Jonathan sat in his office, a set of exquisitely carved chess pieces spread before him. Each piece was a miniature tribute to the members of the Clockwork Council, his fingers toyed absentmindedly with the skeletal figure—one that bore a grim likeness of to Ivan. He glanced over at Ivan, who stood near the door. Ivan’s false skin had been carefully restored, and a sleek, ominous collar now encircled his neck—an artifact that, though donned willingly, forced him to obey its silent commands.

  “I must say, you look quite good in that,” Jonathan teased, his smile cool and knowing.

  Ivan’s eyes, dark with simmering hatred, narrowed slightly. “What do you need…sir?” he replied, his tone clipped.

  Jonathan’s gaze drifted to the chest piece on the desk before returning to Ivan. “For now, nothing—although I’m afraid your class size will be reduced by the end of this week.”

  “Why is that?” Ivan asked slowly, suspicion and irritation lacing his voice.

  Jonathan’s tone was almost conversational. “There are three of your students I’d like dead, but I’ve settled for just two for now—Maxwell and Cynthia. And while I’m at it, I’ll prune Anya from my garden. I’d like to remove Alice too, but now’s not the time.”

  Ivan’s voice held a trace of incredulity. “What about Iris? She was placed with that group, wasn’t she?”

  Jonathan raised an eyebrow. “Good question. I just need to scare her a bit—then maybe affix a little mushroom on her to track her movements. Naturally, I expect you to keep your mouth shut on these matters.”

  A flicker of fear—and genuine curiosity—crossed Ivan’s expression. “May I ask why? Why are you doing this?”

  Jonathan leaned back, his tone turning softly conspiratorial. “Cynthia is a walking corpse, liable to explode at any moment. Anya is Nikolai’s daughter, and Alice... I’m still keeping an eye on her—just a hunch. As for Maxwell, well, I’ll leave that one a secret.”

  Then, as if testing Ivan’s very soul, Jonathan’s voice dropped to a quiet, almost reflective note. “Tell me, Ivan, do you think I’m an evil man? Please, answer honestly.”

  Ivan’s reply was measured and cold. “Of course. Anyone who would so willingly commit these acts is, by definition, inherently evil.”

  A wry smile tugged at Jonathan’s lips. “I know you’re a lich and don’t need food, but have you ever tried making an omelet?”

  Ivan arched an eyebrow. “Yes, I made them all the time when I was still alive,” he replied, a hint of nostalgia touching his tone.

  “Then tell me,” Jonathan ordered softly, “what’s the first step in making an omelet?”

  Ivan hesitated. “I’m not sure if I understand what you’re getting at.”

  Jonathan’s eyes gleamed with a mixture of humor and gravity as he said, “You must crack an egg. One cannot change the world without staining his hands.”

  After a moment of quiet reflection, Jonathan added, “Now, I have work to do. I’ll call upon you when needed.”

  Ivan nodded silently and turned to leave, the echo of Jonathan’s words mingling with the quiet clack of chess pieces on the desk.

  Iris searched the facility, searching for Maxwell, until her eyes finally landed on him sitting in a lounge. There he was—leaning casually against a plush sofa, waiting with an effortless coolness that both intrigued and unnerved her.

  “You’re much slower than I expected—I’m almost disappointed,” Maxwell chuckled, his tone teasing yet edged with challenge.

  Iris folded her arms and stepped forward briskly. “I’d like to form an alliance with you. I doubt you want to get killed by Nikolai,” she said bluntly.

  Maxwell’s smile broadened. “That was quick. I thought we might at least chat first. However, before negotiations begin, I’d like to set some ground rules. Under the Authority of Rules, all acts of violence are forbidden in this room.” Instantly, purple runes shimmered into existence on the walls, casting a regal glow over the space.

  “Now, take a seat, apostle of Knowledge and Wealth,” Maxwell requested, his voice smooth and commanding.

  Maxwell leaned forward. “How about we start exchanging information?” he said, “Tell me, what do you know about the outer gods?”

  Iris said calmly. “I know their identities, but not who their apostles are. Frankly, I have no clue why they’ve inserted themselves into this cruel game.”

  He sighed, a note of frustration creeping into his tone. “So you know as much as I do. It’s annoying—our enemy knows our location, while we can’t even see what he looks like.”

  Iris considered this for a moment. “I doubt there’ll be another attack anytime soon—after all, they lost pretty badly last time.”

  Maxwell’s expression darkened slightly. “Oh right—I forgot both of our facilities were attacked.”

  “I should probably warn you, my classmate Anya—she’s the daughter of Nikolai, a spy placed here to blend in with the class.” Her voice held both resignation and a flicker of concern.

  Maxwell’s eyes widened in surprise. “Why haven’t you done anything about her yet?”

  “I’m waiting,” Iris replied tersely. “I want to see what that traitor will do.”

  Just then, as if summoned by their conversation, Anya strolled into the room. She wore a playful smile as she casually brandished a chainsaw behind her back. “Hi, bestie, how’s it going?” she chirped, as if nothing were amiss.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Maxwell raised an eyebrow. “I should let you know if you try to attack me while my ability is active, you’ll be strangled,” he warned in a mock-serious tone.

  Anya stuck out her tongue. “You’re no fun, but fine—keep your head,” she replied, placing her chainsaw down with a dramatic flourish.

  Iris couldn’t resist a jab. “You know, Jonathan’s going to be furious if he finds out you ‘found’ a third chainsaw.”

  “Sure—and he’ll also be mad when I chop your head off,” Anya laughed, the tension between them crackling with irreverence.

  “I’ll act as the representative to the Apostle of Death and Disorder—let’s continue this meeting,” Anya declared with a sly smile as she slid into her chair.

  Maxwell’s tone was brisk and uncompromising. “If you wish to join this meeting, you must offer something of value.”

  Anya’s smile didn’t waver. “Fine. I’ll tell you when the next attack will occur.” Both Iris and Maxwell exchanged stunned glances at her bold assertion.

  “At the end of the week, the bomb planted somewhere in this facility will detonate—killing both of you,” Anya continued, her tone casual yet laced with menace.

  Maxwell’s eyes narrowed. “Won’t that bomb…kill you as well?”

  “It’s fine,” Anya replied, a hint of dark humor in her voice, “I know who the bomb is—and when it’s meant to explode and…… I’ll be in the same room as her.” Her words trailed off as she realized how terrible the timing was.

  Maxwell chuckled softly. “You were saying?” he prompted.

  “Don’t worry about that now. Instead, why don’t you two share some information?” Anya requested, her voice betraying a slight nervousness.

  Maxwell rose to his feet. “I think this meeting is done. My main goal was to establish contact with Iris.”

  “W-what? No fair,” Anya complained.

  In an instant, Maxwell deactivated his ability. With swift precision, he kicked Anya’s chainsaw away and punched her in the jaw. She dodged just enough to lessen the impact, but the blow was unmistakable.

  “Good reflexes,” Maxwell remarked with a bitter chuckle. “It’s a shame we have to be enemies.” He unfurled his wings, their sharp, angelic feathers aimed directly at her neck.

  “Shame I don’t have popcorn right now,” Iris quipped from her seat, unable to hide her amusement even as she watched the escalating fight.

  Quick as a flash, Anya pulled out a smoke bomb from a subspace necklace and sprinted back for her chainsaw. “If you want to dance, let’s dance,” she challenged, revving up her weapon.

  Maxwell calmly spread his wings wider; with measured precision, he launched shards of razor-sharp feathers at Anya. In response, she blocked furiously with her chainsaw, each clashing strike and hiss of energy punctuating the charged atmosphere.

  As the furious exchange unfolded, Iris watched the spectacle with wry detachment. “I really wish I had popcorn right now,” she murmured, studying both their fighting styles with a mix of bemusement and concern.

  Maxwell’s wings unfurled as he adjusted his stance, letting the sharp feathers slice through the still air toward Anya. In response, Anya spun, her chainsaw roaring to life as she parried the incoming barrage with a series of rapid, fluid strikes. The room seemed to pulse with the tension of their dance—a clash of light and mechanical fury.

  Anya darted forward, chainsaw whirring and sparks flying as she closed the distance. She swung a vicious arc aimed at Maxwell’s exposed flank, but he fluidly tilted his body and countered with a slash that grazed her shoulder. The impact sent a shudder through Anya, and for a breathless second, she staggered, then quickly recovered, her eyes blazing with defiance.

  Maxwell’s expression was calm yet focused; his ability allowed him to predict all of her attacks. Though it was different from Anastasia's pre-cognition, time in his brain was slow enough to see them coming. In a graceful, premeditated motion, he elevated a hand and sent a flurry of feathered projectiles swirling toward Anya’s midsection. They streaked through the air, each one a precision strike meant to test her defenses.

  Anya pivoted sharply, using the momentum of her movement to launch herself sideways. With deft agility, she intercepted a volley of feathers with the flat of her chainsaw blade, the cacophony of clashing sounds echoing off the walls. Then, drawing on every bit of energy, she counterattacked—a rapid series of slashing swings that forced Maxwell to retreat a step, his eyes narrowing as he recalibrated his next move.

  Iris watched from the sidelines, her earlier remarks about needing popcorn now bitterly ironic as she observed the furious exchange. The rhythmic hum of Maxwell’s wings and the guttural roar of Anya’s chainsaw intermingled with the background din of distant voices and residual chaos from earlier battles, transforming the room into a living battlefield.

  Walking by, Anastasia noticed the commotion and, with her signature nonchalance, calmly unslung two pistols. In one swift motion, she fired—one shot finding Maxwell’s stomach and another striking Anya in the leg. Both fell, grimacing in pain as the abrupt violence cut through the ongoing chaos.

  “Jonathan’s not going to be happy when he finds out a fourth room has been trashed this year by your class,” Anastasia sighed, barely concealing a smirk.

  Anya’s eyes widened in pain and disbelief as she managed to croak, “Did you have to shoot us?”

  With a dismissive shrug, Anastasia replied, “It was that, or I could have used tear gas.”

  Rolling her eyes, she added casually, “Well, this isn’t my problem, so stop fighting—I’m off on my smoke break. Goodbye!” With a flick of her wrist, she turned and walked out.

  Maxwell managed a slight shrug as he recovered, remarking, “Your teachers are weird, though, for some reason, she felt familiar.”

  Iris shook her head and interjected, “I’d recommend you two call it a day. We can kill each other another time.”

  “Fine,” Maxwell and Anya pouted in unison, their rivalry momentarily paused.

  After a brief, tense silence, Maxwell’s tone hardened as he demanded, “I’d recommend you tell us where the bomb is.”

  Anya stuck out her tongue and replied with a casual defiance, “I’ll think about it.” And with that, she sauntered out, leaving behind more questions than answers.

  In the quiet confines of Jonathan’s office, a tender scene unfolded away from the chaos of the day. Jonathan sat at his polished table, meticulously reviewing a stack of reports, when Sabrina approached and slid onto his lap. Without hesitation, she kissed him softly, a gesture of affection that seemed to suspend time. After their kiss, she wrapped her arms around him and nuzzled against his shoulder, her doe eyes sparkling as she looked up.

  “I love you so much—can’t we just stay like this all day?” Sabrina murmured, her voice filled with longing.

  Jonathan’s smile was warm and gentle as he reached up to caress her head. “Of course, I’ll give you all the love I have,” he promised, his tone tender yet imbued with a quiet strength.

  Sabrina returned his affection, whispering, “Thank you so much, my love,” as she nestled closer, content in his embrace.

  After a few precious moments of intimacy, Jonathan sighed softly, breaking the spell. “Alright, I’m tired of this,” he said, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

  Then, unexpectedly, Sabrina began to cough—a delicate eruption of rose petals escaping her lips. Her irises transformed, softening to a gentle pink as she staggered and tumbled from Jonathan’s lap onto the grassy floor of Jonathan's office. With each petal that fell, it was as if fragments of her vibrant spirit were dissolving away.

  Jonathan looked down at her prone form, a mixture of tenderness and pity in his eyes. “Sweet dreams,” he murmured, his voice soft as he gently cradled her for a moment. “I did say I’d give you all of my love, but I’m afraid I truly have none left.”

  Jonathan walked away with measured, resolute steps, never once glancing back. In the dim light of the office, Sabrina lay unconscious on the floor, her face pale and serene amidst the scattered rose petals that occasionally escaped her lips in soft, mournful coughs.