Notes:
I hope everyone enjoys this chapter...
Chapter Text
Cinder knelt down slowly, her gaze warm and steady as she met the eyes of a young mother clutching her child close. Dark circles marred the mother's face, signs of nights spent awake, and her thin arms wrapped protectively around her little girl, who peeked out with wide, uncertain eyes. Both looked exhausted, their clothes worn, their expressions shadowed by something beyond fatigue—fear, perhaps, or simply the weight of survival.
"Here," Cinder murmured, her voice soft as she reached into her pack, pulling out a canteen of water. She placed it gently into the mother's hands, letting her fingers linger a moment, offering a quiet reassurance. "It's fresh. I boiled it myself just this morning. Make sure you and your little one get some."
The mother's face relaxed, and she gave a small, almost hesitant smile, her hand trembling as she held the canteen. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible, as though speaking too loudly might shatter the moment. Her eyes shone with gratitude—a fragile glimmer of hope lighting a face that looked as though it had forgotten how to trust kindness.
The little girl peeked up at Cinder, curiosity sparkling beneath her shyness. She tugged on her mother's sleeve, then looked at Cinder with a question that felt heavy, filled with innocence and hope. "Will you stay with us?" she asked, her voice soft and timid.
Cinder felt a warmth rise in her chest as she knelt down closer, her eyes level with the girl's. She reached out and gently ruffled her hair, her fingers moving with a tenderness she had long kept hidden. "For now," she promised with a reassuring smile, her voice steady. "I'll be close by, so you and your mom can rest easy. And I'll make sure you're safe, okay?"
The girl's lips curled into a small smile, her face lighting up, a moment of pure, unguarded joy that seemed to lift some of the darkness from the room. For just a moment, Cinder felt the weight of her own hardships ease, as if the girl's smile alone could lessen the burdens they all carried.
Outside, Echo moved along the perimeter, each step deliberate, her gaze sharp as she checked every corner and crumbling wall of the facility. She knew every shadow, every crack in the concrete; she'd mapped it all in her mind, the layout of her silent promise to keep them safe. Her gaze never wavered, listening to the faint murmurs of Cinder's voice inside, the sound mingling with the faint, shifting winds outside.
She reached a rusted gate, nudging it carefully to ensure it stayed closed. She lingered there, her hand tightening on the metal as she looked out into the alley. The world beyond felt like a threat held just at bay, the silence heavy, as though the city itself were holding its breath. In the distance, a shadow moved—a brief flicker against the brick walls, just long enough to make her tense. Her fingers tightened as she tracked the shape, waiting. But then it vanished, swallowed by the darkness, leaving nothing but stillness behind.
Sighing, Echo released her grip, though her expression remained sharp, her jaw set with resolve. She'd been hardened by survival, her instincts trained to protect without faltering, but there was more here than vigilance. It was a need—one she would never say aloud—to make sure those inside would have the peace they deserved, if only for tonight.
When she finally returned, she slipped through a side door, her gaze immediately seeking Cinder, who was still with the mother and child. Catching her eye, Echo gave a subtle nod, a silent assurance that all was clear—for now. There was no need for words; Cinder returned the nod with a grateful look that lingered, holding within it an understanding, a silent gratitude that needed no explanation.
As Echo moved to stand guard near the doorway, Cinder turned back to the little girl, her smile gentle and warm. "See?" she murmured, giving the girl a comforting wink. "You're safe here. We've got you."
The girl's eyes, filled with trust, held Cinder's gaze as she leaned into her mother's arms. The room, despite its broken windows and worn walls, felt warmer, like a fragile shelter holding a precious moment.
Echo's ears caught a faint sound—barely a whisper, distant and muffled, yet unmistakably out of place. She stilled, tilting her head, her senses straining to pick up more. It wasn't the usual hum of the wind through broken walls or the rustle of debris shifting. This was different: a purposeful shuffling, as if someone—or something—was moving just outside the facility.
A frown tightened Echo's features, and she shot a glance at Cinder, lowering her voice to a murmur so the others wouldn't hear. "There's something outside. I'm going to check it out."
Cinder's brows knitted, her gaze flickering with concern as she nodded. She adjusted her stance, inching closer to the mother and child as she kept her tone calm, though it carried a distinct edge. "Got it. I'll keep a lookout from here." She reached out and lightly squeezed Echo's arm. "Be careful."
Echo returned the nod, a silent message passing between them, and then slipped through the facility's side exit. She moved carefully, her footsteps so soft they barely disturbed the dust on the floor. With no weapon to steady her, she pressed close to the wall, the structure's shadow her only cover as she scanned the dark, open space beyond.
Outside, the night felt heavy and still, the silence thick with tension. Echo crouched, inching closer to where the sound had come from. A few meters away, the remnants of a collapsed wall lay half-buried under debris, the perfect hiding place for anyone looking to avoid detection.
Inside, Cinder positioned herself by one of the cracked windows, eyes never straying from Echo's shadowed figure as she moved. She tensed, feeling the weight of their vulnerability as she glanced back at the small group huddled in the corner. They were watching her, looking to her for reassurance. She offered a faint, calming smile, then turned her focus back outside, every muscle on high alert.
Echo continued, her senses heightened. She could hear her own heartbeat, feel the weight of each breath, her body alive with the tension of being exposed. She glanced back once, catching sight of Cinder at the window, her figure outlined against the faint lights of the distant cityscape. Just that glimpse of her friend watching over her gave Echo a flicker of reassurance, a sense that she wasn't entirely alone out here.
As she neared the debris pile, a sudden movement caught her eye—a shadow shifting, blending almost seamlessly with the darkened rubble. She froze, watching it, her mind racing through options. With no weapon, she'd have to rely on her speed and wits, and she knew Cinder was counting on her to handle this without drawing danger back toward the others.
A faint scrape sounded, like metal dragging on concrete, and Echo's heart lurched. She crouched lower, watching, calculating her next move. If this was someone hostile, she'd need to stay one step ahead, keeping them off balance. She adjusted her position, eyes narrowing, every muscle tense as she prepared herself.
Echo's footsteps were light, yet the eerie silence that hung over the facility seemed to magnify every sound. The further she went, the colder the shadows felt, pressing in like an unseen weight. Then, without warning, something moved at the edge of her vision—a figure that seemed to both blend into and emerge from the darkness itself.
She froze, her instincts screaming at her to retreat, but before she could even think of turning, a voice drifted through the shadows—smooth, almost whimsical, yet laced with a cold malice.
"Oh… a Nikke all by herself," the figure mused, his tone light and childlike. "You know, I'd heard of you machines—souls wrapped in metal… but I didn't expect to find one with such spark."
Echo's hand inched to her weapon, but her fingers trembled. She couldn't look away from the figure's face—a young, almost innocent face with wide, amused eyes, and a grin that seemed to stretch too far.
"Do you know what you really are?" he asked, his voice both taunting and curious, as though the question itself was some grand joke. "Or do you just march along, doing what you're told, like all those other toys?"
He leaned closer, shadows warping around him like a living cloak, and the intensity of his gaze made Echo's skin crawl.
"Humans built you for battle, just like they build everything they're afraid to do themselves," he continued, almost marveling as he spoke. "They gave you souls to fight, to feel pain—and then threw you to the wolves." His eyes gleamed with twisted fascination. "It's like a little game, isn't it? Seeing if you machines can hold on to those fragile souls while they pull the strings. And here you are, playing along. How charming."
Echo's jaw tightened, a defiant spark flaring in her despite the taunt. "I know what I'm fighting for. You—" Her voice faltered but steadied, "I am not a toy."
A childlike laugh echoed in the corridor, chilling her to the core. "Oh but you are to me. I play with souls. Isn't it fascinating how easily they mold and break?" His fingers traced the air as though sculpting something delicate. "Even now, I could change you, shape you into something entirely… new. You'd be surprised how malleable a soul can be, how it squirms when you press in just the right places."
Echo's hands shook, but she held her ground, even as his eyes narrowed, seeming to savor her defiance.
"I wonder…" he murmured, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a sinister whisper, "how much of that spark would last if I twisted it a little? What would it feel like to see a soul like yours shatter?" He tilted his head, grinning wide. "Maybe then you'd finally understand your place—just another thing made to break."
Echo's voice wavered but held steady. "I might be what they made me, but even I can recognize a monster when I see one."
His laughter echoed softly, a sound light and almost musical. "Monster?" he repeated, voice dripping with mock surprise. "No, no… I'm only here to remind you of the truth. Of what you are, and what you'll never be."
John crouched in the dimly lit office space of Nuovo Impianto, carefully piecing together fragments of shredded and charred papers scattered across the cracked floor. Bits of sentences and half-formed phrases came together slowly, leaving him squinting to make sense of the information. Behind him, Viper leaned against a crumbling wall, examining her chipped nail with an exaggerated sigh.
"Ugh, you know, it wouldn't kill you to appreciate the company," she muttered, her voice carrying a hint of a whine, though her eyes flicked over him with more focus than her tone suggested. "I'm not here for the decor, you know."
John didn't even look up. "Didn't ask you to tag along, Viper," he replied, focused on salvaging another half-burnt phrase. "And last I checked, you're not exactly the 'extra work for free' type."
Viper scoffed, flicking a glance his way with a pout. "Wow, honey, you really know how to make a girl feel welcome." She crossed her arms, studying him with a mix of irritation and something softer she didn't care to name. "Guess I'm just waiting for a little gratitude here."
John finally glanced up, brow raised, eyes amused but wary. "So why are you here, really?" He asked, his gaze steady. "You've been... let's say, more invested than I'd expect from you."
A flicker of hesitation slipped through Viper's expression, almost imperceptible, and she brushed it off with a quick laugh, tilting her head coyly. "Maybe I just like to keep my options open. You never know when having someone in debt to you might come in handy."
Even as she spoke, a small voice questioned her own words, forcing her to confront the idea she'd been avoiding. Options? Debt? Those excuses felt paper-thin now. She was drawn to this whole mess for reasons she wasn't ready to admit, especially not to herself.
John's eyes narrowed, half-amused, half-skeptical. "Right. So, out of all the favors you could chase, you picked this one?" He gave a faint smirk. "Gotta say, Viper, I don't exactly scream 'VIP status.'"
"Believe what you want, but," she shrugged, feigning indifference as her voice softened, "if you don't up and die, you might just be worth knowing someday." Her eyes flicked away, a hint of real thought slipping in despite her best efforts to keep it playful. "People like you, they tend to… leave a mark. One way or another."
He considered her words, his expression unreadable, then shrugged. "If I'm that 'important,' then sure—I'll owe you one when we're done here. Just don't expect anything lavish."
Viper's smirk faltered for just a second as she leaned back against the wall, folding her arms. "Don't worry, honey," she replied, her voice quieter but still laced with her usual charm, "I'll collect when the time's right." As she watched him, she felt a pang of something—almost like regret—but brushed it off quickly, convincing herself again that this was all just business. Or at least, that's what she'd keep telling herself.
John glanced over the mess of tattered documents, letting out a sigh before stacking them haphazardly. "Alright, I think that's all we're going to get out of this place," he muttered, nodding to Viper. "Let's get out of here before this dump collapses on us."
They moved through the crumbling halls, their footsteps muffled against the grime-streaked tiles. The air was heavy with dust and dampness, punctuated now and then by the distant drip of water somewhere in the abandoned structure. As they stepped outside, John's Blabla buzzed in his pocket.
He pulled it out to find a message from Rapi. She'd sent him a comprehensive file dump, each document not only organized but also annotated with notes, highlights, and key points laid out in a near-military level of precision. It was more thorough than anything he could've hoped for.
Viper peered over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. "Well, would you look at that," she teased, her smirk growing. "Your trusty little assistant's gone above and beyond, hasn't she?"
John grinned, scrolling through the files. "Yeah, looks like she's trying to win Employee of the Month," he said, a bit amused. "Didn't think anyone could be this dedicated to sorting out my mess."
Viper rolled her eyes with an exaggerated sigh. "I swear, honey, that girl is practically spoon-feeding you. Where would you be without her?"
"Buried under a mountain of paperwork, I guess," John replied with a wry grin. He swiped through the notes, shaking his head in disbelief. "It's like she's already done the whole mission briefing for me. All I have to do now is… I don't know, show up and not mess it up too badly."
As they approached the exit, John's boots scuffed against the cracked concrete, the stillness around them heavy and unnerving. Just as he stepped forward, he felt a tremor beneath his feet—a brief, violent quake that rippled up his legs. He barely had time to glance at Viper in alarm before the ground buckled and gave way, crumbling beneath them like sand.
"John!" Viper's voice cut through the air as her hand shot out toward him, but an unseen force yanked him downward before she could grab hold. A split-second later, she, too, was dragged down, her usual composure shattered in a startled cry as the darkness swallowed them both.
They plummeted through a seemingly endless shaft, air whistling past them as the dim glow of the facility above vanished. John's pulse raced as he fought to steady his mind, but the sensation was relentless—like being pulled by an unseen hand, deeper and deeper.
The fall ended with a hard, jarring impact. John hit the ground, his breath driven from his lungs in a sharp gasp as he rolled, absorbing the impact as best he could. He lay still for a moment, catching his breath, then pushed himself up, squinting around. The chamber they'd landed in was vast and dark, the faint glow of phosphorescent moss casting eerie green patches along ancient stone walls. Symbols, twisted and cryptic, snaked across every surface, pulsing faintly, as if alive.
Beside him, Viper staggered to her feet, brushing dust from her coat with a scoff. "What the hell was that?" she muttered, her voice lined with irritation and an edge of genuine unease. She glanced around, her gaze quickly sharpening to assess the unfamiliar environment.
John rubbed his shoulder, the dull ache of the fall settling in, but his focus stayed on the strange chamber. "Some kind of… trap?" he replied, though even he wasn't convinced. There was something deeply unsettling about the air down here—thick, cloying, as if pressing in on them from all sides. Each breath felt heavy, laced with an undercurrent of wrongness that prickled along his skin.
Viper crossed her arms, casting a skeptical glance at the pulsing symbols. "This is supposed to be a storage facility, not… whatever this is." She drew a bit closer to him, her casual smirk resurfacing, though it held an undercurrent of unease. "You sure you're not leading us into the middle of a horror flick, Honey?"
John flashed a half-smile, but his focus never left the strange carvings lining the walls. "Not exactly what I signed up for either," he muttered, voice laced with a bemused tension. "But hey, just think of it as another opportunity for your thrill-seeking side."
Viper rolled her eyes, though a faint smile tugged at her lips. "Yeah, sure. It's like you planned a whole haunted tour just for me." She hesitated, her gaze shifting to the dark corners of the room. "But let's hope it's the kind of tour we walk out of in one piece."
John reached out to touch one of the symbols, his fingers just brushing the stone before he stopped, instinct pulling him back. "There's something wrong here. These markings… it's like they're alive, almost."
The two shared a look, a rare moment of mutual apprehension settling between them.
Viper shook her head, deflecting her discomfort with a dry laugh. "Well, I don't know about you, but I'd rather not meet whatever's responsible for the décor."
The narrow passageway seemed to tighten around them, their steps muffled against damp stone floors slick with condensation. Water dripped from somewhere above, the sound echoing in uneven rhythms that seemed to mock the silence. As they moved deeper, John's gaze drifted to the strange carvings along the walls: turbulent waves crashed against rocky cliffs, finely carved crabs hiding beneath stone-cut waters; further down, fires leapt from the etchings, lava spilling from carved volcanoes, while twisted, knotty roots and thick, coiled vines snaked their way through thick forests, each image more haunting than the last.
Viper slowed, her fingers skimming the ancient stone. Her eyes lingered on the figures with a reluctant fascination, her voice a soft murmur that barely disturbed the quiet. "What… what is this place?" The words slipped from her almost involuntarily, the awe in her tone betraying a rare vulnerability.
Their footsteps stilled as they approached a dead end. The wall loomed ahead, solid and unyielding, its stone a dull, oppressive gray. Viper's heart quickened, her breath coming faster. "So, we're trapped? There's no way out?"
Without answering, John stepped closer, his hand reaching for the rough stone. A pulse thrummed under his palm, a subtle, unseen force that tugged at him like a barely whispered invitation. Taking a steady breath, he channeled his energy, feeling the edges of the illusion's barrier yield to his touch. With a low, resonant hum, the wall began to fade, dispersing into mist to reveal a narrow exit shrouded in shadow.
Viper watched, wide-eyed, the last traces of the wall fading before her as if it had never existed. She turned to him, confusion and a hint of fear flaring in her gaze. "What… what did you just do?" Her voice was taut, barely containing the tension that had crept in.
John met her stare, his eyes steady, almost cold. "Forget what you saw," he murmured, his voice low and firm. "If you want to keep breathing, don't ask questions."
Her usual smirk faltered, the mask slipping as unease filled the silence between them. John's words sank in, a silent warning as tangible as the air they shared, and for the first time, she was at a loss. The playful edge in her gaze faded, leaving something raw and uncertain in its place. She wanted to press, to find out what he was hiding, but a strange instinct held her back.
Saying nothing more, John turned toward the exit, his figure disappearing into the dim light. The heavy silence returned, wrapping around Viper like a second skin as she took a shaky breath and followed.
When they finally emerged into the open air, the weight of the underground chamber lingered, a shadow stretching between them. Viper trailed him silently, her footsteps faltering as she grappled with what she'd witnessed, her thoughts swirling in silent turmoil. She wasn't sure what disturbed her more—what John had done, or the realization that, for the first time, she was uncertain about the man she thought she had started to figure out.
Back in the safehouse, Crow leaned against the doorway, arms crossed tightly, her glare fixed on John with a heat that could have cut through steel. "Care to explain where the hell you ran off to?" she demanded, her voice laced with irritation and a clear challenge.
John, unfazed, continued sifting through the papers and files spread across the table. He finally looked up, a faint smirk playing at his lips. "Maybe later, Crow. Right now, you're gonna want to see what I've put together." He added with a wink, "If you can keep up, that is."
Crow's scowl deepened, clearly not amused by his nonchalance. She stepped closer, her arms still crossed, her eyes narrowing as she scrutinized him, but she couldn't hide a flicker of curiosity.
Viper and Jackal joined them, leaning in with expressions of intrigue as John organized the scattered papers into a rough timeline.
"These are the documents we pulled from Nuovo Impianto, plus Rapi's data," John began, tapping a few key notes as he traced the information. "Turns out, our friend Rat was running more than just a sleazy operation."
Viper raised an eyebrow, leaning in further. "Oh, really? And here I thought he was just Ark's best-dressed cockroach."
John grinned, clearly in his element. "Turns out he's not the one calling the shots. A year back, some big spender reached out to Rat, started buying up escorts. And not just a few—they cleaned him out, supply after supply. Whatever they were doing, they burned through 'em fast. And get this," he leaned forward, voice lowering for emphasis, "they didn't care about the price or the product quality. They just wanted volume. Every single time."
Viper's brow furrowed. "So Rat thought he'd found himself some kind of… big-shot entrepreneur?"
"Exactly," John replied, nodding. "But soon, Rat's records start showing panic, paranoia. Whatever this client was, they weren't just reckless. Rat's business tanked, his profits dried up, yet he couldn't stop supplying them. He went so far as to bankrupt himself, desperately pulling in debt slaves, orphans, even scrap-grade Nikkes."
Crow's brows knitted as she processed this, her gaze hard and unrelenting. "And nobody tried to jump ship? They all just kept supplying him?" Her voice held a skeptical edge, her arms tightening as she scrutinized him.
John met her gaze, his tone even but dark. "Yes. This client's hold was powerful enough to scare off every scumbag under Rat's wing. No one dared abandon him."
A tense silence filled the room as the reality settled in, each of them understanding the magnitude of the threat. Viper's smirk faltered, a faint hint of unease creeping into her expression. "Whoever they are," she said slowly, "they were enough to make Rat risk everything. And not for money or ambition… but survival."
"Exactly." John gestured to a stack of papers, each one marked with names and positions of Ark officials and Sovereigns. "In the last few weeks, Rat's desperation hit a peak. He was bleeding money and scrambling to blackmail anyone he could—Ark officials, Sovereigns. He wanted leverage, protection, anything he could get."
He lifted one of Rapi's analysis sheets, holding it up for emphasis. "Rapi's highlighted several safehouses that Rat used regularly. I cross-referenced them with activity data from Nuovo Impianto and these other documents," he continued, tapping a mark on the map. "This location is our best lead on where he's likely hiding."
John tossed the stack of documents onto the table with a firm nod. "Alright, we've got what we need. Thirty minutes to gear up. We move out then."
Crow leaned against the doorway, arms folded, and gave him a withering look. "Seriously, John? You look like you've been dragged through a meat grinder," she sneered, eyes sharp as they trailed over him. "You're barely holding yourself up, wheezing like an old man with every breath. And you're telling us to be ready to charge into who-knows-what?"
John raised an eyebrow, keeping his expression steady despite the fatigue that gnawed at him. "I'm fine, Crow. Been through worse."
"'Fine'? Oh, I'm sure," Crow retorted, her voice laced with sarcasm. "You look like you haven't slept in days. Hell, if that wheezing gets any louder, we're going to mistake you for a malfunctioning Nikke." Her arms crossed tighter, her glare unwavering. "But by all means, let's pretend you're in top form. I mean, who needs rest, right?"
John forced a small grin. "I'll take it as a compliment that you're so concerned about my health, Crow. Really, it's touching."
Crow rolled her eyes, her tone turning downright cutting. "Don't flatter yourself, John. It's not concern—it's practicality. If you're the one leading this charge, I'd rather not get dragged down by your mess when you inevitably keel over from sheer exhaustion."
Viper shot Crow a smirk, clearly enjoying the show but chimed in. "She's not wrong, Honey. You do look like you've seen better days. What's the plan here? Lead us through on guts alone?"
John shrugged, nonchalant despite the tightness in his ribs. "A little bit of grit, a little bit of luck. You know, the usual."
Crow scoffed, pushing herself off the wall, her expression a mixture of frustration and skepticism. "Luck? That's your grand strategy? You're just going to drag us all out there, half-dead, based on your 'gut feeling'?"
John's smirk didn't falter. "Worked pretty well so far, hasn't it?" He glanced between them, a glint of determination cutting through his exhaustion. "I'll manage. You just keep up."
Crow's eyes narrowed. "You're unbelievable." She shook her head, her gaze sharp and cutting. "Fine, lead the way, Commander. But don't expect any sympathy when that foolhardy 'grit' of yours runs out."
John matched her glare with a tired grin, unyielding. "Noted, Crow. Now, let's get going. Rat's running out of places to hide, and I don't intend to give him any time to find more."
John adjusted the straps of his armor, tightening the final buckle with a rough tug, though exhaustion hung heavily over him. Just as he straightened up, Takumi stepped into the room, through his window, his sharp gaze taking in every detail—bandages wrapped hastily around John's burns, the lines of strain etched deeply into his face, the faint rasp in each breath.
"Right on time," John greeted, forcing a nod at Takumi, masking the pain that flared through his chest with each breath.
Takumi didn't reply immediately, his eyes narrowing as they traced over John's bruised face and rigid posture. "You look worse than last time." His voice held a mild frown. "Let me guess—things went south?"
John exhaled, unable to fully disguise the weakness in his breath. "Yeah, something like that," he said, brushing it off. He launched into an explanation, filling Takumi in on Rat's recent moves, the blackmail scheme, and the dangerous unknown curse lurking behind the scenes. Takumi listened intently, arms folded, his expression shifting from intrigue to concern.
When John finished, Takumi's jaw tightened. "So, Rat's client, the curse I was assigned to hunt, isn't just pulling strings but forcing Rat into a desperate scramble. This is more than a simple curse terrorizing people."
"Exactly," John agreed, his tone steely. "It's definitely a Grade One curse, if not worse—something clever enough to exploit him." He paused, lowering his voice. "Rat's hideout's pinpointed. I'll take care of him, get the information we need. Meanwhile, I need you to backtrack to Nuovo Impianto, see if there's anything we missed. We'll circle round and meet up in four hours to launch the assault on the curse"
Takumi didn't respond right away. He seemed to size up John, his eyes narrowing at the faint wheeze in John's breathing. "Okay" he said carefully, "but let's talk about your plan in a second. First, I need to patch you up properly. That punctured lung isn't going to fix itself, no matter how good you think you are at hiding it."
John tensed, his shoulders rigid. "I've got enough to get through this. I don't need patching up."
Takumi's expression darkened, his usual impassive mask slipping to reveal a sharper edge of irritation. "You're barely holding together, and if you get any worse, you'll be a liability. If you want to go after this curse with even half a shot of coming back, we do this my way."
Before John could protest, Takumi had already grabbed a roll of bandages and antiseptic from a pack nearby, gesturing for John to sit. "Stay still," Takumi muttered, working methodically to ease the strain on John's lung and secure his bandages.
Silence stretched as he worked, but Takumi broke it, a hint of unease in his tone. "Grade One's bad, but if you're right, and this really could be Special Grade…" he trailed off, shaking his head. "Rat wouldn't have even been able to operate. If it were Special Grade, his entire operation would be ashes."
John smirked, though his breath hitched slightly. "Who knows what lurks in the Outer Rim, right?" He managed a casual tone, though the weight of the possibility lingered.
Takumi met his gaze, his brow furrowing. "That's not something to joke about."
With his wounds finally secured, John gave a faint nod, acknowledging Takumi's point without responding directly. Instead, he reached into a side pocket, pulling out a set of slender incense sticks wrapped in protective cloth. He pressed them into Takumi's hand. "Signals, in case we're too deep to communicate. Light one if things go south, and I'll know you're in trouble. Use it, and I'll find you."
Takumi's hand closed around the incense sticks, his expression uncharacteristically solemn. "Understood. Just don't make me use them to come rescue you, alright?"
John gave a faint grin, though his gaze held an unusual seriousness. "Just keep your end covered, Takumi. I'll take care of the rest."
As John tightened the last strap of his armor, Takumi glanced at him, his expression guarded but his voice low.
"While you were busy with this mess, I took a trip to the library," Takumi murmured, his eyes shifting as if weighing his words carefully.
John raised an eyebrow. "Anything interesting?"
Takumi nodded, his tone cautious. "Found some things in the records. Names."
John sighed, nodding. "Alright. Let's handle tonight first. We'll dig deeper into the rest when this is over."
Takumi's eyes softened, a hint of something close to relief crossing his face. "Agreed. After we finish here."
Crow methodically loaded her dual SMGs magazines, each bullet slipping into place with a sharp, deliberate click. Her expression was cold, eyes narrowed in quiet disdain as she glanced up, her gaze hardening as it settled on Viper lounging across from her, shotgun resting casually on her lap.
"So," Crow began, voice dripping with scorn, "getting cozy with the commander, are we? Didn't think you'd stoop to playing that game."
Viper raised an eyebrow, clearly unfazed, and gave a light chuckle, adjusting her grip on the shotgun. "Cozy? Please, Crow. Just because I know how to keep things interesting doesn't mean I'm signing up for loyalty." She smirked, casting Crow a sidelong look. "Besides, he's more useful on our side than off. I'd think you of all people would appreciate that."
Crow's mouth tightened, her gaze unwavering. "Useful now, maybe. But don't go fooling yourself. Commanders are all the same. They're parasites, riding the backs of us Nikkes, getting their hands dirty only when it serves them. And if you're planning to cozy up to him, then you'd better be prepared to watch him exploit every one of us the moment it suits him."
Viper shrugged, inspecting her shotgun with a nonchalant air. "You make him sound like he's some kind of mastermind. But last I checked, he's just another guy trying to make it out here. Relax, Crow. I know what I'm doing."
Crow's eyes narrowed further, her jaw tightening as she cleaned a smear off one of her SMGs. "You think you're in control of him? Don't be naive. You're playing with fire, and once he thinks he owns you, he'll treat you like everyone else he steps on. Commanders are all cut from the same mold—they're bred to see us as tools."
Viper let out a short, dismissive laugh, but a flicker of hesitation crossed her face, quickly masked with her usual smirk. "Oh, Crow, he's not getting that close. Trust me. You're acting like I'm about to fall for the guy. I'm just… keeping things interesting."
Crow's expression grew darker, her tone edged with a scornful intensity. "Just don't come crying to me when he uses you like a pawn and leaves you to clean up the mess. The Ark may have trained them to lead, but we've been trained to survive. If you're forgetting that, you're a liability."
Before Viper could respond, Jackal, oblivious to the tension, looked up from her gear, rocket launcher balanced across her knees. "Hey, hey, are we talking about the commander?" she asked, eyes wide in genuine confusion. "You guys think he's hot or something?" She laughed, shaking her head. "Man, I'm just here to blow stuff up. I didn't realize we had, like, a drama department too."
Crow scowled, muttering to herself as she resumed loading her SMGs, dismissing Jackal's interruption. Viper, meanwhile, gave Jackal a wry smile, a touch of mischief glinting in her eyes. "Oh, Jackal, it's just business. Nothing personal."
Jackal rolled her eyes, shaking her head with a chuckle. "You guys have the strangest hobbies," she muttered, grabbing her rocket launcher and slinging it over her shoulder.
Crow and Viper exchanged one last loaded glance, Crow's filled with barely concealed contempt and Viper's dripping with smug amusement.
Rat's pacing was relentless, his fingers tapping out a nervous rhythm against his side as he watched the chaos spiraling around him. His men darted back and forth, voices sharp and breath labored, grabbing everything that wasn't bolted down—documents, crates of tech, even bundles of loose cash. The stale, acrid smell of smoke hung thick in the air, mixing with the rank odor of sweat and tension. His base, his "untouchable" fortress hidden in the rotting outskirts of the Outer Rim, had been breached, and now they had maybe half an hour before someone else found them.
He shot a glance at his lieutenant, who was barking orders at a few gang members frozen in panic. "Move it! I want everything out of here in fifteen minutes or less! Nail it down later, just get it on the trucks now!"
Rat's eyes landed on the surgeon standing by, waiting with gloved hands and a gleaming ID chip, the needle prepped to embed it under his skin. The man's face was obscured by a mask, his cold eyes focused entirely on the task as he waited. Rat's stomach twisted as he considered the idea of that thing being embedded in his neck. Could he trust the surgeon? But he knew he didn't have a choice if he wanted any shot at slipping into the Ark without detection.
"Can we get this over with already?" Rat snapped, his voice carrying a thin edge of desperation he hoped the others wouldn't hear. The surgeon merely nodded, unhurried, his gaze steady, while Rat ground his teeth, each second eroding his patience.
One of his men, barely out of his teens and looking pale as paper, shuffled up. "Boss, about those blackmail messages… no one's responded yet."
Rat's face twisted with rage, and he turned on the kid, jabbing a finger in his direction. "Are you kidding me? We're holding Ark secrets over their heads, threatening to leak every filthy thing they've done, and they won't even pick up a damn phone?" His voice was rising, sharp enough to draw nervous glances from nearby gang members, but he barely noticed. "We could be out of here already if one of those cowards had the spine to follow through!" He slammed his fist against a nearby chair, fingers clenched so tight they went white.
The lieutenant shot him a wary look, but Rat waved him off, forcing his voice into a tense murmur. "Keep sending those messages, again and again if you have to. Ark officials, Sovereigns, anyone who might be desperate enough to take the bait. I don't care who responds, but someone's got to, and fast."
The surgeon cleared his throat and gestured for Rat to sit down, a glint of metal flashing in his gloved hand. With a barely concealed grimace, Rat lowered himself into the chair, gritting his teeth as he felt the needle press into his skin. The implant settled, cold and foreign under his flesh, and he fought the urge to rip it out then and there.
As the implant latched in place, a single thought hammered through his mind, each beat echoing louder than the last: Running out of time. And if no one bites…
His gaze shifted toward the door, the distant sounds of the trucks revving up outside barely cutting through the roar of his own heartbeat.
The flickering fluorescent lights suddenly cut out, plunging the room into darkness. Silence fell like a shroud, as every screen, every device Rat's people clutched flickered and died, their cold blue glows extinguished in an instant. Rat's fingers clenched around his dead phone, his pulse thrumming in his ears like the tolling of a distant bell.
"No… no, no, no," he stammered, backing up until his shoulders hit the cold, unyielding wall. His eyes darted around the room, catching only vague shadows of his men's outlines in the dark. His breath hitched, and he clutched at his shirt, heart pounding against his ribcage. "It's him. It has to be… Mahito. He's here."
In the dark, his lieutenant's voice cut through, sharp and commanding, though it carried a tremor. "Runners, check each section! Report back in five. Move!"
Hesitating only briefly, a few men rushed into the dim, labyrinthine hallways. They moved with growing urgency, retracing paths they'd memorized, their footsteps echoing faintly in the tight corridors—until, as they rounded certain corners, they stopped short. The familiar doorways and exits had vanished, replaced by blank concrete walls that stretched out like an endless cage.
One of them, a young runner, froze in front of what should have been the exit. He pressed his palms against the cold, unmarked wall, blinking in disbelief. "What…?" His voice barely rose above a whisper, swallowed by the unnatural stillness that surrounded him.
The runners' flashlights flickered, dimming to little more than feeble glows as they illuminated dead ends and long stretches of wall that seemed to move subtly in the dark. The hallways twisted into a nightmarish maze of shadows and false turns, as if the darkness itself were alive, waiting to devour them.
"Boss!" One of the men shouted, his voice echoing back emptily. "The exits… they're all gone. We're trapped."
In the main room, Rat was frozen, a raw terror etched into his features. The lieutenant, catching the panic rippling through the remaining men, tried to steady his voice. "Stay close," he ordered, forcing a thin mask of control. "Nothing is getting in here."
But even he didn't believe it. The air had thickened, charged with an oppressive energy that felt almost alive, clinging to their skin like invisible weights. Every corner of the room, every shadow cast by the faint emergency lights seemed to pulse with a sinister life of its own, watching, waiting.
Rat's breathing grew ragged, a desperate edge slipping into his gaze as he scanned the room, feeling something heavy coiling around him. The air felt thinner, each breath harder to draw, and he clenched his jaw, barely holding himself together.
Then, from somewhere deep within the compound, a low hum began, vibrating through the floor. It was a murmur, a resonant note that seemed to snake into the core of each man's fear, pulsing in time with their racing heartbeats. Rat felt it through his bones, each pulse tightening like a vice around his chest, growing louder until it was an ominous countdown he couldn't see. Every beat seemed to whisper the same message:
There is no escape.
A sudden burst of gunfire shattered the silence, ricocheting through the walls. Explosions followed, distant but unmistakable, muted as if swallowed by the very darkness they faced. Rat's men flinched, eyes darting to each other, their terror cut by the glint of desperate hope. Rat's panicked breaths slowed, his face contorting as fear gave way to something almost like relief.
"Ark forces," he muttered, barely daring to believe it. "It has to be the Ark."
The lieutenant, catching the shift, seized the moment. "Alright, everyone, stay focused!" he barked, his voice hard and commanding. "They're heading for us. Hold tight, and we'll be out soon."
For the first time in hours, Rat's shoulders relaxed a fraction. Surrender wasn't ideal, but it was leagues better than facing Mahito. He could imagine a new plan forming, bargaining his way out, maybe negotiating his way into rehab, perhaps even bribing his way out if he found the right contacts. The alternative—being left alone in Mahito's grasp—was unthinkable.
But even as he clung to the thought of Ark forces, doubt slithered back into his mind. The low hum still lingered, weaving through the walls like a spectral thread, seeming to grow stronger, not weaker. What if this wasn't Ark? What if it was Mahito's doing, an illusion of hope? What if Mahito had found him, was already watching, amused by the hopeless dance of a trapped rat?
Rat swallowed, his throat dry. He couldn't shake the image of Mahito, that twisted grin, those cold, gleeful eyes waiting to warp him from the inside out, twisting his bones, bending his memories, making him forget his own name. He shuddered, the thought pressing down on him, filling his mind with a crawling dread.
The staccato beat of gunfire grew louder, rattling the walls, each burst sharper than the last. Rat could hear screams and the brutal rhythm of heavy suppression rounds, the kind that cut through flesh and bone with unflinching precision. His pulse raced, panic carving a hollow ache in his chest as he backed up, his wide eyes fixed on the steel door separating him from whatever merciless force was tearing through his men.
In the dark, his mind conjured the worst, but he clung to the distant hope of Ark reinforcements—someone, anyone to stop what was coming. He could hear his lieutenant's reassurances falter with each dying scream that echoed through the hall.
Then, with a bone-rattling crash, the door splintered, and Exotic Squad flooded the room like a pack of wild predators. Viper and Jackal were first, their movements quick and chaotic as they dispatched the remaining guards with a savage efficiency that left no margin for error. Jackal's laugh echoed in the dark as she fired a rocket into a corner where one of Rat's men tried to hide, the blast rocking the room and scattering debris. Viper was on another guard, her shotgun blazing, every pull of the trigger echoing through the silence that followed each round.
Crow entered behind them, her eyes narrowed, an unsettling hunger in her gaze as she surveyed the body filled floor. Her smirk widened when she spotted Rat cowering by the wall, his body rigid with terror, his hands raised in a trembling attempt at surrender.
"Please… I—I'll talk. I'll tell you everything," he stammered, voice cracking as he fell to his knees. "Just… don't…"
Crow's smirk sharpened, and she took a deliberate step forward, eyes gleaming with cold satisfaction. "Pathetic," she spat, her voice dripping with contempt as she let him wallow, reveling in his fear and desperation.
The sound of steady, measured footsteps filled the silence, and Crow turned, watching as John stepped in. His face was calm, his gaze cold and assessing as he took in the scene. He glanced down at Rat with barely a flicker of emotion, his attention instead shifting to Crow.
"I need a few words alone with him," he said quietly, his voice smooth but carrying a weight that was impossible to ignore.
Crow's brow arched, her expression turning skeptical. "Fine," she replied, casting one last scornful look at Rat. "But make it quick. We're on borrowed time here, and I'm not keen on any more interruptions."
"Relax," John said, a faint, almost sardonic smile on his lips. "No word's getting out—I made sure of that." His gaze sharpened, and he added, "Wait outside. I won't be long."
As the members of Exotic began to file out, Crow lingered a moment, casting him a skeptical glance. "I told you, cutting the power was basic strategy," she sneered, though a hint of acknowledgment softened her tone. "But, I'll admit, that's more than most commanders seem capable of."
John's smirk deepened, unruffled. "You should trust me more, Crow."
She scoffed, rolling her eyes, but her gaze lingered for a moment before she jerked her chin toward Viper and Jackal. With a nod, they turned and left, their heavy footsteps echoing down the hall. As the door clicked shut, the silence grew heavy, oppressive. Rat stared at John, his eyes darting around the room as he searched for any sign of escape.
John took a step forward, his expression turning steely. "Now," he said, voice calm yet laced with a deadly edge, "let's talk."
Two hours later.
As the towering gates of the Outer Rim loomed before them, John handed a barely coherent Rat off to the waiting Military Police Nikkes. Rat's eyes were wide, unfocused, muttering fragmented pleas and nonsensical phrases about "the cursed touch" and "warped souls." The MPs exchanged wary glances as they cuffed him, eyeing John as if looking for an explanation. He only nodded to Crow, Viper, and Jackal, exchanging quick, wordless glances—acknowledgments, maybe even the faintest trace of respect, but nothing spoken.
"See you around," he murmured, already turning on his heel.
Without a backward glance, he slipped around a nearby corner and vaulted up the side of a building, moving fluidly along the rooftops, shrouded by the shadows. As he moved, he replayed Rat's desperate, garbled confessions in his mind, the disjointed phrases and ragged, haunted look piecing together a troubling image of Mahito.
Mahito—a figure who could turn people into curses with the mere touch of his hand. Just the thought of it knotted John's stomach. He pictured the gruesome transformations Rat had described: human features twisted and stretched, bodies warped in agony, as if they were not only cursed but cursed to suffer endlessly in their new forms. He remembered the horrifying curses he had fought the night he rescued Echo, Cinder and the civilians. The very idea unsettled him. It went against every instinct he had, every skill he'd sharpened through years of close-quarters combat, where contact was power, where the only rule was to control the space around him. Now, for the first time, he would have to keep his distance, hold back, and fight on terms that weren't his own.
As he vaulted back over another wall, he forced himself to push down the tension, blending seamlessly into the crowd below. He had a few hours before meeting with Takumi, and his mind drifted back to the quieter streets of the city. The market stalls along the edge would be winding down for the night, and he made his way there, slipping into a familiar stall to buy a few warm apple pies. Stashing them in his pack, he retraced his steps, heading back to the edge of the Ark and, from there, to the Outer Rim.
He moved through the shadows, his mind lingering on Echo and Cinder, on the survivors he'd helped free from Rat's grip. He could still see their faces—exhausted, but alive. It tugged at him, pushing him forward. For them, he could handle whatever came next, even if it meant facing Mahito's twisted power.
With his supplies in hand, he made his way over the walls of the Outer Rim and toward the makeshift shelter where they were recovering, his resolve hardening with each step. He wasn't just fighting for survival; he was fighting to make sure people like them could finally live free from the chains they'd been forced to wear. Whatever it took, he would see this through.
The eerie silence struck John as he approached the building. His stomach knotted, and a cold sweat broke across his brow. This place—usually alive with quiet murmurs, the gentle scuff of footsteps, and the occasional soft laugh—was utterly still. His pulse quickened as he noticed something missing: the faint shimmer in the air, the barrier he'd set to keep intruders out, had vanished. A chill ran down his spine.
He sprinted inside, feet pounding against the dust-covered floor. The smell hit him first: a sickening mix of decay and scorched metal, sharp and acrid, like something twisted and burned beyond recognition. He skidded to a halt as his gaze fell upon the sight before him. His breath caught, and a horrified whisper escaped his lips.
Bodies, twisted and warped into grotesque parodies of themselves, lay strewn across the ground. Limbs jutted out at impossible angles, flesh grotesquely fused with metal, as if every piece of them had been forcibly reshaped and left to rot. Familiar faces—now unrecognizable—were frozen in silent screams, their features distorted and contorted beyond what was human. But amidst the tangled mass of horror, his eyes fixed on one figure, and he felt a fresh wave of nausea hit him.
Cinder.
Her once protective form, fierce and steadfast, was now a hideous fusion of flesh and machine. Her eyes—empty, wide—seemed to stare past him, forever locked in a moment of agony. John's heart twisted, the guilt sharp and immediate, a leaden weight pressing on his chest. This was on him; he had left them unprotected, left them to this.
He stumbled back, barely keeping the bile rising in his throat at bay. His mind raced, frantically searching for an explanation, an answer, anything to undo what he was seeing. But a soft, trembling sound froze him in place.
"It hurts… Mama… where are you?"
The voice was thin, broken, and he turned, heart splintering further as he caught sight of a small curse—a twisted figure, barely recognizable as anything once human. Its tiny body was mangled, limbs contorted like the others, but smaller, more fragile. Its face, warped and torn, held eyes that somehow still shone with a fractured innocence, clouded by pain.
Before he could respond, it lurched forward, claws mangled and twisted, mouth open in a wail that echoed through the hollow space, a piercing cry that chilled him to the core.
John steadied himself, anger and sorrow colliding in a violent storm, but his fury wasn't for the creature before him—it was for the one who had left this grotesque scene in his wake. Mahito's presence tainted every corner, every lifeless stare, and each broken form. With each twisted figure in his path, a fierce, unyielding resolve took over, his thoughts narrowing into a singular purpose. He would not let Mahito's work endure.
He moved from one tortured figure to the next, each transformed soul meeting him with flashes of teeth, claws, fragments of their former selves trapped in twisted violence. Each one bore some trace of who they once were, now shattered beyond recognition. As he dispatched each creature, he felt himself grow numb, shutting off the part of him that recoiled from their suffering. His own pain, the sting of every wound on his body, faded under the cold determination overtaking him. This wasn't a rescue. It was a mercy, a way to lay to rest those Mahito had defiled. Each life ended with grim efficiency, any semblance of hesitation crushed beneath his need to stop the suffering.
Finally, only one remained.
Cinder, or what was left of her, staggered forward, her eyes—somehow still recognizable, still hers—clouded with a flicker of awareness. Her metal-fused frame, battered and broken, moved haltingly, yet she carried herself with a strength that defied her torment. Her hands, twisted and fused with machinery, reached forward, yet she didn't attack. She sank to her knees before him, her head bowing in something resembling reverence.
John's fists clenched, his chest constricting as he forced himself to keep his expression neutral, to shut down any emotions clawing their way to the surface. He knew what had to be done, yet the hollow remnants of her gaze held him there, her resilience echoing in the dark.
Her voice, a bare whisper, cut through the silence. "Please…"
The single word struck him, the barriers he'd put up cracking under its weight. In her eyes, he saw a fleeting glimpse of who she had been—fierce, loyal, protective, a shield for those who couldn't stand on their own. She had fought Mahito's desecration, clinging to her humanity even as her body betrayed her.
He raised his hand, his movements precise, offering her the mercy she had so fiercely earned. His strike was swift, clean. As her head bowed in final repose, her lips parted, barely forming her last words.
"Thank you."
A heavy silence followed, thick and unyielding, settling over the room like a shroud. John stood motionless, his breaths trembling as he wrestled against the hollow ache gnawing at his chest. He closed his eyes, drawing in a ragged breath, willing himself to feel nothing. But the emptiness clung to him.
He stumbled out of the building, every step weighted down by the horror he'd just faced. Blood and grime smeared his hands, his clothes, even his soul, each step an effort as his mind swirled in a fog of grief and exhaustion. His breaths came shallow, like he was choking on ash.
He almost didn't see her—Echo, crouched and trembling against the wall, her twisted form mocking the brave figure she once was. Her body was warped beyond recognition: spindly limbs and jagged mechanical parts jutted out at strange angles, her hollow eyes barely able to hold his gaze. Mahito had twisted her into a grim parody of herself, her original form buried under layers of grotesque alteration, her consciousness painfully intact.
"J… John…" she rasped, her voice weak, a shadow of her once-lively spirit. That single word, spoken through labored breaths, shattered him. She reached out with a mangled, trembling arm, each movement agonizingly slow, her broken face twisting with the effort. "Are… are they… safe? I… tried… to… protect…"
Her voice broke, and a strangled sob escaped her lips. In her haunted expression, he could see the weight of her suffering, the raw, unending agony she endured. Her torn body held together only by Mahito's cruelty, she clung to one last thought, one last sliver of hope. She shifted, her eyes blank with pain but filled with the faintest flicker of longing. "Tell… tell Cinder… I… love her…"
John's throat tightened, and he struggled to keep his voice steady, even as his heart felt like it might shatter. He bent down, his hand reaching out, forcing himself to hold her gaze. "You kept them safe, Echo. You… you did all you could. I'm here to bring you back… to bring you home."
A faint, fragile smile touched her lips, the tiniest spark of doubt in her eyes—as if she knew he couldn't keep that promise, but wanted to believe him anyway. Her gaze softened, flickering with the faint memory of who she once was. With the last of her strength, she managed a small nod.
"Thank… you…" she whispered, her voice barely a breath, as if speaking those words were her final act of hope and resignation.
In one swift, merciful motion, he ended her suffering, his hand steady even as his heart splintered. He granted her the release she deserved, her final, fragile words echoing through his mind like a fading melody.
When it was over, he stood there in silence, the enormity of his actions pressing down on him, hollowing him out. The air around him felt thick, suffocating, as though the walls themselves leaned in to crush him. He shut his eyes, drawing in a shuddering breath, willing himself to feel nothing. But the emptiness lingered, gnawing at him from within.
And then came the voices—slithering through the cracks in his mind, crawling into the emptiness his grief had left behind. Each whisper felt like a shard of glass, embedding itself deeper, seeping into his thoughts. They overlapped, a cacophony of bitterness and accusation.
"Nothing you do will ever be enough."
The words echoed like a cruel truth, pressing down on his chest, squeezing his heart until each beat felt heavier, colder.
"You promised to protect them, and look where that got them."
His breath caught, his vision blurring as memories flashed before his eyes—broken promises, haunting failures, and all the pain he'd left in his wake. Every vision laid his faults bare, stripping him of any refuge.
"Hero? You've done nothing but cause ruin."
The taunt sliced through him, forcing his pride to the ground and burying it in mud. His mouth filled with a bitter taste as the realization cut deep, unyielding and merciless.
"You led them here. Their blood is on your hands."
The words hammered into him, relentless, each syllable crashing over him like a wave until he stood stripped bare, exposed as nothing more than a hollow shell of valor. The faces of those he'd failed to save flickered before him, their silent, accusing gazes piercing into him, telling him he would always fall short.
"Look at yourself. You're nothing but a shadow pretending to be whole."
The voice crawled through his veins like poison, settling into every corner of his being, leaving him recoiling from his own reflection. Was he anything more than a vessel for suffering, a shadow wearing the form of a man?
"The only path you walk is destruction."
The words trapped him, caging him within his own mind as the walls closed in, suffocating him in the darkness. The void stretched out before him, mocking him with the hopelessness of escape. He was drowning, and no hand would reach out to pull him free.
"Face it—you're better at breaking things than saving them."
The voice struck, cruel and taunting, its words searing deeper than any physical wound. His so-called talents—what had they ever brought but chaos and ruin? The thought settled, heavy and unforgiving, erasing any remaining shred of pride, leaving him only hollow.
His mind fractured, splintering under the weight of each accusation, each voice peeling away the last threads holding him together. Anger, regret, guilt—all of it swirled in a dark, relentless storm, swallowing him whole, blurring his sense of self until he could no longer distinguish where one feeling ended and the next began. The weight of it all—every life he had touched, every soul he had failed—pressed down with an unrelenting force.
And then, from the depths of his despair, something raw and feral stirred within him, clawing its way to the surface. It tore through the walls he'd built, rising like a tide of rage and anguish, a desperate need to purge the festering pain within.
John opened his mouth, and the scream erupted from his core—a sound forged from agony, rage, and sorrow. It cut through the desolate streets of the Outer Rim, a roar that shattered the silence, echoing through the darkness with a force that defied words. It was a scream that emptied him, that pulled every last ounce of grief and anger from him, until there was nothing left but silence.