The White Reaper stood completely still in the glare of the headlights, facing Tiger Mask.
With a roar of frustration, Tiger Mask lunged forward, throwing a rapid high kick aimed straight at the Reaper's face.
The Reaper didn't even shift his stance; he simply leaned back by a fraction of an inch, letting the boot whistle harmlessly past his chin.
Tiger Mask pressed the offensive, unleashing a violent barrage of jabs, hooks, and spinning roundhouses. Yet, no matter how fast he struck, the White Reaper slipped through the assault with terrifying ease—his head weaving fluidly while his hands remained buried deep inside his suit pockets.
A sharp step back brought the Reaper's shoulders against the side of an armored truck.
Tiger Mask's eyes flared with malicious glee. "Nowhere left to run—"
BOOM!
Before Tiger Mask could finish his sentence, a violent, invisible impact struck him squarely across the left side of his face. The force was so brutal that it lifted his feet off the pavement and slammed him headfirst into the heavy steel side of the truck.
What... what just hit me?! Tiger Mask thought wildly, his vision swimming as a massive, dark purple welt expanded across his cheekbone.
I didn't see any movement!
Gasps and terrified whispers rippled through the surrounding circle of men. None of them had seen a movement either.
Tiger Mask pushed himself off the vehicle, teeth grit in fury, his eyes darting down to the Reaper's upper body. The White Reaper's arms hadn't moved; his hands were still casually resting inside his pockets.
"What did you just do?!" Tiger Mask demanded, spitting blood onto the asphalt.
In the next millisecond, the air cracked.
THUD!
Tiger Mask's head was violently driven straight down into the frozen ground, shattering his tiger mask into pieces and cracking the pavement beneath his skull.
"This," the White Reaper said, his cold voice echoing above him.
Tiger Mask groaned, his fingers clawing desperately at the dirt as he tried to pull himself up.
How is this happening?! His hands... his hands never left his pockets!
The White Reaper stood over the fallen man, looking down with absolute detachment.
"You can't defeat me."
Turning his head slowly, the Reaper fixed his gaze on the silent army surrounding them.
"Attack him!" Tiger Mask choked out from the dirt, gasping for air.
Not a single mercenary took a step forward. The thousand-man encirclement stood frozen in collective horror.
"WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?! ATTACK HIM!" Tiger Mask roared.
The men started moving, to attacked the White Reaper.
Meanwhile,
In a high-end city apartment, Damian was preparing to turn in for the night when the lights suddenly flickered and died, plunging the suite into absolute pitch darkness.
Damian froze in the hallway, an instant prickle of danger rising along his spine.
Inside the bedroom, young Ethan was fast asleep. Damian forced a soft, reassuring smile onto his face as he looked into the dark room.
"It's just a power outage. It'll be back on soon. The hotel staff will sort it out."
Hearing no stir from the bed, Damian quietly stepped into the hallway, pulling the door almost shut behind him. He dropped into a low, soundless glide, keeping his breath shallow as he listened.
The faint, precise friction of soles against the hardwood echoed from the neighboring suite. These weren't the movements of common hotel staff or opportunistic thieves—they were the light, calculated footfalls of elite, trained killers.
What is going on here? Damian thought, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the darkened corridor. These are professionals.
He carefully retraced his steps, retreating back toward their suite. Through the thin crack between the door and the frame, he could see Ethan still resting peacefully on the bed.
We need to evacuate now, Damian calculated, preparing to step inside and retrieve his son.
CREEEAK.
Damian stopped dead in his tracks. A strange, suffocating coldness settled across his chest.
The bedroom door was slowly opening from the inside.
Damian crept forward, his heart pounding a steady rhythm against his ribs.
Is it just a draft? No... the windows are closed.
He gently pushed the door open a few inches further. Sitting in the armchair right beside the bed was a dark, towering silhouette.
The figure's back was turned to Damian, his hand resting on young Ethan's head, slowly stroking the boy's hair like a loving elder comforting a child.
Damian's eyes turned to ice. "Who are you?" he asked, his voice low and steady.
"Damian... Damian..." the man murmured softly, not turning around.
The voice hit Damian like a thunderclap.
"It's you..." Damian realized, his tone hardening. "The one I was supposed to meet."
"Hmm... yes," the man replied smoothly.
"What are you doing in my son's room?" Damian demanded.
"Damian... we have important matters to discuss, don't we?" the man said quietly, his hand continuing its rhythm over the boy's hair.
"Not in here," Damian stated coldly. "My son is sleeping."
On the bed, young Ethan's eyes snapped open in the dark.
He had been awake the entire time, keeping his breathing steady until he heard the soft click of the bedroom door closing behind his father and the stranger.
Present Day...
Ethan lay awake on his back, staring up at the sleek ceiling while the memory faded.
Who was that man sitting by my bed back then? Ethan thought, his jaw clenching tightly.
A few days after that night, a fog of fragmented memories took over. The next clear thing Ethan remembered was waking up in a sterile hospital room, his body aching, with his father sitting quietly at his bedside.
Weeks passed, and while Miss Ophelia visited him every single day at the clinic, his father eventually vanished. When Ethan was finally discharged, he was given the devastating news: his father was dead.
That was the day Miss Ophelia took him under her wing, revealing her true identity as his mother's, Selena's close friend, Grace.
Everyone I get close to ends up in worse... Ethan thought, staring at his trembling palm before curling it into a tight, iron fist.
That's why I swore to protect my family. Back then, I was just a helpless, terrified kid. But I'm not helpless anymore. I will protect the people I love.
Ethan sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and walking toward the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline.
Whatever happened to my father... no one knows the full truth, he reflected, looking up at the vast, cold night sky.
Even Miss Ophelia—Miss Grace—couldn't uncover the full story despite all of her immense power and resources.
His eyes narrowed as the icy wind outside rattled the glass.
Whoever is behind this... he is truly someone of a great power.
MEANWHILE, 11 YEARS AGO
The heavy blast doors sealed shut behind the elderly figure, Terminator stepped into a pitch-black briefing chamber. The only light emanated from a massive, multi-paneled display console built into the far wall.
Terminator stood at military attention. "Sir. Terminator reporting in."
The wall of monitor flickered to life. Dozens of dark, shadowed silhouettes appeared on individual screens across the grid.
Only a single panel glowed bright blue, signaling an active, encrypted line.
"You successfully secured Philip, Terminator," a distorted, synthesized voice echoed through the room. "I always knew you possessed the capability to pull off such an operation."
Terminator kept his eyes fixed forward, his expression unreadable. "Sir... Philip's heart is still beating."