XLIV

Atropos let out a quiet sigh as she approached the slouched figure of Bob, the president of the Hunter’s Association. His peaceful face betrayed no sign of the responsibilities he bore.

With care, she tilted his chair back slightly, allowing him to recline more comfortably. She removed the crumpled bag of chips from his hand and set it neatly on the desk, then uprighted the precariously tilted soda can. Finally, she retrieved a blanket from a nearby storage bin, draping it gently over his shoulders.

For a moment, she allowed herself a faint smile.

To think they were close in age, yet he had accomplished so much. He had risen from obscurity to lead an organization that shaped the fate of countless lives. Bob’s relaxed demeanor might fool those who didn’t know him, but Atropos understood the strength and resilience beneath his easygoing exterior.

“Sleeping like a fool… doesn’t he know he might get assassinated anytime soon?” she murmured under her breath, the words tinged with a rare note of affection.

She turned away, her gaze sweeping over the command center. The circular room buzzed with quiet activity, its sterile white light casting a clinical glow over rows of workstations and walls filled with screens. Data streams and mission updates flashed across holographic displays as operators worked with quiet efficiency.

Atropos barely had time to settle at her station when a familiar voice broke through the hum of machinery.

“Well, he is pretty tough. Confidence of the strong, eh?” Maurice’s voice carried a grin, even without looking up from the Gameboy in his hands.

Maurice, the director of security and enforcement, had an effortless charisma that belied his formidable skill. His dark skin glowed under the soft lights, and his wild afro seemed almost to defy the room’s sterility. A lollipop jutted from his mouth, a comically juvenile contrast to his critical role as the Association’s shield.

“Don’t know about that…” Tori muttered, her tone clipped as she sipped her coffee. Her sharp eyes, framed by equally sharp glasses, flicked to Maurice. “We’re in a tight spot. Spies, moles, and the government breathing down our necks. We don’t have room for overconfidence.”

Tori, the director of intelligence and analysis, was Maurice’s opposite in demeanor. Her tailored suit and severe bun projected authority, and the precision with which she flipped through reports mirrored her strategic mind. The stack of documents before her made her workspace resemble a war room rather than a desk.

“Always the optimist, Tori,” Maurice quipped, his grin widening.

Atropos’s gaze shifted to Dr. Yamada, seated nearby with a risqué magazine spread open on his lap. His messy brown hair and unkempt stubble might have given him an endearing look if not for his blatant disregard for decorum.

“I want a girlfriend, damn it…” Yamada grumbled, flipping a page without a hint of shame.

The groan that followed wasn’t from Tori—it was from Atropos, whose patience had already worn thin. But Tori, unsurprisingly, was the one to act.

With a loud whack, her foot slammed against the table, startling Yamada so badly he nearly dropped his magazine. Her voice was icy as she hissed, “Dr. Yamada, I suggest you behave, or I will personally ensure your castration.”

The silence that followed was profound.

It didn’t last. A loud thud from the far side of the room drew everyone’s attention.

Klein, the director of personnel and recruitment, lay sprawled on the floor, his pale limbs tangled as though he had been unceremoniously dumped there. His perpetually drowsy state and blatant disregard for formalities were as infamous as his disdain for government regulations.

“What… where am I…?” Klein mumbled, his voice thick with sleep as he blinked up at the bright lights.

Maurice laughed, pointing his Gameboy at Klein like a mock weapon. “You fell out of your chair again, man. That’s gotta be a new record.”

Atropos’s gaze lingered on the chaotic scene, a strange sense of comfort blooming within her. These people were far from perfect, but they were her colleagues—an odd, mismatched group who, despite their quirks, formed the backbone of the Hunter’s Association.

And, in a way, they were her family now.

Still, as she glanced back at Bob, snoring softly in his chair, the faintest pang echoed in her chest. Somewhere beneath the layers of conditioning and the cold numbness of her inhibitors, something stirred.

Her brother was back. And with him, the ghosts of a life she had tried so hard to leave behind.

Klein’s pale and albino features illuminated by the flickering lights of the many monitors surrounding him. His stark white hair and moonlit skin made him appear almost spectral, but his attire was anything but ethereal. The bright yellow shirt he wore featured a defiant graphic of a cartoon hand flipping off the government’s flag, a bold statement of his perpetual disdain for authority.

“Ugh… what time is it?” Klein groaned, blinking groggily as he struggled to sit upright.

Maurice, watching from nearby, strolled over with the leisurely grace of a predator. His relaxed stance shifted as he leaned back, then delivered a precise kick to Klein’s face, aura crackling around his leg to amplify the force. The impact sent Klein rolling across the floor, limbs flailing like a ragdoll.

“Go to your room if you’re planning to clock out, dumbass!” Maurice barked, his voice sharp but carrying an undertone of amusement.

Klein bolted upright with a wild expression, his crimson eyes darting around as though he had been jolted awake into an alternate dimension. “YOU CANNOT DISSUADE ME! ALIENS ARE REAL, AND I AM FROM ANOTHER WORLD, YOU SON OF A—Wait…” His voice trailed off as he took in his surroundings, confusion replacing his initial fervor. “What am I doing here?”

Without waiting for an answer, he stretched groggily, staggered toward the elevator, and stepped inside. The doors slid shut behind him, cutting off his mumbled complaints.

From his workstation, Dr. Yamada snickered, tossing his risqué magazine aside with a lazy grin. “Well, I should probably go too. Need to vent some stress… on my blow-up—”

“Oh god, disgusting! You don’t need to say it!” Tori groaned, her voice heavy with exasperation. She pinched the bridge of her nose and visibly shuddered.

Maurice shot Yamada a sharp look, his expression a mix of disgust and authority. “Move on, will you? The chairman needs his sleep. Or do you want to be kicked in the face too?”

Yamada waved a dismissive hand, yawning as he ambled toward the elevator. “Fine, fine. No need to get violent.” With a tired glance back, he disappeared into the elevator, leaving the command center quieter but no less chaotic.

Now, only Atropos, Tori, and Maurice remained in the softly humming room, the dim glow of screens casting long shadows across their faces. Atropos glanced at Bob, still snoring peacefully in his chair, his head tilted awkwardly to one side.

With a wry tilt of her head, she muttered, “Want me to kick the chairman in the face too? Just to even the playing field?”

Maurice’s eyes widened briefly, a flicker of alarm crossing his face. “Uh… probably not a good idea. He is the boss, after all.”

Atropos’s gaze lingered on Bob’s sleeping form, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “You’re right. We should just let him suffer a stiff neck. Maybe he’ll finally learn to go to bed on his own.”

Maurice chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Or maybe I should kick him in the face. Could be therapeutic.”

Tori shook her head, gathering her files with a weary sigh. “You’re both insane. I’m leaving before I catch whatever you two have.” She turned on her heel and strode to the elevator, her heels clicking sharply against the floor.

Maurice yawned but quickly refreshed himself with a surge of aura, shaking off his weariness. He returned to his workstation, his posture relaxed and unhurried as he tapped away at his keyboard.

Atropos surveyed the room. The command center’s walls were lined with screens displaying mission progress, security feeds, and reports from the field. Most of the cubicles were unoccupied by humans, but Atropos’s dolls filled the void. The artificial operatives, humanoid in form but utterly mechanical in function, sat at their designated stations, fingers gliding over keyboards with uncanny precision.

As Director of Operatives, Atropos oversaw a staggering workload. Yet her dolls—extensions of her will—allowed her to maintain control over every aspect of the Association’s operations without faltering. They logged mission data, updated alerts, and ensured the seamless flow of information.

Meanwhile, Maurice, now free from the pretense of work, leaned back in his chair and loaded up a MOBA on his screen. His smirk widened as he queued for a match, his aura subtly pulsing with anticipation.

Atropos cast him a sidelong glance, shaking her head with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. Around them, the command center hummed with the quiet efficiency of her dolls, but the weight of the night still pressed heavily on her shoulders.

Her eyes drifted back to Bob, his peaceful expression a stark contrast to the storm of thoughts swirling in her mind. Somewhere, amidst the chaos of the Hunter’s Association and the fractured world it served, she knew that her brother’s presence would only complicate things further.

And yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling that, for better or worse, the pieces of her past were falling into place.

Atropos leaned back in her chair, the soft glow of multiple screens reflecting off her sharp, calculating eyes. The command center hummed with activity as her dolls, seated at their designated workstations, maintained the meticulous flow of information. But her focus was locked on one particular thread, a red-flagged notification that refused to be ignored.

The "Elsewhere Cult."

The name was new to her—a rarity in her position as Director of Operatives. Atropos prided herself on knowing every major player in the shadows. Yet this anomaly had surfaced like a whisper in the wind, faint but persistent. The deeper she dug into its origins, the more one undeniable connection surfaced: her brother, Reynard.

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she opened a classified dossier tied to his recent activities. Reynard had always been resourceful, but the level of finesse and subtlety displayed here was surprising, even to her. His ability to navigate the shadows had evolved far beyond the boy she once knew.

What the hell has he been up to?

The question burned in her mind, a mix of admiration and irritation tugging at her. She had always known Reynard to be clever, but his aura abilities—hidden for so long—had added a new dimension to his unpredictability. He had outmaneuvered her expectations time and again, and now, as she stared at the threads linking him to the Elsewhere Cult, she couldn’t help but wonder what other talents he had been hiding.

Her thoughts flicked to the stolen doll, a bitter reminder of Reynard’s audacity. Losing one of her creations should have enraged her, but instead, she found herself impressed by the sheer nerve it took to pull off such a feat. She couldn’t decide whether to strangle him for his recklessness or applaud him for his ingenuity.

With a sigh, Atropos activated a new set of camera feeds, zeroing in on a young man: Gerry Mansel. His aristocratic features and confident gait were unmistakable, even through the grainy surveillance footage.

Gerry… You’re still alive?

Her lip curled in disdain. Gerry Mansel was a remnant of old nobility, one of the two assassins sent to kill her brother. That he had survived Reynard’s counterattack was a surprise—and not a pleasant one.

She had considered dealing with him directly. Kidnapping, torture, even a swift execution had all crossed her mind. After all, Gerry had dared to harm her brother. But as she watched him now, a smug confidence radiating from his every movement, she decided against it.

He’s not worth it yet.

Instead, she let a sly smile creep onto her face. Gerry wasn’t an immediate threat, but he could still serve a purpose. She manipulated the brackets for tomorrow’s exam, ensuring that Gerry and Reynard would face each other in the tower.

Let Reynard handle him.

If Reynard succeeded, it would only deepen her curiosity about his true potential. And if he failed? Well, then it would prove what she had suspected all along: the Hunter life was not the right path for him.

Her attention shifted to the tower itself, a marvel of technology and aura that the public knew as the Fighting Tower. To most, it was simply an arena, a place where aspiring Hunters tested their mettle. But Atropos knew its true name: the World Tower.

The tower’s advanced systems were leagues beyond what the public could comprehend. Fail-safes minimized the risk of accidental deaths, but the psychological and physical strain it placed on participants was unmatched. It was the perfect stage for her plan.

Let’s raise the stakes.

Atropos smirked as she finalized the adjustments to the brackets. Reynard’s path would be anything but easy. She made sure to pit him against the toughest opponents the exam had to offer, Gerry included.

The pressure would be immense, but that was the point. Reynard needed to understand the cost of his actions, the danger of the life he had chosen. If he succeeded, it would only make him stronger. But if he faltered?

Then maybe he’ll finally see reason and give up this foolish Hunter life.

Atropos leaned back, her eyes flicking to the screen showing Reynard’s profile. She couldn’t help but feel a pang of unease. For all her careful planning, there was one variable she couldn’t control: Reynard himself.

As the clock ticked closer to the exam, she resolved to watch every moment, every decision. One way or another, Reynard would reveal his true colors. And Atropos would be ready.

~043