"Man is the only animal that inflicts pain for sport, for cruelty, and for revenge." — Mark Twain
The man said nothing for several seconds. He stood in front of the door, his fist still resting on the knocker as if he had forgotten how to use it.
"What did you say?" he finally asked.
His voice was still soft. Reassuring. But Sloane knew now that it was nothing but a mask. She didn't open the door. Pressing her back against it.
Silence stretched on. Distant screams, the scrape of metal, an alarm blaring somewhere… While the entire station was dying, the two of them were breathing on opposite sides of a door. When Sloane didn't answer, the man answered for himself.
"No one," the man said. "I swear."
Sloane closed her eyes. Perspective had already faded. She could no longer read his mind. But what she had seen moments ago was burned into her memory.
The man laughed. This time, his voice trembled slightly. "I understand," he said. "You're in shock. You're alone. You feel trapped and scared. That's normal. I just want to help you."
Sloane parted her lips. She made her voice slow and cold, a deliberate edge of authority in every word.
"You're lying."
"You don't know me."
"I know what you're thinking."
The man took a step back. The sound of his shoe scraping against the floor slid under the door.
"What are you talking about?"
"The first thing you thought about when you came in was how to silence me," Sloane said. "You're speaking softly on purpose to earn my trust."
A momentary silence followed.
"How could you possibly—"
"How many?" Sloane cut in.
The man went quiet. This time, it lasted longer. When he spoke again, his voice had changed. The softness was gone, replaced by a dry, jagged rage.
"This world is over," he said. "The rules are over. Humanity is history."
Sloane opened her eyes. The door looked as thin as a sheet of paper to her.
"So, you did kill."
"I survived," the man said. "You should learn the difference."
There was a metallic click. A gun.
"Open the door," he said. "Last chance."
Sloane held her breath. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, but her voice remained steady.
"Why are you doing this?"
The man let out a short, sharp laugh.
"Because now I can," he said. His voice was pure venom, stripped of all the fake kindness from before. "When the system called me a Hunter, it didn't just give me a class. It gave me a choice. I used to be an ordinary man, a nobody. I'd wear that stupid volunteer vest and hand out fake smiles just to be noticed. Pathetic, wasn't it?"
There was a light tap on the door. Metal scraping against metal.
"But now? Now, the sound of your breathing behind that door, the tremor in your voice... It gives me much more than gratitude ever did. It makes me feel real."
Sloane could sense the raw, bloody hunger on the other side of the door. Mark didn't just want to kill. He was celebrating the justification the system had given him.
"You know," Mark said, his voice pressing closer to the door, slipping through the cracks. "There's something heavy in your voice. Too much for a civilian. Which means you've got something valuable inside you. Maybe the system gave you a hidden reward. When you open that door, I'll tear it out of you with my own hands."
The door exploded inward with a scream of splintering wood and metal. Shards of timber flew across the cramped room like shrapnel. Mark lunged inside with his weapon drawn, his eyes burning with the need to reclaim the authority she had challenged.
"Don't move!" Mark roared. His voice was deafening in the cramped space.
Sloane didn't retreat. There was nowhere to retreat to. Her back was against the cold tiles, but her gaze was sharper than his barrel.
"You're holding your breath," she said. Her voice cut through his rage like a blade of ice. "Because you're rushing. You're afraid of doing something wrong."
Mark hesitated for a fraction of a second. "What?"
That single second of doubt was all Sloane needed. She hurled her bag with all her strength. Her low strength made it clumsy, but Mark was stepping forward at that exact moment. The bag slammed into his face.
Sloane knew then that even if she died, she couldn't stop. She slipped past him and burst through the shattered doorway into the corridor. Her feet nearly tangled on the slick floor, but she kept running. The corridor was pitch-black, lit only by flickering emergency lights that threw warped shadows onto the walls.
Behind her, Mark's curses erupted. The pain in his nose had faded, replaced by a hatred fueled by adrenaline. He raised his gun again. Sloane's silhouette was shrinking at the end of the hall.
Just as he was about to pull the trigger, a scream tore through the station. Then, the sound of crashing metal and shattering glass. The collective madness of dozens of people in the distance sliced through the silence like a knife.
Mark's finger froze on the trigger. A gunshot—here, now—would draw others. A real hunter knew how to stay alone. As Sloane's silhouette dissolved into the darkness, Mark clenched his teeth. "Later," he muttered. He lowered his weapon and vanished into the shadows in the opposite direction.
Sloane kept running. Even when her legs began to burn, she didn't stop. When she turned a corner, she collapsed against the wall and slid to the floor.
No footsteps. Only the system's hollow silence and distant death cries. When she closed her eyes, she still saw Mark's barrel. She tried to steady her breathing, but her body refused to listen. Her lungs burned. Her heart pounded in her throat.
Then—
Blue light seeped into the darkness. A familiar window appeared in the center of her vision.
[System Notification] [Conflict Resolved]
[Result: Psychological Advantage Achieved]
Sloane frowned. "What…?"
[Result: Target's decision-making disrupted]
[Hunt Abandoned]
[Evaluation: Survival achieved without direct confrontation.]
[Behavior Match: High class compatibility]
Sloane swallowed. So… even without killing him… the system considered this a victory?
[Calculating Reward…]
[Charisma-Based Interaction Perception Increased]
[Perspective Evolution: Tier 1 Unlocked]
A new line appeared.
[Passive Updated: Perspective → Narrative Sense]
[Narrative Sense: You instinctively perceive the current intent and emotional direction of others for a short duration.]
[Restriction: Passive skills cannot be consciously activated until mastery.]
[Restriction: Passive skills also have cooldowns like active skills.]
[Understanding of Hunter classes increased.]
Sloane closed her eyes. It wasn't a weapon. It was a tool.
"So…" she whispered. "I can confirm their intent and words." A bitter smile appeared and faded. "The system wants me alive."
She stood. Her legs still trembled, but not from fear—from decision. Others, like Mark, were out there. And her class gave her a chance against them.
Not with guns. With words. Not with lies. By seeing their true intent. She looked into the dark corridor.
She wondered what had happened to her family. This was no longer a metro station. It was the ruins of a museum of humanity. There were more people than ever… But no one looked at each other.
A man gripped a bloodied crowbar. A woman dragged a fire extinguisher like a sacred relic. Everyone was either searching for an exit— or for a victim.
Sloane lowered her head and moved forward. She still felt Mark's gaze on the back of her neck. Then she saw him. A boy crouched between two bodies. A knot formed in Sloane's throat. The corpses—probably his parents—had been butchered. The child wasn't crying. He was just staring.
So small. So defenseless. Something human, something the system hadn't erased yet, stirred inside her.
She knelt. "Hey…"
"I'm not leaving," the boy said immediately. "I can't leave them here." His cracked voice shook Sloane.
"What's your name?" she asked, hoping her voice sounded safe.
"Duren," the boy said, sniffing. He looked about ten. When he raised his head, Sloane's stomach tightened. There was exhaustion beneath the dirt on his face. But no fear. "They screamed first," the boy said calmly. "Then they stopped."
"I have to get you out of here," Sloane said. She reached for his hand, but he flinched away. She understood. She had almost died trusting someone moments ago.
"Do you have a weapon?" the boy suddenly asked.
Sloane shook her head. "No."
Duren visibly relaxed. "Good," he whispered. "People with weapons shout a lot. You don't shout."
Sloane felt the weight of trauma in those words. She glanced at the corner of her vision, expecting a warning. Nothing. She felt ashamed for doubting a child.
"Do you want to come with me?" she asked. "It's dangerous here."
Duren nodded and stood, hesitantly taking her hand. He looked back at the bodies one last time."If you don't have a weapon," he said, stepping closer, "how do you protect yourself?"
"By… talking," Sloane murmured.
"Talking," Duren repeated, tilting his head. "People give themselves away when they talk, don't they?" When Duren pulled his hand from his pocket, Sloane's breath caught.
It wasn't a toy. It was a knife. Its blade was stained with dried blood.
She tried to pull back, but the boy's grip tightened. The knife drove toward her abdomen. Pain exploded. She screamed as the blade sliced through her clothes and skin. She tore free and stumbled back. The wound wasn't fatal, but the pain made her dizzy.
"They weren't my parents," Duren said calmly. His childlike tone vanished, replaced by something cold and metallic. "They were like you. They wanted to help."
Sloane tried to retreat, but her legs felt nailed to the concrete. That small figure had become the most dangerous predator in the station. Only one question echoed in her mind:
Why? Why didn't my passive skills work?
The System was trying to save her, but she was about to become a victim of her own mercy.