Midnight draped Son of York in a restless glow. The streets below John's apartment were alive—citizens poured out of their homes, cheering, laughing, clinging to each other as if joy itself had descended. Firecamps burned along the highways, voices rang out, and the whole southern district pulsed with victory.
"We fought back!" someone shouted.
"They know now—we're not just soulless pawns!" another cried.
But above the celebration, John sat alone. Curled up on his bed, hood cast back, arms wrapped around his legs, he stared at the wall in silence. He had sworn an oath when he began this mission: every Templar in Son of York would fall by his hand. No innocents would suffer. That was the rule, the line he would not cross.
Yet he had crossed it.
Edward.
John looked down at his right hand. Clean. Pale. Yet crimson burned in his memory, coating his skin in blood that would not wash away. He rose abruptly, stormed into the bathroom, and plunged his hands under the faucet. Water gushed over his fingers, but still he scrubbed—harder, faster, until his reflection blurred in the mirror. His chest heaved. His pulse raced. It won't come off…
At last he splashed water across his face, forcing his breathing to steady. When he looked again, his hands were bare. The stains were gone. But guilt—guilt clung to him like a shadow.
He collapsed back onto the bed. Sleep would not come. His eyes locked on the ceiling, his lungs strained against the air itself. The weight in the room thickened until each breath burned. Gripping his chest, John staggered to the window, flung it open, and dragged in the night air like a drowning man breaking the surface.
The city breathed beneath him—bonfires glowing, voices rising, laughter echoing down the empty highways. He saw families gathered, strangers united, four men huddled around a flame in the middle of the street. They were smiling. Alive. Happy.
And it was because of him.
John's hand trembled on the windowsill. If I could go back… I'd never have left them. I'd have stood with the civilians, carried the protest, forced the police to abandon the operation without Edward's consent. He would still be alive…
But the past was fixed. No path back. Only forward.
Resolute, John stepped into the streets. The celebration had become a kind of festival—bonfires dotted the roads, families shared food, strangers sang. As he passed through the crowd, a voice called out:
"Hey! You're the guy from this morning, right? You helped us break out and start the protest!"
John lowered his eyes. "Yes. That was me."
"You pulled that officer down—man, that was epic!"
The word struck like a blade. Officer. Edward's face returned, pale and dying. A sickness twisted John's stomach. He clamped a hand over his mouth and stumbled past. "We'll… talk later."
Swallowing back the bile, he pressed on until he reached a lonely firecamp. He sank onto a discarded tire and stared at the flames. The fire swayed and cracked, and in it he saw Edward's blood again. He whispered, barely audible:
"I'll burn in hell for what I did."
But someone heard.
"Hey, man… you alright?"
John turned. A stranger sat beside him, watching with concern.
"I'm fine," John muttered, though his voice betrayed him.
"You don't look fine. You said you'll burn in hell—what happened?"
"…Is it necessary?"
The man shrugged. "Everyone's sharing stories. One guy screamed himself hoarse. Another kicked a riot cop so hard the guy toppled his whole squad—looked like a human domino!" He chuckled. "What about you?"
John's eyes hardened. "I killed someone."
The man blinked. "…That's deep."
"It wasn't intentional. It happened too fast. I didn't even have time to react."
"Then it was an accident." The man leaned forward. "That means you can repent. None of us set out to kill. We fought for freedom, not death. If you were part of that… then what happened wasn't murder. It was chaos. A mistake. You don't have to carry it. You need to believe that you didn't do it and go on living. It's a…coping mechanism of some sort."
"Did you make that up?"
The stranger grinned sheepishly. "Nope. Read it in a book."
Before John could reply, his phone buzzed. Jack's name lit the screen—his old boss from the museum.
"…Three days," John whispered. "And he's still worried."
He answered.
"John! Where the hell are you? I've been searching everywhere!"
"I'm just… walking," John said softly.
"Don't play games! You vanished after telling me you were heading to the Assassin temple—then nothing! I even sent someone to your house. Empty! What happened?"
"I moved. To Son of York."
"You're here?! Why didn't you tell me? I could've helped—found you a place, supported you—why hide it?"
"I… forgot. Sorry."
Jack's tone shifted, sharp with concern. "Something's wrong. Your voice—you sound broken. Did something happen during the protest?"
"No," John lied. "I'm fine. Tell me, how's life been?"
"Steady. Busy. They're calling a 'grand meeting' tomorrow."
John's heart skipped. "What meeting?"
"Not much detail yet. Just that Chief Conrad, Banker Bill, me, and the CEO of Cyntera Corp will be there."
The words struck like thunder. John froze. Cyntera Corp. In Son of York. And if Cyntera was synonymous with Templars, then the CEO… was their leader.
He ended the call quickly. His thoughts ignited, clear and sharp for the first time in days. The boss of Cyntera… the boss of the Templars. Take him down, and their whole system collapses. The city freed. My promise fulfilled.
A miracle. Delivered in a simple phone call.
John dialed Jack again, pressed for details—the time, the place. Ten a.m. Northern sector. An abandoned warehouse.
He ran back to his apartment. When he finally collapsed into bed, his body still thrummed with exhaustion, but the guilt no longer chained him. For the first time since Edward's death, he could close his eyes.
Because when a chance to end everything lies right at your door, you don't let it slip away. Not for grief. Not for pain. His whole identity was built around fulfilling his promise, so when a chance to fulfill it came right at his lap he chose to grab it, desperately, which led him to temporarily withdraw his guilt and concentrate on his mission. He was acting like he didn't kill Edward. Just like that man said:"A coping mechanism". But no matter how tightly he clung to the mission, the guilt lingered at the edges, waiting for night to fall again.
Edward's death would never leave him—it was carved into him, an eternal scar. But tonight John chose to rise. Progress instead of paralysis. Confidence over guilt. Forward, always forward.
Thus ended Act I.