15 July 1996.
Twenty-five years earlier.
Rosalia was a civilized yet quietly breathing town, where sidewalks rarely crowded and silence moved freely between streets. Known as the great city of the northwest, it sat at the epicenter of the land—balanced between heaven and hollow, like a drama mask frozen mid-expression.
Buildings leaned into one another, most small and weathered, a few rised taller as if daring the skyline. The city carried the faint echo of Vegas—its lights subdued, Rosalia did not shout— It waited.
Miles from the city, high along the mountain ridges, four figures moved in silence—two men leading, two boys trailed behind. The men wore tailored, cultured attire, scarves cutting through the uniformity like signatures. Behind them walked the boys—shirtless, cargo trousers hanged low, safety boots caked with dirt. One cleaned his gun as he walked. The other idly played with a flip knife, snapped it open, then shut.
Both boys had shaved heads. A burning star was inked across the chest of the boy with the gun. The other bore a ghost-shaped tattoo low on his back.
They descended into the canyon, the path narrowed as it spilled into dense forestry. No one spoke. The only sounds were boots on rock, wind through pine, metal clicked softly in restless hands.
Then— Snap.
The boy with the gun stepped into a bear trap. Before the jaws could close, the other boy lunged—fast as lightning—tackled him sideways into the brush. They crashed hard into the undergrowth.
"Zeon—stop." one of the men barked. He sighed, irritation thick in his voice. "Fucking kids. You were doing so good until just now." he moved toward them.
"Reagan." Zeon said, he rejoined the group--his eyes scanned ahead. "The town's just up there. We can't stop now."
The boy with the knife pushed himself up first. "You, okay?" he asked, as he reached back into the bushes.
"Yeah." the other groaned. "Thanks... I appreciate it, Steph."
"Don't worry about it." Stephen said, he flipped his knife open as he stood. "Let's keep moving, Max."
Reagan stopped, hands on his hips. "You know how to handle that thing, little boy?" His gaze hardened. "We're about to land a lump sum of cash, so you'd all better not fuck this up."
"The fuck are you talking about—" Max started.
"Hey!" Zeon snapped. He drew his gun. Stephen moved first.
The knife left his hand in a flash—metal striking metal. Zeon's gun flew from his grip, skidded across the rocks. Stephen locked eyes with him. "Were you really about to shoot him?" he asked, voice cold.
Zeon pointed at him, fury burned in his eyes. "Stay out of this, brat."
"Alright—enough." Reagan cut in sharply. "There's no need for that." He turned to Zeon. "Like you said, the town's close. Don't do anything that'll fuck this up."
Then his attention snapped back to Stephen.
"And you—Ghost. Behave. You nearly ruined the last job because you couldn't control yourself."
Reagan stepped up to Max, he placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "You don't have to like me." he said evenly. "But I'm the captain. And what I say—goes. Capiche?"
Max rolled his eyes. "Whatever."
Reagan stepped back and checked his watch. "Alright." he said. "Let's move. Deadline's closing in." They resumed their march.
Serlin Dorp.
After fifteen minutes of hiking, they reached an informal settlement. Three cars sat idling on a gravel road, dust settled around their tires. Beyond them, mountains stretched endlessly into the horizon, land torn open by distance. A few scattered buildings clung to the earth.
They crossed onto the road and moved toward the cars. Zeon lit a cigarette. Reagan whistled a signal. Four men stepped out from the vehicles.
"Wait here, kids." Reagan said, already moving forward.
He met the men halfway. Words were exchanged— inaudible. Stephen watched Reagan hand over a small hard drive. The deal was done. Reagan turned back.
Bang!
Max shot him in the head Instantaneously, Stephen moved on instinct. In one fluid motion, he disarmed a stunned Zeon, swept his legs out, and drove him into the dirt. The knife came down twice into Zeon's throat—then once more, straight through the eye.
Max was already locked in. He dropped the man with the hard drive. Then—three clean shots driven through Three heads. All three men collapsed beside the cars.
Stephen slipped along two vehicles, crouched low and popped tires one by one. Rubber hissed.
Five more men scrambled out. Too slow.
Stephen launched himself forward, twisting mid-air. He locked one man's neck with his legs while he grabbed another by the throat. Gunshots cracked—three of them. Stephen snapped the first man's neck and released, then crushed the second's windpipe with a precise strike.
When he looked up, Max was already done. He sat casually on the hood of a car, smoke curled from the barrel of his gun, watching Stephen finish.
Max sniffed the smoke from the barrel. "This is why the gun's better." he said.
Stephen wiped his hands against a dead man's jacket, fingers slick with blood. Inside the pocket—an envelope. Jupiter's Creeper. He held it up. "You know what this means?"
"Nope." Max said flatly. "And I don't care. As long as this hard drive gets us paid."
They climbed into one of the cars.
"Okay." Max started. They both paused. "You know how to drive?"
Max blinked. "Sadly... no."
Then— Bang!
A violent thud from the trunk, another. Muffled. Panicked.
Stephen and Max exchanged a look. "Trafficking?" Max muttered.
They stepped out and moved to the rear of the car. The banging grew louder and desperate, A silent scream trapped in metal. They stood there for a beat. Then Max reached for the latch— And pulled.
Once the trunk opened, a girl—roughly their age—sprang out. Her first move was a swift kick to Max's groin, dropping him instantly to the gravel. She tried to flee, but Stephen was faster. He tackled her to the ground. Her scream pierced the night. Stephen pressed a hand gently over her mouth.
"Shh." he said. "It's okay... we're not going to hurt you."
Max groaned from the floor, he clutched himself. "Yeah, say that for yourself." he muttered through clenched teeth. "This bitch just kicked my eggs."
"¡Vete a la mierda, puta!" the girl spat back.
"¡Cálmate! Cálmate!" Stephen urged. "Max, she's just scared, man. Walk it off."
"Fine." Max grumbled, as he fished a cigarette from one of the bodies. He lit it, smoke curled lazily into the night.
Stephen eased back slightly, giving her space. "Hey... it's okay. I'm not going to hurt you. Just... tell me what happened here. Who are these guys?"
"Lo siento... no hablo inglés." she said, her voice trembling. Stephen exhaled slowly, gesturing with his hands. "Do you know... who these men are?"
"No hablo inglés." she repeated.
"¿Qué ha pasado aquí?" he asked. "Sé que mi español no es bueno."
"Hombres malos." the girl said, her voice cracked. "Nos llevaron lejos de nuestro hogar... mi papá, mamá y Luis... todos me fueron arrebatados." Tears streaked her face.
"You were separated from your familia?" he asked softly. "Sí." she whispered.
"¿Cómo te llamas?" Her gaze met his, steady for a heartbeat. "Adri—Adriana." she said.
"Mucho gusto, Adriana." Stephen replied gently, letting the words carry reassurance.
Max wore one of the dead man's jackets. He tossed another to Stephen, but Stephen took it only to drape it over Adriana's shoulders instead.
"Here." he said quietly. "You must be cold."
Adriana frowned, confused. "¿Qué?"
"We need to get her to a hospital." Stephen said. "Motherfucker, what?" Max snapped.
"She's hurt." Stephen replied. "And not just physically."
"She's a witness, you dumb twat." Max said. He nodded toward her.
They both looked at Adriana. She scanned her surroundings now—eyes darting, body rigid—until her gaze landed on the pile of bodies Stephen and Max had dragged off the road. Her breath hitched.
"We have to kill her, or—" Max began. "Nobody is killing anyone." Stephen cut in.
Max scoffed. "Fine. I'll do it myself."
He stepped toward her. Stephen moved instantly, blocking him. "Stephen, move."
"No."
"Don't make me do this." Max said. Stephen met his eyes.
"Fine." Max muttered, turning away.
The second Stephen looked off, Max's hand snapped to his gun. Stephen reacted on instinct.
He kicked dirt into Max's eyes, rushed in and disarmed him, then slammed him face-first into the gravel. The impact knocked the breath from Max's lungs. Adriana screamed.
Max groaned, as he spat dust. "You're freakishly strong for a twelve-year-old."
"We're the same age." Stephen shot back. "And so is she." His voice hardened. "Since when did you get so cold-hearted?"
"Fuck you." Stephen twisted Max's wrist hard.
A sharp crack.
"AHHH!" Max screamed.
"Listen." Stephen said--pressed him down. "We're going back to HR. We report everything. And we take the girl with us."
"For what?" Max panted. "She's a nobody. If she dies out here, nobody notices. Hell—nobody would even care."
Stephen twisted again. "AHHH! —okay, okay!"
"Taking her with us won't help." Max gasped. "Your father would send her straight back here. Or worse—he'd kill her himself before you could save her." He laughed bitterly. "So tell me, genius... why bring her?"
"I have a plan." Stephen said. "Oh yeah?" Max sneered. "And what plan is that?"
Before Stephen could answer— Adriana ran. She bolted down the road, terror driving her legs as fast as they would go.
"Fuck, Stephen—she's getting away!"
Stephen was already in motion. He chased her down in seconds, caught her around the waist, and lifted her off the ground. She screamed like she was being murdered—thrashing, clawing, sobbing.
"Hey!" Stephen shouted. "¡Cálmate! ¡Está bien!"
She didn't stop.
Max rushed up. "Shut the fuck up, little girl." Her screams only grew louder.
"I knew this was a problem." Max muttered.
"She's scared." Stephen said. "That's all."
"She's fucked up." Max replied. "We should leave her."
"No."
"¡Déjenme en paz!" Adriana sobbed. "¡Por favor!"
Max raised the gun—and struck her across the head with it. Her cries cut off instantly as her body went limp.
"Max—what the fuck?" Stephen yelled.
"At least she's not screaming anymore." Max said flatly. Stephen stared at her unconscious form, rage boiling under his skin.
"Fuck." he muttered. "Let's just go."
They returned to the car. Stephen carried Adriana carefully, cradled her as if she might shatter. He laid her gently across the backseat. They climbed in.
"I still don't know how to drive." Max said. "It's fine." Stephen replied, "We'll have to meet up with Jason."
He turned the key. The engine roared to life. The car pulled away, leaving the bodies scattered along the road—silent, unmoving, forgotten.