Chapter Text
So, About That 'No Mind-Control' Clause in the Geneva Conventions...
The Awakened Can Do WHAT Now?!
[Blue House Presidential Office – National Security Situation Room, Seoul]
.
Rain battered the bullet-proofed, slightly mana-reinforced windows in a relentless, gray curtain, the sound like impatient fingers tapping glass.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of cold coffee and stale sweat of stress, a stark contrast to the room’s usual aroma of polished mahogany and Gangnam luxurious perfume. There were screens glowing, aides whispering, and security personnel rigid at attention.
President Kim Myungchul of South Korea sat at the head of the long table, jaw set, fingers interlaced in front of him as though he could will steadiness into his body. He refused to show how thoroughly the morning’s developments had blindsided him.
South Korea had found itself at the epicenter of one global crisis too many for his liking.
The country had once enjoyed a reputation for quiet stability: the textbook model of polite East Asian diplomacy, steady economic growth, and long-term planning. They have been pushing forward with soft power through the Hallyu wave after all, as well as technology giants like Samsung. There were concerns, of course, like a declining birthrate, housing market scandals—but they were normal problems, as certain as the usual political frictions that came and went like moonson seasons.
Then came the Gates. Then the Hunters. The Monarch War. And of course, Hunter Sung Jinwoo, a one-man strategic asset who had permanently catapulted this nation of 50 million to the forefront of a new, terrifying world.
The chasm between the Korea of Kim's youth and the reality he now governed felt unbridgeable. Kim sometimes wondered if the ordinary, meek Korea he grew up in still existed at all.
And now this. A live-streamed incident at the Hunter Association headquarters. An Awakened individual displaying overt cognitive coercion.
Mind control.
.
It had sent world leaders and global intelligence agencies into a panic spiral in under an hour.
The wall of screens flickered to full brightness, illuminating the dim room with faces from Washington, Paris, Berlin, New Delhi, Brasília, Beijing, Wellington, Cairo, Tokyo, London, Jakarta, Kenya, Athena, and a dozen other capitals. Aides crowded behind each leader, whispering, exchanging documents, and studying expressions for diplomatic cues with the intensity of chess masters.
The United States had taken the initiative—as they always did when something too abstract for the Pentagon and too dangerous for the State Department demanded immediate global attention. President Trump occupied the central feed, leaning back in his chair with a demeanor that suggested bemusement more than concern, flanked by aides whose stiff posture suggested no one else in the room shared his sense of ease.
Kim slid into his seat. The low hum of cooling fans and the faint static from open microphones underscored the gravity of the situation.
The U.S. Secretary of State, James Whitemore, cleared his throat. “Thank you, President Kim, for facilitating this urgent consultation on short notice. We've all reviewed the footage from Seoul. We understand your government’s formal investigation is ongoing.”
Kim inclined his head. “That is correct. The matter remains highly sensitive and under active review.”
France’s president entered smoothly, his English lightly laced with Parisian cadence. “We have, ah… how do you say…” He gestured lightly. “Re-watched the footage. Mon Dieu, your Association guards were clearly not acting with control of their own faculties.”
The Chancellor of Germany adjusted her glasses—a small, yet particularly pointed gesture, one that signaled both focus and irritation. “Your preliminary report states that Hunter Minsung Lee demonstrated capacity to override the volition of multiple trained officers. Can you confirm this assessment, President Kim?”
It was starting to feel like an interrogation.
Kim ignored the impulse to rub the bridge of his nose. He could sense it in the energy across the screens—the subtle glances, the restrained impatience. None of them were really looking to him for answers. They were all waiting for Woo Jinchul to appear.
Woo, who had briefed him for five whole confusing minutes and then vanished into the Association’s operational lockdown, unreachable by anyone.
Woo, who—despite technically being Kim’s subordinate (the Hunter Association should be under the official South Korea Presidency anyway, that's what Kim always tried to maintain)—commanded more immediate international trust than the president of South Korea himself.
"The confirmation is correct," Kim stated at last, keeping his tone clipped. “Our neurological imaging confirms involuntary cognitive coercion. The effect had a wide radius, was short-range, and onset was nearly instantaneous."
The French President exhaled softly, eyes narrowing. “This is the first public instance of such an ability. Is there precedent in any global registry of Awakened? No matter the nation?”
India’s Prime Minister cut in sharply, “And once again, the anomaly emerges in South Korea. With all due respect, President Kim, how do you account for this pattern?"
Kim clenched his sweaty fingers.
Fotunately, before he could formulate a response that wouldn't sound defensive, Japan’s Prime Minister interceded with gentle calm.
“Let us be clear, yes?” he said neutrally, “That the Republic of Korea has borne a…. disproportionate burden as the... primary theater for Hunter Sung's activities and presence."
He offered a slight nod of sympathy toward the Korean president.
“My counterpart at the Japan Hunter Association, Director Sugimoto, has already attempted to contact President Woo for a detailed assessment.”
That sparked immediate interest.
The UK’s Prime Minister leaned forward. "And what was President Woo's response?"
“Sí, and why is he not present instead?” a South American representative demanded. “Historically, President Woo provides more rapid intelligence than your cabinet. With no disrespect intended, President Kim.”
Kim gritted his teeth behind a neutral smile. “President Woo is… preoccupied with internal containment procedures. I assure you, my government is fully briefed. Let us stay on topic.”
The American president unexpectedly chimed in. “Look, folks, just to be clear—until we get answers, let’s keep this meeting human-only. No Awakened, no surprises. No shadow guys popping in, no glowing eyes—none of that. We keep it clean, we keep it neutral. No offense to that Woo guy or the FBH folks, but you know—” he made a vague circling gesture with his hand, “Make humans great again.”
The British PM wisely chose to ignore that statement and nodded diplomatically to Kim's words. “Quite understood. To clarify—the guard in the footage. His actions were wholly involuntary, despite being an Awakened individual himself?”
“Confirmed,” Kim said. “No indication of internal conspiracy, no chemical agents, no technological triggers. The effect was indiscriminate, affecting both Awakened and non-Awakened personnel within a set radius. The causality leads directly and solely to Minsung Lee’s proximity.”
A faint, collective intake of breath hissed through dozens of open microphones.
“Mein Gott…” someone whispered, the mic catching the despair before it could be muted.
“…mind control…” another murmured, horrified.
A Scandinavian minister scrubbed a hand down his face, his voice weary. “We are still trying to legislate Gates, to tax guilds, to understand the basic physics of these… ‘Hunters.’ And now we must contend with this?”
India’s Prime Minister exhaled sharply, a sound of pure frustration. “We never received a full accounting of the Monarch War. Only fragments. Rumors whispered in corridors. Suppositions. We were handed a victory with no after-action report.”
Japan’s Prime Minister stiffened, choosing his words with visible caution. “Most nations did not. The Federal Bureau and the Hunter Associations classified too much. Even we—” he paused, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face, “—despite having the final battle take place in our own airspace, were not fully apprised of the… metaphysical elements involved.”
Japan had been grateful to Sung Jinwoo, and their public adored him. Director Reiji Sugimoto of JHA practically sang that man's praises, and had allowed Hunter Sung to repurpose vast swaths of abandoned land after the Tokyo Dungeon Break.
But as was the new world order, their civilian leadership was not exactly invited to the discussion.
“Perhaps intentionally,” A Brazilian muttered.
“We were told the Monarch War was ‘resolved,’” the Egyptian President added, his voice low and grave. “We were not told what it was. We do not know what laws of reality it rewrote.”
“We don’t even know if the concept of laws still applies,” South Africa said under her breath.
And now, one of those unknown, rewritten rules had just been demonstrated on live television: the human will was no longer sovereign. Mind control was not science fiction; it was a tactical reality. And they were all hopelessly behind the curve.
Into this simmering cauldron of fear and ignorance, the U.S. Secretary of State leaned forward, his voice cutting through the murmurs with practiced authority.
“Then let’s address the unavoidable variable. Jinwoo Sung.” He let the name hang in the silence. “Has the individual known as the, ah… so-called Shadow Monarch ever exhibited abilities of this nature?”
It was the necessary question. The dangerous one.
Kim shook his head. "No. His capabilities are, I suspect, the most intensely studied subject for every intelligence agency on this call. As you are all aware. But nothing in his record suggests mental coercion. Teleportation, necromancy, telekinesis, spatial distortion, regenerative capabilities—yes. Mental subjugation—no. Not unless you consider necromantic dominion over the dead a form of it."
The feed from Washington flickered slightly as aides leaned in around the President, murmuring—a low, rapid exchange of doubts and what-ifs. Trump sat back, frowning at his camera like it might be lying to him.
He squinted, wrinkles gathering.
“Are we really sure, though? He’s a powerful guy. Maybe too powerful to show all his cards.”
A cough, discreet but audible, came from another window—the Russian Federation’s .
Three suited men sat beneath the double-headed eagle, arranged with the stiff exactness of old Soviet photographs. The man in the center—Vladimir, silver-haired, broad-shouldered, his face arranged into a practiced mask of calm—leaned forward. His English arrived heavy with Moscow vowels, consonants pressed together like clenched teeth.
“In our… experience,” Vladimir drawled slowly, voice unhurried, each syllable shaped with the steady confidence of someone wwho had spent decades being obeyed—long before Hunters began rewriting the world’s balance of power.
“Even the most gifted Hunters leave signatures. Patterns. They are not subtle creatures, however they may pretend otherwise.”
He lifted a broad hand, palm up, as if presenting an invisible dossier.
“Take our own… former asset,” he said, not bothering to give a name. “Impressive power, unpredictable temperament, a taste for theatrics—da. And of course, that regrettably persistent barrier situation around the Grand Palace.”
A faint tightening at the corner of his mouth betrayed more than his words did.
“But psychic domination?” He shook his head. “Nyet. If he—or any Awakened—had possessed influence of this nature, our intelligence would have detected even the smallest silhouette of it.”
He said it with the confidence of a man who once commanded entire intelligence services.
Kim noted, not for the first time, how the Russian civilian leadership never spoke Orloff's name unless absolutely necessary.
How they wrapped him in vagueness, as though refusing to state the embarrassing truth might allow history to be rewritten in their favor.
The world, however, remembered. And unfortunately for Russia, so did every delegation and leadership staring at the screen.
When Russian S-rank Yuri Orlov erected an unbreakable barrier around the Kremlin and half of central Moscow, the entire Russian federal government found itself quite literally locked out of its own capital overnight. The Duma had relocated to Saint Petersburg; the Federation Council had improvised and scrambled for continuity amidst the chaos; the Presidential Administration had gone silent for thirty-six long, rumor-filled hours.
It was never called a coup.
No official ever acknowledged losing control of Moscow.
Two months after the Monarch War, Russia executed its boldest strategic maneuver in years: She… pretended the capital had always been in Saint Petersburg.
And Yuri Orloff was reclassified as a criminal—
—but only when it became clear no one in the Russian state could make him… suffer the traditional fate of Kremlin enemies— like tragically falling out of a suspiciously open window.
No one had dared approach the magical barrier around Moscow since.
In the aftermath, Kremlin officials had developed a habit of taking veiled, persistent digs at Sung Jinwoo in public settings, for not coming to their aid and deal with Orloff personally—
well, to be fair, at him and other powerful National-Level Hunters, anyone above Orloff's punch-grade.
(Though never Thomas Andre or Christopher Reeds. Being American seemed to grant them immunity; Russia had been far too embarrassed to ask the United States for help.)
They even blamed Sung for saving Orloff from near-death in Tokyo back then. Funnily enough, Yuri Orloff, in turn, publicly blamed Sung for interfering "his moment of glory" in Tokyo. The irony that both Russian sides agreed on that point was almost comedic. International diplomacy had never seen such harmony.
.
Vladimir’s gaze drifted acrossthe mosaic of foreign leaders, lingering just a fraction too long on Washington, Berlin, and Paris—and deliberately, suspiciously, avoiding Beijing.
“Of course,” he growled softly, “some of our… acquaintances may recall how little assistance was offered at the time.”
The aformentioned countries responded with faint, almost elegant scoffs. A diplomat’s version of rolling one’s eyes. They were long past being moved by Russian guilt-tripping.
Vladimir—whatever title he claimed now—had never regained the symbolic center of power he once commanded. No one feared the infamous bear of Russia, the fearsome Uncle Vova anymore. Kim sometimes wondered why the man still attended these meetings at all, except perhaps to perform legitimacy for those willing to pretend.
To his credit, Vladimir continued unruffled, as though the room hadn’t collectively tensed at his remark.
“We can state with confidence that telepathy, mind-control—these abilities do not appear among any upper-tier S-ranks in our archives. Nor among any Awakened in the Asian or Northern Sphere whose profiles our services have… studied.”
The U.S. Secretary raised an eyebrow at that and coughed.
“And these Northern Sphere profiles… would they happen to include data from U.S. territory, President Vladimir?”
A small smile, winter-cold flickered on the ex-KGB officer's face. “Only where cooperation existed,” he replied smoothly. “Nothing more.”
“Dear Vlad means ‘nothing we can prove. Total nonsense,” Trump muttered off-camera, unfortunately loud enough that the microphone faithfully carried every syllable.
.
The American feed abruptly cut out for several seconds as the Secretary of State lunged to angle the monitor away, no doubt smothering a diplomatic fire before it fully ignited.
When the window flickered back on, Trump shamelessly stared straight ahead, hands folded, wearing the blank innocence of a man who had never made a sound in his life.
A strained silence followed.
The Russians glaring daggers did nothing to ease it.
.
It was China who dared to break it.
The Premier leaned closer, his English tonal and deliberate. “Then… Jinwoo Sung does not engage with civilian governments at all, ah? Not even your own? Zhēn de ma? We receive full dossiers from Hunter Liu and the 5-stars.”
The Party Chairman frowned disapprovingly at Kim — a silent accusation, as though he had failed to discipline his own hunter.
Even if said hunter was… Sung freaking Jinwoo.
Oh, how Kim would have loved to see how Xi would fare if he ever got a Sung Jinwoo spawning in his nation — he knew China could barely control Liu Zhigang, despite all their stately bluster.
But he forced his expression to remain neutral.
“We would welcome such clarity,” Kim said, jaw tight. “But with Hunter Sung… aloofness is the best descriptor we possess.”
A ripple of nods traveled through the grid. Humanity’s global savior was many things, but politically engaged was not one of them.
The man who had defeated Monarchs.
The one person every nation would call to fix their problems… —if only he could be called.
He never explained why he appeared or didn’t.
Never briefed governments. Never attended councils — all of their formal invitations went ignored.
Never acknowledged officials unless they happened to be standing in front of him when he needed to act.
Kim could account firsthand how…slippery Hunter Sung could be. He'd personally waited hours, with all the press and no holds barred! — at the end of every reported Hunter Sung's appearances at gates across the country, hoping — naively, futilely — to catch Hunter Sung for a single presidential handshake.
But inevitably, that damned Yoo Jinho would materialize first, offer apologies with comical politeness, and Sung would slip away with that infuriating teleport skill of his.
He did not speak to kings or premiers.
And he certainly did not speak to the distinguished men and women assembled on the screens, despite their status as world leaders.
Australia’s Prime Minister cleared his throat softly. “He protects civilians. He just doesn’t… talk to civilians. Or people”
“Or to us,” Egypt murmured. “He is a guardian, not a statesman. Detached, not hostile.”
But then a South African minister sighed, frustration simmering beneath her calm visage. “Detached is a luxury we cannot afford, President Kim. A man of his power should have intervened when the Johannesburg Guild attempted to strong-arm our parliament.”
From the West African cluster, Nigeria’s Foreign Minister added with quiet exasperation,
“Our Lagos incident spiraled for hours. Civil unrest broke out — protests turning violent, barricades, clashes with police. It was chaos. If he truly watches the world, he did not watch ours.”
"Where were your S-ranks and hunters though?"
"You know damn well the Americans poached half of them. And the rest were bribed into joining the riots."
"Hey, hey. It’s not our fault you didn’t give your Hunters proper pay.”
"We already gave them control over our gold mines!"
Kenya’s leader joined, voice steady but edged.
“Entire desert sectors were torn apart in an S-rank duel. We rebuilt alone. If we cannot rely on him, then who does he consider worthy of intervention?”
The Sultan of Brunei joined in, scoffing, “Perhaps he simply thinks we are beneath him."
“And in Caracas,” the President of Venezuela said, voice cracking with old frustration. “Our capital was leveled by an S-rank conflict. Why didn’t he step in?”
A Chilean delegate muttered, just audibly enough. "Unable to control your very own Hunters, eh Nicolás?"
"It is not a matter of control!" the Venezuelan snapped. "It is a matter of needing a bigger gun to enforce order!"
Canada’s Prime Minister added to the rising complaints, his voice tightening with every word. “AND we have still not fully rebuilt after the Monarch War. Thousands displaced. Entire cities half-burned. Our population went down by half! We have no hunters left! Could he not have—”
Words failed him.
He broke off, exhaling sharply, and lifted both hands in a wide, helpless gesture — as if trying to summon the image of Sung Jinwoo descending onto Canadian soil and performing a miracle no Canadian official could articulate.
Then, a reasonable voice from the UAE feed cut through the murmurs.
"Has anyone here actually conveyed these grievances to him directly, President Kim?"
Kim flinched before he could stop himself.
"I... have ongoing channels through which we are attempting to initiate a dialogue."
It was bullshit, and every face on the screen reflected that they knew it. Kim had never secured a meeting with Hunter Sung Jinwoo. The Shadow Monarch's calendar, it seemed, did not include appointments with presidents and state leaders.
The heads of states' murmurs quieted down into a heavy silence, once again aiming their disapproving, disappointed gaze at the South Korea's de jure leader.
—Before President Trump broke the awkward silence by barreling past every social cue in sight.
"Okay, real talk. Is everybody sure none of us are mind-controlled right now? If you are, uh—blink twice."
A profoundly awkward pause ensued.
Several leaders blinked once, reflexively. Two, unnerved, blinked twice. The Brazilian representative blinked several times as a stray eyelash irritated his eye.
The moment dissolved into uneasy silence. No one laughed.
India's Prime Minister reclaimed order, her voice stern. “The concern extends far beyond one individual. If cognitive subversion is now a viable weapon, then every diplomatic summit becomes vulnerable. Every military installation. Every chain of command.”
France added briskly, “The integrity of our institutions could collapse overnight.”
Then, unexpectedly, the Emperor of Japan—rarely one to speak directly in these forums—leaned slightly toward his microphone.
“And civilian populations,” he said gently.
The grim implications settled over the room like a shroud.
.
From the German delegation, a man in the second row shifted slightly. He was an aide of the Chancellor, an advisor— his nametag reading only “O. Strauss”. Nobody in the room could pinpoint where they'd seen that face before, but there was a strange note of familiarity. His suit was modest but immaculate. His posture neither deferential nor assertive—pleasantly invisible.
He lifted his hand with measured calm.
"If I may offer a perspective," he began, his English carried a faint, polished European neutrality. "There is a strategic response that addresses our concerns without resorting to fear-based policy."
The room's attention pivoted toward him, almost gratefully.
"We are all familiar with the Hunter Associations' culture of secrecy regarding ability classification," Strauss continued. "And yet..." He allowed a faint, knowing smile. "Our respective civilian intelligence services — acting on behalf of our true, conventional government institutions — have, of necessity, been conducting our own... thorough audits of the Awakened for years."
This was met with a series of subtle, acknowledging glances. It was an open secret,and naming it aloud felt illicit.
"Furthermore," Strauss said, "we have all observed the rise of a certain... global phenomenon." He said the word with a hint of academic curiosity.
"Unofficial, public tournaments. Livestreamed spectacles where Hunters voluntarily display the full extent of their powers for commercial gain and public acclaim."
The French President nodded first. "Our country's A-rank Alain Rouge has been a pioneer. He considers combat a performance art. Un grand ballet de puissance (read: a grand ballet of power).”
“And of course, the Middle East’s very own rising star, Karim El-Amin,” Strauss added, nodding graciously at the UAE, Saudi, and Lebanon leaders' screens.
“What a remarkable athlete. Charismatic. Transparent. These exhibitions have provided the public with familiarity. Comfort, even.”
The UK’s Prime Minister tapped a pen against her notes. “They do build trust.”
“Entertainment aside,” Strauss said warmly, “people understand what they can see.”
“I propose,” he immediately continued, “that governments lend logistical support to these exhibitions. Not to control Hunters, but merely to encourage standardized… demonstrations. A unified stage. A global event. A cooperative venue where abilities may be observed without speculation.”
A contemplative hush followed.
Australia broke it first. “We have discussed formalizing the tournaments before… though mostly as tourism and media ventures.”
India nodded slowly, “In the current climate, a gesture of radical transparency could be a powerful stabilizer."
Brazil agreed. "It would bring these events out of the unregulated shadows."
Several leaders snorted at the word shadows.
Germany’s Chancellor leaned forward, voice subdued.
“Ja… I am deeply wary of these Hunters myself. Especially after Herr Niermann’s influence over EU policymaking for Hunter commerce. But this proposal — it may grant us the upper hand in gathering valuable data on emerging ability classes.”
President Kim folded his hand on the table, before adding (because at this point he should, right?) , “The Republic of Korea cannot unilaterally commit its Hunters to such an endeavor," he stated. "They are citizens first. Their participation must be voluntary."
Someone, from Kim's own office, muttered in Korean— barely audible —
“He’s just scared of Woo Jinchul. And Sung Jinwoo.”
Kim pretended not to hear it.
“Of course,” the German advisor said respectfully. "Autonomy is paramount. This is an invitation to cooperation, not an act of coercion." He paused, and added with the faintest trace of dark humor, "After all, we have just witnessed the alternative."
.
[Conference Suite – Bundeskanzleramt / Federal Chancellery, Berlin]
The ghost-light of the screens painted the room in a pale, shifting glow. On the wall of monitors, the faces of world leaders were softening, their suspicion thawing into the reluctant, placid acceptance of a decision they believed was their own. Strauss’s proposal had settled into the international bloodstream like a slow-acting toxin—warming the body even as it began its quiet work.
Here in Berlin, the air was different. The crisis had been metabolized into procedure. The only sounds were the disciplined hum of servers, the soft click of keyboards, and the rustle of briefs being passed between aides. It was the sound of wonderful, sweet order.
O. Strauss stood a respectful half-step behind the German Chancellor, his hands clasped neatly before him, his expression a masterpiece of mild attentiveness. Onscreen, leaders were throwing around jargons: “transparency,” “standardization,” “cooperation,” “global stage.”
Seeds, planted. And already, he could feel the roots threading through the soil of their collective fear.
The Chancellor gave a soft, satisfied hum, the prestige of the moment reflecting nicely on her. She turned her head just enough, her voice dropping into the familiar cadence of their mother tongue.
"Ausgezeichnet, Herr Strauss. Ich habe mich nicht geirrt, Ihnen zu vertrauen.“
(Excellent work, Mr. Strauss. I was not mistaken in trusting you.)
Aides nearby exchanged subtle, relieved glances. Shoulders, previously tight with the weight of the emergency, loosened.
One offered a discreet smile. Another murmured, “Gut gemacht.”
Strauss inclined his head modestly.
Behind them, the British Prime Minister was elaborating on oversight; the French President was adding a flourish about international cooperation. The American Secretary of State was already scribbling notes, seizing control of the momentum. The proposal had momentum now. Strauss did not need to watch further.
It was then that he finally acknowledged the persistent, silent vibration against his hip.
He lowered his eyes to the separate, unmarked phone, a sleek, anonymous slab of black metal, thankfully isolated from any official network. He drew it out with a smooth, unhurried motion. A glance at the caller ID confirmed what he had anticipated. He offered the Chancellor an apologetic, almost imperceptible half-smile.
“Entschuldigen Sie mich,” he murmured quietly. “A minor administrative matter requiring my attention.”
The Chancellor waved him off with an absent, trusting gesture, not averting her eyes from the meeting monitors.
Strauss stepped through a side door into a narrow service corridor, the lighting harsher, the echo of distant ventilation more pronounced. Only once the door clicked shut behind him did he answer.
The voice on the other end was already unraveling in panicked gasps and shouts.
“SIR! Sir! The lab lock— it’s broken! It just disengaged on its own! The entire western wing is open—the systems are non-responsive—we can’t—we can’t re-engage!”
A metallic crash echoed down the line, violently distorted by the speaker. Someone screamed, the sound abruptly cut short. In the background, something… some being… hissed, in a wet, chitinous sound, followed by the distinct, sickening crunch of human bones.
Strauss listened without interrupting, a strange sort of fascination came over him.
He graciously let the caller go on their business.
There was a great sound of struggle.
There was a scuffle, the thud of a body hitting the floor, and then a desperate, gasping breath as the caller, miraculously, retrieved the phone.
When Strauss finally spoke, his voice was placid, utterly undisturbed by the storm raging on the other shore.
“Breathe,” he instructed softly.
A choked sob was his reply. “Sir! Daniel—he’s gone! That… thing… it just… it ate him!”
There was another wet, ripping sound in the background, followed by a high-pitched shriek that was swiftly silenced. Strauss listened to the chaos with the detached focus of a conductor listening for a single off-key instrument.
His voice softened further, taking on an almost paternal tone. “A containment breach of this magnitude was never a matter of if, but when. Some systems,” he mused, “are designed to fail precisely when their purpose has been served. Their failure is the final data point.”
“But sir,” the technician stammered, confusion cutting through the panic, “F-forgive my audacity. The… the manual kill switch for the entire lab—it’s still showing green on your end. You have the only remote authorization. You could have scuttled the whole wing before it got this far! Why didn’t you just—?”
The German advisor interrupted a soft, chiding tsk.
"…Now why would I do that?"
The line went silent for a beat, the technician's mind clearly short-circuiting. "S-Sir?"
“Perhaps the solution is simpler,” Strauss countered, his gaze fixed on the blank wall ahead. “Our old stuff were… obsolete. They were always meant to be replaced.”
"But Sir—the NYPD and the hunter guilds are already on the way! They'll call in everyone—"
"That is very nice!" he said, a thread of genuine pleasure in his voice. "Now, maintain your distance," he instructed, his tone that of a teacher guiding a student through a difficult equation. "Allow the local response to escalate naturally. Let them exhaust their conventional options. Only when they realize their inadequacy will they be forced to seek… extraordinary aid."
He let the implication hang for a moment before adding a final, pointed warning. "And, Mr. Keenan? Don't do anything… heroic. I would not like it."
“But, Orpheus, sir…” The voice was small, horrified, the full, monstrous logic of the situation finally dawning. “Civilians…our people… people will die.”
There was a brief, profound pause, filled only by the continuous wet, tearing sounds from the laboratory.
“People die every day,” Orpheus J. Strauss replied, his voice gentle, reasonable, as if explaining a simple truth to a child. “It is a statistical certainty. The question is not if they die, but what we learn from the event. Let us ensure we learn something valuable.”
.
[COEX MALL, SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA]
"Which is insane, considering she’s related to the most dangerous organism on Earth, and her only protection is public anonymity. Even Thomas Andre keeps his mother in a bunker with a platoon of ex-special forces. This girl has a credit card and two friends.”
Agent exhaled slowly, a controlled release of air through his nostrils like how he'd been trained to do. The pieces were aligning.
The principal’s profound vulnerability, the Monarch's imminent diversion, and the pristine, uncontaminated operational field.
Jinah Sung was exposed.
.
— excerpt from Chapter 20
.
High above the atrium, on the maintenance balcony, a man lay prone against the railing. Scope aligned. Breath held. Gloves steady.
“Final confirmation,” he whispered into his mic. “Target is on clear sight.”
The static crackled before A voice replied.
“No shadow activity. No passive watchers. Field is clean.”
A beat.
“Execute.”
The agent exhaled, slow and controlled, like he’d practiced a hundred times. His finger tightened on the trigger of his rifle—
Then something impossibly dark dropped straight out of the ceiling.
,
Sung Jinah looked up from her phone — from Minsung's face in that loser edit was SO bad and had her absolutely dying, wheezing, because Songyi kept zooming and zooming and the filters, god the filters — and Esil was mid-laugh too, soft and confused and curious because demons didn’t have memes (those poor souls), and—
Esil froze, as if detecting a strange, powerful aura. Her eyes went sharp, like a predator.
“...what?” Jinah wheezed, still trying to breathe through her laugh, her chest shaking—
And then something hit the upper balcony.
And just in time to see two bodies hitting metal in pieces.
A leg — a whole LEG (is that a leg? WHY is that a leg??) hit the ground with a disgusting metallic meat thunk, like someone had overstuffed a trash can with ham.
Then an arm, or a part of it, spinning weirdly, like it didn’t belong to anything anymore.
And then—
And then
the
torso.
God.
OH GOD.
The torso came last but it looked wrong, wrong, WRONG — crushed, crushed like a soda can, twisted and chewed and folded in on itself, half-floating in shadow that blinked out like someone turning off a lamp.
Blood sprayed across the railing above like a paint bucket thrown from the sky.
A perfect red line.
Too bright.
Too much.
Everywhere.
Jinah’s breath locked in her chest.
Her vision tunneled inward like someone squeezed her skull between two hands.
Her ears rang with a familiar, suffocating static — the same deeper-than-sound pressure she remembered from that day in the school hallway..
the hallway…
the orc..
the the the
the AXE…
the pop…
the moment where Mrs. Han, her English teacher's head left her neck and she heard it before she even understood it—
the way it rolled
the way her glasses skidded across the floor
the way blood sprayed the lockers like—
Jinah couldn’t breathe.
She couldn’t breathe.
She couldn't BREATHE.
Everything in her head went white.
Shoppers were screaming.
She could tell they were.
Mouths open, faces twisted, sound waves moving, but—
She couldn’t hear.
She couldn’t hear anything.
It was all just ringing, like someone shoved her underwater, like a bomb went off next to her.
Nothing.
Just that roaring-ringing-pressure-nothing.
Songyi grabbed her arm so hard it hurt, her mouth forming Jinah’s name over and over and over but all Jinah heard was—
static.
Static.
STATICSTATICSTATIC—
….staticstaticstaticstaticOH MYGODher brain refused to process anything except the blood above and the body pieces and—
.
She gagged on nothing, clawing at her own chest like she could pry it open because her lungs weren’t working, weren’t working, WHY WEREN’T THEY WORKING, LET ME BREATHE—
The world was red and wet and bright.
Her heartbeat was everywhere, everywhere, pressing in behind her eyes.
Her stomach flipped.
Her throat closed until she gagged on AIR, on NOTHING.
Her legs folded under her like paper.
She hit the floor, knees screaming. Didn’t feel it.
Everything was red.
Everything was moving.
Everything was wrong.
Her heartbeat was EVERYWHERE — behind her eyes, in her teeth, in her fingertips, too fast, too loud, too much—
The world kept shaking and she didn’t know if it was her or the ground or the blood or
Esil was there suddenly, spear in hand, mana crackling, shouting something in demon tongue, but Jinah couldn’t—
she couldn’t—
none of it—
Her brain kept running in circles, shrieking at her to run-run-RUN but her legs were over there somewhere, not attached, not listening.
She tasted metal.
Real or memory, she couldn’t tell.
She didn’t know anything.
The mall blurred into streaks of incomprehensible color.
Lights stuttered.
Blood kept dripping—dripping—dripping—
The pieces—
the pieces—
the PIECES—
But the shadow—
that shadow that ripped a man apart just inches from her—
"Jinah!"
“JINAH! You're okay—you're okay—just breathe.”
"…. Oppa?"
A long shadow elongated with the sudden appearance of Sung Jinwoo in broad daylight, as he casually skewered a second black-clad attacker with one arm.
.
And Jinah screamed in terror.