Eren snapped his mouth shut, his face turning a shade of crimson that matched Raina's lipstick. But the damage was done.
Malina stood up, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. She wasn't looking at Eren. Her cold, furious gaze was fixed squarely on Max, who was still blinking, trying to process the whirlwind that was Agent Raina.
"Some operatives," Malina said, her voice dripping with ice, "seem easily distracted by... biological assets. I hope you pay as much attention to the mission as you do to a plunging neckline, Maxwell."
"I wasn't—" Max started to defend himself, but Malina had already turned on her heel and stormed out of the office, her boots thudding heavily against the floor.
"She's going to kill you before the Guut does," Edy whispered helpfully to Max.
Night fell over the Western Coast. The team boarded a stealth transport, the black hull disappearing against the dark sky as they lifted off toward the Rose District.
Inside the cabin, the mood was tense. Edy was anxiously tapping his foot, muttering probabilities about detecting a shape-shifter in a crowd of thousands. Eren was cleaning his vibro-daggers for the tenth time, clearly unnerved by the idea of an enemy that could look like a friend.
But Max sat alone near the rear window, staring out at the passing clouds.
He wasn't thinking about the Mimic. His mind was miles away, locked inside the leather cover of the book beneath his mattress.
Why were the first fifteen pages torn? The question cycled through his brain. The origin of the Fluids. The beginning of everything. Someone removed it on purpose.
And the end... the final pages were gone too. The book contained the middle—the suffering, the experiments, the madness—but the beginning and the conclusion were erased.
Who wrote it? Max wondered. And why did the Monarch call it 'The Record'? If it's just a diary, why did a god-tier monster spare my life to point at it?
"Five minutes to drop zone," the pilot's voice crackled, pulling Max back to the present.
The transport descended, landing silently in a derelict warehouse lot on the outskirts of the Rose District. The sky ahead glowed purple and pink from the massive neon signs of the entertainment sector.
The team disembarked. The air here was different—it smelled of ozone, expensive perfume, and old garbage.
Raina was waiting for them by the ramp, holding a sleek metal briefcase. She popped the latches, revealing six vials of a shimmering, silver liquid.
"Listen up," Raina said, her tone professional but her eyes still holding that dangerous spark. "The Rose District is strictly 21-plus. You kids look like you just walked out of high school. If a bouncer IDs you, the mission is blown before it starts."
She handed a vial to each of them.
"This is Aging Serum," she explained. "It stimulates rapid cellular growth and alters bone structure temporarily. It will make you look about twenty-five years old. The effect lasts exactly six hours. Drink up."
Max hesitated, then downed the liquid. It burned like fire going down his throat.
"Ugh," Eren groaned, clutching his stomach.
Suddenly, the changes began. Max felt his jaw ache as it squared and hardened. Stubble sprouted on his chin, thickening into a rough shadow. His shoulders broadened, his muscles filling out the civilian jacket Raina had tossed him.
He looked at Malina. She gasped as her height increased. Her features sharpened, losing their teenage softness and becoming the face of a stunning, mature woman. Her curves filled out, making her disguise fit perfectly. Even Malina seemed shocked by her reflection in the transport's window.
"Not bad," Raina smirked, looking them over. "Now, here is how we play this. The HPF owns several front businesses in the district to keep eyes on the underworld. We are slotting you in."
She pointed a manicured finger at Max and Eren.
"You two have the easiest job. You are Tourists. Rich, dumb, trust-fund kids looking for a good time. Wander the streets, hit the clubs, look oblivious. If the Mimic is hunting, it will target easy prey."
She threw them a credit chip. "Unlimited tab. Don't go crazy."
She turned to Malina. "Honey, you're at 'The Golden Fork', the restaurant next to the main strip. You're a Waitress."
Malina's eyes widened. "I am a Titan-class warrior. You want me to serve salad?"
"I want you watching the VIP booths," Raina corrected. "The rich eat there. If the Guut is mimicking a high-roller, he'll get hungry. Keep your eyes open and try to smile."
"Edy," Raina pointed to the nervous boy. "You're going to the 'High Roller Casino'. You're a Gambler. Use that big brain to count cards, win some hands, and draw attention. Make yourself a target worth eating."
Finally, she looked at Jod.
"Jod, you're the Bartender at 'The Velvet Cage'. It's the most exclusive club in the sector."
"And you?" Jod asked, adjusting his collar.
Raina smiled, smoothing her hands over her hips. "I'm the headline act. I'm the Dancer. All eyes will be on me, which means I can see everyone in the room."
She clapped her hands. "Showtime, people. Remember, trust no one. The person next to you could be the monster."
They moved out, leaving the shadows of the warehouse.
As they stepped through the massive holographic archway that read WELCOME TO THE ROSE, the sensory overload hit them. Thumping bass shook the ground. Neon lights blinded them. The streets were packed with cyborgs, wealthy elites, and party-goers.
Max adjusted his jacket, feeling the strange stubble on his face. He looked at his friends—now strangers in adult bodies—and took a deep breath.
They were in. The hunt had begun.
High above the pulsing neon streets of the Rose District, the scene shifted to the penthouse suite of the Celestial Towers, one of the most exclusive residential buildings in the sector.
Inside, the luxury apartment was silent, save for the hum of the air conditioning trying to cycle out the heavy, metallic scent of death.
The living room, decorated with white marble floors and modern art, was a slaughterhouse. Blood wasn't just pooled on the floor; it was splashed across the expensive silk drapes, smeared on the glass walls overlooking the city, and dripped from the crystal chandelier.
In the center of the room lay two bodies.
One was a man in a torn tuxedo, his chest cavity ripped open with surgical precision, his eyes frozen in a wide stare of absolute terror.
A few feet away lay a woman. She had been beautiful, dressed in a shimmering silver evening gown. Now, she was a broken doll. Her neck was twisted at an unnatural angle, and her throat had been savaged.
Standing over them was a figure.
It was a man, wearing a suit that was soaked through with crimson stains. The lighting in the apartment was intentionally dim, casting his face in deep shadow, hiding his features. But as he turned his head, the faint light from the neon signs outside caught the lower half of his face.
He was smiling. A wide, grotesque grin that stretched too far. His teeth were stained pink, and fresh blood dripped from his chin onto his shirt. He swallowed thick, wet mouthfuls of what he had just consumed.
"Delicious," a voice rasped—not from a throat, but vibrating from the air around him. "Fear spices the meat so well."
The figure stepped over the dead man and crouched next to the woman's corpse. He reached out a hand—a hand that flickered for a second, turning into a clawed shadow before solidifying back into human skin—and stroked the dead woman's hair.
"You have such a lovely face," the figure whispered. "It's a shame to let it rot. I think... I'll wear it for tonight."
The transformation began.
It wasn't magic. It was biological horror.
The man's body began to convulse. A sickening sound filled the room—the wet crunch of bones snapping and rearranging themselves. His broad shoulders collapsed inward, shrinking in width. His height decreased rapidly, his legs shortening, his hips widening.
The blood-soaked suit he was wearing seemed to dissolve, consumed by a layer of violet shadow that erupted from his pores. The shadow swirled around his naked form like a cocoon.
Underneath the shadow, flesh bubbled and reshaped. The jawline softened. The nose shrank. The hair lengthened, shifting from short dark strands to a long, cascading waterfall of blonde curls.
Snap. Crack. Shift.
The shadow receded, absorbing into the new skin to form a silver evening gown identical to the one the dead woman was wearing.
The figure stood up.
The man was gone. Standing in his place was the woman.
She walked over to a large mirror in the hallway. She tilted her head, checking her reflection. It was perfect. The same blue eyes, the same mole on the cheek, the same elegant curve of the neck.
She—It—opened her mouth. The blood was gone, replaced by pristine white teeth.
"Perfect," the Mimic said. The voice was no longer a rasp; it was the soft, melodic soprano of the woman lying dead on the floor.
She reached down and picked up a gold-embossed invitation card from the dead woman's clutch purse. She read the text on the card.
VIP Reservation - The Golden Fork.
The Mimic smiled, checking her makeup in the reflection.
"Time for dinner," she whispered. "I'm still hungry."
She stepped over her own corpse, opened the penthouse door, and walked out into the hallway, leaving the carnage behind in the dark.