On 2nd January 2050, it was well past midnight—2 a.m. to be precise—yet the bar remained open, its dim lights flickering like dying stars in a night sky. The air was thick with the scent of aged whisky, stale smoke, and lingering regret. Shadows clung to every corner, and the hum of hushed conversations drifted like ghostly whispers.
Agent-90 sat alone at the bar, nursing a glass of vodka, the icy liquid serving as a makeshift furnace to stave off the cold that clung to his bones after the grisly ordeal with Kim Ji-Soo. His face, usually impassive, bore the weight of grief—an expression carved from stone, yet beneath it flickered the remnants of a tempest. His mind replayed Wen-Li's words from that moment at Echelon Serenity, words that now echoed like distant thunder rumbling in his consciousness:
"You know, for someone who says nothing, you do manage to look very philosophical," she had said with a faint smirk, side-glancing at him with that subtle, knowing glance.
He remembered her smile, sharp and cunning—an attempt to draw out a laugh from the unyielding fortress that was his facade. But he was as silent as a mausoleum; her words, though light-hearted, felt like a brushstroke of colour across the grey canvas of his mind—yet no smile broken through his lips.
The door swung open with a faint creak, and in stepped Zoyah—a figure that seemed carved from midnight itself. Her flowing silver-white hair cascaded over her shoulders, shimmering like moonlight on dark water, while her attire exuded a rebellious elegance—a fusion of streetwise grit and battle-hardened grace.
Her long, unbuttoned black overcoat billowed behind her as if caught in an unseen wind, reaching mid-thigh to her knees, the wide collar framing her fierce, piercing gaze. Beneath, a cropped black top revealed her taut, sculpted abdomen—powerful yet graceful, a testament to her indomitable spirit. Her skirt, low-slung and structured, moved with her as she approached, secured by a broad leather belt with a utilitarian buckle, hinting at military precision.
Her tall, thigh-high boots gleamed darkly, almost reflecting the dim tavern's glow, as if forged from shadows. Every movement she made was calculated—deliberate, predatory, like a predator stalking its prey.
Without a word, she seated herself beside him, silent as a shadow, her gaze fixed on the distant horizon of his mind. He did not turn to her. Instead, he simply asked, with a voice that bore the weight of resignation, "What do you want, Zoyah?"
Her face, a mask of grief, softened momentarily. "I heard about the loss—the Chief's demise. My deepest condolences," she said, her tone heavy with genuine sorrow, yet beneath it a flicker of something else—resolve.
He sighed heavily, a breath that seemed to carry the burden of a thousand regrets. "You can't bring her back once they leave this mortal coil. No matter how much you wish it, the dead are beyond our grasp. As for Wen-Li—yes, she is no longer among us. But I won't allow those responsible to walk free, not while I still draw breath."
Her eyes flickered with curiosity, and she leaned in slightly. "I've also heard that you took the lives of some Chairmen and one woman of the High Council of SSCBF?"
He nodded, his jaw clenched. "Yes. What's it to you?"
She paused, then her voice softened—an almost reverent admiration woven into her words. "Because… I want to help."
He looked at her, eyebrows raised in silent inquiry. "Why?"
Zoyah's gaze lingered on the distant, flickering neon signs outside, her expression both fierce and contemplative. "Because Wen-Li believed in something greater—something worth fighting for. She was the embodiment of resilience, a beacon in the darkness. Her character was unyielding—like steel forged in the hottest fires, tempered by the storms of life. She refused to bend, refused to break, even when the world tried to drown her in chaos. I admired her strength, her unwavering resolve—her unbreakable spirit. If she could endure all that, then I can stand with you, in her name."
For a moment, silence stretched between them—thick as a fog, dense with unspoken truths and shared resolve. He studied her, measuring the sincerity behind her words, weighing her with the precision of a scalpel.
Then, with a slow, deliberate gaze that pierced through her, he issued a warning: "You tread a perilous path, Zoyah. Cross me, and you will find the abyss staring back. Never cross my line—never, for I am a storm that devours all in its wake."
Her face remained stoic, but her nerve prickled—like the sharp prick of a thorn beneath her skin. Yet, she nodded, accepting his threat with a quiet resolve.
"Understood," she whispered, voice like steel.
He turned away, the weight of his grief settling over him once more, yet beneath that sorrow lurked the unyielding resolve of a man who had tasted the bitter draught of loss—and sworn vengeance.
As they stepped out into the cool night air, the dim glow of neon signs flickering in the darkness, Zoyah turned to Agent-90, her expression sharp and inquisitive. "Where are we headed?" she asked, her voice smooth yet edged with anticipation.
Without hesitation, he replied, "To kill."
Her brow furrowed, eyes narrowing as she assessed him. "Kill whom?" she pressed, her tone cautious but unwavering.
"Ash-Sark," he answered plainly, his voice like a blade slicing through the silence.
Zoyah froze, her eyes widening in disbelief. She took a hurried step back, her hands instinctively rising to rest on her bare hips, fingers curling into fists that emphasized her formidable presence. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was laced with incredulity. "Wait—wait a moment. Ash-Sark? The Tier Sinner? The one they call 'The Living Furnace? Are you quite certain? You know what he's capable of—he's a master of chaos, a machine that destroys the entire city"
Agent-90's gaze remained cool, unreadable as he glanced at her with the calm of a predator assessing prey. His eyes, dark as a moonless night, held her in their unblinking depths. "There is a reason I want to deal with him," he said softly, with an undertone of ominous certainty.
Zoyah's posture stiffened, her arms crossing over her bare midriff, the muscles beneath her smooth porcelain skin rippling subtly—a display of controlled strength. She tilted her head, a fierce glint sparking in her eyes. "And what's that reason? Do tell," she challenged, voice sharp as a dagger's edge.
He paused, then spoke with deliberate gravity, "Because he's a robot machine that destroys the city so I am devil that hunts the monsters"
Her expression flickered—part defiance, part admiration—like a star daring to burn brighter in the midnight sky. She exhaled slowly, the air around her seeming to crackle with her resolve. "Well, if you're hell-bent on it, then I suppose I'll follow. Just don't expect me to go quietly. I've got my own scars to bear from that fire."
Her words, like a fierce wind through barren branches, carried a raw, unwavering conviction—unapologetic, unyielding. She was a tempest, unbridled and fierce, her stance a testament to the unbreakable spirit she carried within.
Agent-90 regarded her for a long moment—like a lighthouse keeper watching the storm approach—and then, with a faint nod, he turned into the shadows, leading her toward the darkness that held their deadly destination.
Still, midnight at Neon Gutter stretched beneath the colossal megastructures like a forgotten afterthought—an alley of fractured memories and flickering ghosts. Broken signs, half-dead in Zayraniq script and corporate logos long since absorbed or obliterated, pulsed with a tired, ghostly rhythm. Some glowed with a steady, mournful flicker, others twitched erratically, casting sickly pink, cyan, and violet hues that clung to the damp, cracked pavement like an otherworldly jaundice. The hum of these relics—a faint electric whisper—mingled with the distant rumble of generators, a constant undertone that vibrated through the wet, oppressive air.
Rainwater pooled in shallow gutters and fractured pavement, turning the alleyway into a mirror fractured by oil slicks and drifting refuse. Every reflection was a distorted testament to chaos—like shattered stained glass caught in a storm's fury, each fragment skewed and broken, yet still holding its own fractured beauty. When footsteps echoed through, the neon's ghostly glow fractured across the surface, scattering light like shards of a dying rainbow.
Buildings jutted upward in illegal, haphazard expansion—corrugated metal balconies hung precariously from concrete skeletons, external staircases zigzagged upward like exposed ribs of some long-deceased beast. Rooftops were cluttered with makeshift water tanks, jury-rigged solar panels, and signal interceptors—testaments to a society that refused to be subdued by neglect or authority. Many of these structures had once been mid-tier corporate housing, when infrastructure was a priority; now, they hummed with a patchwork of self-sufficient micro-generators, their flickering lights a testament to resilience in the face of chaos.
The scent in the air was a peculiar mélange—ozone, rain, and the faint aroma of cheap street food—mingling like a symphony of survival. Voices echoed in the narrow alleys, a chorus of life in a place where law was a fragile myth. Delivery drones skimmed low, their navigation lights reflected like fireflies in puddles. Music—distorted bass intertwined with static—escaped from open windows, a haunting lullaby of rebellion and resilience.
Neon Gutter wasn't lawless; it was self-governed—an anarchic ballet of syndicates, repair guilds, and community enforcers, each maintaining a fragile, uneasy truce. The Dominion rarely patrolled these depths unless they were hunting shadows or ghosts.
Zoyah and Agent-90 moved through this tableau of chaos with unyielding detachment. Their expressions—impossible to read—remained frozen, emotionless, as if carved from ice. The cold air brushed against Zoyah's bare midriff, her exposed abdomen catching the faint glow of the flickering neons. The sensation caused her to involuntarily shiver, her skin tightening as the chill seeped into her muscles, yet she showed no outward reaction—her stoic façade unwavering.
Agent-90's gaze was fixed ahead, his face an unreadable mask, the faint flicker of a distant memory reflected in his eyes. Still, he noticed her slight tremor and, in a rare moment of concern, broke the silence. "You okay?" His voice was low, measured—like a blade sheathed beneath a velvet cover.
Zoyah smirked at him, a glint of amusement dancing in her eyes. "Oh, I'm perfectly fine," she drawled, voice laced with dry sarcasm. "Just enjoying the brisk breeze that so kindly caressed my midriff—what a delightful touch of winter's embrace, don't you think?" Her tone was sharp, yet her smirk betrayed a flicker of playfulness—a rare crack in her otherwise stoic exterior.
He regarded her for a beat, his expression as impassive as a statue, then inclined his head slightly. "Good. Wouldn't want you catching a cold."
Her smirk widened into a sly grin. "Don't worry about me, my friend. I've survived worse—this is merely nature's way of reminding me I'm alive." Her eyes sparkled with a fierce, almost rebellious glint—like a flame refusing to be snuffed out, even amidst the darkness.
Both continued their measured stride into the shadows—silent witnesses to the chaos, yet unshaken. In that moment, beneath the flickering neon's ghostly light, they were statues carved from resolve—shaped by the storms they refused to surrender to.
The abandoned chemical factory loomed like a carcass picked clean by the relentless march of time—its ribs of rusted girders and shattered windows gaping like eyeless sockets in a skull long desiccated. The air hung heavy with the faint stench of sulphur and antiquated industry, a miasma of decay and former might. Wind threaded through fractured steel, producing a mournful, low keening—an echo of ghosts long departed, whispering secrets only the dead could comprehend.
Agent-90 and Zoyah moved through the skeletal entrails of the ruin, their boots echoing against the cracked concrete like distant thunder in a hollow cave.
Zoyah's gaze swept the shadows with trained vigilance. "Are you certain As-Sark is here?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, yet edged with suspicion.
Yes," 90 replied, his tone devoid of ornament. "He prefers places that remember fire."
As if summoned by the very mention—
A blast of flame erupted from the darkness, tearing through the corridor as violently as a newborn star igniting in the void. 90's pupils constricted instantly. Without hesitation, he seized Zoyah by the waist and hurled them both sideways. They hit the ground with a jarring impact, heat brushing over them like a living thing as flames licked the wall behind.
Concrete shattered. Steel screamed in protest.
90 rolled, coming up on one knee, eyes sharp and unyielding.
In the wavering distortion of heat—like a mirage melting in the desert—
He saw him.
Not a man
A furnace given horrific form.
Ash-Sark stood amidst the smoke, his mech-armour a grotesque reliquary of flame and ruin. Heat-resistant alloys blackened and fissured, glowing ember veins pulsing beneath the surface like malignant arteries. The plates were asymmetrical and brutal, bolted onto an older, half-melted frame—an abomination stitched together from the remnants of destruction. Heat vents along his spine exhaled shimmering air, distorting the world around him into a shimmering, hellish mirage.
Where he stood, the ground softened and darkened, surrendering to his temperature.
No weapon adorned him.
He did not require one.
"Ash-Sark," Agent-90 said.
The helmet's narrow slit glowed red.
"Velvet Guillotine," came the voice—low-frequency, resonant, nauseating. The sound vibrated through bone rather than air. "What a pleasure."
The slit turned towards Zoyah.
"And you," he continued, "why do you consort with this monster?"
Zoyah stiffened. Her jaw clenched, but before she could speak—
90 stepped forward slightly, shielding her.
"Mind your rhetoric," he said coldly. "You are in no position to judge monstrosity. Not while you wear one."
Ash-Sark emitted a distorted chuckle, metal reverberating.
"I heard about your Chief," he mocked. "Such a delicate flower. Extinguished so easily. How tragic. How… predictable."
For a fraction of a second—
Silence.
Then—
Rage ignited.
It was not loud. Not explosive.
It was glacial and absolute.
Agent-90 seized an iron rod from the debris-littered floor and hurled it with surgical precision.
The rod struck Ash-Sark's helmet with a thunderous clang, sparks erupting like a meteor's kiss.
"Watch your mouth," 90 said, voice now edged with lethal calm. "Speak her name again with disrespect and I will dismantle you piece by piece."
Zoyah stared at him, eyes wide.
She had seen him controlled.
She had seen him grieving.
She had not seen this.
His posture was rigid, shoulders squared, jaw taut. His blue eyes burned like frozen lightning.
Ash-Sark straightened slowly.
The dent in his helmet glowed brighter, heat intensifying.
"Good," he rumbled. "There it is. The wrath. I was concerned grief had made you dull."
The vents along his shoulders flared—
Another blast surged outward.
This time Zoyah moved first.
"Down!" she shouted.
She drew twin kinetic daggers, their edges humming. She leapt, blades carving through flame with centrifugal precision, dispersing the fireball's core before it fully formed.
The explosion split sideways, scorching pillars instead.
Ash-Sark advanced.
Each step left scorched imprints.
He swung a molten fist downward.
90 met it head-on.
He caught the descending arm with both hands; heat sizzled against his gloves, smoke rising instantly. Muscles strained, concrete beneath him cracking from the force.
The impact was cataclysmic—like tectonic plates colliding.
Zoyah circled, swift as a falcon. She vaulted off a rusted tank and drove a blade toward the exposed cables at Ash-Sark's knee joint.
Sparks burst.
Ash-Sark retaliated with a backhand sweep. The sheer kinetic shockwave hurled her across the floor.
"Zoyah!" 90 barked.
She rolled, coughed, forced herself upright. "I'm not porcelain!" she shot back, though blood streaked her temple.
Ash-Sark spread his arms.
Heat intensified.
The entire chamber began to glow faintly, as though the building itself were entering cremation.
"You fight like insects against the sun," he said. "You cannot extinguish inevitability."
"Perhaps not," 90 replied evenly. "But even the sun collapses."
He lunged.
Not at the armour—
But at the vents.
He vaulted, using a fallen beam as leverage, and drove both boots into Ash-Sark's spinal exhaust ports.
The impact jammed debris into the venting system.
The glow faltered momentarily.
Zoyah seized the opening.
She dashed forward, daggers flashing in rapid, fluid arcs—like calligraphy written in violence. She sliced through ceramic musculature at the elbow joint.
Ash-Sark roared—a sound like a collapsing furnace.
Steam and fire erupted unpredictably now, destabilised.
He grabbed 90 by the throat and hurled him across the factory floor. 90 skidded, metal shrieking against concrete.
Ash-Sark turned towards Zoyah—
Only for 90 to rise again.
Bleeding. Scorched.
Unbowed.
"You want a monster?" 90 said quietly.
His eyes intensified—an impossible, glacial luminescence.
"Then look at me."
He sprinted forward with inhuman velocity.
Zoyah mirrored him from the flank.
Parallel. Precise.
Like twin vectors converging upon catastrophe.
Ash-Sark unleashed a final conflagration.
Fire filled the chamber—blinding, apocalyptic.
And within it—
Two silhouettes advanced.
After a huge fight
The factory groaned around them, steel buckling under the feverish heat.
Ash-Sark lay half-kneeling, one arm malfunctioning, vents coughing erratic plumes of flame. His once-dominant posture had diminished into something almost human—almost breakable.
Agent-90 stood before him, breathing measured, eyes glacial.
"I am going to ask you," he said, voice devoid of tremor, "and you will answer. If you do, I shall leave you with what remains of your dignity. If you do not—"
He stepped forward and planted his boot upon the warped plating of Ash-Sark's forearm.
"—you will lose one arm. Let us begin."
Zoyah watched from several paces away, chest rising rapidly, soot streaking her cheek. Her daggers hung loosely now—not in fatigue, but in dawning apprehension.
"First question," 90 continued, crouching so his gaze aligned with the glowing slit of the helmet. "You attacked Captain Robert and Lingaong Xuein of SSCBF at Gonjianoya. By whose order?"
Ash-Sark's armour crackled. For a moment he remained silent.
90 tightened his grip on the mech-arm's exposed joint.
Metal screamed.
He twisted.
The sound was atrocious—like a ship hull tearing apart in a storm.
Ash-Sark roared, the resonance emitter warping into a discordant howl. "AAARGH—!"
"Answer."
"It was—!" He convulsed as sparks spat from the joint. "It was Mr. Zhang Ji! He ordered it! Five million ₴Z—transferred to my account—!"
The name hung in the air like a verdict.
Zoyah's eyes widened. "Zhang Ji…?"
Agent-90 did not blink.
"Five million," he repeated softly. "For treachery."
He rose slowly.
"You sold blood for currency."
Without warning—
He seized a jagged shard of reinforced steel from the debris and drove it clean through the weakened joint.
With a brutal wrench—
He tore.
The mechanical arm ripped free from Ash-Sark's body in a cascade of molten sparks and severed cables.
The scream that followed was not merely auditory—it vibrated through the marrow.
Zoyah staggered back, horrified. "Ninety—!"
Ash-Sark writhed, armour flaring uncontrollably.
Agent-90 held the severed limb briefly, then cast it aside as though discarding refuse.
"You speak her name with mockery," he said, stepping forward again, voice now cold enough to frost flame itself. "You dare to stain her memory with your furnace-breath."
He raised the shard.
Ash-Sark's helmet flickered.
"Mercy—!" the distorted voice croaked.
But mercy had already died elsewhere.
With one decisive motion—
He slashed across the neck seam.
The blade bit into the weakened alloy.
A second strike.
A third.
Then, with a savage final pull—
The helmet tore free from the torso in a burst of light and severed conduits.
The body collapsed, twitching.
The detached helm rolled across the concrete, red slit dimming into black.
Silence fell.
Only the hiss of failing heat vents remained.
Zoyah stood frozen, pupils dilated, breath shallow.
"Oh God…" she whispered. "You didn't have to—"
Agent-90 turned towards her.
His face was splattered with soot and something darker. His expression was not triumphant.
It was vacant.
"Whoever dares to orchestrate her death," he said quietly, "will not be granted the courtesy of survival."
Zoyah swallowed.
"You're becoming something else," she murmured.
"Perhaps," he replied. "Or perhaps I simply stopped pretending."
Suddenly—
A sharp electronic beeping erupted from the fallen mech-torso.
Both of them froze.
Zoyah's head snapped towards the sound. "That's not good."
The tempo increased—rapid, insistent.
Self-detonation.
"Run," 90 said instantly.
They bolted.
Not hesitating. Not looking back.
They sprinted through corroded corridors as the beeping escalated into a shrill crescendo. Overhead pipes burst from residual heat. Sparks rained like malignant confetti.
"Faster!" Zoyah shouted, vaulting over fallen beams.
Behind them—
A violent detonation split the factory's core.
The blast wave chased them like an enraged tempest.
They dove through the main entrance—
And the chemical plant erupted in a colossal explosion.
Flames burst skyward, devouring the skeletal structure. Windows shattered outward in glittering arcs. The shockwave hurled them across the gravel outside.
They rolled hard.
Debris rained from above.
For several seconds—
Only roaring fire and collapsing steel filled the night.
Zoyah coughed, pushing herself onto her elbows. The inferno reflected in her eyes.
She turned to 90.
He was already standing.
Still.
Watching the factory burn.
The fire illuminated him from behind, casting him as a silhouette against ruin—like a wraith carved from shadow and flame.
"That was madness," Zoyah said hoarsely. "We nearly died."
No answer.
"Ninety," she pressed, rising slowly. "Zhang Ji… this means war."
A pause.
Then—
"It was always war," he replied.
His tone carried no heat.
Only certainty.
Zoyah studied him carefully. "And what are we now?"
He did not look at her.
"We," he said, eyes reflecting the inferno, "are the reckoning."
The factory collapsed inward with a final thunderous groan.
Agent-90 did not flinch.