[Surveillance Corp Inner-Chambers
"Director Harlow…" One Surveillance Corp officer awkwardly walks over, standing straight. Computers line up against one another as the sounds of keyboards echo in the air. Old coffee cups sat forgotten on the wooden desks.
One had mold growing on it—its name was Kevin.
"Yes. What!" Quincy snaps back, slamming his cane.
"There's a Mr. He at the front door," the officer squeamishly points at the back of the chambers."
"Oh no. What now?" Quincy steps forward, the bottom of the cane guiding his movements.
"First, a sudden meeting in the morning…now he annoys me with some task," the director's voice bounces off and leaks out of the room.
Zhang stands firm at a lone door randomly placed in the middle of a long corridor. An awkward place to put a room in.
"What do you need?" Quincy questions, peeking through the tiny door crack.
"I need your help to find the location of one man," Zhang orders, clipped.
"What does my team get in return?" Quincy cuts back.
"You guys get better air conditioning," Zhang mutters, rolling his eyes.
"Guys! I hear air conditioning!" one analyst slams his desk.
"He said what?" one intern weeps silently. "Thank the lord himself."
"Oh my god! Thank you, Zhang!"
"Back! Back! I say!" Quincy yells out, pointing his cane as if fighting back zombies. Technically, he wasn't wrong.
Zhang pushes himself into the chambers, being hit with the sudden humidity and body odor. The scent is thick with burnt wires and week-old gym socks. Staggering back, Zhang clenches his eyes, almost tearing up.
That's how bad it was.
"Yup. You definitely need better air conditioning and deodorant."
"Was that last part really necessary?" One male officer awkwardly spins his chair, facing his superior.
A stack of paper crashes with a heavy thud.
"Here you go," Quincy says, fingers tightening around his cane.
Now seated, Zhang leans forward, eyes fixated on the documents.
"That was fast."
"You want it or not?" Quincy barks.
"He used the warp hub in Coral Bay, California?" Zhang examines, fingers pressing against the words. "The same one Edward and Kiara use."
"Yeah?" Quincy frowns. "It makes sense, though. If assassins attacked Kiara, Edward, that Adam boy–all in Coral Bay—then where else would this Acid King be? Right there with them. It's not rocket science."
"I have him right where I want him," Zhang smirks.
"Should you be taking a break?" Quincy snorts, tapping his cane on the floor. "Maybe forget about this whole thing."
"What's the point of finding a guy that beat you to pulp. with barely a day passed."
"I'm the only one dedicated enough to do this," Zhang cuts back, leaning back on the chair. A confident smirk draws over his face.
"After all, I've been picked to lead for quite some time now. If I let one punk wall infiltrate us, then everyone sees that a weak leader has failed them. It'll be an embarrassment."
"Unlike others, I won't back down when I take a few hits."
Quincy thinly presses his lips.
Zhang folds the document, standing slowly. The hum of the computers is replaced by the distant roar of engines and illegal motorcycles cutting through the streets.
Sidewalks grew crowded—people flowing in and out trying to get a slice of 99-cent pizza before the morning rush.
Cars honk.
Vendors yell.
The open road was swallowed by the city's heartbeat.
Thomas' steps flow into the next as the edges of his black overcoat catch the wind like waves. His gaze sharpens as he notices an elderly man take up useful space, struggling up a cracked sidewalk. A mother chases her daughter after she throws a tantrum in the middle of traffic.
Spoiled brats, Thomas thinks.
He doesn't slow, thoughts biting.
The jazz musician plays to his heart's content, and the notes hover in the air. A group of everyday people circles the man, clapping along to the melody. Coins and money rain down in his blue fedora.
The song fades, drowned out by the city life as Thomas walks away.
He felt nothing but irritation. He watches unimpressed–at their charity, their foolish trust, their empty generosity.
What do they gain?
A young volunteer hands out free water bottles to the homeless sleeping under benches and alleyways. Thomas stares in disbelief. He turns to see an old couple feeding the local pigeons.
Their quiet companionship is palpable.
Warmth. Kindness. Laughter.
His fingers tighten around the cage's handle. Something builds and burns in his throat, almost building it back up. He clutches his throat, struggling not to vomit.
He turns away, avoiding their grateful eyes.
The birds' fragile chirps were swallowed whole by the police sirens streaming by.
His pace doesn't falter, each step distancing himself farther away, slipping through the crowd.
At the same time, Zhang steps onto the city streets, passing through a playground park. Little gremlin children playfully shoving and chasing each other. Their screams and voices ring like bells.
Two young boys soar higher and higher, daring each other to touch the clouds. One of them lets go of the swing's chain, flying through the air like a flying projectile, crashing into the grassy field.
Turning his head, Zhang sees a mother comforting her crying son in the playground. His gaze was lost in his thoughts, mouth slightly open as if he had forgotten to breathe.
The sound of the children's laughs twists and turns around his throat, slowly squeezing harder by the second. Their youthful noises distort and melt into the roar of flames.
The world spins around him as a deafening ring stabs him from within.
Zhang snaps his fingers, trying to calm himself—the friction stinging like fire.
The mother's image changes for just a second, a flash of someone familiar to Zhang replaces her—a ghost from the past. The crying child's mother casts a glance at Zhang, standing suspiciously by himself.
He wasn't watching anyone….he was just there.
Hands at his sides.
Eyes unfocused.
He didn't look dangerous. But he didn't look safe either.
Holding onto her son, the woman gives a dirty look at Zhang as they leave the park.
Their eyes meet for just a second.
He didn't flinch.
The corners of his lips tense just barely for a second. Something you could barely notice.
He stays quiet. All to himself.
He has to end this quickly.
The city's distant hums buzz beneath Thomas—a reminder of the lives below him. Neon signs cast flickering shadows over the grim walls.
"I need a ticket to go back to New York," Thomas orders, fist balled tightly.
"Wait, no, that doesn't sound right," the emissary frowns, grasping his phone. "I need you to help my associate further his plans. Remember, he doesn't want to be revealed or get his hands dirty."
"He wants you to finish the rest of the bounty lists. All of them. Imagine the money you can earn," he continues.
Something moves in the distance. Thomas glares, peeking behind his shoulder.
Somewhere, unseen, someone was following him.
Who?
Hanging up the call, Thomas moves into an alleyway, bouncing off the narrow walls. Once on top of a rooftop, he takes in the scenery around him. The ledge creaks behind his weight.
It was quiet. The type of quiet that follows an ambush.
Zhang shortly follows, landing with a gentle step. He meets face-to-face with Thomas once more. Standing on the ledge, Thomas takes a soft sigh before facing Zhang.
"You carry that burden around," Zhang softly says, tilting his head.
"He's not a burden," Thomas says absently, gently placing the cage down. The small creature hisses softly, eyes wide with panic. His eyes flick from object to object after his hands tenderly stroke the cage without empathy.
Zhang casts a glance towards the frightened animal.
"You're trying very hard to act like a real person with feelings."
"You think I'm heartless?" Thomas asks.
"You are. You kill people," Zhang cuts back. "Your expression doesn't change. You probably don't even weigh the consequences of your actions."
Thomas doesn't answer at first.
His jaw tightens
"Why should I? Everyone of my targets was in the wrong," he says, voice cracked and raw.
Zhang leans forward. "Right. That's how all monsters justify it."
Zhang's figure changes for a quick second, flashing with the white suit man from Thomas' memory. Thomas glares, cutting through the stillness.
"What do you want?" he asks.
"I'm here to eliminate you," Zhang answers. "It's the right thing to do."
"Right thing to do?" Thomas frowns, tilting his head. "I did the right thing, saving your life. I could have killed you and the old man, but I didn't. Edward Meitner was clearly a bounty, but I did eliminate him."
"What does that have to offer?" Zhang wonders.
"That means you should take the right decision and leave me alone," Thomas cuts back. "Run away. Hide in shame. Abandon your fantasy Warden worldview."
"You don't scare me, Acid King," Zhang says, soft but cutting. "You're a coward. Stop talking like a man above monsters—you're already one of them. Filth in a suit."
Thomas stares, blank yet sharp as a knife.
None of the fighters utters a word.
"You disgust me the most," Thomas says, his claws unfurling in a whirlwind of motion, poised palms ready to strike.
Zhang frowns, summoning his katanas. "I disgust you?"
"You're just a pampered man in a suit," Thomas snaps, blood vessels popping like fireworks. "You call me a killer, a monster, but everything you ever do is given by a dead man.
"It's people like you–soft men hiding behind ranks and titles–who look down on people like me. But you all never last a day without your safety nets. You all never earn everything, y'all just steal and throw away everything like the parasites you are."
Zhang frowns, jaw tightens.
"You know nothing of my life," Zhang's hands clench around his katanas. "I built everything by myself. Training and studying to be the best because I knew what I was supposed to be. Don't pretend I'm the reason the world broke you."
Thomas' voice cuts him off.
"Try living in a sterilized white room for your whole life," he recites somberly, his eyes looking intently at Zhang. "Born and culled in a world with only one purpose- to become an assassin."
Zhang's expression drops–for a second— listening intently. He maintains a good amount of space between himself and his opponent.
"If you were deemed not up to their standard, you were deemed as worthless, removed, and ultimately killed," Thomas's claws glow a bright radioactive green.
"I had to crawl up that system with my bare hands, a constant trial every day to even have a decent meal. My very own technique is a reflection of that, something they groomed and cultivated."
"What?" Zhang's eyes widened, bewildered by this sudden news. He had never heard of something like that before, to force someone to gain a technique that didn't resonate with them.
"No love. No family. No friendship. Only one purpose in that room- train, fight, then kill," Thomas raises his gloves towards Zhang, the palm outstretched and glowing. "I liberated myself from my shackles."
"You didn't liberate anything, you confined yourself in the system that stripped you of everything," Zhang argues, raising his crescent katana, preparing to attack.
"I learned that I needed to survive no matter what," Thomas yells scornfully, his eyes filled with conviction, "If I had to kill for a chance to be walking again, then I'll do it all over again."
With a sudden thrust, Thomas sprays a large wave of acid towards Zhang. The droplets spray and drip down with a massive amount of force and speed, corroding the marbled floor. Anticipating this, Zhang rushes over to catch Thomas off guard.
Darting his eyes, Thomas sees Zhang running over to his left. Swiftly moving his arm, Thomas follows the fleeing Zhang with a large area of acid, melting the surrounding area.
Those who fail to carve themselves in this world are not worth remembering, the man in a white suit says, his face distorted and sketched out. His voice was ingrained in Thomas' mind.
The white blank walls that constantly suffocated him and everyone else. A constant void with a looming sense of uncertainty on everyone's shoulders.
The type that coils on your throat, and it never lets go.
"That is why you'll crack like the rest of us," Thomas declares, acid ribbons flail and slice through the surrounding structures. Smoke swallows and effortlessly consumes the rooftop.
Zhang lifts his head, his hair flapping in the wind as he steps back. Thomas skillfully moves through the smoke as if he were a banshee. A metal claw cuts through the cloud, narrowly clasping Zhang's face.
Zhang, retaliating, unleashes a flurry of slashes and strikes. His katanas were perfectly swaying in the air like a brush inscribing characters. Each swing flowed into the other.
Thomas grabs onto Zhang's left arm like a predator, halting its momentum. Swinging his right arm, Zhang tries to attack, but Thomas parries with a free-handed flat palm.
Pushing Zhang back, Thomas jumps in the air, his body twisting and turning like a statuette. Recoiling his leg like a gun, he fires it out with blitzing speed.
Zhang crosses his arms together, blocking the kick. Stumbling on his feet, he steadies himself. Bending to the floor, he extends his leg out, sweeping the floor.
Thomas jumps. Acid fizzing out of his gauntlet. Corrosive tendrils eat away and surround the area like mini projectiles..
Pushing off his feet, Zhang rushes between the corrosive strings–legs sliding, arms weaving, dust bellows behind him.
His footing slips for a fraction.
"Flash step," he calmly says.
He teleports—too fast to follow.
Thomas' eyes cut from one corner to the next. Suddenly, Zhang appears in front of him, right palm pushing against his sternum.
It hovers barely an inch as time holds its breath.
The palm turns into a fist, crashing into Thomas' chest like a sledgehammer at full force. The air escapes the assassin's chest like a ghost, hitching on each gasp.
The rooftop tiles crack outward.
Flicking open a switchblade from his sleeve, Thomas crosses his arms together. Steel aims like fangs at Zhang. He moves forward, his body flickers.
A blur.
Gone.
Appearing in the air, he glides towards Zhang, coat flapping violently behind him. Zhang's eyes dart up, crossing his arms, parrying the strike.
The weight cracks the rooftop floor below, pulling Zhang's knee to the ground. The brick tiles fall onto the alleyway below, hitting an innocent bystander in the process. His body flails and drops to the floor as his friend looks up, seeing the two fighters leap away–vaulting to the next rooftop.
Thomas steps back, catching his footing as Zhang rushes forward.
Putting his hands together, he summons a three-section staff. Mist elongates and dances around like sweeping ink strokes. Flame crackles and flickers within the strokes.
Thomas glares.
The metal smear flies and blurs the world around. Chains rattle in its presence.
Clasping one of the rods and chain, Zhang twists and turns, spinning in a series of tight arcs. Each segment danced with lethal intent.
Extending his leg forward, he swings the steel rod at Thomas.
Shifting his body, Thomas smoothly dodges. Steel nearly slices flesh.
He felt the wind graze his cheek–cold and unforgiving. His eyes were expressionless. Lips pressed thinly.
Zhang's gaze narrows, not with rage, but with focus. Clasping the chain, the staff spins around the neck, chest, and under the arms–a metallic halo ready to strike.
Thomas' blade glares at Zhang. He charges forward, arms swaying back and forth as he flicks the blade. Zhang snaps his wrist–the outer rot shoots out like a bullet. Sliding on his feet, Thomas felt the wind of the strike off his flowy hair.
Spinning the switchblade, he clasps it like broken glass, fingers wrapping around tightly.
"Flash step," Zhang says, rushing forward. His body teleports towards Thomas in almost a heartbeat, crescent steel clashing against the knife. His staff, now a katana, presses on the small knife.
Pushing his weight on the katana, Zhang arcs the other katana with his left hand.
Thomas leaps back, the katana whispering past his cheek. Death exhales beside him. Swiping his arm, an acid ribbon carves through the air.
The scent of scorched stone follows Thomas' movement.
Zhang dodges. Twisting his head, he sees that Thomas has disappeared. Stealth.
Something hisses in the distance, a whisper through bone.
Grasping his katana, Zhang steadies his stance. His spiritual energy spikes, sensing his surroundings. A faint outline appears in the distance. A pressurized acid stream fires directly at Zhang like a bullet.
Zhang sidesteps, acid narrowly singeing him. Extending his arm, Zhang pulls Thomas out of his stealth, crashing him onto the ground.
Shooting his leg in the air, Thomas kicks himself up.
His body twists, using the momentum to slam his elbow into Zhang's side. He leaves with a slick one-two punch, each hit precise and sharp—no movement wasted.
Zhang swings his katana, but Thomas ducks like a shadow—silent yet lethal.
Thomas' serrated claws slice through the air. Zhang's katanas parry the strike, knocking him off course. Acid fizzles in Thomas' claw before shooting out in a pressured stream.
Zhang dodges. Droplets nearly hit his skin.
"Tell me–Is this really your honor speaking?" Thomas taunts, rushing forward. His arms coil behind his back like a metal spring. "Just say you're ashamed that you lost to a man like me. Patch that hole in your chest by hunting me down?"
Zhang grits his teeth, crescent steel meeting Thomas's trajectory.
"Does killing me fix anything for you? You're too late to fix anything, Warden." Thomas' words grab onto Zhang's throat, not letting go.
Then he hears it–a familiar voice, soft and trembling:
"Don't be sad or afraid. You are a brave boy, and you did nothing wrong."
Suddenly, more voices, some screaming, some angry, and others fearful, overwhelm his senses:
"Zhang….what did you do?"
"Someone…help!"
Zhang could hear them–panicked voices, pleading, breaking—layering on top of each other, muffled by the crackle of fire. The sound grows louder. Smoke curls around his lungs, unforgiving.
One final phrase lingers far longer than the rest. Almost sounding like Zhang's voice: "You're a terrible son."
The words clench his throat—his breath hollow and gasping for air.
He lowers his katanas mid swing, his hold loosening by the second.
Thomas' expression tightens.
"As expected." Thomas clenches his gloved hand and punches Zhang directly in the gut, catching him off guard. Zhang's body launches far into the rooftop railing, his body crashing violently before gradually sliding to a stop.
"The world doesn't care about your privileged past. Numbers are always disposable in the end."
Dust explodes outward behind Zhang.
He stares up at the sky above him. It stretched as far as the eye can see, yet it felt both distant and familiar. A glimpse of an event from his childhood flickers in his head. The sounds around him reminded him of the anger and fury over the voices of that day.
"Yeah…I'm not special," Zhang mutters to himself. His eyes close for just a second as he remembers why he became a warden in the first place. How he crossed paths with those in power.
Zhang's vision blurring as he flickers in and out of the past. He sees that fateful day, how his worldview was both shattered and rebuilt at the same time.
A young Zhang looks on at a trial, seeing a frail, hunched-over man. His hair was messy and unkempt, as if showing defeat. The people around him cast their judgment and insults.
He glanced over to the young child, but Zhang just lowered his head, not making contact with him.
Everything changed that day. Not just for Zhang, but how the world operated around him.