(Add to library, please—before Ethan regrets making eye contact.)
Soren Wolfe leaned against the cold cabin window, the reinforced polyglass seeping chill through his armored jacket.
One gloved finger tapped in encrypted coordinates on the tactical terminal embedded in his wrist.
Destination: Southport, Westlake Province.Just beyond the jade-green rainforest lay the largest underground Spiritstone market in the Federation.
"Ezekiel Grimm..." he muttered, voice sharp as blade-ice.
The holoscreen expanded.Classified PSB Footage flickered into view:An elderly man. Rail-thin. Still.Surrounded by corpses.He hadn't moved.Hadn't spoken.And yet—twelve Espers had killed each other beneath his gaze.
[Psionic Class: Fear Domain][Survivor Rate: 0%]
Soren's own reflection hovered in the curved cabin glass—gilded irises hidden by matte-black contacts, silver hair dyed inky dark, bone structure refined down to nanometric tolerances.
Even his most loyal Judicator wouldn't recognize him.
At his collar, the faint shimmer of the ice-flame insignia caught low light—a silent declaration:
This would be his final mission under Frostbrand Division.
"Mr. Wolfe," came the steward's voice. "ETA: One hour. Local time: 07:00."
Soren closed his eyes.
And in that single manufactured heartbeat of darkness—
—reality shattered.
Fire. Screams. Metal ripping apart.The plane detonating mid-air.Everyone onboard vaporized in a flash.
He jolted awake.
"Avery!"
The name tore through the mall like a gunshot, shattering luxury stillness as it echoed off storefronts lined with digital gold.
Because of course. Peace was never part of her story.
Avery's heart spasmed. Violently.Not hers—an echo hardwired deep in the original host's neural pathways.
She turned.
Just steps away, a couple stood frozen in mid-stride.The man—tall, broad, disturbingly handsome—was staring like she'd just rewritten his entire script.Beside him, a porcelain-faced girl blinked in confusion.
"Avery... you cut your hair?" The girl's voice was tentative."I almost didn't recognize you!"
Avery pressed a hand to her chest.
An ache exploded under her palm. Not her pain. Not now.But once, it had been real. Very real.
[HUD Diagnostic: Pain Receptor Activation – Source: Archived Memory]
Her internal processor lit up.
Memory fragments flooded in like a cold surge:
—A mother's keepsake, ripped to shreds.—Hair gripped tight, body dragged across marble floors.—A birthday cake smashed into her face.Ethan Drake's voice echoing:"You think you're even in Chloe's league?"
Pain = memory.Memory = relevance.Relevance = progress.
Avery's vision cleared. Her mind snapped into focus.
Progress bar unlocked.
Ethan Drake's jaw ticked when she didn't flinch.Didn't recoil.Didn't even blink.
She stood tall.Bangs swept aside. Features clean, precise.That subtle dimple in her right cheek—effortlessly sweet—now weaponized.
Her eyes locked onto his—steady as a sniper's scope.Behind her expression, something shimmered faintly in the mall's polished light.
Something… off.
Something inhuman.
There was no fear.No longing.
Just amusement.And—maybe—a flicker of predatory joy.
And suddenly, for no rational reason, Ethan Drake felt a chill crawl up his spine.