Don’t open it. There’s a monster inside.

No time for thorough clearing. No need. Verification at minimum.

Just checking for the sake of the Sykrea unit member who seems troubled. Anything you want to ask?

Stop wasting breath and get to work, Ghost Ops. I don’t like you people.

—Vime Lieutenant. You shouldn’t be so careless.

I know. This is within Weedran’s sphere of influence.

A passage designed for moderate transport vehicles. Quite spacious.

Scattered documents and supplies. Bullet holes.

Yes. Signs of combat. Rough collection of data and equipment, evidence suppression—still, the aftermath of battle remains.

And I killed a White Gecko here before. Be ready for an ambush.

"Three-Man Cell, I'm leading. Don't slow me down."

"Reaper, what's the rush? Don't push yourself."

——I don't have time. And this is a sealed facility. What's there to guard against?

"Bullet marks. You're not going to pretend you didn't see them today, are you?"

Reaper took a deep breath, nodding repeatedly as if to convince herself.

"OK, Io....I'm fine. I'm calm. I'll get the data no matter what."

"Does it really have the value you think it does?...in this underground vault."

Ignoring Vime's cryptic words, Reaper stepped forward.

She was unsettled, but her stance—rifle raised, advancing—was precise. Every motion felt like it had been etched into her bones.

A wheeled chair. Shattered glass fragments. Bloodstains.

A grime smeared across floor and wall—unknown origin. Fallen file cabinets. Torn alloy shutters.

A flickering display on the corridor wall pulses to life, asserting its presence like a memory.

The interior of the Salor bunker, rendered in sharp detail by the night vision device, feels precisely like the opening act of a horror film.

An oppressive aura. No jump scares. No theatrical effects. Just an odd, unnatural tension.

"Shutter. Hold on."

Leaping lightly over the wreckage of a toppled workstation, Reaper approaches the sealed barrier at the end of the passage. A T-junction.

This is the third time Reaper’s “lock-picking” has been revealed. Io and Vime spread out to left and right, covering Reaper.

‘Multiple specialized output devices appear to be installed at various points.

From this point forward, Blue Goblet’s detection capabilities will be significantly restricted.’

‘(Snake Eye? )’

‘When in use, Snake Eye’s effective range is approximately eight meters.’

(Using it? I’m assuming combat. What about you?)

If you think that way, a fight is inevitable.

You detect enemy scent faster than a trained military hound or surveillance drone.

Whether it’s a lizard or a zombie, indoor combat.

Snake Eye’s range is eight meters—about the effective range of a handgun in real combat.

No, the infected horde I saw at Yoldbyk charged straight at us without hesitation.

That charge. A spray of rifle fire wouldn’t cut it. Not if it’s just one or two enemies… but even so.

This isn’t some tame game. Io shakes his head.

Would’ve been better if I could sense enemies faster, from farther away.

Lock release in twelve seconds.

Three o’clock—no anomalies.

Vime reports to the Reaper with mechanical precision. Io follows suit.

"Nine o'clock—no anomalies."

The lock breach executes without issue.

The problem lies beyond the door.

"Lock release, forward alert—what the hell is this."

One word describes it: a flesh cocoon.

Through the night vision, the green display remains unclear.

It is oval-shaped, roughly two meters tall and one meter wide, extending tendril-like meaty limbs in all four directions of the corridor, using them to brace itself.

(Goblet, what is this? A pupa of some kind?)

"High probability of that, but no life signs detected in the object."

(Dead?)

"It is dead."

(Can this be a product of the Caraf virus? Infection risk?)

"Virus detected. Non-active, but contact is not recommended."

Io steps forward between the Reaper and Vime, disengaging the visor’s night vision.

Pulling a tactical light from the tool pouch, she illuminates the flesh cocoon. Under the 300-lumen beam, the cocoon glows pale white, oozing a thick, acrid slime.

“Damn stench. Never seen anything like this.”

“Yeah. Lieutenant, you?”

“Nothing. But the contents… prediction’s not hard.”

The size matches that of a full-grown male human.

Vime draws her knife, advancing toward the cocoon.

“Planning to touch it? If you drool and charge in, I won’t hesitate to kill.”

“Not enough to infiltrate armor. And for me—risk of infection is zero.”

“…I see. Hmph. While soldiers and refugees are vomiting and cursing, you two get special treatment, is that it?”

Spitting out the Reaper. Vime’s tone suggests he possesses immunity—or a countermeasure—to the Karaf virus.

Influenza has vaccines. Everyone does it. Or at least, should.

Vime benefits from that protection while the military hoards treatments. The Reaper’s resentment is obvious.

Vime ignores the Reaper, peeling off material to form a cocoon, packing it into a palm-sized storage unit. A useless, high-tech container with electronic control over its opening and closing.

“What’s this, then?”

“…There are rare cases where infected individuals develop abnormal mutations.

Most often, this involves extreme muscle hypertrophy and breakdown of body hair and skin composition.”

“So what? Turn into a butterfly?”

“Who knows. This cocoon-like state hasn’t been documented.

Hope we learn something from this sample.”

Regardless, this is undeniably former human.

No need to extract the contents, I thought, about to make my usual quip—but I held back.

Opening this up won’t reveal anything predictable. The creator who meticulously crafted this world wouldn’t cut corners even inside this grotesque cocoon.

Better to gather data than debate here.

Speculating on a horror game’s absurd virus will rot your mind.

Gore and monster intimidation come first; physics and consistency are secondary.

They’re casually ignored for the sake of entertainment.

So Io ceased questioning the flesh cocoon.

It’s clearly dead. Still, I can’t bring myself to check inside.

Lieutenant, if you’re certain you won’t catch a cold, make a path through this.

Without complaint, Vime severed the cocoon’s restraining tendrils with a broad knife.

Despite appearances, it proved fragile—ten seconds later, the cocoon rolled to the floor.

She stepped on it, advancing, but the Reaper showed no movement—no sign of the earlier agitation.

Silent. When she turned, her gaze fixed on Iou.

—What’s wrong, Reaper? You were supposed to lead.

—Sergeant… you shouldn’t come further.

—This facility, it seems, failed virus containment. They abandoned it.

—The deeper sections are likely a child’s toy box.

—If you die, Oxanun’s morale collapses. And if you become a monster…

—Firing on a comrade would be painful.

Oh, an event divergence. Io smirked.

Reaper seems to trust you to a degree.

—Even if you flee here, you’ll remain on the edge of death as long as you keep fighting Weedran.

And that just now… was the kind of statement made by someone who thinks they’re invincible.

—Maybe. But even if I die, there’s no family left. No lover. No friends. Not even in Yoldbik.

If I die, nothing changes. As you’d say, I’d just be forgotten.

A stare through the helmet visor. Reaper’s usual intensity is absent.

—You don’t know my purpose.

—Information’s mine to gather. That’ll settle our past debt.

—There’s a chance you’ll die without repaying it.

There’s no way I’m saying yes to that now.

Reaper, it’s fine to indulge in sentimentality—but I’m not letting you go alone.

Stop with the foolish self-sacrifice. If I’m to quote you, we’re comrades who’ve fought side by side.

I’ll protect you.

If you die on this mission, I won’t sleep well.

In this brutal world, you’re a rare asset—sisterly presence, even if the core’s a Saber Tiger.

...You’re trying to seduce me?

No, in multiple ways. And that’s the answer. If that’s all you wanted to say, I’m done discussing it.

...Well, I knew you’d say that.

Ah. Something’s cooled my head. I know your ability. I’ll leave it to you this time.

She lowers the gun and thrusts her fist forward.

Io matches the gesture, extending his own fist. She nods once, then raises the gun again.

Io sharpens his nerves.

Advance. Whatever lies within this facility, the situation favors concealment.

Stay alert.

Reaper, copy.

I trust you.

Io takes point.

Vime monitors from behind, Reaper switching to a handgun while gripping Io’s shoulder, following close. Vime advances relying on Reaper’s pull.

Reaper, as promised, had calmed. Enough to cooperate even with an opponent he disliked.

Ghost, don’t make a mistake.

You’d do well to save romance for another time.

—

Without warning, a sudden, chilling effect runs down the spine.

Io slows his pace, steps muffled, careful.

Shutter. The emergency barrier, a familiar sight since entering the facility. Dividing sections, again.

What’s different this time is the smudge of something indeterminate smeared across it.

And the thick ink inscription.

“Do not open. Monster inside.”

(That’s some movie or show reference. Seen this somewhere before.)

『No heat sources or moving objects detected within range.』

The Reaper steps forward. Disables night-vision mode.

A dull crimson emergency light casts a faint glow over the dimness. The Reaper stares at the shutter for a moment, then powers up the terminal as if nothing had happened.

“Secure the control room first. If we can determine what was done here in this bunker, the investigation will proceed smoothly.

Secure the data. If possible, also retrieve any concrete research outcomes.”

“A monster’s said to be inside. Getting interesting.”

“If it’s tougher than those lizards, that’ll be entertaining.”

Standard is Weedrun. High bar indeed.

Io laughs, continuing perimeter surveillance alongside Vime.

Smells bad.

Vime, usually sparing with words, growls, the irony aside.

The stench from the flesh cocoon they encountered earlier now saturates the surrounding area.

If it’s just a rotten “Freaky Meatball,” that’d be fine.

…You might want to impose an age restriction on your jokes.

Vime lowers his voice further, having imagined something from Reaper’s words.

?

“Part of Weedrun’s provocations, or a show of force.

They drag corpses through the net and discard them in plain view.

The mass of bodies forms a sphere or an ellipse from impact—hence the term ‘Meatball.’

Freaky is named after the region where it was first confirmed.”

An abhorrent setup. Makes one want to vomit.

Io grunted, shaking his head. Definitely not good. Can't leave them all alive.

The talk about lizard meat cooking is done. I’ll lose my appetite.

You're the kind of naive bastard I didn't expect.

—If you’re going to take this long to unlock it, I’ll just do it myself.

It's over. You gave me more resistance than the others—just barely.

Good. Breaking it open. Stay alert—

Frowned at the violent odor. From beyond the open shutter, a biological stench and warm moisture seeped out.

As if clinging to the skin. A tension sharp as a needle at the nape of the neck.

Something is felt. Something is here. Strange. Is this situation making it feel this way?

Something dangerous is near. I can feel it. Goblet says nothing.

(Goblet)

Still no moving object, no thermal signature

The visor’s night-vision cannot penetrate far.

Io advances with greater caution than before.

Silence breath. Silence footsteps. Silence even the heartbeat.

—Do not speak recklessly from here. No noise. Hold your breath.

—Something’s here?

—Yes. Nothing registers. Still, something’s here. A hunch.

—Your instincts are usually accurate.

Moving through darkness like a blade. The facility’s atmosphere shifts abruptly.

Up to this point, it had the unmistakable air of a military base—now it resembles a prison or an abandoned hospital.

Among the deliberately placed objects, a stretcher lies abandoned across the path, especially striking. As expected, it’s coated in some liquid, now cracked and dried hard.

Io pauses occasionally, sending hand signals to the Reaper behind.

Two ahead on the right passage. One inside the small room on the left.

Three stacked against the wall at the next turn. One atop a sofa shredded beyond recognition.

A flesh cocoon. Damp with filthy mucus, glistening under the light.

(—Goblet, are you really dead?)

—No biological response.

That’s impossible. Not in a situation like this.

The sensation of something piercing the back of the neck intensified.