Don Quixote had been ecstatic for her first day as an L2 Agent. How could she not be?

The esteemed W Corp., in all its glory, promised a service like none other—a magnificent act of progress for the City, ferrying people across unimaginable distances in a mere ten seconds.

When she’d donned her new uniform that morning, she had felt something akin to knighthood—a mission, carrying both honor and purpose.

To safeguard the passengers on their swift journeys—

To stand as a guardian to those entrusted to her care—

She had long envisioned it as a noble calling. She had believed in it, deeply, naively, as one might believe in a dream.

...But now, standing in that cramped car where rotting crimson poured and poured, reality bared its teeth like a rabid dog.

The inside of the WARP Train was a grotesque tableau, smeared in stagnant sanguine and spoiled meat, the air thick with a rancid stench that clawed at her lungs and clung to her skin.

The walls, seats, and floors were a twisted mire of flesh, mingling and writhing like decayed worms that refused to perish.

Limbs melded where they shouldn’t, eyes that stared from unnatural angles, mouths frozen in silent, perpetual agony—

Passengers—no, remnants of passengers—distorted into impossible shapes, as if time itself had devoured them from the inside out.

You worked with practiced efficiency, severing, sorting, and reassembling the deformed bodies with the precision of someone who’d done this countless times. The rip-space technology in your blade made clean cuts, slicing through flesh with an ease that was almost mechanical.

To you, this was routine. Just another day as a L3 Agent.

But she could not look away. She could not force herself to move, to act, to pretend this horror was anything less than it was.

“...Senior,” she whispered, her voice breaking, “what… what is this...?”

The vision she’d clung to—a chivalrous mission, a protector’s duty—was hollow.

A child’s dream cracked open to reveal the rot that festered inside.