Day 4
John stood in his apartment — silent, bare-chested, the dim morning light brushing the edges of his bruised body. His chest carried a massive purple mark, spreading like poison from where the tower's explosion had thrown him through the air. He didn't move. He just stared at the TV screen, eyes sharp and restless, as if waiting for judgment itself to speak.
The static on the TV cleared.
"Emergency news!"
A Cyntera Corp broadcast flickered onto the screen.
A young woman appeared — composed, pale, holding a single sheet of paper. Her expression was dead serious, her voice trembling just enough to sound real.
"A day ago, a Cyntera Corp tower in the southwestern corner of the city was destroyed. Unfortunately, we couldn't gather any intel regarding the cause. All cameras were lost with the tower, and there were no witnesses.
For now, we are assuming it was an accident."
The word "accident" hit John's mind like a slow echo.
"Our search teams have recovered the bodies of thirty-two Cyntera workers. More are still missing. Fortunately, no civilians were harmed. If any civilians were affected, please contact the local authorities.
For now, Cyntera Corp cannot hold responsibility for the incident. The Head CEO himself stated— 'Impossible. All systems were stable. The only way this could happen… is if it was intentional.'"
Silence. The feed faded to the Cyntera logo, then cut to black.
John stood there — still — and then, slowly, a smile crept across his bruised face.
"So it's true…" he whispered. "No innocents were killed… just as I suspected."
His breath trembled — part relief, part disbelief. Then his smile widened into something cold, strange, and deeply satisfied.
"Confirmed for real," he said softly, almost laughing. "Amazing…"
He fell back on the bed, gazing at the thin sunlight spilling through the window. He felt like a man who'd just escaped the weight of hell — no innocent lives, only Templars. The guilt, the burden, the endless fear of crossing that line — gone, if only for a moment.
But another thought flickered in the back of his mind.
He had killed dozens — burned them, buried them alive beneath their empire of concrete.
He smiled again.
Was he a savior… or a monster?
He didn't bother to answer. Not anymore.
John stood, wrapped the bandages tight across his ribs, slid on his uniform, and pulled the hood over his head. The TV kept playing in the background — meaningless chatter now. His boots hit the floor in rhythm as he ran out into the cold morning streets.
"Next target: Northern-western tower."
The city spread before him, still half asleep — unaware that the storm hadn't even begun.
Meanwhile — the Central Tower.
The highest floor of the Cyntera Corp's empire was vast, glass-walled, and quiet. A man stood there, phone in hand, voice broken by grief.
"My son, Gilbert, was caught in the destruction… The poor boy's gone. Master Templar, please — tell me… what will happen now?"
The reply came like a blade.
"You'll receive compensation for your son's death,"
the Master Templar said flatly.
"And a letter — written by our department — expressing how deeply sorry we are. That is all."
The man paused. "I… understand."
"Your son served the Templar Order. For the greater good," the Master added, colder now. "You should be proud."
"I am proud," the man said quietly.
The line disconnected.
The Master Templar stood still for a long moment, eyes closed. Then, slowly, he sighed — deep, exhausted — and turned for the elevator. As the doors opened, the reflection on the steel caught his own tired face.
"Damn it… The tower's gone. I need to know how…"
The elevator descended, the lights flickering faintly in rhythm with his pulse.
When the doors opened to the main hall, six templars stood in a line before him. The rest of the hall — dozens more templars and workers — watched from the sidelines.
He stepped forward, every sound of his shoes echoing through the marble.
"What happened?" he asked quietly.
"Sir… we…" one stammered.
"What 'sir, we'?!" The Master's voice thundered. "The tower was templar property! Our stronghold! And none of you managed to prevent this disaster?!"
The six templars flinched. They were the survivors — the ones who had escaped before the explosion.
He paced before them, his breath steady but venomous.
"Did any of you see what caused it?"
One stepped forward. "Sir… we heard gunshots. From inside. There must have been an intruder."
"An intruder…" The Master repeated, low, thoughtful. His gaze darkened. "That makes perfect sense."
He turned away, muttering under his breath. Then, louder:
"I have a suspect."
The hall fell silent.
"The assassin," he said. "The one found in the ancient Assassin temple. The one who killed a templar on the street… the one who tried to kill me."
The templars began whispering to each other, alarm spreading like wildfire.
The Master slammed his fist against the railing.
"Enough! Get back to your work!"
He pointed to the six templars in front of him.
"You six — cowards. You fled while your brothers burned. They died for the Order, and you ran."
His voice climbed into a roar that shook the entire hall:
"The assassin must be captured alive!"
Then, lower — a growl.
"Continue the search."
He turned his back and entered the elevator. As the doors closed, his reflection stared back at him — weary, but alive.
He clenched his fist.
"First Marcus… then Mark… then my own assassination attempt…" he muttered. "And now… the tower. That's too damn much, Assassin."
The elevator rose toward the sky, the Master's words hanging like a curse.
"Don't be so cocky. You will fail."
The bullet that had once been shot at him by John.
It had been useless.
The Assassin thought he'd won. He hadn't even come close.
Outside, far from that tower of power and vengeance, John sprinted across rooftops — breath steady, eyes burning with focus.
The bruise still throbbed across his ribs, but he ignored it.
Another tower waited in the northern-western quarter.
Another step in the war he'd chosen.
And somewhere, far above — his enemy smiled.