The streets of Lungmen were covered in the silent tyranny of the night, which had crept in like a silent beast.
Neon signs blinked drowsily.
The fast food joint had long since emptied, save for a worker wiping down a counter and a dim flickering lamp at the corner of the street.
Howard stepped out first, the soft crunch of his boots pressing into the sidewalk.
Ch'en followed shortly after, arms crossed, coat gently swaying with the midnight breeze.
"You sure you don't want a ride back?" She asked, gaze flicking toward the road, then back to him.
Howard turned to her with a faint smile, his tone casual, polite.
"No need. There's something I need to take care of."
She paused, brows slightly lifting. "At this hour?"
"Mhm."
She narrowed her eyes a little. Not suspicious—concerned.
"…If you need anything, call me."
Howard raised his hand in a wave, that same smile still lingering on his face. "I will."
He watched as she walked away, each step taking her further from him until the shadows swallowed her figure whole.
He waited there a moment longer, letting the silence return.
And then he sighed.
It wasn't her questions that troubled him.
It was her future.
'Hah. Ch'en…'
A woman born for the blade, raised in steel, tempered by order.
She walks the righteous path, as dictated by law, by protocol, and by discipline.
The Special Inspection Unit Chief of the L.G.D.—respected, feared, idolised. A brilliant tactician, a master swordswoman.
A daughter to Lungmen's system and a weapon wielded by its hands.
But at this stage in time… she is nothing more than a bird in a cage.
Last year, the chains tightened further.
An Originium bomb. A failed mission. An infected wound.
She contracted oripathy that day—alongside her senior, Nine. And yet… she remained in position, untouched.
Wei Yenwu's influence stood tall like an ancient wall, shielding her from the repercussions.
But every wall is a prison when viewed from the inside.
She believes she is free; she believes she serves what's right.
But in truth, she flies in circles within gilded bars.
And what is a sword if it does not cut freely?
What is justice when it is shackled?
She doesn't know the full truth. Not yet. Not about me. Not about Wei.
Not about Lungmen.
I've planted the seeds, yes. Doubt has taken root. But seeds do not bloom in stone.
For her to awaken… for her to see the world as it truly is… Something must shatter.
In the original flow of events, that crack came with the Lungmen-Chernobog crisis.
It broke her. It freed her. It let her see the truth and hypocrisy she had long ignored.
But now… my interference has already twisted that course.
The gears no longer spin as they once did. And if that tragedy does not unfold, then neither will her rebirth.
She will remain chained—Wei's sword, Lungmen's mask, blind to the rot behind the gold.
I don't want that.
But what I do want is no easier.
If fate no longer delivers the blow, then I must.
A bitter thing.
To hurt someone in order to save them.
But if I do not carve open the sky, she will never see beyond the ceiling.
She will never fly.
And thus, a cruel thought grips me—firm and unrelenting:
"If I am to betray her to set her free…
…then so be it."
***
The night was deep, yet Lungmen never truly slept.
The streetlights painted long shadows across the alleys, and the city hummed with a low, eternal buzz, like a heart that refused to still.
Howard's boots clicked quietly on the concrete as he made his way back toward Ch'en's apartment.
A familiar routine, one he had repeated so many times that the path felt etched into his muscles.
But like all routines, he allowed himself a single deviation.
The coffee shop.
A quaint place tucked beneath an ageing office block, just wide enough to seat ten, just warm enough to chase away the cold.
He pushed the glass door open.
The faint chime of the bell above rang once—sharp, delicate—then silence.
Howard froze.
Something was off.
His eyes, sharp from years of observation, swept the space instinctively.
First—the bartender.
Different.
The usual spectacled man with a mop of brown hair was gone. In his place stood a woman with a blank expression, her smile too still, her hands too precise as they cleaned a spotless counter.
Second—the customers.
Or rather, the lack of them.
This place usually played host to office workers chatting over their bosses, couples nursing whispered arguments, and students half-asleep over textbooks. Now, not a soul.
Only stillness.
Howard stepped forward anyway, unshaken. He sat at his usual spot and tapped the counter.
"One caramel-black, no sugar."
The woman nodded without speaking. Her silence was deafening.
And then the door behind him opened—not with a chime, but a heavy clunk.
Boots. Dozens.
Men in black suits flowed in like ink, their presence overwhelming. They were lupos.
They were sharp, neat, and clean-shaven.
Their faces were impassive, but beneath their skin was something cruel and patient—like hounds taught to wait before the kill.
They fanned out around him.
Then came him.
A tall figure, sauntering in last like the final piece of a long, ominous ritual.
White suit. Tailored to perfection. His shoes barely made a sound.
He was Lupus—tall, narrow-jawed, with wolf-like ears twitching slightly under slicked-back silver hair.
His eyes glowed a pale amber, gleaming with intelligence and malice alike. His smile revealed white, flawless teeth.
"Well, well… Mr Howard. Took us a long time to catch you off guard."
Howard did not turn. He did not rise. His expression remained calm, eyes following the steam curling off his untouched coffee.
"You must be proud, then. What do you want?"
The man's grin widened.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a phone.
With a few swipes, he turned the screen toward Howard.
What he saw cracked the still mask he wore.
A live video.
A dim room, possibly a basement. Blood pooled on the floor, glistening beneath a flickering bulb.
Someone was tied to a chair—wrists raw and bound behind them. Their head hung forward, long green hair matted with sweat and blood.
Black tape sealed their mouth. A thicker strip covered their eyes.
Even unconscious, her presence was unmistakable.
Hoshiguma.
Ch'en's partner.
Howard's mind did not scream. It calculated.
He didn't ask why. The answer was always the same with men like these—leverage.
The lupus in white chuckled.
"You understand, then. Good. On your knees, hands behind your head. No sudden moves. We wouldn't want her bleeding out too soon."
Howard rose slowly.
He could tell. This wasn't staged. The blood was too real.
The breath is too shallow. The fear wasn't his. It was hers. And it was raw.
He knelt. The concrete bit into his knees.
A man in a black suit stepped forward and cuffed his wrists. Another approached from behind, slipping a black cloth over his head.
Darkness swallowed the shop.
Then—a sharp sting to the neck. A prick. A hiss.
A drug. Fast-acting. Untraceable.
Howard slumped.
Breaths slowed. Heart dulled.
He played dead asleep.
Because now, he needed to listen. To think. To plan.
***
Like goods, they carried Howard with a lack of ceremony and efficiency that came from practice.
His limp body was hauled into the back of a waiting truck, tossed onto the cold steel floor.
He felt the slight bounce and heard the metallic clatter of chains and equipment around him.
The doors shut behind with a deep clang, locking out the city and trapping him inside the echoing dark.
The vehicle roared to life.
He couldn't feel his phone. That, they'd taken.
But even without it, Howard's mind mapped the turns, gauged the time, and counted each stoplight by the rhythm of engine hums and distant horns.
Left. Right. Another right. Slower here—maybe a checkpoint. Then forward again.
Twenty-three minutes later, they arrived.
A warehouse. The air shifted—older, damp with rust and oil.
Rough hands gripped his arms. He was hoisted up again. His body swayed as they descended—metal stairs, echoing with each step.
Then the scrape of a chair.
He was dropped onto it. Cuffs still on. Still "asleep". He felt them tug at the black bag over his head.
And then—light.
Harsh, sterile, white.
He blinked slowly, adjusting.
Across from him, bound to a reinforced chair of her own, sat Hoshiguma.
She was still breathing.
But barely.
Blood clung to her uniform, crusted over in places.
Her jacket had been torn away. Her arms were bruised, wrists raw from where the restraints bit into her.
Her trademark horns—the pride of her Oni lineage—were chipped at the base. Dried blood ran from her scalp.
Howard's expression didn't shift, but something coiled tightly in his chest.
'So this is where she's been.'
She said she'd taken a break.
'Lies. Coerced, maybe.'
The door behind opened with a hiss.
The tall Lupus from earlier strode in, his white suit now pristine again—ironed smooth, the scent of cologne replacing the metallic stink of the warehouse.
He looked untouched, as though he'd walked out of a gala.
He gave a small, satisfied nod.
"Jolt him."
A guard flicked a switch.
Electric pain ripped through Howard's body.
Muscles contracted.
His eyes shot open with the force of it.
He gritted his teeth to hold back a scream.
His head jerked back before finally settling into a ragged, conscious breath.
"Good morning, Mr Howard," the lupus drawled, as though greeting a business partner over brunch. "Glad to have you back."
Howard didn't respond at first. He turned his eyes to Hoshiguma.
Her head lolled slightly to the side.
Her lips were pale, breathing shallow.
A black collar clung tight to her neck—mechanical, with thin glowing veins that pulsed dimly with red light.
His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke.
"What do you want?"
The lupus chuckled.
"Simple, really. You."
He stepped forward and leaned casually on the back of a nearby chair.
"You're quite famous among bounty hunters targets. Someone out there thinks you're dangerous. Important. Valuable. They're paying quite handsomely to see you brought in."
He gestured vaguely toward Hoshiguma.
"As for her… well, you know how it is. Collateral. Insurance. Gangs that need a payback for what she did."
He reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a slender remote.
"You see this little beauty? If I die… or try anything too clever, the sensor will activate."
He pointed toward the collar.
"That lovely piece of art will inject her with a full dose of unstable Originium extract. Painful. Lethal. Fast."
Howard said nothing.
He simply breathed—slow, measured. But beneath the surface, his thoughts moved like a glacier.
Not yet.
It was clear to him that the day would be long.