"Starting," one might say. You could claim everything began here—or maybe before this, countless untold stories had already bled into the world. But our story ignites from here.
A modest two-story house crouched in the heart of a silent neighborhood, its faded blue paint peeling like old skin under the streetlamp's harsh glow. The front yard, once neat with trimmed grass and a child's rusted swing set swaying faintly in the night breeze, now felt like a forgotten stage.
Inside, through lace curtains yellowed by years, hints of a simple life lingered: a worn wooden dining table cluttered with half-eaten dinner plates, family photos in cracked frames on mantel shelves, a child's drawings pinned crookedly to the fridge door with magnets shaped like smiling fruits.
The living room sofa sagged under invisible weight, throw pillows embroidered with Home Sweet Home now stained by the night's terror.
Upstairs bedrooms waited untouched—toys scattered on carpeted floors, a nightlight plugged in by a crib that would never see another lullaby.
Cars packed the street so tightly they formed a steel cage, engines ticking with dying heat, headlights carving ghostly pale shapes across the empty asphalt.
Curtains trembled in nearby homes—neighbors peeking through slits, hearts hammering, whispering frantic prayers that the nightmare would pass their door.
Inside that house, swallowed by muscle and metal, the air hung thick enough to choke on.
The scent of gunpowder mingled with spilled coffee from an overturned mug on the kitchen counter, its dark puddle spreading toward a forgotten remote control still tuned to a muted cartoon channel.
Men stood in shadows along the hallway walls, their whispers sharp like vultures squabbling over the last scraps of meat.
Boots scuffed the faded floral rug runner.
And in the middle of the living room, amid shattered lamp glass crunching underfoot, one man stood drenched in blood.
Seven bullets had already torn through him—jagged entry wounds blooming crimson across his chest, arms, thigh.
Blood pattered softly onto the hardwood floor, pooling around his scuffed work boots.
Rivulets traced down his forearms, dripping from trembling fingertips.
Yet he stood.
Still.
Unmoving.
A defiant oak in a storm of lead.
"How long till he dies?" one gunman muttered, voice cracking with unease, his pistol still warm in a grip slick with sweat.
"He's not even shivering…" another whispered, eyes wide, backing a step toward the doorway where peeling wallpaper curled like dying leaves.
A normal man would've collapsed long before the smoke faded, his body surrendering to shock and hemorrhage.
But this man wasn't holding on for himself.
He anchored for those behind him.
In the fragile shadow of his torn, bleeding frame, pressed against the living room wall beside a bookshelf toppled with dog-eared paperbacks and a fallen potted plant whose soil scattered like grave dirt, a woman clutched her son.
Her hands trembled around the boy, knuckles white as she shielded his small body with her own. Tears carved silent tracks down her dirt-streaked cheeks, soaking the collar of her simple cotton blouse.
She bit her lip bloody to stifle screams, her world reduced to the frantic rise and fall of her child's chest against hers—the faint baby shampoo scent clinging to his tousled hair now her only anchor.
"So this is what you wanted, right, Vega?" a voice sliced through the tension, cold and measured.
"Not quite," Vega murmured, his voice a ragged whisper bubbling with blood. Each breath rattled wetly in his punctured lungs. "I would say… Silver."
Silver stepped forward from the kitchen archway, his polished shoes silent on the blood-slick floor. His face remained unreadable, chiseled from stone—a tailored black suit untouched by the chaos, silver hair catching the dim bulb's flicker like a blade's edge.
"All of you are gonna die. Your child, your wife, your adopted parents. You couldn't save those old folks, and you won't save anyone dear to you now."
Vega managed a smile—tired, broken, lips cracking as fresh blood welled. His eyes, dimming but fierce, locked on Silver.
"You think if I wanted… I wouldn't have…?"
The men encircling them shifted uneasily.
They knew exactly who stood before them.
Vega—the legend who once stood alone against a Father, one of the Towers of the world.
"Let only my son live," Vega rasped, voice gaining impossible steel.
Silver's gaze hardened.
"You really think I would go against Darhua to save your child? All because we had some little friendship once?"
"Yeah."
The room held its breath.
"Shoot him."
Gunfire erupted.
Eleven more.
Vega's frame shuddered violently, knees buckling an inch before locking again. Blood sprayed in a fine mist, speckling the framed wedding photo on the wall—smiling faces now masked in red.
"Stop," Silver commanded.
"So… you still think we're friends?"
"All I'm asking is you save my son," Vega gasped.
"You can convince Darhua, right? He only wants me dead."
"Then why not try to save your wife too?"
Vega smiled.
"Kill his wife."
A single shot.
She crumpled.
The child screamed.
Silver shot the gunman before he could aim again.
"You can rest, idiot," Silver said softly.
Vega fell.
The swing creaked outside.
The child—Bond—lost everything.
The door shut.
Silence.