The lights of Redwave City began to blaze against the indigo sky, the massive, Ego-powered machinery humming a deep, continuous mechanical chord that was the city’s true heartbeat. Commander Terence of the Blue Ops drove through the quieter, industrial backstreets in a sleek, non-military transport, the silent figure of Basil (Joan) riding shotgun.

  Terence was engaged in his signature ritual, meticulously separating the segments of a blood orange.

  "You know, Basil," Terence began, his voice a low, continuous stream of thought. "We Blue Ops—we don't like to fight. It's too messy, too unpredictable. Our entire doctrine is built on making the problem vanish before the first shot is fired. We prefer surgical removal. Efficiency is our true weapon, not kinetic force."

  He paused, offering a piece of the blood orange to Basil, which was naturally ignored.

  "Well, maybe I don't like to fight," Terence corrected himself with a shrug. "But most of us are frighteningly strong. Especially that girl you met earlier—Sherry. Underneath that neon hair and operational gray, she's a precision weapon, a master of crystalline Ego-binding. If the situation genuinely goes sideways, I know where to place my bets. And I'll rely on you, too, of course, Basil. Your profile suggests you are very well-equipped to handle the unforeseen."

  Terence finished the orange, wiping his intricate mechanical gloves.

  "The real challenge is identifying the weak point in the network. Everyone is using a who's who of local power. One guy links to another, the other links to a noble, and the noble is benefiting from the third guy's logistics, creating a cycle of mutually assured profit. It’s a mess of predictable, uninspired corruption."

  He sighed. "But I think if we find Corvin, the phantom logistics operator, everything will get easier. He’s the single point of failure because he’s the single point of mystery. Everyone else is exactly what the file says they are. Corvin is an asterisk—a variable that doesn't fit the equation, a ghost in the machine of corruption."

  "Well, Basil," Terence said, turning the car down a crumbling, dirt road marked only by rusted signs. "Let's just say, it's a hunch."

  The hover-car came to a halt beside a colossal, dilapidated junkyard. Piles of rusted, steampunk-era machinery towered high, creating dark, labyrinthine canyons of scrap.

  "So, this must be it," Terence observed, stepping out into the cold night air. "But isn't this too cliché, Basil? If I were a brilliant ghost operator, would I be hiding in a place like this? A dirty, forgotten typecast image of villainy? It's unbecoming of a suspicious, smart criminal. It feels... forced, like a set piece."

  He stopped at a section of wall hidden by scrap, locating the concealed biometric keypad.

  Terence frowned and began pressing keys with deliberate, random chaos. "Obviously, random numbers won't work, Basil. And spending thirty minutes on decryption is what the plot expects. We don't have time for expectation."

  Then, to his utter surprise, the hidden lock released with a soft click. The panel slid silently inward, revealing a dark, concrete corridor.

  "Well, I'll be," Terence chuckled softly, peering into the gloom. "Oh, silly me. We are invited in."

  Terence was about to step into the darkness when his hand snapped up, cutting the air. He turned slowly, looking past the rusted heaps toward the vast, skeletal frame of the unfinished skyscraper—the construction site.

  "Ah, the building," Terence murmured, and in that instant, everything clicked into place. "Ah, we are being watched. This whole junkyard—it's a prop. A stage designed for maximum observation."

  He turned back to the opened doorway, his eyes fixed on Basil.

  "The distraction is outside, and the target is clear. We both know why you're really here, Vessel. You were sent by the Crimson 10 for a specific reason, and I'm not going to pretend I haven't done my homework."

  Terence took a single, deliberate step closer.

  "So, should I leave this to your care, Basil?" He paused for a beat, delivering the final strike.

  "Or should I call you Joan?"

  The effect was instantaneous. A tremor ran through Joan (Basil)'s body. Her hands clenched. Then, from behind the glass of the helmet, a single, intense glow—a pulse of icy, blue light—flared within her visor, confirming the identity he had just named.

  "I thought so. You’re not interested in the grand schemer yet, Joan. You're interested in cleaning up the mess he left. Corvin is the mess. I think I will leave him to your care."

  Joan took one decisive step forward and vanished into the dark, welcoming corridor, her mission now intensely personal.

  Joan moved through the dark corridor, her helmet light cutting through the oppressive gloom. The corridor opened into a vast, cavernous basement—a hidden, unauthorized facility.

  The sight that greeted her stopped her cold. The walls were lined with enormous cylindrical glass capsules, each filled with a greenish, viscous chemical solution. Suspended within each tank was a human body, pale, floating, and utterly motionless—failed human experiments.

  Corvin was there. He wore a crisp white lab coat, but his entire head and neck were tightly wrapped in thick, discolored bandages, like a mummy. Only narrow, glinting slits remained for his eyes, and a small gap for his mouth. He looked like a man fighting to contain a terrible, hidden decay. He was hastily tapping commands on a console.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  "Subject 41, vitals dropping. Ego assimilation at 3%—failure," Corvin muttered, his voice muffled. "Subject 42, CDE rejection imminent. Termination protocol initiated. Ah, I'm running out of time. Apart from Medina, none shows good potential."

  He turned slightly as Joan approached. "I expected them to come, but I didn't expect you, Joan. It seems it's time to end it with you, then."

  Joan stopped, the name Joan—her old, civilian self—a searing wound.

  "You should know, Joan, that all your data was perfect," Corvin continued, stepping away from the console. The massive, hulking shape of Medina—his current successful monster puppet—rose slowly behind him.

  "About five years ago, when you were just applying to the Empire’s soldier program? The one you failed?" Corvin gave a short, bitter laugh, the sound grating against the bandages. "I rigged the result. Your CDE compatibility was magnificent, off the charts. You were perfect for my experiment, potentially far exceeding the limitations of the regular Crimson 10."

  Joan stood frozen, the mechanical click of her gloves the only sound besides the humming tanks. Her failure, her shame, her belief in her own shortcomings—all a deliberate, calculated lie.

  "You were meant to be the cornerstone of my project," Corvin explained, his tone a bizarre mix of betrayal and scientific pride. "But the process required time and controlled exposure. You needed to believe you were simply a civilian, living an unremarkable life while the CDE slowly integrated."

  He gestured to the surrounding room. "But the experiments are failing. And you, Joan... you kept transforming."

  Corvin’s bandage-covered head tilted. "Your natural CDE assimilation was erratic, but powerful. You would lose control, transform into that monstrous Ego state, and kill those you encountered. And every single time, it was I who cleaned up the mess. I manipulated the crime scene data, used my old Empire contacts, and planted the evidence suggesting a 'Faceless Man' was responsible."

  The full horror of the lie settled on Joan. "You saw the 'Faceless Man' because you needed a culprit. In reality, it was you, Joan. All alone."

  Joan's suit vibrated faintly, the digital modifier struggling to contain the sheer, seismic rage. "That man... the one who sent me here. He promised me," Joan managed. "He promised my dreams would finally come true. I would become an elite soldier of the Empire! I would prove I was good enough!"

  "And who is 'that man,' Joan? The man who sent you here to die?" Corvin asked dismissively. "Let me save him the effort. As a gift for the Empire... I will offer your head."

  Corvin looked genuinely mournful through the slits of his bandages. "That's too bad. I wanted you to be a good subject for my experiment. You could have been more than a super soldier. You could be at the level of the Crimson 10, stronger than the Blue, Yellow, and Black Ego Corps combined."

  "But I guess the talk ends here. Your rage is too volatile for my purposes now, and your friend the Analyst is keeping me too busy."

  Corvin pointed toward Medina. "Finish this now, Medina. It's time to test your combat capabilities against a prime candidate."

  With a low, mechanical growl, the monstrous Medina detached from its chains and advanced. Corvin, the bandaged scientist, vanished through a hidden exit, leaving the enraged soldier to face her puppet executioner.

  Meanwhile, high above the industrial district, Terence ascended the skeletal scaffolding and found the man he was looking for.

  "Oh, hello there, spectator. How do you like the view? We didn't even have to break the door, did we?" Terence asked. "You're not Corvin, are you? So, I will ask you again: Should I call you Faceless Man? Smithsen? Or perhaps, Master of the Unwoven?"

  The man stepped forward. "Please call me Mr. Craft."

  Terence pointed to the absurdly convenient folding table and chairs. "Mind if we talk first? We can fight later," Terence asked, already chewing beef jerky. "I need something to chew, Mr. Craft. It’s my coping for cigar withdrawal. Distraction, grounding, keeps the Ego focused. You seem very grounded. What's your vice?"

  Craft settled into his chair, maintaining the large distance Terence had established. "I prefer things clean, Commander. Vice is inherently messy. I am Unwoven. And you, Commander, are the Blue Ego, the special combatant they send when they don't want a public mess."

  A sharp electronic bzt sounded in Terence's earpiece, instantly followed by the sound of massive kinetic impact coming from the junkyard perimeter. Craft subtly tilted his head.

  "So, you are also monitoring. I guess we have the same info," Terence said, nodding. He deployed the two mechanical artifacts, projecting holographic feeds onto the table. One feed showed the violent clash at the perimeter; the other, the dark, claustrophobic view of Joan's helmet feed.

  "This view looks like overkill," Terence observed, gesturing at the Skull vs. Hunters feed. "Fifteen specialized assassins against one. Are you that confident with this Skull friend of yours?"

  "He will survive," Craft stated simply, watching the chaos unfold. "Survival is not the question, Commander. The question is what he will learn. And as for your companion..." Craft dismissed the struggling figure on the other projection. "Joan is a nobody. I am not interested in her. I am more interested in this Corvin guy."

  "Ah, so you've been tracking and observing him. Same way he is stalking your group, even assisted you in many ways," Terence noted.

  "He has something I want. Unfortunately, Corvin's strings are currently under someone else's hand."

  "A puppeteer," Terence concluded. "We are both interested on who's pulling the string."

  Terence leaned forward, placing his jerky bag down to signal the start of the serious conversation. "Let me tell you about this city's history. Ten years ago, the Empire was merely a conquering kingdom. Expansion is costly. Hence, they invited sponsors—the noblemen."

  "In return, they reap the rewards: Youth? Immortality?" Craft finished, his undefined face utterly impassive.

  "Yes. Hence the rituals. Chaotic Dark Energy—CDE. The nobles are nothing but funders. The city is built by blood, and they got their dues. But their uses now are finished. They are liabilities." Terence leaned in. "You did the Empire a favor. Getting rid of them is a perfectly acceptable outcome. The Empire can sequester their properties and clean up the 'corruption' you exposed. I don't think you planned that, but you took part in it somehow, unknowingly or not."

  Terence looked out at the glowing city. "So, Mr. Craft, what do you think of the Empire? More specifically, this city?"

  Craft took a long moment, studying the panoramic view. "I like it here. The system is good. The people are well taken care of. The technology is advanced, way too advanced for this world. Very systematic. It is, in a way, perfect."

  Craft paused, his eyes narrowing faintly beneath the bandages. "You won't find any empire like this; it's way too advanced for its time. If not for the rituals and demons and humans being used as livestock, I would say, this Empire is perfect. I would protect it with my whole being if it was."

  A deafening explosive roar ripped through the air, causing the scaffolding to momentarily shudder. It was followed by the sound of metal screaming—the result of the Skull vs. Hunters engagement.

  Terence took a piece of jerky. "They are starting to use the heavy toys. It seems Skull is not quite the invincible subject you believe."

  "Patience, Commander," Craft replied, entirely serene. "The show has just begun. I accept this truce to observe the fallout."

  They settled in their chairs, two cold, calculating figures watching the dual wars they had orchestrated, the glow of the digital feeds illuminating the Analyst's analytical gaze and the Planner's bandaged face.