I thought you’d march in front of the boss looking like that; didn’t expect you had a shred of self-awareness.

The black-haired woman walked ahead of the Doctor, her steps light as silk as they neared the Rouge Rabbit boss’s office, foxfire charm leaking through the seams of her composure.

The Doctor frowned; to him, faces were masks on a stage, and the scene mattered more than the paint.

A woman’s shell can win easy favor like perfume in a crowded hall, but before certain people it’s wiser to bare some truth, and for now the Doctor needed Rouge Rabbit’s power like a boat needs a harbor.

Say less, or my fists won’t hold back, she hissed, a storm tightening behind her eyes before her lips ceased their sway.

She went quiet, stone-cold, remembering when Lin first brought the Doctor to Rouge Rabbit—just a powerless Eye Orb drifting in a jar—and yet he kept catching the boss’s eye like a stray star.

She had been the original Number One, a banner in the wind, so she tried to take the stage back, but the Doctor had already rewritten his body’s script, injecting Azureblood Octopus cells and commanding those damned tentacles like ropes in a storm.

They parted on a draw, the room smelling of brine and iron, two tempests leaving without applause.

She learned then she couldn’t press him down like a lid on boiling water; to topple the Doctor she’d first have to sour the boss’s favor, because without it he was a blade without a hand.

Next, she’d have to outshine him under the house lights, dragging the boss’s gaze to her like a magnet to iron filings.

In the Doctor’s eyes, the woman ahead was nothing but a circus clown, a painted mask prancing on fragile stilts.

He and the Rouge Rabbit boss had a transaction like ink on parchment, and his endgame was set in stone—reviving Aklatia and leaving this burrow like a hawk leaving a nest.

By then, she’d still be the “valued” subordinate, a lamp kept lit in a back corridor.

Besides, he was a man with snow in his veins; there was nothing worth squabbling over with her, no warm-blooded contest for favor he cared to join.

But if she blocked his revival of Aklatia like a boulder in a mountain pass, he’d repay it without hesitation, a clean blade for a clean slight, because he walked by principles like milestones.

She pressed the doorbell set into the Obsidian Stone gate, black glass gleaming like frozen night, her fingertip a spark against the dark.

Unlike Aklatia’s lean halls, Rouge Rabbit had deeper coffers and longer arms, buying Obsidian Stone through underground channels and folding it into the bones of its buildings like ink into paper.

The entire underground city’s walls were laced with Obsidian Stone powder, a grand project that burned time and money like a pyre.

Boss—

Books crowded the room like piled leaves, and a black-haired middle-aged man with streaks of white held his brow, reading the same page like a tide coming back to shore.

At the bell’s chime, he set the book down, rubbed his temples as if smoothing wrinkles from water, and waved the Doctor and the woman inside.

The woman swayed her narrow waist, three steps one ripple, and settled onto the boss’s lap like a silk serpent coiling a branch.

Her soft hands looped his neck like ivy, but the man remained still, stone under moss.

Qing, don’t be presumptuous, the boss said, flicking her off like ash from a sleeve.

Her face flashed with a thin sorrow and a blade of hatred toward the Doctor, then she scurried aside to tidy the books like a sparrow arranging twigs.

You’re back. How did the exchange go? he asked, eyes steady as a lake.

The Doctor pulled out a tablet, cold light reflecting like moon on a pond, showing the trade with the Divine Cult Modification Center.

He provided six vials of gene reagents, and in return received a portion of their cell-healing technology, a script of repair etched in formulas.

On the road he had verified the theory, the healing curve beating both Aklatia and Rouge Rabbit’s current methods like a brighter flame.

But this healing demanded cells like a furnace devours wood; without a strong power source, the staff in that project would turn to meat-scraps within days, a garden left to rot.

An Earth Dragon’s heart could serve as the power core, a drum of thunder beneath the ribs, yet after conversion that savage energy might still fail to feed the burn.

If they combined Aklatia’s cell craft and gene craft, in theory they could keep the healing blaze without consuming the body, and perhaps channel a portion of the Earth Dragon’s might like harnessing a river.

Night Frost was different, a winter child clasping midnight fire; she’d never undergone cell-tech or gene-tech, yet she endured the Black Dragon’s power and, through a Magic Stone, wielded that darkness like a lantern.

Her success was lightning striking a single tree; it’s hard to catch twice.

I’ve heard of the girl you brought back, the boss said, voice low as distant thunder; it’s a miracle case of a Monster heart implanted and beating under human skin.

You’re the first scholar to stitch a Monster’s heart into a human chest, a needle threading storm to flesh, and that’s why I chose you—I need your help.

The Doctor nodded, calm as frost settling on steel; he knew the man wanted another miracle, a second comet across the same sky, but miracles aren’t crops you can plant on schedule.

Back then, that work was only near complete, a bridge almost reaching the far bank.

We’ll begin with Night Frost, he said; success leaves footprints, and she can help us refine the path.

When the Doctor met Night Frost, excitement leapt like sparks; he had replicated an item that mirrored her bracelet by the old method, but the results came out dull, a bell without tone.

Her arrival might push his research in Rouge Rabbit forward another step, a gear finally catching the teeth.

Though Night Frost is a Magic Maiden born from a miracle, if we examine her body like reading a star-map, we may learn how miracles are born, and whether a miracle can be reborn.

You have full authority, the boss said, words sharp as chimes; make it real within three months, the sand is running fast.

The Doctor nodded and ignored the black-haired woman behind the boss, her fingers clawing the air like a cat at a curtain.

He thought a moment, shadow folding behind his eyes, then said, I have a request.

The woman pounced on the gap, whispering behind the boss like a draft through a crack—Look at him, who works for the boss and then makes demands? Boss, he’s too presumptuous.

The boss lifted a hand, a palm like a stop-signal, and Qing shut her mouth at once, sliding obediently behind him like a shadow at noon.

After this experiment, I want to run another, the Doctor said; it’s larger in scope, and I’ll need Rouge Rabbit’s lab to finish it.

The boss arched a brow, a blade rising from calm water; the Doctor had asked for small necessities before, cogs needed for the machine, but never a large-scale experiment under this roof.

All right, if you finish your task, you can use Rouge Rabbit’s equipment as you like, but the data stays here like roots in earth.

Care to reveal the content? I’m curious, he added, curiosity hooking the edge of his voice.

Perhaps miracles shouldn’t dwell in this world, the Doctor said, a comet’s weight pressing the shoulders; sometimes a miracle makes a person carry too much.

After more words flowed and settled, the Doctor pushed open the Obsidian Stone door, a black mirror swallowing light, and rode the elevator down into the underground night.

Yin Chen Yue waited by the elevator in an oversized T-shirt, eyes bright as pond lamps, watching the descent like watching snow fall.

Someone else stepped out, not the one she hoped for, but she still offered a smile, warm as tea.

Brother Feng! Welcome back! she called, voice ringing like a bell in a quiet lane.

The Doctor walked to her, ruffled the cute girl’s hair like wind through grass, asked a few things about Night Frost, then placed a candy in her palm, a small sun with a wrapper.

Be good, rest well, don’t go home too late, he said, words gentle as evening rain.

Children are easily captured by sweets, butterflies to sugar; Yin Chen Yue was no exception, her fingers closing on the candy like a fist around a star.

She watched the Doctor’s back recede and kept her vigil, a little lighthouse in the tunnel.

Road lamps lined both sides, pouring honeyed light on a dim street, and in this underground world time blurred like fog.

Only watches and clocks spoke the hours, hands cutting the night like knives, telling the Doctor it was already deep.

Lin eased a door open and strolled out of the Doctor’s room as if walking under noon sun, then tossed him a greeting like a pebble into a pond.

Didn’t I say don’t enter my room at random? Tell me first, the Doctor said, irritation like grit in the shoe.

Sorry, sorry—But a new friend arrived today, didn’t she? the boss asked me to say hello; it’s work, he chimed, tone light as a kite.

Hearing it was the boss’s idea, the Doctor let the wind pass; Lin had the right to enter anyway, a key dangling from his belt.

And because of that right, he came often, a curious child poking at drawers, so the Doctor had scolded him out and laid down three rules like stones across a stream.

The first time he met Lin, the man gave off cold and strict air like frost on steel, and the Doctor thought he walked the austere road.

But time peeled that ice, and underneath Lin was a cunning humorist, daily antics like a three-year-old chasing pigeons.

Whatever he was, he’d be a passerby in the Doctor’s life, a leaf carried by current; once the experiment ended, he’d leave this place.

Your new friend is quite fun, Lin said, patting the Doctor’s shoulder like dusting a sleeve; I cracked a few jokes, and guess what—she froze.

What did you say? the Doctor asked, unease rising like a cold tide; this guy’s tongue had no gate.

Just that she’s valuable, and you’re discussing experiments on her with the boss, Lin said, words dropping like stones.

The Doctor felt a headache, a knot tightening behind the eyes; the man had surely listened from a corner, shadow in a corner of the room.

Night Frost is sharp, a blade behind silk; she’ll infer the threads, and now she’s likely waiting to confront me when I return.

More talking, more waves to still.

You really do... give me trouble, the Doctor said, patience fraying like rope.

Unlike the black-haired woman, a stage clown who couldn’t touch his course, Lin was different—he’d find ways to pop up like a jack-in-the-box, spout strange lines, and crack bottomless jokes that gnawed at nerves.

And he was strong, his combat experience layered like rings in a tree, top-tier among cyborgs, with Monster blood coiled in his veins.

If Rouge Rabbit ranked power, Lin would be top three without doubt, a spear at the front.

Azureblood Octopus isn’t shabby, but if they really fought, the Doctor would be sliced in a blink, a paper cut turning into a red rain.

Lin’s strength sat alone within Cantata Two, and if his bloodline were a shade purer, he could rise to Cantata Three, a great Monster under a black anthem.

All right, I’m off—the late-night stalls are closing, Lin waved, leaving like smoke after fire.

After seeing Lin out, the Doctor pushed the half-open door, hinges whispering like reeds.

Night Frost sat inside, turning a clear stemmed glass, light skating on crystal like frost on a windowpane.

In her crimson-gold eyes, a flame seemed to dance like a fox in snow, and her voice floated soft.

You’re back, Doctor Feng.