The room finally exhaled. Shadows from the dim lights
stretched across the walls, painting everything in muted gray. The Painkillers
shifted subtly, waiting, watching, the air thick with silent obedience.
Silver rose, smooth and deliberate, carrying an authority
that made the very air feel heavy.
"Well, that's all for today, boys. You may rest now."
His voice carried cold finality.
"And yeah… take Bond with you. He might be hungry."
A ripple passed through the crowd. One man stepped forward,
calm and gentle in a room of disciplined shadows. He bent slightly, tilting his
head to meet Bond's eyes.
"Are you really Bond…?"
Bond's gaze was sharp, cold.
"I think so."
The man exhaled softly, a sound heavy with recognition and
quiet sorrow.
"Yeah… it's you. After all. Silver brought you."
He straightened, brushing a hand lightly across his collar.
"You know… I visited your place often. I saw you when you
were a kid. Maybe two… maybe three years old."
A faint smile flickered, caught in the memory of Vega,
before the light drained from his eyes.
"To me… and to all of Painkillers, Vega was never a pillar.
He wasn't a ruthless family member. He wasn't a tower."
His voice dipped, weighted with reverence.
"For me… he was an angel. Someone who descended into hell to
give us… one last chance to remember we were human."
He stopped. The silence thickened, carrying the absence of
the man he had loved and lost.
"Guess the angel… wasn't strong enough to fight the whole
hell."
Bond's throat constricted. He forced himself to speak, voice
small but deliberate:
"What's your name, mister?"
"Kirk."
Bond's world shifted. His chest tightened. His heart
thrummed painfully against ribs that still hadn't grown accustomed to loss.
And then the memory came, vivid and unrelenting.
---
Vega knelt before Bond, holding his son's gaze with
unwavering attention. Sunlight streamed through the windows, warm and
forgiving. Bond's mother sat nearby, eyes wide but calm, letting him be with
his father. Everything was quiet, ordinary — a fragile bubble of normalcy.
"Look at me, Bond."
Bond trembled, hands gripping his father's. Tears welled,
but he met Vega's gaze.
"Pretty soon… somebody is going to come. They'll take me
somewhere far."
"No!" Bond's voice broke, shattering the quiet.
"You can't leave me! You're going to leave me alone! Why,
Dad? Why can't you fight them? You're strong… always strong!"
Vega's hand rested lightly on Bond's shoulder.
"You will not be alone." His voice was calm, certain.
"There will be someone… someone just like me. Someone who
will treat you as I do. You'll meet him. His name… is Kirk."
Bond let the words sink into him, fragile and impossible to
ignore.
---
Bond lifted his gaze to Kirk and saw the truth: sorrow,
promise, the weight of Vega's last gift.
Tears slid slowly down his cheeks, dripping onto the cold
floor. Each drop carried memory, loss, and a fragile thread of hope.
He walked forward, measured, deliberate — carrying grief and
trust alike. Kirk followed silently, letting him find his rhythm, letting him
bear his grief naturally.
For the first time since the massacre, Bond did not feel
completely abandoned.
---
Meanwhile, elsewhere, the pillars of Darima gathered in a
luxurious room. Four chairs circled a polished round table. Crystal glasses
glimmered faintly, catching the low light.
Doccaro set down his tea cup, quirking an eyebrow at Noir.
"What did Darhua even see in you?"
"Maybe I told everyone out there, right?" Noir replied,
casually fixing his hair.
"Yeah, but still… you have to be somewhat powerful to be a
pillar. Family wars, politics… you know the drill." Doccaro leaned back,
smirking.
"Tell you what, big guy," Noir said, straightening, "I am
what you call an exception."
"Not all exceptions have to be unique, you know."
"But I am, big guy." Noir's tone was calm, confident.
Doccaro laughed, smirk widening. "What made you think that,
huh? Your brain really that big, taking care of all the muscles in your body?"
Noir sighed, exhaling slowly. "Let's be honest… I'm not
winning one-on-one. But my team versus yours? Guardians will come out on top."
Doccaro's laugh boomed, sharp and amused. Water glimmered at
his eyes before he locked gaze with Noir.
"All it would take is one punch. Do you think your team
could stop me?"
"Okay, okay, okay," Silver interrupted, clapping lightly.
"We can talk later, guys," Psycho said, the fourth pillar,
his pierced mouth catching the light.
Silver's gaze bore into Noir. Hands firmly on the table,
voice calm and commanding:
"So tell us exactly what you did, Mr. Einstein."
Noir met his stare, unflinching. The room seemed to shrink
under the weight of power, pride, and silent threats.
---
Meanwhile, at the police station…
"What do you mean there are no fingerprints on the entire
house?" Nicolas shouted, eyes wide, disbelief painted across his face.
Flint stepped forward, holding the reports, grim and
exhausted.
"Sir… we have nothing. CCTV footage gone. Streets nearby?
Wiped clean. No fingerprints on doors, doorbells, or inside the house — except
for the family themselves."
Nicolas ran a hand through his hair, pacing. "So… all that…
in such a short time? And the neighborhood? Surely someone saw something?"
Christine shook her head. "No, sir. They said first they
heard gunshots. Then… the attackers used microphones, warning anyone who came
out that they'd be killed immediately."
Nicolas clenched his jaw. "What the hell is going on?"
Flint's eyes were sharp, anger and exhaustion mingling.
"Someone took care of everything. Every trace erased. Even
tire marks gone. Nothing left to follow."
"What about the CCTV?" Nicolas barked, pointing. "Someone
must have used it. Someone must have seen them. Find them!"
Flint's gaze hardened. "Sir… they're all… dead. We've
confirmed it."
Silence fell over the station, suffocating. Even the faint
light filtering through blinds seemed extinguished.
Nicolas stood frozen, mind spinning. There was no way to
trace the killers. No evidence, no witnesses.
All of it had been executed by a single man: fragile in
body, sharp in mind. A man who could shatter the confidence of the best officer
in the city.
His name was Noir.
"I don't have to tell you anything," Noir said, leaning back
with that lazy defiance in his eyes. "If you doubt me, ask Darhua."
The air shifted.
Footsteps echoed in the hall — slow, steady, unhurried — yet
the weight behind them pressed on every chest in the room. Darhua stepped
through the doorway like a man carved out of authority itself. His gaze didn't
simply fall on them — it cut through them.
The pillars respected Darhua… but not in a way that made
them rise from their seats or bow their heads. And Darhua never wanted that.
Respect out of fear was cheap. He wanted the kind that comes from heart, from
instinct — the kind that appears uninvited the second his presence fills a
room.
And it did.
Silence crashed over them. You could hear the wind brushing
against the windows.
Darhua walked straight to the framed photograph on the wall
— his father, the former head of the Darima family. A man whose shadow still
ruled parts of their world. Darhua stood before the picture with a proud calm,
a reverence born from blood and legacy.
Without turning, he spoke
"I selected him, Silver. I know exactly who he is."
Silver stiffened. Noir didn't flinch.
"He is not a threat. He is a pillar — just like you. He is a
member."
Darhua's voice held no room for argument.
"And for your information, the entire mess you left behind
while killing Vega… was wiped clean by him. The police have nothing — no trail,
no face, no clue about Vega or about us. All thanks to him."
Silver's eyes snapped toward Noir, sharp as steel.
Noir raised a brow, calm as a sleeping lake.
"He's Gilbert to them, as you know."
Darhua moved to his chair and sat, fingers interlocked,
posture sharp and steady. His gaze swept over each pillar — a quiet reminder of
why he led them, why they followed.
"There is someone you have to take care of," he said, his
eyes locking on one man.
"Psycho."