Fu-Lan Seo

The elevator doors opened—and seawater trickled out first.

Not a flood. Not dramatic. Just enough to soak the Association’s pristine marble floor and make the receptionist hesitate.

Then came the click of heels.

Fu-Lan Seo, code-named Focalors, stepped into the headquarters like she was entering a courtroom halfway through a trial she already planned to win. Her coat was soaked to the hem in brine, her navy blouse clung to her shoulders like silk born of the tide, and a hydro-glyph halo glowed faintly at her back like a divine signature refusing to dim.

Her hair curled slightly from the moisture. Her expression?

Smiling. Arrogantly. Precisely. With teeth.

“Don’t bother calling the Director,” she said, waving off the nearest clerk. “He didn’t summon me. I summoned myself.”

She kept walking. Not too fast. Not too slow. Just fast enough to suggest the building should’ve been ready for her five minutes ago.

A nervous A-Rank in the hallway stammered.

“E-Excuse me, miss? This area’s for post-raid clearance and—”

She didn’t stop. Just extended one hand mid-step. A wave of pressurized water coiled from her wrist, wrapped around the man’s mouth, and snapped shut in a perfectly harmless, overly dramatic splat. His face flushed as it dripped off.

“Sorry. You almost interrupted my entrance. Unforgivable.”

She entered the main war room just as the tension in the air turned brittle.

Choi Jong-In was already yelling. Baek was pacing. Welt stood by the window, silent and surgical as always. And in the far back corner, Go Gun-Hee sat—older than yesterday, eyes heavier, one chair visibly empty.

Min Byung-Gyu’s.

Until now.

“Good afternoon, esteemed gentlemen,” she called out, throwing her arms wide like a performer on trial. “I assume the vacancy in your moral backbone has not yet been filled?”