A lone figure limped through the ravaged corridors of the Alpha Facility. Flickering emergency lights danced across walls pitted by gunfire and explosions. The floor was strewn with rubble and bodies—some belonging to Noir’s forces, others to A.E.G.I.S. agents. Pinocchio, reeling from the shock of losing an arm, cradled the stump against their chest. Pain pulsed in time with their uneven mechanical heartbeat, but they forced themselves onward.

  Suddenly, a foot slid into their path. Pinocchio pitched forward with a startled cry, crashing onto the debris-strewn floor. Scraps of metal bit into their knees as they lifted their gaze—and froze.

  Standing before them was Nihil, looking markedly different than the last time they appeared. A long white cloak draped his slim form, immaculate despite the carnage. His face remained hidden behind an emotionless mask, and a black top hat crowned his pale, flowing hair. White roses adorned his attire in an unsettling display of beauty amid such a blood-soaked scene. Despite his refined appearance, the lethal aura emanating from him was unmistakable.

  “Are you the last one?” Nihil asked softly, his voice calm yet ringing with quiet authority. “The last of Noir’s forces in this facility? I assume Calum and the Boogeyman’s vessel were eliminated. I’d hoped to halt Baal’s awakening. Then again, perhaps he’ll be a useful ally.” His gaze was distant, as if calculating outcomes.

  Pinocchio sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, ignoring the throbbing in their severed arm. “Why are you here? Diamond was supposed to be hunting you!”

  Nihil tilted his head, his mask betraying no emotion. “That wasn’t the answer to my question,” he murmured, punctuating the rebuke with a swift kick to Pinocchio’s stomach.

  Air exploded from Pinocchio’s lungs, agony flaring in their wounded side. Nihil chuckled softly—a sound too gentle for the violence it accompanied. “But I’ll indulge you. Diamond is indeed hunting me…just not this version of me. I am one, yet also two.”

  Pinocchio struggled upright. “You speak like you know everything…like you’ve already decided how this day will end.”

  Nihil’s voice gentled, but an edge lingered beneath his words. “Answer my question first. Are you truly the last?”

  Pinocchio bristled. “Yeah, I’m the last. So what? I can still finish you off!”

  Another laugh, this one as hollow as a chasm. “By all means, try.”

  Pinocchio scooped up their staff. Even with one arm, they managed to aim it. A sonic burst erupted from the weapon with a thunderous crack, slamming straight into Nihil. He flew backward, colliding with the floor in a violent crash.

  Pulse racing, Pinocchio advanced. They fired two more blasts, the staff trembling in their grip. Slowly, they peered at Nihil’s motionless figure…and then felt an icy chill crawl up their spine.

  “I survived,” a voice announced behind them.

  Pinocchio spun around. Nihil stood there, utterly unharmed—while the body on the floor dissolved into dust, leaving no trace behind. He stared at Pinocchio with an air of mild boredom, as if the attack were a mere inconvenience.

  After a long moment, Nihil spoke. “I imagine my other self is at the Beta Facility now. It would be unfortunate if you eliminated the key there too soon.”

  Pinocchio’s grip on the staff tightened. “You know our plans…so you’re here to save the keys?”

  His voice was a gentle reproach. “You ask too many questions. No, I’m not here to save them—my other self intends to correct his own mistake. I came merely to observe how the future has shifted. I’m especially pleased Wallace survived this time.”

  The last two words caught Pinocchio off guard. “This…..time?” they repeated, gripping their staff with tense fingers.

  Nihil sounded almost tired. “It’s no use. I cannot die. This immortality is a curse—more potent even than A.E.G.I.S.’s one o’clock chair.”

  A shadow crossed Pinocchio’s face. Weakly, they lowered the staff. “So this is it, huh? Even a machine can fear death.”

  Nihil’s tone turned clinical, as though reciting someone else’s lines. “I’m aware Noir planted a spy within A.E.G.I.S.’s Clockwork Council. In turn, I’ve decided to place my own spy among Noir.”

  Pinocchio’s eyes widened. “I won’t. Kill me if you want—I’ll never betray my comrades!”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Nihil’s voice was as cold as the steel beneath their feet. With blinding speed, he seized Pinocchio by the throat. “Ability Activate: Advent of Chaos.”

  Dark purple energy, threaded with sparks of white, radiated from his body. Ghostly rose petals drifted onto Pinocchio’s wounds before dissolving into their broken circuits. A wave of dizziness washed over them.

  Pinocchio’s pupils dilated, their voice suddenly flat. “I’ll serve you…however you wish, my lord.”

  “Excellent.” Nihil released his grip, allowing Pinocchio to collapse. “I look forward to receiving your reports.”

  He turned and walked away, his pristine cloak fluttering behind him. The white roses adorning his garments glowed beneath the flickering emergency lights, an eerie contrast to the carnage. With a final, satisfied glance down the hall, he vanished from sight—leaving Pinocchio under his thrall in the aftermath of so much death.

  Far from the carnage of the facility, in a distant castle draped in perpetual twilight, a small figure burst from her chamber. The heavy wooden door slammed behind her as she fled into the labyrinthine stone corridors, her sobs echoing off ancient walls. No older than twelve, Anya’s long black hair—streaked with wisps of white—framed a face flushed with both tears and fierce determination. Her vivid green eyes shimmered with unspent defiance as she clutched a battered teddy bear, the sole remnant of childhood solace in a world grown cruel.

  “It’s not fair!” she cried, her voice cracking under the weight of heartbreak and rage. “It’s not fair—I wanted to join the fight against A.E.G.I.S.!”

  In her hurried escape, she collided with a tall, enigmatic figure. A man with long white hair and deep crimson eyes regarded her with unsettling calm. His attire was as unassuming as a bartender’s—tailored, neat, and quiet in its elegance—yet a sinuous snake tattoo coiled around his neck, its serpent head poised as if to strike. His presence was measured, his expression composed, as if the collision were merely a trivial interruption in an otherwise predetermined scene.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  “I’m sorry about what happened, Miss Anya,” he said in a smooth, soothing tone that contrasted sharply with the chaos swirling outside. “You know how worried your father can be.”

  Anya clutched her bear tighter, her lip trembling between indignation and sorrow. “I can handle it!” she insisted, her voice a blend of fierce resolve and desperate yearning. “I just want to help Dad—I could beat them all! It’s not fair, Uncle Pandora!”

  A gentle smile crept over the man’s features as he reached out to ruffle her hair with an almost fatherly tenderness. “It’s always so endearing when you call me ‘uncle,’” he murmured, his voice carrying the quiet promise of future adventures. “One day, when you’re older, you’ll be sent on missions that will make you proud.” His sigh, soft and measured, hinted at burdens and secrets that lay beyond her understanding.

  For a long moment, the castle’s silence enveloped them. Anya’s determined eyes searched his, seeking reassurance in the unyielding calm he exuded. “But I really wanted to join…” she whispered.

  Pandora’s gentle chuckle echoed along the dim corridor, its warmth reserved only for the small girl beside him. “There will be other chances, my dear,” he murmured, his tone smooth and reassuring. “This battle may be lost, but the war is far from over.”

  Anya clutched her well-worn teddy bear and wiped tear-streaked cheeks with determined fingers. Her vivid green eyes, now shining with renewed resolve, met his steady gaze. “I want to do it,” she declared, voice firm despite her lingering sorrow. “Can you do that memory trick—get me into the facility, so they think I’m just a student?”

  Pandora paused, raising a thoughtful brow as he weighed her plea. “It’s possible,” he replied quietly, eyes narrowing in contemplation. “If we proceed, you’ll have to be placed in the Alpha facility. Sending you to the Beta facility will just end in you becoming a mindless monster.”

  At his words, Anya’s excitement returned, her black-and-white hair bouncing as she nodded eagerly. “That works! Please, Uncle Pandora,” she pleaded, her voice softening with desperation. “If anyone can pull this off, it’s you. Not even the Bookkeeper would suspect a thing.”

  A faint smile tugged at Pandora’s lips even as his gaze remained calculating—methodically piecing together the possibilities of a plan. “I’ll consider it,” he said evenly, “but let’s shift our focus. How are things progressing in the other facilities?”

  Anya’s smile faltered as she recounted the grim news. “It’s not great. We lost Calum—he was taken by the Bookkeeper. Hummingbird’s footage just went to static, but before that happened, the Boogeyman… he tore their arm off for his own twisted amusement. And then, somehow, he lost to the Slayer. We’ve suffered heavy losses.”

  A shadow of displeasure crossed Pandora’s features, though his calm composure did not waver. “How infuriating. And what of the Beta facility?”

  She exhaled a heavy sigh, her small frame tensing. “Not much better there. The Lich and the Butcherer have decimated most of our forces. Only Crow remains, and he’s busy hunting that tentacle-headed guy.”

  Pandora’s fingers drummed a slow, steady rhythm against his side as he processed the update. “I see. Send word to Finch immediately. I want her on standby—if Crow falters, she’s to extract him without delay.”

  Anya’s determined nod brought a tentative smile to her face. “Got it. I hope Dad’s mission is going well.”

  At the mention of her father, Pandora’s crimson eyes softened. “Your father is our strongest pillar—aside from ‘her,’” he added cryptically with a knowing glance. “And don’t worry, Nikolai is more than capable. Whatever mission he embarks upon, he always sees it through.”

  A soft grin lit Anya’s face as her earlier disappointment melted away under Pandora’s warm reassurances. “You’re right. He’s the best,” she chirped.

  Pandora’s gentle smile accompanied his light touch as he tousled her hair, his tone tender. “I have some business to attend to, but I’ll be nearby if you need anything,” he promised, his voice soothing.

  “Okay, good luck, Uncle,” Anya called cheerfully, skipping off with blissful abandon.

  The moment the door to his private quarters clicked shut, the mask of benevolence evaporated. Pandora’s expression contorted into something cruel and calculating, his eyes darkening with malice. He sank heavily into his chair, a wicked grin creeping across his face as his true nature emerged.

  “God, that brat’s voice is insufferable,” he muttered, his fingers drumming impatiently on the armrest. “Sometimes I think it’d be simpler to snap her neck—and wipe Nikolai’s memory of her out entirely. Hell, it might even be easier than enduring her constant whining.”

  He paused, weighing the idea with a sneer. “No, if I tamper with his memories again, I’d fry what little brainpower he has left. The fool is barely holding on; unfortunately, that worthless child is the only thing stopping him from swallowing a bullet. What a tedious little anchor she’s become.”

  Leaning back, Pandora let out a dark chuckle that resonated deep within the room. “Imagine his face if he knew she wasn’t even his daughter—if he witnessed that soul-crushing revelation… the agony, the heartbreak. Now that would be a spectacle,” he mused, his eyes gleaming with perverse delight.

  His twisted reverie was abruptly interrupted by a hesitant knock at the door. With an irritated flick of his hand, the oppressive air thickened as he rose and crossed the room, his face settling into a practiced, impassive mask.

  At the door stood a jittery member of Noir, his nervousness palpable. “Excuse me, sir, there’s something you ne—”

  Before he could finish, his head exploded in a burst of crimson, splattering the walls with gore. The sickening splatter of brain matter barely registered as Pandora’s gaze swept over the chaos with lazy disinterest. With a mock exasperation, he sighed, “So many nuisances today.”

  A casual wave of his hand set in motion a grotesque repair: the severed head reassembled itself as bone and flesh snapped back into place with disturbing precision. The reanimated man blinked, horror dawning on his features as he clutched his newly restored head. “I—I died. I died!” he stammered in terror.

  Pandora regarded him coolly. “Forget,” he commanded in a voice that carried an icy finality, and in that instant the man’s memories evaporated—his shock replaced by a blank, obedient nod. Without another word, the man staggered away.

  Pandora exhaled a bored sigh. “What a bother. Next time, I might just leave him in pieces,” he mused, his lips curling into a sinister smile as the twisted pleasure of cruelty danced in his eyes.

  The room fell silent once more, its stillness punctuated only by the soft hum of Pandora’s dark thoughts. He sank back into his favored chair with a contented sigh, though his mind remained alight with sinister designs.

  “One day, all these pawns will fall into place,” he murmured, a slow grin curving his lips.

  His gaze wandered over the space, where a swarm of glowing red moths flitted about, their blood-hued light casting ominous shadows against the walls. Their soft, erratic flutter resembled a dark lullaby that deepened the room’s eerie ambiance.

  The chamber itself was a study in contrasts—a blend of the mundane and the macabre. A few weathered shelves held arcane relics and faded manuscripts, their scent of old ink mingling with a subtle metallic tang. Yet it was the display along one wall that commanded attention: rows of delicate butterflies, each pinned and preserved as a trophy. Their once-vibrant wings, now muted by time, shimmered faintly in the dim light—a haunting reminder of lives he had shattered. Every specimen bore a name, each a silent testament to a soul reduced to an ornament in his personal gallery of control.

  Leaning back, Pandora allowed his fingertips to trace the worn armrests of his chair. “How fitting,” he whispered, his voice barely rising above the hush. “So delicate, so easily broken.”

  The moths responded to his murmur by swirling more frantically, as if echoing the final, desperate flutters of a creature ensnared in a web. A low, dangerous laugh escaped him as he mused, “I suppose I could add more to the collection soon. I wonder who will be next.”

  Rising from his seat, he drifted toward the nearest display case. His fingers hovered above a particularly vibrant butterfly—a specimen of deep violet flecked with gold—accompanied by the name “Emma.” For a long, charged moment, his eyes gleamed with the hunger of a predator.

  “So many wings to clip,” he whispered, his smile growing wider and more menacing, “and so little time.”

  Turning away, his mind raced with fresh possibilities—more strings to pull, more lives to unravel. The red moths trailed in his wake, their eerie glow casting a hellish light upon his figure as he resumed his seat.

  In that unsettling space, alive with dark energy and quiet menace, Pandora reigned as a twisted conductor of suffering—each carefully preserved trophy a note in the symphony of his cruelty.