The morning after the invasion, Wallace slouched in his cluttered office, cradling a cup of coffee that—thankfully—wasn’t laced with poison this time. Dark bags under his eyes testified to another sleepless night, while piles of paperwork towered over his desk like an insurmountable mountain.

  With a groan, Wallace rose and stretched, his stomach reminding him he’d skipped breakfast. He reached for the door, expecting the usual hallway, but the familiar office melted away. In an instant, he found himself standing amid the towering shelves of the Bookkeeper’s library.

  “Good morning, Mr. Valentine,” a warm, velvety voice greeted him. Seated at a grand desk beneath rows of timeworn books, the Bookkeeper met his gaze with calm, all-knowing eyes. “Apologies for the abrupt invitation, but we’ve called an emergency meeting to discuss yesterday’s events.”

  Wallace arched an eyebrow. “So, how bad’s the situation I’m about to walk into?”

  “For starters, everyone is expected to participate… even Frank,” the Bookkeeper sighed.

  “That guy’s so weird,” Wallace muttered.

  “With the exception of Harvester, everyone before you has voiced the same complaint,” the Bookkeeper replied evenly.

  Wallace ran his fingers through his hair. “Anything else I need to be prepared for?”

  “The eight and nine o’clock chairs were slain during the raids, and the four o’clock chair is stepping down due to her injuries. That leaves us with three available seats on the council,” explained the Bookkeeper.

  Wallace exhaled in frustration. “What a mess. We don’t even have enough skilled people to fill those spots—maybe Lich, but I’m clueless about the other two.”

  “Would you also like to exchange rumors before you go in?” the Bookkeeper asked.

  “Same deal as always—don’t let anyone know what we share,” Wallace agreed, shaking his hand.

  “I’ll start,” Wallace began. “Jonathan seems to be getting suspicious of the boss. He might do something like Nikolai did. Before he acts, though, he’s trying to recruit my brother, Harvester, and me.”

  “Interesting. Makes sense—the boss is quite suspicious,” observed the Bookkeeper calmly.

  “You don’t care? I thought you were the most loyal one here,” Wallace retorted.

  “Of course not. I’m only here to keep an eye on someone—that’s all,” the Bookkeeper replied coolly.

  “Interesting. Well, you’re up—spill your gossip,” Wallace ordered.

  The Bookkeeper chuckled. “Sabrina came in last week. She asked me to get her some shirtless pictures of Jonathan.”

  Wallace laughed. “And how much did you charge for them?”

  “I told her to chop her fingers off for them,” the Bookkeeper replied with calm nonchalance.

  Wallace shook his head, still laughing. “What a heavy price... That’s why she burst into my office, crying and begging me to heal her fingers. Were they really worth it?”

  The Bookkeeper’s eyes glinted mischievously as he retrieved a small, worn leather portfolio from his desk. “Here, take a look,” he said, sliding it across the polished wood. Wallace flipped it open, and his gaze immediately fell upon a series of striking photographs—each one capturing Jonathan in moments of raw intensity.

  In every image, Jonathan was a study in relentless strength. One picture showed him mid-workout, his body drenched in sweat so profusely that every muscle seemed to shine under a harsh, unforgiving light. His dark green hair, slicked back with precision, framed a face set in grim determination. A damp towel hung loosely over his broad, battle-scarred back, the fabric clinging to him as if drawn to the sheer intensity of his form. The play of light accentuated the scars etched across his torso—silent reminders of past conflicts that only added to his formidable presence.

  Another shot captured a more dynamic scene. Jonathan was in motion, sword raised high in a powerful, fluid arc as if he were slicing through the very air. The flash froze the moment perfectly: his muscles tensed, sweat cascading down his chiseled frame, and the metallic gleam of the sword a stark counterpoint to the heat of exertion. His eyes, though shadowed by the slick strands of hair, burned with a fierce, almost predatory focus.

  A third photograph revealed a quieter yet equally compelling side. There, he was alone with modern exercise equipment, his relaxed and potent posture as he methodically lifted weights. The careful detail captured the strain in his limbs, the definition of each sinew, and even the subtle play of sweat droplets that spoke of long hours of hard work and undeterred resolve.

  Wallace set the portfolio aside as he let out a wry laugh and shook his head. “If I was into men, I’d chop my fingers off for these as well… you aren’t selling anyone else’s photos, are you?”

  The Bookkeeper’s eyes twinkled with amusement as he replied, “Just the photos of the men here. My wife would haunt me to death if I was selling pictures of women like this.”

  Wallace raised an eyebrow. “You have a wife?”

  A shadow passed over the Bookkeeper’s face. “Not anymore—sadly, she died recently. Anyway, care to guess which member of the A.E.G.I.S. agents has requested the most photos?”

  Wallace tapped a finger against the desk, considering the possibilities. “I’d guess my brother.”

  The Bookkeeper chuckled. “Wrong—he’s ranked fourth. Third place goes to Jonathan, though most photos are bought by Sabrina. Second is the boss, usually ordered alongside a voice recording of him calling the buyer a filthy mongrel and threatening to step on them… don’t question it. And number one, my dear friend, is you.”

  Wallace sighed dramatically as he pulled out his pistol, his tone shifting to one of negotiation. “I want 50% of the profits. Whatever can’t be given in terms of items or knowledge, I want it converted into favors.”

  “Fine, fine—you’re lucky,” the Bookkeeper replied with a mischievous laugh. “After this meeting, you’re going to be in debt, so it’s good you did this.”

  Wallace cocked an eyebrow in question. “What do you mean?”

  The Bookkeeper leaned in, his smile turning cryptic. “You’ll see. Have I ever been wrong about the future before?”

  Wallace rubbed his temples, the fog of a sleepless night still heavy on his mind. With a reluctant sigh, he slipped off his glove, revealing an intricate tattoo—a clock frozen at ten o’clock—its faint glow pulsing softly. The Bookkeeper nodded approvingly.

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  “The ten o’clock chair of the Clockwork Council requests permission to enter the meeting room,” Wallace intoned, his tone growing serious.

  At that moment, a door materialized behind the Bookkeeper, its surface aglow with the same ethereal light. With a subtle gesture, the Bookkeeper said simply, “After you.”

  Wallace stepped through and into the council’s meeting chamber—a grand room dominated by a long, elegant table surrounded by thirteen chairs, each marked with a different hour. Sliding into the seat labeled ten o’clock, he began to scan the room.

  The eight and nine o’clock chairs lay conspicuously empty, their absence stirring quiet, unspoken questions among the members. At the seven o’clock seat, Jonathan Brooke sat with a serene smile, his fingers idly twirling a small, shifting mushroom that alternated its colors and shapes—a fitting nod to his codename, The Gardener.

  To his left, in the six o’clock seat, Sabrina Washington exuded an unsettling elegance. Her lavender hair fell softly over her shoulders, secured by a small, black cat-shaped clip. Her sharp red eyes, peering over the rim of her red glasses, surveyed the room with a mix of scholarly poise and keen interest—especially when lingering on the male members, notably Jonathan. Known as The Radio, her presence spoke of an uncanny knack for gathering and transmitting secrets.

  At the five o’clock seat, a young boy—Lazarus Grimwood—sat almost lost in weariness. His messy blue hair and ghostly pale skin contrasted with striking red eyes that seemed half-lidded from exhaustion. Clad in a snug black sweater and an oversized white coat, he clutched a plush shark, its fin peeking out. A tiny fang caught the light whenever he smiled, underscoring his codename, The Director.

  Beside him in the four o’clock seat, Eliza Levine’s presence was fierce and unyielding. Bandages wrapped tightly around her battered body hinted at the brutal battle she’d fought just the day before. Though her dragonoid horn had healed, the absence of her severed arm remained a raw, painful reminder of her ordeal. Known as The Slayer, her eyes burned with fiery resolve as she sat stiffly, eager for the meeting to commence.

  The three o’clock chair was empty—a silent testament to the Bookkeeper’s omnipresent influence. Though everyone knew it belonged to him, he rarely needed to occupy it, his control felt more in the air than in any physical form.

  At the two o’clock seat, an unsettling figure known only as The Harvester maintained a rigid silence. Dressed impeccably in a black suit and tie, his deathly pale skin was barely visible beneath a crude paper bag perched over his head. The bag’s simple, scribbled face lent him an eerie, almost childlike aura that belied the dark mystery of his codename.

  In the one o’clock seat, a calm woman exuded quiet confidence. Her brilliant blue eyes shone like a clear sky, and a crown of assorted flowers rested atop her head. A long, jagged scar cut diagonally across her face—a mark of battles fought and survived. Dressed in a black, frilly dress and casually eating an apple, her name was Eve, otherwise known as The Origin, a beacon of composed strength amidst tension.

  At the head of the table, the most commanding figure—Alexander Jones—sat in silence, his very presence dominating the room. His piercing blue eyes scanned the assembly with a predatory focus, while an oppressive aura seemed to make him hover slightly above his chair. Adorning his hand was a clock tattoo without hands, a silent emblem of his unrivaled authority. Known as The Monarch, he awaited his cue, for when he spoke, the true discussion would begin.

  Moments later, the door creaked open and Frank stepped into the room. His hand, marked by a tattoo pointing resolutely to eleven o’clock, glowed faintly in the dim light. A hush fell over the chamber as every eye turned to him, laden with disdain. Frank’s medium-length turquoise hair framed a face that was as unsettling as it was unique—pink eyes peered out from behind a pair of glasses, and his ever-present, eerie smile never wavered. Clad in a worn lab coat patched with the scars of knife slashes and bullet wounds, he cut an odd figure. Yet, the two most disturbing details were the long, rusted nail embedded in his forehead and that perpetual, unnerving grin. His name was Frank Stein.

  “I thought this was an important meeting—are we short on attendees?” Frank said cheerfully, his tone incongruously light.

  None of the council members deigned to answer him. They all avoided his gaze, unwilling either to acknowledge the heavy absences or to engage with Frank’s unsettling presence.

  Then, in a voice as flat and unyielding as stone, Harvester broke the silence. “A danger is coming… Jonathan, brace yourself.”

  Jonathan’s relaxed posture snapped rigid as his eyes widened in alarm. “W-what are you talking about?”

  Before anyone could respond, the heavy door slammed open once more. Markus Valentine stormed in, his eyes blazing with fury and raw determination. The air thickened, heavy with murderous intent as his gaze locked onto Jonathan.

  “Spatial Sever,” Markus growled, his voice trembling with an almost tangible surge of power as he swept his hand through the air.

  In that instant, reality itself seemed to rebel. The space around the desk warped and shattered; a violent rift opened with an explosive crack, sending shards of the once-sturdy table hurtling in every direction. The elegant, grand table splintered like fragile glass, debris scattering across the chamber as if caught in a chaotic wind.

  “The danger… is here,” Harvester intoned, his monotone cadence unshaken by the mounting chaos.

  Jonathan barely had time to react. He stumbled backward, narrowly escaping the full force of Markus’ unleashed power. The council members surged into action—some leaping to intervene, others merely watching with morbid fascination. What had been an atmosphere of tense anticipation now crackled with the electricity of impending battle.

  Markus, his voice a low, menacing growl that brooked no defiance. “Sit down, or I will kill each and every one of you… except for my brother.” His eyes swept the room with a predator’s precision, daring anyone to challenge him.

  The threat was absolute; no one dared disobey. As the members reluctantly sank into their seats, tension hung in the air like a storm cloud ready to burst. With each measured step toward Jonathan, Markus exuded barely contained fury. Then, without warning, he slammed his boot onto Jonathan’s chair—stopping just inches from the man’s crotch. The act was primal and brutally effective, a silent yet unmistakable warning that defiance was not an option.

  “I’ve got a few questions for you,” Markus said, his voice low and venomous, each word laced with raw malice. “If I don’t like your answers, or if you refuse to answer, I’m going to pulverize your testicles, then chop off your head.” His eyes blazed with a fury that left no room for doubt, promising excruciating pain with every piercing glance.

  Jonathan shifted slightly, maintaining his composure despite the palpable tension. Yet the color drained from his face under Markus’ searing glare.

  “I don’t trust you. Not after what happened yesterday,” Markus continued, his tone sharpening with suspicion. “How is it that the day the Alpha Facility’s two strongest members are out is the day we get attacked? Explain that to me.”

  Jonathan’s calm demeanor held firm, though a hint of uncertainty trembled beneath his measured words. “It wasn’t just our facility. Multiple facilities were attacked that same day. How could I have known it would be the worst possible timing for an invasion?” His response was steady, but his eyes betrayed the weight of responsibility he bore.

  Markus leaned in until his face was mere inches from Jonathan’s, the heat of his rage almost tangible. “You made the schedule. You were at a meeting with the boss. I was at a meeting with Lazarus when normally my brother would be dealing with that vampiric little shit,” he snarled, punctuating his accusation by pointing a trembling finger at Lazarus, who glared in silent defiance. “So why send me? Why cripple the facility like that?”

  A flicker of frustration crossed Jonathan’s eyes as he replied, “I’ve been working with Wallace on analyzing something… a blood test that’s been taking longer than expected. I even made sure Eliza would be there to compensate for our absence.” His voice, though calm, wavered slightly under the relentless scrutiny.

  Markus scoffed, his tone dripping with disdain. “And they just so happened to send someone with pure hatred for Eliza. Too many coincidences, Jonathan.”

  Before Jonathan could muster a response, Alexander’s authoritative voice cut sharply through the mounting tension. “Markus, sit down.”

  With evident reluctance, Markus removed his foot from Jonathan’s chair, the threat still hanging in the air like a guillotine poised to fall. He returned to his seat, his eyes never leaving Jonathan, a simmering storm of suspicion and fury barely contained.

  Then, as if reality itself obeyed a hidden command, the Bookkeeper entered the room. His arrival was as sudden as it was enigmatic. With a casual snap of his long, dexterous fingers, the shattered table reassembled itself—the splintered wood knitting back together seamlessly, erasing all evidence of the earlier chaos. Without a word, he took his customary seat, his presence alone conveying the gravity of the moment.

  A thick silence descended over the chamber, an unspoken tension mingling with intrigue. The rarity of the Bookkeeper’s attendance spoke volumes; when he appeared, it meant forces beyond their usual machinations were at play. Every eye in the room fixed on him, though no one dared break the hush.

  “Now that everyone is here, and hopefully, you’ve all gotten your energy out,” Alexander began in a tone as cold and authoritative as ice, “I have some unfortunate news. The eight, nine and four o’clock chair are now vacant. Jeremiah Oswald and Celeste Lovegood were slain by Nikolai yesterday. With both of their deaths and Eliza’s injuries, we now have three open seats on the Council.”