Shanghai, 2028
A slow breeze passed through the crowded market street. The smell of grilled meat, sweet buns, and motor oil floated in the air like it belonged there.
Rouxie adjusted the straps of her sling bag. "We're definitely lost."
"We're exploring," Vargara corrected, squinting at a crumpled tourist map.
Their second day in Shanghai. They had no proper schedule, just a list of places scribbled in a notebook and a rule: don't visit anywhere normal.
They passed through a row of vendors yelling over each other.
"Fresh tofu!"
"Imported gadgets! Cheap, cheap!"
"Lamb skewers — no stomach regrets!"
They stopped at one stall, bought two, immediately regretted one.
"Too spicy," Rouxie coughed, fanning her mouth.
"You said you could handle 'dragon pepper.'"
"I thought it was just a name."
Vargara chuckled, her camera hanging loosely from her neck, lens cap still on. She had no idea how to use it — but it made her feel official.
For a while, everything was normal.
Until it wasn't.
He stood in the middle of the walkway.
Black suit, black gloves, black mask. No face. No insignia.
He didn't speak at first. Just stared.
Then calmly, "You two need to come with me."
No emotion. No threat. Like someone reading instructions out loud.
Rouxie frowned. "Excuse me?"
"You're not safe here. Come. Now."
"No." Vargara's voice was sharp. "Back off."
The man moved forward.
Vargara didn't wait.
"Run."
They both turned and ran.
The chase was sudden and messy.
They shoved past carts, pedestrians, a man walking his dog with headphones in. Plastic bags flew, fruit stalls wobbled.
Vargara's foot clipped a crate.
Crash.
Boxes flew open. Oranges, plums, and weird spiky things spilled across the road.
The suited man slipped. Fell.
An orange rolled under his back.
Vargara blinked. "...Did I just attack someone with fruit?"
"Don't stop now!" Rouxie shouted, grabbing her arm.
They disappeared into the crowd.
Night fell.
The city cooled, but the noise didn't. Neon signs hummed above. Rouxie and Vargara stuck to side streets now.
"Do you think we lost him?" Rouxie asked.
"No idea. And I don't want to find out."
They crossed an empty road.
He was there.
Standing at the end of the street.
Same suit. Same blank face.
Then—he sprinted.
Vargara flinched back. "Not again—!"
But Rouxie didn't move. Something... buzzed. Her hand felt cold. A whisper — or maybe her own voice — echoed inside her head.
A single thought.
Unlucky.
A second later, a delivery truck turned the corner—
And hit the man at full speed.
Glass, metal, and silence.
The suited man's body flew and landed hard.
Rouxie's hands were still at her sides.
"Did you—" Vargara started.
"I didn't mean to," Rouxie muttered.
Then he stood up again.
Bones cracking. Mask dented. Still running.
Vargara's breath caught. "That's not normal."
Another screech.
A black van slammed into him.
He went down again.
The van door opened.
"Get in!" someone yelled.
The girls didn't hesitate.
Inside the van, it smelled like sweat and old coffee. Wires ran under the seats. A silver rifle was taped to the ceiling.
The driver wore glasses, had a short beard, and looked half-asleep.
"You two are a pain," he said casually.
"You knew about that guy?" Rouxie asked, eyes sharp.
"Yeah. Name's Xavier Deals. Also known as 'Agent Zombie .' Been dead since 1896, but he doesn't know how to stay down."
Vargara's mouth opened. Nothing came out.
"Who are you?" Rouxie asked.
The man yawned. "Dr. Feral Bullet . I shoot problems."
He tossed a card over his shoulder. It had no phone number. Just a logo — a black crow over an hourglass.
He glanced at them through the mirror.
"You've just entered something way bigger than a vacation."
To Be Continue...