"What a mess..."

Zeming quietly pulled out the file folder tucked behind Lazy Yang. This guy still hadn’t kicked the habit of stuffing papers into his back pocket—even rolled up after all these years.

But seriously, what the hell was going on lately? The organization, the experiments, the missing test subjects—what exactly had happened?

"Over a dozen labs destroyed in one month. Explosions inside each facility. The main culprits escaped. Not a single document left behind..." Zeming muttered. He wasn’t a Hero anymore. His intel network had gathered dust for years. If he wanted real answers now, he’d have to rely on this idiot.

*Snore... snore...*

Listening to thunderous snores, Zeming wondered how he’d even deal with this fool.

That sealed coffin holding a child—why was it empty? And sized for an eight- or nine-year-old. Meaning every orphan around that age was now under suspicion.

Zeming turned to the useless cop. Had his arrival been deliberate? A message meant just for him?

"Hey! Wake up, you idiot!" Zeming gave him a few kicks. No response.

This lazybones might seem useless, but he’d secured all of Vivian’s IDs and the adoption rights for both of them. Without him, Vivian might still be stuck in that orphanage.

This needed investigating. After all, Vivian was his and Eira’s child—the only bond tying them together.

Just then, his phone rang, cutting his thoughts short.

"Hello? Zeming speaking. How can I help?"

[*Did you forget?*]

The sharp voice froze him. It took seconds for his brain to reboot.

"Eira! Are you done already?"

[*I sent the date location to your phone half an hour ago. Where are you? How much longer must I wait?*]

Shit. He’d forgotten something this important. Those snores had wiped his mind blank.

"Sorry! I’m coming right now—*really* right now!" Zeming scrambled to pull on his pants, nearly tripping over his own feet.

[*You’re already late. I’m timing you. Better have a reason good enough to earn my forgiveness. Or... this timer won’t count your delay anymore. I’ll reverse it. Make it a countdown to your doom.*]

"No problem! My life’s in your hands—please, don’t hold back!"

That icy calm. That eerie stillness. Zeming knew: the calm before the storm was always this quiet.

He sprinted to the garage, hauled out his prized vintage bicycle—a limited 1998 model—and weaved recklessly through traffic toward the date spot.

***

"Mommy, why’s that uncle sleeping in the grass?"

"Don’t look. People like him are dangerous."

The mother yanked her daughter’s wrist, dragging her away from the apartment complex lawn.

*Snore... snore... Huh?*

Lazy Yang finally woke. A leaf blocked his vision. A mother was pulling her daughter away, glancing back.

"Mommy, weird uncle."

"Don’t stare!"

What the...? Groggy, Lazy Yang tried standing. Only then did he realize he was sprawled in a hollowed-out bush. He looked up. Fifth-floor window. Wide open. His service pistol still hung from the balcony railing.

"Zeming, you little bastard... threw me out the window..." He sighed. "Damn it."

Surveying his ridiculous situation, Lazy Yang made a decision. He covered his eyes, yawned hugely.

"Might as well nap a bit longer..."

***

"*This* is... a date spot?"

Zeming stood at the street entrance, letting his bicycle clatter to the ground. He winced.

"What kind of hellhole *is* this?!"

Discount replica guns. Knives—buy one, get one free. Cheap motorcycle armor. Survival kits. This street catered to lunatics. Even the ice cream vendor sold jalapeño and "gunpowder smoke" flavors.

Bewildered, Zeming walked deeper in. Beneath a statue of a warrior cleaving a monster’s head, he found his wife, Eira.

She wore a pure white dress. Bare shoulders. A tall, curvaceous figure. Legs sheathed in white stockings and knee-high boots. When had she changed? The glacial queen had transformed into a radiant maiden. White floral ornaments seemed born to grace her.

Heads turned. Men stared. Zeming tensed—until he noticed others limping away, clutching bruised faces and stomachs, some dragging dislocated arms. He relaxed.

"*Roses have thorns. Don’t pick them unless you can handle the sting, idiots.*"

Eira’s glare pinned him. No words needed. Her icy stare said everything.

"Sorry," Zeming stammered. "My friend showed up. We just chatted a bit—"

This should’ve been his moment to apologize sincerely, to wait patiently for the lonely girl beneath the statue to forgive him. Reality flipped the script.

He was in deep trouble. *Serious* trouble.

"How do you want to die? Choose."

"I choose dying in bed... doing what men and women do."

He wasn’t joking. Somehow, Eira had bought a gleaming machete. The neighboring shopkeeper beamed proudly.

"Today’s machete sale," she purred, twirling the blade. "Why didn’t you tell me? I was going to gift you one~"

"Really? Want to test it firsthand?" Her eyes still burned with undimmed fury.

Their very first date had begun.