choice — prison or purpose. I chose the latter. But before that, Lady Sin found me. She made me one of the Sinner."
Masud leaned closer, elbows on his knees, eyes alight with fascination. "What did she make you do?"
Hecate's gaze drifted, lost in recollection. "She sent me to Cinderfall. My task was simple — collect experimental drugs and smuggle them through the freight tunnels. I was young, reckless, and stupid enough to think I was doing something meaningful. The SSCBF caught me during the raid."
Masud exhaled slowly. "So that's how it happened…"
She nodded faintly. "Life at the Black Castle was… empty. Lady Sin was my mentor, but everyone there lived behind their own masks. No one saw me. No one cared — except Zoyah."
Masud's brow lifted. "Chaongu Zoyah?"
"Yes." Her eyes softened, the silver one dimming slightly. "She was like an elder sister — fierce and gentle at once. The only one who ever smiled at me."
"What about your drone — Juno?"
A shadow passed over her face. "It died. Protecting me. When the SSCBF came for us, Juno blocked the shot meant for me. They dismantled it afterwards. I could still hear its last transmission for weeks in my dreams."
Masud's jaw tightened. "They killed Juno…"
"Yes." Her voice broke, barely audible. She wiped the corner of her eye with a trembling finger. "After that, Lady Sin didn't come for me. Not her, not Zoyah. No one." She looked up at him — a small, fragile smile trying to bloom through the ache. "Then I met you all when he brought us. Madam Di-Xian and you all treated me — and even Hella — like family. It was strange. I didn't know what that word meant before."
Masud nodded slowly. "And Lady Sin's world… didn't feel like that?"
She shook her head. "No. Everyone there lived in solitude — together, yet utterly alone." Her voice softened. "But you… you talk too much," she teased faintly, an almost child-like grin touching her lips. "Now, your turn. Tell me about your past."
Masud blinked, caught off-guard. "Me?"
She nodded again, her mismatched eyes gleaming with curiosity, like galaxies peering through dusk.
He gave a small, resigned laugh. "Well," he said, looking down at the floor, "mine's a bit complicated." Then, after a pause, he smiled warmly at her. "But I'll tell you. Later"
Hecate's eyes widened — the violet one shimmering with gentle amusement, the silver with quiet affection — and for the first time that night, she smiled without restraint. The kind of smile that made the room feel less lonely, as if two broken pasts had briefly learned how to coexist.
The office of Madam Di-Xian lay in a muted chiaroscuro — half darkness, half trembling light. The smart lamps overhead flickered intermittently, their glow reflecting off the polished mahogany of her desk. The faint aroma of jasmine and old paper lingered, weaving through the stillness like a phantom. A single crimson lotus, eternally in bloom within its glass vase, gleamed faintly beneath the pale light — a symbol of endurance in corruption's garden.
Madam Di-Xian sat behind her desk, her crimson braid draped elegantly over one shoulder, a living flame against the shadowed silk of her attire. Her slender fingers moved with slow precision across the holopad, her expression unreadable, sculpted from poise and fatigue.
Then — three slow, deliberate knocks broke the silence.
Before she could speak, the door hissed open. Commander Krieg entered, his tall frame casting a long silhouette across the marble floor. The dim light caught the faint scar trailing across his jawline — an old wound, half-forgotten, half-remembered. His coat — military grey with epaulettes faded by time — fluttered slightly as he stepped forward, his eyes gleaming beneath the shadow of the brim.
"So, what do you want to talk about?" asked Madam Di-Xian, her tone level but laced with suspicion.
Krieg exhaled, resting his gloved hand briefly on the back of the chair opposite her before taking his seat. His expression was tight — a man both resolute and haunted, every movement deliberate, as if weighed against invisible consequence.
"Well," he began, his voice deep and resonant, "it's about… Wen-Li. And what happened at the gala."
Her crimson eyes narrowed, studying him like a hawk through mist. "You know about it, don't you?" she asked, fingers interlacing neatly upon the desk, the lotus' reflection caught between them. Her tone was quiet but edged — the voice of a woman accustomed to truth disguised as diplomacy.
Krieg's jaw tightened. "No," he admitted after a pause, "not entirely. I wasn't part of the planning, but I was aware of the High Council's… little scheme." He leaned back, exhaling through his nose. "But what actually unfolded — that humiliation, that trap — it's beyond belief. I refuse to think Wen-Li would ever orchestrate such disgrace."
Madam Di-Xian's gaze sharpened. "And yet," she said coldly, "I've heard that you told her to resign from the SSCBF — even warned her that her life was in danger."
He nodded slowly, his eyes drifting toward the lotus as though it reminded him of some long-ago moment. "Yes," he said, the word soft, regretful. "That was back when she first became Chief — after her parents' deaths. I saw the vultures circling even then." His lips curved into a faint grimace. "But things… worsened faster than I'd imagined."
She leaned slightly forward, her voice low. "They always do."
For a moment, silence filled the room again — thick, electric.
Then she spoke, "So, about the agreement with the SCP — are you aware of this?"
Krieg gave a faint shrug, though his eyes betrayed unease. "Not precisely," he admitted, "but I've heard whispers of the Sentinel Helix — the bracelets they distributed. Supposedly 'enhancing' us by merging with our DNA." His voice darkened. "But I've also heard they create a third helix — one they can control. Mind and body alike."
Madam Di-Xian's eyes flickered like a blade catching light. "So," she said quietly, "you took it too, didn't you?"
"Well," Krieg smirked faintly, "yes and no."
Her brow arched. "How's that possible?"
"I made a replica," he replied, tapping a finger against his wrist. "Looks genuine, functions enough to fool their scans. Captain Robert did the same."
Her expression softened — a rare flash of relief beneath her mask. "Captain Robert told you?"
"Whispered it to me," Krieg said. "He knew what the implant truly was. Said the moment it fuses, your will ceases to be your own. I listened."
Madam Di-Xian nodded slowly, her mind already working several steps ahead. "I see…" she murmured, her crimson braid slipping forward like a coiling ribbon of silk.
Then Krieg's tone hardened again. "Where is Chief Wen-Li now?"
"She's with Agent-90," Di-Xian replied, her voice steady but low.
Krieg's eyes flicked up sharply. "Do you think he killed President Song Luoyang?"
Her lips curled faintly, an expression caught between irony and exhaustion. "What do you think?"
"I think he didn't," Krieg said bluntly, his voice resonating through the dimness like steel on stone. "They made him a scapegoat. Convenient, disposable."
Madam Di-Xian's gaze met his — and for a breath, both masks faltered. Beneath their composed exteriors flickered the same weary defiance — two relics of a war fought in silence.
Krieg exhaled and allowed himself the smallest smirk. "You're still the same old Di-Xian," he murmured, his tone half-admiring, half-melancholic.
Her brows lifted. "And what exactly do you mean by that?" she asked, her crimson eyes narrowing with faint amusement, the corners of her lips curving in poised challenge.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, shadows cutting across his face. "Still the woman who pretends not to care — but never stops fighting for the truth."
Before she could answer, a firm knock echoed from the door — sharp and deliberate.
"Enter," she commanded.
The door slid open, revealing Agent Jun. His crimson hair lay perfectly flat, his grey tailored suit crisp and immaculate. His spectacles gleamed, reflecting both Di-Xian and Krieg in twin shards of glass. His expression, as always, was one of immaculate composure — a gentleman carved from restraint.
"Madam," he said, bowing slightly, "the Adjudicator has arrived. She wishes to see you."
Madam Di-Xian's eyes narrowed slightly, though her tone remained as calm and elegant as ever. "Adjudicator?"
"Yes," Jun confirmed, his tone clipped. "The Adjudicator of the High Chaebols."
A moment's stillness followed — heavy as the breath before a storm.
Madam Di-Xian rose gracefully from her chair, the light glinting against the crimson of her braid as it swung gently across her shoulder. She glanced once at Krieg, her gaze firm but tinged with something solemn — a recognition that stretched back through old campaigns and unspoken regrets.
"Well then," she said, her voice low, resolute, "let us meet her."
Krieg stood as well, straightening his coat, his shadow merging with hers against the wall.
As they walked toward the door, Madam Di-Xian's eyes lingered briefly on the lotus beside her desk — its petals unbending despite the dim light.
"It seems," she said softly, meeting Krieg's gaze with quiet conviction, "that war is approaching."
Krieg gave a wry, almost sorrowful smile. "War never leaves," he murmured. "It only changes its mask."
And together, they stepped into the corridor — two spectres moving toward the next reckoning beneath the flickering light.
The marble lobby of the Shin-Zhang Tower lay suspended in a silence that felt almost sacred — the kind of silence that exists just before catastrophe.
The faint hum of the ventilation system mingled with the rhythmic pulse of fluorescent lights flickering high above, casting alternating bands of light and shadow upon the polished obsidian floor.
And then — the temperature seemed to drop.
From the silver elevator doors emerged The Adjudicator.
Her presence was like the calm before a hurricane — immaculate, cold, unyielding. A tall woman draped in an ensemble of midnight silk interlaced with metallic threads that shimmered faintly, as though woven from stormlight itself. Her face was obscured beneath a pale, featureless mask that glowed faintly at the seams — only her eyes visible, crystalline and merciless, cutting through the air like twin shards of frozen glass.
Two bodyguards flanked her, broad-shouldered men in graphite exo-suits, their visors reflecting the ceiling lights in dull white. The weight of their silence was almost military — no breath wasted, no movement unmeasured.
As she stepped forward, Madam Di-Xian's agents — all uniformed, their spectacles gleaming like silent sentinels — instinctively parted to the sides, forming a living corridor.
Agent Roy, tall and narrow-faced, felt his throat tighten; his brown eyes betrayed the tremor that his posture fought to conceal. His companion, Agent Farhan, gave a subtle glance toward him and whispered under his breath, "Don't move… not a word. Not here."
Roy swallowed hard and straightened, his hand hovering near his sidearm. Masud, however, already stood poised — a statue of focus, his expression sharpened into a calm readiness.
The Adjudicator's voice came like a chime cut from iron.
"Where is Madam Di-Xian?"
Farhan bowed slightly, his tone crisp. "She will arrive in a moment, Miss Adjudicator."
The woman said nothing — only turned her head slightly, her mask glinting under the sterile light. Her gaze wandered across the agents, and though her face revealed nothing, her mere attention felt invasive — as if she were dissecting their loyalty one breath at a time.
Then the rhythmic sound of heels echoed from the corridor beyond — a sound of elegance and command intertwined.
Madam Di-Xian entered the lobby with her usual unhurried grace, her crimson braid swaying gently like a pendulum marking judgment. The dim light caught the silver threads of her long black coat, which shimmered faintly as she moved. Commander Krieg followed behind her, his broad shoulders shadowing the doorway, and beside them Agent Jun walked with impeccable posture, his spectacles flashing like the gleam of polished steel.
The agents instantly straightened, their boots clinking softly against the marble floor.
Madam Di-Xian's voice, low and composed, carried across the hall like velvet lined with steel.
"What brings you here, Adjudicator?"
The masked woman tilted her head, the faintest motion betraying disdain. "I believe," she began, her tone smooth yet serpentine, "that question should be mine to ask."
Her eyes drifted deliberately to Krieg. "It seems you're… entertaining guests, Di-Xian. The Commander himself. How quaint."
A ripple of tension passed through the room like static.
Roy's hand twitched. Masud's jaw clenched. Both were ready to move — but they held.
Krieg merely stood his ground, expression unreadable, his gloved hands folded behind his back in stoic patience.
"Yes," Madam Di-Xian said evenly, taking a single step closer. Her crimson eyes glimmered beneath the ambient glow. "He came to speak with me — nothing more."
Her tone dropped to a blade's edge. "What is it that you want?"
"I come with a message," said the Adjudicator, her voice sharp and crystalline. "A warning — from the High Chaebols."
"Then speak it," replied Di-Xian, folding her hands before her.
"You have broken the Council's doctrine," the Adjudicator declared. "And now you must answer for it."
Di-Xian's lips curved faintly, a smile that never touched her eyes. "For what sin am I accused this time?"
"Don't feign ignorance," snapped the Adjudicator, her composure cracking just slightly. "You and your agent — Agent-90 — murdered Samir F. Rahmani and three other members of the High Chaebols' executive circle. Their blood stains your command."
"They were not murdered," Di-Xian replied, her voice lowering to a near whisper. "They were judged. Their misdeeds weighed, their fates sealed by their own corruption. Their deaths were merely... the arithmetic of justice."
The Adjudicator took a measured step forward, her masked face tilting down toward Di-Xian's. "You tread on dangerous soil, Di-Xian. You don't comprehend the power you provoke."
Di-Xian's lips twitched into a small, knowing smirk. "Enlighten me, then."
"If you wish to live," said the Adjudicator coldly, "if you wish to keep your agents breathing, and your beloved corporation intact — hand over Wen-Li. The order is not mine. It comes from the hand of the High Chaebols themselves."
The air in the room seemed to collapse into silence.
Every agent stiffened. Roy's pulse thudded in his throat. Masud's fingers brushed the grip of his pistol. Jun's spectacles caught the light in an ominous flash.
And still, Madam Di-Xian did not move. Her voice emerged calm, unshaken. "Wen-Li is not here. And even if she were — what could the High Chaebols possibly want with her?"
"She is to be punished," said the Adjudicator, "for the depravity she's unleashed — for the shame she's brought upon her organisation and herself. Her exposure has ignited scandal across the world. The High Chaebols will ensure her punishment becomes legend."
"And you would deliver her to them?" Di-Xian asked quietly.
"Yes."
Before another breath could form — the sharp purr of an engine echoed from outside.
Through the tall glass doors, the headlights of a jet-black 1954 Mercedes-Benz 300SL Gullwing cut through the night mist. The doors hissed open — and from within stepped Agent-90, pristine and composed, followed closely by Wen-Li, still wearing his coat around her shoulders.
The hall froze.
Wen-Li's eyes widened as she saw Commander Krieg, confusion shimmering in her gaze. "Commander—? You're here?" she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. Her gaze swept the tense faces surrounding her. "What's happening?"
The Adjudicator turned her masked face slowly toward Madam Di-Xian. "So," she said softly, venomous amusement threading her words, "you were lying after all. Harbouring a fugitive. Breaking your oath."
A faint chuckle escaped Madam Di-Xian's lips as she lowered her head slightly, her braid slipping forward. Then, with a slow lift of her chin, she locked her crimson eyes with the Adjudicator's pale glare.
"Well," she said, voice smooth as ice on glass, "I know the rules — and I know their weight. But as I stand here, it appears you are the one standing in the unfortunate position."
She took another step closer, her heels echoing like a judge's gavel. "You think the High Chaebols control me? I am the balance they crave — the restraint they lack."
Wen-Li looked toward Agent-90, who gave a subtle shake of his head, wordlessly urging silence.
Di-Xian continued, her tone now edged with quiet wrath.
"I don't follow the High Chaebols' rules," she declared. "I follow the Oath. The Oath that was meant to serve mankind, not its tyrants."
Wen-Li's eyes widened, a faint flicker of admiration breaking through her confusion.
The Adjudicator's voice turned sharp. "You dare defy them? You dare stand alone?"
Madam Di-Xian exhaled softly, almost wearily. "No," she said. "I stand with truth. And as long as I draw breath, no one—" her hand drifted to the pistol holstered beneath her coat "—will harm Wen-Li."
"You don't know what you're doing," the Adjudicator hissed. "You can't fathom what I will report to the High Chaebols—"
"Then report this," Madam Di-Xian said calmly.
And before the final syllable faded —
the gunfire shattered the silence.
The first bullet struck the Adjudicator's chest — the next, her shoulder — then three more in clean, merciless precision. The body jerked, staggered backward, a crimson bloom unfurling across the dark fabric.
A final shot — clean through the mask.
Blood misted against the marble floor like scarlet rain.
The pistol's empty shell clinked softly as it rolled to a stop.
The Adjudicator's knees gave way; she fell in slow collapse — elegant even in death. Her mask cracked open as it hit the ground, revealing half of a pale, unrecognisable face.
Her bodyguards froze — one began to move, but Madam Di-Xian turned her pistol toward him. He met her eyes once, understood, and simply bowed his head.
Krieg let out a quiet, sardonic chuckle, running a gloved hand down his face. "Still the same Di-Xian," he murmured, half amused, half disbelieving.
She turned slightly toward him, her expression unreadable. "What do you mean?"
"You never hesitate," Krieg replied softly. "Not even when the world's watching."
She didn't respond. Her face turned away as she holstered the pistol, her braid sliding over her shoulder like liquid fire.
"Jun," she said evenly, "assemble everyone in my office. We have much to discuss."
Her agents immediately bowed and dispersed.
Wen-Li stood frozen, her face pale, eyes wide. She turned toward Agent-90, her voice trembling. "What just happened? Why did she—"
Agent-90's icy blue eyes reflected the red smear on the marble. He adjusted his spectacles, his tone steady and grave.
"It's a call," he said quietly. "A call of war."