Buzzz.
"Welcome back, listeners. If you're just tuning in, we're here with Malady—a lovely nurse in blue, twenty-seven, gentle, caring, and single. And mind you, she was stood up on a home-cooked dinner date not once, not twice, but three times."
"Now, you might be wondering why she kept inviting the guy to dinner instead of changing things up—asking him out, or looking for love somewhere else."
The voice took a breath.
"Here's the kicker. Our dear Malady cut him off once before—cold turkey—as she tried to forget about him. But then she started receiving gifts from the guy I'm talking about. Flowers. Cards saying how much he loved her. Chocolates. Stuffed animals."
"She decided to give him another chance. This time, she tried taking things slow, believing she might have scared him off initially. Did it work? Nope. He ghosted her. Started ditching dates he set up. She tried to confront him, asked if he wasn't interested—but he dodged the question. So here we are, trying to find the truth and answer any questions Malady has."
Pages rustled.
A man shifted in his chair, eyes drifting over a news article about the Starlight Night Club explosion. He yawned and lifted his coffee mug.
"What's wrong with this country…"
Sip. Sip.
"Are you ready to give Ted a call, Malady?" the radio host asked.
"The guy's name was Ted? No wonder he stood her up," a second security guard muttered, listening to the radio with his chair reclined and his hat pulled low over his face.
Inside the toll booth, five security staff were stationed—more than half of them napping despite it being morning. They sat at their desks, tasked with watching surveillance cameras and opening the toll gates for anyone entering the scrapyard.
Vrrmmm… Vroom.
"What brings you here today—" The guard sipping his coffee looked up from his newspaper.
He expected someone dropping off scrap, or trying to buy something.
Instead, his heart dropped.
"Don't move, or I'll pull the pin," Qiren said, holding up a hand grenade. "Same goes for you, hatsy~"
His attention shifted to the startled man reaching for the taser at his waist.
The man froze, half-asleep, fingers twitching.
"So this is what's going to happen," Qiren said, opening the car door with one hand while holding the grenade steady.
Annabeth slid into the driver's seat, her rifle trained on the two guards.
"You're going to open the gate for me and my crew."
"That is—if you value your lives enough not to risk your loved ones being scraped into bits and gore on the walls, just because you wanted to see what an explosive tastes like."
"D–do as he says," the man reaching for his taser stammered, raising his hands.
Even through the safety glass separating them, the jester was close enough to step out and shove the explosive straight into the exchange slot.
They couldn't push his arm out. They couldn't close it. If they tried, he'd pull the pin and throw it.
"Alright," the guard said shakily. "I'm opening it."
Qiren smiled as the gate's gears began to turn.
The junkyard was built like a small compound—three gates in total. The outer gate stayed open during the day, leading to the toll booth.
Now he stood before the standard barrier. It lifted as the spikes beneath sank into the ground. Beyond it, the third gate—just like the first—rolled open to the side.
"Annabeth," he said to his imp.
She lifted her theater mask, smiling. "Boss."
"Close the door and drive into the yard."
She saluted, her earlier mental breakdown gone, took the wheel—and started driving.
Vrrmmm.
"Hey mister, can I get a cherry soda for one?" Missy pulled up behind Annabeth.
She leaned toward the booth, holding up one finger playfully. Her eyes narrowed into crescents of amusement as she watched fear creep across the guards' faces.
Qiren glanced at them. "You heard the lady—cherry soda for one~"
They looked at each other.
"We… don't give out drinks?" the guard nearest the window said uncertainly.
"Hm," Missy hummed. "Okay then, I'll be on my way."
She drove past as, one by one, the carnival imps entered the yard.
They parked near the entrance, stepping out to check their weapons. Missy slipped into the guard station from inside, aiming her gun at those Qiren had held hostage—giving him room to pull his hand from the exchange slot and step into the yard.
The grenade in his hand shifted.
It was nothing more than an empty shell he had created.
Even if he pulled the pin, nothing would happen. It had been forged from the image of a grenade—not its components. He didn't know how to make gunpowder, triggers, or internal mechanisms.
Thus, it was decoration. For now.
It transformed before his eyes.
Sure, he couldn't create an actual explosion with his Phantom Art—but he could make something else. Something that didn't require precise knowledge or compounds.
"You—get me rope and two sacks," he ordered an imp.
Closing his eyes, the grenade's structure widened, unraveling into velvet, cotton, silk, and lace—woven into a purple-and-gold cushion.
He opened his eyes and walked toward the booth entrance. Behind him, two imps carried the requested items.
"Sorry to interrupt your day," Qiren said pleasantly, "but the more you comply, the quicker we'll be out of your hair."
He stopped beside one of the still-napping guards and gently placed the conjured pillow over his face, glancing at the two Missy had forced onto the floor.
He reached for his waist, pressing his revolver against the pillow.
"Tell me how many workers are in the junkyard."
The two guards looked at him—then at each other.
They stayed silent.
"Oh?" Qiren tilted his head. "The silent treatment, huh?"
"I'm curious what you think that'll accomplish."
He pressed the pillow down harder. The man beneath it stirred.
"I'm up…" the guard mumbled groggily, trying to push Qiren's hand away.
Click.
Pew!
The bullet tore through the pillow.
—!
Pew! Pew!
Two more shots followed.
Qiren pulled the blood-soaked cushion back. His hat jingled softly.
"I'm asking again," he said, his voice turning cold. "How many workers are here?"
The imps moved, sacking the remaining guards' heads and binding them to their chairs with rope.
Qiren cocked his gun and placed the pillow over one of the struggling guards.
"What's going on!? Hey—HEY!"
"If you stay quiet," Qiren said calmly, "I'll be forced to bear the sin of taking another of your friends' lives."
The man swallowed hard.
"T–there's… about forty in the yard right now," he said quickly, words tumbling over each other. "Scrappers—uh, sorters—mostly along the south and east piles. They're marking, cutting, color-tagging, and weighing scrap metal."
His eyes flicked to the pillow-covered body, then back to Qiren.
"Equipment operators are spread out. Two crane lifts on the north side—one near the compacted steel stacks, the other by the old rail cars. The car crusher's running on the west end. Loud. You won't hear anything over it."
"Truck drivers?" Qiren asked calmly.
"Three on-site. Two waiting to load, one just came in—he's at the scales. Managers… managers are in admin. Second floor. Glass office. Overlooks the yard."
Silence followed. Thick. Expectant.
Qiren nodded once, as if committing it all to memory.
"Good."
The pillow shifted.
The man beneath it let out a groggy, confused sound—half a yawn, half a question.
Click.
Pew.
The sound was dull, swallowed. The body went still instantly.
For half a second, nothing moved.
Then realization hit the two guards on the floor.
Their faces drained of color.
"No—wait—!" one of them choked. "You said—!"
"Shut it." His words were final. "Missy, go to the monitors and freeze any footage they have access to."
He nodded toward her, gun still trained on them.
She smiled. "On it." Lowering her rifle strap, she strutted to the desk. "Let's see what we're working with."
She began stopping the camera feeds—inside the office first, then the outside ones.
"Now then," Qiren continued, "if you two want to live, listen closely."
He tossed the pillow into the air.
"You see, I just received a rather cryptic message saying I'll need my lifespan to be above a certain threshold."
He kept tossing the pillow, catching it, then throwing it again.
"Meaning I'll need your help one last time to see if I can pull that off."
His hand came down empty.
The fabric didn't return.
The guards stared at his left palm—then slowly looked up, shoulders tensing as they realized that at some point, the person threatening them had become a marionette.
The strings snapped.
The gun fell from his right hand as the arm went limp.
Above him, the cushion hung suspended by the same strings wrapped around his body, fixed to a metal cross brace.
One of the guards fell onto his back.
"You… you!"
He scrambled farther away, words failing him.
The other guard, sweating bullets, grabbed the fallen gun.
"Get back! Get back!" he screamed.
The marionette stepped forward.
Bang!
A flag burst from the barrel instead, the sound written across it.
Snap!
The right leg string broke.
"Get back! I said get back!! I have a taser!!"
He smashed the fire alarm and yanked out the taser, the bulky, gun-like shape shaking in his trembling grip.
Snap!
The left arm string broke.
Missy, seated in the corner, smiled.
I get to witness another act so soon. Lucky me~
Her eyes stayed glued to the guards' blind panic as the older man pulled the trigger, wires crackling with voltage.
They struck the marionette.
Another leg snapped.
It collapsed.
Lifeless.
Step. Step. Step.
But the footsteps didn't belong to it.
Because what they feared wasn't the puppet—
—but what stood behind it.
A figure adorned in black robes.
Bleak cloth riddled with holes both large and small. In its bony hand, it carried something.
A wooden handle stretched taller than its frame, ending in a curved blade of steel hugged by cherub-like jesters—tiny, baby-faced creatures with digital deathplates on their heads:
Y · D · H · S
They flapped black, raven-clad wings.
As they flew closer, contracts in hand, the guards' eyes widened. Their chests felt like they would burst.
"Why? Why—why? Our time hasn't arrived yet! Why have you come for us now!? Death!"
The figure knelt, picking up one of the masks the marionette had dropped. It lifted it, a devilish smirk forming as it placed the mask over its face.
"I have to thank you," the figure said eerily as it stood. "Because of you, I've found my new inspiration."
It severed the taser's cords and walked toward the man who had fired it.
The guard's legs gave out, dropping him to his knees as Death approached, the cold blade of the scythe curling against his neck.
A cherub hovered nearby, contract unfurled.
"I'd like to make a deal."
"You two don't seem to be my targets. Therefore, I'll let you leave—on one condition."
"You give me ninety percent of your remaining time. Control over your memories of this encounter. And a pact to leave your family, your loved ones, and never speak of what transpired here—even after you die."