One week after the massacre at Chateau Vercingetorix.

  Redwave City had done what it did best: smother the truth. The official reports spoke vaguely of a "tragic structural incident" and "gas leaks" at the Chateau, attributing the high casualties to an unfortunate confluence of circumstances. The public, placated by heavily censored media and swift government compensation, quickly turned its attention back to the daily grind. But behind the iron doors of power, the nobility was trembling.

  In a heavily secured, underground conference hall, the surviving High Nobles—their faces etched with fear and fury, their garments still smelling faintly of disinfectant and Ego-suppressants—had convened.

  "The silence is tenuous at best," stated Baroness Velia, tapping a polished finger on the mahogany table. "We have contained the public panic, but the information about the Unwoven group and the complete failure of security is still circulating among the major Houses."

  "Silence is secondary! We lost over fifty highly-ranked Ego-users!" shouted Lord Vane, his voice raw. "The Unwoven proved they are an organized, powerful, and utterly ruthless threat. They killed many of ours, and they did it to mock us!"

  A stout, older Noble, Lord Borris, adjusted his diamond-studded collar. "Don't worry, my friends. We have already assembled a few of the most elite assets from our own family retinues. Personal guards who survived the initial chaos are being supplemented. They want vengeance as much as we do."

  A tense whisper spread through the room. "One of the Crimson 10 is currently in the city... perhaps we should seek their aid?"

  The idea was met with immediate, horrified rejection.

  "Absolutely not!" shrieked a gaunt Marquis, clutching his chest. "You know each one of their kind can level this city! We are trying to stop a leak, not cause a flood! I don't want to see our precious capital reduced to rubbles just to chase down two or three Unwoven!"

  "The cost of involving the Crimson is always too high," another Noble agreed somberly.

  "The Guilds are also mobilizing," Baroness Velia interjected, her voice sharp. "They are furious after losing significant members and hunters. They have pledged to send their strongest teams to help hunt the Unwoven and recover the bounties. Their aid is substantial."

  "Good," Lord Vane grunted. "Mercenaries can be bought, and Guilds are predictable. But we need force that can operate outside the visible grid. A surgical instrument."

  A Noblewoman known for her deep connections sighed in relief. "I have already sought aid from the Empire's higher ranks. They promised to send in the best available specialized division. They are sending the Blue Ops."

  A wave of pleased murmurs swept through the council. The Blue Ops were legend—not for their power like the Crimson 10, but for their efficiency and discretion.

  "Blue Ops?" Lord Vane repeated, his eyes widening slightly. "It seems this group is truly terrifying that the Empire would deploy them for domestic control. Very well, the Blue Ops. I am sure they will not disappoint us."

  Outside the guarded perimeter of Redwave City's temporary military command post, the air was clean and cold. A sleek, imposing vehicle—a fantasy car featuring highly polished black lacquer and subtle brass steam-punk accents, humming with suppressed engine power—pulled to a silent stop.

  From the car emerged a man who commanded immediate attention. He was tall, approximately 6'2" (188 cm), and wore an immaculate, long black trench coat that seemed to absorb the light around him. This was Terence, the leader of the Empire's elite Blue Ops.

  His most striking feature, beyond his calm demeanor, were his hands. He wore a pair of sophisticated, interlocking metal gloves that looked more like precision mechanical instruments than weaponry. The metal was a matte, dark iron that shifted and flexed subtly. As he stepped out, Terence slowly closed his hands into fists, the mechanical gloves clicking and whirring softly, adjusting their complex internal gears. He then flexed his fingers, the motion smooth and deadly—this was clearly his primary weapon, a customized piece of Ego-tech engineered for intricate destruction.

  Waiting to greet him was a familiar face, Agent Reno of the Black Ops, a man known for his unflappable professionalism.

  Agent Reno stepped forward, offering a crisp military salute. "Agent Reno of Black Ops. We have been expecting you, Commander. We are grateful to be of assistance to the famous Terence of the Blue Ops."

  Terence didn't return the salute, merely giving a slight, economical nod. He glanced dismissively at the large, heavily armored base they stood beside.

  "Sure," Terence replied, his voice low, flat, and carrying a hint of bored exhaustion. He adjusted the cuff of his trench coat, letting his mechanical glove briefly catch the light. "Just want this to be over fast."

  Reno led Terence through the labyrinthine base, past hurried Black Ops technicians, and into the main command center.

  Inside the temporary Black Ops command post—a room hastily requisitioned from the Noble Guard barracks—Terence was making himself entirely at home. The room was sterile and functional, dominated by large holographic screens displaying tactical grid maps of the city and red zones.

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  Terence sat back in an expensive leather chair with his metallic, complex gloves resting on his thighs. His boots were propped carelessly on a low, ornate coffee table. He was absorbed in eating a crisp, bright red apple, chewing loudly and spitting the seeds into the small potted plant on the corner table.

  Agent Reno, the Black Ops Captain, stood ramrod straight opposite him, holding a stack of data chips and hard copies detailing the Chateau Vercingetorix massacre.

  "Commander Terence," Reno began, his voice level and professional, "I have compiled all the initial forensics reports, the Ego energy signatures, and the remaining schematics of the Chateau. These files cover the specifics of the Unwoven's attack methods, particularly the Rend energy signature left by Gale and the kinetic force of Skull Mask. They are all here."

  Terence took a huge, loud bite of the apple. "I will review that later," he mumbled around the mouthful. He swallowed with an audible crunch. "For now, let's chat, Master."

  Reno did not flinch at the use of the honorific, but his shoulders tightened fractionally. "Captain Reno is sufficient, Commander."

  "No, it isn't," Terence insisted, dropping the apple core onto the table with a wet thud. He didn't look at Reno, instead flexing his metal-gloved hand, causing the precision gears to whirr softly. "Why are you still playing police in this little city, Master? We all know what you are capable of. Why stay as Captain of Black Ops, dealing with glorified gang wars for people who can't secure their own parties?"

  Reno paused, a silent moment where his gaze seemed to penetrate the walls. "I like it here."

  Terence let out a disgusted "Phh!" as he spat a stray seed toward the door. "Well, what a waste. With your skillset, you could be leading some elite group in the Army. But I think you got what you ask for here. And it seems you got an eye for trouble yourself. The Unwoven, those group, they’re not street thugs. I think we need to approach this in a different way."

  Terence stood up. "My men are on their way here. But I want to augment the team with people who already know this city's underbelly. Show me the recommended candidates from your local files."

  Reno immediately accessed the local database. A high-resolution image flashed onto the main screen: a figure in a specialized, dark tactical suit. The person's face was completely obscured by a sleek, modern, scuba-like helmet mask with a smooth, highly reflective glass faceplate. The effect was cold and anonymous.

  "And this guy," Terence said, pointing a metallic finger at the image, "what's his deal? He looks like a deep-sea diver."

  Reno met his gaze calmly. "That is the recommended individual for augmentation. We have no internal file on him. His identity is listed only as 'Vessel'."

  "Vessel?" Terence scoffed, reaching for a piece of cloth to wipe the apple juice off his mechanical glove. "And who, pray tell, recommends a ghost with a fancy helmet to join the Blue Ops?"

  Reno delivered the information that shattered Terence's composure. "A member of the Crimson 10 referred him."

  Terence froze mid-motion. The glove stopped whirring. He choked hard, sputtering, and spit a chunk of apple directly onto the tactical map.

  "Phh!" Terence gagged, rubbing his chest. "Oh, right. That goddamn monster is also here."

  "Relax, Commander," Reno said, maintaining his posture. "They simply passed along a recommendation before leaving the city. The referral states 'Vessel' possesses the 'necessary precision for high-yield, low-collateral targets.'"

  Terence's usual calm arrogance was instantly replaced by genuine, visceral fear. "You know that guy is crazy, Reno! You can't just casually say that! If the Crimson 10 is even looking at Redwave City, it means they see potential for a fight worth having, and that means we are all dead when they decide to play!"

  He looked at the image of 'Vessel' again, his focus completely shattered. "Why in the hell would one of those psychos recommend an anonymous masked operative to my squad?"

  Reno led Terence down a clean, heavily guarded hallway to a series of rooms labeled "Interrogation." The Black Ops Captain paused before a viewing panel—a thick, polarized pane of glass—that looked into a sparsely furnished cell.

  Terence, who had replaced his apple with a ripe banana, peeled it back with a practiced flick of his metallic glove. He leaned toward the glass, observing the man inside.

  The prisoner was pale, thin, and still visibly traumatized, rocking slightly on a small metal chair. He was dressed in a clean, but ill-fitting, gray jumpsuit. This was Terry Adams, the man whose identity had been stolen.

  "So who's the guy?" Terence asked, taking a large bite of the banana.

  "That is Terry Adams," Reno explained. "A noble, and a famous trader in this city. Mostly dealing in exotic imports. Low-level socialite, high-level coward."

  Terence squinted through the polarized glass. "Ah. So this is the guy whom they initially labeled as 'Person X'—at least whom they thought organized all the commotion with the cult, the Unwoven, and other mess that challenged the city."

  "Precisely," Reno confirmed. "We found him tied up in a warehouse somewhere downtown, severely dehydrated and beaten, but alive. We believe one of the Unwoven—the Faceless Man—took his identity and used it to infiltrate the ball and manipulate the system. Adams himself is merely a victim."

  "And what's the plan for the victim?" Terence asked, finishing the banana and tossing the peel into a nearby waste receptacle without looking.

  "We are going to let him go after a few more hours of processing and debriefing," Reno said flatly. "He is clean. His utility as a patsy is now over, and his release will help solidify the official 'Gas Leak' story."

  Terence nodded, rubbing his jaw with his mechanical hand. "Standard damage control. Good."

  Reno led the Commander to a viewing port for the room next door, which was much larger and filled with rows of seated individuals—guards, lower-ranking nobles who had survived, and a handful of service staff. The room was unnervingly silent.

  "And here?" Terence prompted.

  "These are the remaining witnesses and survivors. We are briefing them now," Reno said.

  Terence gave a cynical smirk. "More like conditioning them to zip their mouths and parrot the official narrative, correct? Ensuring every story matches the public release."

  "The Empire requires stability, Commander," Reno stated without emotion.

  Terence sighed, the sound muffled by his coat collar. He looked genuinely tired of the mundane corruption. "Well, I need to take a breather, and maybe a shower. That metallic-blood smell is still stuck in my coat, even a week later. Then I need to review these files, if only to justify the trip."

  "Understood. I will send some more granular reports—including the full forensics of Locks’s display—to your room immediately," Reno replied.

  "Sure." Terence gave an economical nod, already turning away. He reached into his coat and produced another piece of fruit—this time, a vibrant green pear—and began munching on it loudly as he walked down the hall, leaving the Captain alone to manage the aftermath.