Jake's arm was already halfway through its downswing.
Shadow blades gleamed.
Dean had accepted death.
Then—
DING—DONG.
The doorbell rang.
The shadows froze mid-air.
Jake blinked.
"…Huh?"
Dean collapsed onto the floor in relief, clutching Baldy.
"I KNEW GOD WAS REAL."
Jake exhaled through his nose, the crimson glow in his eyes dimming just a fraction.
"Stay," he said flatly.
Dean nodded so fast he nearly dislocated his neck.
Jake turned and walked to the door, shadow knives dissolving into wisps of smoke as he went. He opened it.
A man in a standard delivery uniform stood there, clipboard tucked under one arm, a small envelope in the other.
"Good evening," the mailman said professionally.
"Delivery for… Jake."
"That's me," Jake replied.
"Signature, please."
The man handed him the clipboard. Jake scribbled his name quickly.
"Here you go," the mailman said, passing over the envelope.
"Have a good evening."
"You too."
The door closed with a soft click.
Jake stood there for a second.
Then he turned the envelope over.
No stamp.
No return address.
Just his name.
"…Tch."
He tore it open.
Inside was a single folded letter—and something heavier slid out with it, landing against his palm.
A ticket.
Jake unfolded the letter.
Jake.
We're moving tomorrow.
Target: Tudor.
Location: an isolated island in the Netherlands.
No guards. Or so he claims.
We know it's a trap. We're going anyway.
This is your ticket.
Decide for yourself.
— Dravers
Jake stared at the words.
The room felt quieter.
He glanced down at the ticket again.
Tomorrow.
Netherlands.
An island.
An S-rank.
Behind him—
Dean peeked from behind the couch.
"…So," Dean said cautiously, "am I still dying?"
Jake didn't answer.
His grip tightened around the letter.
The shadow beneath his feet stirred.
"…Tomorrow," Jake muttered.
And for the first time since running from the Destroyer—
His expression wasn't tired.
It was sharp.
Jake stared at the ticket like it might burn him.
"…I told her I was out."
His voice was low. Flat. Certain—on the surface.
He let the letter fall onto the table.
"I didn't hesitate," he continued, more to himself than anyone else.
"I said no. I meant it."
He ran a hand through his hair and leaned back against the wall, eyes half-lidded.
"They're walking into a fight with an S-rank who wants them dead. That's not bravery. That's suicide."
The shadow under his feet rippled faintly—restless.
"I can't go," he said again, firmer this time.
"I just ran from the Destroyer. I couldn't even look back."
A pause.
"…If I go," Jake admitted quietly,
"I either die… or I become something I can't walk away from anymore."
Dean didn't joke this time.
Baldy didn't laugh.
The apartment was still.
Jake clenched his fist.
"Dravers knows this," he said. "She knows exactly why I said no."
His eyes slid back to the ticket.
"So why send this anyway…?"
The shadow twitched.
Not violently.
Not aggressively.
Like it was waiting.
Jake exhaled slowly.
"…I can't."
He turned away from the table.
But the ticket stayed where it was.
And for reasons he didn't want to admit—
It felt heavier than paper.
The warehouse smelled of oil, rust, and old concrete.
High ceilings disappeared into shadow, metal beams crisscrossing like the ribs of some enormous dead beast. Crates were stacked along the walls—unused, untouched—because nothing here was meant for storage.
It was a stage.
At the center sat Tudor.
A massive reinforced chair groaned beneath his weight as he leaned back, thick arms folded behind his head. One bare foot tapped against the concrete floor in irritation.
"Tch."
He clicked his tongue.
"I've been here four days."
His voice echoed, deep and annoyed.
"Four. Days."
He leaned forward suddenly, elbows on his knees, glaring at nothing.
"When are they going to show up?" he growled. "This is getting exhausting."
He stood up, stretching. Muscles rolled and shifted under his skin like living armor.
"I've even prepared my speech," Tudor muttered darkly.
"Do you know how rare that is?"
He scoffed, pacing.
"I had lines. Timing. Dramatic pauses." He gestured angrily with one hand. "I practiced the look. The smile. The moment where their hope dies."
He stopped and looked up at the ceiling.
"And now?"
"Nothing."
From the shadows at the edge of the warehouse, soft footsteps approached.
A young man with white hair stepped into the light, posture straight, movements calm. He wore a tailored black suit that contrasted sharply with Tudor's raw, brutal presence.
Tudor's butler.
He bowed his head slightly.
"Master Tudor," the butler said respectfully, "may I speak freely?"
Tudor waved a hand dismissively. "You always do, Ford."
Ford hesitated for half a second.
"What makes you so certain they'll come?" he asked carefully. "It is quite obvious that this is a trap."
He immediately added, "Not that I'm questioning your judgment."
Tudor froze.
Then—
He laughed.
A low, rumbling chuckle that vibrated through the warehouse floor.
"Oh, Ford… Ford, Ford, Ford," Tudor said, shaking his head.
He turned slowly, a grin stretching unnaturally wide across his face. His eyes gleamed with savage delight.
"You truly don't understand the world of fighters."
He spread his arms wide, as if embracing an invisible audience.
"A trap doesn't repel us," Tudor continued. "It invites us."
He walked closer to Ford, towering over him.
"When a fighter smells danger," Tudor said softly,
"they don't turn away."
His grin sharpened.
"They step closer."
Ford swallowed but kept his composure.
"They won't refuse," Tudor went on. "They can't."
He turned away again, fists clenching.
"One of them is cautious. One of them is reckless."
"And one…"
His eyes darkened.
"…is pretending he doesn't want this."
Tudor chuckled.
"They'll come," he said with absolute certainty.
"All three of them."
He stopped in the center of the warehouse.
"And when they do—"
His voice dropped.
"I will kill them."
Silence followed.
Heavy. Anticipatory.
Then—
CUT.
Dravers.
White hair tied back.
Black T-shirt.
Black jeans.
She stood still, face calm, eyes sharp—like a blade already drawn.
CUT.
Adrian.
Hands in his jacket pockets.
Casual stance.
A faint grin tugging at his lips, eyes bright with dangerous excitement.
CUT.
Jake.
Standing alone.
He paused.
Slowly looked up—
as if he'd felt something shift in the world.
The shadow at his feet stirred.
"…So," he murmured quietly.
Something was coming.