John kept running. His legs were shaking, his chest burning, his breath tearing out of him in broken hisses. Yellow dust clung to his uniform, turning it into a grimy second skin. Night had already fallen, but he didn't stop. He sprinted along the concrete top of the great walls with wide, frantic eyes—like a hunted animal.
Then his foot caught.
He stumbled, crashed down hard, and rolled until he lay face-down on the cold surface.
He didn't move at first.
His eyes were raw and swollen, still wet from crying. His mouth hung open as he tried to suck in air that wouldn't come. Eventually, he lifted his head and pushed himself into a sitting position. From atop the wall, the city stretched out in front of him—massive, chaotic, alive. Hundreds of buildings stabbed into the sky, each packed with people trying to live through another night.
A wind brushed past him. Half calming, half nerve-shredding.
He stared at the skyline, remembering how—just half a month ago—the whole city had been surrounded by four Cyntera Corp towers. Three guarding the outer sides, one rising from the center like a crown.
Now only one remained.
Somewhere deep within the city, people were screaming. Cars blared horns and roared past with frantic rage. John narrowed his eyes as the memories hit him—the civilians dying, crushed beneath the collapsing tower.
His stomach twisted. He grabbed his head, curled over himself, and whispered, "No…"
Something stern and cold and disciplined whispered back from inside him.
Get up. Go home. Rest. Prepare to destroy the last tower.
For a moment, he wanted to obey.
John pushed himself to his feet. He walked toward the edge of the wall. His weak, trembling hand snapped the hook blade out. He hardened his grip and drove it into the concrete, beginning his descent. The metal screeched, leaving a long scar down the wall.
Wind battered him as he slid lower. He shut his eyes, tears slipping out as he murmured to himself:
"I've always been a hypocrite… I tried sticking to who I was before my parents died. I tried to stay sane, to stay human, to keep even a bit of morality. I made the oath… I started listening to my 'true self'… but it was all in vain."
He tightened his jaw.
"I'm still a violent, ruthless killer who listens to it—that feeling that keeps me moving forward even when guilt is crushing my heart. 'It.' My assassin blood. My nature. What's been passed down to me through blood… just like Donald said. Even though I tried, I couldn't… I couldn't resist my assassin blood…"
The ground rushed up and John hit it hard. He rolled, ended up staring at the grass, then pushed himself to his knees.
"But… blaming my blood isn't the final conclusion, right? Violence and anger were always part of me since—since the orphanage…"
A memory slammed into him.
He was eighteen. Just hours before he left the city and returned to his childhood village. He was in an alley. Three boys blocked his path. They were already swinging at him.
John was outnumbered. Cornered.
But years of bullying, years of swallowed pain and suppressed fury finally erupted. He'd had enough.
He pulled a knife from his pocket and drove it into the chest of the boy in front of him.
The other two froze in terror.
John kept stabbing—again and again—teeth clenched, entire body shaking with rage.
When it was over, he rose slowly. He grabbed the dying boy by the hair and dragged his limp body across the cold ground.
"All these years I didn't say anything. I didn't do anything. Yet you kept coming back. I tried to be good… to avoid you… but none of you paid attention," he said calmly, pointing the bloody knife at the other two. "Even with Mike guarding me, you kept coming back. Consider this… revenge."
The boys ran, screaming for the cops.
John stayed. Staring at the body with a cold, empty expression and blood splattered on his cheek. Then he slipped the knife back into his pocket, pulled his hood up, and left.
Left the city.
Left the orphanage.
Left his sins behind.
Since Mike's departure, he'd had no choice but to tolerate the pain alone.
"Not anymore," he whispered.
Rain pulled him back to the present.
He walked through the wet streets until he found a bench and sat down, hood hiding his drained, hollow face. He checked his phone. 1 a.m.
He knew he should go back to the apartment.
A massive monitor flickered to life in front of him. A Cyntera Corp newsman appeared onscreen—stern, shaken.
"Today… our northwestern tower was destroyed," he announced.
People gathered beneath the screen. John simply watched.
"Some claim it was a maintenance issue. But it was NOT. This time, we are certain it was an assault. The tragedy is… not only did the tower and its employees perish, but a residential building was crushed by it as well. More than 146 civilians and 57 Cyntera Corp employees have been confirmed dead."
His voice tightened.
"Civilians of Son of York, listen. The city is in danger. Someone is planning its downfall."
Part propaganda, part truth.
And John—slowly, painfully—was beginning to realize he was that downfall.
A voice erupted from the crowd:
"They're bluffing! Many of OUR people died, and it was Cyntera Corp's job to maintain their buildings! These unprofessional idiots don't deserve to operate here! If all three towers collapsed, then the fourth one is doomed too! And it's in the center! Its fall will kill thousands! We need to fight back!"
People cheered. Protest chants erupted.
John just sat there. Still. Exhausted. Ready to accept death.
By 3 a.m., the streets were mostly empty. Rain kept falling. Distant noise rumbled from the center of the city.
Then a black SUV rolled up and stopped in front of him.
The windows slid down. Shadows inside.
"Do you think that's him?"
"He looks exactly like in the news!"
"Then he has to be the murderer."
Three men stepped out and surrounded him.
John didn't resist. He was too drained to try.
A needle jabbed into his neck. His vision blurred as hands dragged him toward the car.
Before he blacked out, he heard a deep, familiar voice say:
"The boss will be happy."