Broken Oaths, Burning World

*Nihari, a rich and flavorful stew, originated in the Indian subcontinent during the Mughal era, long before the partition of India and Pakistan. While its exact origins are debated, it is widely believed to have been created in the kitchens of Mughal emperors in Delhi.

The name "nihari" is derived from the Arabic word "nahar", meaning "morning," as it was traditionally served as a hearty breakfast after the Fajr prayer.

Post-partition, nihari gained immense popularity in Pakistan, especially in Karachi, where migrants from Delhi brought their culinary traditions. Over time, it has become a beloved dish in Pakistani cuisine, often considered a national favorite, with regional variations adding to its appeal.

The sprawling dystopian metropolis stretched beneath Gavriel's lofty perch, a labyrinthine tapestry of shimmering neon and oppressive shadows. From his office atop the Syndicate Tower, he observed the city's chaos with the cold detachment of a puppeteer surveying his marionettes. The faint hum of machinery was the only sound, a mechanical symphony befitting the artificial world beyond.

The silence was broken by the groaning creak of the heavy office door. Ferro entered hesitantly, his movements betraying the weight of his failure. "Sir, I beg your pardon. We managed to engage him, but... he bested us."

Gavriel turned from the glass, his stern visage illuminated by the pulsating glow of the city. His piercing gaze locked onto Ferro, who averted his eyes like a chastised schoolboy.

"Ah," Gavriel began, his voice low, measured, yet imbued with a venomous undertone, "a brave man never deserts the battlefield. Cowards, however… they are the rot that festers within the marrow of society."

He stepped closer, his polished shoes echoing ominously on the cold marble floor. "And you, Ferro, have shown me the measure of your bravery by returning here after fleeing him," he continued, his tone deceptively smooth, like velvet concealing a dagger. "Yet, you failed."

Ferro opened his mouth to protest, but Gavriel silenced him with a single gesture, his hand slicing through the air. The Syndicate leader's face, now mere inches from Ferro's, radiated a predatory intensity. He reached out, his hand gripping Ferro's hair with disarming speed and brutal strength, yanking his head upward to meet his unyielding glare.

"This time," Gavriel whispered, his voice a chilling caress, "I shall exhibit forbearance. But understand this—failure carries a price, Ferro. A price you are unlikely to afford again." His grip tightened, forcing Ferro to wince under the pressure.

Releasing him with an abrupt shove, Gavriel straightened, smoothing the cuffs of his tailored suit with a meticulousness that only underscored his menace. "I don't tolerate mediocrity. Agent-90 is not merely a target; he is a loose thread. And loose threads unravel the fabric of control."

Ferro steadied himself, his breathing ragged, his composure shattered like fine porcelain.

"Dead or alive," Gavriel commanded, his voice now a thunderous decree, "I want him brought to me. And this time... keep an eye on him at all times."

"Yes, sir," Ferro stammered, bowing before retreating from the room with the haste of a man fleeing a lion's den.

As the door clicked shut, Gavriel turned back to the panoramic view, his expression unreadable. The city pulsated below, oblivious to the machinations of the man who sought to master it. "Agent-90," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the faint hum of the room, "your time will come."

On 24th May, 2042 in the dark room with light flickering Agent-90 modeling a design he is so focus on his work the time becomes 3:45 am as he takes less sleep and even gets bloodshot eyes. But he cannot focus on his work after confronting Gavriel's men and Madam Di-Xian mention about Wen-Li.

Abruptly, he hears a knock on the door from the otherside side, Farhan calling him "Hey, mate are you awake?" Agent-90 look at the time it is 3:48 am. In confuse he open the door in front of him standing Farhan, Masud they both look energetic but Roy was yawning from sleep then they reach to Jun's room and tries to wake him up but no respond so Masud got a better idea to wake him up so he take a gumbel of water and drop it onto him. Jun becomes panic mood when he woke up and ask in rage "What the heck man?!"

Farhan laugh and says "Get fresh and ready we will have a breakfast outside"

Jun says in annoyed "Dude, now is 3:50 am of the morning"

Masud says, with light tone "Get fresh and ready we have no time"

Jun "Okay! Okay! I'm getting ready" and went to the washroom. After few minutes they all been ready and walk out at the early morning without telling anyone.

At 4:00 AM, the sprawling metropolis of Lahoraka, awakens with a haunting serenity. The city, divided into sleek high-tech zones and dilapidated ghettos, mirrors its dystopian reality—a city of stark contrasts where the future clashes with the past.

The skyline glows faintly with the eerie light of neon holograms advertising everything from cybernetic enhancements to luxury real estate. The Veil River, which cuts through the city, reflects the lights of towering megastructures on one side and the ramshackle houses of the working class on the other.

The air is thick with contrasting sounds: the faint hum of automated drones patrolling the streets, mixed with the rhythmic recitation of Fajr Azan, echoing from both traditional and digital minarets. The soulful call to prayer blends with the faint chimes of mechanised rickshaws ferrying workers to early shifts.

As the agents walk they feels the aroma of parathas frying in street-side cyber-kitchens merges with the scent of spices wafting from automated stalls selling hilsa curry. In the lower districts, the pungent smell of industrial runoff reminds the inhabitants of the pollution brought by relentless technological expansion.

Jun cannot hold he want to eat as mouthwatering start to drop, "Man, hold on" says Masud as the comes towards Old Lahoraka, it is the Old City, filled with crumbling Mughal-era buildings and vibrant marketplaces, comes alive with vendors setting up their stalls. The bazaars buzz as merchants prepare to sell fusion crafts like embroidered AI-infused garments and spice-printed 3D food packs.

The city of Old Lahoraka awakened not with alarm clocks but with the tantalizing aroma of simmering spices that wafted through its labyrinthine alleys was evident in every cobblestone, every vibrant tapestry fluttering from shop windows, and most importantly, in the irresistible culinary magnetism of its famous Nihari stalls.

It was 4:00 a.m., but the streets were alive, teeming with a motley crowd of locals who congregated for their beloved breakfast ritual. Lanterns and string lights illuminated the scene, casting warm, flickering hues on the polished silver pots where Nihari, the rich stew of slow-cooked beef shank and marrow, bubbled away like liquid gold. The air was thick with a symphony of chatter, clinking utensils, and the occasional melodic hawking of chai vendors.

As the five agents—Roy, Masud, Farhan, Jun, and Agent-90—strolled through the bustling alleyway, their professional stoicism faltered. All eyes turned toward the towering cauldron at the heart of the chaos, where the Ustaad Chef, clad in a stained kurta and wielding an oversized ladle with theatrical flair, served steaming portions of Nihari onto brass plates.

The dish itself was a marvel. Tender chunks of beef swam in a velvety gravy infused with an orchestra of spices—cumin, coriander, and cloves—all crowned with a glistening layer of fat. Freshly baked naan, fluffy yet crisp around the edges, served as the perfect companion, ready to scoop up every luscious bite.

Farhan, always the first to crack a joke, stopped abruptly and sniffed the air like a bloodhound. He turned to the group, his expression one of mock seriousness. "Boys, I know we've got a mission, but do you feel that? That's not just Nihari—it's destiny calling."

Roy raised an eyebrow. "Destiny? Smells more like cholesterol calling to me."

Jun, meanwhile, was transfixed, his gaze locked onto a plate being served to a rotund man who tore into his naan with gusto. "I could demolish that right now," he muttered, his usual composure cracking as his stomach let out an audible growl.

Masud, ever the sensible one, tried to redirect their focus. "We're on duty! We can't just—" He stopped mid-sentence as the chef dramatically ladled a fresh portion, the sight of the tender meat falling apart in the thick gravy momentarily short-circuiting his resolve.

Farhan turned to Agent-90, who stood stoic as ever, his blue eyes scanning the scene. "What about you, 90? Hungry?" Farhan teased.

Agent-90, unflappable, replied in his usual deadpan, "Food is fuel. But... efficient fuel is preferable."

"Efficient fuel?" Jun scoffed. "That's Nihari right there! It's efficiency in edible form."

The group stood there for a beat, staring longingly at the plates being handed out. Farhan, grinning mischievously, leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, "Admit it. You're all salivating."

Roy, trying to save face, mumbled, "It's not salivating. It's... tactical appreciation."

Masud finally threw up his hands. "Fine. We'll grab some to-go. But if anyone asks, this is part of the mission."

As they approached the stall, the chef greeted them with a booming voice, "Ah, newcomers! Welcome to Lahoraka's finest Nihari! One bite, and you'll forget your troubles!"

Agent-90, despite himself, eyed the dish as it was served to Masud. Farhan noticed and leaned closer to whisper, "Even you can't resist destiny."

Agent-90, for once, allowed the faintest of smirks to escape. "Perhaps... efficiency has its indulgences."

Squeezed into a dim corner of the bustling alley, the five agents crouched on the floor with brass plates of Nihari and naan balanced precariously on their laps. The aroma of the rich stew wafted up to them as they dug in, the sheer delight of the meal momentarily eclipsing the discomfort of their seating arrangement.

Jun, wiping a bead of gravy from his chin, declared, "This Nihari... it's magic! Honestly, it's refreshing my mood, like... proper therapy in a bowl!"

Masud nodded in agreement and turned to Roy, who was carefully scooping up the gravy with a piece of naan. "Roy, what's the verdict? First time having Nihari, eh?"

Roy paused, savouring the bite before answering, "It's fantastic! Honestly, it's my first time eating cow meat."

Farhan, mid-bite, froze. His eyes narrowed, his fork hovering in midair. "Wait a minute. What do you mean, first time eating cow meat?"

Roy shifted uncomfortably, sensing the collective curiosity of his companions. "I'll explain after breakfast," he said, attempting to wave it off.

But Jun wasn't having it. "No, no, you've opened Pandora's Box, mate. Spill it now!"

Masud leaned in conspiratorially. "Yeah, Roy, we're all ears. Don't leave us hanging."

Roy sighed, his six senses tingling with regret. "Fine," he began reluctantly. "In my hometown, we weren't allowed to eat cow meat. It was forbidden. Seriously frowned upon."

Farhan raised an eyebrow. "Forbidden? What do you mean? Like, 'You'll get a slap on the wrist' forbidden, or..."

Roy shook his head grimly. "No, like, punishable, forbidden. Eating cow meat was seen as a heinous crime. But here's the kicker," he continued, glancing around dramatically, "instead of eating cow, some people—not me—believed drinking cow urine and using... uh... cow dung was the way to go."

The group froze, naan suspended mid-air, their appetites visibly wilting. Masud's mouth fell open. "Wait... what?"

Jun's face contorted in horror. "That's... that's pure nonsense! How did you even survive that madness?"

Farhan placed his plate on the ground, his expression a mix of disbelief and queasiness. "You're telling me people willingly... drank that?"

Roy nodded solemnly. "Yeah. They claimed it protected them from micro-bacteria or some rubbish like that."

Jun slapped his forehead. "Micro-bacteria? That's not science, that's a medieval fever dream!"

Masud, who had been holding onto his plate with both hands, suddenly placed it down and looked at Roy as though he were an alien. "Mate, how on earth did you stay sane?"

Roy gave a dry chuckle. "It wasn't easy. I survived by sticking to goat and lamb when I could. And trust me, I tried to avoid those... rituals. But extremism was everywhere."

The group sat in stunned silence for a moment, staring at Roy as if he had sprouted a second head. Finally, Jun broke the tension with a groan. "Great. Now I've lost my appetite."

Masud glanced at his plate, then at Roy, and pushed it an inch away. "Same. Thanks for the imagery, Roy."

Farhan, shaking his head, muttered, "Man, I just wanted a peaceful breakfast. Not a crash course in... whatever that was."

Agent-90, who had been silent throughout, calmly took another bite of Nihari and spoke in his usual monotone, "Food is fuel. If you're weak enough to let stories affect your digestion, you're unfit for missions."

Jun rolled his eyes. "Leave it to 90 to ruin the moment further."

Despite their newfound queasiness, they all burst into laughter, the absurdity of the situation overpowering their disgust. And so, in the heart of Old Lahoraka, with their appetites half intact and their spirits oddly lifted, they resumed their meal, albeit with a wary glance at Roy every now and then.

As the Lahoraka people gathered eagerly around Chef Ustad's famous nihari stall, the aroma of slow-cooked spices and tender meat wafted through the narrow alleyway. The crowd jostled for their share of the delectable stew, served piping hot with naan. Amid this culinary frenzy, Jun, carrying his plate of nihari like it was a crown jewel, collided with a portly man who wasn't looking where he was going. The bowl slipped from Jun's hands and splattered dramatically onto the cobblestone street.

"Oi! Watch where you're lumbering, you absolute clod!" Jun bellowed, his face contorted with mock outrage. Without waiting for a reply, he swiped Farhan's plate and lobbed the steaming contents at the man. The target ducked with surprising alacrity, and the nihari splattered onto a bystander's pristine white shalwar kameez.

Pandemonium erupted. Within seconds, the alleyway became a battleground of flying bowls, naan frisbees, and errant spoons. Masud, ever the voice of reason, raised his hands in a futile attempt to restore order. "Gentlemen, this is a market of decorum! Cease this puerile tomfoolery immediately!"

Chef Ustad, towering over the chaos like an irate deity of cuisine, bellowed, "You lot have turned my sanctum of gastronomy into a wretched shambles! If you don't clean this mess, I'll have the constabulary after you!"

Meanwhile, Agent-90 stood aloof, untouched by the melee. He approached Chef Ustad with the air of a connoisseur, adjusting his glasses. "Excuse me, sir. Might I inquire as to the precise methodology behind this culinary marvel?"

Chef Ustad, still red-faced with indignation, softened under the genuine curiosity in 90's tone. "Ah, finally, someone with proper sensibilities. Come, I shall elucidate the art of nihari preparation. It begins with the finest cuts of beef shank, slow-cooked for hours with a secret mélange of spices..."

As the chef expounded, the other customers—those not embroiled in the food fracas—watched the agents with a mixture of amusement and disdain. "Look at them," one elderly man chuckled, "the young gentlemen can't handle a bowl of stew!"

By the time the chaos subsided, the agents stood sheepishly with mops and rags, cleaning up the carnage of their impromptu food fight. Agent-90, still engrossed in his culinary lesson, remained the only one whose dignity was intact. As the laughter of the unaffected customers echoed through the alleyway, Farhan muttered under his breath, "Next time, I'm keeping my food out of Jun's reach."

As they all mops the floor they can see the beautiful rising of the sun from the dawn. 

The clock struck six, and the golden rays of the rising sun crept through the ornate curtains of Chief Wen-Li's residence, casting a gentle glow upon her tranquil room. Stirring from her slumber, Wen-Li awoke with a heavy head, her silk-black hair cascading messily over her face. As she sat up, the soft sunlight danced across her features, illuminating her porcelain skin. She let out a light sigh, brushing the errant strands of hair aside, and stretched languidly, her movements slow and deliberate, like a feline greeting the morning.

Perched regally on the windowsill was Wen-Mi, her snow-white cat, who yawned theatrically before offering a soft, inquisitive meow. "Good morning, Wen-Mi," Wen-Li murmured, her voice tender yet laced with fatigue. Rising, she padded barefoot to the washroom, the cool marble floor sending a shiver up her spine.

Inside, she splashed her face with crisp, cool water, the droplets cascading down her neck. As she gazed into the mirror, droplets clinging to her lashes, her mind wandered to the haunting words of Madam Di-Xian: "If the petals of the dandelion lose their shine, the crimson lotus will help it to glow." The cryptic phrase echoed in her thoughts, tethered to the revelation that her father had funded the clandestine organisation she now sought to unravel. Her reflection stared back at her, a mixture of resolve and uncertainty etched in her expression.

Emerging from the washroom, her gaze fell upon Wen-Mi, now seated primly near her breakfast table, tail swishing lazily. "Wen-Mi, come, let's eat," she called softly. The cat leapt gracefully down, following her mistress with an air of entitlement. As they shared a quiet breakfast, Wen-Li spoke aloud, her voice a blend of thoughtfulness and melancholy. "Why, Wen-Mi? Why would our parents keep this from us? What were they protecting us from?" Wen-Mi, as if contemplating the gravity of the question, tilted her head, offering only silence. "As We-Liao is on mission right now. I wonder how is he doing?"

After finishing her meal, Wen-Li prepared for the day. She stood before her wardrobe, carefully selecting her attire, a tailored navy ensemble that spoke of authority and elegance. As she dressed, her eyes fell on the faint scar adorning her abdomen—a jagged reminder of the ordeal she endured at the hands of the Munafiq, Lee Jong Suk. Her fingers traced the mark absentmindedly, a shiver of memory flickering through her. The trauma lingered like a shadow, but she steadied herself, drawing in a deep breath to banish the phantoms of the past.

Fully composed, she knelt before Wen-Mi, stroking the cat's velvety fur. "Look after the house while I'm gone, my little guardian. I'll be late," she said with a soft smile. Wen-Mi gazed at her with solemn eyes, almost nodding in feline understanding.

With a final glance around the room, Wen-Li stepped out into the cool morning air, the door closing behind her with a resolute click. The day awaited, and so did the answers she sought. As she start the engine of her bike but it won't work so she had no choice to take subway.

The Veilmoor subway hummed with the subdued energy of the early morning commute. Passengers, clad in a medley of business attire and casual wear, were engaged in a variety of activities: some buried their noses in dog-eared paperbacks, others scrolled absently on their phones, while a few dozed off, heads bobbing gently with the train's motion. The air was heavy with the mingling scents of brewed coffee, perfume, and the metallic tang of the rails.

Wen-Li stood amidst the throng, gripping a loop handle with the casual ease of someone accustomed to the rhythm of the bustling city. Her eyes scanned the carriage with quiet precision, her gaze flitting to every corner, clocking each passenger and assessing their demeanor.

The train slowed as it approached the next station, the automated voice announcing the stop. With the hiss of pneumatic doors, a small group of passengers exited, their places swiftly taken by newcomers. Among them was a young woman in a crop top and shorts, her long jacket fluttering slightly as she entered. She carried herself with an air of confidence, though the slight chill in the air hinted at her impractical attire. Wen-Li's sharp eyes caught the girl moving towards the next passage, and she noted her with quiet curiosity.

From afar, another figure observed—Kenji, cloaked in a nondescript disguise, his posture unassuming yet his eyes calculating. He tracked Wen-Li's movements, careful to remain inconspicuous.

The train rumbled forward, its passengers lulled by the familiar rhythm, when a deafening explosion shattered the calm. The lights flickered wildly, casting the interior in staccato bursts of shadow and illumination. The passengers screamed, some ducking for cover while others froze in fear.

Wen-Li's instincts sharpened instantly. Something was amiss. She moved swiftly to the next carriage, sliding the door open. Inside, the girl in the jacket turned to face her, a wicked grin spreading across her face. Beneath Wen-Li's feet, a grenade rolled ominously. Without hesitation, she activated her Crimson Shackle, shielding herself as the grenade detonated, the force of the explosion rippling through the carriage.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" the girl sneered, brandishing an MS2 rifle. "The illustrious Chief herself."

"You're part of the Sinners, aren't you? Jane Hamilton," Wen-Li said coolly, her voice cutting through the chaos.

"You guess right," Jane replied with a mock pout. "Pity, though. You lot always show up at the most inconvenient times."

As if on cue, several armed operatives emerged from the shadows of the carriage, their weapons trained on Wen-Li. The Chief's eyes darted between them, her mind calculating her next move. Before they could act, Wen-Li sprang into motion. In a blur of martial prowess, she disarmed one attacker, spinning him into another and sending them both crashing to the floor. Her movements were precise and efficient, her strikes landing with surgical accuracy.

Jane stood back, watching with a mix of amusement and frustration as Wen-Li incapacitated her team. Pulling out a sleek blade from her jacket, Jane charged. Wen-Li sidestepped with the fluidity of a seasoned fighter, catching Jane's wrist and twisting it sharply. The knife clattered to the floor.

"You're outmatched," Wen-Li said, her tone even.

Jane laughed, a hysterical edge to her voice. "Outmatched? It's too late for that, Chief." Her eyes glistened with manic fervor as she continued, "I have a bomb inside me. It'll explode, and there's nothing you can do to stop it."

Wen-Li's composure faltered for a moment. "Where is it?" she demanded.

Jane smirked, pointing to her abdomen. "Right here. My gift to you."

Before Wen-Li could react, a familiar voice broke through the tension. "Move aside."

She turned sharply to see Agent-90 standing in the doorway, his expression inscrutable.

"You," Wen-Li said with thinly veiled irritation. "Don't tell me you're about to cause more chaos."

"I don't care," he replied tersely. Without another word, he shoved Wen-Li aside, his movements decisive.

Before Jane could react, Agent-90 drove a precise blow to her abdomen, puncturing her skin. Blood spilled as he reached in and extracted a small, blinking device. Jane cried out in pain as he hurled the bomb through the shattered train window. The explosion rocked the train, but it was far enough to spare the passengers.

Wen-Li scrambled to her feet, her gaze shifting between Jane, now slumped on the floor, and Agent-90, who was already making his exit.

"Agent-90," she called after him, but he didn't stop. Within moments, he had vanished into the shadows.

Kneeling beside the wounded Jane, Wen-Li pressed her coat against the bleeding wound, trying to stem the flow. "Hold on," she said, her voice softer now. Reaching for her comm device, she called for backup, her eyes narrowing as she glanced around the now-damaged carriage.

From the shadows, Kenji watched everything unfold, his expression unreadable. He turned and disappeared into the crowd, his mission complete.

Meanwhile, at the Syndicate Tower, Gavriel leaned back in his chair, a sinister smirk playing on his lips as he spoke into his phone. "Good. Keep watching her. We'll deal with both her and Agent-90 soon enough." Hanging up, he gazed out at the city below, his voice a low murmur. "Run all you like, Agent-90. We'll find you. And when we do, it'll be your turn to taste fear."