"So, Mr. Boogeyman," Michael asked, eyes narrowing with curiosity, "who's the person that forced you to come to Korea… and seek help from Father Gabriel?"
John leaned back in his seat, a shadow passing over his face.
"Kid… I've never faced an enemy I couldn't handle before. But this time…" His voice dipped into a growl. "It's different."
He paused, gaze fixed on the clouds beyond the window.
"I'm going after the Upper Table itself. Tell me, kid — are you actually going to be any help?"
Michael's lips curled into a smirk. "You won't be disappointed… sir."
John exhaled slowly, closing his eyes as the plane's low hum filled the silence.
Hours later…
The plane touched down with a heavy thud. As the landing gear groaned, John rose from his seat and headed for the exit.
At the gate, he turned to Michael.
"Listen, kid. I'm not babysitting you. Out there, you survive first — then you help me."
Michael gave a sharp nod and stepped outside.
A sleek, black 1946 Ford Mustang Mach 1 rumbled up to the curb. John's lips twitched into a faint smile.
It finally came back.
The driver stepped out, tossed John the keys without a word, and disappeared into the crowd.
Moments later, the Mustang roared to life, carrying them through the city's neon-lit streets.
They stopped in front of a towering building. Not just a hotel — The Continental.
John stepped out, an AR-15 slung over his shoulder. Michael carried an M4, eyes sharp. They exchanged a silent nod.
Inside, the silence was wrong.
Too heavy.
Too still.
Every step echoed. The polished floors reflected their weapons, their shadows stretching ahead. They moved slow, controlled, ready for a fight that never came.
By the time they reached the manager's office, neither had fired a shot.
Inside, a man sat with his back to them, hands folded behind the high leather chair.
Without turning, he spoke.
"Hello… Number 8."
Michael froze.
That voice. That name.
The years peeled away in an instant.
Flashback – The White Room
Michael was small. Too small for the steel chair they strapped him to. His bare feet dangled, toes cold against the sterile air. The room smelled of metal and ozone, like the air before lightning.
No windows. Just endless white walls, humming faintly. A single lamp burned overhead, too bright, forcing his eyes to water.
A hiss — the door opening.
The man who entered didn't dress like the guards. His eyes didn't look away. Thin silver hair, a calm smile, and a black cane that clicked with each step.
"Good morning, Number 8," the man said softly. "How did we sleep?"
Michael didn't answer.
"That's alright," he continued, setting a small metal box on the table. "Today, we try something new. Something that will make you… better."
The lid snapped open — thin wires, gleaming needles. Michael's stomach knotted. The straps bit into his wrists as he tried to pull away.
The man leaned in. His voice was almost gentle.
"You're going to be important, Michael. More important than you can imagine. And when the time is right… you'll understand why."
A gloved finger tapped the side of Michael's head.
"But first, we make sure you become what you're meant to be."
Then came the cold sting of metal at his neck. The whir of machines. The blinding white light.
When he woke, he didn't know how much time had passed. Only that the room was still white… and the man with the cane was still there, writing in a black leather notebook. Smiling.
Present
The man rose from the chair. Tall. Lean. His skeletal frame hinted at decades without rest.
Silver-white hair combed neatly back. Thin lips curled into that same faint, knowing smile.
Pale, washed-out blue eyes that seemed to pierce through flesh and memory.
And that cane — polished black, clicking against the floor.
Michael's breath caught.
Dr. Elias Marrow. The man who had made his life a living hell.
Author's Note – Marrow's Past:
Once a respected neuroscientist, Dr. Elias Marrow had been recruited by the Upper Table to pioneer "human optimization." His work wasn't about cures — it was about control. He believed the mind could be broken and rebuilt into a perfect weapon.
Michael was one of his first true "successes." Unlike others who shattered under the process, Michael adapted — not completely, but enough for Marrow to call him a finished prototype.
Marrow's steps drew closer.
Michael's fear ignited into rage. He raised his M4, voice sharp.
"Don't take another step, I swear to God!"
Marrow chuckled.
"So my little Eight has grown this much? Truly… a proud moment."
Then he laughed — cold, echoing off every corner of the room.
Michael's finger tightened. The shot tore into Marrow's right leg.
The doctor collapsed with a scream.
"Mother—!"
Michael stepped forward, eyes burning, gun still trained on him.
"Now… talk."