John returned to Mike's place. Same guard. Same password. Same dark, steam-filled corridors swallowing every sound. Nothing in this place ever changed… except the way it made John feel each time.
He walked toward the trading table, scanning the room for Mike. For a moment, he couldn't find him. Then, tucked around the corner of the table, he spotted that familiar face — Mike, crouched down, sitting with his knees hugged tight to his chest.
John approached and cleared his throat. Mike lifted his head slowly. John stood over him, expression sharp and serious, and Mike's eyes flickered with something — shock, or maybe a thought he'd been chewing on for too long. He forced a half-smile and pushed himself to his feet.
"So you're back already… John."
Standing like that, the height difference was obvious; Mike towered over him.
"I'm back with the money," John said flatly.
"O-ok… I see… n-no need to rush, alright?" Mike murmured.
"Please, Mike. We're both busy people, right?" John kept his tone steady.
Mike's smile shifted, eyes narrowing with something unreadable, but still there was that quiet, "Okay."
They moved beside the trading table. John reached into the pockets of his uniform, pulling out the stack of money. Mike took the C4 bomb from under the table and set it down gently.
John grabbed the bomb, gave it a quick look, then lifted his gaze. Mike was staring at him, eyes thin as blades.
"Could you do me a favor?" John asked.
Mike answered fast, almost too eager. "Of course! What can I do for you?!"
John opened his palm — cut, bleeding, messy.
"I could really use a bandage right now."
Mike's worry hit instantly. "Oh God! Are you okay?"
"Yes, I'm fine. I just… can't walk around with a bleeding hand, right?" John said slowly.
In a heartbeat, Mike crouched down and rummaged through a tiny shelf beneath the table. He came up with a roll of bandage and hurried toward John. He held John's hand and began wrapping it carefully.
And the moment Mike's fingers brushed his skin, John's mind slipped backward — to when they were kids, running around, slapping hands together every time they met. Back when things were simpler. Back when neither of them carried this weight.
Now… now it felt different. Too much attention. Too close. John felt himself stiffen, staring at Mike's worried face in disbelief. But Mike didn't look away. Not once. His eyes stayed glued to John's hand as he wrapped the bandage with slow, precise movements.
Finally, he tied it off. "All done! I hope it gets better."
John flexed his hand once, twice. It didn't hurt as much anymore.
"Thanks," he muttered with a half-smile. "Also… do you have a bag?"
"What bag?" Mike asked.
"Just a normal backpack. To fit the bomb."
"Of course!" Mike darted to a small room in the corner.
Left alone, John stood silent for a moment.
Mike… he's trying so hard to please me… I don't even know what made him like this. But I was the one who put him in this situation in the first place. With what dignity can I even talk to him?…
Guilt wrapped around his chest like chains.
Soon Mike returned, breath slightly quick, backpack in hand. John took it, slipped the bomb inside, and slung it over his shoulders.
"Thank you," he said quietly. Then hesitated. "Also, uh… when I was searching for the money I… stumbled upon some weird people. 'Night Wolves,' they called themselves. And based on what they were saying… they broke a rule, didn't they?"
"Night Wolves?!" Mike's face twisted in shock. "They were supposed to only work at night!" He mumbled something under his breath. "That… that's not important right now. I'll talk with them later. They didn't harm you, did they?"
"No. They didn't even see me," John assured him.
"Well… I guess that's it then. I got the bomb, you got the money, I warned you about the Night Wolves… nothing left to talk about, right?" John said, already preparing himself to leave.
"Wait!" Mike's voice cracked with worry. "Where are you going? WHY do you even need this bomb?! You were supposed to be just a normal person! What's with everything happening to you?! The strange uniform, the swords, the bomb, your whole mysteriousness, the way you just want to leave—PLEASE TALK to me!"
It all burst out of him at once — everything he'd been holding in, everything he didn't understand.
John met his eyes and gave a small, sad smile.
"Mike… it doesn't affect you in any way, I promise. Whatever I'm doing… it's because of me. You don't have to worry. Not anymore."
He placed his bandaged hand gently on Mike's shoulder.
"I'm the main reason you ended up like this, right? I don't want to be a burden anymore. I don't want you getting hurt because of me."
With nothing else to say, John turned and walked out of the room.
Mike didn't move. He just stood there, stunned.
"Because of him…?" he whispered.
A long, heavy silence filled the room.
Then it shattered.
"WHAT IS HE EVEN TALKING ABOUT?!?!" Mike yelled at the empty air.
The difference between the way they saw things… it was huge. And for the first time, Mike felt the gap.
While John, somewhere down those steam-filled halls, kept blaming himself for everything.
John stepped out into the cooling air again. The streets were dipped in the orange of a dying sun, its glow bouncing off the windows of the skyscrapers like scattered fire. He paused, head tilted back, and let out a long breath.
Poor Mike… he's trying so hard.
He just wants to talk. To understand where I've been… who I've become.
And I'm just— too afraid. Too crushed inside by something I can't even name.
He lowered his gaze and forced his feet forward.
The northern tunnel entrance swallowed him into its dim, yellow haze. Dust drifted in the stale air. The hum of bulbs and the distant echo of traffic above were the only signs of life.
Plant the bomb… run to safety… press the button. The tower falls. Nobody ever knows who did it.
Nice, clean, simple.
He rounded the final corner—
—and froze.
The wide foundation chamber wasn't empty.
Six Elite Templars stood in a loose circle, talking among themselves. Their polished AMD harnesses gleamed under the flickering lights. Their expressions sharpened the moment they saw him.
What?! Why are they here?! They're supposed to be above, guarding the tower!
Donald had already shown him what a single Elite could do. Six of them? That wasn't a fight. That was suicide.
In a burst of metallic cracks, rope-lines shot out of their AMDs and the Elites launched toward him like human projectiles.
The first reached him instantly. A fist came for his face—John barely ducked under it, only for a second Elite to slam both feet into his stomach. He staggered, breath knocked out, clutching his abdomen.
The remaining four hooked their ropes into the walls behind him, slingshotting straight at him.
John dodged left, then right, but it didn't matter. Every time he slipped past one, another filled the space. It wasn't a battle. It was a hunt.
A shadow dropped from above—an Elite diving feet first. John didn't even see him until it was too late. The kick smashed him sideways into the concrete. Pain flared through his back. His vision rattled.
He spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground.
Another Elite lunged at him on foot this time, fist cocked back.
John took a shaky stance. The punch came—he blocked with his elbow, snapping his wrist forward. His hidden blade shot out.
But he was slower.
The Elite's fist cracked his cheekbone before the blade found anything. The wall behind him fractured from the impact, dust raining onto his shoulders.
Blood trickled from his nose. His legs gave up. He slid down the wall until he was sitting, hunched and trembling.
The masked Elite stood over him, silent, towering, almost amused.
"So… Assassin." His voice was cold iron. "This morning I sent Donald to capture you. He never returned. What. Happened. To him?"
John raised his head slowly. A cough ripped blood down his chin.
"How… did you even know I was going to blow up the foundation?" he groaned.
"That?" The Elite shrugged. "After you and Donald vanished, we called him. Our device auto-connects even if the other side can't pick up. His voice came through—faint, but clear. He said you captured and interrogated him. Didn't know his location, so he warned us you planned to bomb the foundation."
The Elite crouched, lowering his voice to John's ear.
"We tried to track him, but his GPS was destroyed. Pure luck for you."
He leaned closer.
"But your luck runs out now. Answer my question. Where is he?"
John stared at the floor, then whispered:
"I won't tell you."
Then he lifted his head, rage twisting his battered face.
"And he'll starve to death!"
The Elite nodded once—then kicked John across the jaw. His skull slammed the floor. Blood flooded his mouth. The room spun.
"Enough," the Elite said, turning away. "The big man will be pleased. We've captured his Assassin."
John lay there, half-conscious, drowning in pain.
Donald… I thought he was a good person. I kept him alive. I spared him. And he—he sold me out.
His hands clenched.
This is not how it ends.
He glanced at the backpack behind him.
With a trembling, blood-slicked palm, he pushed himself up the wall. Every breath felt like knives.
"Hey!" he shouted.
The Elites turned.
John spat a thick red blob onto the floor. "I'm still standing, you know."
Five of them moved to rush him.
But John had already made his choice.
He hurled the backpack toward the massive concrete foundation—
—and bolted toward the exit.
"AFTER HIM!" the head Elite roared. Five Elites sprinted into the tunnel after him.
The leader spun toward the bag.
Too late.
John slammed his thumb down onto the detonator.
The floor bucked. A blast swallowed the foundation whole. The leader vanished in the fireball, swallowed by dust and concrete as the entire base of the tower shattered.
Above ground, the northwestern Cyntera Corp Tower groaned.
Then it began to fall.
It tilted like a dying colossus, glass raining down in glittering sheets. Civilians on the streets screamed and scattered. Templars inside the tower slipped, tumbled, crashed through windows or were crushed as floors collapsed under them.
Meanwhile, deep below, the tunnel began collapsing behind John.
The ceiling thundered down, dirt and stone exploding across the corridor.
Both John and the remaining Elites sprinted for their lives.
"The tower is collapsing on top of us!" an Elite shouted. "Forget capturing him—kill him!"
Ropes fired. Metal hooks whipped through the dust.
Two slashed across John's left shoulder.
Two carved into his thighs.
Two more ripped open his abdomen.
Blood streamed down his uniform as it was shredded apart.
But he kept running.
I can't stop. I haven't fulfilled my promise. I can't die yet—
A massive slab of collapsing ground crushed two Elites instantly. A third vanished under a flood of dirt. A fourth tripped trying to help his partner.
Only one remained.
He aimed.
The hook shot out—
—and pierced straight through John's heel.
John collapsed, screaming, skidding across the dirt.
A second later, the last Elite was crushed behind him.
And still the ground fell.
John stared up, chest heaving.
Is this it?
Is it over?
I haven't finished my promise yet…
Then—light.
A burst of sunlight split the collapsing ceiling. Dust whirled like smoke. And behind him—
—the entire tower slammed into the earth with a roar that shook the world.
John had outrun it.
Barely.
He lay there, bleeding, panting, one heel punctured straight through, body carved open in half a dozen places. But he was alive.
The tunnel around him was destroyed, yet open to the sky. And through the smoke he could see the fallen giant sprawled across the city.
The second tower had fallen.
And he had done it.
Night had already settled when the door to John's apartment groaned open.
He stood in the doorway, swaying slightly, posture low, heel pierced clean through, body bleeding in half a dozen places. He looked like he'd crawled out of a warzone — because he had. But the rage in his eyes burned brighter than the pain.
He dragged himself across the threshold, shut the door with a shaky arm, and turned the lock with a sharp click. Then he flicked on the lights.
In the center of the room, Donald sat slumped in the chair, still handcuffed, still right where John had left him. His head was tilted forward, lightly snoring.
John stared at him for half a second.
Then sighed.
Not a tired sigh — a disappointed one. A "why did you make me do all this?" kind of sigh.
He turned away and limped into the bathroom.
The moment the shower turned on, blood poured off him in thin red streams, swirling down the drain. The warm water washed his hair flat, soaked into every slash and cut, and each drop that hit him felt like a blade.
But he didn't flinch.
He didn't groan.
He just stood there, jaw locked, taking it all.
He needed the water more than comfort. He needed the dirt, dust, and death washed off him — even if the wounds stayed open.
When he stepped out, he barely bothered with bandages. Just pulled on black trousers, leaving his torso exposed and bleeding in patches. Then he walked out into the cold apartment air.
He opened the window, letting the night breeze sweep in. It cooled his cuts and cleared his head.
Next, his eyes went to the corner where Donald's broken Elite uniform lay in a useless pile. He crouched, dug through it, found the radio, and without a breath of hesitation threw it out the window.
It shattered on the street below.
John turned and sat on the bed.
Donald looked peaceful, asleep like a man who had nothing to fear.
John stared at him for a long time.
A very long time.
Until his patience ran out.
"Hey," he muttered, leaning forward. "Wake up."
He slapped Donald's cheek. Then again. And again.
Donald jerked awake. "Huh…?"
His eyes focused — and instantly widened.
John sat in front of him, drenched in fresh wounds, eyes burning with fury. His face looked carved out of stone.
"You survived, huh?" Donald whispered.
John's voice cracked with betrayal.
"What was that about? I spared you. And you… just sold me out. You told your colleagues I was going to destroy the foundation?"
Donald met his eyes for one second. Just one.
Then he looked away with shame.
John continued, voice lower, almost shaking, "I wanted to spare you. You have a family, right? I wanted you to live. I wanted you to go to them. But now…"
He swallowed.
"…now I don't even know if I want to keep you alive."
He leaned forward.
His hands slowly lifted toward Donald's neck.
His fingers curved into a choking position.
But they didn't close on him yet.
They trembled — violently.
John's face twisted. His eyes were wide, wild, searching for a reason. A path. A justification. Something.
"I just went out there and killed dozens more Templars," he whispered. "And you're a Templar too. I'm supposed to kill you. That's how this works."
His fingers inched closer.
"But something in me…"
His voice faltered.
"…something's telling me not to."
Another voice inside him screamed the opposite.
His grip tightened.
Donald's breath hitched. He struggled in the chair, legs kicking weakly.
John just stared, unblinking, choking him slower than torture. As if possessed. As if his instincts were dragging him deeper than his mind could reach.
Donald gasped, voice strained, "The… Master Templar!"
John froze.
His eyes blinked — focus returning.
His hands loosened instantly.
"What?" he rasped.
Donald coughed, sucking air, throat reddening. He forced out words:
"If… if the Master Templar finds out I betrayed the order… he'll kill me. Not just me — my family too. He's ruthless with traitors. I thought if the Elites killed you… I'd be safe. They'd trust me again. I could return home. I'm sorry… John, I chose my family over my honor. I'm so, so sorry."
John leaned back, staring at him — half angry, half understanding, half something he couldn't name.
He even gave a short, humorless smile.
"What are you talking about? The Master Templar is dead. I killed him myself. I shot hi—"
He stopped.
Memory slammed into him.
The head Elite's words echoed:
"The big man will be pleased."
The city's Elites had only one "big man."
One person of that rank.
One person who could order them directly.
The Master Templar.
If the Elite had meant him…
John's face drained of color.
His chest tightened.
Then his eyes widened with fear and realization at the exact same time.
"…did he truly die?" he whispered.
John's whisper hung in the air, trembling.
"…did he truly die?"
Donald swallowed. "What was that supposed to mean?"
"I… I killed the Master Templar," John muttered, voice dazed. "Then why did you just say you're still afraid of him?"
Donald stared at him like he'd said something ridiculous. Then looked down.
"To be exact…" he murmured, "I've only seen him once. And ever since that day, I've never forgotten him."
John's eyes narrowed.
Donald continued, voice low: "He had this smiling, funny expression — but his honesty was brutal. The way he spoke, the way he looked at you… I felt like he could see right through my thoughts. That alone scared me. But then the gossips started. Stories that he kills traitors personally, that he wipes out their whole families as 'punishment.' Since then… I always stayed cautious."
He glanced up briefly.
"Only our head Elite ever talked to him directly. He always called him 'the big man.' Or… 'the big man himself.'"
John said nothing. His breath was shallow.
Donald squinted at him. "I don't know if you're telling the truth… or if you're just confused. But the Master Templar is dangerous."
"No—no…" John shook his head violently. "He can't be alive. I killed him!"
Donald leaned forward, suddenly serious.
"Then answer me, John. Did you confirm the kill? Did you stab him through the chest? Did you at least take a photo of his body?"
"I… heard him drop," John mumbled.
"You heard him?" Donald pressed.
"Y-yes…"
Donald leaned back, exhaling like the truth was obvious.
"Then be cautious. If you truly think he's dead, fine — believe that. But I'm telling you: Templars are dangerous. And the big man… was the most dangerous of all."
John backed away and covered his face with his hands.
"I… I think I did kill him," he whispered. "I think…"
But doubt gnawed through him, spreading like poison.
Was it delusion? Hope? Fear?
He didn't know.
Then pain punched back into his body — fresh blood dripping from reopened wounds. John groaned and sat heavily on the bed, chest trembling.
Donald noticed.
"Hey… were you too lazy to bandage yourself?" he asked.
"No," John said through clenched teeth. "I… I couldn't do it alone. My shoulders… everything hurts. I can't take care of it myself."
Donald paused, thinking.
Then he said quietly: "I can help."
John barked out a laugh. "As if. You'll kill me the second I take those cuffs off. I know how strong you are. I'd rather suffer than let you try something."
"I'm serious," Donald replied. "How could I kill you? My leg is stabbed. I can't even walk properly. If I wanted to, I'd fail before trying."
John stared at him — long enough to hesitate.
Then the pain spiked again.
With a frustrated growl, he rose, limped to the kitchen drawer, grabbed a knife and the handcuff key.
He pointed the blade at Donald's face.
"If I see even one suspicious move," he hissed, "I'll kill you. Understand?"
"Yes," Donald said immediately.
John unlocked the cuffs and sat back on the bed, breathing hard.
He gestured weakly toward the bathroom. "Bandages… in there."
Donald walked in slowly.
He found the bandages.
And beside the mirror — a needle.
He stared at it.
His hands trembled.
"The probability of the Master still being alive is high…" he whispered to himself.
He pocketed the needle like a man picking up a last resort.
"I'm doing this only because I'm afraid… for my family," he muttered. "Sorry, John."
He walked back into the room.
John sat hunched, groaning through clenched teeth. Donald knelt beside him and began wrapping the wounds — shoulders, ribs, back, arms. Each layer soaked red before the next covered it.
But slowly, the bleeding stopped.
Slowly, the pain dulled.
Slowly, John could breathe again.
The relief hit him so hard it softened his expression.
He slumped back, exhausted beyond limit.
"Thanks… Donald," he murmured. "You really are a good person."
He collapsed onto the bed.
The knife slipped from his hand onto the floor.
John smiled a tired, broken smile.
"Who cares about his family…" he mumbled. "Who betrays his order just to save his family… I wish Dad was like you…"
His voice faded as he drifted straight into sleep — a deep, heavy sleep earned after a day of horror.
Donald stood above him, staring down.
"John… is an assassin," he whispered. "Assassins are born and trained to kill crusaders. His instinct should've been to kill me. But he didn't. He spared me. Went against the very thing that defines him."
He swallowed hard.
"And I… I'm planning the unthinkable."
He reached down.
Picked up the knife.
Lifted it above John — the sleeping, unguarded, wounded assassin who had spared him again and again.
He could kill him right now.
End everything.
Go home.
Tell the Order he survived.
If the Master Templar was still alive, he'd reward him.
If he was dead, at least Donald's family might still be safe.
But then a memory flashed — John's words, spoken earlier:
"I don't kill blindly. I'm not a monster."
Donald's trembling arm lowered.
"I'm not a monster either," he whispered. "I'm just a father trying to protect his family…"
He looked at John's peaceful face.
He looked at the bandages he'd wrapped.
He looked at how sure John had been — when he said he killed the Master Templar.
After an agonizingly long pause, Donald made his choice.
He placed the knife back where it belonged.
Walked to the corner.
Sat down.
Closed his eyes.
And finally — finally — fell asleep.