Clarissa stepped into the room, her movements hesitant, her frame swallowed by a frayed administrative blazer. Her face was a mask of wax, punctuated by the dark hollows under her eyes—the tell-tale signs of a woman who hadn't slept in an eternity. She trembled as her gaze collided with the sharp, predatory eyes of the woman inspector behind the desk.
"Thank you for coming, Ms. Clarissa," Laevatein said. Her voice was a cold edge, devoid of empathy. "You were our first witness on the scene. Given your official status as an administrative clerk for Baron Frey, walk me through your alibi."
Clarissa twisted her fingers together. "I... I work the fifth floor. That morning, I was running late. I realized halfway to work that I'd forgotten some files, so I turned back. I didn't make it back to the Eye Tower until 10 AM," she recited, her tone perfectly rehearsed.
"But by the time I arrived, the entire building was under a total blackout—lockdown. I couldn't get inside. I just... I had this gut feeling that something horrific was happening. So I called it in."
Laevatein's eyes didn't leave the file on her desk. "Our sweep tells a different story of what happened inside. Dozens dead. Did you see anything out of the ordinary, Ms. Clarissa? Family feuds? Business threats? Any tension between Baron Frey and his brother, General Aslan?"
Clarissa shook her head, forcing herself to maintain eye contact. "I'm sorry, Inspector. I'm just a clerk. I handle paperwork and official correspondence. I've never seen or heard anything about secret dealings or family disputes." The lies flowed like water, smooth and untainted by suspicion.
Silence hung between them, thick and suffocating. Laevatein searched for a crack, a tremor, a single thread to pull. Nothing. Clarissa's alibi was too clean.
"Very well," Laevatein said, her voice dropping back to a flat drone. "You're free to go. Don't leave the city. We may have more questions."
Clarissa nodded, retreating quickly. She didn't let out a breath until the night air hit her skin outside. She had survived the lie, but the image of Baron Frey's cooling corpse refused to leave her.
As she walked under the rhythmic flicker of the streetlights, a memory surged. The scent of expensive cologne. A darkened altar. The chill of church walls in Santino's secret passage—the place she played courier for the underworld.
She remembered the shadow who claimed to be Santino's special messenger: a young man in a sharp suit with cold, amber eyes. The boy who had dismantled her psyche and forced her to speak of Baron Frey.
The Young Master.
The image of him appeared uninvited, leaving a bitter taste of revulsion and a strange, cold fear in her chest. Clarissa tried to shake it off, but deep down, she knew: he was the center of the Eye Tower massacre.
Inside the office, Laevatein sat back in her high-backed chair. Clarissa was cleared, but the motive remained a void.
A knock followed—not the formal rap of an assistant. Five of the finest officers from Criminal Intelligence marched in, their faces etched with the tension of men expecting a war.
Laevatein didn't waste a second. She pointed to the Eye Tower file. "Scrap the first team's reports. I don't care what narrative they're trying to build; it's a fairy tale. As of today, you are the Special Task Force for the Eye Tower Tragedy. You report only to me."
Her gaze swept over them, sharp and demanding. "Start from zero. Scour every lead, every shadow, every microscopic detail that doesn't fit. Get to work."
The officers stood at attention, accepting the suicide mission.
CUBE SECRET BUNKER - PRE-DAWN
Ren opened his eyes, his lids feeling heavy and glued shut. The first thing that hit him was the sharp, clinical sting of disinfectant, followed by a silence so profound it felt unnatural—the polar opposite of the blood-soaked chaos at the Eye Tower.
He was lying on an unfamiliar bed, boxed in by steel walls that felt like a dark metallic casing. Wires trailed from his chest and arms, tethered to a monitor that hummed with a low, rhythmic drone.
He tried to push himself up, but agony flared instantly. A white-hot pulse radiated from his left shoulder and the jagged ache of his cracked ribs. He sucked in a shallow, ragged breath. During the fight with Aslan, the adrenaline had been a shield; now, reality was stripping him bare.
A heavy steel door hissed open. Vera stepped in, her face a map of exhaustion and worry. Two others followed in her shadow.
Vera signaled the shorter figure. "Lulubel, he's awake."
Lulubel stepped forward, her sharp eyes scanning the vitals. For a doctor, she was eccentric to the point of being unsettling. She was small, nearly drowned in an expensive-looking lab coat. Her hair was pulled into thick pigtails; the left side a soft pink, the right a pale, neon green.
Lulubel looked up, her expression a blank slate. "Considering the blunt force trauma to his internal organs, it's a miracle he's conscious in under twenty-four hours."
Ren offered nothing but a cold, silent stare.
The other stranger stood near the threshold—tall, hidden under a dark hoodie that masked his blonde hair. Isaac, Ren thought. The hacker he only knew as a voice in an earpiece.
Vera took Ren's wrist gently. "I know this is a lot," she whispered, her voice tight. "But I need to tell you where things stand."
She spoke quickly: "You're in the CUBE Bunker. We brought in a specialist we trust—Lulubel—to handle your injuries." She glanced at Isaac. "Isaac managed to scrub the Eye Tower CCTV and the surrounding grids using a modified AEGIS core. It's locked on our private servers now as a backup."
"It's almost dawn," Vera continued. "The official police line is that Frey and Aslan died under mysterious circumstances. There's no heat on us yet. For now, we're invisible."
Lulubel, clearing a tray of stainless steel tools, cut in with clinical bluntness. "Enough. The patient needs to go under again. We discuss the rest tomorrow."
Vera and Isaac nodded, retreating from the medical bay. The steel door hissed shut, sealing Ren in perfect isolation.
The moment their footsteps faded, Ren spoke.
"Help me sit up," he commanded, his voice a dry, demanding rasp. "And take all this off me."
Lulubel offered a thin smile—one that held no warmth, but no refusal either. She adjusted the bed until he was propped up, then deftly pulled the IV needles from his skin.
"You haven't changed at all." As she fitted an arm sling to support his ruined left side, she rattled off the grim details. "Cracked ribs, internal hemorrhaging, a mild concussion. You're dehydrated and running on fumes."
She finished her work and stepped back, studying him with an unreadable intensity.
"I didn't think," she paused, her voice dropping an octave. "That I'd ever see you again..."
"... Shiroi Hitsuji."