Hollywood's elite district.
A secluded enclave where sprawling mansions stand hundreds of meters apart, veiled by thick woods and rolling hills. Each home worth tens of millions. A sanctuary for the ultra-wealthy.
Tonight, billionaire Robert Caswell cursed its silence.
A killer had breached the neighborhood's cutting-edge security and made it into his home.
"Help! Please, don't kill me!"
Half-bald and drenched in sweat, Caswell crawled across the polished rosewood floor, blood pouring from a stab wound in his thigh. His screams echoed unanswered into the night—neighbors too far, the maid long gone.
"Jackie… I know I hurt you, but your mother died of illness—it wasn't me! I don't deserve to die!"
"I'll turn myself in—right now! I swear!"
"I'll pay you back—ten times what I took from your mom! You don't want to go back to prison, do you?"
Standing before him was a lean teenage boy—sixteen, maybe seventeen. His expression was cold as midwinter. Eyes calm and clear. No fury, no hate—just a stillness, like watching snow fall through a window. Only the blood-slicked dagger in his hand betrayed his intent.
The boy let out a sigh—not of anger, but fatigue—and drove his foot into Caswell's wounded leg.
The scream was raw, animal.
"First," he said quietly, "my mother died because of you. You embezzled her company's funds, ran it into the ground, and her condition worsened until she passed."
He shoved Caswell flat, pinning him with a knee to the chest. "Second, the statute of limitations on your crimes expired fifteen years ago. You thought that made you safe."
Gripping Caswell's throat with one hand, he raised the knife with the other. "Third... that's why killing you isn't a crime."
"I'm in a hurry to turn myself in," he added, almost casually.
The blade plunged deep into Caswell's neck. Then again—his heart this time. He twitched. Then stopped.
The boy rose slowly. No rush. He washed up in the villa's bathroom, changed into clean clothes from his backpack. Standing over the corpse, he let out a breath. Not relief. Not triumph.
"Killing you… wasn't even revenge," he said softly. "Just closure."
Hollywood Police Station.
Detective James Blackwood—weeks from retirement—studied the teen seated before him. Slender, dressed in clean white. Calm as a spring breeze.
"Yes?" James asked, wary. In this part of town, even cops tread lightly.
"I'm here to turn myself in," the boy said.
"For what?"
"Premeditated murder. I killed someone today. Figured I'd save you the trouble."
James frowned. "You're, what, a high schooler? This isn't funny. Filing a false confession's a serious offense."
The boy didn't blink. He pulled a small stack of Polaroids from his pocket and slid them across the desk—grisly photos of Robert Caswell's mutilated body.
James shot to his feet. His chair crashed backward.
"Where the hell did you get these?"
"I took them," the boy replied calmly. "After I killed him."
Chaos erupted.
Police raided the mansion. The CCTV footage had been tampered with, but fragments were recovered. Fingerprints. DNA. All confirmed. The killer had turned himself in.
He gave his name: Jack Harper.
"Name?"
"Jack Harper."
"Age?"
"Thirty."
"…Excuse me?"
"I'm thirty. Born in 1980. I just look sixteen."
They didn't believe him—until he showed an expired ID and directed them to a correctional facility where he'd been imprisoned as a minor.
It all checked out.
Convicted in 1995 for the murder of Robert Caswell.
The same man he'd just killed—again.
"You were convicted of killing Robert Caswell fifteen years ago?" James asked, voice thin.
"I planned it all—the weapon, the timing, the disposal. But he got away. His wife framed me. I took the fall."
"Then how… did you kill him now?"
"Exactly," Jack said, smiling faintly. Not smug. Not bitter. Just cold. "That's the question, isn't it?"
"I already served time for killing him. One crime. One punishment. That's the law."
"Double jeopardy. You can't punish me twice."
"I killed Robert Caswell. And I'm innocent."
One week later.
Jack Harper walked alone along the riverbank, beneath a sky scattered with silent stars.
He'd killed the man who ruined his mother.
He'd used the law's loophole—the system's blind spot—to walk free.
Fifteen years of planning. Flawless execution.
And yet… nothing.
No satisfaction. No peace. Just cold emptiness.
Police tried to block his release, but he was ready—press leaks, legal filings, digital trails. Public sympathy swelled. The law was clear.
They had to let him go.
But something inside him had shifted.
Ten years. Ten years of ice. The memories cut like frostbite.
At fifteen, sentenced to life. He'd barely served six months before being offered a way out.
A secret program. Early release in exchange for... something.
Cryogenic suspension.
A dying billionaire wanted to be frozen, to wait out death until medicine caught up. But he wouldn't test it on himself.
They needed guinea pigs.
Jack had no family. No future. Healthy. Perfect candidate.
He signed. The reward? Parole. The risk? Never disclosed.
They froze him.
Supposedly for a year.
But the billionaire died. The funding dried up. The team disbanded.
He was forgotten.
Ten years passed.
A systems failure thawed him. Only one survivor.
Jack Harper.
But something stayed frozen.
His body hadn't aged. Still sixteen.
His emotions—numb. Even revenge left him hollow.
He could smile. Cry. Rage.
But not feel.
His dreams were empty. No light. No sound. No warmth.
Just endless awareness. Cold. Void.
A shapeless nightmare on repeat.
He rounded a bend in the path.
Headlights. A roar.
A car sped toward him, engine screaming.
An ambush.
He caught a glimpse of the driver—Brandon Caswell. Robert's son.
"So, you came for revenge," Jack thought. "Fair enough."
But instead of running—he stepped in.
At the last second, he rolled aside. The car skidded on mud, veering off the narrow road, and plunged into the river.
Jack stood still.
Didn't move.
Didn't save him.
The dead belong with the dead.
He turned to walk away.
Then—blue light burst from the river.
A geyser erupted, flames glowing azure.
Metal shards rained down.
Something emerged.
A skeletal horse. A rider clad in black armor. A greatsword glistening with frost.
A death knight.
Jack froze.
The figure stepped onto the surface of the river.
"What the hell…"
A voice thundered. "You bastard! You killed my father! You forced me to activate my Infinity Access too early! I'll kill you a thousand times!"
Brandon Caswell's voice.
The knight vanished—then reappeared.
Blade through Jack's chest.
Red and blue vapor sprayed from his mouth.
Then—
A blinding white flash. Swallowing everything.
He vanished.
On the bank, Brandon screamed from within his undead armor. "No! Why him? Why was he chosen?!"
A figure stepped from the trees.
"What happened?"
Brandon growled. "That light. You know what it means."
The shadow nodded grimly. "He's been chosen by the Infinity System."
Brandon clenched his fists. "Fine. Let him go. Let him think he's safe."
"I'll find him."
"I'll kill him again. And again. And again."