The young man with raven-black hair sat on a swivel chair in the center of a silent room. The space was minimalist, nearly hollow, yet meticulously organized. He wore a black suit, left unbuttoned, his gaze fixed on nothingness with a terrifying stillness—the look of a mind drowning in an enigma. With his fingers interlaced and elbows resting on his knees, he leaned forward, his head bowed in a posture of profound, haunting contemplation...

The interior design, the lighting, and the wide windows suggested an era that was neither past nor present, but... something else. It was a high-tech future masquerading as the 20th century. It seemed as though history had taken a sharp, jagged turn away from everything we once predicted.

"What was that I saw?" the young man whispered to the silence. "That sand... that shore... could it have been a dream? But how?"

As he sat there, a subtle tremor rippled through the floor, a low vibration that shook the foundation. He didn't flinch. He didn't panic. He simply closed his eyes. "These tremors have been escalating for days," he muttered. "No one knows the cause, but it feels like the world is bracing for something. At least the inter territorial towers are still standing. No state of emergency has been declared for the 24 territories... yet."

Suddenly, a faint chime rang—not in the room, but directly against his right ear, as if someone had whispered into his very soul. The frequency of the tone caused a tattoo to materialize out of thin air on his neck, glowing with a ghostly light.

"You have an urgent message from the Director's Office," a voice echoed, integrated directly into the young man's consciousness.

"Let's hear it," he replied.

The voice turned grim: "Tragic news from Region Alpha (α). All special units have been briefed on the incident within the big House just moments ago. It is a catastrophe. No official statement has been released due to the mass hysteria on the ground. It has been..." The messenger hesitated, his voice trembling. "Governor Solomon Atherdeen has been assassinated. He was found in his private quarters, drenched in blood."

The young man's posture shattered. He shifted abruptly, bringing his hands beneath his chin, his face a mask of hollow shock.

"The Ruling Family has ordered the most elite investigators to the scene," the messenger continued. "Adam Ryan has been assigned, but he is unresponsive. As usual, he is attempting to bury himself in isolation, shunning the world and its technology. You are to deliver the order personally. You will bring him to the High House and serve as his shadow—his bodyguard—at all times. The streets are volatile. And remember..." The voice grew cold, threatening. "You should know, K.P.R., that your repeated insubordination will carry a heavy price. Look at your hand. The number has become 98. Continue this recklessness, and you will end up in a place you will loathe."

The young man—known as K.P.R.—lifted his hand. The number 98 flickered onto his skin in a digital glow before vanishing into the pores. He knew the cost. He knew that every breach of protocol with Management would pull the noose tighter.

A deep breath, followed by a soft, sharp exhale. That was all.

K.P.R. stood up, moved toward the door, and stepped out into the shadows of the city to hunt for a detective who no longer wanted to be found.