Monzano's grand mansion is a gilded prison. The mirror-bright marble floors reflect only the lonely shadows of its captives.
Discord stands silent, staring at the files. Her chest aches. It takes time to realize it isn't pain. It's hatred taking root and digging in.
Hatred born from the towering blaze, and from every moment of love when she heard her true name.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I know you've been digging in secret, but you never guessed it. They were right under your nose. They never left.
Eleanor walks over, gently takes the papers from her hands, flips through them idly, then stops at a photo and tosses it onto the tea table.
That workshop you thought burned and bulldozed? It was labeled an accident site and paid out a fat insurance claim. Then it was sold in secret to an Eastern syndicate. They built a weapons plant underground and shipped untraceable arms everywhere.
My aunt's legitimate businesses keep feeding these honeyed nests of vice, drawing every kind of pest.
And the poor tailors? New faces, new identities, new names. Now they strut into Las Prados casinos and burn money like paper.
Even as notorious smugglers, underground arms dealers still look a lot more respectable than tailors.
The maid's knuckles go white from her grip.
The Polard Agency should've taught you how to unravel every clue, piece by piece...
Until you reach the final conclusion. No matter how unlikely, it's the truth.
I don't think your skills have slipped.
Discord doesn't respond. She lifts her eyes to look.
Eleanor is unmoved, as if that tangled gaze can't touch her. She turns halfway, smooths her skirt with poise, and sits back down.
Slender fingers with clear polish turn page after page, then stop on a name that now feels foreign.
<color=#34aff8ff>Concordia</color>... is it? I'd rather you play your own life's melody than back someone else, even if this twisted world only plays twisted songs.
Discord's whole body shakes. She clamps her eyes shut to hold the surge inside.
My aunt hates uninvited guests too. We can... teach them some manners.
The purple figure leans in from the chair, blocking the mansion's ever-watchful cameras. The whisper is barely there.
Now you get to choose.
What will it be?
Lucky 38, a name gamblers love because it sounds lucky.
The air is thick with sweet perfume and cigar smoke, wrapping every gambler all the same.
Roulettes spin, dice clatter, chips change fate, and fleeting moods flash across faces.
The lights still glare and the laughter still pierces, but an invisible pressure tightens.
The woman at the table is flushed with luck. Cheers, congratulations, and syrupy flattery make her the center of the room's whirlpool of desire.
Yes. This is it.
She sips the free champagne from the handsome bartender and thinks, dreamily, this is what she can't give up. This is why she lives.
Why, if it isn't Miss Eleanor! You look absolutely radiant today. That gown is exquisite. May I have the honor of knowing the tailor who made it?
Thank you for visiting us all these years. The tailor's name? Of course I can share it with you.
Come with me.
The girl's flawless face shines in the decadent chaos of the casino. Fueled by alcohol, the woman thinks she would gladly toss a few chips just to admire that doll-like smile a bit longer. After all, what she wins here stays here.
With just a glance, the bodyguards escort the two of them politely to the reception room.
She thought it was politeness. In the endless dark corridor, the elevator hall's irregular motion finally tells her something is wrong.
Miss Eleanor, what do you mean by this? I didn't pull any dirty tricks in your casino. Tonight was all luck...
As the fake electronic velvet curtain fades, the beautiful girl smiles.
Old friends meeting again. No need to tense up.
The tailor's name is... Discord.
Her stammering stops. Needle backs away until her spine is pinned to the corner.
Years of comfort didn't erase a tailor's instinct. She still seeks safety in tight spaces.
Well, look who it is. Not a nightmare anymore. It's real now, isn't it?
Sweat beads on her brow at the old nightmare made real, yet something still props up her body and face.
Why show up in front of me again? You just won't go away...
...
I said from the start, pull the weeds out by the roots... Why didn't anyone agree with me back then?!
Who would have thought that filthy little orphan would become Madam Monzano's attack dog?
Hahaha, hahahahaha! In the end...
All of Las Prados, even with new owners, still bears the Sinclair name! In the end...
You can't escape destiny either!! Hahahahahaha!
Was it you who destroyed the workshop?
I don't belong there. I never belonged in that dusty cage!
Was it you who killed the old tailor?
Needle stops laughing. She won't answer. Heavy makeup can't hide the same restless hate as before.
I thought... I always thought if I wore fine clothes, carried a luxury bag, spoke with grace, and complained about the weather and food like they do, I'd become one of them. I'd be upper class.
No more bowing and scraping, no more crawling in the mud covered in filth...
The nightmare approaches step by step. That blank expression makes her realize it is real and impossible to escape.
But it's useless... The club turns away anyone without status. What once seemed like astronomical sums to me are nothing more than meaningless decimal points to the truly wealthy. Their words, their glances...
Still nothing but contempt and rejection... Why can't it be me?
—WHY! CAN'T! IT! BE! MEEEEE?!
Her voice is hoarse from screaming. She pounds the wall behind her again and again, knuckles splitting and dripping blood. The elegant hairstyle she had so carefully arranged falls apart in loose strands.
Those born wearing crowns, with golden spoons in their mouths...
<size=55><b>WHY CAN'T IT BE ME?!</b></size>
You wouldn't understand. You could never understand. The numbers on the cards whisper to me. They bow their heads and call me their master...
Her long nails dig into her scalp, her face twisting into something grotesque.
She hates that her heartbeat is chained to the roulette table, hates the callused hands hidden beneath her velvet gloves, hates the shadowy work she does underground. What she hates most is that she still believes she can claw her way into that glittering upper class.
You've always looked down on the poor, just as you look down on yourself.
I don't hide my desires, and I will never regret acting on them!
Any desire built on crushing others will, sooner or later, come back to crush you.
I'm about to turn my life around, to win a future without worry. Just one more round... just one more...
Discord walks right past her, opening the main door and heading deeper inside.
Is it already too late?
I warned her, but she still had to go out there, betting on a future, betting on a tomorrow...
What's the point? Our fate never changes. We are always forced to bow and scrape.
The man speaks in a low, almost mournful voice.
All these years—winning, losing, losing, winning. Every time she lost everything, she'd come home cursing, then turn right around and gamble again.
The dealers knew we were easy prey from the start. They kept stringing her along, whispering, "Just one more win and you'll make it. Lady Luck will smile on you." But that one win was always in the next round.
Was it you who killed the old tailor?
It wasn't Needle. It was me. I did it alone.
You've been a festering wound in her mind all this time. We've been looking for you.
The man pulls a gun from under the table and fires. His breathing turns ragged, his eyes darting wildly.
A bullet grazes Discord's shoulder. She ducks behind cover as the sound of gunfire roars through the room.
The conveyor belt halts with a screech, the supporting pipes snapping under the barrage and clattering to the floor. Discord knows exactly where every gun part belongs—this assembly line is second nature to her.
Bullets slam into the component printer, sparks flying as its casing caves in.
Click. The magazine locks in place. Death is chambered.
The hastily assembled gun knocks out each light in precise order. In an instant, the barrage veers off course.
One shot is all it takes.
She moves silently until she's right behind him.
The mission calls for precision and speed. They were all taught to never toy with their prey.
A bloom of red explodes from his hand. The gun slips from his right grip, and when his left hand moves to catch it, another bloom follows.
Ugh... To climb higher, to stop being treated as less than human... we sold our futures away. You're no different.
No, I'm not!
Discord lunges like a shadow unbound, seizing the weapon and turning it back on him.
Master Archibald once patched the holes in my clothes. That was... the kindest gift I ever received.
Living together... playing in harmony... such a gentle name.
But that name, and that wish, have long since been buried in the past. <color=#ff4e4eff>You can never go back.</color>
There's no going back...
In the hush, she lowers the hot barrel.
The Third Room.
Concordia, don't do this...
Weren't we close when you were little? L-look, I've always remembered you.
It would take someone strong, really strong, to move those tools and stacks of fabric quickly enough to stage an accident. The answer is obvious.
Heavy, massive sheets of cloth cover every trace.
His bulky body hits the floor with a strangely comical thud.
I was forced! They threatened me! I had no choice—
<color=#ff4e4eff>YOU HAD PLENTY OF CHOICES!!!!!!!!!</color>
Her rage erupts, her eyes bloodshot. The burly man trembles so hard that a dark stain spreads across his fine suit trousers, dripping onto the concrete.
She... she said... "My daughter always deserves the very best..."
No, please! You can't kill me! Don't you want to know about your real parents? I'm the only one! The only one who knows!
I knew you'd come back one day... I knew someday you'd want to learn where you came from, that you'd want to know about your real mother and father...
If you kill me, you'll never know!
Spare me... please!
The trigger is about to be pulled when Fabric makes a desperate lunge, roaring as he shoves over every shelf in reach.
In the cramped space, Discord can't dodge. A heavy blow slams into her back, and the gunshot wound on her shoulder blossoms into a wider patch of red. But situations like this used to be just another day's training for her.
The bigger the target, the easier it is to aim, even while lying flat.
The target screams in pain.
After a few deep breaths, she shoves the debris off herself and staggers to her feet.
My real parents?
My real parent was Neville Archibald Horace—your master—and you killed him, didn't you?
The last room is large, stark white, filled only with the cold scent of metal and the sting of machine oil.
Two walls are covered in mirrors, creating the illusion of space, making it hard to believe this is underground.
Unfinished weapons lie scattered about in disarray—a far cry from the warm workshop once full of fabrics and dust.
The factory isn't actually that big. Shadows, symmetry, mirrors, years gone by, and the loss of familiarity only make it seem larger.
Discord feels nothing but disappointment. Not even the faintest scent remains from those old days.
Little... Discord.
Of the four, hers is the face that has changed the least. For the first time, Discord feels a flicker of nostalgia.
In the darkness, the woman's silhouette trembles. Discord forces herself to bear the dull ache in her body and the dizzy haze in her head, hoping not everything is already too late.
Auntie Thread.
You were forced to help them. Otherwise, why would you have let me go back then?
Is that really the truth you believe?
You're still the same as before—naive and foolish.
Of course it was because you still had <color=#ff4e4eff>value</color>.
The woman makes no effort to hide her amusement, laughing so hard her whole body shakes.
Revenge always excites an audience, flooding them with adrenaline. It's the ultimate form of entertainment.
You haven't forgotten this place became a weapons factory, have you?
Assembling weapons is just as easy as assembling clothes.
Discord still hasn't figured out how Thread—once the quietest and most caring—became the link tying all the others together.
A circular machine whirs behind Thread, then suddenly lurches forward at a command.
If the old tailor were alive, he wouldn't want to see his two most treasured people both die in "machine accidents."
Don't you think killing him was doing him a favor?
It was you...!
Discord's blue eyes widen. Rage surges inside her, but she has no time to let it out.
The next moment, it feels as if time has slammed on the brakes, dragging each second into an eternity.
She has been watching Thread closely, but never suspected that the walls she thought were mirrors would drop their disguise—revealing two more circular machines, one on each side, slowly rotating and ready to strike.
The old tailor was still my master. I was his most trusted, most beloved apprentice. After the fire, they gave me what ashes they could recover. But his precious little <color=#34aff8ff>Concordia</color> was someone who never really existed.
Those days when you thought you were treasured... they were all an illusion, weren't they?
The incoming laser feels like it takes forever to arrive. The deafening roar fades into a whisper. She stares straight at the beam, its dazzling light blinding her eyes.
For a moment, in the overlapping reflections of the mirrors, she sees the timid little girl from the workshop—herself at seven or eight, still called Concordia, lifted high and cradled lovingly in the old tailor's arms.
At the far end of a bright world stands the little girl—innocent, pure, happy, and unaware—watching herself now, a bloodied figure crawling into the shadows.
A strange chill cuts up from her leg with a searing heat that seems to scorch her brain. Sight and body start to peel apart.
Her vision drops. The world tears like cloth.
A big order from some outfit. Back when we were tailors, these would've saved us so much trouble.
Thread explains coolly, as if none of it concerns her.
A circular machine closes in, descending like a press, bearing down like it's crushing parts.
Ugh...!
Only after it pulverizes the joints of her right hand and ends her resistance does it spin back to its spot.
Whether it's thread, fabric... or even human flesh, it can cut everything cleanly into whatever shape you need. Truly, an exceptional tool.
The legs severed by the laser are razor-smooth, edges sharp, the surfaces perfectly even.
The stumps bend slightly at the knees, as if still capable of offering a polite bow.
Flesh and bone form a flawless cross-section. The thermal effect seals the wound rapidly, and only a little blood wells from the vessels, like the night tide quietly rising to drown the rocks.
Were it not for the circumstances, the young woman would almost crouch down to admire the workmanship.
Sorry I'm late. Shutting down the factory's automated security systems took some time...
She uses her custom umbrella to flip the nearest circular machine into the air, then drops an EMP device.
All the machines still running in the room immediately go out of control, crashing to the floor with a crack, spilling static and sparks like empty shells drained of their souls.
The rectus femoris still twitching faintly is no different from a lab specimen lying on an operating table.
Machines can be dismantled and replaced, but the human body breaks so easily. So fragile. The young woman says with a note of regret:
But in your state... how are you going to take revenge?
Discord lies in a pool of crimson. There's no time to think—only instinct and old training driving her to flood her body with adrenaline, fighting to stay awake and not pass out from the blood loss.
<size=50>AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!</size>
For the first time, she screams—hysterical, gut-wrenching, from the depths of her chest. She longs to reach out to the child she once was, to ask for help, yet can't bear to destroy that fragile illusion of happiness.
<b><size=50>Oh, where, oh, where, has my little dog gone? Oh where, oh where can he be?</size></b>
<b><size=50>I saw him hiding behind the tree,</size></b>
<b><size=50>Why can't I see?</size></b>
Medical technology these days is advanced. With wounds this clean and precise, your legs could be fully reattached in just a few hours...
Are you going to give up your revenge?
The young woman stands there alone, paying no attention to the woman nearby or the killer machines strewn across the floor, and instead asks with unsettling intimacy:
"To complete the mission, use everything at your disposal."
The ruthless conditioning from the Polard Agency resurfaces in her mind. Discord forces herself upright, scanning her surroundings through blurred vision.
No legs... doesn't... matter...
She looks at her own legs as if they were just two pieces of fabric someone forgot to stitch together. She knows exactly what to do next.
<b><size=50>With his ears cut short and his tail cut long.</size></b>
Just like needle and thread can turn scraps into toys or clothes, you've got a pair of skillful hands too...
One day you'll be able to stitch your life into whatever shape you want.
(Whatever shape... I want...)
(What is it?)
To have value? To have meaning? To be chosen?
To be loved? To be cherished? To be needed? To exist.
Then why have I become this, a failure who can't even take revenge?
<b><size=50>My little dog is so cute.</size></b>
<b><size=50>I gently pet him,</size></b>
<b><size=50>And give him hugs and kisses too.</size></b>
Thread shrinks into the shadows, wary. Once she sees the newcomer has no interest in her, she watches the maid squirm with a touch of pity.
Strange... I heard that tailor shop in the old district of Las Prados burned to the ground that Christmas. Only one survivor—a little blue-haired girl.
You accuse us, but not the other killers?
Thread's words are light as cotton thread, yet deadlier than any weapon. They hit the mark and leave wounds that won't stitch.
Y-you shut up!
She steps left and avoids the weapon flung in a last lucid burst.
But I didn't do anything.
She stretches her pale, vein-laced hands out of the shadows and gestures.
Except carve a name on that metal plate that fits you better.
<color=#ff4e4eff>Discord...</color> off-key, unreliable. Suits your ugly state, right? We're so alike, but I won't allow you to have more than me!
Bloated, twisted envy settles deeper with time. The young woman is a little thrilled. She loves to dig up and witness the nature that people hide.
Eleanor lets the woman finish her cleanup and notices the console's self-destruct bar has completed.
Hahaha! After all these years, now that you know the truth, are you satisfied?
She tires of the blood-stink and heavy air, reels in her threads, blurs her presence, and leaves without a glance back.
Hypothermia from blood loss finally hits. Discord's grip on consciousness slips.
Eleanor Sinclair stands still like a potted ornament. Engines retreat, power cuts, the destruction countdown ticks. The place is empty and about to be abandoned.
<size=50>Play your own life's melody rather than back someone else...</size>
I can't pass out yet!
<size=50>Even if this twisted world only plays twisted songs...</size>
She fights her tremors, grips a slender metal rod at her side, then...
<color=#ff4e4eff>raises it high and drives it down...</color>
<color=#ff4e4eff>skewering the two broken halves of her left leg.</color>
<color=#ff4e4eff>Squelch.</color>
Guh—AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!
The tip juts grotesquely from her leg. Wet red drips down the rod in steady beats.
The clotted wound is punched through again. Muscles spasm. Blood-scent smothers the burn smell. Pain takes the brain back.
M-move... now!
But the nerves are gone. Only a faint scorched heat lingers.
No matter how she tries, her left leg is a foreign thing. She can only drag it awkwardly.
The sound of tearing flesh echoes in her ears. Pain is no longer the main concern.
The pain, delayed, is already like a thousand red-hot needles driving through her flesh—what difference would one more make?
Her sight goes blood-red. She bites her tongue to stay awake.
There's still... the other one... Move. Come on, move!
This barely passes for an emergency measure.
With the last of her strength she crawls a few meters. Blood seeps with each drag, slug-slick behind her in a long, rusty trail.
Dying Polard hounds still bare their teeth, still obey in fear, still lunge even headless... Discord has seen it too many times.
Crying only proves weakness. They learned long ago to kill any feeling that hurts the mission.
Emotions... are the useless part of a mission.
<b><size=60>Dear little dog, I love you.</size></b>
<b><size=60>Oh where, oh where can he be?</size></b>
Her childhood appears one last time, smiling under a cloak of memory, then leaves her a steel needle in her left leg, bleeding hard.
Argh...
Hah... Haha...
P-please, Eleanor, give the order. Let me chase her down and kill her. Let me kill her.
I'm not worthless... I still have value! I can do it!
Pl... please...
Her broken whimpers rasp like a small animal in its last spasms.
Her long-dry eyes finally wet at those words. All the tears she ever held back fall at once, blending into the red.
The young woman's brows curve like a sharp new moon. Painted nails press down the rising smile.
Alright. I'll give you an order.
"But I have no feet," the girl says.
"Would you like a pair?"
"Yes... I would."
"Then come find me at the bright defile," she says. "The place where Judgment Day can't be postponed forever."
—While life's breath lingers.
On a damp night, the low rumble of thunder drifts from the highest window of the mansion.
I'm sorry, Aunt. I thought you would be pleased.
You'd better tell me the truth.
The madam runs her fingers impatiently along the stem of her glass. The crimson liquid inside is unusually thick, swirling only faintly.
The vast room feels far too empty and cold for just two people.
No syndicate could keep such a steady supply. Their real employer isn't a gang, it's the military.
Hm? You think I wouldn't know?
You want revenge on me? On Kurono?
Monzano frowns, tightening her grip on the wine glass as if ready to hurl both the glass and her anger at her niece in the next second.
I... did it for Discord.
Revenge. That tired, worn-out excuse. Monzano has no interest in hearing it.
You went into their stronghold with Discord and barely any guards?
Even though she survived, she needs prosthetics now. She'll be useless! What exactly were you trying to do? Do you know how many of Kurono's eyes are waiting for me to make a mistake?!
Anyone in Las Prados knows what the name Eleanor Sinclair stands for.
In this fragile balance of power, whoever makes the first move becomes the target of everyone else. The victory she had almost claimed is gone.
I don't remember raising such a reckless niece. What else are you hiding from me?
Facing her aunt's fury, the monstrous niece simply stands with quiet, proper composure.
Success doesn't always teach. Sometimes failure teaches better.
Her clear, graceful voice flows like poetry, completely at odds with the tense atmosphere.
Besides... damaged slaves are always in higher demand. They can never live without their masters.
She says it with such sincerity that Monzano feels a chill down her spine, an inexplicable unease creeping in.
It's hard to tell, or even understand, what kind of twisted emotion this is.
To regain her composure, Monzano raps her fingers hard against the desk. New thoughts quickly push aside her earlier frustration over her disrupted plans.
Never mind. If it fails, we throw it all away.
Things are only going to get busier.
The young woman bows respectfully, her smile fitting her face like a mask.
I'll finish all the tasks you give me, Aunt. Have the maid make me a few more beautiful dresses.
