The city skyline seemed to be shrouded in a thin blanket of smoke. Streetlights dimmed and flickered, reflecting off puddles of rain that had recently subsided. On a street corner forgotten by time, stood a small bar with a flickering neon sign that seemed to be dying.
Damien sat at the end of the bar, alone. His black leather jacket blended in with the dark atmosphere of the room. In his hand, a half-full glass of bourbon accompanied him—silently, as usual.
"It's getting late, Damien," said the bartender, a middle-aged man with a shiny bald head and a thin mustache.
"What time is it? Midnight is morning for some people," Damien replied with a lopsided smile. His voice was deep but relaxed. He raised his glass, studied it for a moment, then took a slow sip.
"Still playing cat and mouse with the world, huh?" the bartender sneered, wiping his glass with a dirty rag.
"More like... dancing on a tightrope," Damien replied.
The bar door opened. The scent of expensive perfume overwhelmed the stench of alcohol and cigarette smoke. A woman stepped in—elegant, sharp, and clearly not from the same world as the bar's customers. Her black dress was sparkling, her hair neatly tied back, her lips blood red. Without looking at anyone, she walked over and sat down next to Damien, as if she already knew where she was.
Damien glanced over. "Usually, people open conversations with 'hi' or at least 'can I sit here?'"
The woman did not answer. He just raised his hand, ordering a drink from the bartender.
"Bourbon. Just like the guy next to me," he said calmly.
Damien narrowed his eyes, smiling faintly. "Are you interested in me, miss? Or do you just have a good taste in alcohol?"
As the bartender began preparing the order, the woman slipped something into Damien's jacket pocket. It was a subtle movement. Just a glimpse.
Damien turned his head, chuckling. "Hm? A love letter? Straight to the point, I like that kind of thing."
"I didn't come here to joke around," he said. "It was a request."
The sentence was like a button being flipped. Damien's gaze changed. No longer relaxed. More... sharp.
He nodded slowly. "A request, huh? You know that asking me to do something isn't cheap."
The woman reached into her clutch and handed him a check. Damien stared at the numbers and let out a low whistle.
"If this is how it goes, I might actually fall in love."
Without another word, the woman got up and walked away, her dress swaying with her steps, like a shadow in the night.
The bartender comes in with his new drink. He looked around, confused.
"Where did the woman go?"
Damien took a sip of his bourbon and smiled. "That drink's for me, I guess."
They chuckled. The conversation continued for a while about lighthearted things—the weather, politics, even the band playing next week. But Damien's mind had already wandered. Far away.
After paying and saying goodbye, Damien left the bar. The night was chilly. He put on his helmet and started his black sports bike—the engine roared low, like a patient, hungry beast.
On his way home, he slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out the piece of paper. It had just one word written on it:
Coordinate.
Damien took a deep breath. The road ahead was empty.
Tomorrow is the day.
Damien parked his motorbike in front of the house—a modern, minimalist residence, hidden in a private area not listed on any digital maps. Glass and concrete walls blended in sharp harmony, and the garden lights were dim, enough to see but not enough to recognize.
The door opened automatically. An elderly man in formal uniform bowed lightly.
"Good night, Lord Damien."
"Good evening, Claude," Damien replied shortly.
Claude wasn't just a servant. He knew too many secrets to be called mere 'house staff.' But Damien trusted him—as much as a con man could trust anyone.
Damien headed straight to the second floor and opened the door to his private room. The room was clean, quiet, and very organized. In the corner, a work desk was filled with a laptop, a large screen, and a digital security system. He sat down, opened the laptop, and began typing in the coordinates he had received earlier.
The screen loads a map. The point lands on a skyscraper in the city center.
Pharmacy Corporation.
Damien leaned back in his chair. "Of course," he murmured. "The most sterile pharmaceutical company in the world… at least from the outside."
Farmàcia is known as a leader in the pharmaceutical industry. Its products are used in everything from elite hospitals to war zones. Its reputation is nearly impeccable. But if someone like this was asked to infiltrate it, there's clearly something deeper going on than just financial records.
Dark information. Something that should not be seen by the public.
Damien grinned. This was the part he loved.
He turned on an additional monitor. The screen displayed a folder containing profiles, photos, and digital identities he could use. He could "bring to life" characters. Damien wasn't your average con artist. He wasn't just stealing money or disguising himself with a fake mustache and fedora.
It was a legend whispered in the underworld.
"A Thousand Faces."
They call him that for a reason: he can be anyone. A doctor, a politician, an engineer, a homeless person, even a government official. He doesn't just disguise himself—he lives the role. He imitates voices, gestures, ways of thinking, and speech patterns. Many even believe he has no real face—that Damien's is just one of thousands of masks he wears.
The government had been hunting him for a long time. But each arrest always ended in disappointment. The person they arrested wasn't Damien. Sometimes it was just a shop clerk, sometimes it was even a commoner who knew nothing.
Therefore, Damien is not just a legend. He is an embarrassing enigma to the country's security system.
He closed the identity folder and opened other documents: blueprints of the Farmàcia building, a list of employees, and a security structure.
"So, who am I going to use this time?" he muttered. "A new researcher? A systems engineer? Or... someone from within the board of directors?"
He stared at the screen for a moment, then closed his laptop. The time for deep thought hadn't arrived yet. Now, he needed to sleep. Tomorrow morning, his plan would begin.
Farmàcia isn't an easy place to break into. But Damien isn't an ordinary man either.
Morning greeted him with a gray sky. Damien stood on the side of the road, wearing a dark gray formal suit, sunglasses, and carrying a briefcase. Before him stood an elegant cafe with classic wooden interior—the same place as the previous night.
The woman was already sitting at the corner table, as if becoming part of the background.
"Come on time," he said without a smile.
"Professionalism," Damien replied, sitting down. He hadn't ordered anything.
The woman handed him a thin folder containing additional documents. "Those coordinates do point to the Feautte Corporation headquarters. But there's nothing written on the paper about that."what you should look for."
"I knew it," Damien said casually.
The woman leaned forward, her gaze turning cold.
"There are rumors circulating... that they are conducting human testing—illegally, covertly, and systematically. If that's true, then this isn't just another shady project. This is a massacre."
Damien flipped through the folder slowly, reading the names of the company's top brass. His eyes landed on one name.
"I'll infiltrate as him," he said flatly. "Director Vallen Kuretz. He's reportedly on an extended vacation in Europe... won't be back anytime soon."
The woman nodded. "Smart. No one knows when he'll be back. But be careful... all the directors have access to different parts of the company."
Damien stood up. "I need no more than 24 hours."
Afternoon Farmàcia Corporation Headquarters Building.
The building's lobby is like a modern museum—gloss marble floors, abstract sculptures, and a digital wall showcasing the company's "humanitarian mission."
Damien steps in, donning a new persona: Director Vallen Kuretz.
His steps were steady. A sinister smile graced his face. Perfect. He had learned the original director's speech, gait, and even his favorite insults.
It didn't take long for a middle-aged woman—neatly dressed, wearing an ID that saidEva—approaching him. Personal secretary.
"Director...? Why did you come so suddenly without any news?" he asked nervously. "We didn't receive any notification of your return."
Damien approached, slapped the files in her hand, and then slapped her cheek. Not hard, but enough to show dominance.
"Don't ask any questions," he hissed. "I came because I can."
Eva trembled. "S-sorry... I'm just... worried..."
Damien looked away, sitting down in the leather chair in the director's office. In a cold tone, he said, "I want to go to the office."That."
Eva looked confused for a moment. "T-that room?"
Damien let out a long sigh, then grabbed a glass from the table and poured its contents onto Eva's face. "Do I need to explain everything to you, Eva?"
The woman stiffened. "O-of course not, Director. I'm sorry… I'll take you there."
They descended a special elevator, using fingerprint and retina scan access. Once downstairs, the world changed. White hallways, cold lights, and the pungent smell of antiseptic.
On the right and left, there were rows of doors with small windows. Damien glanced through one. Behind the glass, a bare-chested man clawed at the wall. His eyes were blank, his drool dripping. His face—a mess, like the result of a failed experiment.
"Subject 017… is unstable," Eva muttered.
Damien pretended not to care. But inside, anger was starting to throb. "How many of them?"
Eva answered quietly. "Many, sir. But only a few have 'succeeded'."
At the end of the hallway was a large iron door. Eva opened it with a special access card. Inside: a conference room. A large oval table, several chairs with the names of the directors—and one of them said Vallen Kuretz.
The directors were already sitting there, discussing the matter.Level 4.
Damien sat in his chair. Listening. Memorizing. Faces. Names. Plans. Goals.
"Subjects from conflict countries have been sent," said one of the directors.
"The new product will be tested directly on government hospital patients next week," another added.
They talk like they're not human.
Damien stole documents and recorded audio clips. He intelligently questioned Eva, posing as a director who "wanted to get more involved." The secretary answered everything timidly.
Time passed slowly. But as the sun began to set, Damien knew: his mission was complete.
Same Bar Night. Damien sat back on his old stool, his leather jacket blending into the darkness once more.
The bartender greeted him. "Bourbon, as usual?"
"Yes," he said. "But tonight... make it double."
The bar door opened. The woman came in, just like the night before. She sat down next to Damien without speaking.
"I've got it all," he said quietly. "And you... were right about them."
The woman smiled faintly. But her eyes didn't smile. "We just opened the gates of hell."
Damien raised his glass. "Well... hopefully we have the key to close it."
Glasses touched. Bourbon flowed.
The next night, the bar was quiet again. Its neon lights flickered lazily, as if yawning from the weariness of a world that never changed.
Damien sat as usual, wearing his favorite leather jacket. In front of him, a glass of bourbon lay barely touched. His face was relaxed, but his eyes were sharp, sweeping the room.
The woman came, as she had the previous nights—calm, beautiful, and poisonous.
"I never thought you could finish it this fast," he said, sitting down without warning.
Damien smiled lopsidedly. He placed a flash drive on the table.
"Everything you need is right there."
The woman greeted him with a slow nod, then took out a thick envelope and handed it to him. "Your payment."
Damien opened it. Money. Lots of it. Enough to live three lifetimes in any world.
"I wonder..." the woman said as she took a sip of her drink, "how did you manage to penetrate their system so deeply, and in such a short time?"
Damien chuckled. "That's... a trade secret. You know, if I told you, I'd have to kill you."
The woman laughed too. But not for long.
Their conversation continued briefly—a little small talk, a few thin sentences that implied that neither of them were ordinary people. After that, Damien excused himself. With light steps and pockets full of cash, he left the bar that night.
On the City Streets.
His black sports bike roared through the streets. Streetlights danced across his helmet visor, the city looking like a sleepy, yet never-ending world.
But... at a deserted intersection, suddenly a bright light came from the side—and BRAGHH!
Damien's body was thrown.
The motorcycle skidded and crashed onto the sidewalk. Blood flowed onto the asphalt.
The world spun. His vision blurred. The sounds of the night became an indistinct echo. But... from a distance, the woman's footsteps could be heard. Luxurious. Calm. Unfeeling.
There he is.
The woman who paid for it.
The woman who gave him the mission.
Damien, blood pouring from his mouth, laughed. Not a manic laugh. But a laugh... like someone who had known everything from the beginning.
"So this is the end..." he muttered, laughing through the blood that filled his mouth. "It's funny... I, who's full of faces, can't save my real face."
The woman stood over him, her eyes cold and unblinking. She pulled a small pistol from under her coat.
"Why are you laughing?" he asked.
Damien didn't answer. He just laughed harder. His eyes, even in his death throes, stared at her... as if reading her mind.
"That's enough," the woman said coldly.
Pain.
The sound of bullets echoed briefly in the quiet night.
Damien's body went still.
Blood pooled.
The woman stared at him for a few moments... as if to make sure that the man nicknamedA Thousand Facesit's completely dead.
Then, he walked away. No sound. Without feeling.
It's dark.
It wasn't the darkness that comes when the lights go out or a starless night. This was... nothingness. No up or down. No cold, no pressure. Just consciousness, floating amidst nothingness.
Damien didn't know if he was still breathing. He couldn't feel his body. But he was aware—that was what scared him.
Is this hell? Or... a waiting room before oblivion?
A faint flash of light appeared in the distance, then vanished. Then it reappeared—quickly, randomly, like lightning dancing behind closed eyelids. But this wasn't light. It was a memory.
A narrow alley between two dilapidated buildings. It was raining. A small child stole a piece of stale bread and ran, his breath ragged, his body thin, his legs covered in wounds.
"You have to be faster if you want to live, kid,"A deep voice echoed. An old man's face appeared—wrinkled, sharp eyes, a toothless smile.
Damien—or rather, his younger self—sat cross-legged, listening. The old man pressed a coin to his forehead and said,"Smart people steal money. But intelligent people steal trust."
Memories change.
A sumptuous dining table. A middle-aged woman laughs, raising a wine glass. Across from her, Damien—twenty-five—disguise himself as the son of an official from out of town. Fake name, fake lineage, fake sincere smile.
The next day, the entire contents of the family safe were gone, as was Damien.
Other memories.
Underground conference room. People with their faces hidden behind masks. They talk about a "new player" in the black market of information."A Thousand Faces,"they call it.
Damien just grinned from the corner of the room.
Everything... felt so far away. Too real to be a dream. Too beautiful to be heaven. Too pure to be hell.
And now, in this emptiness, Damien laughed at himself. Not out of pride. But because he finally realized: all the faces he'd ever worn... had left him no real face to remember.
"My life... is the best lie I've ever lived."
Suddenly, something changed.
Light.
Too bright. Sickening. Does not save.
As if pulled from icy water, Damien's breath stopped. He wanted to scream, but couldn't. He wanted to ask, but his mouth wouldn't form. He wanted to run, but he didn't know where.
And the light—swallowed him.
"Ugh..."
His body felt heavy. The smell of iron. The smell of sweat. The stench of death.
His own voice sounded foreign.
Damien opened his eyes slowly. Blinding light filtered through the gaps in the wood. The sky… but not like the sky in his city.
He tried to move. His legs ached. His hands were heavy—bound. His neck… was bound in chains.
His breath was ragged.
Around him, other children—weak, silent, thin. Some crying. Some motionless.
"What's this?"
"Where am I?"
Her heart was beating fast. Too fast.
He tried to calm himself. Analyze. Reorganize the information. But... his mind was blank.
"I… am in another world? Is this… rebirth? No. It can't be. Is this… punishment? Prison?"
Someone pulled the chain around his neck, forcing him to stand. A large man with a whip and animal-like eyes.
"Walk!"
Damien fell, his knees weak. His vision was shaking.
He doesn't know who he is now.
He only knows one thing:
"I... am still alive."
And somehow, that was scarier than death.