Chapter 20: Abyss

The elevator moved upward through the darkness. Deep inside an abandoned building in East City, a secret elevator carried three people toward a meeting they didn’t want to be late for.

The elevator car was old and scratched. Steel walls. A single flickering light. The smell of oil and something clean underneath, like a hospital.

Three people stood inside.

Sao Yaome leaned against the wall, arms crossed. She had short hair and an annoyed expression, like everything bothered her. Her tactical suit was modified—sleeves cut off, extra pockets sewn on. She carried a pistol on her right side, positioned for a fast draw. Her eyes kept flicking to the floor indicator, watching the numbers change.

Beside her, Jokirin stood quietly. Very quietly. She had long silver hair that fell straight down her back, and her face showed no emotion at all. She looked calm. Peaceful. Like nothing in the world could disturb her. Her hands were clasped in front of her, and she stared at the elevator doors as if waiting for something interesting to happen.

The third person was a man. Tall. Silent. He stood with his back to the others, facing the doors. He hadn’t spoken since they got in.

“So,” Sao said, breaking the silence. Her voice was sharp, annoyed. “Snake’s probably already there, right? With his stupid neck?”

Jokirin didn’t answer right away. She thought about the question carefully, then said, “He was injured. He will come slowly.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Sao waved her hand. “Whatever. Hey, did you hear what happened to him? At the festival?”

“I heard.”

“Can you believe it? A kid. With a frying pan. Our best squad leader, taken out by cookware.” Sao snorted. “That’s embarrassing. That’s going to follow him forever.”

Jokirin’s expression didn’t change. “Injuries happen. It was unexpected.”

“Unexpected? It’s funny.” Sao grinned, but it wasn’t a nice grin. “I can’t wait to see his face.”

The elevator continued climbing. The numbers on the display ticked up slowly.

Jokirin spoke again, her voice soft and thoughtful. “I hope the children are okay.”

Sao stared at her. “What?”

“The children. From the festival. The ones we took.” Jokirin’s eyes stayed on the doors. “I hope they’re not scared. I hope someone is being kind to them.”

Sao’s expression twisted. “Oh great. Here we go again.”

“I’m just saying—”

“I know what you’re saying.” Sao stepped closer, jabbing a finger at Jokirin. “And it’s weird. You know it’s weird. You keep talking about kids like that, people are going to get the wrong idea.”

“What wrong idea?”

“That you—” Sao stopped herself. Looked away. “Forget it. Just… don’t talk about them so much. It’s creepy.”

Jokirin tilted her head slightly. “I don’t understand. I like children. Is that wrong?”

“Yes! No. I mean—” Sao groaned. “Just shut up about it, okay? Master Renji doesn’t need to hear you talking like that.”

“Master Renji.” Jokirin’s voice stayed calm. “You worship him too much.”

“Watch your mouth.”

The elevator dinged. The doors opened.

They stepped out into a clean hallway. Bright lights. White walls. No windows. It looked like a corporate office, not a terrorist hideout.

The tall man walked ahead without looking back. Sao followed, her boots clicking on the floor. Jokirin walked last, still calm, still quiet.

At the end of the hall, double doors waited. No handles. Just smooth metal and a camera watching them.

The tall man stopped. The camera looked at him. Then the doors slid open.

The room was round, with a big black table in the middle. Screens covered the curved walls, all dark right now. At the far end, windows showed nothing but black—like the room was floating in empty space.

Two men sat at the table.

Renji sat on the left side. He looked young—maybe mid-twenties—with a calm, gentle face. Soft eyes. A small, kind smile. He wore a simple dark shirt, sleeves rolled up. His hands rested on the table, relaxed. He looked like a nice guy. The kind who would help an old woman cross the street.

But something in his eyes… something quiet and patient… suggested he was waiting. Always waiting.

Beside him, Reizen sat straighter. Sharper. Same age, but different energy. His dark hair was perfectly styled. His suit was expensive. His hands moved restlessly—tapping, adjusting, never still. When he looked at someone, it felt like being measured for a coffin.

The tall man took his position against the wall behind Reizen. Bodyguard. He didn’t sit.

Sao and Jokirin found seats. Sao sat up straight, alert. Jokirin sat calmly, hands in her lap, face peaceful.

Renji smiled at them. A nice smile. Warm.

“Thank you for coming,” he said softly. His voice was gentle. Friendly. “I know it’s late.”

Sao’s back straightened even more. “Of course, Master Renji. We’re honored.”

Renji waved his hand. “Please. Just Renji is fine.” He paused, then added with a small laugh, “Master makes me sound old.”

Sao’s cheeks turned slightly pink. She looked down. “Yes. Sorry. Master—I mean, Renji.”

Beside her, Jokirin’s expression didn’t change. But her eyes moved to Renji, studied him for a moment, then looked away.

The doors opened again. Snake walked in like every step hurt.

A thick white medical collar wrapped his neck. Bruises covered his skin—purple and black, spreading up toward his jaw. He held his head at a strange angle, like he’d forgotten how to hold it straight. His usual sharp movements were gone. Now he moved slow. Careful. In pain.

He didn’t look at anyone. Just walked to a chair and lowered himself into it, wincing.

Silence.

Sao stared at his neck. Jokirin watched with soft, sympathetic eyes. Even Reizen stopped tapping his fingers.

Renji’s smile didn’t change. If anything, it got a little warmer.

“Snake,” he said gently. “How are you feeling?”

Snake’s voice came out rough, strained. “Fine.”

“Fine?” Renji tilted his head. “That doesn’t look fine, my friend. That looks painful.”

“I said I’m fine.”

Renji nodded slowly. Understanding. Patient. “Of course. You’re strong. I’ve always admired that about you.”

Snake said nothing.

Reizen leaned forward. His tapping resumed. “So. The operation. Seventeen people in NSIA custody. Our network compromised. And you—” He pointed at Snake’s neck. “—taken out by a child with kitchen equipment.”

“I’m aware,” Snake said.

“Aware.” Reizen’s voice was sharp. Not gentle like Renji’s. “That’s all you have to say?”

“The intel didn’t include civilian combatants.”

“The intel never includes civilians! That’s the whole point!” Reizen’s hand slapped the table. “They’re not supposed to fight! They’re supposed to be scared!”

Silence.

Jokirin spoke quietly. “The child who helped me at the mask stall… she was kind. She wanted to win a prize for her friend.” She paused. “Children can surprise you.”

Everyone looked at her.

Sao made a face. “Seriously? Now?”

Jokirin blinked. “I’m just saying. They’re not helpless. They have—”

“We get it,” Sao snapped. “You like kids. Can we focus?”

Renji laughed softly. A nice laugh. Friendly. “Let her speak, Sao. Everyone’s voice matters here.”

Sao’s cheeks went red again. She nodded quickly. “Yes. Sorry, Master—Renji. Sorry.”

Jokirin continued, undisturbed. “The point is: someone trained those teenagers. Those weren’t like others. Those were organized. The rabbit mask. The donkey. The cat. The demons.” She looked at the screens. “They worked together. They knew what they were doing.”

Reizen gestured. One of the screens lit up, showing images from the festival—blurry figures in masks, fighting, helping civilians, disappearing.

“These three,” Reizen said. “They appeared at multiple locations. The station. The plaza. Sector 4. They coordinated with each other.”

“Not just them,” Snake added. His voice was rough, but his mind was sharp—everyone could see it. “Someone else threw a flashbang from outside. Someone with perfect timing. And the two who helped the NSIA inspectors—the demon masks—they knew exactly when to step in.”

Renji nodded thoughtfully. “So we got a third wheel. Unknown. Organized. Effective.” He smiled. “Interesting.”

“Interesting?” Reizen stared at him. “They cost us seventeen people!”

“And we learn from it.” Renji’s voice stayed calm. Gentle. “That’s how we grow. That’s how we improve.” He looked at Snake. “You made a mistake. It’s okay. We all make mistakes. The important thing is what we do next.”

Snake said nothing. But something in his posture shifted. Relaxed, just a little.

Renji always had that effect on people.

Reizen touched the screen. The mask images vanished, replaced by shipping documents. Cargo lists. Route maps.

“The children,” he said. “Forty-three confirmed. Ages six to fifteen. All secured at Transit Point Gamma.”

Jokirin’s eyes moved to the screen. Her expression didn’t change, but her hands tightened slightly in her lap.

“Injuries?” Renji asked.

“Minor. Three during capture. They’ve been processed.”

“Good. Good.” Renji smiled. “The facility is ready to receive them?”

“Yes. They want younger subjects this time. More… adaptable.”

Jokirin spoke again. “Younger? How young?”

Reizen glanced at her. “Young.”

“How young?”

A pause.

Sao shifted uncomfortably. Snake stared at the table. Even Reizen’s tapping stopped for a moment.

Renji answered, still gentle. Still kind. “Young enough that they won’t remember where they came from. Young enough to be shaped into whatever the facility needs.”

Jokirin was quiet for a long moment.

Then she nodded. “I see.”

That was all.

Sao shot her a look. Suspicious. Uncomfortable.

“The shipment moves in seventy-two hours,” Reizen continued. “Route Alpha through the old shipping channel, then maritime transfer. Standard protocols. Double the escort.”

“Understood,” Sao said quickly, eager to change the subject.

“And the NSIA?” Snake asked. “They’ll be watching everything after tonight.”

“Let them watch.” Reizen’s smile was cold. “We’ve used this route seventeen times. They’ve never found it. They won’t find it now.”

Renji stood. Smooth. Graceful. He walked around the table and put a hand on Snake’s shoulder—gently, careful not to hurt him.

“You rest,” Renji said softly. “Heal. We need you at full strength.”

Snake looked up at him. For a moment, something passed between them. Gratitude? Loyalty? Fear? It was hard to tell.

“Thank you,” Snake said.

Renji smiled. “Of course. That’s what family does.”

They filed out. Snake moved slowly, carefully. Sao walked close behind him, annoyed at his pace but saying nothing.

Jokirin walked last.

In the corridor, Sao grabbed her arm.

“Hey.”

Jokirin stopped. Looked at her calmly.

“What was that back there?” Sao hissed. “With the ‘how young’ questions? You were asking too much.”

“I was curious.”

“Curious.” Sao’s eyes narrowed. “You better not be thinking weird things.”

“I don’t think weird things.” Jokirin’s voice stayed soft. “I think… those children are scared. They’re alone. They don’t understand what’s happening.”

“And?”

“And nothing.” Jokirin pulled her arm free gently.

She walked away.

Sao watched her go, expression troubled.

Extras:

In the meeting room, only Renji and Reizen remained. And the tall bodyguard, still against the wall.

Reizen paced. “The masks. The rabbit, the donkey, the cat, the demons. We need to find them.”

“We will.” Renji sat back down, relaxed. Comfortable. “Everything in time.”

“Seventeen people, Renji. Seventeen.”

“Yes.” Renji’s voice was still gentle. Still kind. “And forty-three children on their way to a facility where they’ll be… what did they say? Shaped?” He chuckled softly. “That’s a good return, I think.”

Reizen stopped pacing. Looked at him.

Sometimes, even Reizen forgot what Renji really was. Behind the soft voice. The gentle smiles. The understanding nods.

A man who once convinced a depressed middle school boy to kill his own family. Then talked him into suicide.

All because the boy’s father had crossed Abyss.

Renji hadn’t raised his voice. Hadn’t threatened. Had just… talked. Listened. Understood. And slowly, carefully, guided the boy exactly where he wanted him to go.

That was Renji’s talent.

He didn’t need weapons. He had patience.

“The masks,” Renji said softly, almost to himself. “I wonder who they are. Children playing hero?” He smiled. “How cute.”

The bodyguard behind him didn’t move.

The screens stayed dark.

And somewhere in the city, forty-three children waited in the dark, not knowing what came next.