"It's displeasing that a war criminal is judging me. Could you stop that? It's disgusting," I said coldly.
"...You're right. Sorry," she apologized without warning. The suddenness of it caught me off guard, leaving me momentarily stunned, unsure what to say next.
Clearing my throat, I pressed on. "Anyway, I know someone who can project memories so others can see them.
Wait for my word. Don't do anything that would make the Synth suspicious of you," I warned.
"You don't have to say that. That was my plan from the start. But you might want to take care of the ones lurking in the shadows, watching us even now."
"I've already prepared for that. I'll leave your house without being noticed. And if that fails, I have a Plan B."
"I see. Good luck, then."
I walked toward the entrance, but paused before leaving. Without turning around, I asked, "The rat on the roof... is that your doing?"
"There's no point in hiding it now. Yeah, it's mine. Why?"
"Lend me one."
"Sure... but why?"
"It's for a present."
She handed me a small rat that could easily be hidden in a pocket. Before leaving, I used it to plant a cotton-sized clump of smoke, tucking it into the rat's fur. It scurried out through the tiny gap under the door. Through it, I could "see."
I knew how Synth operated. Yurim's involvement in such a classified mission meant they had to be monitoring her. It would be strange if they weren't.
I didn't know how many eyes were on her, but with this rat, I'd find out. Once it neared them, the smoke I planted would catch their "flame," letting me detect their presence without blanketing the whole neighborhood and risking exposure.
As the rat slipped away, I sensed its movement. I wasn't sure how it knew where to go, but Yurim once said rats were drawn to Honor.
I lingered at the door for a few seconds longer before my body dissolved into smoke and scattered.
My vision went black—and when I came to, I was somewhere else. No, not "somewhere else." I was inside my own bedroom.
She must have placed my clone here before going about her routine.
How did I end up here? Simple: I transferred my consciousness to my clone.
It wasn't teleportation, exactly—more like shifting. I could move between clones or possess even a grain-sized puff of smoke expelled from my body.
Of course, it came at a cost.
The more often I shifted—and the more energy I needed to rebuild myself—the greater the risk of dissolving into mist particles permanently.
Without limits, I would eventually fade into ordinary mist.
Through testing, I learned I could safely shift between clones five times.
That number could change, though.
For instance, if Hakku was around—his power could convert anything into food imbued with buffs, like stamina restoration—I could push it to ten transfers.
As these thoughts crossed my mind, a painful memory surfaced without warning.
The war.
The mistake.
Images flashed: fallen Honors, shadow creatures ripping through our lines, screams of terror, desperate retreat, the commander's frantic orders—
Then, blankness.
A painless death.
We had been on a mission to secure eastern Africa when the shadows ambushed us.
It made no sense—they shouldn't have been able to strategize.
We had assumed they'd retreated after exhausting the area's food supply.
We had triple-checked with our Honor senses—sensitive enough to detect shadows within five kilometers—yet they caught us completely off guard.
They came in force.
Among them were two colossal shadows.
Their roars disabled our powers for critical seconds—enough to tip the battle.
No—maybe we were simply too weak, too careless.
I took a sharp breath, sweat trickling down my forehead.
Why was I thinking about this now?
I looked at my palm. It turned translucent, misty.
I focused, gathering the particles back into a solid hand.
Lost in thought, I was snapped back by the sound of the door opening.
I turned my head.
"Mira," I said automatically.
She looked at me, brows furrowed, her expression unreadable—annoyed, maybe, or something else.
"So, why did your clone turn into an idiot?" she demanded.
"I guess it's fine if I tell you," I said, exhaling smoke that quickly filled the room.
To anyone spying on us, it would seem unnaturally quiet—but they couldn't intervene.
I knew how Synth's spies worked. Observation, not engagement.
"I used my true power," I answered.
"Your true power?" she repeated, one brow arched skeptically.
"Yeah. I can blur concepts through the smoke I control. I call it the Smoke of Concept.
For example, I used it to open a tightly sealed briefcase by blurring the concept of its seal—confusing it—until it gave way."
"Each time I use the Smoke of Concept, my smoke becomes unstable. My clones become idiots as a result," I explained calmly, watching her reaction.
"That's not all, is it? What are you hiding, Big Bro Synnefo?" she asked, voice low with barely concealed anger. She even used my real name.
Just as I opened my mouth to answer, she tossed something at me.
I caught it effortlessly and glanced down—it was a small package of pills. Only two were left out of six.
"That's your medicine, right?"
"Where did you find this?" I asked, not angry, just genuinely confused. I had hidden it well.
But that wasn't the main issue.
I pressed, "How did you even know it was mine? I barely use them and never carry them around."
She hesitated for a moment, then answered coolly,
"...You'll find him sooner or later anyway, so I'll save you the trouble. His name is Trick."