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A little, run-down office space in the middle of the city was concealed by the debris and deterioration of abandoned buildings. The walls had cracks and discolorations, and the plaster was coming off to expose the decaying wood underneath.
A lone lightbulb burned overhead, casting a weak illumination across a dusty, shadowy chamber. A big bookcase had fallen in the corner, scattering books and documents all over the floor like the ruins of an ancient society.
A individual sat in the middle of the commotion, their back bent over a little wooden table covered in illustrations of human anatomy.
Clad in a long black cloak, the individual appeared completely unaware of the surroundings, concentrating only on the work at hand. They drew lines and shaded curves with such speed and accuracy that it seemed as though they were giving the drawings themselves life.
The smell of parchment and ink mixed with the dust that hung in the quiet like a veil filled the room. Only the sound of a quill scratching across the rough paper surface disturbed the gloomy calm.
The creak of the door hinges in the old office was like a gunshot in the hush. A petite, nearly childlike person entered the space with a light, nimble physique and sure, quick movements.
With a decisive movement, the figure set down their quill, their hand coming to rest on a small jar that sat at the edge of the table. The jar was filled with a dark, viscous fluid that swirled and bubbled within, its contents shimmering in the dim light.
A faint smile curved the figure's lips, their eyes gleaming with an otherworldly intelligence.
"Yes," they whispered, the word seeming to echo in the darkness. "It is almost ready."
Their hand closed around the jar, the contents shifting and glowing.
As a ypmigaeri (Shota) entered, the cloaked figure turned to face them, their expression calm and serene, their voice as smooth as silk.
"Oh, you're here," they said, their voice laced with a hint of disinterest.
Shota froze, their body instinctively bowing in submission as they recognized the power and authority of the figure before them. Their gaze remained fixed on the floor, their posture rigid with fear.
A low chuckle escaped the figure's lips, the sound chilling in the dim light. "And how was your mission, my dear Shota
The figure's voice remained smooth, their tone unperturbed, as they addressed the (shota).
"I heard you didn't bring back any test subjects," they said, their eyes fixed on the shota like a predator assessing its prey.
The shota winced, their body tensing as they braced for the figure's wrath. "F-forgive me, mistress," he stammered, their voice trembling with fear. "They...they were too strong."
The figure was silent for a moment, their expression unreadable beneath the hood of their cloak.
The figure's voice took on a dangerous edge, their words like the hiss of a serpent in the shadows.
"Hmmm...I heard quite the opposite," they said, the cadence of their voice like a dark melody. "No survivors, their solar plexuses all torn out. Does that ring a bell?"
Shota quivered, their fear almost palpable in the stale air of the office. "P-please, mistress," they whispered, their voice a thin reed in the darkness. "It...it was an accident."
Shota spoke in a rush, their words tumbling over each other in a frenzy of desperation. "I saw her there," they blurted, their eyes wide and frantic as they pleaded for mercy. "It...it was the girl from my memories." He stuttered.
The figure remained motionless, the silence in the room like a living thing.
The figure's words were sharp as a blade, cutting through the shota's feeble defenses with surgical precision.
"I do not care about your memories," they said, their voice still eerily calm, despite the malice in their words. "You have allowed your personal feelings to get in the way of our progress, and for that you must be punished."
Shota's terror was palpable, their body convulsing as they awaited their fate.
"Please, mistress," they begged, their voice catching in their throat.
The figure listened with disdain, their patience thinning with each passing second. "Very well," they said, their voice like ice, "Choose your punishment quickly, before I choose for you."
The Shota fell to the floor, groveling before the figure in a desperate attempt to save their own skin. "Please, mistress," they cried, their voice cracking with fear. "Give me one more chance, I beg you. I won't fail you again!"
The figure regarded the shota with disgust, their gaze as cold and hard as stone. "Your failure has already cost us valuable time and resources," they said, their voice a blade against the silence. "If I give you another chance, what assurance do I have that you will not disappoint me again?"
The shota pressed their forehead to the floor, their tears mixing with the dust that covered the ancient wood. "I swear on my life, mistress," they pleaded. "I will do whatever you ask of me, just give me the chance to prove myself worthy."
The figure considered the shota's words, their fingers drumming against the small jar that sat on the table before them.
Finally, they spoke, their voice a quiet whisper. "Very well," they said. "You will have your chance."
shota lifted their head, hope and fear warring in their eyes.
"But," the figure continued, the word hanging in the air like a threat, "you will not receive another warning. If you fail me again, your punishment will be far more severe than anything you can imagine."
shota nodded, their eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Thank you, mistress," they whispered, their voice hoarse with relief. "I swear I won't fail you."
The figure waved a hand dismissively, their voice cold and hard. "You will capture a human for our experiments," they said, their eyes fixed on the shota. "And not just any human. You will bring me the one who escaped you before."
The shota's heart skipped a beat, their mind already racing with a plan.