Tik… tik… tik… tik…
The sound drilled into Yuri's skull, steady and merciless, like a countdown no one had bothered to explain.
…
A violent shock ripped through him.
In an instant—he lurched upright.
"WAIT—!!!"
The scream tore out of him raw and unfiltered, his hand shooting forward, fingers clawing at empty air—grasping for something, someone, that had already been taken.
His long, dark hair spilled over his face, plastered to his skin with cold sweat. His breaths came sharp and uneven, dragged out of him like a punishment. His lungs burned as though they'd forgotten how to work, pulling in air that never felt like enough.
His body trembled uncontrollably—drenched, vibrating with leftover agony that hadn't yet realized it was supposed to be gone.
With one shaking hand, Yuri covered his face.
Voices swarmed him.
Hundreds of them.
Screaming. Whispering. Laughing. Begging.
They clawed at the inside of his skull, overlapping, indistinguishable, familiar in the worst way.
He pressed both palms to his head, fingers digging into his scalp like he could hold himself together through sheer force.
"Wh—what… is… what… p-please…" The words fell apart in his mouth.
Then the agony surged.
His heart slammed against his ribs—fast, reckless, wrong—each beat threatening to tear itself free. The air scorched his lungs. Every joint screamed. Every tendon burned. Muscles seized and tore as if invisible hands were pulling him apart piece by piece, searching for the breaking point.
"GHAAAAA—!!! GHA—AAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!"
His scream ricocheted off sterile white walls, echoing through the hollow room, rattling the metal frame of the bed beneath him.
And then—
Gone.
The pain shut off instantly.
No fading.
No warning.
Just absence.
Silence rushed in to fill the space where agony had lived—cold, artificial, almost mocking in its gentleness.
Yuri's eyes snapped to the door as it burst open.
Seven figures stormed in.
White masks. Identical. Expressionless.
Three raised firearms.
Four unsheathed blades.
His body still felt foreign, sluggish, like it didn't fully belong to him—but danger was a language Yuri had learned before he'd learned how to grieve.
The blade-wielders moved first.
The gunmen held their ground.
BANG!—BANG!
The shots cracked through the room.
Instinct detonated.
Yuri twisted off the bed, bullets slicing through the space where his head had been a breath before. He hit the floor, rolled, came up already moving.
A blade screamed toward his skull.
He dipped under it, elbow snapping upward—CRACK—knocking the sword spinning from the attacker's grip.
His body followed through without permission.
A spinning kick shattered into the man's mask, porcelain exploding as the figure was launched across the room.
More rushed him.
Gunfire screamed.
Yuri leapt, twisting midair as the world blurred around him. He caught the airborne blade with his foot and kicked—hard—launching it like a spear. It punched straight through another mask, lodging deep in flesh.
Another sword was drawn.
Yuri's heel slammed down on the hilt, forcing it back into its sheath as he landed. He grabbed the wielder by the collar and yanked him sideways—just as bullets tore through the space he'd occupied.
The body went slack in his hands.
He let it fall.
The last blade-wielder froze.
Trembling.
Unable to move.
Yuri stepped forward, ripped the sword from the man's grip, and in one clean, merciless arc—
Drove it through the three gunmen.
The blade slipped from his fingers and clattered uselessly against the floor.
Silence.
His breaths came heavy now, ragged. His thoughts scattered, slipping through his grasp like water.
For a single, fragile moment—
Stillness.
Then he felt it.
A presence.
Cold. Heavy. Precise.
Yuri turned on instinct, arm snapping forward—
And stopped.
She caught his fist.
Effortlessly.
His vision swam, but details cut through the haze: long white hair bound into looping strands, dark skin marked by faint scars, golden eyes glowing like embers—burning, assessing.
Her aura pressed down on him like gravity.
Before he could react—
BAM.
A clean, brutal strike to his chin.
The world flipped.
Yuri's body lifted, then crashed hard against the floor, breath exploding out of him.
"Stand down," she said.
Her voice was flat. Absolute.
Yuri lay there groaning, pain blooming anew—but no killing intent followed. Just control.
His vision dimmed.
Darkness took him.
…
When he opened his eyes again, the world felt wrong in a different way.
Quiet.
Controlled.
His heartbeat was steady. His body—obedient.
Too obedient.
He stared at a plain white ceiling, breathing slowly, letting the fog in his mind thin out.
Then he turned his head.
She sat at the edge of the bed.
The same woman.
Her white hair was now bound into tight buns, her posture relaxed but unyielding. Arms crossed. Golden eyes fixed on him like he was a problem she'd already finished solving.
"Don't strain yourself by trying to speak," she said calmly. "Short answers only. Your body is still stabilizing."
Yuri swallowed, throat dry.
"W-where… am I…?"
She didn't hesitate.
"You are in the custody of the Head Assassin of the organization you've been unknowingly evading your entire life." A pause. "And you are now considered recovered property."
The word hit harder than any blow.
Property.
Yuri pushed himself upright, ignoring the protest in his muscles. His eyes scanned the room.
White walls.
Embedded ceiling lights.
No windows.
No visible door.
A box designed to hold something dangerous.
"I warned you," she said sharply. "Unnecessary movement will slow recovery."
Yuri looked down at himself.
Loose white clothing.
Unfamiliar.
He ran a trembling hand through his hair—and froze.
Longer.
Thicker.
Time had passed.
His voice shook.
"How long… have I been here…?"
She stood, turning away.
Her silence stretched—measured, deliberate.
"Rest," she said finally. "Heal. Do not test your restraints—physical or otherwise. Food and water will be provided. So will necessities."
A section of the wall slid open soundlessly.
She stepped through.
It sealed behind her.
Yuri was alone again.
His head throbbed. His thoughts tangled, pieces missing, memories bleeding into each other without order.
But one truth settled heavy in his chest.
This place wasn't a prison meant to break him.
It was a facility built to keep what it owned.
And Yuri wasn't leaving anytime soon.