The light was very bright and gathered around Carlos.

He moved slightly, feeling a terrible headache and nausea. He instinctively touched the back of his neck and was quite certain that he had undergone some kind of minimally invasive surgery—the kind of surgery that leaves no scars at all. Eoubs' surgeries never leave anything on your skin—unless they stuff something deadly inside.

And now, that unknown thing is gripping him, like a centipede with countless tiny limbs.

Carlos tried to estimate how long he had been unconscious, but he had no clue. The hazy memories had completely robbed him of his sense of time. Since the wound that had summoned 'Shared' had also disappeared, and that wasn't something that could be repaired with ordinary medical equipment... he felt that he would only need some time to remember who had done it.

"Relax, operative." A voice suddenly rang out.

He sat up straight immediately—actually, he was in excellent condition, and even noticed that he was wearing the clothes he had come in, which were covered in blood and had bullet holes in them, with his notebook lying next to him.

That's all there is. All the materialized special weapons are gone, and even a pen is nowhere to be found.

He couldn't find the source of the sound, then looked around—playing dead was out of the question now. It was a large room of about 100 square meters, with an orderly and compliant layout. The room was decorated in an American black and white style. The desk, office supplies, and decorations were all simple, but every detail was exquisite and comfortable to look at. All the decorations and designs were probably specially conceived, reflecting the aesthetic level that modern people should have.

The ceiling had a unique design, with a round, tower-like arch at the top and built-in lights that shone directly on him.

The room was warm right now, but there was something about it that sent a chill down your spine.

He found nothing that resembled a door or window, and had no idea how it had been brought in. On the opposite wall, there was a huge, bizarre oil painting. Vein-like patterns twisted and climbed to decorate the corners of the frame, and the whole thing was curved and hung down like spider webs. Carlos suddenly realized what this symbolized.

A custom-made cage.

It was prepared for him.

He stood up and slowly walked over to look at the portrait.

Its base seemed to be cast from some kind of metal, and its overall shape was completely different from the house. It exuded a cold and cruel aura, emanating a bloody and ominous atmosphere, as if it had devoured many people like a living creature.

He stopped and looked at the painting—in the sewers of a bustling city, tens of thousands of deformed monsters flowed, and bloodied humans became the prey, filling the entire frame, screaming and decaying.

Then he saw more.

Behind the absurd oil painting, the entire wall is carved with the intertwined bodies and faces of the deceased, their limbs broken and interwoven with lines twisted by pain, interspersed with iron hooks, spikes, or spears.

Carlos stared blankly for a while, only two thoughts in his mind—this painting is fucking ugly, Merlink would probably laugh himself to death if he saw it, and—

This thing symbolizes the victim of torture.

He had heard about it from someone in Eoubs a long time ago, something similar to the abstract art of tormenting people, but he hadn't really had a chance to see it back then.

The idiot who told him this described it in vivid detail, saying that there was an execution ground at the Judgment Department. It used to be a desert, but it was too hot, so it was forced to be converted into a lake. It is said that no matter how hard the bone is, it will break in that place and turn into soft, juicy rotten flesh. After a series of necessary procedures, they will become puppets or corpses that are like machines. In any case, they can only choose one path.

At this moment, Carlos stared at those instruments of torture, wondering what they were for, and then fell silent. Eoubs' methods of torturing people were far more advanced than this. They would destroy everything you cherished, smash those things to pieces, and then mix them into a bloody, viscous mess to give to you, making people bend over and gag, but you didn't vomit because you had already been hollowed out.

He thought to himself, "This work must have been created by some idiot, and that distorted thing must have hosted countless people like me who accidentally fell in, only to wail, submit, and despair under the bloody 'art'."

"It's just an artwork I acquired by chance, there's no need to worry about it so much."

The voice spoke again.

There was no exit from this place; it was like a huge, naturally formed execution ground. Carlos was certain he was not mistaken.

“Excuse me, I’m sorting through some manuscripts.” The man paused for a moment, then continued, “You know, any activity related to art is very trivial, after all, it is an elegant and sacrificial product—aren’t we all arranged to take turns performing on stage, and so are you, the alterator.”

Upon hearing this, Carlos chuckled involuntarily. He looked up and noticed that the ceiling was edged with gold, the tiny pieces reflecting light like a luxurious, glittering piece of amber outside the cage.

About five minutes later, the owner of the voice emerged from the darkness.

His attire was very simple, but his appearance was extremely strange. His limbs were incredibly thin, and his eyes were vertical pupils, like those of a reptile.

The room was spacious, but it surprisingly created a sense of urgency, as if a massacre could break out at any moment.

Aside from the various forbidden items recorded in the notebook, Carlos couldn't find any usable weapons. There was nothing here that could kill him, so he had to rely on himself.

832 took out the manuscript from his pocket without any emotion. He had already deciphered the new content revealed on it. As for the rest... that was a matter for the future. Perhaps it involved too many causes and effects, and even if he tried his best, he would not be able to understand it at all.

"There's no need to consider combat; we are not the enemy, Carlos."

He calmly took out his eye drops, applied a few drops as instructed, and then put them away.

"The reason we met is because it was already recorded in the 'Fate Code,' although it was just updated, but anyway... you are also in the predetermined ending."

"Fate? That name sounds like a sexually transmitted disease." Carlos chuckled. He thought someone tough would come out, but it turned out to be a charlatan.

"Your time is running out, operative."

832 said so.

"I need you to do something for me, and you can't refuse."

“Look, this is quite interesting.” As he spoke, the light from above the dome shone on him, a somewhat religious orange-yellow light that followed his every move and illuminated every detail.

"I inexplicably appeared in this godforsaken place, and then another equally strange person came out and ordered me to do something in a very irritating tone."

All I can say is—you son of a bitch, you're asking for a beating, aren't you?