Broken Oaths, Burning World

The sun hung low in the sky, its amber hues fading into the encroaching indigo of twilight. Agent-90 threaded silently through the underbrush, his movements as fluid as the wind rustling the leaves. Ahead, partially obscured by towering trees, stood the Song Mansion, its elegant facade basking in the dimming light. The sprawling estate, nestled deep within the secluded Zhi-Gong Forest District, bore an air of isolation and quiet grandeur.

Agent-90 crouched low, observing the mansion's perimeter. Guards patrolled sporadically, their weapons glinting under the burgeoning moonlight. The time for action was not yet ripe. Patient as ever, he melted into the shadows, waiting for night to fully cloak his movements.

Flashback shows, Agent-90 had stepped into the pristine office of President Song Luoyang. The SSCBF leader sat behind his polished mahogany desk, his face etched with a weariness that spoke of sleepless nights and mounting pressures. As the heavy oak door clicked shut behind him, Song's eyes darted upward, alarm flashing across his features.

Agent-90 raised a gloved finger to his lips—a silent command for discretion. Song understood immediately. There were ears and eyes everywhere.

With a calculated precision, Agent-90 moved to the desk, his presence as imposing as a shadow cast by firelight. Without a word, he placed a small device on the desk—a signal jammer. In an instant, the hidden cameras and microphones ceased their surveillance.

Leaning forward, Song whispered hoarsely, his voice trembling yet resolute.

"They are after you, Agent-90. You must not linger here."

His hand trembled as he passed a folded piece of paper and a tiny chip into Agent-90's palm, his fingers brushing against the assassin's with a sense of urgency. Drawing closer, he murmured in a cryptic phrase, almost imperceptible:

"The dandelion will wilt if left in the sun; protect the roots, and the bloom will return."

The message was clear: "They will kill my family, please save them."

Agent-90 gave a subtle nod, his piercing gaze affirming his understanding. Without another word, he turned and disappeared as soundlessly as he had entered, leaving Song alone amidst the oppressive silence of his office.

The forest began to hum with the nocturnal symphony of crickets and rustling leaves. Agent-90 tightened the grip on his weapon, his expression unreadable. The lives of the President's family now rested in his hands, and the stakes were higher than ever.

The air was taut with anticipation, the muffled rustling of leaves the only sound that disturbed the stillness of the forest. Agent-90 crouched behind a thicket, his gloved hands steady as he readied his silenced pistol. The last light of dusk had vanished, leaving the forest enshrouded in a blanket of shadow.

Then he heard it—a faint but distinct crunch of dry leaves underfoot. His sharp eyes caught the subtle shimmer of moonlight reflecting off polished weaponry. Five figures advanced methodically through the foliage, their movements disciplined, their senses attuned to danger.

Agent-90 peered through the dense underbrush. He recognized them immediately.

Altan Sukh, a guerrilla warfare specialist, scanning the treetops for movement.

Siegfried Bauer, an espionage handler, his posture exuding confidence, his hand resting lightly on his holstered firearm.

Klara Diefenbach, decoding analyst, clutching a sleek submachine gun with precision.

Isabela Cruz, undercover operative, her eyes darting like a hawk's.

Jin Ah-Ri, encryption specialist, holding a compact pistol as she muttered into a comm device, trying to establish contact.

Their presence was an unexpected complication, yet their precision betrayed a fatal flaw: they had underestimated their quarry.

Agent-90 moved like a phantom, his black mask rendering his face invisible, his form blending seamlessly with the shadows. Without a whisper, he closed the gap, his movements deliberate and lethal.

First Altan's eyes scanned the horizon, his finger brushing against the trigger guard of his rifle. He never heard the faint shift of air behind him. Agent-90's silenced pistol coughed once, and Altan dropped like a marionette with its strings cut.

Second, Klara froze, sensing something amiss. She turned, her weapon rising, but Agent-90 was faster. A single suppressed shot pierced her forehead, her body crumpling noiselessly into the undergrowth.

Third: Siegfried's instincts kicked in as he reached for his firearm. But Agent-90 had already closed the distance. The silencer pressed against Siegfried's temple. The shot was clinical, the fall silent.

Fourth: Isabela spun, catching a glimpse of movement. She raised her weapon, only for Agent-90 to disarm her with a swift, brutal strike to her wrist. Before she could cry out, he drove a combat knife into her throat, lowering her to the ground without a sound.

Fifth: Jin managed to utter a half-formed command into her comm device before Agent-90's hand clamped over her mouth. She struggled briefly, but the blade found her heart in a calculated strike. Her body sagged into his arms, lifeless.

The forest returned to stillness, the bodies of the SCP operatives sprawled among the leaves like discarded marionettes. Agent-90 crouched beside Jin's fallen form, retrieving her comm device. He pressed a few buttons, ensuring no further communication could be sent.

His masked face betrayed no emotion as he surveyed his work. Five highly trained specialists, neutralised without a single alarm raised. He tucked the comm device into his pocket and melted back into the shadows, the forest swallowing him whole.

The mission continued.

The dense canopy of the Zhi-Gong forest rendered the night almost impenetrable, yet Agent-90 moved with the assuredness of a predator in its natural habitat. Draped in obsidian-black attire, his every step was a calculated study in stealth. The sprawling Song Mansion, a relic of colonial opulence, loomed before him. Its grandeur stood in stark contrast to the secrets it concealed.

Agent-90 crouched beneath a row of hedgerows, his eyes scanning the estate. Surveillance cameras dotted the perimeter like watchful sentinels. From his pocket, he retrieved a small device, sleek and unassuming. A press of a button, and the camera feeds looped into innocuous stillness.

With feline grace, he vaulted over the wrought-iron fence, his landing silent against the gravel path. The patrolling guards, clad in SCP insignias, marched in rigid formation. Their rifles gleamed under the sporadic moonlight, yet their vigilance would amount to naught.

Reaching the mansion's western wing, Agent-90 studied the windowpanes, searching for the weakest link. A faint crack in one pane was his invitation. From a concealed compartment in his sleeve, he produced a diamond-edged glass cutter. Within moments, a precise circle was removed, allowing him access to the latch.

He slipped inside without a sound, landing in what appeared to be a library. The room was steeped in silence, its mahogany shelves lined with tomes bound in leather and secrets. A faint red light blinked in the corner—surveillance. He strode toward it, his shadow long and foreboding, and disabled it with a deft twist of his wrist.

The mansion's halls were labyrinthine, a network of corridors that seemed to fold in on themselves. Plush carpets muffled his footfalls as he moved with the precision of a shadow incarnate. The patrolling SCP guards were thorough, their movements predictable, but their caution failed to anticipate a ghost in their midst.

One guard paused by a grand staircase, his hand resting on the holster at his hip. Agent-90 flattened himself against the wall, his breath shallow, his movements imperceptible. When the guard turned his back, a quick sidestep brought Agent-90 closer, bypassing him with lethal efficiency.

Reaching the upper floor, Agent-90 slipped into a room marked by the faint scent of jasmine and the lingering warmth of habitation. The curtains fluttered against the open window, the only witness to his silent intrusion. His gloved hands brushed against the surface of a lacquered desk as he scanned for clues. A photograph of Song Luoyang with his family sat encased in a silver frame—an unspoken plea for protection.

A faint creak echoed from the corridor beyond. Agent-90 stilled, his hand moving instinctively to the silenced pistol at his hip. The patrolling guard passed without pausing, his ignorance a testament to Agent-90's preternatural skill.

The stage was set. The next act would begin.

The dimly lit corridor stretched ahead, its ornate wallpaper peeling at the edges, whispering tales of better days. Agent-90 crouched in the shadows, his eyes trained on the solitary guard patrolling the hall. The guard's footsteps echoed faintly against the marble floor, their cadence steady but unguarded.

Agent-90 moved with the fluidity of a spectre, closing the distance in a heartbeat. A gloved hand shot out, clamping over the guard's mouth, while his other arm encircled the man's neck with brutal precision. There was a faint crunch, like the snapping of brittle twigs, and the guard's body went limp.

Lowering the lifeless form to the ground with care, Agent-90 surveyed his surroundings. Not a soul stirred. He dragged the body to a nearby closet, its creaking door betraying the weight of secrets already stored within. Stripping the guard of his uniform, he donned the ill-fitting attire. The peaked cap cast a shadow over his eyes, masking the glint of determination that burned within.

Stepping back into the corridor, now clad in the guise of an SCP guard, Agent-90 adopted the gait of the man he had just dispatched. His stride was deliberate, his posture rigid, blending seamlessly into the fabric of the mansion's security detail.

He passed two guards stationed by a grand staircase, their conversation a low murmur. Neither spared him a second glance. The mansion was a labyrinth, its opulence marred by the silent tension that hung in the air.

Agent-90's mind was singularly focused: Song Luoyang's wife and three daughters. The weight of their lives pressed upon him, though his expression remained inscrutable beneath the cap's brim.

Pausing by a gilded door slightly ajar, Agent-90 overheard hushed voices within. A maid and a guard exchanged terse words about the "ladies being secured in the east wing." His instincts flared—this was the lead he needed.

Continuing his calculated march, he approached the east wing, navigating past intricately carved doors and opulent chandeliers that hung like the swords of Damocles. The mansion's decadence was a stark juxtaposition to the mission's urgency.

A faint cry reached his ears—young, frightened, quickly muffled. His gloved hand instinctively brushed against the silenced pistol at his hip. The Song family was close. As he neared the source of the sound, his pulse remained steady, his resolve ironclad.

The disguise had granted him passage thus far, but Agent-90 knew the veneer of deceit could shatter at any moment. With every step, he prepared for what lay ahead. Unknowingly, his head aches as blur vision starts to appear but he tries to remain steady.

Agent-90's gloved hand hovered over the sleek watch on his wrist. With a faint metallic hum, a cluster of robotic insects no larger than coins emerged, their precision-engineered bodies glinting faintly in the dim light. The tiny automatons scurried off in unison, moving with the stealth of phantoms toward their designated targets—the mansion's web of surveillance cameras.

He had already mapped the layout in his mind: 40 hidden cameras, their positions embedded into his memory like a cartographer etching lines onto parchment. Each camera presented an unyielding eye, scrutinising the corridors and rooms with vigilance. However, Agent-90 knew that even the most vigilant eye could be blinded.

The insects ascended the walls with eerie efficiency, their minuscule legs clinging to surfaces with an almost unnatural dexterity. One by one, the surveillance feeds began to distort—first a flicker, then a cascade of static. Within moments, the mansion's vast surveillance network was rendered inert, the once-watchful cameras reduced to impotent ornaments.

Hidden within her fortified control room, Liu Weise—an experienced and astute operator for the SCP—noticed the anomalies creeping across her monitors. The feeds that once displayed crisp, real-time images of the mansion now showed nothing but erratic glitches and black screens.

Her fingers danced across her keyboard, her brow furrowing. "What in the world…?" she muttered, her voice tinged with suspicion. Her trained eyes scanned for patterns, and the realisation struck her like a thunderclap. This wasn't a mere malfunction—it was sabotage.

Liu Weise's instincts sharpened as she keyed into the mansion's communication line. Her voice, crisp and commanding, rang through the guards' earpieces.

"Attention, all units. Surveillance systems are compromised. This is no accident." She paused, her tone growing graver. "The notorious assassin, Agent-90, is among us. Stay alert and prepare for engagement."

The announcement sent a ripple of unease through the SCP operatives stationed throughout the mansion. Guards stiffened, their hands tightening on their weapons. Officers exchanged wary glances, their professional stoicism masking the undercurrent of dread that accompanied the name Agent-90.

Agent-90, lurking in the shadowed alcove of an ornate corridor, observed the unfolding tension with cold detachment. The guards moved with a newfound vigilance, their formations tightening, their steps deliberate. Yet he remained unfazed, knowing that he had already gained the upper hand.

His robotic insects had not only disabled the cameras but had also infiltrated the recording devices, erasing any trace of his presence. The mansion was now his domain, its labyrinthine halls and opulent chambers no longer bastions of safety but traps waiting to be sprung.

With a final glance at his watch, where the insects' progress was displayed as glowing nodes on a holographic interface, Agent-90 adjusted his black mask. His next steps were calculated, his movements silent, as he prepared to turn the SCP's heightened vigilance into their ultimate downfall.

The cityscape of Baegyeong sprawled beyond the window, its skyline glittering like a mosaic of stars scattered across the horizon. President Song Luoyang stood there, his silhouette framed by the cool hues of the night. His hands clasped tightly behind his back, and his gaze was heavy, not with admiration for the city he governed but with the weight of his unspoken fears. The faint hum of distant traffic filled the room, a melancholy accompaniment to his thoughts.

A soft knock at the door shattered the silence. He inhaled deeply, steadying himself before turning slightly toward the source of the sound.

"Enter," he said, his voice calm yet laden with unspoken weariness.

The door opened, and Wen-Li stepped in, her movements stiff, her posture betraying both fatigue and frustration. Her left arm bore a fresh cut, the crimson stain on her sleeve a stark reminder of the battle she had fought. Yet, it was her expression—etched with defeat—that caught the President's attention.

"President Song," she began hesitantly, her voice subdued.

He turned fully now, his face a picture of composed resolve. "Did you manage to catch him?" he asked, his tone even, though his eyes betrayed the flicker of hope that her answer might affirm.

Wen-Li shook her head, her gaze falling to the floor. "No, President. We tried, but we failed." Her voice wavered slightly, the admission clearly weighing on her. "And he took two Sinners as well."

For a moment, the room fell silent, the air between them thick with the implications of her words. Song Luoyang studied her, his expression betraying neither anger nor disappointment. Instead, his calm demeanour seemed almost unnerving.

"Are you injured badly?" he asked, his voice gentle, gesturing subtly toward her arm.

"It's nothing I cannot manage," she replied quickly, her pride refusing to allow further elaboration. But as she glanced at him, she noticed something unusual—his face, usually a mask of authority, bore an almost imperceptible tension. His eyes, though steady, seemed distant, as if they carried a burden far heavier than her report.

"President," Wen-Li ventured cautiously, "is something wrong?"

He held her gaze for a moment, his lips parting as if to speak. But then he shook his head faintly, the movement almost imperceptible. "Nothing of great consequence," he replied, his tone firm but not convincing.

Wen-Li hesitated, her instincts telling her there was more to his calm exterior. But sensing his reluctance to share, she nodded and excused herself. "I will take my leave then," she said softly, bowing slightly before turning to exit the room.

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving President Song alone once more. He turned back to the window, his reflection merging with the city's twinkling lights. His hands clenched at his sides, the weight of his predicament pressing upon him anew.

In a voice barely above a whisper, he murmured, "Please… save my family, Agent-90."

Meanwhile the grand halls of Song's Mansion echoed with hurried footsteps and the clipped commands of the SCP secret police, their urgency palpable. The officers moved with precision, weapons at the ready, scanning every corner for the intruder who had dared breach their perimeter. Among them, disguised in their uniform, moved Agent-90—a spectre of death amidst the unsuspecting.

Each step he took was calculated, every movement poised. He stayed just far enough from the others to avoid undue scrutiny, yet close enough to blend seamlessly into their ranks. His black mask concealed his face beneath the uniform cap, the shadow of his identity shielded from their probing eyes.

As the officers ascended the grand stairway, Agent-90 broke away from the group with silent precision, his silenced pistol drawn. His first target, a lone officer patrolling the upper hall, was dispatched swiftly—his neck twisted with a lethal efficiency. Agent-90 dragged the lifeless body into a nearby alcove, ensuring it was hidden from view.

The mansion's labyrinthine corridors became his hunting ground. Moving like a phantom, he slipped behind another officer and ended him with a single suppressed shot to the back of the head. Each kill was executed with a cold, meticulous artistry, the silence of his methods leaving no trace but the absence of their comrades.

As he navigated the upper floors, his sharp eyes scanned every detail. He entered one bedroom after another, finding signs of recent habitation but no trace of Song Luoyang's wife or daughters. His instincts screamed that they were nearby, yet their whereabouts eluded him.

The faint echo of a gunshot broke the tense stillness, followed by a sharp scream that seemed to reverberate through the very walls of the mansion. Agent-90's head snapped toward the sound, his predatory senses sharpening. He followed the noise, his footfalls as light as whispers, his weapon ready.

It was then, in one of the grander bedrooms, that he noticed something peculiar. A seemingly innocuous bookshelf stood slightly ajar, its edges misaligned with the wall. He approached cautiously, his gloved hand reaching out to test its weight. It gave way, revealing a secret passage hidden behind.

"Clever," he murmured to himself, his voice a low rasp that barely broke the air.

He inspected the concealed doorway, his augmented vision scanning for traps or surveillance devices. Finding none, he stepped inside. The passageway was dimly lit, the walls lined with old wood paneling that muffled sound. The faint scent of damp earth lingered, suggesting the passage might lead underground.

Agent-90 advanced with care, his silenced pistol leading the way. The distant echoes of hurried whispers and shifting movements reached his ears, confirming he was on the right path. Each step brought him closer to his objective—and to the unseen dangers that surely awaited.

The recreation lounge at the SDF headquarters was unusually lively that evening. A mismatched group of agents—Hella, Hecate, Farhan, Masud, Jun, Roy, and Alvi—sat around a low table cluttered with cards, half-empty tea cups, and a bowl of cashew nuts. Alvi, ever the epitome of composure, had just joined the group, carrying her tea with the precision of a headmistress inspecting unruly pupils.

Hella sighed dramatically, tossing her cards onto the table. "This is duller than a pigeon in a rainstorm! Don't you lot ever think about him?"

Jun, who had just shuffled the deck with the flair of a seasoned magician, raised an eyebrow. "Him? You mean Agent-90?" He chuckled and leaned back in his chair. "Oh, he's a curious one, isn't he? Always skulking about, handling everything with that deadly precision of his." He smirked. "But scared? Angry? Nah! He's more like a robotic vacuum—efficient, quiet, and occasionally gets stuck under the sofa."

Farhan laughed, nearly spilling his tea. "Spot on, Jun! But you've got to admit, when he joined, he didn't half make us look like amateurs. Still, I'd say he's the junior here—we're the seniors."

Jun turned to Masud, whose gaze was firmly fixed on Hecate, who was meticulously stacking the cashew nuts into a precarious tower. "What say you, Masud?"

Masud blinked, pulled from his trance. "Er, yeah, yeah. Impressive chap, that Agent-90."

Jun squinted, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Without a word, he grabbed a pillow from the couch and walloped Masud squarely on the side of the head.

Masud yelped, startled. "Oi! What's that for?"

"For being in a trance, mate," Jun quipped, laughing.

The pillow ricocheted onto Alvi, who was just sipping her tea. Her eyes narrowed as she set her cup down with the precision of someone about to unleash calculated fury. "Right. Who threw that?"

Masud immediately pointed at Jun. Jun, in turn, pointed at the ceiling.

With a regal swipe, Alvi grabbed a pillow and hurled it at Roy, who was busy munching on cashews. "Collateral damage," she declared as the pillow landed with a satisfying whump.

Roy, not one to let such an affront go unanswered, launched his own counterstrike, catching Hecate by accident.

Hecate, who had been wholly uninvolved, froze, her cashew tower toppling. She looked at the chaos around her, then calmly picked up a pillow and smacked Roy with the precision of a sniper.

Farhan stood, raising his hands. "Now, now, let's not get out of hand—" he began, but was cut off as Jun tossed a pillow straight at his chest.

"Too late for diplomacy!" Jun declared, diving behind the sofa as Farhan grabbed two pillows and charged forward with a battle cry.

Amidst the chaos, feathers began to escape the seams of the pillows, floating through the air like tiny snowflakes. The once-silent room was now a cacophony of laughter, indignant yelps, and the occasional sound of someone tripping over the furniture.

As the feathers settled and the agents collapsed into laughter and exhaustion, Farhan leaned back against the sofa, grinning. "You know what? It doesn't matter if Agent-90's a monster or not. We're all brothers and sisters here. We've got each other's backs."

Hella grinned, brushing feathers from her hair. "Even when those backs are being pummeled with pillows, eh?"

Jun raised a hand in mock solemnity. "To camaraderie—and to never underestimating Alvi's aim again!"

The room erupted in laughter once more, the weight of their missions forgotten, if only for a little while.

Agent-90 moved silently through the narrow, dimly lit passageway, his footsteps muffled by the ancient stone floor. The air was heavy with the scent of mildew and faintly acrid from the wires snaking through the walls. From small apertures carved into the passage, he could hear the chaos beyond.

A woman's anguished cries pierced the silence, mingling with the shrill screams of children and the deep, guttural shouts of men. Agent-90's steely gaze fixed on one of the holes. Through it, he could see Elan Mordechai, a towering figure with a cruel sneer, looming over the Song family. His wife and two daughters sat bound, tears streaming down their faces as Elan interrogated them with venomous fervour.

"Where is your husband?!" Elan snarled, pacing back and forth. "He thinks he can betray the Syndicate? Does he fancy himself untouchable?" He paused to lean down, gripping Mrs. Song's jaw harshly. "Tell me where he's hidden the documents. Speak, or I'll make your children scream louder than you ever thought possible."

Mrs. Song sobbed, shaking her head. "I don't know... please, we don't know anything!"

Elan struck her across the face with the back of his hand, the sound echoing through the room. "Lies. Shira, bring the eldest closer."

Shira Malachai, lithe and cold as a blade, dragged the eldest daughter forward by her hair. The girl whimpered, her wide eyes darting toward her mother. Shira's icy tone sliced through the air. "Tell him what he wants, or I'll make her regret every breath she's ever taken."

Agent-90's jaw clenched beneath his mask as he observed the scene. Madam Di-Xian's voice crackled softly in his earpiece. "Agent-90, be cautious. Elan Mordechai is a master manipulator and interrogator. He will play with your mind, as well as your body. Shira Malachai, however, is deadlier—silent, efficient, and merciless. Do not underestimate them."

Before Agent-90 could move, Shira's sharp eyes flicked toward the wall. Her lips curled into a smirk. "There's someone in the passage."

Elan's head snapped up. "Guards! Seal the exits! Flush him out!"

The passage was suddenly flooded with armed SCP officers, their heavy boots pounding against the stone. Agent-90 didn't wait for them to corner him. As the first officer lunged, he twisted to the side, grabbed the man's arm, and used his momentum to slam him into the wall, his skull cracking through the plaster.

Another officer swung a baton, but Agent-90 ducked and delivered a swift kick to the man's kneecap, sending him crumpling. The narrow space became a cacophony of grunts and the metallic clang of weapons. He disarmed one with a brutal elbow to the throat, using the stolen pistol to neutralize two others with precision shots.

As he dispatched the last of the guards, Agent-90 burst through a broken section of the wall into the drawing room. Elan and Shira stood motionless, their faces a mix of shock and steely resolve.

"Well, well," Elan drawled, straightening his coat. "The legend himself. Tell me, Agent-90, how does it feel to have walked into your own demise?"

Shira unsheathed twin daggers, her movements fluid and calculated. "You've made a mistake coming here."

Agent-90 didn't respond. He lunged at Shira first, knowing her agility made her the greater threat. The two exchanged a rapid series of blows, her daggers slashing dangerously close while he countered with brutal strikes. Elan joined the fray, his sheer strength nearly overwhelming as he delivered bone-crushing punches.

Agent-90 fought like a cornered predator, but the duo's coordination was formidable. Elan's punches staggered him, while Shira's blades left shallow cuts across his arms and torso. He managed to throw Shira into a table, shattering it, but Elan's fist connected with his ribs, forcing him to the ground.

As he rose, his eyes fell on the Song family—Mrs. Song and her daughters lay motionless, their lifeless bodies a stark testament to Elan's cruelty. Fury ignited in his chest, and he launched himself at Elan with renewed ferocity, tackling the larger man into a cabinet.

But even rage couldn't tilt the odds. Shira recovered, her dagger slicing dangerously close to his throat. Elan pinned him against the wall, his grin sinister. "You've lost, Agent-90. Surrender, and perhaps I'll make your death quick."

Agent-90's hand slipped into his utility belt, retrieving a small cylindrical device. With a flick, he activated it, releasing a dense cloud of smoke that engulfed the room.

"Find him!" Shira shouted, coughing as she waved the smoke away.

In the chaos, Agent-90 moved silently, blending into the shadows. He slipped through the passage he'd entered, disabling the remaining guards with ruthless efficiency. Emerging into the cool night air, he activated a cloaking device, disappearing into the forest as alarms blared behind him.

The last thing he heard as he melted into the darkness was Elan's enraged roar: "You can't run forever, Agent-90!"

The dimly lit room reeked of solitude, its mahogany desk cluttered with papers bearing the weight of national secrets. Song Luoyang, the President of the SSCBF, sat poised but visibly weary, his gaze fixed on the telephone before him. He prayed silently that the call would be from Agent-90, the only ally he trusted in these turbulent times.

The shrill ring of the telephone shattered the oppressive silence. With a shaky hand, he lifted the receiver, his voice measured yet apprehensive.

"Song Luoyang speaking," he uttered, a faint hope laced in his tone.

A pause, then a voice slithered through the line like a venomous serpent.

"Ah, President Song," Gavriel drawled, his tone dripping with malice. "I bear tidings—dire ones, I'm afraid. Your wife and children... they're no longer among the living."

Song froze, his breath catching as if an icy blade had been plunged into his chest. "You lie," he spat, his voice cracking.

Gavriel chuckled, a sinister rumble that sent shivers down Song's spine. "Oh, but I warned you, did I not? Defy our directives, and your family would suffer the consequences. You brought this upon yourself."

"You heartless fiend!" Song bellowed, his voice trembling with fury and anguish. "How could you stoop so low? They were innocent!"

"Oh, spare me your sanctimonious prattle," Gavriel retorted, his voice tinged with mockery. "You, too, are culpable. Do you not recall your role in orchestrating the assassination of Chief Wen-Luo? Hypocrisy becomes you, President."

Song's grip on the receiver tightened, his knuckles blanching. His vision blurred with unshed tears as Gavriel's voice grew darker still.

"And soon, Wen-Li and the SSCBF shall follow. I will see to it that they are obliterated, reduced to naught but ashes. Unless…" Gavriel's voice dipped into an almost seductive whisper. "If you wish to spare them, there is but one way. End your miserable life. Reunite with your family in death."

Song's eyes widened, his chest heaving with the weight of the ultimatum. The line went dead with a hollow click, leaving him in a vortex of despair. He stared at the telephone, his thoughts spiraling into chaos.

Yet amid the turmoil, clarity emerged. He would do what was necessary—not for himself, but for Wen-Li, for the SSCBF, for the future.

Song retrieved a pen and a sheet of parchment, his hand trembling as he began to write. The words flowed with an urgency borne of finality:

Dearest Wen-Li,

By the time you read this, I shall have departed from this world. Do not mourn me, for my life was spent in service to a cause greater than myself. What remains now is for you to carry the torch forward.

Gavriel, the architect of our suffering, has vowed to destroy you and the SSCBF. But you are stronger than he knows. Enclosed within this envelope, you will find details of his machinations, as well as the identity of a trusted ally—Agent-90. Seek them out. They hold the key to uncovering the truth behind the murder of your parents.

You are destined for greatness, Wen-Li. Protect the SSCBF with all your might. Lead with wisdom, resilience, and unwavering resolve. And never forget: the future is shaped by those who dare to fight for it.

Good luck, Chief. The world rests upon your shoulders.

With unwavering faith,

Song Luoyang

With the letter sealed and placed prominently on his desk, Song stood. His movements were deliberate, as if choreographed by inevitability. He picked up the gun, its weight cold and unyielding in his grasp.

Tears cascaded down his cheeks, glistening in the dim light. He raised the firearm to his temple, his voice a trembling whisper.

"Good luck, Chief."

The sound of the gunshot echoed through the office, marking the end of a man who sacrificed everything for his cause. The silence that followed was deafening, save for the faint rustle of the letter, its words a testament to hope amidst despair.