The washroom was silent and immaculately clean, its white, lustrous tiles reflecting the harsh ceiling lights with almost surgical precision. The brightness felt artificial, almost aggressive, bouncing off every corner and leaving no place for shadows to hide. Every surface looked untouched, as if no one had entered the room for days—no fingerprints on the mirrors, no dampness near the sinks, not even a stray paper towel left behind. The toilet itself was spotless, free of even the smallest stain, porcelain gleaming like it had never served its purpose. Beside it stood a steel air dryer, polished to the point of distortion, its surface faintly warm and humming with residual power, as though it had only recently been used but left no trace of its user.
A large bar of soap sat awkwardly in its tray, barely fitting within the shallow grooves, its edges sharp and unused. There were no cracks, no softening from repeated contact with water—just a pristine block, untouched and unnecessary. The air smelled sterile, unnaturally so, like disinfectant layered over emptiness. It was the kind of cleanliness that didn't comfort but unsettled, stripping the room of warmth and humanity.
An unusual silence devoured the washroom, thick and oppressive, pressing against the walls like an unseen presence. It wasn't just the absence of sound—it felt deliberate, as though the room itself were listening. The faint buzz of the lights overhead felt too loud, too sharp, slicing through the stillness. The space felt wrong, as if it were holding its breath, waiting for something inevitable to happen.
Suddenly, the quiet shattered.
A disgusting, retching sound erupted from one of the toilet stalls—raw, violent, and uncontrolled. It echoed far louder than it should have in such a confined space, bouncing off the tiles and ricocheting back with cruel clarity. The sound was wet and desperate, stripped of dignity, filling the sterile room with something painfully human.
Inside the stall, a man rested on one knee, his posture collapsed and uneven. One hand clutched the toilet seat with white-knuckled desperation, as if it were the only thing anchoring him to reality. His other hand trembled uselessly at his side. Sweat drenched his face, soaking into his hairline and rolling down his temples in thick drops. His body shook uncontrollably, muscles spasming as though rebelling against him.
It was Noah.
He puked violently again, his throat burning, stomach convulsing as if trying to tear itself apart from the inside. Each breath came sharp and uneven, scraping his lungs raw. His vision blurred at the edges, spots of light dancing beneath the glare of the ceiling lamps.
"What's happening to me?" he murmured weakly, the words barely escaping his lips. His voice sounded foreign to his own ears—thin, strained, and fragile—almost swallowed by the echo of his ragged breathing.
Time passed without meaning. Eventually, Noah stood before the mirror, gripping the edge of the sink as cold water streamed over his debilitated face. The shock of it made him gasp, but he welcomed the pain. His reflection stared back at him, pale and unfamiliar. His skin looked drained under the harsh lights, eyes sunken and shadowed, lips pressed tight as if holding back something far worse than nausea. Droplets slid down his jaw and fell into the basin, the sound unnervingly loud in the empty washroom.
He inhaled slowly, forcing his breath to steady, and straightened his back inch by inch. The shaking didn't fully stop, but he willed it into submission. After a moment, he slipped on his mask, the familiar weight settling over his face like armor. He pulled his cloak higher,
concealing his hair, hiding every visible sign of weakness. A long, controlled exhale escaped him—calculated, practiced—as if he were commanding his body to obey.
Out in the corridor, the air felt colder.
The sterile warmth of the washroom vanished instantly, replaced by a chill that crept beneath his cloak. Footsteps echoed softly along the hallway as masked figures moved in different directions, their faces hidden, their intentions unreadable. One of them passed Noah without hesitation, not sparing him a glance.
Without thinking twice, Noah turned and began walking beside the figure, matching her pace as though they had planned it all along.
"So what's the next plan?" Noah whispered casually, his tone light despite the weight still pressing on his chest.
The masked figure quickened her steps, clearly trying to ignore him, but Noah stayed close. Slowly, her green eyes sharpened beneath the mask, pupils twisting into flame-like shapes that flickered with restrained irritation.
Noah chuckled softly.
"I get it, Alice. No plan."
He paused, his tone shifting, losing its casual edge.
"Do you know anything about Ron?" he asked quietly.
Alice stopped mid-step. For a brief second, she turned her head just enough for the light to catch her eyes. They were more lustrous than the bathroom lights—sharp, piercing, and cold as they leered at Noah. Whatever emotions stirred beneath her mask were carefully buried, locked away behind years of discipline.
"The four-star room is there," she said at last, pointing down the corridor. "You should go too and get some sleep."
Her tone was blank, unchanged, as usual.
Noah searched her eyes for another moment, hoping—expecting—something more. But there was nothing to take.
He turned and walked away without saying a single word.
Later, lying alone in his room, the silence returned—thicker, heavier. Noah suddenly grabbed his chest, fingers digging into the fabric as a sharp, burning pain surged through him, stealing the air from his lungs. It felt as if something inside him were tearing itself apart, twisting violently. His teeth clenched as he fought the urge to scream, his body curling inward. In that moment, one truth became painfully clear—whatever was happening to him was not normal, and it was not good.
———
Elsewhere, Lord Yin stood motionlessly in his wide, empty room, mirroring Noah's condition in silence if not in pain. A bed rested near a small table that held a child's photograph and the same scribbled image of a woman. Yet something was different.
Blue folders and scattered files lay across the floor, disrupting the room's unnatural stillness.
The door opened, allowing a cold breeze to sweep inside, lifting the papers and sending them skittering across the floor. Crow Superior stepped in carefully, avoiding eye contact, his body trembling with barely restrained fear. He noticed Lord Yin staring at the photograph, the files in his hands crumpling under the pressure of his grip.
"So," Lord Yin spoke calmly, "you brought all the files. Am I right?"
"Yes," Crow Superior replied shakily.
"Then where is the Project Perfect file?" Lord Yin turned, his bloody eyes growing darker still.
"I… I don't know." Crow Superior stepped back.
Lord Yin paused.
"Then we should give him a visit."