The sun was setting, painting the city in fading strokes of orange. Its glow clung to the glass towers, spilling across the streets where John dragged himself onward.
He moved slowly—so slowly it seemed his legs carried bricks. One hand pressed hard against his left shoulder, the spot that still burned with pain from the car crash.
"Thrown off for real, huh… damn, it hurts. It hurts so bad…" he muttered under his breath.
Step after step, he forced himself back to the residential block. The moment he entered the lobby, the urge to collapse nearly crushed him. But instead, he staggered up the stairs, each flight heavier than the last. By the time he reached the fourth floor, his body screamed for rest.
The hallway stretched before him like a tunnel. He leaned against the wall, inching toward his door, sweat dripping from his temple. At last, he pushed inside.
But instead of collapsing on the floor, or curling up on his bed, John moved—slowly, deliberately—to the far corner of the room. From there, the window opened onto the skyline, half-lit in dusk. He slid down the wall and sat. His body wouldn't let him do anything else.
For a moment, he only breathed. The silence of the apartment pressed around him.
Today was a big day, he thought. I learned to use the rooftops, the alleys. I stole a map tablet—something only Templars and police should have. I awakened Hawk Vision… I killed another Templar.
He clenched his jaw. But at what cost? Now the entire police force sees me as an enemy.
With a sigh, he pulled back his hood. His face was pale, lined with exhaustion. His voice dropped to a whisper.
"I'm tired. But… can I really sleep? What if they break down this door in the middle of the night? Templars. Cops. Anyone. No… I can't afford to fall asleep. I have to stay awake."
But thoughts swirled, dragging him deeper into reflection.
I was ruthless today. Killing that Templar… I laughed. I smiled. Every time I kill, I feel it—a strange, consuming rush. The will to kill. And yet… I didn't kill that cop whose throat was under my blade. I didn't kill that driver when he stopped the car. Why?
His eyes unfocused as he wrestled with himself.
I'm unpredictable. I can be a maniac, or I can spare a life in mercy. Even I don't understand myself. But one thing I know… I refuse to kill anyone other than Templars. Everyone else—they're innocent. And an innocent life must be protected, not wasted.
The words echoed inside him like an oath.
But his body had other plans. Fatigue, pain, and blood loss weighed down his eyelids until his head slumped against the wall. Despite all his determination, John surrendered to exhaustion and drifted into a heavy, uncertain sleep.
Hours passed since sunset. The city lights had fully replaced the sun, and in the towering heart of Cyntera Corp, silence reigned.
Down a lonely staircase in the central tower, a figure sat slumped on the steps. His shoulders trembled, his hands buried in his hair, his eyes swollen with tears.
"Why… why did my brother have to die? What did I even do to help him?" Luke's voice cracked, echoing through the stairwell. Then his cry turned into a scream.
"Nothing! NOTHING!"
He clawed at his hair, sobs breaking his words. "I'm weak… I'm useless! He didn't have to die—it's all my fault!"
His voice carried through the empty tower, bouncing off the stone walls. Tears hit the steps in steady drops, his legs trembling beneath him. He could have blamed John—the assassin who had killed Mark. But Luke's mind never turned there. Instead, it circled inward, blaming himself.
I was nothing but a burden. He died protecting me. His last words were for me to run, and I did. I didn't even fight back…
The guilt gnawed at him until the thought rose, dark and tempting: Maybe I should just end it. Climb the tower… and jump. At least then, I'd spare myself this pain.
But before despair could consume him, the sound of footsteps echoed above. Someone was descending. Luke noticed but didn't care. Whoever it was didn't matter.
Then he felt it—a presence. Cold, heavy. When Luke turned his head, his heart froze. The Master Templar himself was standing there, his pale eyes blank and piercing.
For a long moment, the man said nothing, only staring. Then he closed his eyes, exhaled deeply, and gave a faint smile—not of warmth, but of control.
He lowered himself onto the step beside Luke. "I heard about your brother. Poor boy…" His tone was soft, almost mocking in its sympathy.
Luke's eyes widened. "M-Master!?"
"Yes." The man gestured casually toward the ceiling, where a camera lens blinked red. "I heard your voice echoing through the halls. Saw you sitting here. If you really want to grieve in peace, go to the left corridor. Thirteenth floor. No cameras there."
Luke flushed with a mix of shame and surprise. He hadn't realized his suffering was being broadcast.
The Master's gaze turned on him again. "Let's talk about Mark. Speaking of the dead helps us accept their death."
Luke swallowed hard, his voice trembling. "Our parents died from sickness. Mark was all I had left. He joined Cyntera… and then the Templars. I followed, just to stay close to him. And now… now he's gone." His words dissolved into another wave of sobbing.
The Master placed a hand on his shoulder. "If you want to die, don't jump here. It would damage Cyntera's reputation. Better to do it quietly. At home."
Luke froze, horrified. "What?!"
The man's expression didn't flicker. "Nothing. Don't mind it. Do you know why I came down here?"
Luke sniffled. "To… to talk with me?"
"Partly. But more importantly, to motivate you." His voice sharpened. "Right now, you are nothing. Parents—gone. Brother—gone. You? Weak. Useless. A nobody. And you know it."
Luke's breath hitched.
"But," the Master continued, leaning closer, "you can be more. Mark wanted you to be more. The version of yourself he hoped for—the strong one, the unbreakable one. Do you want to be a nobody forever?"
Luke hesitated, then whispered, "No…"
"Then get up. Train. Harden yourself. Become stronger, smarter, colder. Then find your brother's killer. Make him beg for death. Can you do that?"
Luke's voice shook. "M-me?"
The Master's eyes narrowed. "The whole building heard you crying. Everyone knows your pain. But listen carefully—it's not your fault Mark is dead. The assassin is guilty. Always blame the criminal, never the victim. Tell me, Luke: if a policeman fails to stop a crime, who is at fault? The officer? Or the criminal?"
Luke swallowed. "…The criminal."
"Exactly." The Master's tone sharpened like a blade. "Are you the criminal who killed your brother?"
"N-no, of course not!"
"Then stop weeping like a child. You are not guilty. The assassin is. Your brother's death demands justice. And you, Luke—you will be the one to give it. Train. Rise. Take revenge."
Luke's breathing steadied. His mind shifted, the despair turning into a grim flame. He's right. Why am I blaming myself? The one to blame is the assassin. The killer.
He closed his eyes, whispering to himself. I'm sorry, brother. For being so weak. But I promise—I'll grow stronger. I'll avenge you. I swear it.
When he opened his eyes again, the tears were gone. His face was cold, serious. "I'll avenge my brother," he said aloud, his voice steady.
Beside him, the Master Templar stared with a hollow, satisfied gaze. His lips curved just slightly, not in joy, but in fulfillment.
Midnight draped the city in silence. Most windows were dark, the streets empty, the world asleep—except for a few restless souls who found no peace in slumber.
In the far northern district, tucked into the corner of a residential block, a bar lingered open. Its floor shimmered with shades of blue beneath dim lights. Tables and chairs sat scattered, a dance floor and drinking counter waiting for patrons who never came.
Only two men occupied the place.
One was the bartender, sleeves rolled up, face lined with weariness as he cleaned the same glass for the fifth time. The other sat hunched at the counter, a white-haired man nursing a beer with a scowl etched deep into his face. Captain Edward—legend, veteran, and now, for the first time in decades, a failure.
"I can't believe this…" His voice was low, ragged. "I couldn't catch him. A criminal. My first failure in my entire career."
The words tasted like ash. His hand trembled around the glass, gripping harder and harder until—
crack.
The bottle shattered in his palm. Beer spilled across the counter in a golden flood, shards glittering in the dim light. Edward didn't flinch at the sting. His eyes burned with fury.
"Commander Roger entrusted me with this city. He left me as second-in-command! And I failed him? No. No!" He slammed his fist against the counter, breath shaking. "I'll assemble every force, every squad. We'll scour the streets. We'll find him. I will complete my duty as a police officer!"
The bartender froze, staring at the mess with thinly veiled annoyance. Edward noticed, blinked, then offered a crooked, almost sheepish smile.
"Uh… how much for the glass?"
The man behind the counter only sighed.
Edward, however, wasn't laughing. He was the city's oldest officer—the first man to ever don the badge here. Every mission he'd undertaken, he'd seen through with pride and resolve. But now, with his first true failure carved into his record, something inside him shifted.
That night, beneath the glow of the bar's dying lights, Captain Edward made himself a promise. He would hunt John down, at any cost.
Hours passed. The city turned over in its sleep. By 4 a.m., dawn was only a whisper on the horizon.
In a modest apartment, Grant stirred awake. He lay beside his wife, careful not to wake her as his alarm rattled against the nightstand. He shut it off quickly, sitting on the edge of the bed in silence.
He couldn't shake the memory.
The whisper. The words. The weight of them.
"Listen… I know you think I'm evil. But I'm not. I'm here to save this city. Cyntera Corp will destroy everything. Remember that."
John's voice haunted him, circling endlessly in his mind. A loop he couldn't escape.
By all logic, he should have dismissed it. He's a murderer. A vigilante. A criminal. Why believe a single word?
But he didn't. Somehow, against all reason, he believed him. The conviction in John's tone, the raw determination—it wasn't the voice of a liar.
Grant pressed his hands to his face, whispering to the empty room. "What does that mean? Cyntera… will destroy everything? How?"
Before the thought could settle, his phone buzzed in his hand. He answered quickly.
"Sergeant Grant, you up?" Captain Edward's voice was sharp, commanding.
"Yes—yes, sir."
"Good. I've launched Operation Shakedown. Every squad will be mobilized to search for him. Inform the other sergeants and privates."
"Yes, sir. Will be done."
The line went dead. Grant lowered the phone slowly, his heart still heavy.
Even as duty called him forward, John's words clung to him like a shadow. He couldn't shake them. Couldn't forget them.
Couldn't stop wondering if they were true.