Angel?

“Phew! That was satisfying — way more fun than just beating someone up.

That old man deserved it a long time ago.

Irene, Irene, you really are interesting, it’s just…”

Whitney smirked as she smoked, and the two of them ran nearly five kilometers.

They only stopped once they reached the outskirts of the orphanage.

You’ve got to admit, athletes can run — Irene was already gasping for breath, while Whitney looked like nothing had happened.

Looking at Irene, who could barely straighten her waist, Whitney glanced at the briefcase and then at the panting girl, her eyes narrowing.

What’s she planning…

Taking advantage of Irene’s momentary breathlessness, Whitney grabbed the briefcase in one smooth motion just like when she snatched the cigarette earlier.

She also took the pistol from Irene’s waistband and, smiling, began removing the bullets one by one.

Whitney’s smile was full of malice and control as she casually jiggled the heavy briefcase in her hand.

She deliberately flashed the last brass round she had pulled out of the magazine in front of Irene, then let it clatter to the ground.

“Hey, don’t be so tense.”

Her tone was teasingly soothing as she leaned toward Irene, hand slipping toward her own lower back in a not-very-innocent gesture.

“Good stuff should be shared, right? You thought of that too, didn’t you? This thing must be important to Leighton — worth quite a lot.

I’ll let you have your fun once, then this thing’s mine.”

Damn — of course, this one would both take and enjoy…

Irene braced herself on her knees, breathing harshly, her lungs burning and her legs feeling leaden.

Whitney’s words hissed like venom beside her ear — the contents of the briefcase were hers; she’d fought and risked everything for them and could not, under any circumstances… hand them over.

A furious, icy resolve fused with adrenaline, instantly scattering the fatigue from her body.

Just as Whitney, smug and ready to toss aside the empty gun, was about to be careless —

Irene lifted her head.

The smile on Whitney’s face froze in an instant.

In those violet irises, something like molten lava flashed with blinding heat.

Adrenaline had carried her this far and her body was exhausted, yes, but that didn’t mean the supernatural edge she had was gone.

Whitney’s thoughts seemed to sink into viscous glue as she watched Irene’s fingers move with an inhuman speed and angle, grazing the gun’s frame with pinpoint precision.

Whitney couldn’t even clearly see the motion; she only felt the fingers gripping the pistol forcibly pry open her own hand.

Click.

The magazine slid home.

Click!

The slide slammed forward, and a single round that Whitney hadn’t ejected — and probably wouldn’t have — rested in the chamber.

“Get lost.”

The instant chill of those words froze her, because Irene had the gun muzzle pressed straight under Whitney’s chin.

The indifference and murderous intent burning in those violet eyes made Whitney tremble all over.

“Drop it.”

Irene’s voice was low and hellish, each word like an icicle driven into Whitney’s eardrums.

“Can’t you hear me?”

Whitney forced a laugh and reluctantly loosened her grip.

Although the girl looked more exhausted and her hands shook, she understood Irene’s resolve and could only stubbornly try to joke:

“C’mon, c’mon… half is fine, right? Finders-keepers…”

Irene took a deep breath and hooked the briefcase back toward her with her leg.

She felt along Whitney’s body… Whitney wore a tight black slip dress that left little to hide, so finding a cigarette was easy.

Irene clumsily fished one out with one hand and placed it at Whitney’s lips.

“Smoke.”

“Huh?”

“You deaf today? Smoke.”

Facing Irene’s terrifying expression, Whitney sullenly put the cigarette in her mouth as Irene awkwardly struck a lighter and lit it for her.

“Hmm… no kick at all, I think this cigarette’s so weak you could… ugh!”

The cigarette was yanked from her mouth.

Irene’s face remained stone-cold as she brutally pressed the burning tip against Whitney’s shoulder blade.

Instantly, Whitney’s pupils contracted and her body jerked reflexively, but then she realized something astonishing…

It didn’t hurt.

There was none of the familiar pain.

“Don’t you dare grin and joke with me.

Do I even know you?

Get the hell out of my sight… or next time I won’t… be so kind.”

Irene grit her teeth and tossed the cigarette aside, pressing at the burning mark on her own finger.

That was right — she hadn’t pressed it into Whitney; she’d stamped it out on her own hand at the last second.

There were blackened cigarette marks all over Whitney’s shoulder blade, like a human ashtray.

Those were unmistakably marks of abuse, not injuries from a fight.

Now Irene understood why Whitney had trembled; if she had pressed further, Whitney would have remembered certain traumas.

It was both protection and expulsion — Whitney had done well enough in some ways, but this thing was crucial to Irene, and Whitney had no right to drag herself into it and be implicated.

No one should be made to pay or suffer because of Irene’s stupid choices.

She had foolishly declared war on things she couldn’t beat for something she didn’t even know how important it was.

She wouldn’t bring anyone innocent to die or be hurt along the way — not even trash like Whitney.

“Ha… getting used to things can be terrifying, huh, Irene.”

Unexpectedly, Whitney hadn’t fled.

She laughed as she bent to pick up the cigarette Irene had tossed, then pressed it with force into her own shoulder blade, ignoring the charred marks as if they were nothing.

“At first I just bullied new faces and obedient kids out of habit.

What choice did we have?

Children with no one to care for them have two fates: be bullied or become the bully.

See, I made it — wherever I go, I win.

Those who climb to the top take everything.”

“After all, every creature tries to seek benefit and avoid harm.

This city and this school are especially like that: cling to the strong, and when the strong fall, kick them down hard.

So crying isn’t allowed.

I have to stand at the top of the school.”

“That’s my idea.

And you, Irene — your habit is trying to save everyone like a fool: even your perverted sister, that pure little nun, and maybe even me, the bully.

What? You really think you can pull everyone out of hell?

Don’t be ridiculous, you idiot.”

Whitney’s voice carried a laugh and an unnameable depth.

“So listen, whatever you do, I’m jumping into the pit with you.

Leighton the old bastard — I have my share in that too.

I don’t want the money, but remember: I’m part of this.”

Whitney’s words declared her stance, but Irene was more concerned about the countless wounds on Whitney’s body.

Her voice trembled as she asked, “Those scars…”

“My dad burned them on me.

Yep, my real dad.

Not great, but better than someone groping me, right?

Who else would raise me — you?”

Whitney’s grin and those bitter words stung; they revealed past scars.

But they weren’t an excuse for bullying others or for taking from people.

Irene didn’t see herself as a savior, and she certainly couldn’t save everyone now.

Yet she knew how painful it was to have a broken soul.

“Sorry…”

“It’s fine.

How do you pull off shooting with a blank face and still make me feel a little sorry?

In this city, anyone who wants to survive must become a beast.

But you… you’re both a beast and an angel — you caught my attention, woman.”

“Cough cough, that sounded a bit mushy… anyway, next time you see me bring a pack of smokes, or I’ll give you a good beating.

You like being a do-gooder? Finish the job.”

Maybe Whitney wasn’t so bad after all?

I don’t know… but in any case, the school bully Irene once thought was purely mean actually had a fragile heart — kind of cute, even.

Irene bent down, watching Whitney walk away in the five-degree cold as she chambered another round, hoisted the briefcase, and slowly headed into the forest.

After all that fuss, there was no time to meet Rosakaya; Utoya might do something unpredictable.

Though Irene felt oddly nervous, she pulled out her phone and sent a message:

[Charon (Irene): “Sis, something came up today… I might have to bail, I’m really, really sorry. I’ll make it up to you tomorrow, okay?”]

[Pluto (Rosakaya): “:(”]

She sent a crying-face emoji and didn’t say more, only feeling the little keychain doll on her keys grow warm.

…

By the time she reached the forest in the radiation zone, dusk had fallen.

Irene carried daily supplies, the briefcase, and her school uniform as she returned to their cabin.

Utoya was nowhere to be seen in the room… she seemed to be in the small shed in the yard, cutting something, the place thick with the smell of blood.

Putting things back in the shed, Irene breathed a heavy sigh of relief — only here could she feel a sliver of childlike safety.

Curiosity nudged her, and she pushed open the shed door.

A visceral, nearly tangible stench slammed into her, instantly smothering the forest’s earthy smell.

The odor was complex, based on a heavy metallic blood stench, layered with the sharp sting of formalin.

Mixed in was a rank, almost sweet rotten-organ scent blended with chemical reagents, and at the edge hovered a faint musky odor belonging to beasts.

Under the dim yellow light, the scene sent shivers across her scalp.

The walls were not hung with ordinary pelts; instead, pinned and suspended were the contorted carcasses of mutated abominations.

A scaley hide riddled with tumorous flesh and bony protrusions was stretched taut on a wooden frame.

Several pairs of bizarre wings — hybrid insect-bird appendages — soaked in huge glass jars, their odd vein patterns visible in the pale liquid.

In a corner lay skulls of varying sizes and grotesque shapes: some bristling with spikes, some with cavernous eye sockets, some with overdeveloped lower jaws like giant pincers.

Most prominent in the center of the room was a thick steel dissection table welded like an operating slab.

Its surface was stained in layers of dark brown grime, and wide drainage grooves rimmed the edges, leading to a black drain in the floor.

Strong lights hung above, turning the tabletop into a sickly white field.

Utoya stood with her back to the door at the table, wearing a heavily stained medical apron and thick rubber gloves.

In her hand gleamed a scalpel, and she patiently cut into a still-twitching vampiric creature fixed on the table.

Utoya’s movements were precise and cold.

With a steady wrist she sliced the tough outer skin around a glandular sac on the creature’s back.

She didn’t hack; she peeled the connected tissue away with surgical care.

“Vampiric creature?”

Irene couldn’t help but speak, her voice sounding oddly out of place in the foul-smelling room.

Utoya didn’t pause as if she’d expected Irene; she didn’t turn.

She used tweezers to pick up a small membrane-wrapped chunk of tissue that glowed an eerie blue-violet, and placed it into a glass dish of translucent viscous fluid beside her.

“Yeah, the subdermal gland secretes an optical-diffraction fluid — a perfect natural raw material for certain high-end stealth coatings.

It sells for a lot on the black market.”

Utoya paused, then used her scalpel tip to lift the twitching end of a tentacle:

“These tentacle glands secrete a potent coagulant-anesthetic toxin.

The military’s bio-weapons divisions and medical institutions pay big money for that.”

Her tone was as casual as if she were describing how to butcher a pig, rather than a creature from the edge of hell.

“I guess you’re not hungry for meat today…”