Broken Oaths, Burning World

On 26th July 2042, at 1:00 am The underground facility of SCP was a labyrinth of corridors, each one shrouded in a murky, artificial glow. The faint hum of machinery reverberated through the air, an unrelenting symphony of wires, servers, and secrets. The computer room sat at the heart of this abyss, a metallic cathedral where screens blinked like the watchful eyes of a thousand sentinels. The room was bathed in an eerie green luminescence, casting serpentine shadows that slithered across the walls.

Seated at the epicentre of this technological dominion was Eitan Shalom, his face illuminated by the cold light of the monitor. His fingers moved like a maestro orchestrating a symphony, tapping and clicking with precision and purpose. The vast expanse of data before him was a universe he commanded, each keystroke weaving through encrypted networks and firewalls as though they were mere cobwebs.

The task at hand was formidable—Gavriel had tasked him with infiltrating the deepest layers of personal information, not just of the citizenry but specifically of one target: Wen-Li. Her every movement, her every breath, her most intimate secrets were to be laid bare before the omniscient gaze of SCP.

Eitan adjusted his headset, the thin wire curling down like a serpent poised to strike. His voice, a measured cadence of authority and precision, broke the silence.

"Initiating Phase Two. Proxy shields activated, gateways breached. Commencing data retrieval on Subject Wen-Li," he muttered, his words a ritual to the machine.

The screen flickered as lines of code unfurled like the threads of an intricate tapestry. Cities, districts, and identities spilled onto the interface, each one catalogued, each one vulnerable. His focus was unwavering, his mind a fortress of loyalty to Gavriel and the SCP's grand design.

"Cross-referencing her communications. Let's see what our so-called Chief has been up to," he whispered, his tone laced with quiet menace.

The deeper he delved, the more the network resisted, like a wounded animal fighting to protect its heart. But Eitan was relentless, his expertise a weapon sharper than any blade. With a final keystroke, the firewall gave way, revealing the treasure trove of Wen-Li's digital existence.

As the data streamed before him, Eitan leaned back momentarily, his gaze narrowing. "Bank transfers... encrypted messages... her location, here." He paused, his voice barely audible. "She's moving pieces on the board, but to what end?"

The room seemed to darken further as he accessed a live feed, revealing Wen-Li at a clandestine meeting. Her expression was inscrutable, but her presence was a defiance in itself.

"She's scheming," Eitan muttered, his tone now venomous. "She thinks she can outwit us. Gavriel will be most pleased."

He initiated a secondary program, one designed to override and silence her communications, his hands steady as a sniper's aim. But even as he worked, a sliver of unease gnawed at the edges of his mind.

A faint beeping sound interrupted his focus, a warning he had not anticipated. His screen displayed a single line of text:

"Beware, Eitan Shalom. The eye that watches is also watched."

His breath caught, his heart pounding like a drumbeat in the dark. He scanned the room, his eyes darting to every shadow, every corner. For a moment, the omniscient operator felt the weight of vulnerability, as if the predator had become the prey.

"This is impossible," he whispered, his voice barely audible, trembling with a mixture of disbelief and dread.

The shadows seemed to shift, the green light growing dimmer. And yet, Eitan's loyalty held firm, his resolve unbroken. He leaned forward, his fingers resuming their dance on the keyboard.

"Gavriel's orders must be fulfilled," he murmured, his voice a steely echo. "Wen-Li's silence will not be left to chance."

As he worked, the room seemed to close in around him, the hum of the machines now a low growl, as though the very walls bore witness to his treachery.

In the morning daylight the SSCBF headquarters buzzed like a beehive in the throes of its morning fervour. Desks were strewn with papers in chaotic harmony, keyboards clattered in a relentless symphony, and the occasional muttered expletive punctuated the air like an unwelcome cymbal crash. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the faint scent of toner, creating a potpourri that only the truly industrious—or desperate—could appreciate.

The clock's hands had edged perilously close to the sacred hour of lunch, yet the bustle showed no signs of abating. Officers darted between workstations, some carrying precarious stacks of files, others balancing mugs of coffee that threatened rebellion with every step. Amidst this flurry, the office door of Chief Wen-Li creaked open, drawing every eye like iron filings to a magnet.

She stepped out with her characteristic poise, her dark hair immaculately tied back, her gaze sweeping across the room with the precision of a hawk surveying its domain. She was heading for the water dispenser, a mundane mission rendered regal by her very presence. The staff, sensing her approach, straightened like sunflowers reaching for the sun, their idle chatter transforming into a symphony of industriousness.

Wen-Li's lips curled into a faint smile as she noticed a group of officers on their break, huddled in a corner and engaged in animated gossip. She appreciated their camaraderie but was far too composed to intrude.

Meanwhile, Jieng Shufeng leaned conspiratorially toward Liming Kihoonho at the next desk. "Summer's coming, Liming," she began with a sly grin, "but do you think we'll get even a morsel of a break?"

Liming Kihoonho sighed theatrically, resting her chin on her hand. "I'd give my badge to feel sand under my feet and hear the waves crash, just once. A proper beach holiday, Jieng Shufeng. That's what I need."

Jieng Shufeng's eyes gleamed mischievously as she caught sight of Talia Barawin flipping through a glossy magazine, her eyes glued to a page featuring a model in a scandalously revealing summer outfit. With the stealth of a fox, Jieng sauntered over. "Talia," she drawled, "planning to audition for a swimsuit catalogue, are we?"

Talia turned crimson, hastily snapping the magazine shut. "Oh, don't be absurd!" she retorted, though her voice betrayed her embarrassment.

Jieng Shufeng leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Tell me, Talia, have you ever wondered how Chief Wen-Li might look in one of these?" She tapped the magazine, her grin wicked.

Talia's blush deepened as her imagination betrayed her. "I—well... she'd probably look... regal. Like a queen on holiday."

The two women exchanged a knowing glance, their laughter bubbling up like a brook. "I'd wager she'd turn her head on the beach," Jieng Shufeng added, her tone both admiring and teasing. "You know, stoic as always, but drop-dead gorgeous."

Their laughter was cut short as a shadow fell across their desks. Both women froze, their heads turning slowly to find Chief Wen-Li standing there, her arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.

"And what, may I ask, are you two so animated about?" she inquired, her voice as cool and precise as a scalpel.

Jieng Shufeng and Talia exchanged panicked glances. "Uh... summer plans, Chief," Talia stammered. "You know, um, just hypothetical beach trips."

Before Wen-Li could respond, Nightingale appeared at her side, her expression a study in stoic disapproval. "Chief," she said, her voice laced with gravity, "the President and Chairman have requested your presence in the meeting room."

Wen-Li nodded, her gaze lingering on Jieng Shufeng and Talia for a moment longer. "Carry on, then," she said, her tone inscrutable. As she walked away, the two women let out simultaneous sighs of relief.

"Close call," Jieng Shufeng whispered, fanning herself theatrically.

"You think she heard?" Talia hissed.

"Let's pray she didn't," Jieng Shufeng replied, though her grin suggested she wasn't entirely remorseful. "But if she did... well, we might be explaining this one to HR."

The two dissolved into stifled giggles as Wen-Li disappeared into the meeting room, her composure as unshakable as ever.

During the day, Gwangryeong(광령) – "Radiant Light" is a stark contrast to its radiant nightlife. The city is bathed in a muted light filtered through dense layers of smog. Towering skyscrapers, their facades covered in shimmering solar panels and holographic advertisements, stretch into the gray sky. The streets are filled with a sea of people, most of them workers in drab uniforms rushing to their corporate-controlled jobs.

The buildings are a mix of futuristic high-rises with sleek, reflective surfaces and older structures from the city's industrial past, retrofitted with modern technology. Elevated maglev trains zip silently through the city, connecting its sprawling districts.

Giant pylons adorned with glowing LED lights provide energy to the city, standing as a reminder of Gwangryeong's dependence on its central energy grid, controlled by the Syndicate Communist Party.

The city boasts artificial green spaces designed with precision by AI, but these are accessible only to the elite. The lower classes rarely see real greenery, confined instead to the concrete streets and claustrophobic alleyways.

At the district of Azure Circuit which is a high-end residential district designed for upper-middle-class families, featuring AI-controlled infrastructure, automated services, and clean streets. Its name comes from the soft blue lighting used in the district at night.

Nestled in the northern enclave of Azure Circuit, the Yoon household was a charming fusion of modernity and tradition. The walls were a soft sage green, adorned with eclectic artwork that seemed to whisper tales of distant lands. A vintage grandfather clock ticked away solemnly in the corner, while the scent of lavender and freshly baked cookies wafted from the kitchen, creating an ambiance of warmth and whimsy. The living room, where the teenagers had congregated, was a kaleidoscope of colours—a plush scarlet sofa, mismatched cushions in every hue imaginable, and a low coffee table cluttered with playing cards, empty crisp packets, and the occasional stray sock.

Isabella Yoon, a lively girl with an infectious laugh and a mane of raven hair, was holding court. She slapped her cards down with dramatic flair, her grin wide as a crescent moon. "Four of a kind! Beat that, you scallywags!"

Nora Madison groaned, her freckled face scrunching up in defeat. "Isabella, I swear you've got the devil's luck. Or are you just cheating again?"

"Cheat? Me? Perish the thought!" Isabella retorted, clutching her chest theatrically.

John Benett, lanky and bespectacled, leaned back in his chair with a smirk. "Well, if she's not cheating, she's a witch. Burn her!"

Timmy Ji-Pang, the youngest and most mischievous of the group, piped up, "If we're burning witches, can we at least roast marshmallows while we're at it?"

Their banter was interrupted by the sound of footsteps descending the stairs. Isabella's mother, Amelia Happer, appeared in the doorway, her presence as commanding as a queen entering her court. With her auburn hair pulled into an elegant chignon and a twinkle in her eye, she carried herself with the grace of someone who had just solved life's greatest mysteries.

"Children," she announced, clapping her hands together, "I have news that will make you leap like spring hares."

The teenagers froze mid-laugh, their eyes fixed on her expectantly. "Are we getting pizza?" Timmy ventured, his tone hopeful.

"Better than pizza," Amelia replied, her voice dripping with intrigue. "I'm taking you to the Bliss Carnival!"

The room erupted into chaos. Nora let out a squeal that could have shattered glass, John nearly toppled his chair in his excitement, and Timmy began performing an impromptu victory dance that looks vaguely like a chicken trying to tango.

"Bliss Carnival?" Isabella gasped, her eyes wide as saucers. "Mum, you're not joking, are you? This isn't one of your 'character-building' exercises, is it?"

"I assure you, this is no jest," Amelia said, her lips twitching into a smile. "Now, hop into the car before I change my mind."

The group piled into Amelia's vintage station wagon, a clunky contraption that creaked and groaned like an old pirate ship setting sail. Timmy immediately began fiddling with the radio, cycling through stations at a speed that left everyone mildly dizzy.

"Pick something, Timmy, before I throw you out," Isabella threatened, half-serious.

"Fine, fine," Timmy replied, settling on a station blasting an obnoxiously upbeat pop song.

As they drove through the winding streets, the teens chattered excitedly about what awaited them.

"I'm going straight for the Ferris wheel," Nora declared, practically bouncing in her seat.

"Ferris wheel? Child's play," John scoffed. "I'm hitting the roller coaster. The bigger, the better."

"Is there going to be candy floss?" Timmy asked, his voice filled with reverence. "Because if there isn't candy floss, I'm staging a mutiny."

"There will be candy floss, Timmy," Amelia assured him from the driver's seat, her tone indulgent. "And probably enough sugar to make your dentist weep."

As they neared the carnival, its dazzling lights came into view, casting a kaleidoscope of colours across the horizon. The teenagers pressed their faces to the windows, their excitement palpable.

"Bliss Carnival," Isabella murmured, her voice filled with awe. "This is going to be legendary."

And with that, the Yoon family car rolled into the parking lot, carrying its cargo of wide-eyed teens toward an evening of chaos, laughter, and far too much candy floss.

The SSCBF meeting room was a theatre of gravitas, its austere walls adorned with sombre portraits of past leaders. A long mahogany table stretched across the chamber, polished to a mirror shine, reflecting the tense expressions of those seated around it. The air was taut, like a bowstring drawn to its limit, and the faint hum of the overhead lights seemed to underscore the unspoken weight of the moment.

President Zhang Wei sat at the head of the table, his piercing gaze scanning the assembly like a hawk surveying its domain. Around him sat the chairmen, each a pillar of influence in their respective fields. Fahad Al-Farsi leaned close to his neighbour, his whispered words lost in the room's heavy atmosphere. Elizabeth Carter, a woman whose presence commanded attention like a lighthouse in a storm, tapped her nails on the table, their rhythmic beat a metronome of impatience. Selim Kaya's dark eyes betrayed suspicion, his posture taut as if braced for impact. Andreas Karalis, his bulk filling the chair, muttered under his breath, his booming voice muffled but no less resonant.

Kim Ji-Soo adjusted her glasses with a sigh, her expression an intricate tapestry of exasperation and resolve. Hiroto Nakamura sat impassive, his face a mask that revealed nothing, while Aarav Sharma shook his head, his disapproval radiating like heat from a forge. Rahim Ahmed exchanged uneasy glances with his peers, his discomfort as palpable as a storm cloud on the horizon.

The door opened, and Chief Wen-Li entered, her stride purposeful, her expression a study in composure. She took her place before the table, her posture unyielding amidst the scrutiny of the room.

Zhang Wei's voice cut through the tension like a scalpel. "Chief Wen-Li, the matter before us is of utmost importance. An agreement has been drafted between the SSCBF and SCP—a contract of allies. This partnership will unify our resources to serve justice, eliminate disorder, and ensure the security of our operations."

He paused, his gaze heavy as a gavel. "You are to inform your officers of this decision and ensure their compliance."

Wen-Li's jaw tightened imperceptibly before she spoke, her tone measured yet firm. "With respect, Mr. President, some of my officers will not align with this. Their trust in the SCP is... tenuous at best."

The room erupted. Aarav Sharma slammed his hands on the table, his voice slicing through the air. "Tenuous? This isn't a matter for debate, Chief! You will do as ordered! Your personal sentiments are irrelevant here!"

Zhang Wei raised a hand, silencing the outburst with an authority that brooked no argument. "Enough, Aarav."

Kim Ji-Soo leaned forward, her voice sharp yet cold as steel. "Chief Wen-Li, your officers' opinions are secondary to the mandate of this council. This is not a democracy; it is an institution built on order."

A soft chuckle escaped Hiroto Nakamura, his amusement unsettling amidst the gravity of the moment. Rahim Ahmed averted his gaze, while Selim Kaya's expression grew darker still. Elizabeth Carter nodded in agreement, her icy demeanour echoing Ji-Soo's sentiment.

Zhang Wei rose from his seat, his movement deliberate, like a predator closing in on its prey. He circled the table, his steps measured, the sound of his polished shoes resonating in the silence. As he approached Wen-Li, his voice dropped, each word a stone dropped into still water. "Chief Wen-Li, your role is to lead, not to question. Cooperation is not optional; it is imperative. The consequences of defiance are not unknown to you."

He stopped inches from her, leaning in so only she could hear. His voice became a serpent's hiss, coiling around her resolve. "If you fail to cooperate properly, you know well what will happen."

His lips curled into a sinister smile as he straightened, leaving Wen-Li with goosebumps prickling her skin. "You are dismissed. Execute the task assigned to you without further delay."

Wen-Li nodded, her face a mask of professionalism, betraying none of the tempest within. Without a glance back, she turned and strode from the room, her footsteps echoing like the tolling of a distant bell, marking the prelude to a storm yet to come.

However, the Bliss Carnival sprawled like a fever dream across the open field, its garish colours and towering attractions piercing the grey horizon like shards of stained glass. Banners flapped in the warm summer breeze, their edges frayed yet vibrant, as if whispering forgotten secrets. The air was thick with the saccharine scent of spun sugar and the faint tang of greasepaint, while eerie calliope music wafted from unseen speakers, its lilting tones both jubilant and haunting.

Amelia Yoon pulled the car to a stop just beyond the carnival gates, her warm smile a fragile anchor against the carnival's unsettling charm. "Enjoy yourselves, dears. I'll be back in the evening," she said, her voice light but tinged with a strange hesitancy.

The four teenagers—Isabella, Nora, John, and Timmy—nodded eagerly, their youthful exuberance shielding them from the undercurrent of unease. Amelia's car disappeared down the dusty road, leaving them alone to face the carnival's gaping maw.

The entrance was flanked by two oversized clown statues, their exaggerated grins frozen in mockery. As they stepped inside, the atmosphere seemed to shift, the bustling cacophony of a typical carnival eerily absent. Instead, workers in clown costumes meandered about, their painted faces unsettlingly vacant, their silence deafening.

Yet the teenagers, buoyed by their shared excitement, dismissed the strangeness. They hurled themselves into the day's activities, their laughter echoing through the empty park.

The briefing hall at SSCBF was awash with the low murmur of conversation, the weight of an unspoken tension pressing upon the officers gathered. The air was tinged with the faint aroma of polished wood and freshly brewed coffee, yet it did little to mask the unease that hung over the room like a shroud.

Chief Wen-Li stood at the podium, her posture impeccable, her face a composed mask, though those who knew her best could detect the faintest shadow of disquiet. Her hands rested lightly on the edge of the podium, fingers tightening imperceptibly as she spoke.

"There has been a directive," she began, her voice steady but lacking its usual fervor. "The SSCBF and SCP are to form an alliance—a contract to coordinate efforts to serve justice. If any of you have concerns or questions, now is the time to voice them."

The room fell into a pregnant silence. Officers exchanged wary glances, their discomfort evident. Robert, a stalwart man known for his fiery temper, stepped forward, his expression dark with defiance.

"Chief," he began, his voice low but carrying an edge of indignation. "You cannot expect us to embrace this... this partnership without question. The SCP's methods, their intentions—they're dubious at worst!"

Before Robert could continue, Lingaong Xuein, a poised and pragmatic officer, placed a firm hand on his arm. Her eyes, sharp as flint, met his. "Robert, now is not the time for dissent," she murmured. "We mustn't undermine the Chief's authority in public."

Nightingale, standing to the side with her arms crossed, observed the Chief with a piercing gaze. There was something in Wen-Li's demeanor that unsettled her—a subtle crack in her otherwise unassailable armor.

As the officers began to disperse, Nightingale approached Wen-Li, her voice low enough to escape the ears of the others. "Chief," she said, her tone laced with concern. "What happened in that meeting? You seem... off."

Wen-Li glanced at her, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips, though it failed to reach her eyes. "It's nothing, Nightingale," she replied, brushing past her. "Everything is fine."

However the quartet began with the carousel, its wooden horses painted in hues so vivid they seemed almost alive. Isabella leaned back, her hair flowing like a crimson banner as the carousel spun, her laughter a melody of freedom. Nora challenged John to a test of strength at the hammer game, her petite frame a stark contrast to the oversized mallet. John's smug grin melted into surprise as Nora sent the bell ringing to the top.

Timmy, ever the prankster, insisted on the haunted house. Inside, mechanical ghosts and ghouls lunged at them, their groans blending with Timmy's exaggerated screams. Isabella clutched her sides, laughing until tears blurred her vision. They tried their hand at the ring toss and the shooting gallery, with John crowing triumphantly after hitting every target while Timmy sulked at his dismal aim.

But amid the joy, an unspoken tension grew. The absence of other patrons gnawed at the edges of their fun, the workers' silent stares pressing upon them like an unseen weight.

Once inside her office, Wen-Li closed the door with deliberate care, the sound of the latch clicking echoing in the silence. She leaned against the door, her chest rising and falling as she tried to steady herself.

Her mind replayed Zhang Wei's words, his sinister whisper coiling around her like a serpent. "If you don't cooperate properly, you know well what will happen."

Her throat tightened, and her gaze fell to her hands, which trembled slightly despite her best efforts to still them. The weight of his threat was an anchor around her neck, pulling her into an abyss of doubt and fear.

Her thoughts shifted abruptly, like a ship caught in a sudden storm, to Agent-90. Madam Di-Xian tells a story about his past echoed in her mind—his cold, deadly precision, his tragic origins. A pawn molded by cruelty, yet a force unmatched in his resolve.

She moved to her desk, sitting heavily in her chair. The dim light from her desk lamp cast long shadows across the room, mirroring the turmoil in her heart. The mask she wore before her officers had cracked in solitude, and for a brief moment, she allowed herself to feel the crushing weight of her predicament.

In the recesses of her mind, two figures emerged—Zhang Wei and Agent-90. One, a puppet master pulling strings with insidious precision, and the other, a ghost forged in darkness, bound by chains not of his making.

Wen-Li stared blankly at the photograph on her desk, her squad smiling back at her from another time, another place. "How far," she whispered, her voice barely audible, "can one stretch between duty and conscience before they break?"

The silence that followed was deafening, a harbinger of the battles yet to come.

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the carnival, the teenagers were approached by a figure dressed in a red and black ringmaster's coat. His presence seemed to draw the very light from the air.

"Good evening," he purred, his voice a velvet rasp. "I am Mr. Bliss, the proprietor of this wondrous establishment. You've enjoyed our humble offerings, but the true marvel lies within the grand tent. The show is about to begin."

The four exchanged uncertain glances. Isabella's eyes narrowed, a flicker of suspicion in her gaze. "I'm not sure..." she began, but John cut her off with a dismissive shrug.

"Come on, Bella," he said, his voice tinged with bravado. "It's just a circus. What could go wrong?"

Nora hesitated, her fingers curling into the fabric of her jacket. "It feels... off," she murmured.

Timmy, torn between excitement and unease, grinned nervously. "It's just for fun, right?"

Against her better judgment, Isabella relented, her protective instincts outweighed by the pull of peer pressure. Together, they followed Mr. Bliss toward the towering striped tent, its entrance yawning like a predator's maw.

Inside, the air was heavy, tinged with the acrid smell of smoke and something sweeter, darker. The flickering light of torches cast grotesque shadows across the fabric walls. Rows of seats circled a central ring, but the stands were conspicuously empty. Only the four teenagers and Mr. Bliss remained, his figure an ominous silhouette against the dim light.

As they took their seats, the laughter they'd shared earlier felt distant, like echoes in a cavern. The world outside the tent seemed to vanish, leaving them trapped in a pocket of time, the circus's secrets ready to unfold.

The dim glow of hanging lanterns painted the Amigu-Rumi base in hues of amber and shadow. The air was thick with the scent of incense, mingling with the faint tang of metal from the weapons scattered about. The clan's hideout, hidden deep within the rugged outskirts, resembled a curious blend of a medieval fortress and a black market bazaar.

Katoge Nakahara was crouched near a low wooden table, meticulously assembling a contraption that looked part crossbow, part flamethrower—a request from Mr. Amou, the enigmatic and often eccentric leader of the outlaw clan. His brow was furrowed, his nimble fingers working deftly, though his mutterings betrayed a simmering frustration.

Kazuki Morobochi leaned against a nearby pillar, arms crossed, a sly smirk playing on his lips. "So, Katoge," he drawled, his voice carrying a teasing lilt, "how about you tell me again about that incident a year ago? You know, the one with Chelsea Countessa?"

Katoge froze mid-assembly, a wrench clattering to the floor. He turned to Kazuki with a look of pure exasperation, his face a mosaic of irritation and reluctant embarrassment. "Kazuki," he groaned, rubbing his temple as though the very mention of Chelsea caused him physical pain, "I've told you before, don't bring that up. It's ancient history, and frankly, it gives me a headache."

Noda Hidoriko, perched on a crate nearby and sharpening a blade with the enthusiasm of a child unwrapping a present, seized the opportunity to jump in. "A headache, eh?" he said, his grin widening like a cat spotting a cornered mouse. "Could it be because someone got a little... smitten?"

Katoge's ears turned a deep shade of crimson, a stark contrast to the otherwise cool night. "I wasn't smitten," he snapped, though his voice cracked slightly, betraying him.

"Oh, come off it, Nakahara," Noda pressed, his tone dripping with mockery. "Word was she called you her 'knight in shining armor.' Or was it 'samurai with a rusty blade'? Either way, she must've seen something in you."

Kazuki burst into laughter, slapping his knee. "Probably his habit of tripping over his own feet whenever she was around!"

Katoge scowled, his blush now fully betraying his stoic facade. "Enough," he barked, though his voice lacked its usual edge.

Just then, Wanaka, a towering figure with a perpetually disapproving expression, strode into the room. His shadow stretched long across the floor, commanding attention. "Nakahara. Morobochi," he rumbled, his voice like gravel grinding beneath a heavy boot, "Mr. Amou wants to see you in his office. Now."

Katoge shot a grateful glance at Wanaka, grateful for the reprieve, though Kazuki was already stifling a chuckle behind his hand. "Saved by the bell," Kazuki muttered as the two began to follow Wanaka.

As they exited, Noda called after them, "Don't forget to ask Mr. Amou if he's got any love advice for you, Katoge!"

Kazuki leaned in as they walked, a mischievous grin still plastered on his face. "You know, Katoge," he whispered, "if you ever run into Chelsea again, just try not to trip over your own sword this time."

Katoge groaned, muttering under his breath, "I'm surrounded by buffoons."

The massive tent was a kaleidoscope of swirling colours and dizzying lights, the air alive with the scent of candied nuts and the faint musk of sawdust. Inside, rows of empty seats surrounded a circular stage where Mr. Bliss stood, his pale face painted into a permanent grin, his voice booming with an enthusiasm that bordered on manic.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" he bellowed, though the tent was eerily devoid of a crowd. "Prepare your eyes and steel your nerves for a spectacle unlike any other! Marvel at the feats of daring and death-defiance!"

Isabella, Nora, John, and Timmy sat at the edge of their seats—or rather, the only occupied ones in the entire tent. Though the empty expanse behind them made their presence unsettling, they leaned forward, captivated by the bizarre performances.

A troupe of acrobats somersaulted through hoops of fire, their movements as fluid as water spilling from a vase. Next came the juggler, tossing flaming torches and razor-sharp knives as if they were mere baubles. The pièce de résistance arrived when a trio of performers mounted motorcycles and roared through a spherical cage, the growl of their engines a symphony of controlled chaos.

But it was the final act that drew gasps even from the teenagers. The stage was cleared for a lone stuntman, dressed in sequined tights that shimmered under the dimming lights. Above him stretched a taut rope, suspended high, leading to a precarious platform on the other side. His task: to cross while passing a long metal rod to another stuntman on an adjacent rope—a delicate dance of balance and trust.

Mr. Bliss's voice rang out again. "And now, the grand finale! A feat of precision, poise, and peril!"

The stuntman began his slow trek, his steps measured, his arms taut as he balanced the rod. The teenagers watched, their breaths caught in their throats. Halfway across, a tremor seemed to pass through the rope. The stuntman wobbled, his body lurching like a ship caught in a tempest.

And then, the unthinkable.

A cry pierced the air as he fell, a sickening crack echoing through the tent as his body struck the ground. The lights went out, plunging the space into an oppressive darkness.

"Did he…?" Nora's voice was barely a whisper.

"Shhh!" Timmy hissed, his eyes darting toward the stage.

The four teenagers crept forward, their steps hesitant, like mice venturing out of a hole. The dim emergency lights flickered on, casting eerie shadows over the scene. The stuntman lay crumpled, his head tilted at an unnatural angle, blood pooling beneath him.

"Oh my God," Isabella breathed, her hand flying to her mouth.

John knelt closer, his voice shaking. "He's… he's dead."

Before they could react further, Timmy's gaze shot upward, his face draining of colour. "What's that?!" he stammered, pointing a trembling finger.

Above them, a grotesque figure loomed. A clown's face, pale and grotesquely painted, peered down from the rafters. But its eyes were hollow voids, and from its back sprouted writhing, fleshy appendages resembling the arms of an octopus. One of the limbs lashed out, its claw-like tip slicing through the air.

"RUN!" Isabella screamed, but as they turned, the exits were gone—replaced by solid walls of striped fabric, as though the tent had sealed itself shut.

The creature descended with a serpentine grace, its eyeless gaze fixed upon them. It let out a guttural chuckle, a sound that reverberated like a warped carnival tune.

"We're trapped!" Nora cried, clutching Timmy's arm as the monstrous clown inched closer.

"We have to find another way out!" John shouted, his voice rising in panic.

The creature lunged, its claw slicing through the air, missing Timmy by mere inches. The teenagers scrambled back, their terror palpable as the lights above flickered, casting macabre shadows of the clown's ghastly form.

The sound of carnival music, distorted and menacing, began to play faintly, as if mocking their plight.

As the creature's clawed appendage lashed out, it came dangerously close to Timmy, who instinctively ducked and stumbled backward. The claw missed him by a hair's breadth, but the sheer force of its swipe sent a gust of air rushing past his face, causing his hair to whip wildly.

Timmy lost his footing and fell to the ground, landing awkwardly on his wrist. He let out a sharp cry of pain as the impact sent a jolt up his arm. His friends turned to him, their faces pale with panic, but the advancing monstrosity left them little time to assist.

"Timmy, get up!" Isabella shouted, her voice trembling but firm.

Clutching his wrist, Timmy scrambled to his feet, wincing with every movement. His breaths came in shallow gasps, the adrenaline masking most of the pain but not the dread. His eyes darted back to the creature, now crouching low like a predator sizing up its prey, its eyeless gaze locked on him.

The others formed a protective semicircle around Timmy, their fear evident but their determination stronger. "Stay behind us," John commanded, his voice strained but resolute, as they began to edge backward, desperate to create some distance between themselves and the nightmare closing in.

Timmy nodded weakly, cradling his injured wrist, his heart pounding as though it were trying to escape his chest. His mind raced with questions: What was this thing? Why were we trapped? But above all, one thought consumed him—How were we going to survive?

At precisely 7:00 pm, the grand meeting hall of SSCBF HQ hummed with an air of reluctant formality. The ornate chandeliers overhead cast light upon the polished oak table where President Zhang Wei and the chairmen sat alongside the imposing figure of Commander Krieg. Their faces wore expressions of calculated optimism, a façade for what lay beneath.

President Zhang Wei's voice resonated with practiced conviction. "This alliance marks a turning point in our history. Together, SSCBF and the SCP operatives shall forge a partnership that will root out lawlessness and restore balance to our cities. We are grateful to collaborate with such an esteemed political force, as their expertise complements our strength."

The chairmen nodded solemnly, their gratitude thinly veiled by the hunger for power and control. Seated among the SCP operatives was Elan Mordechai, the enigmatic head of the secret police. His every movement was deliberate, his gaze sharp as a scalpel. Rising, he addressed the room, his tone polished yet foreboding. "It is an honour to work alongside such esteemed protectors of justice. Together, we shall wield authority like a blade, cutting through the shadows of chaos."

Across the room, Chief Wen-Li sat silently, her sharp intuition gnawing at her. Suspicion coiled within her mind like a serpent, its presence impossible to ignore. Beside her, Robert's jaw tightened, his ire barely contained. Lingaong Xuein, sensing his anger, placed a calming hand on his arm. "Don't," she whispered, her voice a balm against his storm.

Nightingale and Lan Qian observed quietly, their gazes flickering between their comrades and the SCP operatives. The tension was palpable, crackling in the air like a distant storm. Zhang Wei turned his attention to Wen-Li, a slight smirk on his lips. "Chief Wen-Li, a few words, if you please."

She stiffened, reluctant to address the room, yet she had no choice. Rising, she forced herself to speak, her voice steady but laced with a subtle edge. "An alliance is only as strong as the trust that binds it. While we may differ in methods, we must remember our shared purpose—to protect the innocent and uphold justice. Let us not forget that accountability remains the cornerstone of true authority."

From his position on stage, Elan Mordechai smirked, his expression dripping with malice as his eyes locked onto Robert. It was a silent provocation that struck like a whip, igniting Robert's fury. "I'll be back in a moment," Robert muttered, brushing off Lingaong's restraining hand as he left the room.

In the restroom, Robert leaned heavily against the sink, splashing water onto his face. His reflection in the mirror stared back, troubled and unyielding. "How can we work with them?" he muttered, his frustration palpable. His thoughts spiralled until a voice interrupted.

"You seem on edge," said Gonda, appearing from the shadows like a phantom.

Robert jumped, nearly slipping. "Bloody hell, Gonda! Do you always have to appear like a ghost?"

Gonda smirked. "Keeps you sharp, doesn't it?"

Robert groaned, gripping the sink. "What do you want?"

Gonda's smirk faded, replaced by a grim expression. "It's about the Bliss Carnival. There's been another incident—worse than before. Dozens are missing, and lives have been lost. Among them... teenagers who enter. Isabella Yoon, Nora Madison, John Benett, and Timmy Ji-Pang."

Robert's heart sank, his stomach churning with dread. "What? Those kids... They went missing?"

Gonda nodded solemnly. "Yes, and the place isn't just haunted. It's something else entirely. You need to inform Chief Wen-Li."

Back in the hall, the contract was signed. The SCP operatives presented SSCBF with sleek bracelets, gleaming with an otherworldly sheen. Elan Mordechai explained their purpose with calculated enthusiasm. "These bracelets, named the Sentinel Helices, will enhance coordination between our forces. They'll allow you to navigate, communicate, and locate your comrades with unmatched precision."

Lan Qian leaned towards Nightingale, whispering, "Isn't this a bit... ominous?"

Nightingale replied under her breath, "I think so. But we're not in a position to refuse."

As the officers placed the bracelets on their wrists, they gasped in unison. The devices latched onto their skin, embedding themselves painfully yet seamlessly. The sensation was invasive, as if the bracelets were burrowing into their very essence. Unbeknownst to them, the devices rewrote their DNA, creating a sinister third helix intertwined with their genetic code.

As the meeting concluded, Robert approached Wen-Li, urging him every step. "Chief, we have a situation," he began, his voice low but insistent. "It's about the Bliss Carnival. Gonda just told me—teenagers are missing, and there's been... carnage."

Wen-Li's expression hardened. "Nightingale, Robert," she ordered, her tone leaving no room for argument, "ready your squads. We leave immediately."

The room was dimly lit, shadows playing on the ornate carvings of the mahogany walls. Madam Di-Xian sat behind her desk, her expression as calm and unreadable as an ancient painting. Agents Jun, Farhan, Masud, and Roy stood in disciplined silence, their faces taut with focus. The air was thick with anticipation when the secure line on her desk buzzed sharply.

Madam Di-Xian picked up the receiver, her posture upright and commanding. From the other side, Gonda's voice crackled with urgency.

"Madam, we've confirmed reports of children being held at the Bliss Carnival. It's worse than we thought. The place isn't just haunted by its past; something is alive there. Surveillance captured glimpses of... things. There's a figure matching the description of Mr. Bliss, and worse—there are signs of... monsters."

Her brow furrowed slightly, the only crack in her otherwise impenetrable façade. "Understood," she replied with a chilling calm. "Stay where you are and maintain the perimeter until reinforcements arrive."

She replaced the receiver and turned to her agents. "Prepare yourselves. You're heading to the Bliss Carnival."

Jun's eyes widened, and he hesitated before stepping forward. "Madam," he began, his voice tinged with unease, "that place has been abandoned for years. They say it's cursed. Are you certain—"

Madam Di-Xian cut him off with a wave of her hand, her voice sharp and laced with metaphor. "The shadows of fear often grow taller than the beast itself, Agent Jun. Cursed or not, truth hides in places others dare not tread. That is where we must go."

The door swung open, and Agent-90 entered, his both hands bandaged and speckled with dried blood. His eyes were sharp, reflecting by spectacles and defiant as he approached the desk. "I'll join the investigation," he declared firmly, though his injuries spoke of recent battles.

Farhan stepped forward, his tone almost admonishing. "You're in no condition to fight, Agent-90. Sit this one out before you become a liability."

Madam Di-Xian tilted her head slightly, her gaze piercing as she studied Agent-90. "The lion may limp, but it still knows how to strike," she said, her tone low and deliberate. "He'll go."

Farhan started to protest but silenced himself under her commanding gaze. Madam Di-Xian leaned forward, her voice as cold as steel. "Your mission is simple. Find Mr. Bliss and put an end to him. Destroy the monstrosity he harbours, and leave no stone unturned. Agent-90, consider this your trial by fire."

She turned back to the rest. "SSCBF will join you at the carnival. Chief Wen-Li, Nightingale, and Robert have already been informed by Gonda. The two agencies will cooperate."

The room grew heavier with her final words. "Let this be the reckoning. The darkness that haunts that carnival ends tonight. No fear, no hesitation. Only justice."

Agent-90 gave a curt nod, his jaw set with determination. "Understood, Madam."

The agents filed out, their movements swift and purposeful. Agent-90 lingered for a moment, glancing back at Di-Xian. Her eyes locked with his, unyielding. "Make it count," she said, her voice a quiet storm.

He nodded once more and stepped into the night, ready to face whatever horrors awaited them at Bliss Carnival.

The clock on the wall ticked with an unsettling rhythm, its hands crawling through the dim-lit expanse of Mr. Amou's office. The room bore the aura of an antiquarian's lair—wood-paneled walls adorned with relics of an outlaw's journey, from blades to maps marked with secrets untold. A faint smell of aged parchment and gun oil lingered, blending with the soft hum of the desk lamp.

Mr. Amou sat behind his imposing desk, a figure of quiet menace and calculated authority. His weathered face, furrowed with the scars of countless battles, betrayed a paradoxical tenderness as he leaned forward, his fingers steepled before him. Before him stood Katoge Nakahara and Kazuki Morobochi, their postures straight but their gazes tinged with unease.

With a voice that carried the weight of command and the gravity of purpose, Mr. Amou began, "Gentlemen, I have a task that requires more than bravery; it requires resolve. The Bliss Carnival—a name that once promised joy—has become a graveyard of innocence. Word has reached us that children have gone there, lured by its façade of festivity, only to vanish into the maw of monstrosity."

Kazuki's eyes widened, his usual bravado faltering. "Sir, that place is haunted," he blurted, his voice tinged with disbelief. "No one dares to go near it—alive or otherwise."

Mr. Amou's gaze fixed on him, unblinking, as if he could pierce through the veneer of fear and extract the courage buried beneath. "Yes," he replied, his tone as steady as a drumbeat, "haunted, cursed, or worse. But does the terror of spectres excuse us from acting? What we know is this: the children who ventured there have been ensnared by horrors beyond imagination. And while the world may brand us outlaws, even we have our codes. Innocence, no matter where it dwells, must not suffer."

His fingers tightened together as his voice grew heavier, each word landing like a hammer on an anvil. "If we do nothing, we are complicit in their suffering. You two—Katoge, Kazuki—are among my most capable. I trust you to infiltrate the Bliss Carnival, uncover the truth, and, if necessary, eliminate whatever darkness festers within."

Katoge's expression hardened, his sharp features illuminated by the flicker of the desk lamp. A man of fewer words, he nodded curtly, his mind already mapping the perilous journey ahead. But beneath his composure lay a whisper of unease, an inkling that this mission bore secrets yet to be unveiled.

Kazuki, ever the sceptic, muttered, "But sir, if the place is crawling with monsters... What chance do we stand?"

Amou's lips curled into a faint smirk, a shadow of amusement crossing his otherwise stern countenance. "Kazuki," he said, his voice edged with both reassurance and command, "you've faced death a dozen times over. Monsters, human or otherwise, bleed when struck. Remember that."

A silence settled in the room, thick and unyielding, until Katoge broke it with a resolute, "Yes, sir."

Kazuki, despite the storm of doubt within him, straightened his shoulders and echoed, "Yes, sir."

Amou rose from his chair, his silhouette towering against the backdrop of his office. "Prepare yourselves," he instructed. "You leave tonight. Equip yourselves wisely—this is not a task for the faint-hearted. And Katoge," he added, his gaze softening ever so slightly, "trust your instincts. You've always been sharper than most."

Katoge inclined his head in silent acknowledgment, though his mind churned with questions unspoken. As they turned to leave, Mr. Amou's voice rang out once more, carrying the weight of unspoken concern.

"And gentlemen," he said, his tone quieter but no less commanding, "no matter what you find there, remember this: outlaws we may be, but we are not without honour. Return those children, or bring vengeance to those who would harm them."

Three leaders: Wen-Li, Madam Di-Xian and Mr. Amou as their eyes shows determination says "Time to hunt"

The two men nodded, their resolve solidifying with each step as they left the room. The night air outside was cool but carried a foreboding weight, as if the very world knew of the darkness they were about to confront.

As they walked toward their quarters to prepare, Kazuki muttered, half to himself, "Monsters and haunted carnivals... What the hell are we walking into?"

Katoge's reply was simple yet firm, his voice cutting through the night like a blade. "Whatever it is, we face it. No child deserves to be left behind in a nightmare."

The two strode into the shadows, their silhouettes merging with the darkness, as the distant ticking of a clock marked the beginning of their harrowing journey.

The clock struck nine as the agents arrived at the Bliss Carnival, its once-vivid colours now muted under the shroud of night. The eerie silence of the desolate grounds whispered foreboding tales, each shadow seeming to slither closer. The faint creak of rusted swings and the distorted music box tune from a distant carousel were the only sounds, like a haunting prelude to the chaos about to unfold.

Out of nowhere, the hum of an engine broke the silence, and a sleek black car rolled into view. The doors creaked open, revealing Katoge Nakahara and Kazuki Morobochi. Katoge adjusted his spectacles, the glint of the carnival lights reflecting off the lenses, while Kazuki cracked his knuckles with a smirk that hinted at a man all too eager for the fray.

Jun stepped forward, his katana slung across his back. "Perfect timing. We've got ourselves a team," he remarked, his tone laced with anticipation.

"Mr. Amou sent us," Katoge responded with a slight bow, his tone as sharp as his posture.

"Good," Agent-90 replied curtly, his injured hand flexing as if testing its readiness for the fight ahead.

"Stay alert!" barked Roy, his eyes narrowing as the crunch of approaching footsteps reverberated through the cold night air.

Out of the shadows, a grotesque parade emerged—clown-faced figures with menacing grins and blood-smeared cheeks, wielding heavy firearms and chainsaws that roared like caged beasts. Their distorted laughter echoed, each sound slicing through the nerves of the waiting agents.

The group exchanged glances, a silent pact formed in the tension-filled seconds before the storm. "You know what to do," Agent-90 said, his voice calm yet commanding. Jun unsheathed his katana with a metallic hiss, while the others drew their weapons—a symphony of readiness.

The clowns charged, and the fight erupted like a thunderstorm.

Agent-90 moved like a shadow given form, his injured hand barely slowing him. His pistol barked with precision, each bullet finding its mark. He spun, ducked, and countered with movements as fluid as water yet as devastating as a tidal wave. A clown lunged at him with a chainsaw, but Agent-90 sidestepped, grabbing the attacker's arm and twisting it with such force that the sound of snapping bones was drowned only by the thud of a lifeless body hitting the ground.

Jun, katana in hand, was a vision of grace and lethality. The blade shimmered in the dim light, cutting through foes as if slicing the air itself. His strikes were as deliberate as they were deadly, each swing leaving behind arcs of crimson.

Kazuki fought with feral aggression, his twin daggers spinning in a deadly dance. He ducked under a hail of bullets, springing forward to plunge his blades into an attacker's chest. "Not so funny now, are you?" he quipped, yanking his weapons free with a flourish.

Katoge, ever the strategist, fired with calculated precision. Each shot was a chess move, each kill a checkmate. He manoeuvred through the chaos, his spectacles unshaken, his composure unbroken.

As the battle raged, the cavalry arrived. Chief Wen-Li, Nightingale, and Robert, accompanied by SSCBF officers, charged into the fray. Wen-Li moved with the swiftness of a predator, her dual pistols spitting fire. Her shots were unerring, each one dropping an enemy with merciless efficiency.

"At the perfect moment and perfect time," Jun quipped, sparing a brief smile as his eyes locked with Nightingale's amidst the chaos.

Robert unleashed a torrent of gunfire, his rifle a relentless harbinger of death. Lingaong Xuein fought beside him, her movements as sharp and calculated as a surgeon's scalpel.

The enemy forces thinned, but not without resistance. A clown, his chainsaw roaring, lunged at Katoge, but before the blade could connect, Kazuki intercepted with a kick to the chest, sending the assailant sprawling.

Agent-90 darted forward, seizing a shotgun from a fallen clown and unloading its fury into a cluster of enemies. The recoil barely slowed him as he tossed the weapon aside, pulling a knife to dispatch another attacker with ruthless efficiency.

Above the carnage, the distorted laughter of Mr. Bliss echoed from the tent, chilling and otherworldly, promising that the battle was far from over.

As the last of the attackers fell, the group stood amidst the aftermath—blood-streaked ground, bodies strewn like discarded puppets, and the acrid scent of gunpowder hanging in the air.

Wen-Li holstered her weapons, her expression as sharp as her gaze. "This isn't over," she said, her voice steady yet tinged with the gravity of what lay ahead.

"No," Agent-90 replied, his tone cold as steel. "This was just the opening act."

The tent loomed before them, its red-and-white stripes smeared with dirt and blood, a macabre parody of carnival cheer. The entrance refused to budge, its canvas-like door seemingly alive, quivering in defiance. Agent-90 stepped forward, his face a mask of unyielding determination, and with a kick as fierce as a battering ram, the barrier tore apart.

Inside was not the expected expanse of circus acts but an impossible labyrinth of twisting passages, the walls lined with mirrors that reflected their bewildered faces and distorted the dim light into fractured shadows. Distant screams echoed through the maze—Isabella's voice, joined by others, calling for help. The pleas seemed to ricochet off the glass, making it impossible to pinpoint their origin.

"Bloody brilliant," Roy muttered, gripping his rifle tightly. "A bleeding maze. Just what we need."

"No time for complaints," snapped Agent-90. His voice was sharp, cutting through the rising tension. "We split up. Farhan, Roy, Katoge, Masud—you're with me. Chief, you take Jun, Nightingale, Robert, Kazuki, and Lingaong Xuein. We'll find them faster this way."

Wen-Li nodded, her expression hard as granite. "Stay alive. That's an order."

"Always do," Kazuki quipped, spinning his daggers with a cocky grin.

"Move!" barked Agent-90, and the teams plunged into the maze.

Agent-90 led his group with lethal efficiency, his steps silent and purposeful. The mirrors seemed to taunt them, showing distorted images of monstrous clowns leering back. Farhan shivered, his grip on his sidearm tightening.

"You reckon they're watching us?" Farhan whispered.

"Of course they are," Katoge replied coolly, adjusting his spectacles as he fired at a shadow that moved too quickly. The shot ricocheted, shattering a mirror and revealing a grotesque creature lurking behind.

The beast lunged—a clown-faced monstrosity with limbs like twisted vines and teeth like shattered glass. Agent-90 didn't hesitate. A bullet between its hollow eyes sent it crumpling to the floor.

"Stay sharp," he growled, reloading his pistol with the precision of a machine. "This place is alive."

As if on cue, the walls shifted, slamming shut behind them. The group spun, weapons raised. More creatures emerged, their laughter high-pitched and inhuman, like nails on a chalkboard.

Farhan and Roy and Masud opened fire, their bullets tearing through the advancing horrors. Katoge, calm as ever, picked his shots carefully, his pistol a scalpel amidst the chaos. Agent-90 moved like a phantom, weaving through the fray, his knife plunging into one creature's throat while his pistol dispatched another.

Wen-Li's group advanced cautiously, the maze's oppressive silence broken only by the crunch of their boots on shattered glass. Nightingale's hand hovered over her holstered weapon, her sharp eyes scanning every reflection.

"This place is a bloody nightmare," Robert muttered, his knuckles white around his rifle.

"Stay focused," Wen-Li commanded. Her voice was ice, her movements fire.

A low growl rumbled from the darkness, and from the shadows sprang a trio of malformed creatures. Their clown masks were cracked, revealing twisted flesh beneath.

Jun stepped forward, his katana flashing like a silver comet. With a fluid motion, he decapitated one creature, its head bouncing like a grotesque balloon.

Kazuki leapt into the fray, his daggers spinning in his hands like extensions of his body. He danced between foes, each slice accompanied by a spray of blackened blood.

Lingaong Xuein fired with clinical precision, her bullets finding their marks as she moved to cover Robert, who was locked in hand-to-hand combat with a snarling beast.

Wen-Li was a tempest, her dual pistols spitting death as she moved through the chaos with deadly grace. "Keep moving!" she ordered, her voice cutting through the cacophony.

Both teams pressed deeper into the labyrinth, their paths lined with shattered mirrors and the remains of the grotesque. The air grew colder, the screams louder, and the maze itself seemed to shift and pulse like a living thing.

Agent-90's team was the first to reach the centre—a vast, open space lit by flickering carnival lights. At its heart stood Mr. Bliss, his face a monstrous amalgamation of painted glee and rotting flesh. Around him, Isabella, Nora, John, and Timmy were bound, their faces pale with terror.

"You're too late," Mr. Bliss cackled, his voice a rasping symphony of malice.

Agent-90 raised his pistol. "Not for you."

Before he could fire, the walls around them exploded outward, revealing more creatures. The fight resumed, fiercer than ever, as Wen-Li's team burst into the scene, their arrival marked by gunfire and battle cries.

The maze became a battlefield, a symphony of chaos as bullets flew, blades flashed, and the screams of the damned filled the air. Each fighter moved with deadly purpose, their actions a testament to their resolve to end the nightmare of the Bliss Carnival.

As the monstrous horde fell one by one, their grotesque bodies crumpling into lifeless heaps, the tent grew eerily silent. Mr. Bliss, perched atop the skeletal tower like a deranged conductor, began to sneer. "If you want to take the children—"

BANG!

A single, clean shot echoed through the air. Agent-90 stood, his pistol still raised, the muzzle smoking. Mr. Bliss's head snapped back as if a marionette string had been cut, and his body toppled dramatically from the tower, landing with a sickening thud.

Katoge, Jun and Farhan: "Dang! He didn't let him finish his words"

Despite the gruesome scene, a flicker of humour passed among the group as Jun, Farhan and Katoge exchanged dramatic, wide-eyed looks of disbelief.

Nightingale stepped forward, her eyes glowing with a faint azure light. She raised her hand, and the air around her shimmered like the surface of a disturbed pond. "Requiem Chains," she intoned, her voice reverberating like a haunting melody.

Glowing, ethereal chains materialised, slithering through the air and coiling around the shackles binding the children. With a resonant crack, the chains shattered, freeing them. The children, their faces streaked with tears, stumbled toward the group.

Timmy, pale and trembling, collapsed as blood pooled around his injured leg. Katoge knelt beside him, removing his blazer with measured urgency. "This'll hurt, lad," he said, using the fabric to staunch the bleeding with swift precision.

"Let's get out of here," Wen-Li ordered, her voice edged with authority.

"Wait," Agent-90 said suddenly, his tone sharp. His gaze met Wen-Li's, his piercing eyes holding a warning. "Chief… Do you hear that?"

The group stilled. A low growl, guttural and inhuman, rumbled through the tent. All eyes turned to the tower where Mr. Bliss had fallen. Slowly, two colossal, sinewy limbs emerged—muscular appendages resembling the grotesque tentacles of an octopus, each one clutching the tower with bone-crushing force.

From the wreckage, Mr. Bliss's true form emerged. His head remained a grotesque clown's visage, twisted and eyeless, with a sinister grin stretching impossibly wide. His body, however, was a monstrous amalgam of raw muscle and sinew, pulsating and wet, with elongated, fleshy tentacles writhing menacingly around him.

Robert's jaw dropped. "That's the stuff of bloody nightmares!"

"Crimson Shackle!" Wen-Li shouted, thrusting her arms forward. Chains of glowing crimson energy erupted from the ground, snaking around the monstrous Bliss and anchoring him in place. The beast roared, its voice a cacophony of madness that made the very air tremble.

"Don't let up!" Agent-90 barked, his movements a blur of calculated violence. He dodged a tentacle swipe, his pistol finding its mark in the creature's grotesque torso, each shot precise and unrelenting.

Jun and Katoge fought in tandem, their blades slicing through the writhing limbs like scissors through silk. "Keep his attention on us!" Jun called, leaping to avoid a crushing blow.

Nightingale darted around the battlefield, her chains whipping through the air like deadly serpents, binding and restraining as fast as Bliss could break free.

Suddenly, Agent-90's movements slowed, his stance shifting. His voice, when it came, was no longer his own—it was deeper, resonating with an ancient, otherworldly power. His eyes burned with an incandescent golden light.

"Burn," he commanded, his voice like the crackle of an inferno. With a snap of his fingers, a devastating flame erupted from his hand, engulfing Mr. Bliss in a roaring torrent of fire.

The creature howled as its flesh began to bubble and melt, the once-indomitable figure reduced to a grotesque mass of ash and bone. The flames licked at the tent walls, casting long, flickering shadows over the group.

As the flames subsided, the team stood in stunned silence. Robert, his face pale but filled with awe, broke the quiet. "Well, that was something. Who knew the quiet bloke had a bloody fire demon up his sleeve?"

Agent-90 turned to him, his voice returned to normal. "It's not a demon. It's… complicated."

"Complicated?" Robert laughed nervously, running a hand through his hair. "My boy, that was bloody apocalyptic!"

The group began to gather themselves, their exhaustion evident but their resolve unbroken. The nightmare of Bliss Carnival was over, but its scars would linger long in their minds.

Wen-Li knelt to meet the children at eye level, her voice softened but still laced with a steely undertone. "Why are you here? Where are your parents?"

Nora, her small frame trembling, answered hesitantly, "We thought it was just a normal carnival... but who could have imagined it would be haunted?" Her voice cracked, betraying her fear.

Isabella chimed in, her words faltering, "Mum... Mum dropped us off and said she'd pick us up this evening."

Wen-Li's expression darkened, her eyes narrowing as she pressed gently, "What's your mother's name, love?"

"Amelia... Amelia Happer," Isabella replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

At that moment, Nightingale's phone buzzed. She turned away, answering quickly. Her face paled as the officer on the other end relayed the news in hushed tones. She stole a glance at Isabella, her heart sinking.

Nightingale stepped close to Wen-Li, leaning in to whisper, her voice low and heavy. "Chief... Amelia Happer was in a car accident on the Sablehurst Highway. She didn't make it."

Wen-Li froze, her composure momentarily slipping as her eyes darted to the children. They stood there, fragile and unsuspecting, their innocence a fragile glass about to shatter.

Nightingale's gaze lingered on Isabella, the girl's hopeful eyes igniting a pang of guilt. "How do we tell her?" Nightingale asked, her voice thick with sorrow.

Meanwhile, Madam Di-Xian's agents circled the scene, their presence a quiet reminder of the chaos that had just unfolded. The teenagers, wide-eyed and disheveled, were surrounded, their ordeal far from over.

Agent-90 stood apart, his shadow stretching long in the flickering light of the ruined carnival. He looked down at his bloodied hands, his fingers trembling before he clenched them into fists. His jaw tightened, his expression unreadable.

Under his breath, he murmured, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken anguish, "I've seen enough lives broken tonight. No more. No more cracks in this fragile glass."

The words hung in the air like a vow, spoken not just to himself but to the unseen forces that seemed to conspire against them all.