Ren didn't wait for Aslan to draw first. With a fire burning behind his eyes, he squeezed the trigger.
BANG!
The round whistled past—not into Aslan's chest, but inches from his ear, shattering the rooftop's silence with a deafening roar. Ren felt the kickback vibrate through his mangled left shoulder. The slide locked back. Empty. He tossed the weapon aside without a second glance.
Aslan flinched, a sneer twisting his face. He assumed Ren had missed—a pathetic attempt with a non-dominant hand. He let out a low, mocking laugh. "Is that it? All that build-up for a stray bullet?"
The laugh died in his throat.
Behind him, the helicopter's rotor blades, which had just begun their slow, rhythmic rotation, groaned with a sickening metal-on-metal screech. The engine's hum choked out, replaced by the hiss of escaping steam and the grind of failing gears. Ren hadn't missed. He had sniped the gearbox—Aslan's only ticket out of hell.
The General's face darkened, shifting from arrogance to a white-hot rage.
"Guns are too easy," Ren murmured, his eyes locking onto the pistol still in Aslan's hand. "I hate using them on humans."
His gloved left hand reached into the folds of his suit, drawing one of the twin black daggers resting there. He flipped it into a reverse grip—a defensive stance designed to disarm, not to kill. Not yet.
"I've taken my shot. Now, it's your turn." Ren dropped into a low, predatory crouch.
Aslan looked ready to boil over. He raised his sidearm and opened fire. Ren didn't wait; he blurred into motion.
The fight was a collision of styles: Ren's fluid, desperate agility against Aslan's raw, disciplined power—the strength of a man who had commanded armies. Aslan didn't waste lead. He fired at vital points, forcing Ren into jagged, inefficient dodges.
Ren used his blade as a shield, scraping the black steel against the muzzle of Aslan's gun to deflect the line of fire. It was a dance of inches and milliseconds.
Ren lunged to close the gap, but Aslan was faster. He drove a jagged elbow into Ren's ribs with the force of a sledgehammer. The air left Ren's lungs in a choked gasp; the dagger clattered onto the concrete. Ren cried out through gritted teeth as a searing, white-hot pain blossomed from his chest to his gut. Internal damage. He could feel the copper taste of blood pooling in the back of his throat. He needed to end this. Now.
Aslan lingered a second too long, savoring the sight of Ren doubled over. It was his last mistake.
Ren surged forward with the last of his strength, diving into a clinical Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu transition. He bypassed the strike, locking his knees around Aslan's waist and catching the man's arm in a vice grip. The pistol fell as the pressure on the joint became unbearable.
Aslan roared, but he was no amateur. Before Ren could scramble for the fallen gun, Aslan used his sheer mass to slam Ren's back into the concrete floor.
The impact was bone-deep. The submission broke. Aslan's pistol lay two meters away, glinting coldly under the pale sun.
They both scrambled up, lungs burning. Aslan swung first—a brutal right hook. Ren, hampered by his shattered ribs, was a fraction too slow. The blow caught his jaw, sending a spray of blood into the air and blurring his vision.
Aslan showed no mercy. He lunged, his fingers closing around Ren's throat, and slammed his head back against a concrete pylon. Ren's world spun, but the Shiroi Hitsuji instinct—the ghost of the assassin—took over. At point-blank range, Ren buried a series of short, punishing strikes into Aslan's solar plexus before driving his elbow into the man's temple.
Aslan staggered, his grip loosening. There was the opening. As Aslan swung a desperate kick, Ren dropped—not to avoid it, but to execute a precision takedown.
He caught the leg, twisted, and in a final explosion of kinetic energy, transitioned into a lethal armbar. He arched his hips, pulling until a sickening snap echoed through the air—the sound of a joint being forced from its home. The sound was swallowed by Aslan's muffled shriek, but to Ren, it was a signal. The weapon was broken.
Aslan collapsed, pinned to the roof by the mechanical leverage of Ren's body. With his one free hand, Ren reached out, fingers clawing for the pistol.
His fingertips touched the cold steel. The same coldness he felt when Frey died.
Ren rose slowly, his knee pinned firmly against Aslan's chest to keep the man grounded. He stared at the gun—the thing that had painted Frey's blood across his face. His eyes turned to ice; the mask was back on, sealing away the trauma.
"You know," Ren said, the barrel of the gun pressing hard against Aslan's temple, "The Shiroi Hitsuji never kills with a gun. Consider this an honor, General. It's a first... and a last."
BANG.
The shot tore through the silence. A clinical execution staged to look like a desperate suicide. Ren carefully placed the weapon into Aslan's cooling fingers, posing them as if the General had pulled the trigger himself.
Four minutes until the Eye Tower goes into total lockdown.
Ren's body was a map of pain—broken ribs, a fractured jaw, and internal bleeding that made every breath a battle. He began the grueling trek toward Point A.
DISTRICT ARENA | POINT A
Inside a nondescript black van, Vera sat with white knuckles. Her eyes were glued to the HUD, watching the countdown hit zero.
Isaac's voice crackled through her earpiece, frantic. "Vera, we're at 00:03... 00:02... He's not on the grid! I'm deploying Plan B!"
Plan B was a nuclear option: leaking the coup anonymously to the press. It would create a distraction, but it would put a giant bullseye on The CUBE.
Vera took a breath, her finger hovering over the confirmation.
00:00.
Just as Isaac's finger twitched toward the 'Deploy' key, the comms line—dead for ten minutes—hissed back to life. It was filled with static and heavy, ragged breathing, but it was him.
"Vera…" Ren's voice was a ghost of itself. "500 meters... ahead of you."
Vera didn't hesitate. She slammed the van into gear, the tires screaming as she bridged the gap.
She found him leaning against a damp, moss-covered brick wall. He looked small, broken—a far cry from the arrogant executive who had walked into the tower hours ago. His expensive suit was a ruin of silk and blood.
He was clutching his side, his leather gloves stiff with Frey's dried blood. A fresh crimson trail leaked from the corner of his mouth.
Vera skidded to a halt and leapt out. "Ren! Your side—"
"The gun... is in Aslan's hand," Ren interrupted, his voice hollow. He stated the facts with a chilling lack of emotion. "The coup... is over."
He didn't wait for a reply. Using the last of his willpower, he dragged himself into the back seat. The moment his body hit the leather, his eyes rolled back.
The world went black.
Vera looked at him—at the wreckage of a boy—and knew this was more than physical. She slammed the door and hit the gas.
"Isaac, get Lulubel on the line. I'm coming in hot!"
Mission accomplished. The ghost was coming home to the bunker.
RICH CITY POLICE HQ | NIGHT
The lights in the Central Headquarters felt harsher than usual. In her vast office, Inspector Laevatein leaned back in her leather chair, a slow exhale escaping her lips. Before her lay the preliminary report on the Eye Tower Massacre—a new chapter of horror for the city.
She traced the pages. Dozens of bodies in the marble corridors, blood painting geometric patterns on the ballroom floor, thousands of spent casings. Two key deaths: Baron Frey, the mogul, found in the dining hall. And General Aslan, found on the helipad with a single self-inflicted wound—confirmed by the first units to breach the roof.
A soft knock broke her focus.
"Come in."
Her assistant stood at the door. "Inspector, the witness has arrived. She's in the briefing room."
Laevatein closed the file. This was too sensitive for a standard interrogation room. She would handle this personally. "Fine. Bring her in."
The witness was Clarissa. A "courier" for the late Baron Frey, hidden behind a sharp office suit. She adjusted her professional mask, ready to tell Laevatein exactly what she needed to hear.