The council chamber was cast in suffocating darkness, broken only by the crackling flame of blue binary fire suspended in the air. It pulsed like a heartbeat—slow and steady—casting eerie glows across the black-marble floor. Around the central platform sat ten figures. The air was heavy with judgment.
Cigar stood in the center, shoulders back, chin raised. Beside him, the masked Executioner stood silent and still, like a wraith made of purpose and wrath.
"You failed," a voice boomed from the gloom, ancient and electric. "The Kane boy escaped. The traitors live. The children—gone."
Another voice, rasping like static, followed close behind. "You were entrusted with our prize. And you lost them all."
Cigar didn't flinch. His coat fluttered in the cold artificial breeze generated by the breathing walls. "We lost nothing," he said calmly. "The children were never meant to be kept. They were meant to be planted."
A pause. The blue flame flared brighter, casting jagged shadows across the walls.
"What do you mean?" a third voice hissed, more curious than angry.
Cigar's lip twitched upward in something not quite a smile. "Their Execution Codes were already embedded. Inactive, yes—but there. Latent systems. Invisible roots. Give it time, and they'll activate. Whether by force, trauma… or choice. When they do, they'll return to us."
"And if they don't?" asked another, cold and calculating.
"They will," Cigar said with iron certainty. "The world will break them, like it breaks everything else. And when they come crawling back for meaning… we'll offer purpose."
A soft hum of approval rumbled through the chamber. The fire dimmed for a moment, as if breathing.
"And Riven Kane?" a final voice asked, low and dangerous.
Cigar's jaw clenched slightly. "Next time… he won't escape. That boy's still running on hope. We'll take that from him."
The masked Executioner didn't speak. He didn't need to. A faint shimmer of blue binary fire pulsed from his gloved hands—a silent promise.
The council was quiet.
Then the flame dimmed, and the shadows swallowed them whole.
Far across the wastelands, in the mountains beyond the ruins of the world, a new dawn pushed against the night. The hideout was quiet, tucked deep within the earth's scars—its walls built from salvaged steel and old-world stone. It was a place that had once been nothing but a war bunker. Now it pulsed with life.
Children slept in rows, wrapped in mismatched blankets and borrowed hope. They stirred occasionally, whimpering from dreams that hadn't ended yet. The air was warm with survival. It was the first night in years some of them had known peace.
In the central room, Tony paced by the low-burning fire, his arms folded tightly across his chest.The Code's still in them," he muttered. "Inactive… but alive."
Vincent sat nearby, hunched over a flickering monitor, his fingers twitching like he was fighting something invisible. "We don't know when—or if—it'll awaken. But we should assume it will."
Mark cracked his knuckles loud enough to echo. "Then we prepare them. We teach them how to fight. Survive. Defend themselves."
Lucy's voice cut through the room like a blade. "You mean turn them into killers."
The fire hissed.
Mark met her glare. "You saw what Death Protocol did. What they'll keep doing."
"And you think turning kids into weapons is the answer?" Her voice trembled—not with fear, but memory. "That's what they did to me."
Tony stopped pacing. He turned toward her slowly, eyes heavy. "Then maybe you can show them how not to become that. Teach them how to hold onto their humanity. Because if we don't give them a chance, we're just sending them to die."
No one spoke for a moment. Even the wind outside seemed to hold its breath.
Vincent looked toward Riven, who had remained motionless by the back wall, staring into the flickering fire like it might offer a way forward. His face was gaunt, and something in his eyes looked like it had been left behind in the desert.
"I didn't break out of that hell to watch more kids go through what we did," Lucy said, her voice cracking again, softer now.
Riven rose slowly, the flames catching the edge of his shadow. His voice was low, tired, but sharp. "We're not turning them into weapons." His eyes scanned the room. "We'll return them to their families. The ones who have no homes…" He paused, gaze falling somewhere past the walls. "We'll find them one."
Silence.
No argument came. Only the sound of the fire and the distant breath of children dreaming.
Riven turned away from them all and walked down the corridor, his steps slow, deliberate, like each one was a weight he wasn't sure he could carry. He didn't look back.
Lucy waited a moment, then followed.
She found him on the outer ledge of the base, where the wind blew freely and the stars spilled across the sky like broken glass. His coat whipped gently behind him. His hands were clenched at his sides.
"She was right there," he whispered, almost too quiet for the wind to carry. "I had her."
"She's still in there," Lucy said, stepping beside him.
"She still walked away."
The night stretched silent around them. Stars didn't care for heartbreak.
"I wasn't fast enough," he said. "I wasn't strong enough. She needed me… and I couldn't save her."
Lucy didn't speak. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.
He collapsed into her embrace like a dam breaking. His breath hitched as he buried his face in her shoulder, the sobs silent but devastating. His body shook as he held onto her like he was afraid he'd shatter completely if he let go.
"I'll get her back," he whispered, his voice torn raw. "Even if it kills me."
Lucy's voice cracked as she whispered back, "I'm with you. Always."
Miles away, past scorched cities and bloodstained roads, Death Protocol had not fallen.
The new headquarters rose like a scar from the earth—built of metal, lit with pulsing crimson and threaded with living data. Giant digital veins ran through the structure's walls like arteries, feeding a beast still hungry.
In its central hall, Kira Kane moved like vengeance made flesh.
Her sword, massive and brilliant with encoded light, cleaved through reinforced targets. Binary shards exploded around her. Fire burst from her heels with each dash. Arrows of data flared into existence, launching in synchronized, perfect arcs.
But she wasn't training.
She was fighting ghosts.
Images flickered behind her eyes—warm laughter, a brother's voice calling her name. Not "K-0." Not "Subject." But her true name. Kira.
She dropped to one knee, sweat slicking her brow. Her breaths were ragged, and her grip on the sword faltered.
Visions swam through her mind. Riven's face. His desperation. His voice breaking as he held her. His tears.
"What… what is this…?" she whispered, shaking.
Behind a glass wall, scientists stared at her vital readouts.
"She's destabilizing," one said.
"She's remembering," another added.
"Should we wipe her?" a third asked.
"No," a deeper voice growled. "Let the cracks form. Let her wonder. Let her break."
Kira stood again.
Her sword returned to her hand, pulsing with light.
But her fingers trembled.
And in her chest… the name echoed like a fracture waiting to split her wide open.
Riven.