ARENA DISTRICT PERIMETER | AUGUST 2323
Four months had bled away since Ren walked out of Sid's nameless cafe. Yet, safety remained a ghost he couldn't catch. In a city of millions, his eyes—those rare, crimson retinas—were a beacon he couldn't extinguish.
On a biting afternoon, Ren sought out an optical shop on the fringe of the Arena District. The Merge District was a wasteland of factories and rust; if he wanted precision, he had to cross the border.
He stood inside a mid-tier optician's, hood pulled low, glasses masking his face. The place made him skin crawl. He felt like a bullet that had been chambered for too long.
The heavy frames he wore daily were a curse. They cut his peripheral vision by twelve percent and left him with a dull, throbbing headache. It was the tax he paid for the hollow freedom Daniel had granted him—a freedom that still kept his face on the Platinum-Tier Most Wanted list.
Across the counter, a patient young assistant laid out trays of contact lenses.
"Please, take your time, sir," she said warmly. "Brown and deep blue are our best-sellers this week."
Ren shook his head. "I need something inconspicuous. Something that doesn't make my eyes look... dead."
The problem was the pupils. Under certain lights, the red bled through even the thickest lenses. He focused on the trays, his instincts momentarily dulled by the mundane task. He didn't even notice the other customers entering.
"Today's the last day, Nad."
"But you're only sixteen, how am I supposed to—"
In a split second, Ren's dormant instincts screamed. A movement from the checkout line next to him was on a collision course. His body took over. With a fluid grace, he pivoted his shoulder and applied a ghost of a touch to the stranger's elbow—a subtle redirection of momentum. It was nearly invisible, a micro-adjustment that kept him steady without drawing a single eye.
Ren glanced over. A young girl stood there, dressed in a crisp school uniform, her long pink hair swept to one side.
"I'm so sorry, we were just messing around," she apologized, clutching a box of sapphire-blue lenses. Her black-haired companion bowed beside her.
Ren noted the hair color—a specific hue that plucked at a string in his memory—but he severed the thought. In this neon-soaked dystopia, strange hair was just another trend.
"It's fine," Ren's voice came out low, raspy behind his mask.
The girl looked up and smiled. It was a sunburst of a smile, something that felt alien in a place this cold. For a heartbeat, their eyes locked. Ren's crimson gaze, a witness to slaughter and shadow, met a pair of innocent pink irises.
Fragile. Naive, Ren analyzed. Like a child who hadn't been tasted by the true Rich City yet.
He turned back to the catalog, his mind shifting to the alleys of the Merge District. Dark gray or pitch black would kill his night vision. He needed contrast.
"I'll take these," Ren pointed to a pair of amber-orange lenses. For a fleeting moment, the color mirrored the sunset he'd watched from his mother's lap thirteen years ago.
He crushed the memory, focusing on the technical specs. The amber would pop under the cold city lights, giving him the edge he needed. "Make sure the durability is top-grade."
"An unusual choice, sir. Right this way for payment."
As he settled the bill, the girls' voices drifted back to him.
"Sorry, I got carried away, Rena," the dark-haired girl whispered.
"You have to be more careful, Nad," the pink-haired girl replied with a soft laugh. The door chimed as they stepped out, severing their worlds once more.
Ren froze.
His heart didn't race from fear of exposure; it thundered at a name. Rena. The name Riko had etched into his soul. A moral debt. A promise.
He nearly dropped his wallet. The sudden emotional surge paralyzed his efficiency. He turned slowly, eyes locking on the exit where the pink hair had vanished. He needed to follow. But the panic had blunted his edge. He hadn't noted the school badge. He hadn't checked the uniform's crest.
"...ir... Sir?"
The assistant's voice snapped the tether. He paid, forcing himself back into the cold shell of a predator. He grabbed the bag and bolted for the door.
But it was too late. The genius assassin who had outplayed a Prime Minister stood helpless against a ghost. His tracking skills, usually surgical, were useless against the crowd.
Breathing hard, Ren realized the road to Riko's redemption was still a long, bloody one. Fate was never kind to him. Until that day came, he would have to keep running, keep fighting, and keep bleeding.
While Ren was left in the dust, Rena was being pulled into the golden heart of power.
She sat in the back of a leather-bound Rolls Royce, the silence so heavy it was suffocating. Beside her, Zero sat like a statue in a perfectly tailored tuxedo.
The air was frigid. Zero watched her with an analytical gaze that never flickered. Rena stared out the window, her mind a storm. Nadia bailed on me. On our last day. A small sting of betrayal, sharpened by Zero's presence.
Only minutes ago, as they left the optician's, the Rolls Royce had cut them off. Zero had rolled down the window, offering a ride with a smile that felt like a threat. Nadia had seen it—the silent command for time alone with Rena. Fear had won out over friendship. Nadia had made a flimsy excuse about grocery shopping and fled.
Grocery shopping? Your fridge is full, Nadia. I'm going to kill you when I get to the dorms.
As the anger bubbled, her eyes caught a figure outside. A boy from the shop, looking frustrated, sweat dampening his brow. Curiosity broke her silence.
"Something wrong, Rena?" Zero asked, reading her eyes.
She didn't look at him. "Nothing, Mr. Zero." She kept the title formal, a wall between them. "Just thinking about my friend."
Zero's smile didn't reach his eyes. "She needed to shop, and you don't have time for that. Not before the lockdown."
He leaned in, invading her space. "And drop the formality. I knew your mother, Dr. Riko. She was... extraordinary. A legend within the Palace."
Rena's breath hitched. She didn't want to talk about her mother—not here, not with the man whose world had swallowed her whole.
"I know why you're doing this," Zero whispered. "Leverage. You want to know who killed her. Am I wrong?"
Rena's eyes went wide. A cold shiver raced from the small of her back to the nape of her neck.
Zero leaned closer, his control absolute. "It's simple. Give me the results during next year's lockdown. Take the center spot. Reach the top of the charts."
He's a monster, Rena thought. And I have to shake his hand to survive.
"I'll be there, Zero." She dropped the titles. The contract was signed in blood now. "Don't you dare break your word."
Zero's smile was final. "I never break a promise."
Three months later, as Rena entered the blinding lights of power, Ren descended into the dark. Her ambition was built on a political future; his mission was rooted in a blood-soaked past.
JUNGLE DISTRICT PERIMETER | NOVEMBER 2323
The names of the elite nobles were etched in Ren's mind—long-term targets. But the name Santino burned with a different heat. He could forgive Daniel's games, but he would never forget the man who had sold his childhood for a stack of credits.
Ren spent two weeks in the Jungle District, a shadow in the low-rent coffee shops and bars frequented by Santino's couriers. He didn't need high-level contacts; he needed a rhythm.
He pieced it together from drunken complaints and discarded receipts: Santino was paranoid. He never left his base except for one thing—the midnight inspection of the weapons cache at Warehouse Venezuela. He went alone. He trusted no one. And that was his death sentence.
Ren didn't plan to break in while Santino was there. He planned to be the one waiting for him.
He bypassed the external security with the ease of a ghost, slipping past thermal sensors and motion gates. He didn't waste energy on the outer perimeter. He was already inside the dark, cavernous inventory room.
Three guards patrolled in a triangle formation among crates of illegal cargo.
Ren crouched atop a stack of wooden crates, timing their heartbeats.
The first guard was easy to isolate. As he turned his back, Ren dropped from the shadows like a raptor. His orange lenses cut through the dark, locking onto the target. No bullets. Just a thin carbon-black blade.
He muffled the guard's mouth and drove the blade into the base of the skull. Silence. 1.8 seconds.
The other two guards were walking together, five meters apart in a narrow aisle.
Ren drew a second blade. Left hand, reverse grip. Right hand, forward.
The left blade hissed through the air, piercing the second guard's arm—not to kill, but to shred the muscle. The guard's rifle clattered to the floor. Simultaneously, the right blade caught the third guard in the thigh, pinning him in place.
Before they could reach their radios, Ren was on them. He slid across the concrete, crushing the second guard's hand under his boot and shattering the radio. He did the same to the third.
With a cold precision, he finished them. The left blade found the second guard's heart through a gap in his vest. The right blade was ripped from the third guard's leg and driven into his carotid artery. A lethal, jagged cut.
Ren took the first guard's headset, turning the volume to a whisper. The channel was quiet. Santino was on his way.
The warehouse smelled of rust, salt air, and stale gunpowder. Ren stood behind a support beam, watching the main doors.
A single set of footsteps echoed. The door creaked open, and Santino stepped in, his aged frame wrapped in an expensive trench coat, a lit cigarette dangling from his lip. Alone. Just as Ren predicted.
Santino reached for the light switch. The flicker of the old bulb revealed the three bodies on the floor.
"What the hell? Get up!" Santino barked.
Then he saw the blood. The cigarette dropped. Panic, cold and sharp, flooded his old veins. He turned to flee, but the heavy iron door was already shut. A thick shadow stood in his way.
Ren.
He was a statue of lethal intent. He didn't speak. He just existed between Santino and the exit.
Santino, a man who had survived decades of violence, reacted on instinct. He yanked a pistol from his coat. "Who are you?!" Three shots thundered, filling the room with smoke.
The bullets hit nothing but cold air.
Ren didn't run; he flowed. By the time the muzzle flashed, Ren was already gone. He moved with a speed that defied the eye, and in the next heartbeat, he was close—so close he could smell the stale tobacco on Santino's breath.
A dry, clinical strike slammed into Santino's wrist—not a punch, but a rigid palm strike designed to shatter the nerves. The pistol hit the concrete with a sickening clang. Santino gasped, his mouth opening to scream for help that would never come, but Ren's hand was already a vice around his collar.
Ren slammed him into a stack of crates. Santino's head hit the wood, his vision swimming. Ren pinned him with a knee to the chest, crushing the air out of him.
The shadow was gone now. Ren's eyes, burning amber under the dim light, bored into Santino's soul. The black blade was a fraction of an inch from the man's throat.
Ren's voice was a whisper, colder than the warehouse air.
"You disappoint me, Santino," Ren murmured. "Is this all you have to show for the money you made selling my 'silver hair' all those years ago?"