Unwritten Mythos

The next day, the weather was dull and oppressive. Rain mixed with dust fell from the sky, creating a dismal scene as a young girl in a black coat walked along the empty streets. She raised her head to the dim Sun, its light barely piercing through the thick clouds, and unconsciously clenched her throat.

"Ah, ah, ah~"

She tried to sing, three notes in succession, but her voice was so hoarse, the sounds barely differed from one another. Frustration flickered in her eyes as she lowered her head and continued on her way.

The girl, known to the world as Hope, had once captivated audiences with her unique voice. Her songs were filled with a charm no one else could replicate. But that was two months ago, before everything changed.

As she reached her home, she pushed open the door to a room filled with musical instruments—pianos, guitars, violins—all collecting dust now. In the corner, CDs lay in messy piles, and posters of famous singers adorned the walls, reminders of the career she had once been so proud of.

Hope removed her coat and sat down in front of her computer. She tried singing again, but her voice cracked, hoarse and broken. The melody that once flowed effortlessly from her lips now sounded like a distant memory.

Two months ago, Hope's life had taken a sharp turn. She had always been meticulous about protecting her voice—avoiding anything that might cause irritation, from spicy foods to cigarette smoke. Then, one day, out of nowhere, she fell gravely ill. A high fever gripped her for days, and her throat became unbearably dry.

When she finally recovered, she was invited to perform on a TV program. It seemed like everything would go back to normal, but as soon as she stepped on stage, her voice betrayed her. It was hoarse, barely recognizable, and she couldn't sing a single note as she once did. Panic washed over her, but it was too late.

Her fall from grace was swift. Fans who once adored her turned away. They didn't care about the illness that had ravaged her body; they only cared about the voice she had lost. Desperation and fear consumed her, and despite all her efforts, her throat never healed.

As the pressure from her fans and manager mounted, she agreed to perform at a concert, knowing full well her voice hadn't returned. This time, she planned to lip-sync, hoping to weather the storm of public opinion. But fate wasn't kind—she was caught, exposed in front of everyone.

That was the final blow. Her fans, even the loyal ones, abandoned her. The name Hope, once a beacon of inspiration, was now a symbol of betrayal. Everything she had built was gone, all because her voice had failed her.

The world had moved on, as it always does. New faces, new voices, new scandals—each one washed away the memory of the last. No one cared about the fallen star who had once deceived her fans. The name Hope had faded from the collective consciousness, replaced by the next fleeting sensation.

In the quiet of her room, the young girl sat on the floor, headphones clamped tightly over her ears. She played a recording of her old voice, straining to recapture the magic it once held. But what she heard was a pale imitation—raspy, strained, and far from the beauty that had once captivated millions.

A tear slid down her cheek, tracing a path of despair as she curled up, hugging her knees. Her sobs were muffled, broken, just like her voice—hoarse and almost inaudible. The sound of her own anguish was a cruel reminder of what she had lost.

After a while, when the tears had dried and the sobbing had stopped, she stood up and walked to the balcony. The eighth floor. The height was dizzying, but she felt nothing as she gazed down at the world far below.

Without hesitation, she stepped onto the ledge. The city buzzed beneath her, unaware of the life about to end. She closed her eyes, shutting out the noise, the pain, the failure, and let herself fall.

She plummeted rapidly, expecting to be consumed by the inevitable pain. But it never came.

Opening her eyes wide in confusion, she saw a figure suspended upside down in front of her, defying all logic. A woman, her hair spiked white and wild, wearing a pristine white mask.

No, it wasn't the woman who was standing upside down—it was her.

The young girl dangled by her ankle, suspended just inches from the ground. Her hair brushed the cold pavement as she stared in confusion at the masked figure holding her effortlessly with one hand. The woman's other hand rested casually in her pocket, as if this were the most ordinary of situations.

Who?

The girl's thoughts swirled as she blinked, trying to make sense of the situation. The masked woman, dressed impeccably in a suit, looked down at her with an unreadable expression. Then, without warning, she loosened her grip.

The girl's head hit the ground with a dull thud, sending a jolt of pain through her skull. She scrambled to her feet, clutching her head in both hands.

"It hurts, it hurts... What are you doing?" she cried out, her voice a mixture of pain and confusion.

The woman tilted her head slightly, as if genuinely puzzled. "What are you doing?"

The girl's eyes widened in disbelief. "Can't you see? Of course, I'm committing suicide!"

The woman's reply was maddeningly calm. "I thought this was some kind of artistic act."

Mei—because who else could it be?—pulled out a white cloth and wiped her hands with slow, deliberate movements. Then, as if the entire scene hadn't just played out, she turned her back to the girl and retrieved a small bottle filled with a crimson liquid that looked disturbingly like blood.

"Of course, if you're so determined to die, why not make yourself useful first?" Mei's voice was smooth, almost indifferent. "Help me with a bit of research before you go. At least your death will have some value."

The young girl blinked, confusion clouding her tear-streaked face. "What research?"

Mei's smile was subtle, almost imperceptible. "Research related to the... life aspect." Without another word, she handed the girl a small vial filled with a crimson liquid.

"Drink it."

The girl stared at the vial, her hands trembling. "What is this?"

"Does it matter?" Mei's tone was sharp, cutting through the girl's hesitation. "You're going to die anyway. Why bother with all these questions?"

"Then at least let me die knowing what I'm drinking," the girl retorted, her voice shaking but defiant.

Mei's expression remained unchanged. "It's poison."

Poison.

The word hung in the air like a death sentence. The girl's gaze dropped to the vial, her thoughts swirling. Could she trust this stranger with the mask? Did it even matter anymore?

"Will it hurt?" Her voice was small, almost a whisper.

Mei, hands now back in her pockets, let out a short, impatient sigh. "Are you still planning on dying or not?"

Time seemed to stretch as the girl weighed her options—or what little was left of them. With a deep, shaky breath, she tilted her head back and swallowed the potion in one gulp.

The taste was metallic, thick, and horribly reminiscent of blood. Almost immediately, her body seized up, and a wave of excruciating pain shot through her like fire.

"Aaaaah..."

The scream tore from her throat as she crumpled to the ground, every muscle in her body twisting, as if being ripped apart from the inside out.

Mei observed the girl's torment with clinical detachment, her pen briskly scribbling across the notepad. The girl's screams, the convulsions that racked her body—they were all just data points to Mei, nothing more.

The Vampire No.1 reagent's composition was crucial to understand. The blend of human blood, bat essence, toadfish extract, and the blood of the second generation of Deep Ones had been a careful concoction, each ingredient selected for its unique properties. On the other hand, the Vampire No.2 reagent replaced the human blood with leech extract, a subtle yet potentially significant alteration.

Mei's goal was simple: to determine how a minor change in the components might affect the overall potency and transformation induced by the Potion. But as the girl's transformation unfolded, it became clear that this experiment was veering wildly off course.

Scales began to form along the girl's skin, iridescent and sleek, followed by the sudden appearance of fins where her ears once were. Her long hair darkened into a deep, unnatural blue, cascading down like a waterfall of ink. Mei's eyes widened slightly—an unusual reaction for her—as the girl's legs fused together, reshaping themselves into a single, powerful tail.

A mermaid? No, not just any mermaid—a siren.

Mei's thoughts, though her outward calm never faltered. This was supposed to be a Vampire potion, nothing more. How had it mutated into this? The implications were troubling, far beyond what she'd anticipated.

Suppressing her frustration, Mei coolly added another entry to her records on her cell phone, her fingers tapping with precision.

Number 007: Sirens.