Day 3
John's apartment was quiet. The clock had only just struck six, the pale blue of early morning seeping gently through the blinds. Slowly, John opened his eyes, the weight of exhaustion heavy on him. He lay still for a moment, listening to the silence, before forcing himself upright.
His body moved sluggishly as he crossed the room toward the window. The glass greeted him with a reflection he barely recognized—a tired man, a deep stitch carved across his cheek, unkempt hair falling across weary eyes. With a small tug, he pulled his hood over his head, shadowing his face as though trying to hide from himself.
He unlatched the window. A rush of cold morning air swept in, biting against his skin. John drew in a long breath, letting the freshness sting his lungs before his gaze shifted downward to the street below.
It was… clean. No campfires, no overturned carts, no restless crowd pressed shoulder to shoulder in defiance. The chaos of the past days was gone.
"People cleaned it up, huh?" John muttered to himself. "Weren't they the barbaric citizens who tried to take over a whole city? They do have manners, I see…"
Still, a quiet respect lingered in his voice. He knew well enough: they hadn't rioted without reason. They had protested for a cause—for survival.
He closed his eyes and inhaled again, slower this time, steadying himself in the rhythm of his breaths. When he opened them, he was no longer alone.
Edward stood there. Leaning casually against the window frame, as if he had always been there.
John didn't startle. His eyes remained fixed on the streets outside. "Are you happy," Edward asked, his tone level but heavy, "for killing me?"
John's lips tightened. "No. I'm not. I'm… saddened. Sorrowful."
"You had a code, didn't you? You swore to kill only Templars. And yet…" Edward tilted his head. "You killed me."
"It was an accident," John whispered, the words trembling in his throat. "And I am still deeply, deeply sorry."
Edward studied him for a long moment. "An accident, huh? Then let's take it as that." His eyes narrowed. "But you broke your code once. Do you assure me—truly—that someday, somewhere, you won't do it deliberately? That you won't kill anyone who stands in your way? Citizens. Policemen. Anyone?"
The silence stretched, thick as fog. Finally, John spoke, his voice rough but firm. "I won't. I made one mistake. It won't happen again."
Edward gave a soft laugh, quiet and mirthless. "Really?" he muttered, almost to himself. Then his tone shifted, gentler. "Maybe it was my fault. I shouldn't have been there. If only I had listened to you… and to that nameless man… maybe you wouldn't have had to kill me."
John finally turned, catching Edward's profile in the corner of his vision. He waited for what else his fallen enemy might say.
"The truth is, Operation Shakedown didn't matter in the long run. The protestors stopped it before it even began." Edward sighed. "What's done is done. You can't drag the past behind you forever. There's too much ahead. Too much left for you to do."
And with that, Edward's body began to dissolve, his form scattering into a gray stream of ash. The embers lifted on the morning wind, spiraling out of the open window and vanishing into the sky.
John stood still, eyes following the fading trail. His face was heavy with grief, but a faint, bittersweet smile touched his lips.
"May the questionings be easy for you… on the other side," he murmured.
He held Edward's fading ashes in his mind for only a breath, then the calm broke.
John's face snapped hard—no more sorrow, no more pleading. It was the face of a man who had tightened every muscle for a single purpose. Without hesitation he vaulted through the open window and dropped onto the narrow metal plank jutting from the building's façade. Cold air hit his face; Son of York unrolled beneath him like a map waiting to be read.
The rhythm returned like instinct. Plank to pipe, pipe to balcony, toes and palms finding holds his body remembered. This time the jumps weren't lessons; they were proof. Three days had sharpened him—bruises and near-falls had turned into muscle memory. He moved with the hard confidence of someone who had stolen a map from a temple, woke a strange sight in his head, butchered a templar in the street, and outran an entire division. Fear had become fuel.
As he ran the city's bones, his mind replayed the last call with Jack—the name, the time, the place. The grand meeting. The CEO of Cyntera in Son of York: the tip of the whole rot. The man who pulled strings from the highest windows would be there. If John cut the head off the order, the rest might scatter.
I'll go there. Find him. End it, he thought, and the thought carried him faster.
By ten o'clock the northern warehouse crouched in the grid like a wounded animal—gray, dust-choked, a hulking thing one step from collapse. Its boarded windows hid whatever business went on behind the rotting wood. Around it, the crowd of uniforms and suit jackets moved like a living barricade: policemen, Cyntera employees, the city's appointed order keeping watch over itself.
John dropped onto a nearby roof and flattened into shadow. He breathed slow, counted heartbeats until the world tightened into focus. Then he brought Hawk Vision up.
The street became a wash of washed-out whites and red colors. Officers flickered uselessly white. Templars burned in crimson—a clean, savage distinction that set his jaw.
He scanned the warehouse. Floor by floor the building dissolved into shapes; behind one barricaded fourth-floor window, something bright burned like a signal. Four figures sat there, wrapped in a yellow halo that shouted importance. Not everyone in the room was a target—only one name mattered.
He lay still, breath even, every sense tuned to patience.
The plan would have to wait for its opening. For now he watched—silent, steady, and ready.
Inside the warehouse, the air was still and heavy, as if the dust itself was waiting for something to happen. Beyond the barricaded window lay a long, narrow corridor, emptied of everything but a single wide table and four chairs set neatly around it.
On one chair, his back to the window, sat Conrad. His suit was immaculate—black pressed fabric, straight hair combed precisely, his tie pulled painfully tight. He carried himself with the posture of a man who could not afford to bend. Conrad was not born into power; once, he had been nothing more than a clerk. But tragedy had carved him into something else. The fire that consumed his home and his family left behind only ashes—and from those ashes, his will to serve the greater good. The citizens saw that will and raised him up through their votes, crowning him mayor of Son of York. To them, he was a symbol of resilience. To himself, perhaps, he was still the paper worker who refused to break.
At Conrad's left sat Jack, the weary director of Son of York's national museum. His white hair fell in tired strands, his gray suit as lifeless as his sunken eyes. Jack lived for his work, though it was not the artifacts or exhibits that bound him to the museum. It was the people. He had always opened his doors to those the world turned away—orphans, men and women without degrees or experience, even the broken and branded with criminal pasts. John himself had once been one of Jack's orphans. Deep in his heart, Jack longed to retire, to slip away to his waiting family. But his loyalty to his workers kept him chained, each sunrise dragging him back to the museum.
Opposite Jack, fidgeting and sighing like a child waiting out a lecture, sat Bill, the director of the city's bank. His green suit was wrinkled, his tie half undone, his belly spilling forward with each breath. He drummed his fingers against the table, exhaling loudly through his lips, making his boredom everyone else's problem. Bill had no desire to be here—he never had much desire for anything beyond indulgence. The citizens called him "the Greed Man," and not without reason. Too many scandals had followed him, too many whispers of him pocketing funds from his own bank. Yet here he was, shoulders slouched, already calculating how this meeting might fatten his wallet.
And then, across from Conrad, sat the fourth man—the one who smiled. Dressed not in the stiff uniforms of office but in a simple brown jacket and dark jeans, a silver cross dangling casually from his neck, the CEO of Cyntera Corp. leaned back in his chair with the comfort of someone who owned the air around him. To the others in the room, he was a curiosity—eccentric, even childish at times. He laughed easily, spoke with a playful lilt, and always wore that smile, as though the whole world were in on a joke they had yet to understand.
He had never told them his name. He had never told them who he truly was. To Conrad, to Jack, to Bill, he was simply the odd but harmless head of an advertising company. No one suspected the truth—that behind that smile sat the Master Templar, the quiet hand behind their city's fate.
Here they were, four men at a table in a hollow room. To the outside world, they were leaders. To each other, peers. But in truth, only one of them carried the strings—and he was already pulling.
The four men sat in the dim warehouse, the silence stretching long enough to feel heavy. Conrad, always the one to cut through stillness, leaned forward.
"What's this all about?" he asked, voice clipped, businesslike.
The man across from him rose slowly. The Master Templar. His smile never faltered; it widened, almost playfully, as his arms opened in a gesture of welcome.
"Gentlemen," he began, his tone bright, carrying through the hollow room, "welcome to the Grand Meeting of Son of York."
He let the words linger, then leaned forward slightly, voice dipping low. "I imagine you wonder why we're here. Why this old, abandoned shell of a warehouse, instead of the city hall… or the Cyntera tower. Why gather in dust and ruin, instead of polished stone?"
His eyes swept the table, pausing on each of them. "The answer is simple: confidentiality. In city hall, even the walls have ears. In Cyntera's headquarters, a stray clerk, a janitor, a secretary—any one of them could stumble across truths they are not meant to know. Here, in this forgotten corner of the city, no one will hear. No one must hear. What happens in this room will decide everything Son of York stands for."
He paused, letting the weight of it hang, then clapped his hands lightly, as though shaking dust from the moment. "Now. Let's address the reason we are gathered."
His tone sharpened. "In the past forty-eight hours, a certain… inappropriacy has occurred. Two of our Cyntera employees were targeted by a murderer. One is dead. Another—an officer—barely escaped with his life. And then, as if that were not enough, the following day brought chaos of another sort: Operation Shakedown."
The words cracked against the silence. Jack's tired eyes dropped; Conrad's jaw tightened; Bill shifted in his chair, impatient but listening.
"Yes," the Master Templar continued smoothly. "A captain's attempt to flush out this so-called murderer by locking down the southern district. Streets barricaded, citizens penned. And the result?" He spread his hands. "Failure. The murderer escaped. The people rioted. The captain himself was found murdered."
His smile faded to something harder. "Do you understand now? This is not coincidence. Cyntera workers dead. Policemen dead. Protests swelling through the streets. All of it threatens the city's balance. Our city's safety."
For the first time, his voice betrayed a hint of concern, though the smile soon returned to cover it. "That is why we are here. Because the city teeters on the edge, and someone must act. I have a plan."
The man's voice rang out, booming and theatrical, as if he were addressing not four men in a chamber, but the entire city itself.
"The Ultimate Autocracy of Powers!"
With a flourish, he produced three tightly bound sheets encased in a wooden shell and cast them across the table. Each landed before a man with a dry slap of parchment on oak.
The documents were clear, cold, and merciless in intent:
"The Ultimate Autocracy of Powers Act — a gathering of all authoritative domains into one hand. The Mayor's authority — international ties, schools, universities, the city's power grid. The National Museum's authority — traditions, relics, culture, and tourism. The Bank's authority — the economy, wages, ATMs, the city's financial pulse. The Cyntera Corporation's authority — media, advertisements, income, influence, and nationwide popularity. All consolidated into a single ruler…"
Conrad skimmed the lines, his jaw tightening. "You can't be serious," he muttered, frustration bleeding through. "Yes, Son of York needs stronger security, but this—this is madness."
The Master Templar's eyes locked on him, heavy with both weariness and something darker. "Madness?" he repeated softly, then straightened, his tone sharp as a blade.
"The Mongol Empire — before Genghis Khan's heirs split it into four. United, it dominated the earth. Divided, it rotted. The Timurid Empire — shattered into eleven provinces after Tamerlane's death. A name that once crushed the Ottomans… crumbled."
He leaned forward, lips curling into a smile. "History has spoken. Do you understand where I'm going?"
Before Conrad could respond, Jack stirred. His tired eyes, always half-lidded, lifted just enough to meet Conrad's. "He's not wrong. One ruler may seem overwhelming, but it is better than four at each other's throats. History doesn't lie."
Jack could have remained silent—he usually did—but tonight he spoke. Not for conviction, but for escape. He wanted his burden gone, passed down to younger hands with more fire.
The Master Templar clapped his hands like a child receiving a gift. "See? Someone agrees!"
Conrad exhaled sharply, temper rising. "Fine. I see your point. I see your vision. But tell me—who in their right mind would take such a responsibility? To shoulder the city's burden alone? That isn't governance, that's self-destruction! Even I—mayor of Son of York—struggle to balance city matters with state obligations. Would you take such a curse upon yourself?!"
Bill, silent until now, leaned in with a growl. "I agree with Conrad. And for the record, I would never, ever hand over the seat of the Son of York Bank for free!"
The Master Templar's smile never faltered. He studied them with thinly veiled contempt before sighing, as if disappointed by their small-mindedness. "Conrad, Conrad… as mayor, I thought you would understand sacrifice. When the city's safety trembles, do you have no regard for it?"
Conrad's lips parted, but only a stammer escaped. "I–I… I can't. It's too much. Too overwhelming…"
The Master Templar's expression turned grave, but inside he was thrilled. This was the exact answer he had anticipated.
"In that case," he declared, voice smooth as velvet, "if the mayor himself cannot carry such a mantle… then I will."
The chamber froze. Even Bill jerked upright, outrage spilling. "What about my bank?!"
"Oh yes, your bank," the Master replied casually, almost amused. "You won't give it away. You'll sell it. Cyntera is more than willing to buy." He let the words hang in the air like bait. "The price of your authority will match the wealth your bank generates. And the profits will be yours, personally."
Bill's resistance melted at once. His eyes gleamed with greed. He thought of the rivers of currency that flowed daily through his hands—and now directly into his pocket. His lips split into a grin.
"I'm in," he barked. "Sign me up!"
"With delight, Bill," the Master Templar purred. He turned, almost lazily, toward Conrad. "That makes three who have agreed."
Conrad's voice cracked. "What about Roger? Roger, the Commander of Police—he holds authority, too!"
The Master's smile widened, devilish and calm. "Roger has already signed."
The mayor slumped back in his chair, disbelief weighing him down like chains. His mind churned. Will I sell away the office I fought my entire life to claim? The seat I bled for, sacrificed for?
The Master Templar stood tall, silent now, his grin carved like a mask. Inside, his thoughts coiled with triumph:
Roger was the easiest—already mine. Jack needed only the faintest excuse to abandon his post. Bill? Greed devoured him the moment I spoke. And Conrad… poor Conrad. He has always bent to the will of the majority. Always. When the citizens clamored for higher wages, he raised them, though it bled the budget dry. When they demanded shorter weeks in schools, he conceded, though it weakened the city. He never once stood firm. And now, he stands alone. Against me, Jack, Bill, and Roger united. He's done for.
The Master's shadow loomed over them all—calculated, patient, inevitable.
He reached for a case beside his chair with a casual, practiced motion, mumbling to himself as if reading from a private script. "Well… I guess that's it for now." The click of the latch was louder than it should have been in the hush. He withdrew three sheets, each sleeved in a thin plastic shell, and slid two across to Bill and Jack as if dealing cards.
The papers were blunt and legal in their cruelty:
Terms and Policies — Ultimate Autocracy of Powers
1. The signatories relinquish their authoritative offices permanently. No returns.
2. In exchange, each will receive a paycheck equal to the profits generated by their former office.
3. The existence of this meeting and its terms must remain secret. Breach this secrecy and your compensation will be terminated. Permanently.
4. Signatories must remain physically present at their stations — the bank, the museum, the mayoral office — for a period determined by the state of public sentiment.
5. No renegotiation. No amendments.
6. If public unrest follows discovery, Cyntera bears no responsibility. Remember: this is for the city's safety. If they learn the truth…it is your fault.
Bill did not bother to read more than two lines. The moment his eyes fell on the clause about money, his hand moved before his brain finished a thought. He signed with a shaky, ecstatic sloppiness, palms sweating, smiling like a man who had just been handed the keys to a vault. He slammed the paper back onto the table and barked, "Here!" as if the single word could seal his virtue.
"Thank you," the Master Templar said, and accepted the sheet with an air of condescension. He set Bill's onto the pile, then watched Jack with a patient predatory calm.
Jack read like a man cataloguing a museum piece: slow, respectful, careful. Term four snagged him; his fingers hesitated at the margin. "Um… could you explain term four?" he asked, genuinely puzzled.
The Master Templar smiled as if he'd been asked a charming question by a child. "Ah—yes. I omitted that detail earlier." He folded his hands and explained in the smooth voice of a man who never admitted to omission by accident. "You will stay at your posts as a mask. If we announce that authorities have sold their powers, the people will feel betrayed. The scandal would erupt, and then nothing we do will keep the city safe. But if you remain—seen and unchanged—the public will calm. In time, when the heat is spent, you may leave and resume your lives."
Bill protested first, as if the contract were a game with loopholes. "Wait—so I can't take my money and leave? Buy a mansion, move away right after signing?"
"Unfortunately, no," the Master answered with a hint of mock-sympathy. "You must remain at your station. However—" He spread his hands—"you are never required to perform work. Sleep. Eat. Play. Do as you please. Just be present."
Bill slumped into his chair, half-pouted as a child denied immediate candy, then nodded because the candy would come sooner or later. Jack, still reading, looked up with the professional resignation of a man who had long ago learned to measure his own needs against the museum's. "How long?" he asked, voice small.
"The period depends on the citizens' sentiment," the Master said. The vagueness was a thinly veiled tool; Jack saw that, but the promise of relief—of leaving one day—tilted his decision. He signed, careful and final.
All eyes turned then to Conrad.
The room quieted as if waiting for a bell to toll.
Conrad's throat worked. He could feel the paper against his palm like a live coal. The Master slid the last sleeve across the table with the simple, confident motion of a man who had already won.
"Are you sure you don't want to join?" the Master asked, leaning forward, voice lowered but unmistakable: for the greater good, for the safety of our city…
Conrad stared at the sheet the Master Templar had slid toward him. Sweat pricked his brow. He swallowed once, twice, and with trembling hands lifted the paper. He gulped, and with shaking hands slowly raised his voice: "Ok, I'll… just read the terms and… tell you what I'll choose afterward."
As his eyes scanned the clauses, his thoughts buzzed like a fly trapped in a jar — frantic, urgent, desperate for escape. Bill, Jack, the Master — all of them waited, patient and immovable. Their attention pressed on him until it felt like weight crushing his ribs.
The letters blurred, and the white of the page turned to flame.
He was a child again. It was late, and he and his aunt had walked home from a café, a single cone of melted ice cream between them. Then the night split open — his house rose before him as a roaring inferno, the flames clawing at the sky like a funeral pyre. Heat tore at his ears. He dropped to his knees in the gutter and mouthed a name no answer could bring back. My parents…
But it wasn't just his parents who burned that night. It was the Evans Empire. For decades they had been the backbone of Son of York's economy, their factories pumping out steel, glass, and fuel. Their name was stamped on bridges, power lines, shipyards, even the coins in men's pockets. To speak "Evans" was to speak of progress itself — untouchable, immovable, inevitable. And in a single night, all of it turned to smoke. The industrial estate, the legacy, the security of generations — gone in hours, scattered as ash on the wind. And right after that…Cyntera Corp appeared out of nowhere.
Conrad had been born into wealth and expectation: a boy taught polish and protocol, primed for greatness. The fire rewired everything. They muttered accident, gas—an explanation that never soothed. His aunt carried him to a smaller life, two people in a cramped apartment, both hollowed by loss. One evening she fixed him with a look that would not leave him.
"They died because they were rich and took no care," she said, voice flat as old paper. "People hated them. You will not be like that. Work. Be liked. Make them depend on you. If they need you, they protect you. If they love you, you live."
She leaned close until her whisper felt like a command: "The only way to live is to make people depend on you."
He learned obedience the same way he learned to breathe. He learned to please, to give the crowd what it wanted. He learned to be useful — and in usefulness found safety. That habit carried him from broken boy to mayor: a man the voters chose because he would do as they asked.
Now, staring at the contract, Conrad thought: If I sign, I'll still be mayor in the people's eyes, a mask. Then I'll fade away quietly, rich but invisible. Unlike my parents, I won't be hated. I won't be burned. Better to stay hidden… better to live. And these three staring at me—I can't fight that, either. Conrad's hand shook as he raised the pen. It was never courage that guided him, only the old, ingrained logic of survival. He lowered the nib and signed.
The truth was simpler, sadder: Conrad was still just a young boy, afraid to die.
Conrad slowly handed the paper to the Master Templar. He placed it neatly among the other two. From the outside his expression was an ordinary, polite smile. Inside, something predatory showed through — a grin that bared teeth like a devil revealing a satisfied plan. Right then, he was happy and felt… like one of his goals was accomplished.
The wooden barricade behind Conrad splintered with a thunderous crack. Shards of wood scattered across the floor as a pair of boots drove through the window. A heartbeat later, John burst in, one hand gripping a stolen SWAT shield, the other clutching a pistol. He had lifted both from officers while the meeting rumbled on below, and now he hurled himself from the rooftop into the lion's den.
Conrad shrank back instantly, burying his face against the table. Bill, wide as a barrel, toppled with his chair and hit the ground in a heap, too heavy to scramble away. Jack jerked upright, retreating in shock, eyes darting at the intruder.
John landed squarely on the conference table, boots thudding against its polished surface. His gaze swept the room. A well-dressed man hiding behind him? No. A fat banker sprawled like an overturned ox? No. His eyes settled instead on Jack—familiar, trembling, caught between guilt and fear. John's jaw tightened. He was the one who leaked this meeting's location… I hope he's not bound to the Templars.
But then John's focus locked on the smiling figure standing at the head of the table. Unflinching. Unmoved. A cross gleamed at his throat. John's heart surged. That's him. The Head of the Templars. The man I came here to kill.
Raising his pistol, John braced behind the shield.
The Master Templar only lifted his hands, still smiling as if this were some private joke.
"Easy, buddy. Calm down," he said smoothly. "Are you the murderer who killed one of my Cyntera men? Or maybe that so-called assassin from the ancient temple? That outfit… it matches the recording perfectly."
John said nothing. His finger tightened on the trigger.
The moment shattered—boots thundered on the stairs. A flood of police officers and Cyntera enforcers poured into the room. One fired a shotgun.
The blast hammered into John's shield, not piercing but knocking him backward with brutal force. As he stumbled toward the broken window, he gritted his teeth, shut one eye, and loosed a single desperate shot at the Master Templar's head.
Then gravity took him.
Glass and air swallowed him as he fell. Behind him came the voice of a bullet finding flesh, then the heavy collapse of a body hitting the floor. John's chest surged with relief. I got him. The Head of the Templars is dead. Finally.
He braced for stone or steel… but the impact was strangely soft.
Opening his eyes, he found himself sprawled in a trash heap, cushioned by a reeking, sagging mattress. He rolled free, discarding the shield and pistol, heart pounding, lungs burning.
And then he ran.
Through alleys, past shadows, until the meeting hall was far behind. His grin spread as he sprinted. In his mind, the root of the Templar tree in Son of York had been cut down.
Only four towers remained between him and his promise.
For now, John just ran—smiling.