At the SCP Headquarters, the air within Chief Richter's office was antiseptic and taut, like a held breath. Soft luminescent panels cast a cool sheen over steel walls and glass partitions. Richter sat rigidly at her desk, fingers gliding across the holographic keyboard with practised efficiency. Her platinum hair was drawn back into a severe ponytail, each strand disciplined into obedience—much like the organisation she commanded.
A knock sounded—measured, deferential.
"Enter," Richter said without looking up.
Captain Shira Malachai stepped inside, her boots halting precisely at regulation distance. Her posture was upright, but her jaw was set too tightly; anxiety leaked through the seams of her composure.
Richter finally lifted her gaze. Her pale eyes were sharp, appraising.
"What brings you here, Captain Malachai?"
Shira inhaled once, steadying herself.
"The SSCBF chairmen—Fahad Al-Farsi and Andreas Karalis—are missing."
The words struck like a dropped blade.
Richter rose abruptly from her chair, palms flattening against the desk as she leaned forward. Her expression hardened, disbelief flashing only briefly before calcifying into suspicion.
"What are you saying?" she demanded.
"Yes, Chief," Shira replied, nodding once. "They were last sighted in Qal'at al-Raqsa."
Richter's fingers curled slowly, knuckles whitening. "And the bodyguards we assigned to them?"
Shira hesitated—a fractional pause, but enough. "They are also unaccounted for. The tracking devices we implanted… have gone dark. Entirely non-functional."
A silence followed—thick, ominous, coiling like smoke.
"So," Richter said at last, her voice low and deliberate, "someone is behind this."
Shira's brows knit together. "Who, Chief?"
Richter straightened, a thin, mirthless smile ghosting across her lips. "Wen-Li."
Shira's eyes widened almost imperceptibly.
"She is indulging in vengeance," Richter continued coldly, pacing now, heels clicking like a metronome of intent. "With the assistance of Madam Di-Xian… and her rabid hound, Agent-90."
"Should we inform the SSCBF High Council?" Shira asked cautiously.
"Inform them?" Richter scoffed, a sound laced with disdain. She turned sharply, eyes glinting with something far more dangerous than anger. "No. That would be premature—and unnecessary."
She reached for her communicator, her movements unhurried, assured. "First, I will inform Sir Gavriel," she said. "He understands how to deal with… disobedient legacies."
Shira swallowed hard, unease settling in her chest like a stone.
Richter's smile returned—razor-thin. "And when he moves," she added softly, "even ghosts learn how to bleed."
The office lights hummed on, indifferent witnesses to the storm quietly gathering beyond its walls.
Meanwhile, at SSCBF headquarter, the operation floor pulsed with usual cadence of controlled urgency—-holographic displays murmur data, analysts moves like clockwork and a low hum of machinery formed a constant metallic lullaby.
At the far end of the room, Captain Lingaong Xuein stood before a floating tactical consoles. Lines of light scrolled endlessly across her screen, yet her gaze lagged behind them, unfocused. Her long dark brown hair shot through a faint reddish tint slide one over her shoulder, as she leaned forward, one hand braced against the console, the other hovering indecisively above the interface. Her posture betrayed her: rigid in form but hollowed in spirit like a blade left for too long in its sheath.
She inhaled slowly then again—-an unconscious rhythm of unease.
From behind her, Captain Robert Voreyesky approaches his boot echos against the steel floor. He took a sight at once: the tension on her shoulder, the faint cease between her brows, the way her fingers paused in mid command as if her thought had been wandering something darker.
He folded his arms and tilted his head, a familiar, teasing glint flickering in his eyes. "Well. This is new!" he drawled lightly, "I don't think I ever seen you like this glaring at the screen it seems like it personally insulted your ancestor"
Lingaong Xuein startled just slightly then straightened. She flicked him at the sideway glanced unimpressed, "If you come to narrate my mood, Robert" she reply coolly, "you're doing a dreadful job"
He smiled, anyway, undeterred, stepping closer, "Oh I disagree. Normally, you terrify consoles into submission. Right now?" He leaned conspiratorially. "You look like you're the one more second away from declaring the war an abstract concept"
Her lips twitch despite herself—a microscopic betrayal of amusement. She reached up absently brushing her hair back over her shoulder, only to fall forward again, stubborn as she thought.
"I'm fine," she said, though the words rang thin, like porcelain tapped too sharply.
Robert arched a brow. "That's fascinating," he said. "Because your 'fine' usually comes with biting commentary and three cups of over-steeped tea. This?" He gestured vaguely at her. "This is contemplative silence. Dangerous territory."
She finally turned to face him fully. Her eyes—usually sharp and commanding—were clouded, as though a storm had taken up residence behind them. "Things don't add up," she murmured. "Orders, absences, the way people are being… rearranged. It feels like we're standing on a fault line, pretending the ground isn't trembling."
For once, Robert didn't joke immediately. His expression softened, humour giving way to something quieter. Then, deliberately, he cleared his throat and grinned again too brightly.
"Well!" he said, placing both hands at his hips "If the ground is going to collapse I had rather to do so with you glaring heroically into the middle distance than brooding yourself into the existential crisis"
She snorted—an unguarded sound—then caught herself, covering it with a cough. Her shoulders eased, just a fraction.
"You're insufferable," she said, though there was no venom in it.
"And yet," Robert replied smugly, "remarkably effective."
She shook her head, a reluctant smile ghosting across her lips. For a fleeting moment, the weight on her chest lightened—like clouds parting just enough to let a sliver of light through.
But as she turned back to her console, her reflection in the glass betrayed the truth: the worry had not vanished. It had merely gone quiet—coiled and waiting, like a storm biding its time.
Moments later, a crisp chime echoed across the operations floor—formal, unmistakable. A junior aide approached with disciplined haste and delivered the message with rehearsed neutrality: the Dean required Captain Robert Voreyevsky's immediate presence at the C.E.O. 's office.
Robert's reaction was instantaneous and entirely unprofessional.
He leaned back, dragging a hand down his face. "Oof," he muttered under his breath, lips twisting into a theatrical grimace, as though fate itself had just stepped on his foot.
As he straightened his coat and turned to leave, a familiar figure crossed his path—Captain Xuemin, of the Celestial Unit. Younger than his sister, yet already carrying the quiet gravity of command, Xuemin slowed when he caught sight of Robert's expression.
He tilted his head, brows knitting slightly.
"Captain… is something wrong?" he asked, his tone polite but probing. "You look… fractured."
Robert snorted softly, waving a dismissive hand as he continued walking.
"Nothing, boy," he replied. "Zhang Ji's calling. President's son. Which usually means paperwork, politics, or some creative variation of both."
Xuemin's eyes narrowed a fraction—not with suspicion, but concern. He fell into step beside him.
"I see," he said after a pause. Then, hesitantly, "Is there something amiss between you and my sister?"
Robert stopped for half a heartbeat, glancing back over his shoulder toward the operations floor, where Lingaong Xuein still stood at her console—upright, diligent, and unmistakably worn thin.
"Oh no," he said at last, softer now. "Nothing like that."
He exhaled through his nose, a weary sound. "She's just… exhausted. Still working. As always."
Xuemin followed his gaze. His jaw tightened briefly, then he nodded—once, firmly—as if committing the image to memory.
"She always does," he murmured.
Robert clapped him lightly on the shoulder, the gesture casual yet faintly paternal.
"Make sure she remembers to breathe, yeah?" he said, forcing a grin. "Someone has to."
Xuemin inclined his head in agreement.
With that, Robert turned and continued down the corridor towards the Chief Executive's office. His stride was steady, his posture composed—but the faint crease between his brows betrayed a gnawing premonition. Whatever awaited him behind that door, it was unlikely to be benign.
And somewhere deep within the SSCBF's gleaming halls, the machinery of power shifted once more—quietly, inexorably.
When Captain Robert Voreyevsky reached the C.E.O.'s office, he paused before the door, squared his shoulders, and knocked once—firm, professional.
"Enter," came Zhang Ji's voice, smooth as lacquer.
Robert stepped inside.
Zhang Ji stood with his back to the room, tall and immaculate, hands clasped behind him as he gazed out through the floor-to-ceiling window. Beyond the glass, the metropolis sprawled in steel and shadow, a living organism of ambition and decay. Dandelion petals—pale and delicate—were scattered across the polished mahogany desk behind him, their fragility almost mocking the power the room represented.
Zhang Ji turned slowly, his movements deliberate, theatrical. His eyes settled on Robert with a practised warmth that never quite reached them.
"Captain Robert," he said pleasantly. "You have arrived."
Robert stopped two paces from the desk, arms folding across his chest.
"What is it, Chief?" he asked, his irritation faintly but unmistakably threaded through his voice.
Zhang Ji smiled thinly.
"There is a task I intend to assign," he replied coolly. "One I believe you and Captain Lingaong Xuein are… uniquely suited to handle."
Robert's brow furrowed.
"And what exactly is this task?"
"It is an unresolved criminal case."
Robert exhaled through his nose.
"Which one?"
Zhang Ji reached for a slim data folder and tapped it against the desk once. "A case originating from the outskirts of Obsidian Reach," he said. "An abandoned asylum—Gonjianoya."
Robert's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Rumours persist," Zhang Ji continued, unhurried, "that the asylum is haunted. Locals claim apparitions roam its corridors. More troubling still, there is corroborated evidence of unexplained phenomena—sensor failures, spatial distortions, disappearances."
Robert gave a short, humourless chuckle.
"So… ghost hunting, then."
Zhang Ji did not react.
Robert tilted his head.
"Why give this to us?" he pressed. "Why not Captain Xuemin and the Celestial Unit? BAEPSA specialises in anomalous containment."
"I am well aware of their expertise," Zhang Ji replied smoothly. "But you and Captain Lingaong Xuein are… different. Your methods are less doctrinal. More… adaptable."
He slid the file across the desk.
"Take it."
Robert picked it up, flicking through the contents with a practised eye. Blueprints, incident reports, redacted witness statements. The deeper he read, the heavier the silence became. At last, he closed the folder.
"…Alright," he said. "We'll handle it."
"Excellent," Zhang Ji said lightly. "You may go."
Robert hesitated, one hand still resting on the file. Something gnawed at him.
"One more thing," he said, glancing up. "Dr. Abrar. I noticed he's no longer present. Instead, Mariana Silva has assumed his role."
Zhang Ji released a measured sigh, as though indulging a tiresome query.
"Dr. Abrar has retired."
Robert's eyes widened despite himself.
"Retired?"
"Yes," Zhang Ji replied evenly. "After many years of loyal service, the organisation has elected to redirect its investitsii—towards biomedical and bio-engineering initiatives beyond his scope. He has… reached the terminus of his tenure."
"But he isn't old," Robert protested, disbelief sharpening his tone.
Zhang Ji's expression hardened, the warmth evaporating in an instant.
"That is enough, Captain," he said sharply. "Your concern is noted—and dismissed. I have given you an assignment. Complete it."
Robert's jaw tightened. His knuckles whitened briefly around the folder.
"Yes, Monsieur," he replied, the word ground out between clenched teeth.
He turned and left the office without another word.
The door slid shut with a muted hiss.
Zhang Ji remained still for a moment, then allowed himself a slow, serpentine smile. He turned back towards the window, watching the city pulse beneath him like a captive heart.
"It will be your last day working here," he murmured to the empty room, voice barely above a whisper. "Captain Robert… and Captain Lingaong Xuein."
The dandelion petals on the desk stirred faintly, as though caught in an unseen breath—fragile omens drifting in a room where decisions were already sealed.
As Captain Robert Voreyevsky and Captain Lingaong Xuein made their way towards their destination, the car cut a solitary line through the rain-soaked highway. Robert's hands were firm upon the steering wheel, his knuckles pale beneath the dashboard glow, his eyes fixed unblinking on the windscreen. Rain cascaded down the glass in relentless rivulets, flowing like tributaries feeding a restless river, while the sky above churned in bruised shades of charcoal and indigo. Thunder rolled in the distance, low and foreboding, as though the heavens themselves were murmuring disquiet.
Beside him, Lingaong Xuein sat rigidly upright, her posture immaculate yet tense. Her long, dark brown hair—tinged faintly with red—brushed against her shoulder as she stared out at the passing blur of lights and shadows. Her reflection flickered across the glass, fractured by rain and motion.
"The sky looks sad…" she murmured at last, her voice subdued, almost reverential.
"Yeah," Robert replied. His tone was flat, distant. He said nothing more.
Yet his mind churned violently beneath that silence. Zhang Ji's words echoed like a toxin that refused to metabolise. Dr. Abrar has retired. The phrase rang false, brittle as thin ice. He osuchestvlyal it now—he realised it with an uneasy clarity. Chief Wen-Li was dismissed. Dr. Abrar removed. Piece by piece, something vital was being excised from the organisation, and the wounds were being dressed with lies.
"Robert—watch out!"
Lingaong Xuein's sharp cry snapped him back into the present.
His eyes widened as headlights surged towards them from the opposite lane, far too close, far too fast. Instinct overrode thought. He slammed the brakes, wrenched the wheel, and the car skidded violently before snapping back into line. Tyres screamed; water sprayed like shattered glass. The oncoming vehicle tore past them by a hair's breadth.
The car stabilised. The rain swallowed the echo.
Lingaong Xuein turned towards him, anger blazing across her usually composed features.
"What's wrong with you? Are you out of your mind?" she snapped.
"No," Robert replied quickly. "I'm fine."
But his face betrayed him. The stern lines of his features softened into something unsettled—an expression touched by sorrow and quiet disquiet, as though a curtain had been drawn back to reveal something he wished he had not seen.
She studied him closely now, concern eclipsing her anger. "Something is wrong," she said more gently.
"Nothing," he insisted. Then, after a pause, he spoke again, his voice lower. "Lingaong Xuein."
She turned fully towards him.
"The organisation feels… hollow without our Chief," he said. "Like a citadel after its heart has been torn out."
She inhaled slowly, then allowed herself a faint, melancholic smile. "You're right," she said. "Since she left, everything feels… empty."
She shrugged lightly, though the gesture carried the weight of resignation rather than indifference. "God alone knows what fate awaits it now. At least, officially, everything is in the hands of the High Council."
Robert nodded, his jaw tightening as he returned his gaze to the road. Outside, the storm raged on—unceasing, implacable—mirroring the turmoil neither of them dared to voice aloud.
The car pressed forward into the darkness, two silhouettes framed by rain and thunder, carrying with them the unspoken certainty that the path ahead would demand more than loyalty—it would demand reckoning.
When the car finally reached its destination, both officers stepped out in unspoken synchrony. The engine ticked as it cooled, the sound unnaturally loud in the emptiness that surrounded them. Before them stood Gonjianoya.
The asylum loomed beyond the industrial limits of Obsidian Reach, where the city's neon arteries withered into ash-grey plains and skeletal infrastructure. It stood alone—an immense, rotting monolith—half-consumed by fog, silence, and the accumulated weight of forgotten sins. Once a state-funded psychiatric facility, it now resembled a mausoleum built for memories no one wished to exhume.
Its architecture was unapologetically brutalist–institutional, designed not to heal but to dominate. The low-rise complex sprawled outward in a rigid grid, long corridors intersecting at former surveillance hubs. The concrete exterior was scarred by decades of acid rain and industrial soot, iron-reinforced windows sunk deep into walls thick enough to muffle screams. Rusted steel railings clung to the structure like corroded ribs. Ceramic tiles, once sterile white, now lay cracked and peeling, revealing rot beneath. Faded safety stripes and patient guidance markings ghosted the walls—half-erased, like memories forcibly suppressed.
"This place is abandoned," Lingaong Xuein said quietly, her voice instinctively lowered, as if the building itself might be listening.
"Yes," Robert replied after a measured pause. "Let's go in."
They crossed the threshold.
A low-hanging mist perpetually clung to the asylum, rolling in from the industrial wastelands like a slow, deliberate breath. Wind threaded itself through shattered window frames, producing hollow, almost vocal tones—neither quite sound nor silence. The air was thick with mould, the lingering sting of antiseptic, and the damp rot of wet concrete. The main electrical systems were long dead, yet emergency lights flickered sporadically, drawing power from some unstable, scavenged grid nearby.
The floors were strewn with overturned wheelchairs, rusted gurneys, and abandoned patient files, their ink bled into the tiles like coagulated thoughts. There was no wildlife. Not even rats dared linger in the deeper wards.
By day, Gonjianoya appeared dormant yet vigilant. Weak sunlight filtered through dust-choked windows, casting distorted shadows that stretched and warped along the corridors. Fog pooled along the lower levels, blurring entrances and exits into ambiguity. Distant industrial groans from Obsidian Reach echoed faintly, a reminder of how utterly severed this place was from the living world. The silence pressed in heavily, broken only by the creak of shifting concrete and the occasional collapse of unseen debris.
Inside, the asylum revealed its true nature.
The interior was vast and cavernous, less abandoned than paused—as though time itself had stalled mid-breath. The inner structure followed a multi-tiered industrial layout, closer to a repurposed factory than a medical institution. A central vertical atrium yawned open across multiple floors, stacked walkways and balconies clinging to the walls like scaffolding. Exposed steel beams and concrete columns dominated the space, their surfaces pitted and oxidised. Long catwalks and observation corridors wrapped around the central void, once designed for constant surveillance.
Above them, the ceiling had partially collapsed. Fractured skylights allowed daylight to fall in uneven shafts, illuminating nothing fully—only enough to unsettle. There was no ornamentation, no attempt at comfort. Only function. Observation. Containment. A panopticon engineered to watch without being seen, to erode privacy until identity itself dissolved.
Then something shifted.
The temperature rose.
Lingaong Xuein slowed, then stopped altogether. She lifted a gloved hand to her brow, her breath shallow. Beads of sweat traced slow paths down her temple, catching the thin light. Her uniform, usually immaculate, clung slightly at the collar.
Robert noticed immediately. He turned towards her, his brow furrowing. "You're overheating," he said, voice low but alert. "That's not normal. Are you feeling unwell?"
She exhaled sharply, steadying herself, her eyes scanning the shadows as if expecting them to answer. "No… it's not me," she replied, her tone taut with unease. "The air—it's changing. This place is supposed to be cold, but it feels… alive. Like something's breathing heat into the walls."
Robert straightened, his jaw tightening as his hand instinctively hovered near his sidearm. He glanced around the atrium, at the catwalks above, the blind angles, the oppressive geometry.
"Then we're not alone," he said grimly. "And whatever's here doesn't want to stay buried."
A low hum seemed to ripple through the structure—not quite sound, not quite vibration. Lingaong Xuein swallowed, her eyes narrowing with resolve despite the sweat on her skin.
"Let's keep moving," she said. "Before this place decides to acknowledge us."
Together, they advanced deeper into Gonjianoya, two figures dwarfed by concrete and shadow, as the asylum watched—silent, patient, and very much awake.
The ground floor is flooded with shallow water, reflecting the broken ceiling above like a distorted mirror. Cracked tiles and fractured concrete slabs lie scattered like debris from a forgotten evacuation. Rusted metal cabinets, overturned carts, wooden crates, and medical storage boxes clutter the space. Paperwork has long since disintegrated into pulp, sticking to the floor like decomposing skin. Wheel marks are still visible in places—faint, looping paths that suggest endless repetition. Every object feels abandoned mid-purpose, not cleared or dismantled—simply left.
Light enters only from above pale, gray daylight filters through broken skylights. Dust motes hang motionless in the air. Artificial lighting is gone, yet occasional emergency panels flicker weakly, powered by unstable residual circuits. The silence is oppressive—not empty, but expectant.
Sound behaves strangely: footsteps echo far longer than they should. Drips of water resonate like distant knocks. Metal creaks echo from upper levels even when no movement is visible.
Gonjianoya does not rely on horror—it relies on scale and absence. The emptiness feels intentional. The height makes visitors feel small and exposed. The silence presses inward, amplifying thoughts and memories.
It is a place designed to break routine, identity, and resistance—not through violence, but through isolation and observation.
Moreover, the farther they advanced into the asylum, the more oppressive the heat became—thick, suffocating, as though the air itself were beginning to evaporate. It pressed against the lungs and clung to the skin with an almost sentient insistence. Robert slowed, irritation and unease etched across his features. He loosened his tie, fingers tugging sharply at the knot, then unbuttoned the top of his shirt, drawing a measured breath as sweat gathered at his temples.
Behind him, Lingaong Xuein faltered.
"Robert—wait," she called, her voice strained.
He stopped at once and glanced back, concern cutting through his composure.
"What is it?"
She exhaled, one hand braced against her side. "I can't go any farther," she said, frustration laced with discomfort. "It's… unbearably hot."
"Yes," Robert acknowledged, scanning the corridor as if the walls themselves might answer. "So what are you—"
"I'll be right back," she interrupted, already turning away. "Just a moment."
He watched her retreat, then leaned back against the cold concrete wall—cold only by memory, not by touch. He rolled his shoulders, steadying himself, eyes narrowed in vigilance as the building groaned softly around him.
Then—
"Robert."
The voice came from directly ahead.
He snapped upright, eyes widening despite himself.
Standing before him was Lingaong Xuein—altered, yet unmistakably herself.
She had shed her jacket and uniform top, now wearing a fitted crop top that revealed her midriff, not as an invitation, but as a testament to endurance. A fine sheen of perspiration traced quiet, luminous paths along her waist and abdomen, catching the fractured light filtering through the ruined structure. Her breathing was measured and disciplined, each rise and fall deliberate, betraying neither weakness nor vanity—only the residue of heat and exertion.
Her abdomen was not presented for admiration, but for function.
It was the locus of her strength: a reinforced bio-neural core where physical conditioning, neural regulation, and internal energy discipline converged. Every muscle there had been honed for stabilisation—trained to absorb recoil, blunt impact, and shockwaves without forfeiting balance. From this centre originated her breathing discipline, granting her meticulous control of oxygen under prolonged stress, whether in close-quarters combat or sustained operations. Exposure allowed excess heat to dissipate efficiently, preventing muscular seizure or fatigue when conditions turned hostile.
At her navel lay a subtle neuro-sensory anchor—a natural convergence of the internal nervous system. It served as a somatic fulcrum, a quiet centre from which composure radiated under duress. In combat, awareness synchronised outward from this point—arms, legs, weapon handling—ensuring motion that was economical, precise, and devoid of waste. Even when injured, she could modulate pain from this centre, persisting where others would yield.
Robert's gaze caught—only for the briefest, involuntary instant.
Then he turned his head away at once, posture snapping into rigid decorum, as though correcting himself by sheer discipline alone. There was no embarrassment in the gesture, nor desire—only respect, and an unspoken acknowledgement of the formidable woman before him.
Noticing his reaction, she tilted her head slightly. "What's wrong?" she asked, one brow arching with restrained curiosity.
"Nothing," he replied too quickly, then muttered under his breath, "Robert… be a gentleman."
She studied him, momentarily perplexed.
Clearing his throat, he gestured forward with forced gallantry. "Shall we proceed, my lady?"
A faint, knowing smirk curved her lips.
As she stepped closer, she leaned in just enough for him to feel the warmth radiating from her—deliberate, controlled. Her tone sharpened, teasing yet unmistakably authoritative.
"Try not to lose your composure, Captain," she murmured. "We're on duty."
Her waist brushed his side in passing—brief, intentional—before she moved ahead. Robert stiffened, then exhaled slowly, regaining his equilibrium. His ears burned, though his expression remained stoic.
"Yes, ma'am," he replied dryly, falling into step beside her, eyes forward, resolve restored—if only just.
Together, they pressed on, the heat thickening, the asylum watching in silence as their footsteps echoed deeper into its living shadow.
Robert's gaze swept over the two converging hallways ahead, each shrouded in shadows and thick silence. The oppressive heat clung to him like a second skin, sweat beading at his brow and soaking his collar. The air felt heavier here, almost alive with anticipation—or something darker.
He turned to Lingaong Xuein, who was already studying the passage on the right with a sharp, calculating look. Her face was slick with sweat, but her eyes burned with focus.
"Left and right," he said quietly, voice barely above a whisper. "We split up. I'll take the left. You go right. Stay in contact. Call out if you find anything."
She nodded, her expression serious. "Be careful. This place isn't just abandoned. It's watching."
Robert gave a slight nod, then stepped into the left hallway. He moved with deliberate silence, the flickering emergency lights casting elongated shadows that danced along the cracked concrete walls. Every footstep echoed unnaturally, bouncing off the empty corridors like whispers of the past.
He kept his hand near his sidearm, senses sharpened, as he advanced deeper into the darkness. The air grew colder—an unsettling contrast to the oppressive heat he'd felt moments before—perhaps a sign of the anomaly they suspected or something else entirely.
Meanwhile, Lingaong Xuein disappeared into the right corridor, her movements fluid and precise. Her eyes flicked between the shadows and the flickering lights, instinctively alert for anything out of place. Her mind raced through her training, cataloging every detail—the faintest shift in temperature, the subtle distortion of space, the distant, inexplicable hum that seemed to resonate from within the asylum's bones.
As Robert moved further, he caught sight of a faint, flickering glow down the hall—a strange, unnatural light that pulsed rhythmically, almost like a heartbeat. He slowed, drawing his weapon, and pressed himself against the wall, ears straining for any sign of movement or soun
"Xuein," he whispered into his comm, voice tense. "Found something on the left. Be ready."
A moment later, a reply crackled through: "Same here. Something's definitely not right."
The corridors stretched endlessly, the silence broken only by the distant, irregular hum—like the asylum itself breathing. Shadows seemed to shift just beyond the edge of vision, and the oppressive heat continued to press inward, making every breath labored.
Robert's hand brushed over a rusted railing, his mind racing with questions: What was causing this heat? What was lurking behind these walls? And most critically—what had happened to those who once inhabited this place?
He steadied his grip on his weapon, eyes narrowing as he prepared to confront whatever secrets Gonjianoya was hiding.
Robert moved cautiously down the left corridor, the faint heartbeat-like glow pulsing ahead like some unnatural rhythm. His footsteps were muffled by the damp, cracked tiles, each step echoing in the oppressive silence. The flickering lights cast unsettling shadows that danced and warped along the walls, as if the building itself was alive and watching.
Every sound—a distant drip of water, the faint scrape of metal—felt exaggerated in this silence. He paused, pressing his back against the cold concrete wall, and activated his comm.
"Xuein, I'm moving forward. Still clear on your side?"
Static crackled briefly before her voice responded, calm but tense. "Lining up with what I found. The atmosphere here… it's different. Almost like the building is responding to us."
Robert's brow furrowed. "Keep your eyes open. I'm heading toward that glow. Keep me posted."
He advanced toward the faint pulsing light, which seemed to grow stronger with each step. As he neared, he noticed something strange—faint traces of blood on the floor, smeared along the tiles like erratic brushstrokes. No bodies, no obvious signs of recent violence, but the presence of blood was undeniable.
His grip tightened on his weapon. Whatever had happened here, it wasn't natural.
Suddenly, a faint whisper echoed down the hall—a hushed, unintelligible murmur that caused a shiver to crawl down his spine. He froze, listening intently. The whispering seemed to come from all directions, then coalesced into a distorted chorus of sounds, as if the very walls were speaking in tongues.
He took out a small flashlight, flicking it on. The beam cut through the shadows, illuminating a door slightly ajar at the end of the corridor. The pulsing glow emanated from within, flickering ominously.
Robert approached cautiously, his finger on the trigger. He pushed the door open slowly, revealing a dimly lit room filled with abandoned equipment—rusted monitors, shattered glass, broken chairs—and in the center, a strange, organic-looking mass pulsating faintly.
The mass was covered in a slick, black substance, almost like coagulated blood mixed with something else—something alive. It seemed to breathe, to pulse with a rhythm that matched the heartbeat he'd sensed earlier.
His heart pounded harder. What the hell was this? An experiment gone wrong? A manifestation of whatever haunted this place?
Before he could analyze further, a sudden movement made him whirl around—the shadows in the corner shifting. A figure, barely recognizable, hunched and trembling, was slumped against the wall.
"Xuein," he hissed into his comm. "I've got something here—possible organic matter. Need your eyes on this."
A flicker of movement caught his gaze again. The figure stirred. It was a battered, disoriented person—clad in tattered hospital scrubs, eyes wide with terror or madness.
Robert hesitated, then lowered his weapon slightly. "Hey. You're safe. Who are you? What happened here?"
The person didn't respond immediately. They looked at him with vacant, glassy eyes, then suddenly shrieked—an ear-piercing, guttural sound that echoed down the hall.
Robert instinctively stepped back, raising his weapon again. "Xuein, I've got a hostile attitude here. Sending a visual."
A split second later, Xuein's voice crackled through. "I see it. Be careful—something's wrong with this place. It's not just decay. It's… alive."
The figure suddenly lunged forward, teeth bared, claws reaching out. Robert fired a warning shot, the bullet ricocheting off the wall. The creature recoiled, shrieking in pain, then collapsed to the floor, twitching violently before going still.
Robert pressed his back against the wall, heart hammering. His eyes darted around, trying to process what he'd just seen.
"What the hell was that?" he muttered under his breath.
"Whatever it is, it's connected to this place," Xuein replied grimly. "And I think we're only just beginning to understand the horror beneath Gonjianoya."
He took a deep breath, steadying himself. The pulsing organic mass in the center of the room seemed to throb in response—almost like it was waiting for something. He knew this was only the beginning of uncovering the asylum's twisted secrets.
And whatever had been unleashed here, it was far from finished.
Lingaong Xuein moved silently down the right corridor, her senses heightened and her eyes scanning every shadow. Her training had prepared her for moments like this—when the line between the known and unknown blurred into something far more unsettling. The flickering lights cast erratic shadows, making it difficult to distinguish reality from illusion.
She had noticed the strange temperature fluctuations earlier—where the heat suddenly dropped to bone-chilling cold, then spiked again with an almost electric intensity. The air here felt thicker, as if the walls themselves were exhaling some dark breath.
Her hand instinctively hovered near her sidearm, fingers brushing the grip. She kept her breathing steady, listening for any sign of movement or sound. The corridor seemed endless, stretching into darkness, with each step echoing unnaturally.
Then, she saw it: a faint, pulsating glow emanating from a room further down. It flickered like a heartbeat—irregular, unsettling. She paused at the threshold, eyes narrowing.
Inside, she saw remnants of what looked like experiments or medical procedures—broken glass, torn fabric, and strange symbols scrawled on the walls in a language she didn't recognize. Amidst the chaos, a strange organic mass was visible, pulsing softly with a sickly glow.
Xuein's breath hitched. This was no ordinary abandoned building. Whatever was happening here was beyond science—something supernatural, or perhaps a manifestation of the asylum's dark history.
She moved closer, carefully avoiding the spilled fluids and debris. Her mind raced with possibilities—was this some kind of biological experiment? Or something darker—an eldritch force lurking in the shadows?
Suddenly, a faint movement caught her eye. A figure—disoriented, ragged—staggered into her view. Their eyes were vacant, wild, and filled with terror. She instinctively raised her weapon, aiming carefully.
"Stay back!" she commanded softly, voice steady but cautious. The figure didn't respond, only shrieked—a guttural, piercing sound that sent shivers down her spine.
Lingaong Xuein hesitated for a moment, weighing her options. To shoot or to try to communicate? Her instincts told her this was no ordinary victim; something unnatural had taken hold of them.
She lowered her weapon slightly, trying to project calm. "You're safe. I'm not going to hurt you. Can you understand me?"
The figure suddenly lunged forward, teeth bared, claws reaching out. Xuein reacted instantly, firing a warning shot that ricocheted off the wall. The creature shrieked, recoiling and collapsing to the floor, twitching violently.
Her heart pounded in her chest. She kept her gun trained, eyes scrutinizing the fallen creature. Whatever it was, it was not human anymore.
Her mind raced to make sense of what she'd just encountered. The organic mass still pulsed nearby, seemingly alive, almost beckoning her closer. She sensed that this entire place was intertwined—something unnatural, something dangerous.
She activated her radio. "Robert, I've got a situation here—hostile entity, not human. It's connected to that organic mass. Be ready."
As she spoke, the pulsating glow from the mass intensified, casting eerie reflections on the walls. The sensation of being watched grew stronger. Whatever this place was hiding, it was far worse than she had imagined.
Lingaong Xuein moved cautiously toward the mass, her mind sharp and alert. She knew that whatever secrets the asylum held, revealing them could come at a terrible cost.
She moved ahead of Robert, her stride deliberate, unhurried, imbued with a quiet authority that required no announcement. The oppressive heat pressed in, but she did not resist it; she absorbed it, attuned herself to it, as one listens to a change in wind. Something was amiss. The silence had altered—no longer empty, but expectant, like a breath drawn and held.
She stopped.
Her hand settled at her abdomen, not as a gesture of vulnerability, but as one of command. From that centre—her anchored core—awareness bloomed with lucid intensity. The neuro-sensory focus at her navel flared, and the signal travelled outward with seamless precision. Her spine aligned, shoulders relaxed into readiness, and her fingers flexed subtly near her sidearm, not twitching, never hurried.
This was not instinct born of panic, but of mastery.
Balance adjusted. Breath slowed. Muscles engaged in quiet concord. Arms, legs, posture, perception—all synchronised from the core outward, like a well-rehearsed orchestra responding to an unseen conductor. There was no excess, no flourish, no wasted motion. Only purpose.
In that stillness, she was wholly present—alert, composed, and formidable—not because she sought attention, but because she commanded the space simply by being prepared to meet whatever dared to break the silence.
"Something's here," she murmured, barely audible.
A sound answered her.
Not a footstep—more like a drag, wet and ug
The thing emerged from the shadow like a malformed thought clawing its way into reality.
It was tall—too tall—its proportions wrong in a way that unsettled the eye. Its body appeared partially humanoid, but warped: elongated limbs bent at unnatural angles, joints clicking as though assembled incorrectly. Its skin was a sickly ashen grey, stretched thin over sinew, veined with faint bioluminescent fissures that pulsed like a dying heartbeat. Where a face should have been, there was only a distorted mask of bone and flesh—no eyes, only hollows that seemed to sense rather than see. Its mouth split vertically, opening with a low, resonant hiss, as if the building itself were exhaling through it.
Lingaong Xuein drew her weapon in one smooth motion.
The creature lunged.
She rolled aside, boots skidding across cracked tiles, firing as she moved. The shots struck—but the entity barely faltered, its torso rippling as though absorbing the impact. It swung an arm with brutal speed.
She blocked—barely.
The force hurled her backwards into a concrete pillar. Pain flared, sharp but contained. She pushed off immediately, regaining her stance, breath disciplined, core tight. She struck back—elbow, knee, pivot—each movement precise, controlled.
Then the creature adapted.
It feinted high and drove a heavy blow straight into her abdomen.
The impact was thunderous.
Air tore from her lungs as she was flung to the floor, saliva escaping her lips in a reflexive gasp. She rolled, coughing, trying to rise—but the entity was already upon her.
Another strike followed, lower, brutal.
Pain lanced through her core, radiating outward from her abdomen like shattered glass. Her umblicus—her anchor—burned with searing intensity, her control fracturing under the sheer force. She cried out despite herself, fingers clawing against the tiles as she struggled to regain breath.
"Robert—!" her voice broke, raw and strained.
She tried to dodge, twisting her body, but her timing faltered by a fraction of a second.
That was enough.
The creature drove another crushing blow into her midsection, directly at her core. The world tilted violently. Her vision blurred, sound collapsing into a dull roar. Strength fled her limbs as her nervous system misfired under the trauma.
Her body went slack.
She hit the floor hard, consciousness slipping away as darkness closed in.
"LINGAONG!"
Robert's voice cut through the air like a gunshot.
He burst into the atrium, eyes locking onto her collapsed form. For a split second, shock froze him in place—then it was replaced by something far colder, far more dangerous.
Rage.
His jaw tightened, knuckles whitening around his weapon as he stepped between her and the entity, fury radiating from him like a coiled storm.
"You picked the wrong target," he said, voice low, trembling with controlled violence.
The creature turned toward him.
And the asylum, long dormant, seemed to shudder—aware that it had just awakened something far worse.
Robert did not shout again. He inhaled—slowly, deliberately—his posture changing as if a switch had been thrown deep within him. The shock on his face hardened into something flint-like, austere and merciless. His shoulders squared, knees flexed, centre of gravity dropping. Every movement was economical, drilled by years of combat discipline.
The creature advanced.
Its gait was irregular, almost mocking—each step accompanied by the wet scrape of malformed limbs against concrete. The bioluminescent fissures along its body brightened, pulsing faster, as though sensing a fresh surge of opposition.
Robert stepped forward to meet it.
"You should never have touched her," he said quietly.
The entity struck first—an overhand blow meant to crush. Robert pivoted, the movement sharp and angular, letting the attack scream past his shoulder. He countered instantly, driving his elbow into the creature's ribcage with bone-shuddering force. The impact echoed like a hammer against steel, but the thing merely recoiled, hissing, its torso contorting unnaturally.
It lashed out again.
Robert ducked low, sweeping the leg—or what passed for one—sending the creature stumbling. He followed through with a rapid sequence of blows, fists and knees delivered with ruthless precision. Each strike was measured, relentless, like punctuation in a sentence written in violence.
The creature screeched, the sound reverberating through the atrium, shaking dust from the fractured skylights. It lunged wildly now, feral and enraged.
One clawed hand caught Robert's shoulder, tearing fabric, spinning him half a step. He grimaced—not in fear, but irritation—and responded by slamming his forehead into the creature's skull-mask. The crack rang out, sharp and final.
The entity staggered.
Robert drew his combat blade in a single fluid motion. The metal caught the dim light, cold and unadorned. He did not rush. He waited for the creature to recover—then moved.
A feint to the left. A sudden reversal. The blade drove home with brutal accuracy, plunging into the creature's upper torso at the convergence of its glowing fissures.
The light flared violently—then sputtered.
The creature convulsed, limbs thrashing, its distorted mouth opening in a soundless scream. Robert twisted the blade and ripped it free, stepping back as the entity collapsed to its knees, then forward—face-first—onto the cracked tiles.
For a moment, there was only silence.
The bioluminescence dimmed… then died.
Robert stood over the fallen form, chest rising and falling, eyes still sharp, weapon held ready. He did not relax—not yet. Slowly, he glanced back at Lingaong Xuein, motionless on the floor.
His expression softened, just a fraction.
"Stay with me," he murmured, moving towards her.
But behind him—
A low vibration crept through the concrete. The emergency lights flickered violently. From somewhere deep within Gonjianoya, a distant, resonant sound answered—not singular, but plural.
Robert froze, jaw tightening once more.
He turned back towards the darkness, blade lifting again, realisation dawning like a storm on the horizon.
The fight was not over.
A thud followed—then another—each impact heavier than the last, as though the earth itself were being coerced into submission. The ground shuddered beneath Robert's boots, the tremor travelling up his spine like an unwelcome premonition. Dust cascaded from the broken rafters; fractured concrete groaned in protest.
Robert turned.
What emerged from the fog of shadow was not merely a figure, but a presence—oppressive, funereal.
His body was entombed within a sealed mech-armour shell, forged from heat-resistant alloys scorched to a funereal black and veined with ember-lit fractures. Those veins pulsed rhythmically, like arterial fire, exuding a dull orange glow through the cracked plating—as if a furnace burned within him, because it did. The armour was bulky and asymmetrical, an accretion of industrial plates bolted crudely over older, partially melted frames. Some sections had fused grotesquely, warped by temperatures far beyond their tolerances, giving the silhouette an uneven, almost limping menace.
Heat vents along his shoulders and spine exhaled constantly, releasing shimmering distortions that warped the surrounding air, bending light like heat over desert stone. Each step he took left scorched imprints upon the concrete; the floor beneath his feet darkened, softened, as though remembering fire.
His helmet was narrow and faceless—no eyes, no mouth—only a horizontal slit that glowed faint red when he spoke. The sound did not so much travel as press itself into the skull, transmitted through low-frequency resonance emitters that induced nausea and vertigo, a bass vibration felt more in bone than ear.
At the joints, scorched cables and ceramic musculature flexed and contracted, glowing like cooling slag pulled from a forge. The machine moved with ponderous inevitability, each motion deliberate, inexorable.
Robert's grip tightened on his blade. His jaw set. He shifted his stance instinctively, placing himself squarely between the entity and Lingaong Xuein's unconscious form. His shoulders rolled once, tension coiling through his frame like a drawn bow.
"…So," he muttered under his breath, eyes narrowed, voice edged with a grim, sardonic calm, "you're the thing that sends monsters to do your work."
The figure stopped several metres away. The red slit on its helmet brightened.
When it spoke, the sound vibrated through the asylum's hollow bones, rattling metal and marrow alike.
"I am Ash-Sark," it intoned, voice layered and resonant, like multiple tones speaking in unison. "Two-Tier Sinner. Warden of what should never have awakened."
Robert felt the pressure of the sound claw at his temples, but he endured it, planting his feet more firmly, blade lifting into guard. His expression did not falter—only his eyes sharpened, flint struck against flint.
"Well," he replied coolly, breath steady despite the heat rolling off the creature like a furnace gale, "you've chosen a poor night to make introductions."
Behind him, emergency lights flickered erratically, bathing the scene in pulses of red and white, like a dying heartbeat. The air thickened, heavy with heat and impending violence.
Ash-Sark took one more step forward.
The floor cracked.
Robert did not retreat.
Ash-Sark moved first.
Not swiftly, but inevitably—a calamity in motion rather than a combatant. The furnace-veins along his armour flared brighter, ember-lines pulsing as heat thundered outward in a concussive wave. The air screamed. Loose debris skittered across the floor like frightened vermin.
Robert reacted on instinct.
He surged forward, boots striking concrete in sharp cadence, blade igniting with a low hum as he slashed upward. The strike carved sparks from Ash-Sark's chest plating, metal shrieking as the impact skidded across reinforced alloy. The blow would have cleaved a lesser foe in two.
Ash-Sark did not even stagger.
Instead, a massive arm swung sideways—brutal, contemptuous. Robert barely raised his guard before the strike landed. The force was colossal. He was lifted clean off his feet and hurled across the chamber like a discarded marionette.
His body slammed into the far wall with a thunderous crack.
Concrete fractured outward in a spiderweb bloom. Robert's breath was ripped from his lungs; his vision exploded into white noise. He slid down the wall, leaving a dark smear of blood in his wake. His limbs tingled, then dulled, numbness creeping in like winter frost.
He spat blood onto the floor, teeth clenched, forcing his body to respond.
Ash-Sark advanced.
Each step sent tremors through the asylum's skeleton. The heat intensified, paint blistering, old tiles popping and splitting under thermal stress. The red slit on his helmet burned brighter as he loomed over Robert's fallen form.
"Your resistance is… inefficient," Ash-Sark said, his voice reverberating through the chamber, the resonance clawing at Robert's inner ear, making his skull throb. "You are flesh challenging a furnace."
Robert pushed himself up on one elbow, blade scraping weakly against the floor. Blood streamed down his temple, matting his hair, dripping from his chin. His breathing was ragged, but his eyes—defiant, feral—remained fixed on the towering sinner.
"Funny thing about furnaces," Robert rasped, forcing a crooked grin through the pain. "They burn hottest… right before they collapse."
Ash-Sark seized him mid-sentence.
A gauntleted hand closed around Robert's chest plate and lifted him. The pressure was suffocating; metal groaned, ribs protested. Robert gasped as his feet left the ground.
With a violent roar of servos, Ash-Sark flung him again—this time straight through a support pillar.
The impact was catastrophic. Stone and steel detonated outward as Robert's body smashed through, tumbling end over end before crashing hard onto the floor. He skidded across broken tiles, coming to rest amid dust and debris, blood splattering in an ugly arc.
For a moment, he did not move.
Ash-Sark approached, heat distortion rippling like a mirage around his frame. He loomed over Robert, shadow vast and oppressive, and lowered his burning gaze.
"Remain prone," Ash-Sark intoned coldly. "Your struggle ends here."
Robert's fingers twitched.
Then clenched.
Slowly—agonisingly—he rolled onto his side, coughing, blood streaking his face. His blade lay a few feet away, just out of reach. His body screamed for surrender, nerves aflame, muscles trembling.
But surrender was not in him.
Not while Lingaong Xuein lay behind him.
He drew one knee beneath himself and began, stubbornly, to rise.
Undoubtedly, Ash-Sark was going to blow Robert, he got kicked at his waist that makes his bones crash before he can defend himself and goes slam by the wall instinctively. Robert was shocked too. Ash-Sark gasp for air, he glance who did this. To his surprise, Lingaong Xuein standing in front of him from the distance. He thought to himself how she remained steady then his mind realise that she is in an adrenaline-reflex arc.
As Lingaong Xuein remain unconscious but her body remain steady and alive for the adrenaline rush and reflex arc.
Reflex Arc is a protective mechanism is a rapid, automatic neural pathway that minimizes damage from harmful stimuli. A signal from a receptor (e.g., pain or heat in the skin) travels to the spinal cord, where it synapses with a motor neuron, immediately triggering a muscle to contract (e.g., withdrawal of a limb). This happens without conscious thought.
Adrenaline Response is a response when the body is in a dangerous situation (which could be the cause of senselessness or occur during it), the sympathetic nervous system is activated, causing the release of adrenaline. This results in physiological changes such as increased heart rate, dilated pupils, and increased blood flow to muscles.
In the case of a senseless person, these systems working together would result in involuntary physical reactions to a harmful stimulus, even without the person being consciously aware of the danger or pain. The individual might exhibit a withdrawal reflex, such as pulling their hand away from a source of pain or heat. The person's body will still experience the effects of adrenaline, potentially showing signs like a rapid pulse or changes in breathing, as the body attempts to respond to a perceived threat or injury.
The key takeaway is that these are automatic responses that do not require brain processing or consciousness. Therefore, their function can be present even when a person is senseless, and healthcare providers often check these reflexes to assess neurological function.
So that means she is senseless but her body and mind gives response.
Her abdomen rose and fell in sharp, controlled breaths, each movement a metronome of survival. Fingers curled and uncurled as micro-adjustments rippled through her frame. Her stance was balanced, lethal in its stillness, like a statue carved at the exact moment before motion.
Ash-Sark took a step back.
For the first time, his voice faltered, the resonance wavering as the red slit on his helmet dimmed, then flared.
"A paradox," he intoned, more to himself than to them. "The body obeys… while the mind sleeps."
Robert dragged himself upright against the wall, watching her with a mixture of awe and dread. His chest tightened—not with pain this time, but with something colder.
"Xuein…" he breathed, voice raw.
She did not answer.
She could not.
Yet her body shifted—weight redistributing, muscles coiling again—ready to strike should Ash-Sark move within reach.
The asylum groaned around them, heat and shadow twisting together, as predator recalculated and prey—unconscious yet defiant—stood between him and his kill.
It had merely changed its rules.
The moment Ash-Sark advanced, the air itself seemed to recoil.
Lingaong Xuein moved first.
Not with conscious intent, not with strategy—but with pure, distilled reflex. Her body reacted before thought could ever arrive, pivoting on the ball of her foot as if guided by an invisible hand. The floor cracked faintly beneath her as she launched forward, motion blurring into a streak of controlled violence.
Ash-Sark swung a molten fist.
She was already gone.
Her torso twisted aside with preternatural economy, heat grazing past her shoulder as her arm shot out and seized a rusted steel rod jutting from the debris—a reinforcement bar torn loose from the asylum's skeleton. In her grasp, it ceased to be scrap. It became a blade.
Her stance lowered. Spine aligned. Breath synchronised.
Then she struck.
The rod sang through the air, a metallic shriek slicing the haze as she drove it into the joint of Ash-Sark's shoulder. Sparks erupted like fireflies. The impact rang through the chamber, reverberating off concrete and steel alike. Ash-Sark staggered, vents flaring wildly as he retaliated, backhanding her across the floor.
She rolled—absorbing the momentum instinctively—then sprang up again, already inside his guard.
Ash-Sark roared, resonance emitters surging, the sound thick and nauseating. Robert clutched the wall as the low-frequency waves rattled his skull, vision swimming.
Xuein did not flinch.
Her nervous system bypassed fear entirely. Pain signals were acknowledged, catalogued—and discarded.
She leapt, driving the rod like a sabre across Ash-Sark's chest plating. Armour split. Ember-veins ruptured, spilling incandescent light as if his very circulatory system had been flayed open. He grabbed for her—
Too slow.
She planted her foot against his torso and vaulted upward, twisting mid-air with balletic precision. The rod plunged down into the exposed spinal vent.
The result was catastrophic.
Ash-Sark howled—not in agony, but in malfunction. His mech-gear screamed as systems overloaded, heat venting violently. Plates sheared loose. Cables snapped, writhing like severed nerves. The furnace within him sputtered, dimmed, then surged erratically.
He stumbled backward, each step heavier than the last.
"This shell…" his voice fractured, glitching, "…is compromised."
Xuein advanced once more, relentless, raising the rod for a final strike.
But Ash-Sark was already retreating.
With a thunderous stomp, he activated an emergency phase-shift. The air warped violently around his frame, heat collapsing inward as if swallowed by a void. In a flash of cinders and distortion, he vanished—leaving scorched ground and ringing silence in his wake.
The asylum fell still.
The rod slipped from Xuein's fingers.
Her body—its purpose fulfilled—finally surrendered.
She turned unsteadily, steps faltering, and began walking towards Robert. Her eyes were vacant now, adrenaline ebbing, the reflex arc collapsing like a bridge after the crossing. Her knees buckled.
"Xuein!" Robert caught her just in time.
She collapsed into his arms, weight sudden and fragile, breath shallow but present. Sweat chilled on her skin as the tension drained from her frame. Her head lolled against his shoulder, utterly unconscious.
Robert held her tightly, jaw clenched, eyes burning with a mixture of terror, relief, and incandescent rage.
"…You absolute maniac," he whispered hoarsely, pressing his forehead to her hair. "You scared the life out of me."
His hand trembled as he reached for his communicator.
"Gonda," he said the moment the line connected, voice low but urgent. "It's Robert. We've got a situation at Gonjianoya. Ash-Sark confirmed—Two-Tier Sinner. He retreated, but Xuein's down. She's alive, but I need extraction now."
He looked down at her again, tightening his grip as if daring the world to take her from him.
"Please," he added quietly. "Make it fast."
The asylum answered only with silence—watchful, waiting—as the storm outside rumbled on.