At the heart of Moscow, a towering black fortress rose above the skyline, its presence radiating an aura so oppressive that only the strong dared cross its threshold.
The door to the 45th floor suite creaked open, slow and heavy, as though the one pushing it had spent the last of her strength just reaching it.
"Aaahhh… I'm so tired," Rina groaned, her voice dragging.
The room that greeted her was no ordinary quarters. Reserved exclusively for Morozov's Fang, it was a blend of prestige and power, a space earned through blood and brilliance. White walls edged with veins of gold gleamed faintly under the chandelier light. An ox head hung proudly above the mantle, its horns polished to a brutal shine. Beyond the lavish living space stretched massive floor-to-ceiling windows, offering a panoramic sweep of Moscow's night skyline—glass towers glittering like constellations scattered across the earth.
Rina trudged inside, her body slouched and her arms swinging limply at her sides. She collapsed onto the velvet sofa with a graceless flop, sinking into its embrace. One hand groped lazily across the cushions until her fingers found the television remote. Without lifting her head, she pointed it at the screen and clicked.
The room filled with the low hum of static, then light, as the television flickered to life. Nighttime news blared across the screen.
A woman stood before the camera, microphone in hand, the massive corpse of a Dagonar looming behind her like a dark mountain.
"Earlier tonight, the city of St. Petersburg suffered a dungeon outbreak," she reported. "Damages are estimated in the millions of dollars."
She paused, then added, "Fortunately, no civilians were harmed."
The screen cut to footage of armed squads sweeping through the ruins. The anchor's voice continued:
"The dungeon was cleared by the National Mafia Group—Black Fangs. Though they prevented loss of life, locals remain angered by the devastation left behind."
The feed shifted to a street interview. A man, veins bulging in his neck, gestured furiously at the camera.
"Couldn't the government stop this before it happened? Why wait until monsters are running wild? Aren't you people supposed to be strong? At this rate, how many more will suffer before you get it together?"
Before his tirade could continue, his wife grabbed his arm and dragged him back inside their apartment.
The reporter chuckled awkwardly. "I suppose that's a husband's fate," she quipped, trying to lighten the mood.
She then turned her mic toward a small boy standing nearby, his wide eyes fixed on the cleanup crews.
"And you, young man—what do you think of tonight's events?"
"Huh?" The boy blinked, startled, then found his courage. He glanced at the monster's corpse, then back at the reporter.
"The woman who killed it… she's cooler than Viktor," he said with absolute certainty.
The reporter froze, cheeks flushing, before yanking the mic away and forcing a smile.
"A-and that concludes our segment. Back to you in the studio."
The program began to cut back to the anchor desk—when the television screen went black with a sharp click.
Rina sighed, leaning back into the sofa, her blonde hair spilling lazily over the cushions."Of course I'm cooler than that old bastard," she muttered under her breath.
The apartment fell into silence, broken only by the faint hum of the city beyond her window—until the door slammed open.
"THE BEAM OF DEATH!" a voice shrieked at the top of its lungs.
Rina didn't even flinch. She sank deeper into the sofa, arms crossed, her expression flat. The shouting didn't stop. Instead, the intruder lifted one hand dramatically toward the ceiling, repeating with a slow, mocking drawl:
"…the beeeam of deaaath."
Rina turned her head, finally meeting the intruder's eyes. Elena was grinning ear to ear, eyes glinting with mischief.
"Really, Rina? The Beam of Death?" Elena burst into laughter so hard she doubled over, clutching her stomach.
"What's with you and your corny ass spell name"
Rina scowled. "Shut your mouth, Elena. It sounded way cooler in my head."
That only made it worse. Elena straightened up just long enough to wag a finger at her, then collapsed into another fit of laughter.
"'It SoUnDeD WaY CoOlEr In My HeAd,'" she mimicked between gasps, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Rina pinched the bridge of her nose. "I get it, alright. Enough already."
Elena smirked, still breathless from laughing. "Stop lying to yourself, Rina."
Rina groaned, grabbing a throw pillow and half-considering chucking it at her. "Fine. You win. Now tell me—why are you here?"
As if the world had been muted, the air in the room grew heavy. The laughter that had filled it seconds ago died in Elena's throat, her expression sharpening into something unreadable.
Rina blinked. "What?"
Elena didn't answer. She crossed the living room with steady steps, her boots soft against the polished floor. In the kitchen, she reached for a mug, then busied herself with the coffee beans and sugar as though the weight of her silence explained everything.
Finally, she spoke, her tone level, businesslike."Viktor called me. He asked me to relay some information."
Rina straightened on the sofa, curiosity edging into her voice. "What kind of information?"
Elena poured the beans into the machine, the low grind filling the pause. "He said the recent dungeon outbreaks… are strange. Too strange. And somehow, the Legal Headquarters hasn't flagged a single anomaly."
Rina scoffed, rolling her eyes. "That just proves how incompetent his team is."
Unmoved, Elena continued, her tone cutting through the air. "He suspects a third party is involved."
That pulled Rina's focus. "A third party?"
"Think about it," Elena said, leaning her hip against the counter as the machine hissed. "For years, Russia only had single-digit outbreaks annually. Stable. Predictable. But this year? We're barely three months in, and the count's already doubled."
Rina's lips parted. She felt the weight settle in her chest. "That… doesn't add up. Even with the strongest mana-hiding artifacts, Viktor should've traced something."
Elena retrieved her coffee, steam rising into the air, and walked back toward the doorway. She leaned casually against the frame, but her eyes were sharp."Exactly."
Rina frowned. "So what's his theory?"
"He wanted to dismiss it as unusually fast dungeon metabolism." Elena sipped her coffee. "But when he dug deeper, every single outbreak came from dungeons that were already scheduled for raids. Not one was left unattended."
Rina's gaze narrowed. "That doesn't make sense. Outbreaks only happen under two conditions. One—if a raid fails inside. Two—if a dungeon sits neglected for years, mana building until the monsters tear free." She shook her head. "Neither applies. The records are clean."
Elena raised her mug slightly, almost like a toast, but her words landed heavy."Viktor thinks there's a third possibility."
Rina's breath hitched. "Which is?"
"Someone—or something—is accelerating dungeon aging."
The silence that followed pressed against the walls.
Rina stared at her, incredulous. "…Is that even possible?"
"We don't know." Elena's eyes softened for the briefest moment. "But you know Victor. He's never wrong."
Rina turned away, her gaze drifting to the city lights sprawling past the window. The reflection of her own face stared back, pale in the glass. Her lips tightened."That," she admitted, "I cannot deny."
But Rina's gaze lingered on Elena, sharp and unyielding.
"Working with what we've discussed," she said flatly, "the only conclusion is that someone wants to dismantle the Black Fangs—politically."
Elena's eyes widened. A smirk tugged at her lips."You really are a genius. That's the same conclusion I reached."
Her tone carried admiration, but Rina only sighed, her shoulders slumping with disappointment. Her voice, low and cutting, left no room for pride.
"…But isn't that just common sense?"
The words pierced deeper than any blade. Elena froze, her smile faltering.
"Oh." She forced a brittle laugh, masking the sting. "Well, I'll see you around then."
She turned toward the door, but paused—her hand resting on the frame. Without looking back, her voice dropped into something quieter, colder.
"Victor said… you should be careful."
And then she was gone, leaving only the weight of her warning behind.