In a hidden location, a man was tied upright, his arms stretched wide, with ropes so tightly bound that they had already cut into his flesh.
His feet barely grazed the ground, forcing his body to hang in a constant state of agony, blood trickling down his chest in thin, uneven lines where the skin had been slowly and deliberately peeled away.
Tears streamed down his face, but he had stopped screaming; that moment had passed.
"I'm sorry, I swear… I didn't mean it. I was seduced. Please—please, I'm begging you," he sobbed, his voice cracking and hoarse.
His head hung low, tears dripping onto the dirt below.
"I'll do anything, so please forgive me," he whispered.
The sound of footsteps approached, and a woman stopped in front of him. Her blue hair, sleek and carefully arranged, framed a thin, somber face. Her red eyes were half-lidded, showing boredom rather than anger, and a faded scar crossed her face, starting from her right cheek, running past her lips, and ending near her forehead.
She studied him as one might examine spoiled meat.
"…Is that so?" she asked softly.
The man lifted his head in desperation. "Yes—yes! I mean it! I do, I do, I—"
She gently placed her hand against his cheek, and he froze; her palm was warm. She leaned in closer, breathing slowly and deeply, her nose nearly brushing against his skin.
"Aww, your face… it tells the truth," she murmured.
The man smiled through his tears, hope flooding his expression, but the relief he felt shattered into agony as her fingers tightened and her teeth sank into his cheek.
A scream tore from him as flesh was ripped away, blood spraying across her hand. She pulled back, chewing lazily while he convulsed against the ropes, choking on pain too vast to comprehend.
Her hand, stained with the taste of flesh, rose to her face as she licked the blood from her palm, sliding it to her middle finger. Her lips curled into a smile, her eyes gleaming with delighted affection.
"Bon appétit."
Back at the agency, or more specifically, in Shuren's office, Assad settled into one of the chairs.
Outside, the day was painfully ordinary; light filtered through the narrow blinds, and dust floated lazily in the air. Somewhere down the hall, laughter echoed, and the sound of boots echoed past.
Life continued on as if nothing had happened the night before, as if he hadn't faced his own death in his mind.
Assad rested his elbows on the armrests, fingers loosely intertwined. His posture seemed relaxed at first glance, but beneath the surface, tension coiled tightly, and occasionally, his jaw would clench for just a moment too long. Each breath felt measured, almost deliberate.
He kept it all hidden.
Across the desk, Shuren lounged in her chair—if you could even call it that, given how she used it. Her boots were propped up on the table, soles scuffed and unapologetic, with an ashtray teetering dangerously close to a pile of untouched files.
A cigarette dangled between her fingers as she flipped through a magazine, the pages turning with a lazy indifference. Smoke curled upward, lingering in the air like a half-remembered thought.
Shuren then felt Assad's gaze wondering to herself what is wrong with him even though he is sitting doing nothing he is relaxing but he looks bored or worried which one on the two emotions Assad be feeling right now.
"Why are you looking at me something wrong?" Shuen asked.
Assad was jolted in surprise.
"Oh nah it's nothing just wondering what are you reading there." Assad replied back.
"Nothing of your concern."
Assad already knew this would be the answer but still got disappointed just from hearing it.
"Shuren, I have to ask.?"
Shuren looked at Assad wondering what is the upcoming question that is about to be asked.
"Isn't it quiet today like no missions or any jobs?"
"So are you that bored to have yourself drained or killed." Shuren replied.
"Well no that's not what I'm saying."
But before Assad could continue, Shuren's watch gets a call, she picks up to see who it is and it's Pixia.
"What is it Pixia?"
"Come on, not even a little soft greeting baby-baby. Well anyway we got another case of torture murder sending you the picture now." Pixia said.
Then a picture of a man who was tortured and a hole on his right cheek shows up on Shuren's screen. She sees the tortured man but is not fazed and only exhales some smoke.
"Who got the photo in the first place?" Shuren asked.
"The younger brother of the man and actually he is outside and is knocking on the door should I let him in." Pixia said.
"Yea let him in hope he has some money if he wants this case to be at least solved."
"Yes-Yes,baby-baby."
Then they both end the call. Shuren looks at Assad who was listening to the entire conversation.
"Assad come here and stand next to me."
"Why should I do that?"
Shuren does not answer but gives him that look again and Assad stood up without hesitation and walked to Shuren's left side and leaned on the wall. Judging by her expression she wants him to act the same way.
Then a knock is heard.
"Yea come in."
A young man stepped into the room and immediately froze, as if the very air was heavy. His shoulders shook, breaths coming in shallow, uneven gasps. He looked like someone who had rehearsed his words a thousand times, only to forget them all the moment he entered.
Shuren didn't bother to look up.
"Sit," she commanded.
He flinched at her tone but complied, lowering himself into the chair across from her desk. His hands trembled violently, fingers twisting together, pulling apart, then clenching again. Assad stayed where he was, leaning against the wall, silent as a statue.
Finally, Shuren closed the magazine she had been reading and rested it on her stomach, her eyes finally meeting his.
"What do you need?" she asked, her voice steady.
The young man swallowed hard, his throat working as if it pained him to speak.
"I—I want you to find the person who killed my big brother. Please," he said, his voice cracking under the weight of his plea.
With shaking hands, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small stack of bills, placing it on the table. It was only three thousand rand, the money looking thin and fragile.
Shuren stared at the bills for a moment before bursting into laughter, a sound laced with disgust at the meager offer for a murder case.
"This is what you brought me for a murder?" she asked, nudging the bills with two fingers.
The young man shrank back in his chair as she leaned forward slightly, her eyes locking onto his.
"If you want the person who sent your brother to the Goddess, you'd better come up with more," she said coldly.
His breathing hitched, panic rising.
"I—I don't have much, that's all I can offer," he stammered, his hands shaking even more now.
Shuren's expression didn't soften.
"Then get out, grieve properly, and stop wasting my time," she said bluntly.
Panic washed over his face as he realized his only source of help was slipping away.
"N-no, wait, please!" He fumbled in his pockets again, fingers clumsy with fear. More bills hit the table—another thousand rand. His hands hovered over the money for a moment, as if afraid it might burn him.
Shuren regarded the stack, then leaned back, a cigarette sliding between her fingers once more.
"Better," she said calmly.
As for Assad he watched the short conversation between Shuren and the young man. Outside he wasn't moving a muscle just doing as he was told but inside he was shocked, scared and with no clear understanding of what just happened.
The fact that she can switch sides just because of money is entirely different to him because even if it was for a few days of just knowing her she has never shown this side of her before.