Arka sprinted through the crumbling streets, his feet pounding against the uneven cobblestones as the chaos of the explosions reverberated in his chest. He calculated the distance, his mind working faster than his legs. The explosions happened in a hundred-meter radius. Our apartment is about 150 to 200 meters away. If I'm right, Nadya might still be safe. She'd only feel the heat... maybe some debris. She might not be hurt.
His heart raced, but he pushed the fear aside. There was no time to waste. He could only hope she hadn't been caught in the blast's full force.
---
In the State Civil Service office, the usual calm had long since been shattered. The large, dark-paneled room—once a place of order—had become a hive of frantic energy. Clerks, pale and visibly shaken, rushed between desks, their faces tight with anxiety. The air buzzed with tension, the usual quiet replaced by the frantic ringing of telephones. Citizens were flooding the lines, their voices panicked, trying to report the chaos unfolding in the streets.
Officers, in their somber uniforms, moved with a purpose, their brows furrowed as they sifted through the incoming data. The room, normally filled with the smell of ink and paper, now reeked of sweat and urgency. Scattered paperwork lay in disarray across the desks, forgotten in the face of this sudden crisis.
At one of the far desks, a man with a thinning hairline and thick-rimmed glasses struggled to stay composed. He looked to be in his early forties, his face drenched in sweat and panic. He wore the standard uniform of a Russian civil service officer—light blue wool, double-breasted with bronze buttons running down the front, a dark belt tight around his waist, and a flat-topped visor cap resting on the table beside him. The sleeves bore the insignia of his rank, though slightly wrinkled from constant use.
Three telephones screamed at once, and he juggled the receivers with shaking hands.
"SIR, MY SON IS UNDER A GIANT ROCK!"
"MY WIFE, SHE IS CRUSHED!"
"AAA! MY HOUSE, SIR—MY HOUSE, MY LIFETIME INCOME—!"
"We're sending help! Wait there!" he shouted back, his voice cracking under pressure. The calls disconnected one by one. "Hello? Hello? Can you hear us?!" he slammed his palm against the desk in frustration. "My God… this bombing… who is behind this?!"
A firm hand rested on his shoulder.
He turned quickly.
Behind him stood a woman—sharp eyes, blonde hair neatly tied behind her head. She wore the same blue uniform, but with a cleaner press, darker shoulder straps, and polished insignia on her collar: two golden stars marking her seniority. Despite the times, she stood tall in a man's world—an exception to the norm. Her presence commanded respect.
"Senior Officer Anastasia," the man stood up quickly and saluted.
She nodded once. "What's the report?" Her tone was cold and calculated.
He took a breath, trying to steady his voice. "Ma'am, we've received dozens of distress calls. Civilians are trapped, injured, some... dead. We have no leads yet. The damage is widespread—buildings collapsed, roads destroyed. It's... chaos."
Anastasia's gaze sharpened further. She folded her arms, her jaw tensing. "Then find me a lead. Petrogard is not falling on my watch."
"Okay, ma'am!" the officer responded quickly, settling back into his seat and grabbing the ringing receiver again. He started noting addresses, asking for the scale of damage, trying to calm panicked voices.
Anastasia remained standing, her eyes fixed on the large map pinned to the back wall—red markers already poking holes in the city layout. Her mind raced.
This bombing… we need to find who's behind this. If it's the work of another nation, then it's not just terror—it's war. She bit her thumbnail, a rare moment of vulnerability in her otherwise steel-like presence.
She turned sharply toward the officer at the next desk. "Victor—send our forces out. Priority is to secure civilians. Arrest anyone suspicious, but no killing. We need answers, not corpses."
"Yes, Senior Officer!" Victor replied, already writing the dispatch orders.
---
In the smoke-veiled streets of Petrogard, Arka finally reached his apartment building. The structure stood, but its brick exterior was charred black, windows cracked, and the ground outside was littered with broken glass and ash. There was no fire, but the air was thick with the bitter scent of burnt stone and iron.
He sprinted up the stairs. His heart thumped hard. When he reached the apartment door, he grabbed the handle—locked from inside.
Without a second thought, he threw himself forward.
Time stopped.
His forehead froze inches away from the wooden surface. In that still world of silence, he snapped his fingers—click. The door unlatched.
Time resumed.
He stumbled through the now-open door. "NADYA! NADYA!" he shouted, scanning every corner with urgency.
A faint voice responded from behind the sofa. "I'm here, young master…"
He rushed over and found her crouched, her head ducked, hands over her ears. "Are you okay? Did you get hurt anywhere?" he asked, his voice calm but clearly pressed.
Nadya blinked up at him, confused by the gentleness. "I… I'm okay. Not hurt… anywhere."
He took her hand, warm and trembling. "Then let's go. We don't know if the building will survive the next blast."
She looked at their hands—his grip was strong. She nodded. "Yes… young master."
As Arka and Nadya dashed down the crumbling stairwell, the chaos outside roared louder. But then—time froze.
Everything stopped. The falling dust hung still in the air. The heat of the day paused mid-scorch. Arka's senses heightened.
He looked around. No bullets. No attacker. No sudden danger.
But then his eyes dropped—the floor beneath him shimmered unnaturally.
A faint pulse.
His eyes widened. An explosion... it's right beneath us!
Without wasting a second, he turned, scooping Nadya tightly into his arms. He ran straight for the nearest window—and jumped.
Time resumed.
BOOM!
The entire apartment building erupted behind them, a thunderous explosion ripping through the air. The shockwave flung Arka and Nadya like ragdolls through the sky. People on the street below screamed, pointing up in terror.
"Is that—!?" "They're falling from the sky!" "Is this... the Goddess's judgment!?" "Protect us, divine one!"
Some fell to their knees, praying desperately.
Arka and Nadya crashed hard onto the cobblestone streets. Dust and debris shot upward from their landing. Arka took the brunt of it—his back slammed into the ground, his breath knocked out, pain screaming through every inch of his body. Nadya lay nearby, covered in scrapes and bruises but alive.
"Damn it…" Arka coughed, trying to push himself up. Playtime needs 15 seconds to reuse... I can't protect her like this... I can't protect myself.
He struggled. His arms trembled. Every muscle ached. He clenched his hand and slammed it onto a nearby rock. Fifteen seconds passed.
Time stopped again.
In the frozen world, Arka stood up, his pain vanishing as he focused. In that moment of stilled time, he healed himself, then focused his mind toward Nadya and a few nearby injured citizens. The energy flowed with precision—no touch needed, just thought.
Time resumed.
Gasps and murmurs erupted.
The people who had been bleeding seconds ago now stood—wounds gone, pain erased.
"It's the Goddess!"
"She answered our prayers!"
"She healed us...!"
Arka stood silently, brushing dust from his coat. His gaze was calm, unreadable. He didn't speak a word.
---
Out of nowhere, a hand, a punch, or maybe just raw force—whatever it was, it came straight for Arka's face.
Playtime's still on cooldown...
He couldn't dodge.
The impact hit like a freight train.
—Tch!
Arka flew back over a hundred meters, crashing through the air like a ragdoll. He slammed into the side of a building, cracking the stone wall behind him. Blood sprayed from his mouth on impact. His body slumped to the ground, dazed.
What the hell was that...?
As he coughed blood, his blurred vision adjusted. A figure approached—calm, slow, like they had all the time in the world. He wore a black robe, face completely hidden behind a smooth, black mask. A single letter marked it in red:
M.
Arka wiped the blood from his forehead, struggling to get back on his feet. His coat was torn and coated in dust. His eyes burned red from pain and rage.
"What do you want?" he growled, voice hoarse.
The figure didn't answer.
Just kept walking.
---
The masked figure closed the gap in seconds, gripping Arka by the neck and lifting him off the ground.
"Which organization?" the figure asked. The voice was flat, metallic—neither male nor female. It sounded unnatural, like it came through a machine rather than a throat.
Arka winced, trying to pry the hand off his neck. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
He squinted at the figure, trying to analyze it—but nothing made sense. That voice. That strength. The tech in this era wasn't supposed to be that advanced. What is this thing?
"You are an assassin," the voice said again. "From which organization?"
"I'm not an assassin."
"But you have the ability."
"That doesn't make me one."
"Then what are you?"
Arka let out a strained breath, still choking in the grip. "Just... a salesman."
The figure paused. "How can I believe you?"
Arka's eyes narrowed. "If you don't want to believe me, then shut the fuck up. Don't get on my nerves."
That response clearly didn't sit well.
The figure's grip tightened. Without warning, it slammed Arka down, letting go just enough to touch his chest—and then launched him.
Arka's body flew through the air like a cannonball, crashing through debris, smashing into the ground another hundred meters away. Dust exploded on impact.
How the hell did that bastard know I had an ability?
Why did I get sent flying so far... just from a single touch?
What the fuck is going on?
Arka wiped the blood trickling from his lip, pushing himself off the rubble.
That strength... That wasn't normal.
He has an assassin ability. Must be.
And if that's true, then there's no doubt—he's one of the terrorists.
His eyes sharpened. And he came straight for me...
That means they know something. Or worse, they know everything.