"Noir."
A voice cracked with something unfamiliar—nervousness. Fear. It wasn't the usual clipped command. This time, it wavered.
"Someone's here to meet you…"
Footsteps echoed down the sterile hallway. Heavy, deliberate. Not the usual synchronized stomp of the guards.
These steps carried weight—memories.
Noir's eyes narrowed.
The door creaked open.
A figure emerged, backlit by the hallway's harsh light. A silhouette—tall, rugged, familiar.
"Son."
Noir's breath hitched.
"It's me. Your father."
The words hit like a bullet.
He stepped back instinctively. His body recoiled before his mind could even process it.
This had to be a hallucination.
A trick. Another White Room test.
But the man was real.
Crow's feet creased the edges of eyes that had once looked down on the world with pride.
He still had that same command in his stance—but his gaze was softer now.
"I… You want to get out of here, don't you?"
his father whispered.
Noir didn't respond.
Then—
FWSSH.
A metal canister flew from the man's coat.
Smoke erupted in an instant, thick and blinding.
Gray clouds filled the room.
Sirens wailed. Alarms screeched.
Emergency lights strobed red across the walls.
Noir coughed, squinting through the haze.
"What are you doing—?"
His father grabbed his wrist—not rough, but
firm—and pulled him into the chaos.
"This way."
They ran.
The White Room behind them screamed in artificial fury.
Two guards rounded the corner—rifles raised.
Noir froze.
His father didn't.
He gave a wink.
A signal. Morse code. Wait.
Then—
BANG.
BANG.
The shots were sharp and clean.
Both guards dropped before they could shout.
Their blood painted the white floor, swirling with the smoke.
They kept running.
The final corridor loomed. At its end—a blast door.
It hissed open with a hydraulic groan, and sunlight burst through.
Noir stumbled back.
Light.
Blue.
The sky.
He stepped out, barefoot on cold concrete. The wind tore through his thin clothes, but it felt… real. The sun—blinding, golden—kissed his skin like a memory he had almost forgotten.
For the first time in years, he saw color.
They sprinted down to the docks.
A small boat waited, engine idling, rocking gently. His father helped him in, then jumped aboard and grabbed the wheel.
They pulled away from the island.
Noir looked back.
The facility shrank, a sterile scar on the ocean's face.
White walls.
Red lights.
Metal fences.
Disappearing into the sea.
He sat on the edge of the deck, the wind biting his face.
His voice, when it came, was barely audible.
"Why… did you leave me?"
His father didn't answer at first.
Only the engine rumbled.
The ocean replied in silence.
"I… I didn't know," he said finally. "They told me it was a test. A place to build strength. Discipline. I didn't know what they really did."
Noir clenched his fists.
"So you threw me in there like I meant nothing to you?!"
The scream tore through the boat like lightning.
His father didn't flinch.
"I'm sorry."
Noir turned away.
The wind sliced between them like a blade.
"…Does mother talk to you?" he asked,
voice dry.
"She was the one who told me to find you. To bring you back."
"I see."
"She's worried, Noir. She always has been."
He nodded quietly.
"Father…"
He hesitated.
The boat rocked gently beneath them.
The sea stretched endlessly before them—gray and cold, churning like a forgotten memory.
Noir sat at the edge of the boat's stern, knees drawn to his chest, salt spray dotting his pale skin.
The wind tore through his hospital uniform like it was punishing him for escaping.
"Are you still a criminal?"
His father's hands tightened on the boat's steering bar. His voice came out low and cracked, like it was speaking more to the sea than to his son.
"Noir… I know I killed people."
"But I'm not a criminal."
Noir's head didn't turn. His eyes stayed locked on the horizon. The ocean was easier to understand than people.
"I run a private assassination firm."
"Governments hire us. High-stakes contracts. Clean work. Only targets that passed every red line—war criminals, weapons dealers, real monsters."
Noir's voice came out hollow:
"That's what you call clean?"
His father gave a bitter smile, worn and jagged like rusted steel.
"No job is clean, son. But we had rules.
"No kids."
"No innocents."
Just the people the world didn't want to admit needed erasing."
"We kept balance. Not chaos."
A gust of wind cut between them.
"Balance?" Noir whispered. "You think the White Room was balanced?"
His father looked away, then leaned forward.
"No. The White Room is hell wearing a lab coat."
"And it started the day everything changed."
"A client contacted us."
"He was rich. Powerful. From another country. Stayed completely anonymous. Didn't use official channels."
"He gave us a name—a supposed terrorist. A threat to his people, he said. One shot, in and out."
"We were overbooked. Everyone was on contract. So I said I'd handle it personally."
Noir slowly turned toward him now, eyes narrowing.
His father wasn't trying to impress him. His tone was too cold, too heavy. This was a confession, not a performance.
"I tracked the man. Watched him for days. I took the shot. One bullet. Right between the eyes."
"But I wasn't alone."
His hands curled around the steering wheel.
"Your mother… she was there."
Noir's heart stilled.
"She wasn't supposed to be. She didn't even know about the job. But she happened to be near the scene—by coincidence, fate, or design."
"She saw me. Gun still smoking. Blood still fresh."
Noir's fists clenched around the boat's rail.
"So that's why she left."
His father nodded once, slowly.
"That rich bastard knew her schedule. He wanted her to witness it. It wasn't about the target—it was about ruining me. He wanted my family broken. He wanted my reputation turned to ash."
"And it worked."
The waves grew rougher beneath them, but neither noticed.
"I couldn't explain it to her. Not without risking both your lives. So I said nothing. I let her believe the worst."
"You let her think you were a monster."
His father finally looked at him.
"Wouldn't you?"
Noir didn't answer.
Because deep down—maybe he would have.
"They think I'm a killer, Noir."
"But they don't understand what we kill to protect."
He stood beside his son now. His voice was steadier, but his shoulders sagged with decades of guilt.
"And now I realize… maybe I was trying to protect you from becoming me."
Noir slowly stood, eyes wet but jaw locked.
"Then why did you let them take me?"
His father hesitated.
"Because I didn't know."
Noir blinked.
"What?"
"After your mother left, she tried to give you a future.
Someone came to her with an offer—a program for gifted children. Advanced education.
Full funding. She thought she was protecting you from me."
He looked ashamed.
"But it was all a lie.
That same client who destroyed me… he owned the White Room.
He had your name. He wanted you."
Noir felt cold. Not from the wind. From within.
"So… I was never meant to live free."
"You were meant to be a weapon. Not a son. Not a student. A tool."
Silence fell again. Only the sea moved.
"But you're here now."
The boat sliced through the waves, leaving a trail of foam behind.
Noir sat with his knees pulled close, arms wrapped around them.
The silence between him and his father stretched on—no longer heavy, but uncertain.
Then Noir spoke, his voice dry.
"How'd you even get inside?"
His father leaned back against the side rail, wind ruffling his coat. He gave a crooked smile.
"Honestly?"
"It was pretty easy."
Noir blinked. "What?"
"I threatened them," he said casually. "Told them I'd kill their families if they didn't let me in."
Noir raised a brow.
"Your father still has some power left, you know."
He chuckled, a low, gravelly sound.
Noir snorted and shook his head.
"Figures."
"Don't look at me like that," his father grinned.
"I didn't actually hurt anyone. Yet."
The boat rocked slightly, the two of them sharing a rare moment—laughter echoing quietly across the ocean.
For once, the man didn't feel like a ghost from his nightmares. He felt real. And that scared Noir more than anything."
And remembered what it felt like… to just be a son.