The whole station sat in disbelief.
Hope had bled out of the room long ago.
Silence ruled, because the man who usually filled the air with orders and theories sat hunched at his desk, face buried in his hands, chasing a clue that simply wasn't there.
Nicolas Vane didn't move. He replayed everything in his mind — the cars, the crowd, the shattered voices, the CCTV angles, the bloody floors, the crying neighbours, the broken house. He sifted through each memory like a man searching through ashes for a spark. But every path led to the same brutal truth:
There was nothing.
No mistake.
No carelessness.
Because the one who did this was Noir — and Noir never leaves a half-done job.
Flint stood like stone. His body wanted to move, wanted to investigate, but his mind was stuck on the same question circling like a vulture: Where? What? How?
Every officer in the station was questioning neighbours, searching streets, checking bins, chasing ghosts.
But there was nothing. Absolutely nothing to cling to.
Nicolas seethed. His heartbeat thrashed like an engine pushed past its limit, one thought repeating over and over in the storm of his head:
I will find you.
I will find you.
I will find you.
And then — in the middle of all that noise — something clicked.
He remembered the scene.
How the entire neighbourhood had surrounded the house, blocking every inch of space like a human wall.
People yelling "Call the police!
And suddenly, Nicolas stood.
He slammed his hands on the table, the sound slicing through the station.
His expression shifted — disbelief melting into a sharp, devilish smile.
Flint looked up instantly. He knew that look. Nicolas had found something. Something real. Something dangerous. Something that could tear open the path to the killers and the gang behind them
Around them, a few officers shifted nervously, glances darting to each other, as if the room itself had just inhaled a sharp breath.
Flint rose to his feet, ready for orders.
Nicolas turned his eyes toward him, voice low and razor-sharp.
"Flint… who the fuck called us?"
Meanwhile, Bond and Kirk were in the canteen — a noisy place filled with officers, workers, strangers, everyone eating like the world wasn't ending somewhere else.
Kirk pushed a meal toward Bond.
Bond resisted for a second.
Then something inside him snapped open.
He ate.
He ate like a starved animal — hands shaking, grabbing whatever his fingers could reach,Between bites, flashes of his parents' faces stabbed through his mind, the smell of blood mixing with the hunger gnawing at him. eyes unfocused, breath uneven. People around them kept glancing, whispering, pretending not to stare.
In the middle of that frenzy, Bond's eyes lifted.
Kirk was watching him with a soft, genuine smile — not the kind that tries to cheer you up, but the kind that reaches in and steadies your heart.
"You were hungry, huh…?" Kirk said gently. "I guess you didn't eat anything at Silver's home, right?"
Bond didn't even hesitate.
"Why would I?"
Kirk lowered his gaze to the table.
Not because he was embarrassed — because something old had stirred in him. A memory. A thought he didn't wish to revisit.
He smiled again, small this time.
"You know, Bond… Silver never intended to kill your father."
Bond froze for a second.
"I don't wanna hear about it," he muttered. "I've decided."
He lifted his head — his eyes sharper, colder, glowing with something dangerous.
He clenched his teeth.
"I'll be the one who kills him."
Kirk blinked.
Bond didn't stop.
"I'll make him remember the name Bond. I'll stand over him when he lies dead. He shot my father eighteen times, right? I'll make his body swallow twenty bullets."
He paused long enough to lift a glass of water with bruised hands still stained with the dried blood of his mother and father.
Then he whispered, almost to himself—
"He'll beg me for his life."
Kirk stared at him, stunned.
He never imagined Vega's son would carry this much venom.
But grief twists every soul differently.
"Bond…" he said softly. "Your eyes… they don't look like your father at all."
Bond stopped eating immediately.
He looked up, confusion sharp as a blade.
---
The scene cuts.
---
The police convoy screeched to a halt in front of the city hospital. Security guards stood everywhere, lights flashing across cameras and armored glass.
Nicolas stepped out first.
He scanned the building — hard, calculating — then glanced at Flint.
"After we're done," he said, voice low and commanding, "leave a few men here. Protect the victim."
"Yes, sir."
Nicolas didn't waste another breath.
He rushed inside, the entire armed unit following him like a tidal wave of boots and metal.
He reached the reception desk and slammed a hand down.
"Where is Mister Craig?"
A memory flashed—
A neighbour's voice from earlier: "Yeah… I know who craig is. It' He lives next door."
Nicolas had asked, "Where is he now?"
"He's the one who got shot," the man replied.
Nicolas's face fell.
"So he's dead too…"
But the man had kept talking — as if some higher force pushed the words out of him.
"Nah… he was shot in the leg. Don't know why, but they left him alive."
Nicolas's pulse exploded.
His eyes widened; the engine in his chest roared like an old coal train waking up after years.
He didn't even need to ask the question — the man understood from Nicolas's stare alone.
"He's at Central Hospital," the man said.
That was the moment Nicolas's entire face transformed.
He straightened, shoulders growing broader, chest rising with purpose.
He turned to Flint with a grin that could slice steel.
He pointed a single finger at him.
"Bingo, Flint."
Present time.
"Room 104," the receptionist said.
Nicolas didn't waste a breath. "Let's go."
The officers followed him down the corridor. Inside the room, a thin old woman clutched the hand of the man on the bed. His leg was swallowed in layers of bandages, and he lay there unconscious—helpless, pale, barely holding on.
The woman looked up at the flood of officers entering the room. Her face shifted from confusion to fear, her lips trembling as she tried to speak. No sound came out.
Flint stepped forward gently. He held her hand with that soft, grounding smile of his and said,
"Nothing to worry about, ma. Your boy's safe. We don't want anything from either of you."
"B-but… the doctor said he should rest r-"
"We're not taking him anywhere," Nicolas said, eyes fixed on the man. "We just need to ask a few questions. That's all."
She saw the seriousness in his face—the kind that isn't cruel, but absolute. She understood.
She nodded and let Flint guide her out while another officer shook Craig awake.
Craig blinked slowly. "E-eh? Who are you, mister? Where's my mom?"
"She's outside. Safe," Flint said calmly. "We just need to talk to you."
Nicolas's voice cut in, steady and cold. "We want to know who gave you that injury."
Craig nodded. "Oh… you're police. Yeah. I was the one who called. My name is Craig. Hello, officer."
"We know," Flint said, sitting beside him with a notebook. "Tell us how you got hurt. Do you remember anyone's face? A name? Anything?"
The room was full of cops — walls, corners, shadows. Craig swallowed hard. He'd never seen this many officers for one neighbourhood crime. It wasn't small. This was national.
He scanned the room. Nicolas stood near the door, hands locked behind his back.
It almost looked like he wasn't listening—but Craig could feel it: that man was waiting for every syllable.
Craig finally spoke.
"When I went outside… after the gunshots… I thought the men had left. But they hadn't."
The room stilled.
Craig swallowed hard, fingers tightening into fists. He glanced at the notebook, at Nicolas, then back at Flint… and finally the words tumbled out, heavy and trembling.
"They wore black suits. Cars everywhere. They were surrounding the whole neighbourhood. Talking about someone."
Nicolas's eye twitched—a tiny movement, but enough.
He gave Flint the signal.
Flint leaned in. "Who were they talking about?"
Craig inhaled sharply. "When they shot me… they were gonna kill me. But then a man with silver hair came out and stopped them. Told them to leave quietly. Looked like he was their leader."
Flint scribbled.
"A man with silver hair…"
Nicolas stepped closer. "Did they mention a name?"
Craig stiffened. His expression changed completely.
"Yeah," he whispered. "They asked him why he let me live… and the silver-haired man said… 'We were only here to kill Vega today.'"
The pen fell out of hand.
The notebook dropped.
Every officer froze.
Flint eyes were as wide as the head light of some car.
The room turned silent—Wind pressed against the window. You could hear every inhale.
Flint's voice cracked.
"V-V-Vega?"
Nicolas grabbed the edge of the bed and stared at Craig. For him the world suddenly felt like it was in slow motion as slowly...
Every memory detonated inside him.A cold sweat ran down his spine.
Young Vega, shackled, staring straight into his soul: 'Try as many times as you want, Nicolas. The name Vega will never die.
Another memory—cars, helicopters, a city locked down.
A man cornered with no escape.
Nicolas pulling the trigger and saying,
"Seems like your name will only be remembered by me, Vega."
Nicolas snapped back to the present, eyes wide, breath sharp.
He whispered—not to Craig, not to Flint, but to the ghost of that unforgettable legend:
"So you were still alive after all… huh, hero?".