After the birthday party, exhaustion washed over Iris like a tidal wave. Every step back to her room felt weighted by the day’s burdens until she finally collapsed onto her bed, sinking into the mattress as if it were a sanctuary. From the corner of her eye, she noticed a new letter from her future self resting on her nightstand. The familiar red book lay open, its fresh page filled with the handwriting she’d come to recognize. But overwhelmed by the physical and emotional toll of the day, she closed her eyes and let sleep claim her—a deep, dreamless slumber that offered a temporary escape from visions of the future and the enigmatic Fate.

  When Iris awoke, a strange, warm glow filled her room. Blinking away the remnants of sleep, she soon discovered the source, a swarm of fire butterflies, more numerous than before. They flitted erratically around the room, their gentle, flickering light casting dancing, golden shadows on the walls. The soft hum of their wings resonated with her heartbeat, and though the flames they carried did not burn, they radiated a comforting yet disconcerting warmth.

  With a deep, steadying sigh, Iris swung her legs off the bed and rose, stretching her arms high. The lingering fatigue mingled with a renewed sense of curiosity and determination. The fire butterflies danced around her as if urging her onward, their ethereal glow illuminating the pages of the red book on her desk. Gathering her resolve, she reached for the book, prepared to confront its message—no matter the cost.

  The moment her fingers brushed its cover, the room’s warm glow vanished. One by one, the fire butterflies extinguished like candles blown out, and the gentle hum was replaced by a frenzied, raving roar, interlaced with chilling screams of madness. The noise was so intense that Iris’s ears throbbed with pain, a sharp, piercing agony shooting through her head.

  As the cacophony peaked, Iris felt a strange, invasive change in her eyes—a vivid red ring began forming around each iris. An inexplicable compulsion urged her to open the red book. Despite the searing pain, she read the page with trembling hands, desperate to know its message.

  Inside, only seven words were written—no signature, no comforting sign-off from her future self—just a simple, haunting message. As Iris’s eyes scanned the page, the room seemed to close in around her. The words seared themselves into her mind, leaving a deep, unsettling imprint. Blood mingled with tears that streamed down her face, and even from her ears, a trickle of crimson ran, blurring the world until all became darkness. With a dull thud, Iris passed out, collapsing onto the cold floor. The cacophony of earlier horrors faded abruptly, leaving only silence and the lingering echo of those seven damning words, etched indelibly into her consciousness. The red book remained open beside her, its secrets temporarily concealed but far from forgotten.

  Hours later, Wallace burst into her room, his face pale with mounting worry. Reports of her absence from class had reached him, but his concern deepened when he saw the blood smeared across her cheeks—a grim mix with dried tears. As he scanned the room, his eyes fell upon a worn, torn notebook on her desk—an ordinary, empty journal that, to him, made the red book seem like nothing more than an old relic with a hidden truth visible only to Iris.

  Desperation driving him, Wallace knelt beside her and placed his glowing green fingers over her eyes, summoning his healing power. Yet, his usually reliable abilities faltered; the crimson stains were not from any visible wound. Madness flickered briefly in his mind—but that explanation didn't fit. As an authority-type ability user, Iris should be immune to such inexplicable effects. No external physical alterations marred her body, leaving him utterly baffled.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Wallace scooped Iris into his arms and sprinted out of the room with a palpable urgency, his heart pounding. At the crowded hallway, he leaped over the railing, landing with a jolt before quickly using his powers to smooth away the impact. His feet barely touched the floor as he raced toward the medical office, ignoring the confused, concerned stares from passing students. Charles, alarmed, attempted to follow but found himself struggling to keep up with Wallace’s determined pace.

  Bursting into the medical office, Wallace gently laid Iris on a hospital bed. He hurriedly attached monitors and set up equipment, his brow furrowing in concentration as beads of sweat formed on his forehead. Despite his frantic efforts, nothing visibly wrong registered on the screens—except for the continuous trickle of blood that stained the pillow beneath her head.

  A few minutes later, the door slammed open as Charles burst in, breathless and wide-eyed. “What happened to her? Is she okay?” he demanded, his voice trembling with fear.

  Wallace shook his head, a deep frown etching his features. “I don't know,” he admitted, uncertainty lacing his tone. “There doesn’t seem to be anything physically wrong with her—her vitals are stable—but this… whatever it is, it’s beyond my understanding.”

  Charles clenched his fists, frustration, and helplessness evident in his eyes. “There must be something we can do. We can’t just leave her like this,” he insisted.

  Wallace sighed and placed a comforting hand on Charles’s shoulder. “We’ll keep monitoring her,” he said, striving for reassurance. “For now, all we can do is wait and hope she wakes on her own. We need to figure out what caused this, but until then, we hold onto hope.”

  The room was heavy with tense silence, punctuated only by the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor—a constant reminder of the unknown battle Iris was facing. Wallace’s mind raced with unanswered questions while Charles kept a vigilant, protective watch over his friend.

  Suddenly, Fate burst through the door, appearing winded as though he’d just sprinted there. His eyes darted to Iris, and without a moment’s hesitation, he rushed over to her bedside, roughly shoving Charles aside in the process.

  “Ow! What was that for?” Charles exploded, his voice rising in anger.

  “Shut it, you pest,” Fate snapped, his tone cold and unyielding. “Don’t make another sound, or else.”

  Wallace stepped forward, his expression darkening. “What are you doing here, Bookkeeper? Unless you're finally going to answer my question from last time, I don’t want you in here,” he demanded, distrust lacing his words.

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  Fate ignored Wallace’s remark, his attention fixed solely on Iris. “She appears to have suffered a mental-based attack,” he began, his voice uncharacteristically grave. “An assault of this magnitude would normally drive an Awakened into madness. However, thanks to her Authority, Iris remains immune to its corrupting influence. Her mind has sustained damage, which is why she’s unconscious—but there shouldn’t be any major side effects.”

  Wallace’s eyes narrowed as he processed the information. “So she does have an Authority. At least tell me what it is,” he pressed, his tone firm yet laced with cautious curiosity.

  Fate shot Wallace a look of annoyance before relenting. “Fine. The payment for this information is simple, continue watching over and treating her,” he stated coldly. “Iris’s power is twofold—she possesses pyrokinesis, but her true strength lies in the Authority of Nothing. These abilities have fused, giving her flames that can burn away aura itself. You Authority users rarely grasp the full extent of your power. She’s not using her power to her full potential, but this will do for now.”

  Wallace’s eyes widened in realization. “Authority of Nothing… what an odd yet powerful ability,” he mused, his mind racing with the weight of its implications.

  Charles, his earlier anger now replaced by genuine concern, turned to Fate. “So you're saying Iris will be fine, right?” he asked, his voice trembling with worry.

  Fate fixed his gaze on Charles, his expression inscrutable for a long moment. “Yes, that is true,” he confirmed, his tone measured. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added with an unsettling lilt, “How odd… your future has changed. Be happy, boy—though I’m not sure how, your lifespan has increased.”

  With those cryptic words echoing in the silence, Fate turned and strode out of the room, leaving a heavy, lingering stillness in his wake. Wallace and Charles exchanged troubled glances, the gravity of Fate’s revelations settling like a weight upon them. The enigmatic figure’s sudden appearance and ominous comments only deepened the mystery surrounding Iris’s condition and the true nature of her power.

  “Who was that man? He was so... off. And what did he mean by ‘your future has changed’?” Charles questioned, still puzzled and uneasy.

  Wallace leaned against the wall, his mind churning as he collected his thoughts. “That man is A.E.G.I.S.’s greatest asset—the Bookkeeper. Somehow, he seems to know everything, even everyone’s future. For the first time, he appeared surprised. Apparently, you’ve managed to alter your destiny. He implied that such a change couldn’t occur unless he intervened.”

  Charles’s voice was soft, laced with uncertainty. “This must be a good thing… I hope,” he muttered, desperately trying to cling to hope in the face of so many unanswered questions.

  Within the cramped confines of the birdcage, Superbia loomed over an unconscious Future Iris, a sinister smile spreading across his face. With a swift, brutal kick, he sent her crashing against the cold metal bars—the sickening crunch of breaking ribs echoing in the confined space. As she slumped to the floor, gasping in agony, the demon casually extended his hand. With a flicker of dark energy, he healed her wounds as if they were nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

  “What… what did you do to me? How is Iris? Did she receive today’s message?” Future Iris groaned, struggling to rise as she clutched her sides in pain.

  Superbia chuckled, his laughter a cruel, mocking sound that reverberated through the chamber. “Oh, everything went splendidly,” he sneered. “Though I must say, the modifications you made to your letter were quite… interesting.”

  “Modifications? What are you talking about, you bastard?” Future Iris demanded, her voice a mix of confusion and seething anger.

  The demon’s laughter grew louder, his tone dripping with sadistic glee. “It’d be too boring to simply tell you. Let’s just say I spiced things up after your rude attitude yesterday. She should remain unconscious for a bit—I do hope she wakes before the 13th, or else both she and Wallace will meet a dreadful end.”

  Future Iris’s eyes flared with horror and rage as the demon’s taunting words sank in. Determined to fight back against this dark force, she summoned her inner flames with fierce intensity. Fire coalesced around her hand, morphing into a brilliant, blazing sword. With a defiant battle cry that echoed through the chamber, she lunged at Superbia, slashing at him with every ounce of strength she had left.

  Superbia moved with a graceful menace, effortlessly sidestepping each of Future Iris’s fiery strikes. Her flames blazed with furious intensity, lighting up the dark, oppressive room as she propelled herself forward, her blazing sword carving through the air in arcs of searing light. The confines of the cage echoed with the crackle of fire and the resounding clash of her weapon against the demon’s dark energy, while the scorched ground bore testament to every desperate step she took.

  Yet, despite her relentless assault, Superbia always remained one step ahead. He dodged her attacks with a playful, almost mocking smirk—his eyes gleaming with malevolent amusement as if to ridicule her futile efforts. With each evasion, her strength waned; her breaths became ragged, her muscles burned with exhaustion, and the once-brilliant flame of her sword began to flicker uncertainly.

  After what felt like an eternity of fierce combat, her energy finally ebbed away. Her movements slowed, her swings less precise. Seizing the moment, Superbia deflected her weakened strikes with a mere wave of his hand. In one final, desperate surge, Future Iris lunged at him, but he caught her wrist mid-swing, twisting it with a sharp, agonizing snap. The fiery sword dissolved into a cloud of embers, and she staggered back, gasping for breath as pain seared through her injured wrist.

  Superbia loomed above her, his eyes cold with dark triumph. “Is that all you’ve got?” he taunted, his voice dripping with condescension. “How disappointing.”

  Future Iris glared up at him, her body trembling with exhaustion and raw frustration. She had poured every ounce of her strength into this fight, yet it was not enough. The demon’s power was overwhelming, a brutal reminder of her own vulnerability. As the surrounding flames finally sputtered out, leaving only the stark, cold darkness of the cage, she realized just how dire their situation truly was. The echo of Superbia’s mocking laughter reverberated through the silence, a relentless reminder of the twisted game she was trapped in.

  “I’ll come back to let you know when she wakes up,” the demon sneered as he turned and walked away, his steps slow and deliberate, each one a promise of further torment. “Don’t worry—attack me all you want. In this ruined world, you’re the only one who dares to fight.”

  Left alone in the oppressive gloom, Future Iris lay on the cold, hard floor of the cage, her body trembling with exhaustion. The sting of her injured wrist pulsed painfully—a cruel memento of her failed rebellion. Tears welled in her eyes, mingling with the lingering despair, as she clutched her wounded wrist and fought against the rising tide of hopelessness.

  Yet even as the crushing silence enveloped her, a flicker of defiance remained. In that moment of bleak vulnerability, she clung to the memory of her past self—a version untouched by the horrors that now besieged her. With a deep, shuddering breath, she let herself sink into the darkness, her mind whispering prayers that her past self might one day find the strength to change their fate.

  The demon’s mocking laughter still echoed faintly, a haunting promise of the struggle yet to come. But in that brief, solitary pause, Future Iris nurtured a stubborn hope for redemption—a belief that somewhere, in another time or place, there remained a chance to break free from the chains of despair. And with that fragile hope, she allowed herself a moment of rest, even as the darkness pressed in around her.