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Heisenberg was on edge. Slowly, he drew back the heavy curtains and cautiously peered outside through a narrow slit. But exhaustion blurred his vision; reflected in the glass he saw only his own bloodshot eye, the pupil shrunken to a pinprick.
Thorne Quarter, home to the powerful and wealthy, had never been particularly safe. Many prominent families even maintained private security forces of their own.
As a moderately famous director, Heisenberg could not afford a personal security detail, yet he was still considered a protected figure by the local Public Security Bureau. Recently, however, his requests for assistance had all been politely declined.
His friends had vanished—several well-known actors, a few screenwriters. They would suddenly lose contact, and the next day the news would report that they had been killed in some home invasion robberies.
Some of the victims had not even lived in Thorne Quarter but in Janus Quarter. Yet from the fragments shown in the news coverage, the crime scenes looked too clean.
Normally, the primary goal of a home invasion was theft; murder was usually incidental. But in the footage, the victims' homes appeared almost untouched—only a few drawers casually disturbed.
In a digital currency era, even if people kept valuables or emergency cash at home, they would hide them carefully or store them in safes. Finding them would take time, or force.
Yet the news clips showed no signs of frantic searching, no scattered belongings, no smashed furniture. In fact, one playwright friend had kept cash beneath clothes in the bottom of his wardrobe for emergencies. None of it had been taken.
What kind of robber overlooked something so obvious?
As a director—and once a film star—Heisenberg had worked on crime thrillers. He quickly spotted what was most wrong. At a memorial service, he noticed that a longtime collaborator still wore his gemstone-set gold ring in the coffin.
The Bureau typically returned valuables to families after collecting bodies. The victim's relatives told him the ring had remained on his finger, cherished to the end, and had even been cremated with him.
The so-called robber had not taken that valuable ring.
It was absurd.
When Heisenberg asked about the cause of death, the family hesitated. Only after pressing did they reveal the truth: the victim had been pierced through the torso by a massive sharp weapon. Severe blood loss. A destroyed heart.
The vertical wound had nearly split the chest cavity, shattering ribs. It was difficult to imagine what kind of weapon could cause such damage.
Home invasion. Minimal disturbance. Valuables left behind. A monstrous wound from a huge weapon.
The combination made his stomach tighten.
This was no robbery. There was something else.
He tried questioning a PubSec official he knew, but the man avoided direct answers, insisting the matter was under investigation. Many had recently died in robberies, he said.
When Heisenberg finally calmed down, he realized he was being followed. A young man trailed him all the way home to his standalone villa.
Feigning indifference, Heisenberg unlocked the door and loudly complained into the empty house about lazy servants. In truth, he had dismissed the staff two months ago. He lived alone.
In the following days, he saw the young man again. Sitting in a roadside café, holding coffee—yet his eyes never left Heisenberg.
That gaze burned like fire. Not by love. But with hatred. A hatred that seemed to want to flay him alive.
Heisenberg did not understand. He had always been kind. When he was just anyone else, he worked diligently. When he was finally famous, he cultivated a friendly image. As a director, he treated extras with respect. Industry and media alike praised him.
Where had this hatred come from?
The stare drained him. He hurried home, locked himself in, and called the Public Security.
As a public figure, he expected preferential treatment.
Instead, he was dismissed. They were busy. All officers were deployed. So, lock the doors and windows. Stay quiet. Pretend no one's home. If necessary, defend yourself. Earliest assistance: tomorrow.
What nonsense.
He hung up, stunned. And then he thought of his dead friends. They had all worked with him.
Was it his turn?
Fear crushed him. The once hard-edged screen tough guy trembled like a child.
He was old now. No longer strong. How could he fight someone capable of cleaving open a chest?
But after multiple calls, the answer remained the same. No manpower. Not even a patrol drone available.
His rage flared—then he collapsed into despair. He wept quietly in the dark, suffocating under the shadow of death.
He dared not leave. Food ran out. He would not order delivery, fearing poison or betrayal.
Hunger. Fear. Exhaustion.
For a moment, he thought death might be easier.
The thought horrified him. He still had scripts to direct, awards to win.
He tried to steady himself, but weakness gnawed at his bones like insects.
Damn it. Not now.
With trembling fingers, he withdrew a small pouch of pink crystals from his inner pocket. Even in darkness, they shimmered enticingly.
"Fantasy."
A new anesthetic. Introduced by a playwright friend—now ash.
Unlike other drugs, it was gentle. It made him feel decades younger. After taking it, he would dream of his younger days—so vivid it felt real.
Withdrawal, however, was agony. Age crashed back in full force. Most users immediately relapsed.
Heisenberg poured a little into his palm and inhaled greedily.
Strength surged. Courage returned. He felt invincible, like a teenage boy.
Knife in hand, he practiced old martial arts movements from his youth.
Let the thief come. He would show the bastard what an old dog's teeth could do.
Heart racing, muscles alive, he paced the house, scanning windows.
What if the man never came?
What if the drug wore off?
He should go find him.
Yes.
He rushed downstairs, hand reaching for the ornate brass handle—
Then the door exploded inward.
Wood splinters slashed his face and eyes. He then felt warm liquid flow. Then came burning pain.
What happened?
Through blurred vision, he saw a monstrous figure.
Towering nearly a full story high. Green armor. Helmeted. Yellow lenses glowing in the dark.
His courage evaporated instantly.
"Confirmed. Sakoda Heisenberg," said a young woman stepping from behind the giant. "He's on the list."
List.
His worst suspicion was true. No robberies. Just executions.
"Wait!" he screamed. "I've never wronged anyone!"
The giant lifted him effortlessly and stepped inside.
"I'm sorry," the woman said, thumbs hooked in decorative metal rings on her jacket. "Sakoda Heisenberg. Former tough guy. You're beyond saving."
"What?"
"The drugs," the giant's voice rumbled like an abyss. "You bought plenty. Used plenty."
"Have you seen the news? Saint Love Behavioral Correction School. That 'Fantasy' you're inhaling—it's made from the flesh and organs of the dead children there."
She turned away.
"That's impossible!" he cried. "It's chemical—"
The giant slammed him to the floor.
"Regret it next life."
A metal fist filled his vision.
Ignis shook red and white matter from his hand and glanced at Jane Doe. She pinched her forehead, looking exasperated.
"Couldn't you try another method? Don't create extra paperwork."
"You invited me," Ignis replied coolly. They deserved no sympathy.
She sighed. "Public Security uncovered suspicious cases at the correction school. These names were meant to be arrested. But some mutated. Officers died in the confrontation."
"We brought you in to assist. Didn't expect… this."
"How am I supposed to write this report…"
"Home invasion," Ignis suggested. "Maybe a super-strong accomplice. A Bear Thiren?"
"Thanks on behalf of Bear Thirens everywhere," Jane muttered, sending a message for cleanup.
"Next target?" Ignis asked.
She opened the file. "An active idol. Something Dan Zhu."
They vanished once more into the misty night.
The hunt for Fantasy addicts had begun.
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