Sector Nine
The door to Sector Nine hissed closed behind them. No sign, no records. This room didn't exist on any hospital map—only in whispers and black files.
Dr. Renner didn't waste time. He was the best in this underground hospital wing—trusted with lives that officially never existed. His hands moved steady, precise.
The woman on the bed had white hair soaked with sweat, her face pale but unyielding. She wasn't screaming, didn't beg. Pain carved deep into her, but she fought it silently.
Nurse Lila kept close, watching every vital, every breath. The delivery wasn't fast, but it was silent. The baby came at 3:41 a.m. No cry. Just a fragile breath.
Lila lifted the child, fingers moving slowly in front of his wide-open, ice-blue eyes. He didn't follow her hand. No blink. No reaction.
"Blind," she said, voice low.
Renner checked the mother. Her pulse was fading fast.
"She's bleeding out," he said. Get the—beeeeeep
Moments later, her chest stopped rising. No alarms sounded—there were none here. Only silence.
Outside the door, Cain waited. Red hair sharp as a blade, black coat hanging heavy with silent menace. No one dared look him in the eye.
Renner stepped out. "She's gone. The boy's alive, but blind."
Cain took the child without a word. Held him steady, staring into those ice-blue eyes, identical to hers.
"Like her," he muttered.
Renner nodded solemnly. "Sorry for your loss. What about the body?"
"Cremate it with utmost care. I will come by personally to pick it up," Cain said quietly.
Renner gave a slight nod and disappeared back into the room.
Cain pulled a flip phone from his pocket, dialed quickly. "Ready the car. It's time to leave." He closed the phone and slipped it back into his coat.
Then he turned, disappearing into the shadows.
Cain headed to the Sub-Level 3 parking lot, where his car waited—surrounded by four guards stationed at each of the limo's doors. As he approached, one guard opened the rear door without a word.
Cain stepped inside, the door still open behind him. The guard bowed his head slightly. "Boss, what about Mrs.?"
Cain's voice was quiet but final. "She won't be coming back."
The guard nodded slowly, closing the door and returning to his post. The driver started the engine, and the car pulled away from the hospital, heading toward a hidden tunnel concealed beneath the city.
Outside, the early morning air was sharp and chilly. Streetlights cast a muted glow over the snow-dusted pavement. Though the streets were mostly cleared by diligent cleaners, a thin layer of frost lingered.
The ride was silent. The city remained cloaked in darkness, every movement controlled and deliberate. After a while, they reached a road where no cars dared pass—strictly forbidden by law. The limo turned onto a leveled mountain path, carved for smooth driving.
As they climbed higher, the temperature dropped sharply. The child had been wrapped tightly by Renner, shielded from the cold that waited ahead.
Ahead stood a fortress-like wall—wooden, but reinforced with thick metal plates. One of the guards stepped out and raised his hand in a sharp gesture. Instantly, the heavy door creaked open.
The limo rolled inside the garage. Cain stepped out into the empty courtyard.
At its center, a small fish pond reflected the soft glow of peach blossom trees, their delicate flowers stubbornly blooming through the winter chill. The mansion beyond was Japanese in style, sprawling and imposing.
Suddenly, figures appeared from every angle—some emerging from the mansion, others stepping out from behind trees, some almost hidden beneath the snow. Nearly fifty of them.
They bowed in unison. "Welcome back, Boss."
Cain nodded once.
One of the group leaders opened his mouth to ask about the Mrs., but a guard behind Cain raised a hand, motioning sharply with a slice across his throat—the universal sign to shut down any talk. The leader stopped, swallowing his question.
Without another word, the group vanished, dissolving into the shadows as if they'd never been there.
Cain stepped into the mansion. At the doorway, a woman stood waiting—neatly dressed in black, her posture disciplined and sharp. Seren, one of his most trusted assassins.
Without ceremony, he handed her the child.
"All his needs," Cain said. "Feeding, clothing, laundry… even his education. He's your responsibility now."
Seren gave a small nod and took the child without a word. She turned and disappeared into the house with him in her arms.
Cain walked alone to his bedroom.
He hung his coat in silence, then changed into a towel and entered the bathroom. The door clicked shut behind him.
He turned on the shower.
Steam rose, fogging the mirror. The water poured over his body, washing away the cold from the mountain air—but not what he felt inside.
If you looked closely, you'd see the tears.
Silent. Steady. Falling without expression. He made no sound. Just stood there, as water and grief poured over him together.
It was the only place he could break.
He had just lost the love of his life—the only person who had ever brought light into his world of shadow.
Minutes passed.
Cain turned off the shower, dried his body, changed into his house clothes, and left the room without hesitation. His face was calm again. Hardened.
He headed toward where Seren and the child were waiting.
Knock knock.
Seren opened the door almost instantly.
Cain stepped into the doorway. "How's the child?"
"He's okay," Seren replied. "I've been feeding him with the baby milk I brought over."
Cain took the bottle from her hand, studied the label for a moment, then handed it back. "Good."
He paused. "By what age do you expect him to start crawling?"
Seren thought for a second. "I'm not exactly sure. Maybe six months… possibly up to a year."
Cain nodded. "He should be ready by then."
He turned slightly. "If anything comes up, call me. Otherwise—" he glanced at the room, his voice flat—"I won't step back in here for six months."
"Yes, sir," Seren said quietly.
Cain stopped at the edge of the doorway.
For a second, he stood still — eyes narrowing as a thought brushed the back of his mind.
Am I forgetting something?
Then it clicked.
A conversation in hushed tones. A soft smile from his wife. Her fingers brushing his as she whispered a name they both agreed on after days of thinking.
He turned slightly, just enough to glance over his shoulder.
Seren stood inside the room, still holding the child.
Cain's voice was calm, but firm.
"From now on… his name is Keal. Keal Vire. Son of Cain Vire."
Seren gave a short nod. "Yes, sir."
Cain said nothing more. He stepped into the hall, and the door slid shut behind him — leaving only the quiet sound of the baby's breath.