The raspy voice of the man—Black—brought all activity inside Glosum's Maw to a grinding halt. Glasses that had been clinking moments ago froze in the hands of the executioners. Behind his custom-modified air mask, Black's breathing sounded heavy, measured, and authoritative.
"Hold it right there, newcomer," another voice answered from the shadows of the bar counter. A stout man with a malfunctioning circuit tattoo on his neck attempted to display a shred of courage. "We don't accept greenhorns flaunting combat gear at our tables."
Black did not offer a verbal reply. His hand, encased in a heavily scuffed Second Skin V2 glove, moved with lightning speed.
Sret!
The black dagger at his waist hadn't even been fully drawn, yet the sheer air pressure from his movement was enough to shatter the glass in the stout man's hand. Cheap, harsh alcohol spilled everywhere, but nobody dared to breathe.
"I am not looking for a table," Black hissed, his voice sounding like grinding metal. "I am looking for information. Lord Vier sent a new unit here. A New Unit. Have you seen those little rats?"
The stout man swallowed hard, the circuit on his neck creaking with fear. "N-not yet... but Sector 7 is in an uproar. They say... Colonel Lion himself is taking action."
Hearing the name Lion, Black fell silent. The Lyra glass on his mask flashed a dangerous crimson. "Leo, still hunting for this thing."
Black scanned his surroundings, completely ignoring the dozens of eyes still locked onto his figure. "Come out, Kacuk! I want to strike a deal with you!" Black bellowed, his voice echoing fiercely, rattling the dust from the battered ceiling of the bar.
The bar instantly fell into a suffocating shroud of confusion. The executioners exchanged glances, unable to comprehend who the Ghost of Sector 2—a figure whose mere presence was already a death sentence for ordinary folk—was actually searching for.
"Young man... Ghost of Sector 2..." a voice chimed in. Loud, yet sounding incredibly relaxed, as if the literal embodiment of death standing in the middle of the room was nothing more than casual night entertainment. "Are you looking for the mad mechanic? If you're willing to buy me the most expensive drink in this place, your wish might just come true."
The voice originated from a woman sitting in a dim corner. She offered a faint smile without turning around, her eyes heavy, nearly closed under the influence of the Lethe fluid she was sipping.
Black stepped closer, his heavy combat boots thudding heavily against the wooden floor. He sat down directly across from the woman. Behind the cold Lyra glass, Black tilted his head several times in silence, attempting to read the motive behind her bizarre composure.
The flickering neon light reflected off Black's visor, revealing the reflection of a sweet, pale face in front of him. The woman had a small mole on her chin—a minor detail that abruptly triggered a memory in Black's mind.
"You... look familiar," Black hissed. He turned to the keeper of Glosum's Maw and raised his hand, giving a brief hand gesture.
A moment later, a slender waitress dressed in revealing attire approached with graceful steps. She placed a bottle containing premium-grade Lethe fluid—a drink whose price tag was equivalent to the life of a cadet uptown.
"Drink up," Black spoke flatly, his eyes locking back onto the woman. "Then tell me where that mechanic is hiding before I lose my interest in cooperating."
"Are you in a rush, Black?"
Black's eyes widened. His body reacted instantly—his muscles tensed, ready to draw his blade. The instinctual reflex of a predator realizing he had just stepped into a trap.
"How do you know my name? Who are you?!" Black hissed, his voice dropping lower, laced with pure malice.
The woman merely sipped her Lethe fluid calmly, as though Black's life being on the line was none of her concern. "Meet me later. The forbidden city to the west. There, you will get what you desire."
"Wait, what is that supposed to mean? Are you playing games with me?!" Black gripped the edge of the wooden table until it cracked. His patience was running as thin as a capillary membrane.
"Someone will be coming for you shortly. They have already entered The Abyss Glosum," the woman set down her empty glass, her voice turning abruptly serious, devoid of any drunken slurs. "Do you wish to be slaughtered here?"
"Who is it?!" Black rose slightly from his seat, staring intensely into the shadows of the mysterious woman's face, searching for a shred of honesty in her eyes.
"Hahaha... you will regret it if you don't leave this place immediately!" The woman stood up, straightening her slightly disheveled clothes. "Thanks for the drink. I'll be waiting for you there, handsome boy."
The woman's footsteps faded away, vanishing into the plumes of cigarette smoke and the darkness of the bar. The room now left Black standing rigid. His carbon-fiber-wrapped fingers trembled faintly—a physical reaction his body could not deceive.
He knew her words were no empty bluff. For him, if Sector 7 went as far as sending someone down into the depths of the Abyss, it was no longer a simple retrieval mission.
It was a definitive Death Sentence.
He turned around, striding out and leaving the suffocating silence of the bar behind. He knew that if a new Unit was being deployed here, it meant the "heaven" above was finally beginning to crack.
***
The isolation door hissed open slowly, granting passage to the cold air that carried the sharp scent of artificial oxygen. Inside, Reyna's tears could no longer be contained; she collapsed to her knees beside the bed, her trembling fingers brushing against the tips of Amae's pale hand. Each teardrop that fell onto the medical sheet felt like a silent witness to childhood promises that were now threatened to vanish under the tyranny of PETERUMMAN.
Meyra was no different. Her shoulders, usually so rigid and proud, now slumped within Scarlett's embrace. She no longer fought back. Her tears broke silently, letting out only sharp, painful gasps as she gazed at Amae's helpless form. Those tears soaked Scarlett's silver cloak—a heartbreaking contrast between the "holy water" of a friend's devotion and the cold military gear awaiting them. In that room, for a few fleeting seconds, they were not experimental assets; they were just two little girls who desperately wanted their best friend to open her eyes again.
However, the monotonous beep of Amae's heart monitor served as a grim reminder: their time was up.
"Children, calm down. I will not let her be harmed again," Scarlett spoke, her voice forced to sound steady. Yet beneath her gentle gaze, her soul cried out in agony. Vier... how could you ruthlessly turn these innocent lives into shattered pawns.
Scarlett pulled out a vial containing a medical fluid that was a clearer green than her own eyes—the same substance she had used to restore them a while back. With a slightly trembling hand, she injected the compound into Amae's IV line, allowing the medicine to flow slowly to mend the internal ruptures that had nearly claimed the girl's life.
Silence crept back into the room, leaving only the rhythmic pulsing of the monitor. Meyra remained leaned against Scarlett, her swollen eyes staring blankly at the array of tubes attached to Amae's body.
"Nugia..." Meyra called out softly. Her voice was hoarse, entirely stripped of the fire that usually flared up. "What is going to happen to us next?"
Nugia did not answer right away. He stood like a statue in the corner of the room, his shadow stretching long under the dim neon light. In his eyes, the world seemed to stop spinning; he saw a dying Amae, Scarlett hiding behind her silver cloak, and a broken Meyra.
"We will stay together, forever," Nugia replied shortly. His voice no longer sounded like a child's, but rather like an echo from a very distant place. "If we die here, there won't be anyone left to slap Amae's face when she finally wakes up."
Meyra froze, a bitter laugh almost escaping her lips. However, before she could utter a reply, Snake received a transmission that instantly forced them all into a tense, vigilant silence.