On the evening of 4th January 2050, the appointed hour descended with the patience of fate.
Rain fell in fine, relentless threads, striking pavement and stone with a percussive murmur. It collided with the facades of buildings and streamed along gutters like liquid mercury. Pedestrians hurried beneath illuminated awnings, coats drawn close, their silhouettes blurred by the glistening veil. Hover-engines hummed overhead — a mechanical susurration weaving through the night air — while distant streetlights flickered as though uncertain whether to resist the storm or surrender to it.
From afar, a call to prayer drifted across the metropolis — solemn, resonant, threading through the rain like a memory of older civilisations beneath newer empires.
Towering above the district stood the Otel Zolotaya Imperiya — The Golden Empire Hotel.
Its architecture was a formidable marriage of neo-imperial Russian grandeur and futurist austerity. Colossal Corinthian columns framed a façade of pale stone and smoked glass. Gilded double-headed eagles crowned the upper cornices, while beneath them, seamless holographic panels shimmered faintly like captive auroras. The entrance canopy arched in wrought iron filigree, illuminated from beneath by amber light that rendered arriving guests as figures stepping into theatre.
Inside, the lobby was cathedral-like — vaulted ceilings adorned with frescoes of celestial constellations, marble floors inlaid with black onyx, and chandeliers refracting gold light in crystalline cascades.
High above the city, within a private suite, Agent-90 stood motionless before the panoramic porthole window.
The metropolis stretched beneath him — restless, luminous, treacherous.
His eyes were opredelyat, fixed with unassailable clarity.
He reached for his briefcase with deliberate calm and opened it. Within lay the Vespera-9 Whisper — a sleek, matte-black suppressed pistol engineered for silence and inevitability.
With swift tochnost, he performed perezaryadka — the slide gliding back with a soft metallic breath.
Behind him, steam drifted from the bathroom as Zoyah emerged, towelling her hair. The heat of the shower had lent her complexion a faint warmth, softening her otherwise unassailable demeanour.
She paused when she saw him.
"Well," she drawled, one brow arching as she leaned casually against the doorway, "someone's eager to attend a party."
He glanced at her briefly but said nothing.
The doorbell rang.
A sharp chime.
"BELLBOY!" came the muffled announcement.
Zoyah startled — a reflexive, feline motion — shoulders tensing as though she might spring. In chibi exaggeration, a tiny version of her puffed up like an affronted cat, tail bristling.
She padded silently to the door and peered through the keyhole.
A koridornyy stood outside — uniform immaculate, face obscured beneath the brim of his cap.
Agent-90's voice was level.
"Open it. And do not behave suspiciously."
Her inner monologue flared indignantly.
You're the one who looks suspicious, reloading a silenced pistol in a luxury suite.
Nevertheless, she unlocked the door.
The bellboy entered with measured steps.
Agent-90 regarded him coolly.
"Evening, 47."
The man removed his cap.
Agent-47.
"I brought your outfits," he said calmly.
He set down a garment case and a reinforced case upon the table.
Agent-90 changed first.
His attire was a study in austere elegance: a tailored black social-tactical suit with subtle reinforced seams woven invisibly into the fabric. A fitted waistcoat sculpted his frame, matte-black tie precisely knotted. His coat fell clean and deliberate, neither flamboyant nor understated — simply inevitable.
Black spectacles rested upon the bridge of his nose, lending him the air of a statesman rather than an assassin.
In chibi cutaway, tiny Agent-90 adjusted his glasses while sparkles flashed dramatically.
Then Zoyah stepped forward to don her Crimson Banquet ensemble.
When she emerged fully dressed, the suite seemed momentarily smaller.
Her high-collared bodice of layered silk and velvet bore dark crimson tones woven with subtle black flame embroidery. Gold-thread phoenix insignia crowned her collar and shoulders — not ostentation, but declaration.
The structured tailoring sharpened her silhouette with architectural precision. Beneath the ceremonial beauty lay reinforced lining — unseen, battle-ready.
An obsidian sash cinched her waist, secured by a jade clasp carved in the likeness of a rising flame. Fine gold chains draped subtly across her hips, chiming faintly when she moved. The layered skirt flowed with controlled grace — semi-sheer crimson over matte black satin — a side slit permitting fluid stride without compromising dignity.
When she walked, the silk moved like slow-burning fire.
Her cloak fell behind her — black edged in gold thread, crimson lining flashing when she turned, evoking the image of a warlord attending diplomacy rather than a court ornament.
Silver hair partially braided at the crown, phoenix hairpin gleaming. Thin gold ear chains swayed with faint musicality. A jade pendant rested at her sternum.
Deep red lipstick — precise as a verdict.
She glanced at herself in the mirror, then smirked.
"Well," she said lightly, adjusting her sash, "if I must attend a massacre masquerading as a feast, I shall at least look magnificent."
Agent-47's gaze flickered between them.
"You two will draw attention," he said flatly. "Which is precisely the point."
Agent-90's eyes shifted toward Zoyah.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
She met his gaze — unflinching.
"Always."
In chibi imagination, she struck a dramatic pose while imaginary phoenix wings flared behind her.
He gave a single nod — one not merely of coordination, but of respect.
Rain continued to lash against the windows, streaking the city in silver veins.
"Let's get going then," he said quietly.
And together they stepped toward the door — not as fugitives, not as guests —
But as storm and flame entering a hall built of dry timber.
Outside the SSCBF Headquarters, the flag bearing its dandelion insignia — petals symbolising law and justice dispersed yet united — rippled against the rain-laden wind. The fabric snapped sharply, as though protesting the night's concealed intentions.
Within, the Grand Ballroom unfolded in almost ecclesiastical splendour.
It was less a hall and more a monument to ambition — a structure so vast and luminous it appeared carved from the bleached bones of the future itself. The ceiling arched into a translucent dome of refracted glass and woven nanofibre, where artificial constellations shimmered and dissolved in programmed auroras. Light breathed overhead — waxing, waning — like a celestial lung.
Hovering drones drifted lazily through the air like metallic fireflies, their soft radiance mingling with crystal chandeliers suspended by invisible magnetic fields. The music was neither wholly classical nor entirely synthetic — violins interlaced with digital harmonics, reverberating faintly through the marble floor in a pulse that felt almost cardiac.
Politicians in aristocratic regalia conversed in measured tones. Military officers bore decorations that gleamed like miniature suns upon tailored uniforms. Silk brushed against silk; medals chimed faintly against crystal glassware.
Lieutenant Nightingale stood near one of the sweeping staircases, posture impeccable.
Her midnight-blue bodice shimmered subtly beneath the chandeliers — nano-silk catching light in faint ripples. The high collar, embroidered with silver wing motifs, framed her poised neck. Metallic accents contoured her shoulders — softened armour, ceremonial rather than combative. Translucent sleeves flowed like mist, embroidered with delicate circuitry patterns in pale silver.
The sapphire and obsidian panels of her gown parted gently as she shifted her weight, revealing silver-grey lining that created the illusion of moving shadows. A restrained slit allowed mobility without compromising decorum.
Her silvery-aqua hair was partially braided and secured with a crystal clasp shaped like folded wings; the rest cascaded fluidly down her back. Her turquoise gaze scanned the hall — observant, calculating.
She inhaled quietly.
"Composure," she murmured to herself. "Tonight is theatre, not battle."
Her eyes then locked upon the entrance.
Lingaong Xuein had arrived.
For a fleeting second, Nightingale forgot her rehearsed poise.
Xuein entered not as a mere captain, but as though the empire itself had decided to walk.
Her midnight-black silk gown flowed with deep crimson gradients like ink bleeding into fire. Gold thread embroidery formed a crescent-and-phoenix hybrid across her bodice, cloud motifs intertwining with Ottoman arabesque filigree. The structured qipao-inspired collar framed her face with austere authority.
An Ottoman-style belt in matte antique gold cinched her waist, crescent-shaped centrepiece gleaming with a red gemstone. The layered skirt moved deliberately — each step measured, powerful. The translucent crimson outer sleeves drifted like controlled flame whenever she lifted her arm.
Her ceremonial cape — deep crimson velvet lined in black silk embroidered with the skyline of Nin-Ran-Gi — trailed behind her like an imperial decree.
Nightingale's jaw very nearly dropped.
In chibi exaggeration, tiny Nightingale clutched her own cheeks while sparkles erupted around Xuein like animated fireworks.
"Captain…" Nightingale breathed softly. "You look as though the empire requested a manifestation."
Xuein blinked in mild surprise.
"Nightingale," she said, inclining her head. "You appear rather resplendent yourself. I was under the impression we were attending a feast, not a coronation."
Lan Qian joined them, her attire inspired by modern Chinese aesthetics — sleek ivory silk dress with minimalist embroidery in silver thread, asymmetrical hemline suggesting quiet innovation rather than tradition. Her dark hair was styled in a smooth low bun, secured by a simple jade comb.
She smiled faintly.
"If this is a coronation," Lan Qian mused dryly, "then I expect an abdication before dessert."
Nightingale allowed a small laugh.
"Do behave," she whispered, though amusement flickered in her eyes.
The rhythm of measured footsteps approached.
Captain Robert entered the hall in attire inspired by Russian aristocracy — a tailored deep-burgundy coat with gold-trimmed cuffs, black waistcoat embroidered subtly in imperial motifs, polished boots reflecting chandelier light. His dark hair was neatly combed back; a gloved hand rested casually behind his back.
He approached Lingaong Xuein with a courtly smile.
"You look beautiful, my lady."
Xuein arched a brow faintly.
"Flattery so early in the evening, Captain?" she replied coolly, though the faintest warmth coloured her tone.
She extended her hand with controlled grace.
Robert took it, bowing slightly as he pressed a respectful kiss to her knuckles.
"It is not flattery," he said smoothly. "Merely an acknowledgement of evident splendour."
Nightingale leaned subtly toward Lan Qian.
"He rehearsed that," she murmured.
Lan Qian nodded solemnly.
"At least thrice."
Robert glanced toward them, smirking.
"I heard that."
Nightingale folded her arms lightly.
"Your timing is impeccable, Captain. Your discretion, less so."
He placed a hand theatrically upon his chest.
"I am wounded."
His gaze swept the hall.
"Has Commander Krieg arrived?"
Lan Qian shook her head.
"Not yet. Perhaps detained."
As though summoned by the question, a ripple passed through the crowd.
Commander Krieg entered.
He wore a high military-grey ceremonial uniform — tailored to austere perfection. Silver insignia gleamed upon his shoulders; a dark sash crossed his chest. The faint silver at his temples caught the chandelier light. His expression was composed, though a shadow of contemplation lingered behind his eyes.
Robert straightened instantly.
"Commander," he greeted, inclining his head. "You honour us."
Krieg gave a restrained nod.
"I trust the evening has not devolved into chaos in my absence."
"Not yet," Robert replied lightly. "Though give it time."
Krieg's lips curved faintly.
"Let us hope," he said quietly, "that tonight remains ceremonial."
Above them, artificial constellations shifted.
Below, wine glasses chimed.
The feast had begun.
And beneath its splendour — beneath silk, medals, and calculated smiles — tension coiled invisibly, like a blade concealed beneath banquet linen.
The feast continued in its orchestral splendour — violins threading through ambient digital resonance, crystal flutes chiming like distant bells beneath a dome of artificial constellations.
Then the great doors parted once more.
A subtle hush rippled outward.
The Celestial Unit had arrived.
At their fore strode Captain Lingaong Xuemin.
If Lingaong Xuein embodied imperial flame, Xuemin was tempered steel beneath starlight. He wore a ceremonial high-collared coat of deep astral navy, tailored close to his frame, its fabric woven with faint silver filaments that caught the chandelier glow like frost tracing a winter pane. A vertical seam of pale platinum ran from collar to hem — symbol of alignment and discipline. His shoulders bore structured epaulettes shaped subtly like stylised constellations, each star insignia denoting campaign honours rather than political favour.
A silver chain clasp fastened a short mantle across his right shoulder, embroidered with the Celestial Unit's sigil — a six-pointed star encircled by a ring of orbiting lines.
His black gloves were immaculate. His expression, austere yet not unkind.
Beside him walked Captain Feng Shaoyun.
Where Xuemin was winter sky, Shaoyun was dawn breaking through storm.
She wore a fitted ceremonial dress of pale moon-silver silk layered with translucent ice-blue chiffon. The bodice, structured and high-necked, was embroidered with delicate cloud motifs in opalescent thread. Her sleeves, long and tapering at the wrists, shimmered faintly as though dusted in morning frost.
A narrow metallic sash of brushed titanium circled her waist, bearing a subtle insignia of the Celestial Unit. Her dark hair was styled into a sleek braided crown, secured with crystal pins shaped like falling stars.
Her posture was straight, chin lifted — not haughty, but resolute.
Following them came the rest of the Celestial Unit.
Ping Lianhua moved with quiet composure. She wore a layered gown of muted jade and pearl-white silk, the fabric embroidered with lotus motifs in pale gold thread. The sleeves were modest yet flowing, evoking the serenity of still water. A thin silver chain circled her brow — simple, dignified. When she walked, she seemed less to tread and more to glide.
Qu Yexun contrasted sharply — clad in a sharply tailored obsidian suit with angular lapels edged in metallic cobalt thread. A high-collared inner shirt bore faint geometric patterns reminiscent of circuitry and ancient sigils intertwined. His hair was slicked back, expression wry — eyes flicking about the hall with calculating interest.
Yang Shaoyong completed the formation — broad-shouldered, wearing a ceremonial long coat of charcoal grey trimmed with deep maroon. Silver clasps fastened the coat asymmetrically across his chest. A crimson sash fell diagonally from shoulder to hip, embroidered with phoenix feathers in subdued thread. His boots were polished to mirror sheen; his stance grounded, immovable.
Together they entered not merely as officers, but as a constellation given flesh.
In chibi exaggeration, tiny versions of them shimmered dramatically, each striking heroic poses as sparkles rained down.
Captain Robert's eyes lit with approval.
"Well," he declared warmly as he stepped forward, "the heavens themselves have graced our terrestrial celebration."
Xuemin inclined his head slightly.
"Captain Robert," he replied, voice measured. "We trust we are not late."
"Not at all," Robert assured smoothly. "You have arrived precisely when the wine improves."
Feng Shaoyun allowed a faint smile.
"A dangerous metric for punctuality."
Lingaong Xuein approached Xuemin with composed authority.
"Captain," she greeted. "Your presence fortifies the evening."
"As does yours," Xuemin replied evenly. His gaze flickered briefly over her Ottoman-phoenix regalia. "You appear prepared to negotiate peace or declare sovereignty."
Lan Qian murmured softly to Nightingale, "I am beginning to feel underdressed."
Nightingale, still quietly marvelling at the gathering of uniforms and silk, responded under her breath, "If this escalates further, I shall requisition armour for dessert."
Ping Lianhua offered a graceful bow toward Commander Krieg.
"Commander," she said gently, "it has been some time."
Krieg nodded with restrained respect.
"Too long," he replied. "I am relieved to see the Celestial Unit intact."
Qu Yexun glanced at the dome overhead.
"Intact, yes," he mused dryly. "Though one never knows when constellations might be rearranged."
Yang Shaoyong folded his arms behind his back.
"Let us hope tonight remains ceremonial," he said in a deep, steady tone.
Robert gestured expansively toward the hall.
"Please," he said, "eat, drink, and reassure our political overseers that the military can still attend a gala without staging a coup."
Shaoyun's brow lifted slightly.
"That depends on the music," she replied with delicate irony.
Soft laughter passed among them.
The feast pressed onward — silver trays circulating, diplomats exchanging veiled compliments like sharpened daggers disguised in velvet.
Above, the artificial auroras shimmered.
Below, silk and steel mingled.
And within the brilliance — amid phoenix embroidery, crescent insignias, and lotus-threaded grace — alliances stood like marble columns.
Yet even marble, under sufficient pressure, fractures.
Rain continued to fall beyond the perimeter gates of the SSCBF Headquarters, tracing silver veins down marble and steel.
Through that curtain of rain, Agent-90 and Zoyah approached.
Security lights cast elongated shadows behind them. Armed guards stood in disciplined formation at the entrance, uniforms immaculate, rifles slung with professional indifference.
Zoyah's voice lowered, though her lips retained their habitual curve.
"What if they notify on us?"
"They won't," Agent-90 replied evenly.
His tone was not arrogance — it was arithmetic.
He carried the briefcase in one hand. With the other, he offered his arm to her — an image of cultivated civility.
"Let's go."
She smirked faintly. "Very well, my dear."
She slipped her hand through his arm, drawing closer, posture poised, chin lifted. To any observer, they were merely another distinguished pair arriving fashionably late.
At the checkpoint, Agent-90 retrieved the invitation card from his waistcoat pocket and handed it over. The guard scanned it, eyes flicking briefly between document and bearer.
"Sir, please — the bag."
He nodded without protest, placing the briefcase upon the X-ray scanner.
The monitor displayed nothing unusual — only the benign geometry of reinforced lining and concealed compartments designed to appear innocuous. The female guard conducted a manual pat-down, professional and precise. Her hands traced shoulders, waist, the seam of the coat.
"All secure," she declared.
They were admitted.
Inside, light swallowed them.
The music drifted across polished marble — strings interlaced with digital resonance. Guests conversed in clusters, crystal bokal in hand, laughter measured, posture immaculate.
Zoyah exhaled slowly.
"So this is what power smells like," she murmured. "Expensive wine and concealed paranoia."
Agent-90 did not respond.
His gaze had already found them.
Nightingale. Lan Qian. Lingaong Xuein. Robert. Xuemin. Krieg.
For a fraction of a second, something unreadable flickered across his expression.
He leaned slightly toward Zoyah's ear and whispered.
Her eyes went shiroko raskrytymi glazami — with shock.
"If they recognise me?" she hissed under her breath. "Are you using me as bait?"
"They won't just act," he replied quietly, jaw set, eyes sharpened like drawn steel.
She studied him — searching for hesitation, finding none.
A sigh escaped her lips — not of surrender, but of reluctant trust.
"You are insufferable," she muttered softly.
Then she sobratsya s dukhom — and began walking towards Nightingale's circle.
Agent-90 watched her go.
And then he felt it.
That prickle at the nape of his neck.
Someone was watching him.
He shifted subtly, blending into the flow of guests. His eyes scanned.
Military officers from SSCBF, FAC, RABOC, Dominion Accord. BAPSE dignitaries. SCP personnel clad in red and grey — their uniforms severe, angular, their insignias sharp as warnings.
Several SCP officers held his gaze a fraction too long.
On the upper balcony, SSCBF guards stood posted with rifles — yet among them, he discerned discrepancies. Subtle misalignments in posture. Eyes too alert.
SCP operatives disguised as SSCBF.
Waiting.
Waiting for him to strike.
Minutes passed.
Then the atmosphere shifted.
Yan Zhang Yan entered.
Overseer of FAC, SSCBF, Dominion Accord, and BAPSE — architect of enforcement across half the civilised sectors.
He wore a high-collared ceremonial coat of obsidian black trimmed with gold braid. Medals cascaded across his chest in disciplined rows. His hair, streaked faintly with iron-grey, was combed immaculately back. His eyes were narrow, perceptive — the gaze of a man accustomed to power and unaccustomed to opposition.
Beside him stood Marguerite Laurent d'Aramont, Peace Ambassador of Her City.
She wore an ivory silk gown embroidered with subtle motifs of olive branches and doves in pale platinum thread. The neckline was refined, neither ostentatious nor timid. Her ash-blonde hair was swept into a low chignon, secured by a slender diamond comb. Her eyes — pale blue, almost argent — carried both warmth and calculation.
Behind them: President Zhang Wei, dignified in deep charcoal attire; his son Zhang Ji, youthful yet stern; and the High Council — Chairman Rahim Ahmed in emerald-trimmed black; Chairman Hiroto Nakamura in austere navy with crimson sash; Chairwoman Elizabeth Carter in structured pearl-white with gold filigree.
Yan Zhang Yan lifted his glass.
The room quieted.
"Distinguished colleagues," he began, voice resonant, measured. "Tonight, we gather not merely as officials, but as custodians of order. In times such as these — when turbulence tempts fragmentation — unity is not a luxury. It is necessity."
He paced slowly, commanding attention without raising volume.
"We have endured loss. We have endured treachery. Yet we stand — not fractured, but fortified."
He inclined his head solemnly.
"We honour the late Chief Wen-Luo. Lieutenant Ren-Li. Chief Wen-Li of SSCBF. Commander Ziaur Ahmed of RABOC. Commander Eidolon of Dominion Accord."
A pause.
"They did not fall in vain. They fell in service — to justice, to humanity, to a future unmarred by anarchy. Their sacrifices are not relics of sorrow but foundations upon which we shall build greater stability."
His voice hardened slightly.
"We must remain vigilant. We must remain resolute. And above all, we must remain united."
Applause rippled.
At the name of Eidolon, Agent-90's eyes widened.
It struck him like a blade driven between ribs — a memory he had buried beneath operational calculus.
His fingers twitched.
His palms were damp.
Why am I sweating? his inner voice whispered. This is execution, not hesitation.
Yan Zhang Yan descended from the dais, conversing amiably with Krieg, Robert, Xuemin. Marguerite joined Nightingale and the others in gentle discourse.
Agent-90 stood near the centre of the ballroom.
Alone amid splendour.
His gaze locked upon Yan Zhang Yan.
The music swelled.
His breath deepened.
Inhale.
Exhale.
If you want peace… if you want her soul to rest…
His grip tightened around the Vespera-9 Whisper within his coat.
The world narrowed — light dimming at the periphery, sound distorting like submerged echoes.
In chibi cutaway, a tiny Agent-90 stood at a crossroads labelled Duty and Destruction, rain pouring dramatically.
Back in reality —
He drew.
A single suppressed shot cracked through the air —
"BANG."
The sound — though muted — ricocheted across marble and glass like a rupture in reality.
Yan Zhang Yan staggered.
A dark bloom spread across his chest.
He collapsed.
Commander Krieg lunged forward, catching him before he struck the floor.
Wine glasses shattered.
Screams erupted.
Nightingale's turquoise eyes widened, pupils constricting.
Lan Qian froze, hand flying to her mouth.
Robert's posture snapped from courtly ease to combat readiness in an instant, coat flaring as his hand reached for his concealed weapon.
Lingaong Xuein's expression sharpened into something glacial — controlled fury contained behind imperial poise.
Xuemin pivoted, eyes scanning for trajectory and secondary threats.
Krieg knelt, cradling Yan Zhang Yan as blood stained the immaculate grey of his uniform.
"Get medical!" Krieg barked, voice thunderous.
The ballroom recoiled — guests stumbling backward, space clearing instinctively around the epicentre.
And there he stood.
Agent-90.
Vespera-9 Whisper steady in his hand.
Unflinching.
Every gaze in the hall locked upon him.
Silk and steel parted around him as though he were contagion.
The feast had transformed.
From ceremony —
To catastrophe.
And it was only the beginning.
The first scream had scarcely finished echoing when the lights began to fail.
It started as a tremor — a subtle fluctuation in luminosity overhead. The artificial constellations glitched, stars blinking out in erratic sequence. The translucent dome flickered; auroras fragmented into jagged shards of colour. Chandeliers suspended by magnetic fields trembled, their radiance pulsing in spasmodic intervals.
Once.
Twice.
Then the ballroom descended into a stuttering chiaroscuro of light and shadow.
Gasps rippled through the hall.
Emergency strips along the floor ignited in crimson bands, casting every face in a hellish glow.
The guards reacted instantly — rifles raised, laser sights converging upon Agent-90's chest.
Too slow.
His arm moved before thought could restrain it.
The Vespera-9 Whisper exhaled death in disciplined succession.
Pfft.
Pfft.
Pfft.
Each shot precise — cranial vault, centre mass of the skull. No hesitation. No flourish.
Marcella Vitale — information broker, curator of blackmail dossiers — collapsed mid-command, her datapad shattering across marble.
Giovanni Lupo — field commander — fell backward, eyes frozen in disbelief as blood stippled the marble like grotesque confetti.
Isabela Cruz — undercover operative — barely had time to reach her sidearm before her body folded soundlessly.
Renato Pereira — financial infiltrator — staggered against a pillar, sliding down in a crimson smear.
Lucia Nogueira — interrogator of infamy — crumpled with a gasp that never formed into words.
Five headshots.
Five corpses.
Five secrets silenced.
Agent-90 moved between bursts of flickering light, coat flaring like a dark pennant in storm wind. He did not stand and fire — he advanced, weaving through chaos, each trigger pull measured, economical.
Guests screamed and scattered.
Some officers attempted to draw.
They joined the dead.
Then—
A metallic clang split the air.
Something struck him from the side.
A reinforced rod connected with his shoulder, the impact reverberating down bone and sinew.
He staggered half a step — no more.
Raghav Seth stood before him — tall, broad-shouldered, eyes ablaze with focused wrath. His red-and-grey SCP uniform was immaculate despite the carnage.
"Enough," Raghav growled. "You've made your spectacle."
Agent-90's gaze lifted slowly.
Blank. Calculating.
Raghav swung again.
This time Agent-90 caught the rod mid-arc, gloved hand snapping around cold metal. Muscles flexed beneath tailored fabric.
Their eyes locked.
Then the rod twisted violently as Agent-90 pivoted, wrenching it from Raghav's grip and casting it aside.
The fight erupted.
Raghav lunged — fist driving toward Agent-90's jaw with punishing force.
FAAH!
Agent-90 deflected, forearm colliding against knuckles. He countered — a piston-like strike to Raghav's ribs.
FAAH!
Breath expelled from Raghav's lungs in a sharp grunt, yet he retaliated instantly — elbow smashing toward Agent-90's temple.
FAAH!
Agent-90 ducked, pivoted, drove a knee into Raghav's abdomen.
FAAH!
Their movements were brutal and efficient — no theatrical spinning, no wasted motion. Fists and forearms blurred in lethal cadence, fabric tearing, shoes grinding against marble slick with blood.
Raghav managed to land a clean strike — a hook across Agent-90's cheekbone.
FAAH!
Agent-90's head snapped sideways; a thin line of blood appeared at the corner of his lip.
He did not blink.
He answered with a sequence — jab, cross, palm-strike to sternum.
FAAH! FAAH! FAAH!
Raghav stumbled back into a banquet table, crystal exploding like shrapnel.
Meanwhile—
Zoyah had already moved.
In a flash of crimson silk, she leapt, fingers catching the balcony rail. With feline agility she vaulted upward, cloak flaring behind her like ignited wings.
In chibi exaggeration, a tiny phoenix screeched dramatically as she ascended.
Reality was less whimsical.
A guard raised his rifle.
Too late.
Her dagger slipped from beneath her sash — silver catching the fractured light.
She closed the distance.
Slash — across the throat.
A wet gasp.
Another lunged.
She pivoted, silk swirling, blade carving upward beneath the jaw.
Crimson sprayed against marble balustrade.
A third fired blindly — the round grazing her sleeve.
Her eyes hardened.
She drove the dagger into his clavicle, twisted, withdrew.
One by one they fell — not in spectacle, but in silence punctuated by desperate choking.
Below—
Commander Krieg and Lingaong Xuein half-carried, half-dragged Yan Zhang Yan toward the medical wing corridor. Blood seeped steadily through Krieg's gloves.
"Stay with me!" Krieg barked, voice splintering between command and desperation.
Marguerite clutched Yan Zhang Yan's hand tightly, her ivory gown staining scarlet. Her pale eyes were wide yet resolute.
"We are not losing him," she whispered, though her voice trembled like glass under strain.
Suddenly, armed guards blocked the corridor.
Gunfire erupted.
Krieg shoved Yan behind an overturned banquet table.
Bullets ricocheted off marble pillars, splintering wood, shattering glass.
Nightingale dropped into cover beside them, breath sharp but controlled. In one fluid motion she drew her pistol.
Her turquoise eyes narrowed.
"Enough of this farce," she muttered.
She leaned out — fired.
Crack.
One guard fell.
She shifted position.
Crack.
Another collapsed, rifle skidding across the floor.
Her movements were precise, almost balletic — controlled violence wrapped in ceremonial silk.
"Captain Xuein — left flank!" she called sharply.
Xuein responded without hesitation, cloak snapping as she drew her sidearm and returned fire with imperial composure.
Above, Zoyah dispatched the last balcony infiltrator and scanned the chaos below.
At the centre of the ballroom, Agent-90 and Raghav remained locked in savage contest.
Blood streaked across polished marble like grotesque calligraphy.
The feast had become a battlefield.
The dome overhead flickered violently — constellations shattering into darkness.
Order and anarchy collided beneath artificial stars.
Raghav staggered back from the shattered banquet table, breath ragged, blood streaking from a split brow.
Agent-90 closed the distance without ceremony.
His palm struck Raghav's face with savage force — a sharp, concussive crack that snapped the man's head sideways. Blood misted into the fractured light. Before Raghav could recover, Agent-90 drove his forehead forward.
The headbutt landed squarely against Raghav's nose.
Cartilage gave way with a sickening crunch.
Raghav reeled, disoriented — and in that fractional lapse, Agent-90 seized him by the ear.
Not by the collar. Not by the hair.
The ear.
His gloved fingers clamped down and pulled.
Raghav roared in pain, clawing at Agent-90's wrist as skin tore. The cartilage stretched grotesquely, then split under relentless force. Blood streamed down Raghav's neck, dark against the red-and-grey uniform.
Agent-90 held the torn ear for a heartbeat — regarding it with cold detachment — before discarding it to the floor.
Raghav, half-maddened with agony, lunged blindly.
Agent-90 sidestepped, hooked his arm around Raghav's neck from behind, and wrenched backward with brutal precision.
There was a sharp, definitive snap.
The body convulsed once.
Then slackened.
Agent-90 released him without flourishing. Raghav Seth crumpled to the marble — another extinguished star in a collapsing constellation.
A slow clap echoed from the smoke-hazed edge of the ballroom.
Captain Elan Mordechai emerged — immaculate despite the carnage. His dark uniform bore the subtle insignia of rank; his expression was composed, almost curious. In his hand, a pistol aimed steadily at Agent-90's chest.
"Impressive," Elan said coolly. "But unnecessary."
His eyes flicked briefly toward the fallen SCP operatives.
"You are breaking protocol. Gavriel instructed containment. Observation. Not annihilation."
Agent-90's lip curved faintly — not amusement, but something colder.
"Protocols are for men who fear consequences."
Elan's gaze sharpened. "You were to destabilise, not eradicate. You've severed assets we cultivated for years."
"And you," Agent-90 replied evenly, "mistook cultivation for control."
Elan fired.
Agent-90 pivoted; the bullet tore through fabric, grazing his ribs. He moved forward instead of retreating — collapsing the distance before Elan could recalibrate.
Elan drew a blade from a concealed sheath at his back in one fluid motion, slashing toward Agent-90's throat.
Steel met forearm as Agent-90 deflected, pain flashing through muscle. He caught Elan's wrist mid-strike, twisted hard. The blade clattered free.
Elan struck with his other hand — a calculated blow aimed at the throat. Agent-90 absorbed it, drove his knee into Elan's abdomen, forcing air from his lungs.
They grappled — close, vicious, efficient.
Elan attempted to reach for his sidearm again, but Agent-90 was faster. He seized the fallen blade, reversed grip, and with a violent upward motion drove it into Elan's temple.
The impact was catastrophic.
Blood sprayed across the marble column behind them.
Elan's body convulsed — then collapsed in two unceremonious halves of intention and flesh.
Agent-90 stepped back, breathing measured, coat soaked at the cuff.
Elsewhere—
In the medical corridor, disguised guards continued firing.
Krieg shielded Yan Zhang Yan with his own body as Nightingale and Lingaong Xuein returned fire from behind overturned stretchers.
Yan's breathing was shallow now — dangerously so.
"Pressure here!" Marguerite insisted, hands slick with blood yet unwavering.
Then—
A blur.
A shadow moving with surgical elegance.
One guard stiffened mid-trigger pull — throat opening in a clean crimson arc.
Another turned — too late — as a blade traced a silent signature beneath his jaw.
Bodies fell.
Zoyah stood amid them, dagger glistening.
Before Nightingale could fully identify her, Zoyah tossed a small canister at their feet.
Smoke erupted — thick, acrid, engulfing the corridor.
"Move!" Krieg barked. "Inside — now!"
They rushed Yan Zhang Yan into the medical facility as alarms howled through the building.
Back in the ballroom, smoke and flickering light rendered everything spectral.
Agent-90 turned —
—and found himself encircled.
The Celestial Unit.
Lingaong Xuemin stepped forward, posture rigid, eyes steady despite the carnage.
"This ends here," he said, voice firm but not raised. "You have nowhere left to manoeuvre. Surrender."
Feng Shaoyun stood to his right, blade drawn but controlled. Yang Shaoyong flanked left. Ping Lianhua's expression was sorrowful yet resolute.
Agent-90's gaze flicked past them.
His briefcase lay several metres away.
And behind Xuemin—
Chairman Rahim Ahmed emerged from partial cover, pistol rising toward Xuemin's unguarded back.
Time thinned.
Agent-90 moved.
He fired twice — clean, rapid shots.
Rahim Ahmed's chest snapped backward; he collapsed before a single word could form.
Silence followed — stunned, disbelieving.
Xuemin turned sharply, eyes widening at the fallen chairman.
"You—" Feng Shaoyun began, shock fracturing her composure.
Agent-90 lowered the pistol slightly.
"I eliminate threats," he said flatly. "Yours included."
They stared at him — enemy, saviour, executioner.
Elsewhere in the complex—
Chairwoman Elizabeth Carter and Chairman Hiroto Nakamura were escorted through a corridor toward rooftop extraction.
Footsteps echoed.
A figure stepped from the shadows.
Zoyah.
Hiroto's voice was deep, commanding. "Identify yourself. Step aside."
Zoyah tilted her head, a faint smile touching blood-streaked lips.
"I am the consequence you ignored."
Before guards could react, she moved — dagger flashing.
A throat was severed. A carotid opened. A gasp cut short.
Elizabeth attempted to retreat; Zoyah closed the distance and ended it with ruthless efficiency.
Bodies slumped against sterile white walls.
Moments later, she activated her comm.
"They're gone," she said calmly. "Zhang Wei and his son are heading rooftop. Extraction imminent."
On the rooftop—
Wind whipped fiercely as helicopter blades began their thunderous rotation.
Zhang Wei's face was pale but resolute. Zhang Ji paced near the open cabin, agitation overtaking discipline.
"Where is Yan Zhang Yan?" Zhang Ji demanded. "Is he alive?"
Zhang Wei seized his son's arm.
"He is irrelevant now. Get inside."
The helicopter lifted inches from the pad.
At that moment—
The elevator doors slid open.
Agent-90 stepped out.
Gun raised. Briefcase in his opposite hand.
Guards reacted, but too slowly.
He fired methodically — each round decisive. Bodies dropped across concrete.
The helicopter rose higher.
Zhang Ji spotted him and laughed incredulously.
"You think you can stop this?"
Agent-90 pressed the recessed button on the briefcase handle.
A red diode ignited.
He inhaled once.
Then hurled the briefcase with calculated force.
It spun through the air, caught in rotor wash, ascending toward the helicopter's undercarriage.
Zhang Ji's mocking grin faltered.
"What is that—?"
The explosion was instantaneous.
A violent bloom of fire engulfed the helicopter's midsection. The tail rotor disintegrated; the craft spiralled erratically before erupting into a secondary detonation mid-air.
Flaming debris rained against the skyline.
Silence followed — broken only by distant sirens and crackling wreckage.
Agent-90 retrieved his communicator.
"It's done," he said.
On the other end, Gavriel's voice flowed smooth as oil.
"I knew you would exceed expectation," he murmured, a sinister smile audible in the cadence. "Return to me. Tomorrow. We must discuss what comes next."
The line disconnected.
Minutes later, Zoyah emerged onto the rooftop, breath heavy, shoulders tense.
She looked at the burning horizon.
"You do realise," she said tiredly, "this will not be interpreted as subtle."
He regarded her briefly.
"Subtlety was never the objective."
She wiped blood from her cheek with the back of her hand.
"We need to leave. Before reinforcements arrive."
He nodded once.
Below them, the SSCBF headquarters burned in patches of flame and chaos — a monument fractured from within.
Together, they disappeared into the night.
Behind them, the artificial stars had gone dark.