Chapter 1-Target: Iris Blackwell

To the public, the majority of deaths appear to be caused by freak accidents or inexplicable acts of human aggression. However, beneath the surface lies a darker truth—most human deaths are orchestrated by the supernatural. This hidden aspect of the world remains carefully concealed from the general public, a veil drawn over the horrifying reality that monsters walk among them.

Creatures of the night take human forms, relishing in torment and carnage. Alien parasites infiltrate bodies, stealing them to perpetuate their existence. Angels, far from the benevolent figures of legend, murmur sinister words into the hearts of their victims, driving them into madness. And then there are humans with supernatural abilities—the Awakened—gifted, cursed, and feared. These beings create chaos in the shadows, and at the heart of this battle stands A.E.G.I.S.

A.E.G.I.S., the covert government agency tasked with managing and hunting the supernatural, serves as humanity’s last line of defense. Their mandate is twofold, to contain these threats and to ensure their existence remains hidden from the world.

In the quiet countryside town of Applecrest, two A.E.G.I.S. agents embark on their latest mission. Applecrest, a seemingly peaceful town with its rolling hills and quaint charm, hides a secret that will turn tranquility into turmoil when night falls. A dangerous battle looms, one that could shatter the town’s facade forever.

“Hey, Markus, why are we here again? Last time I checked, No more Awakened were left on this year’s list,” Wallace asked, his tone tinged with annoyance.

Wallace stood slightly shorter than average, his blonde hair an unruly tangle above tired blue eyes shadowed by deep bags. His pale complexion hinted at a life spent mostly indoors. Black, square-framed glasses perched precariously on his nose, and a lab coat hung loosely over his clothes, adding to his perpetually disheveled appearance. He seemed perpetually on the verge of nodding off, yet his demeanor carried a sharpness that betrayed his intelligence. A white glove adorned his right hand, a subtle yet curious detail.

“The Bookkeeper sent us here with a last-minute addition to the list,” Markus replied, his voice steady and authoritative. “It’s a top priority. So urgent, in fact, that out of everyone, we were chosen to handle it.”

Markus was the polar opposite of Wallace. Significantly taller, he carried himself with unwavering confidence. His slicked-back brown hair framed a face marked by a scar across the bridge of his nose, giving him an air of rugged determination. His blue eyes were sharp, brimming with energy and focus. His caramel-toned skin contrasted strikingly with the black snake tattoo coiled around his neck, its head peeking out from under the collar of his black suit. A red tie added a splash of color to his otherwise dark attire. Like Wallace, he wore a glove—black and equally mysterious, on his right hand.

“So, who’s the target?” Wallace asked, breaking the uneasy silence.

“Iris Blackwell. She’s about eleven years old,” Markus replied, his voice steady but tinged with a trace of unease. “The Bookkeeper didn’t specify her ability, but he hinted it’s something extraordinary. I suspect it’s an Authority.”

Wallace raised an eyebrow. “Like yours? Authority-type abilities are supposed to be rare, yet this is the second one we’ve encountered this year. Let’s just hope she doesn’t try to kill us like the last one did,” he said with a sigh.

Markus’s jaw tightened. “This whole mission feels off. The Bookkeeper wouldn’t share any real details, claiming it was too confidential. But he seemed …too shaken. I’ve never seen that bastard show even a flicker of fear before. And there’s a time limit—eight o’clock.” His expression darkened as he spoke the final words.

Wallace’s frown deepened. “What happens at eight?” he asked, his voice tinged with hesitation.

Markus looked him in the eye. “She’s going to die. If we don’t find her by then, she’ll be burned alive. That’s what the Bookkeeper told me.”

Wallace pulled out his phone, his fingers moving quickly to check the time. “It’s already four o’clock. Damn it, this isn’t enough time,” he muttered, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

“The Bookkeeper always calculates these things perfectly,” Markus said, his tone resolute. “He’s never wrong. Once her family is… eliminated, we’ll bring the girl back to A.E.G.I.S. Those were his instructions, same as always.” His fist clenched at the memory of the man’s cold directives.

Wallace exhaled sharply, forcing himself to focus. “I get it. Let’s move, brother. We have work to do. Codename: Saint, initiating the mission,” he said, typing the message into his phone.

“Codename: Reaper, commencing retrieval operation,” Markus echoed. His voice carried a weight of conviction as he adjusted his glove. “As two of A.E.G.I.S.’s best, we won’t fail.”

“So, who’s the target?” Wallace asked, breaking the uneasy silence.

“Iris Blackwell. She’s about eleven years old,” Markus replied, his voice steady but tinged with a trace of unease. “The Bookkeeper didn’t specify her ability, but he hinted it’s something extraordinary. I suspect it’s an Authority.”

Wallace raised an eyebrow. “Like yours? Authority-type abilities are supposed to be rare, yet this is the second one we’ve encountered this year. Let’s just hope she doesn’t try to kill us like the last one did,” he said with a sigh.

Markus’s jaw tightened. “This whole mission feels off. The Bookkeeper wouldn’t share any real details, claiming it was too confidential. But he seemed… shaken. I’ve never seen that bastard show even a flicker of fear before. And there’s a time limit—eight o’clock.” His expression darkened as he spoke the final words.

Wallace’s frown deepened. “What happens at eight?” he asked, his voice tinged with hesitation.

Markus looked him in the eye. “She’s going to die. If we don’t find her by then, she’ll be burned alive. That’s what the Bookkeeper told me.”

Wallace pulled out his phone, his fingers moving quickly to check the time. “It’s already four o’clock. Damn it, this isn’t enough time,” he muttered, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

“The Bookkeeper always calculates these things perfectly,” Markus said, his tone resolute. “He’s never wrong. Once her family is… eliminated, we’ll bring the girl back to A.E.G.I.S. Those were his instructions, same as always.” His fist clenched at the memory of the man’s cold directives.

Wallace exhaled sharply, forcing himself to focus. “I get it. Let’s move, brother. We have work to do. Codename: Saint, initiating the mission,” he said, typing the message into his phone.

“Codename: Reaper, commencing retrieval operation,” Markus echoed. His voice carried a weight of conviction as he adjusted his glove. “As two of A.E.G.I.S.’s best, we won’t fail.”

Together, they stepped into the growing darkness, the quiet town of Applecrest their battleground. Time was their enemy, and failure was not an option.

“That bastard did mention one other thing, go birdwatching,” Markus said as they moved down the street.

“Birdwatching? He made it cryptic on purpose so he wouldn’t have to charge for that information,” Wallace muttered, irritation lacing his voice. “Odds are he’s talking about our enemies—individuals with bird-themed codenames.”

Markus sighed. “So, have you figured it out? You know I’m no good at these riddles.”

Wallace adjusted his glasses, his sharp mind already piecing it together. “Our enemy is Noir. I can’t think of any other organization hostile to us that also has so many bird-themed codenames, the Dove, the Phoenix, the Finch, the Crow, the Mockingbird, and the Hummingbird. Odds are a few of their elites are here.”

Markus nodded, a grim smile tugging at his lips. “You’re a genius as always, brother. I knew I could count on you. I have no idea what they want with her, but if they’re involved, we definitely should’ve brought more allies.”

Wallace smirked faintly. “You’re supposed to be A.E.G.I.S.’s strongest soldier, the unkillable Reaper. There isn’t an Awakened alive on your level. The man with the Authority of Space,” he quipped, sarcasm thick in his tone.

“Yeah, yeah, stop with the jokes, dumbass. Let’s get moving. We don’t have much time,” Markus shot back, rolling his eyes.

The banter faded as the gravity of their mission settled over them. The clock was ticking, and the shadows of Applecrest seemed to grow darker with each passing moment. Somewhere out there, their enemies were watching—waiting. And so were they.

Meanwhile, over in a dilapidated clock tower at the edge of town, three individuals had made it their base of operations. The clock tower had been abandoned for years, its structure teetering on the verge of collapse, but its height provided a perfect vantage point over the entire town. Inside, a small room had been transformed into a makeshift command center. Tables and chairs cluttered the space, and a whiteboard scrawled with haphazard notes and maps detailed their plan. A rusted clock on the wall ticked ominously, its hands frozen at 4:42. In three hours and eighteen minutes, Iris would die.

The silence of the room was broken as a woman with silver hair, braided into twin tails, burst through the door. Her green eyes glimmered with urgency, and her blue dress swayed with each hurried step. White gloves adorned her hands, completing an elegant yet battle-ready look. Her codename was The Finch.

“Sir, I have bad news. Our scouts watching the town reported two members of A.E.G.I.S. are in the area, likely after the same target as us,” Lucia said, her voice trembling with worry.

“Did they identify who?” Nikolai asked, his tone cold and calculating.

Nikolai stood at average height, his presence anything but ordinary. His hair, a striking mix of black and white, framed lime-green eyes that seemed to pierce through the dim light. A faint but jagged X-shaped scar marred his forehead. He wore a sharp black suit, and a silver locket glinted against his chest. His codename was The Dove—leader of Noir.

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Lucia hesitated, nervousness written across her face. “O-our scouts identified them as the R-Reaper and the Saint,” she stammered.

Nikolai’s expression flickered—a brief moment of horror quickly masked by cold resolve. Across the room, Scarlet’s lips curved into a delighted smile.

Scarlet, shorter than Nikolai but no less striking, had crimson hair braided neatly down her back. Her calm red eyes shimmered with amusement, and her red dress, adorned with an intricate floral pattern, seemed almost too beautiful for the grim setting. A bird tattoo stretched across her exposed back, a stark contrast to the white lace gloves on her hands.

“Ooh, the Valentine brothers are here,” Scarlet purred, her tone playful. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen those two. Especially Marky. I’m looking forward to seeing him again.”

Nikolai’s jaw tightened. “The Reaper is mine. You’re not strong enough to handle him. Your job is to kill the girl and then deal with the Saint,” he ordered, his voice cutting through her flirtation.

“So rude,” Scarlet teased, sticking her tongue out. “You lost to him the last time you fought. What makes you think tonight will be any different?”

Nikolai’s hand drifted almost unconsciously to the raised scar that cut across his forehead. The overhead lamps of the old clock tower threw harsh shadows across his features, accentuating the dangerous gleam in his eyes. His voice dropped to a low, lethal hiss. “I’m stronger now. This time will be different. This time…he dies.”

A draft rustled through the hollow interior of the tower, causing the rusted gears and ancient chains to rattle like bones. Scarlet, perched on a crooked windowsill, only laughed. Her tone was light, almost playful, but there was a razor’s edge to her amusement. “Well then,” she purred, crossing her legs, “I’ll just have to clean up the mess when you fail. Again.”

Behind them, Lucia fidgeted. She glanced at Scarlet, then at Nikolai. Her voice came out soft, tinged with apprehension. “Sir, what would you like me to do?”

Nikolai turned, offering her a thin smile. “Stay back and provide support. Your sole mission is to stay alive and evacuate us if everything goes wrong. Order our agents to attack the Valentine brothers. We need a few to remain on standby for the main operation, but send a squad to wear them down, and reduce their stamina.”

She bowed her head, relief, and fear clashing in her expression. “Yes, sir. I’ll send the message immediately.”

Nikolai merely nodded, returning his attention to the sketches laid out on a rickety table by the far wall. The diagrams and annotations mapped out infiltration routes, vantage points, and places to dispose of potential witnesses. He traced a finger over an old photograph, eyes distant, as if lost in wicked contemplation.

At that moment, a loud crash from below shattered the tense air. The group looked up in unison as the battered door to the clock tower opened and slammed shut again. Moments later, a drunken man staggered into view, leaning heavily on a woman who seemed barely coherent herself. The stench of cheap booze clung to them like stale sweat, and their clothes were rumpled, stained with spilled drinks and who knew what else.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t know anyone else would be here,” the man slurred, wobbling on unsteady feet. “Could you please—uh—leave, my girlfriend here really wanted to see the top of the tower.”

A flicker of annoyance passed over Nikolai’s face. He stepped forward, hand poised in front of him, as if warding off an invisible presence. “Under the Authority of Error,” Nikolai intoned, “I command you to die.”

The drunkard’s face contorted in confusion. “What the hell are you talking about, you jack—” His insult died on his lips as scarlet droplets started leaking from his nose. Confusion shifted to panic when the air around his head wavered, bending like heat haze, causing his features to melt and twist.

A guttural shriek tore from the man’s throat as his eyes rolled backward, blood trickling from them in macabre rivulets. He collapsed in an unnatural heap, his limbs tangling at odd angles. His face, once coarse and brash, was now unrecognizable—a grotesque smear of misshapen flesh and gore.

The woman, her own intoxication seemingly burned away by raw terror, let out a piercing scream. She took off running down the stairs, stumbling as she went. Nikolai flicked his hand, and a slender knife hovered in midair before whistling through the gloom. It found its mark in her leg, the blade burying itself to the hilt. She cried out, toppling forward. A sickening crunch echoed through the tower as her neck snapped against the cold stone steps, and her body slid to a limp stop.

Lucia stifled a gasp, covering her mouth with trembling fingers. Scarlet, by contrast, stood and casually brushed a speck of ash from her coat, her eyes reflecting an unsettling curiosity rather than horror.

“Scarlet,” Nikolai said, his voice calm and steady despite the surrounding carnage. “Burn the bodies. Leave no trace.”

Flames licked to life around Scarlet’s hands, dancing between her fingertips. She gestured, and the corpses lifted from the ground as though pulled by invisible cords. Fire consumed them slowly, starting at the edges of their clothes and creeping inward until the skin blackened and bubbled. Within moments, there was nothing left but ashes and calcified bone fragments clattering to the floor.

A wave of heat rippled through the chamber, brushing against everyone’s faces. Nikolai’s dark eyes glinted with satisfaction.

“As I said,” he murmured, “now that I possess an Authority-type ability, I am unstoppable. Tell me, Scarlet, with both that power and the Artifacts we’ve secured, do you truly believe that chained dog can defeat me?”

Scarlet let the dying embers flicker out, lowering her hands. Despite her nonchalance, a hint of awe shadowed her features as she gazed at Nikolai. “No, sir. I guess there’s a reason A.E.G.I.S. declared you the second highest on their priority kill list.”

Nikolai’s lips curled into a sneer. “It’s still bullshit that damned priest is ranked higher than me. I’m going to change that tonight.” He flicked his gaze to Lucia. “Let’s move. We have a mission to complete.”

He brushed past the remains without so much as a second glance, the echoes of his boots on the ancient stone floor mingling with the hiss of smoldering ash. Lucia swallowed hard, following him with hesitant steps, while Scarlet trailed behind, her grin never fading.

High above them, the ancient gears of the clock tower turned with agonizing slowness, each metallic groan seeming to herald the dark violence yet to come.

As the two brothers continued their search through the quiet streets of Applecrest, the urgency of their mission loomed like a thundercloud. The gentle glow of streetlamps and the soft chatter of townsfolk belied the peril creeping ever closer. Time was running out, and the peaceful facade of this quaint town would soon be shattered. Powerful forces were converging on a single, unsuspecting child named Iris Blackwell—a child whose role in events was far greater than she could possibly imagine.

Inside a cozy, two-story home, Iris sat in her bedroom, curled up on the window seat with a favorite book in her hands. The late afternoon light filtered through lace curtains, painting the walls in warm shades of gold. A large clock perched on her nightstand quietly ticked away the seconds. Its face read 5:57.

In just two hours and three minutes, Iris would die.

“Iris, honey, come downstairs for dinner,” her mother called, voice echoing from the kitchen.

Iris slid a butterfly-shaped bookmark between the well-worn pages, taking a moment to admire it. Its glittering wings caught the light before she set the book aside. As she left the room, the ornate butterfly bookmark seemed to flutter, a soft shimmer hinting at unseen power.

In a hidden library, tucked somewhere well outside the cozy warmth of Applecrest, a lone figure sat at an expansive wooden table. The room was a maze of towering shelves filled with weathered tomes, their spines marked by strange symbols. A hush lay over the space, broken only by the crackle of a fire in the hearth and the man’s ragged breathing.

He was of average height, with pale skin and immaculate white hair. A small mole below his right eye offered an oddly endearing contrast to the brilliance of his golden irises. Behind a pair of black circular glasses, those eyes flickered with both determination and panic. He wore a tailored black suit with a bright yellow tie, and a butterfly-shaped brooch glinted at his lapel. White gloves completed his meticulous ensemble, making him look more like a curator of a museum than a man who held sway over destiny itself.

This was the Bookkeeper, and before him lay a massive, leather-bound tome whose pages wrote themselves in real-time. Each line described the unfolding events in Applecrest. He watched the words form, detailing Iris’s every moment, and the gathering storm that threatened her life.

“It seems this chapter is reaching its climax,” he muttered, scanning the lines as they appeared. “I hope those two can save her. It should be fine, after all, that man is there as well…”

But even as he spoke, his hand shook. Every possible scenario where something could go wrong assaulted his mind, swirling like a tempest behind his eyes.

“Damn it, damn it, I can’t take the stress!” His voice cracked. “I should have given them an extra artifact or two. The burden it would have cost me wouldn’t have mattered—anything to keep her safe. I can’t let her die, no matter what!”

He slammed his fist onto the table, rattling a stack of papers. “Damn restrictions! I can’t even see her future clearly…”

The Bookkeeper kicked a nearby chair in frustration, sending it toppling over with a sharp crash. He paced back and forth, wild-eyed and frantic, occasionally hurling loose trinkets into the wall. Yet even in his fury, he never touched the shelves of books—those were sacred. Eventually, his anger deflated into despair. Sinking to the floor, he clutched the self-writing tome to his chest.

“Please save her… I’m begging you to save her… this time, please.” Tears trembled on his cheeks as he spoke in a hoarse whisper, his entire being consumed by worry.

Meanwhile, in the cozy dining room of the Blackwell home, Iris joined her parents at the table. A soft lamp cast a gentle glow on the well-worn wood. The delicious aroma of home cooking filled the air, pork chops, mashed potatoes, broccoli, and fresh apple slices—a simple meal that carried a warmth money could not buy.

Iris’s mother, Sarah, had pink hair tied in a loose bun and sparkling green eyes. She smiled warmly as she set a plate before her daughter. “Honey, you have to eat your vegetables, alright?”

Iris scrunched her nose and peered down at the broccoli warily. “But Mom, they’re yucky…”

Sarah sighed, turning to Iris’s stepfather, a large, muscular man with fiery red hair and kind orange eyes. “Maybe if you ate yours, it would set a good example,” she teased, narrowing her gaze at her husband, who was quietly pushing his own greens away.

“But Sarah, they’re yucky,” he echoed Iris, pouting playfully.

Both mother and daughter giggled, their brief shared laughter filling the home with a moment of pure, unguarded affection. Unaware of the danger silently bearing down upon them, they continued with their comfortable banter, the minutes on the clock ticking toward catastrophe.

High above the tranquil streets, on the sloping rooftop of a neighboring building, a lone figure stood watch over the Blackwell household. He wore a stark white mask—emotionless, like porcelain. A black cloak rippled around him in the evening breeze, but faint strands of his long white hair escaped the hood, glinting silver under the dimming sky. White roses and winding vines adorned the cloak and the crown perched atop his head, giving him an eerie, regal aspect in the fading light.

He was not alone on that rooftop, behind him lay twelve masked corpses. Each had been efficiently dispatched, a single knife embedded in every chest, its pommel shaped like a pristine white rose. Blood glistened in the light, painting the roof tiles with violent strokes of red.

“Oh, Nikolai,” the masked man mused, tilting his head as though disappointed. “You really should have brought more useful soldiers with you. Overconfidence was always your greatest flaw.”

Checking his pocket watch, a small piece of silver that gleamed with an otherworldly aura—he noted the time: 7:00 PM.

“In one hour, those bastards will make their attack,” he continued, voice low and edged with anger. “I won’t let them kill the key this time. Not again.”

He snapped the pocket watch shut with a decisive click. Below, the lights in the Blackwell household shone like a beacon of fragile hope in the growing dark. For a moment, the masked man’s concealed gaze lingered on the warm scene of a family sharing dinner, utterly ignorant of the danger that stalked them. Then, like a silent guardian or a harbinger of doom, he melted back into the shadows, his presence a watchful sentinel to the fate unfolding in Applecrest.