bonus 1 (3 of 3)

When she came back to her senses, she could barely organize the thoughts flooding her mind. Although, was there anything to organize if there were no thoughts? There was only noise. Some kind of noise. People shouting, sirens flashing.

Ugh, not the police, she winced. Those fools only made everything worse. Because of them, just two weeks ago, the Restored known as the Dismantler had terrorized the city, nearly revealing himself to the public. It had taken considerable effort to hush up that incident.

Where was he now, the Dismantler? She raised her head, feeling it pulse with pain. Annoying, but she’d long since learned to ignore it. She had to, if she wanted to be even a fraction of the person she was supposed to be, the person she was born to be.

She sat up on what seemed to be a fold-up gurney and touched her face. Her glasses were gone. Where did they disappear? Did that Restored break them when he punched her? Or maybe he stole them afterward? That stupid Restored with his detaching arms!

Where did he come from? She knew nothing about him. He must have been working for that Grim Reaper, and that fact alone practically confirmed the Order’s suspicions. It was the Grim Reaper who had stolen the immortality serum samples.

“Looking for something?”

A voice interrupted her thoughts. A blonde woman in oversized round glasses approached with a smile. She knew this woman, Reyna Kayree, and was not pleased to see her.

“What are you doing here, Reyna? She clicked her tongue. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Good evening to you too, Irie,” Reyna said sweetly, twirling another pair of glasses in her hand, glasses that clearly didn’t belong to her. “Lovely evening, isn’t it?”

No. It wasn’t. Not anymore. Dark clouds had smothered the sky, and only two feeble rays of light were peeking through – one yellow-white, the other crimson red. The back alley swarmed with people. From the uniforms, Irie identified them as soldiers. They moved among lifeless bodies in yellow hazmat suits and scattered limbs of those less fortunate, even though they were supposed to revive.

And then there was the main spectacle. The giant. Covered in blood, towering even while kneeling. He wasn’t breathing; somehow he was neutralized, although her own subordinates hadn’t been able to stop him, even when they had the upper hand. How much did she miss after being knocked out by that stupid guy?

A girl in baggy clothes, one of Reyna’s underlings, was darting around the Restored’s massive body, yelling at several soldiers trying in vain to lift it. No matter how they struggled, the body refused to budge. Irie scanned the alley. She discovered another unpleasant surprise. The van was gone, the one she needed to take back to the Order’s headquarters.

“Care to explain what’s going on here?” Irie asked, shaking her head in a futile attempt to scatter the pain. It clung to her like a parasite. “Everything here is the property of the Order of Mercy. That big guy included.”

“What? You mean all these corpses?” Reyna raised a brow.

“Yes. These corpses,” Irie said carefully, biting back the urge to say too much. Reyna didn’t need to know–

“Irie, sweetie,” Reyna interrupted with a mocking tone, “corpses are meant to be taken to the morgue for inspection. Then they’re buried. Or cremated. Didn’t you know that?”

“Oh my god, you can’t do that!” Irie snapped, lunging at her. “This doesn’t concern you!”

One of Reyna’s underdogs, a generic-looking guy, grabbed Irie before she could reach her. In a flash of irritation, Irie socked him in the face. He stumbled back, covering his face with both hands.

“My nose!” he groaned, blood spilling between his fingers. “She broke my nose!”

Reyna sighed and threw up her arms.

“Donavan, I didn’t ask for help,” she said. “I can handle myself just fine. Go see the paramedics, let them patch you up.”

Reyna turned back to Irie, who was now breathing heavily, her shoulders rising and falling with frustration.

“And Irie, I’d advise you against violence,” the woman from Lady Anetta’s Foundation said with a look of pretend concern, her voice sliding into a motherly, patronizing tone. “You’re not really in a position to call the shots right now. From where I stand, it seems you screwed up big time, which, frankly, is a gift to me.”

Reyna spun dramatically on the spot, arms outstretched. “All this time my hands were tied, but not anymore, not with this mess that happened here.” Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “I don’t know the details yet, but I will soon enough. Unless you’d like to spare me the trouble and just tell me everything?”

Irie could feel heat rushing to her face. Wonderful. Now she probably looked like an overripe tomato, her snow-white skin blushing deep red to match the dried blood tangled in her hair.

She hated red. There was far too much of it today.

Why was she so powerless? It wasn’t fair! Her assignment was simple, just escort the unregistered female Restored back to headquarters. Why did she screw up, despite taking precautions others called excessive?! She brought a team of Restored, prepared backup and still, she failed. Not only that, but now all her Restored were about to be handed over to that cursed Lady Anetta’s Foundation! What a humiliation!

“…Can I have my glasses back?” she asked gloomily.

“Sorry, what was that?” Reyna said, stepping closer with a hand to her ear.

Irie trembled with frustration but forced herself to stay composed.

“Can I have my glasses back, please?” she repeated, her words sweetened, like poison in honey.

Reyna looked at the square-framed glasses in her hand.

“Oh, these? Of course,” she said, handing them over. “Although, I don’t remember you needing them before. Is your vision getting worse?”

“Wow, Reyna, you’re so perceptive,” Irie hissed. “Must be the magic in your own glasses.”

Reyna smiled faintly, and somehow that made Irie shudder even more.

“Oh, stop it, Irie. These are just simple glasses.” Reyna removed her large, round pair, held them out for a second, then slid them back on. “But trust me, soon I’ll have a pair that lets me see no less than yours.”

Irie didn’t respond. Something about the way Reyna said it made her skin crawl. Did she know something? Was she aware of the Grim Reaper?

No. She couldn’t be. Could she? But how? The Order of Mercy should have been the only organization with knowledge about death taking the shape of a woman.

The back alley felt tighter by the second, stuffed with emergency vehicles and soldiers. And now, yet another car tried to squeeze in through the narrow entrance, a black one with tinted windows. It rolled to a stop at the edge of the scene. From the vehicle stepped a tall, elderly man. His lean face was creased with age, framed by a grey mustache and braided silver hair. Despite his years, he carried himself with stern authority. His height and strict expression was enough to unsettle anyone who crossed his path. He showed documents to the guards, and they let him pass without question.

“Your ride, I assume?” Reyna asked, glancing sideways at Irie.

Irie didn’t respond. At this point, she wished the earth would just open up and swallow everything whole.

“Well, it is what it is,” Reyna said with a shrug, taking a folder from one of her underdogs who had returned. “I can’t keep you here, but I’ll get my answers tomorrow. You can give my regards to your boss. I’m sure we’ll be facing off in court soon enough.”

Reyna walked over to the baggy-clothed girl near the giant Restored. They joined the soldiers, pointing toward the sky and discussing something. Irie didn’t care anymore. The outcome was clear. She’d lost. All she could do now was face the fallout. She approached the tall old man with a bitter expression painted across her face.

“Good evening, Miss Brazner,” the man greeted her with a formal bow.

Irie rolled her eyes. This guy again, with his absurd, chivalrous manners. If the Order needed someone to escort her, they could’ve sent another Restored. She preferred them. At least they didn’t talk much, just followed orders like dumb, obedient machines.

“Why the long face, Vincent?” She grabbed the man by his cheeks and stretched his face with both hands. He didn’t even blink. He was used to this. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”

“I’ve been asked to take you home, Miss Brazner,” Vincent replied with practiced courtesy, gently removing her hands from his face.

“What, not even to headquarters?”

“That is the boss’s wish,” Vincent retrieved a sleek black phone and handed it to her. She took it reluctantly. “He also wishes for you to call him.”

He opened the front passenger door, holding it for her. Irie ignored the gesture entirely and slid into the back seat instead. The thought of sitting next to Vincent was nauseating. If he was offended, he didn’t show it. With his ever-stoic expression, he climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. The car lifted off the ground in a smooth hover, and Vincent slowly turned it toward the narrow exit of the alley.

Through the tinted window, Irie caught sight of a helicopter circling above the Dismantler’s massive, motionless body. Belts were being lowered from it so soldiers on the ground could secure them to the Restored. So, they were moving him with a helicopter? Irie had a soft spot for flying vehicles. She always found them elegant and thrilling, even though she’d never actually flown in one herself. Hover cars didn’t count. They were more like glorified gliders than true aircraft.

The soldiers finished fastening the thick belts to the Dismantler’s corpse, linking them to a central hook on the chopper. The machine rose, slowly at first, its engines groaning under the weight. Even limp and unmoving, the Dismantler’s sheer mass resisted the ascent. When the helicopter finally gained altitude, it flew away, hauling his twisted body behind it like a grotesque sack of bricks.

Wow, even immobilized he’s causing problems! Truly, a terrific Restored! I would love to have him as my pet!

Irie giggled at the thought. Even though all the trouble at the Order of Mercy had begun before the Dismantler appeared, somehow everything really started falling apart after he escaped. Before him, they had near-complete freedom to operate the reanimation project. However, once the Dismantler broke free, pressure mounted from every direction, be it Lady Anetta’s Foundation, the idiotic police, or the even more brainless government.

As Vincent eased the car onto the city streets, Irie rolled the black phone from one hand to the other and back again. She had her own phone, of course, but it was useless for this. The only way to contact the boss directly was through Vincent and his little black device. She took a deep breath and pressed the call button.

“I’m disappointed in you, Irie Brazner.”

The voice came through instantly, cold and sharp. No greetings, straight to judgment. Irie pursed her lips. Anyone could’ve been in her position and failed just the same. Still, it stung to hear those words as the first thing.

“You won’t believe what happened,” she replied, masking her nerves with her usual carefree tone. “It was unreal! And these glasses, oh my god, they actually work! I saw–”

“You were raised better than this, Irie Brazner,” the voice cut her off. “You were sent to retrieve an unregistered Restored. Instead, your failure cost us twenty-three of our own. And now they are in Lady Anetta’s Foundation’s possession.”

“What?!” Irie spat into the phone. “What did you expect me to do?! Maybe you haven’t heard yet, but the Dismantler was there, the same Restored who escaped from us! Remember when the police tried to capture him? They were gutted like pathetic little fish. And he wasn’t even the only one! The Grim Reaper woman was there too, with her lackeys! I tried to call for more backup, but I was rejected!”

“And with good reason,” the voice replied coolly. “We have a limited number of Restored, and now, thanks to you, even fewer.”

Irie’s temper flared. She kicked the back of Vincent’s seat hard enough to make the whole car jolt.

“Did you not hear what I just said?!” she yelled, fists clenched.

“Enough,” the voice on the other end snapped. “You’re forgetting yourself, Irie Brazner. I do not appreciate being spoken to in such a tone. This is not how the Order of Mercy operates. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” she muttered through clenched teeth.

“Good.” The voice remained neutral, neither pleased nor displeased. “Go home for now. Reflect on what went wrong and consider how you might redeem yourself.”

And just like that, the line went dead. No goodbye, no nothing. The boss always ended conversations like this, cutting the call the moment he felt finished, never allowing the other side a final word. He liked to have the last say. It gave him a sense of superiority.

Irie, scowling, rolled down the window and flung the black phone out into the street.

“What?” she barked, catching Vincent glaring at her in the rearview mirror.

Screw the Order of Mercy! She didn’t give a damn about it, and she certainly didn’t feel any gratitude for being taken in by it. The only reason she remained in the Order was unfinished business she couldn’t resolve outside the organization.

“Can I do something for you, Miss Brazner?” Vincent asked, his voice even and unreadable.

“Well, yeah, how about we hit the dance floor?” she said dryly. “I feel like dancing.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Brazner,” he replied in his usual flat tone. “I’ve been instructed to take you home safely.”

“Why are you so fucking dense, huh, Vincent?” she snapped. She turned her gaze to the window, watching the lights pass. “I don’t need anything from you. Just drive. Quietly.”

“As you wish, Miss Brazner.”

As you wish, Miss Brazner, she mocked in her head, mimicking his dry baritone. His relentless formality drove her insane.

Hard to believe she had ever been happy to see the man. That was a long time ago, back when she was just a kid, too naive to know better. Back then, Vincent had seemed like a knight from a fairy tale, silent and wise, always standing tall at her side. He raised her. She used to look up to him, imagining his wrinkles were etched from years of noble thoughts.

But as she grew older, that illusion withered. The truth was simple and bitter. Vincent wasn’t a knight. He was just an obedient loyal servant to the boss of the Order of Mercy.

Raindrops began to patter against the roof, light at first, then heavier. Irie used to love the rain. Before the Order took her in, she and her mother would dance barefoot in downpours, laughing as they twirled in puddles. It felt magical then. Now? That magic was gone. Maybe forever. Maybe not. She honestly didn’t know anymore.

This morning, she had no idea what the night had in store for her. Life was like that – an endless string of unpredictable events, regardless of how hard you planned it or how much effort you gave. There was no reward waiting at the end just because you tried. Cause and effect rarely matched up, no matter what anyone claimed.

Vincent pulled into the underground garage of the building where Irie’s apartment was located. He stepped out of the car, clearly intending to open her door, but she didn’t wait. She kicked the door open herself, nearly hitting him in the process. Without a glance in his direction, she stormed toward the elevator, hit the button, and rode it alone to the twelfth floor, leaving Vincent behind in the echoing silence of the garage.

Inside her apartment, Irie flicked on the wall-mounted TV. As usual, she switched it to the fireplace livestream. A gentle crackle filled the room, and the flickering image of firelight soothed her frayed nerves. With the Day of the Dead approaching, the digital hearth was decorated with pumpkins, bronze leaves, and gilded autumn garlands.

Leaving the firelight to dance in the background, she walked into the bathroom to brush her teeth. The lights blinked on automatically as she entered. She set her square-framed glasses on the sink and stared at her reflection. One side of her face was already beginning to swell. A nasty bruise was forming, courtesy of that obnoxious Restored with his detachable arms.

What was his deal, anyway? Why was he so eager to protect that Grim Reaper woman? Did she control him? Maybe she controlled the others, too. That would explain why they all seemed more intelligent – more aware – than the Restored under the Order of Mercy’s command.

A strange, uncomfortable feeling crept over Irie. It had been faint while she was brushing her teeth, but after rinsing, she noticed something odd. Unfamiliar sounds echoed softly through the apartment. They weren’t coming from the TV. She paused, listening intently. The sound was coming from inside the bathroom. Her gaze dropped to the sink and the glasses resting on it.

Yes. The sound was coming from the glasses. Or rather, from the tiny speakers embedded within them.

Irie’s eyes lit up. No way, could it be? She grinned like a child at birthday presents.

“Oh my god, I did not expect guests today!” she squeaked, slipping the glasses onto her face. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

With the glasses on, her reflection in the mirror was no longer alone. Standing behind her, visible only through the lenses, was the Grim Reaper woman.

She looked worse for wear, bruised from head to toe. Her elegant black dress was shredded and soaked in green blood. Her right arm hung oddly, as if dislocated. And yet, her presence was hauntingly divine. Her golden eyes burned like the gaze of forgotten gods, and her hair shimmered with streaks of black and violet, catching light from the lamp.

Irie didn’t need to guess the purpose of this visit, but she wasn’t afraid. In fact, she was so thrilled she could have smothered the Grim Reaper in kisses.

“Impressive piece of magical artifact you have here,” the Grim Reaper said coldly.

“These glasses?” Irie pointed at her face. “Oh, no. They’re not an artifact, they’re technology.”

“How many of them do you have?” the Reaper asked, cutting her off.

Irie turned around to face her. Well, technically through the lenses, but still.

“I don’t know, I’ve got only one pair,” she said.

The woman from beyond the veil frowned, her celestial expression darkening.

“You humans continue to pry into forbidden territory,” she said. “You are not allowed to blur the line between life and death. You are not supposed to see us like that.”

“Us?” Irie raised her hands dramatically, gasping. “Wait, there’s more of you? You’re not the only one?”

The Grim Reaper ignored her, eyes distant.

“If you can see me, even though it’s through those glasses, perhaps it means your time is coming to an end,” she muttered. “But it no longer matters. This is what happens when life and death become entwined. You nearly killed me today. I’ll return the favor.”

“Wha–”

Irie didn’t finish the sentence. She never had the chance. The Grim Reaper’s left hand morphed into something branch-like, twisted and jagged, and it sliced through the air in a blink.

The mirror shelf behind Irie shattered, crashing onto the sink. Wall tiles exploded, revealing deep, gouged concrete. And Irie… Her snow-pale head hit the floor with a dull thud. A fountain of crimson sprayed from the neck as the body slumped a moment later, lifeless and twitching.

The automatic bathroom lights clicked off. The Grim Reaper stood silently over the remains, her body drenched in Irie’s blood, golden eyes gleaming in the dark.

“Cower in your death,” the Grim Reaper whispered. “Lose your hope. Succumb to despair and turn into the Soul Collective. Perhaps then I will come for you again and let you pass into the realm between realms.”

She stepped on the glasses, shattering them beneath her heel, and walked away, disappearing into the flickering shadows of the apartment, leaving behind the corpse and the severed head. Irie’s face, pale as moonlight and splattered with blood, remained untouched. The Grim Reaper never looked back. Never noticed the faint, smug smile still lingering on Irie’s lips.

Even in death, Irie had found a certain twisted joy in how it all turned out.