[Day 11]
Seven days had passed since the second tower fell.
The news had gone completely feral. First the Southwestern Cyntera Corp tower, then the Northwestern one—people finally stopped pretending it was coincidence. Someone wanted those towers down. Someone planned it. But no one could prove anything. All they had were theories, whispers, and grainy footage that explained nothing.
During those seven days, Donald stayed with John.
He was too afraid to go outside; the Templars might still have been searching for the surviving members of the Elite Templars. And John—still battered, still drained—was too weak to live alone. So Donald cooked, cleaned, patched him up, and John… rested. That was all he could do. Rest. Heal. Wait.
Slowly, strength returned. He started training again.
"101… 102… 103…" he would count out loud as he pushed himself up from the floor, daily.
But on the seventh day—the eleventh day since John arrived in the city—everything changed.
A breaking news broadcast cut through the stale apartment air. An employee in a sleek suit sat on the screen, speaking with forced calm.
"Since the… fall of the Northwestern Cyntera Corp tower, the higher-ups have been searching for the team known as 'The Elite Guards.' And… none of them were found alive. So it has been announced that the Project Elite Guards is officially disbanded. Have a great day."
The screen cut to black.
Donald stared at the TV, wide-eyed, slack-jawed.
"The Elite Guards have been… disbanded?!" His voice cracked. Then he burst into a wide smile, jumped to his feet, and sprinted toward the door.
John reached out, confused. "Hey—hey! Where are you going? What happened?"
"In the Order, 'Elite Guards' is the codename for Elite Templars! If they're disbanded, then nobody is searching for me anymore! I'm free—I can finally go and see my family!"
He was practically shaking.
"Wait—wait," John said, grabbing his arm. "Just put something on, okay? I'll walk you there."
Donald blinked, looked down at himself—plain T-shirt, bandaged leg—and gave a nervous laugh. He threw on a jacket. John pulled on his usual black-and-red hoodie.
Together, they stepped outside.
The streets were quiet. Calm. Still. The kind of stillness that feels like the city is holding its breath. Cars passed occasionally, breaking the silence with soft whooshes of wind.
John glanced over. "So… you're finally going home?"
"Yeah…" Donald muttered.
"Tell me," John asked, "why didn't you try to see them earlier? Before the announcement?"
Donald hesitated. "I was… afraid. Afraid they'd find out I was alive and… did nothing. Never informed anyone. Never tried to contact my family. They'd see me as a traitor. And even without the Master Templar, the rest would try to hunt me down."
John frowned. "Huh? You're someone who can easily beat up people like… me." He jabbed his finger at his own chest.
Donald burst out laughing. "You don't get it, boy."
Then, his expression shifted. His face hardened. His voice dropped.
"You haven't seen even a fraction of what Templars can do."
John's eyes narrowed. "So… was it fear? Is that what stopped you from doing what you wanted? Because I've seen you mourn every night this week, missing your family. I've seen how badly you wanted to go back. But you didn't. Because of fear?"
Donald sighed, gaze locked on the ground. "Honestly? Yes. Fear made me betray everything. It even made me betray you… twice."
"Twice?" John repeated sharply. "The first time was when you sold me out to your elites. What's the second?"
Donald waved his hand quickly. "Let's not talk about that yet."
He took a breath. "Fear was overwhelming. I didn't plan to betray you. I didn't even want to. But whenever I sensed someone stronger, I took their side. The Templars when they called me through the radio… and that night, when you were at your weakest."
He glanced at John. "You weren't strong physically, but emotionally? You were someone I wish I could be. You went against your instincts and spared me—a Templar. I thought about it all week. About why you spared me."
John listened, silent.
"I think I finally know." Donald pointed gently at John's chest. "You have two things that control you. One is instinct—your assassin blood. That's what takes over when you're ruthless, when you keep going no matter what. That's what lets you kill Templars without blinking."
John's mind drifted. He's right… I do feel a bit of pleasure when I kill Templars… so that's what drives that feeling?
"And the second thing," Donald continued, "is your personality. Your conscience. Your heart. That's what made you spare me."
John swallowed. When I killed Edward by accident… the guilt nearly crushed me. Yeah… that must be it.
Donald's voice softened. "And me? I don't have a conscience strong enough to stop me. I don't have instincts pushing me to be good or bad. I only have fear."
John chuckled softly. "Donald… everyone has fear. It's primal. Fear shapes everyone. You? Fear shifts you around because you genuinely want to be good, but fear won't let you. And me? I use fear to tell myself my father's soul will rest if I fulfill my promise."
He shrugged. "Everyone uses fear. But not everyone uses it the same way."
He met Donald's eyes. "You just need to use it better."
Donald looked lost. "But… how?"
John didn't miss a beat. "There's something wrong with the way you aim your fear. You aim it toward things that cost you. Things that make you look pathetic. You need to aim it at something bigger. Something important. Something that helps not just you and your family… but everyone."
Donald frowned. "Aim?"
"Yeah. Aim." John tapped his finger against Donald's chest. "Fear is like a bullet. If you fire it at something meaningless—like pleasing people you don't care about, or trying to protect your family the wrong way—you only create suffering. For them. For everyone. For yourself."
"And if I aim it at something… prideful?" Donald asked.
"Then you gain respect," John said simply. "And from respect comes bravery. And bravery is what actually protects your family. So don't use fear to protect them. Use bravery. And whichever path you choose? Stick to it. No switching back and forth."
Donald nodded slowly, eyes on the pavement. His mind was far away. Deep.
They didn't even notice they had reached his building.
Donald finally lifted his head, staring up at the windows. Then he turned to John.
"Thank you… What you just said was…" He exhaled shakily. "Because of you, I realized how pathetic I was."
He gave a sheepish smile.
Then something clicked in his mind.
"Oh—wait." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small metal needle. "This is yours, right?"
John stared, confused. He took it from Donald's hand.
"I said I betrayed you twice, right? You never figured out the second one."
Donald looked him straight in the eyes. A faint, sad smile.
"That night… I wanted to kill you. I was terrified that if the Master was still alive, he would find me. And if you were alive, he'd see me as a traitor. He'd kill me. And my family. So I wanted to kill you, just to keep us safe."
John froze. Shock punched the breath from his lungs.
"But… I didn't." Donald chuckled softly. "Because I decided to trust that you killed him."
His voice softened. "But now? It doesn't matter. Because thanks to you…"
He grabbed John's shoulders, leaned close, and whispered:
"I don't care about them anymore. I'm done letting fear control me. I'll stand up for my family. And I'll choose bravery this time."
He stepped back. Raised a hand.
"John… thank you. For everything."
Then he turned around and walked into the building.
John stood alone on the sidewalk, staring after him.
"Kill me…?" he muttered. He looked down at the needle. "But he refused… Hah. I don't even know what to say."
As he walked back to his apartment, he murmured under his breath:
"That man was so caught up in fear he chose the most inhuman ways to protect his family… all for them. I bet his kid is like him. I wish my dad was like that…"
He tucked the needle into his pocket and disappeared down the street, hoping—truly hoping—that Donald would choose bravery from now on.
A soft click echoed through the quiet hallway as Donald pushed open the apartment door. He stepped inside with a strange mix on his face — exhaustion dragging at his eyes, determination tightening his jaw. The moment the door closed behind him, the noise of home washed over him: the chaotic rambling of a child playing in the living room, the sharp sizzle of oil hitting a hot pan.
For a beat, he just stood there… listening. Feeling.
A week away. It felt like a lifetime.
He let out a thin, shaky breath and walked toward the kitchen. His wife stood by the stove, her back to him, stirring something that filled the air with warmth and the scent of life. Ordinary life. His life.
His chest tightened — a heavy, painful clarity blooming inside him.
This… is who I live for.
This… is who I aim to protect.
This… is the happiness of my life.
And this… he swallowed hard, this is who I've been terrified of losing if I ever disobeyed the Order.
He took another step, quiet and reverent, as if approaching something sacred.
For the first time in years, the fear didn't make him shrink. It didn't make him bow, or obey, or tremble.
It made him stand straighter.
Donald reached the doorway, eyes softening as he watched her move around the kitchen with familiar ease. The sight alone — her hair, her posture, the way she hummed under her breath — nearly brought him to his knees.
No more, he told himself. No more running, no more pleasing people who don't give a damn if I live or die.
He stepped forward, and this time his footsteps were firm.
From now on, I protect them with my own hands.
With whatever strength I have left.
If danger comes — I won't beg for mercy.
I won't kneel.
I won't hide behind someone else's orders.
He exhaled, and the tiredness slipped away, replaced with something steady. Something final.
I will protect them with bravery — real bravery — even if it kills me.
"So long… Donald the Templar. May fear never guide your steps again."
Thus ends Act II.