Make myself... die in front of her? The thought cut cold, like a shard of ice under the ribs.

Are you kidding me—her voice sparked like flint, a sharp flare in the dark.

She barked back like anyone would, yet doubt bloomed inside her like frost flowers creeping over glass.

She knew she had no choice, the way a trapped bird knows the net holds tight.

You can keep dodging, keep running, until No. 31’s brain turns to pulp under the backlash—Toka’s words rolled like distant thunder, smooth and cruel.

Such precious material shouldn’t be wasted; as doctors, we both know you’ll choose right—his tone drifted in like smoke, sweet and choking.

A boom spilled through the array behind him, a blast like a storm breaking against stone.

Only held her for that short a time—what a monster—his praise glinted like a hunter’s blade in moonlight.

Footsteps faded like receding tide, each tap peeling away hope grain by grain.

Wait—her cry snapped like a bowstring, thin and urgent.

Toka didn’t stop; his voice left one neat cut, like a knife through silk, before silence swallowed the array. Seems I need to greet my guest—farewell, Miss Hazel.

Hazel’s fingertips went numb, the warmth draining like sand through glass as despair spread like black water through her chest.

She knew that tone—absolute control, the calm of a judge passing sentence like a winter sky without a sun.

It pulled her back to that birthday night, memory uncoiling like a long, cold serpent in the dark.

She’d waited for the silver-haired girl, then slipped through the secret alley like a shadow, clutching a tiny wooden carving warm as a heartbeat.

She wanted to ask what had happened, wanted to give that little carving with her own hands—small hopes held like a lantern in rain.

But blood-scent met her like iron in the mouth, and a cold line fell like sleet: This one failed too; recycle the body later.

Hiding in the duct, she saw the girl’s small hand hang limp, pale as paper, the heavy shackles undone like fallen anchors.

White-coat demons ringed the bed like vultures, talking cleanup and reports as if the child were a mouse pinned under glass.

Hazel covered her mouth, pressing back cries like a dam against floodwater, unsure if silence was salvation or a noose.

The report left with the white coats, and by the time she ran to the restraint bed, breathing had slipped away like a candle in wind.

She called the girl’s name, shook that tiny hand crusted in half-dry blood, begging for a twitch like a leaf in breeze.

No answer came, only a stillness heavy as wet earth.

So she hoisted the girl, bones and hope trembling, and crawled the vent like a tunnel toward dawn.

Maybe someone could save her; maybe her father could move mountains—an eight-year-old shouldering a body like a sparrow dragging a fallen star.

Her knees and forearms skinned and bloody, she clawed through darkness while footsteps of white coats chased like wolves.

Still, she reached the surface, panting clouds into night air, eyes raw and bright like cut gems.

Her father waited at the exit, a statue of justice in her heart, gleaming like a lighthouse she’d longed for.

She cried for help, expecting warmth like a hearth, and met only cold magic like hail.

Her father’s ice swept the girl from her back, and Hazel could only watch the body arc like a pale moon and drop into the canal.

River water washed the blood like rain scrubbing a scar, and those white limbs drifted with the current like lilies slipping away.

Hope, justice, her father—he spoke flat as granite: Today, no one saw anything they weren’t supposed to see.

That line sealed the night like wax on a black envelope, a command laid over all like snow.

The high one’s verdict stood like a wall; no one could push through, not even the demons in white.

Exposure would doom them, and their choices shrank to silence or a grave—two roads, one a cliff under fog.

They always give you two roads, yet one leads only to death and losing everything—choice a mirage shimmering over a pit.

The road of reason was the only road; the white coats had nowhere else to walk, their feet bound like yoked oxen.

Just like now—Toka’s “deal” pressed Hazel like a blade on the throat, and choice vanished like breath in winter.

Between her and Skela, only one could step back into the light like a survivor from a storm.

A red flash sliced across her sight like a comet, then came a wet crack like ice breaking on a river.

In Adelaide’s hands, the blood-bright chain-blade cinched with a click, folding into its long-sword form like a serpent straightening.

The door tore like paper and streamed into iron confetti, glittering like gray sleet in the air.

Behind it lay a clean room, marble tiles gleaming like still water, a hush laid smooth over stone.

Glass jars sat in the corners like dim lanterns holding specimens, and compact cabinets filled every gap like careful bricks.

Each slot held just enough files, tight and tidy like a grid drawn with a ruler—satisfaction sharp as a bell for any obsessive heart.

Anatomy charts hung on tile like flayed wings, their presence smudging the calm like charcoal on snow.

Aside from that, it fit Adelaide’s taste—the research darkroom she kept for Blood Magic was just as ordered, neat as a temple.

Out of respect for this love of order, she lifted her gaze to the man and released her sound-mimicry like a veil slipping off.

Mr. Toka, seeing you wasn’t easy—her glove tugged with a soft snap, and her eyes held a warm tease like candlelight.

I only wanted to meet my savior and thank him face to face—simple words offered like tea on a quiet morning.

Toka laughed, hearing his maze and hundreds of Blood Puppets brushed aside by “not easy,” a chuckle sharp as a scalpel.

He looked good—lean face with clean angles, a single-lens frame hooking his left ear like a silver fish, muscle lines shadowing under the coat like woven steel.

Thick black hair gave him a not-quite-thirty gloss, youthful as new ink on paper.

But he’d operated on Skela; he had to be fifty at least, his vitality held together like a clock with hidden gears.

Sorry for the poor reception, he said, voice smooth as glass. Miss Hazel and I have experiments to discuss, so I let you wait below; forgive the delay.

He turned to a curtain across the room, eyes settling like stones into a riverbed.

A fine array spun on the cloth like spider-silk sigils, its center rippling colors and lines like oil on water.

The resolution was muddy, yet Adelaide still made out Skela and Hazel, figures clashing like birds mid-flight.

They were fighting, a truth stamped in motion like a crest in wax—and this was the man’s design.

Time to end him quick—she stepped forward, smile bright as lacquer, words gliding like a blade in velvet. Didn’t think you’d be so interested in them, Mr. Toka.

Of course, he said, eyes fixed on the curtain, hunger shining like a fox at the coop. The container failed, but she’s still a key medium.

Such precious material—no number of trials is ever enough—his certainty lay thick as tar.

Medium—the word pricked Adelaide like a thorn, her brow twitching and smoothing again like silk drawn tight.

An experiment, is it? Yet you didn’t tell your colleagues—her fingers combed her hair, trailing a faint line of magic like perfume in air.

If they work here, they’re the Empire’s finest; you unleashed Blood Puppets without evacuation—doesn’t that sting like grit in your eye?

Toka traced a triangle at his chest, the god’s sign sketched like a brand in air.

Of course I feel for them, for every one—his tone glowed like candle wax, soft and devout. As children of science, becoming part of the experiment is our greatest pride, our sweetest end.

Oh? Sounds more like “them” than “you,” Adelaide said, a smile like frost. You’re still standing here, aren’t you?

He showed no shame, only finished his prayer, hands falling like quiet leaves.

In his palm, Adelaide saw a bronze syringe, dull metal gleaming like dusk on a blade.

I live and breathe to sacrifice to a higher science—his gaze worshiped the needle like a zealot kissing a relic.

Adelaide let her smile fade, the shift as faint as shadow over water; the metal couldn’t mask the payload, purple light bleeding through like twilight.

I want to see if years of work can push me past the legend—his voice rose like a drumbeat. The Blood Magic prodigy blessed by the Sacrifice Domain, our strongest yet most unstable medium—Miss Adelaide.

His last words struck like a gong, and Adelaide’s heart sparked alarm like lightning under the skin.

Whatever he planned, she couldn’t let it land—red sigils lit her fingers like fireflies, a blood-red spike shooting like an arrow for the syringe.

Glass jars exploded in chorus, shards and brine flying like storm spray, and black tentacled flesh surged into the spike’s path like a hungry tide.

The spike shredded the mass in a blink, wet rips squelching like boots in mire, the room stinking like a butcher’s trough.

Ripped chunks budded into more tendrils, growth unspooling like vines, layer on layer strangling in until her magic ground to dust like chalk.

In that breath, Toka lifted the syringe to his neck, calm as a priest raising a chalice.

He drove the needle into his artery, a puncture sharp as a thorn sinking into bark.

Dark green veins erupted along his throat like creeping ivy, swelling and writhing.

A raw growl dragged from his chest like a chain, and in half a second his eyes washed white like milk flooding ink.

His single-lens frame dropped and shattered, glass splinters ringing like chimes on stone.

A thin, metallic purple film oozed from every pore like oil, spreading to sheath his body like lacquer.

Along his hands, the coating hardened into blade edges, glinting like predator fins in deep water.

Ha... you’ve got to be kidding me—Adelaide’s laugh curled bitter as smoke, a fragile smile ghosting over shock.