Meanwhile, in Leverkusen, John Brosnan sat in the school cafeteria with his new friend David Cameron. The smell of french fries and sausages hung in the air, but the conversation was as heavy as the gray sky outside. Dortmund, the neighboring city, was on the news every day—terrorism, mafia, explosions that seemed straight out of a demonic nightmare.
"Dude, Dortmund's total chaos," said John, poking at his plate without appetite. "I feel like that's why my mom moved us here so suddenly. She never explains anything, just says it's 'for your own good.' But what if it's worse here too?"
David, the blond, freckled kid with a German-American accent, stole a french fry from John's plate and took a bite. "Dortmund's gotten really complicated since the 'Tau of the Black Mask.' That Black Mask and her mafia... they blow everything up, control the underworld. My dad, who's at the military base, says it's worse than the satanic cults from years ago. Like, the Masked One was religious, but she's pure mafia greed."
John froze at the mention of the "Tau of the Black Mask"—a nickname he'd heard whispered on the streets. He lowered his head, listening to the cafeteria buzz like a distant world. Dortmund was the epicenter of terror: banks exploded, families destroyed, and now mafia infiltrated in the spiritual police. His mother, Julia, managed Schwarz Motorrad with an iron fist, always leaving at night for "business meetings." His father worked there as chief mechanic, fixing bikes day and night, never questioning her absences.
A few hours later, school ended. John walked out the gate and saw his dad's old car parked, honking lightly. It was the usual ride—a black relic with scratches like scars from the Schwarz Motorrad workshop. "Get in, kid!" his dad shouted with a tired smile, smelling of grease and oil. John climbed in, tossing his backpack on the back seat.
As they drove through the rain-slicked streets, John stared out the window, watching Leverkusen's blurred lights. His mind wandered. David had been his first real friend. Son of an American soldier and German mom, working-class, mixed background... and yet, they connected. "What matters is being a good human," John thought, smiling for the first time that day. Regardless of origin, class, or family secrets, humans could unite against chaos.
While his father drove them home through Leverkusen's dark streets, what they didn't know was that Detektiv Rot was following close behind. His black Schwarz Motorrad motorcycle sliced through the rain like a silent shadow, keeping distance but never losing sight of the car. Bernard—now the feared Detektiv Rot—pursued John's father and the boy inside the vehicle, eyes locked on the enemy rearview.
The car finally pulled up in front of the modest Brosnan house. John's father turned off the engine, relieved. "Long day, huh, son? Let's head in—your mom must be fixing dinner." John nodded, still lost in thoughts about David and Dortmund. They got out, grabbed their stuff, and walked toward the door.
But before the key touched the lock, a figure emerged from the shadows. Detektiv Rot parked his bike and advanced, his red helmet gleaming under the streetlight. His deep voice echoed: "Are you the husband of the Black Mask?"
John's father froze, shielding his son with his body. "Who the hell is the Black Mask? What are you talking about, man?!"
Detektiv Rot slowly raised his visor, revealing Bernard's cold eyes. He tossed photos onto the ground—grainy shots of Julia Alois wearing the black mask, negotiating with demonic thugs in Dortmund, blowing up rival banks. "Do you even know your wife is part of the Dortmund mafia? The 'Tau of the Black Mask'? She's destroying Westphalia while you fix bikes in her shop!"
John's father dropped to his knees, stunned. The photos shook in his hands. "Julia...? No... she's just the manager... this is insane..." The betrayal hit him like a spiritual punch. He looked at John, desperate to shield his son from the horrific truth.
BANG. A silenced shot rang out. Detektiv Rot fired straight into the father's chest. He collapsed with a groan, blood staining his grease-covered shirt. But in his final seconds, he shoved John behind the fence, whispering: "Run... son..."
John screamed, paralyzed by horror. Before he could react, Detektiv Rot grabbed him by the collar. "You're coming with me, kid. She's using you as bait against Peter Schmidt." John struggled, but it was useless. The motorcycle roared and vanished into the night, kidnapping the son of the Black Mask.
Meanwhile, Black Mask—Julia Alois—drove furiously through Dortmund's roads in her armored car. She dialed her husband's number, impatient.
" "Hey, did you get home? Where's John? Answer already!"
Meanwhile, Black Mask—Julia Alois—screeched her armored car to a halt in front of the house. The phone still rang unanswered in her hand. Rain pounded the windshield as she stormed out, heels clicking on the wet pavement. Something felt wrong—too quiet, too still.
She froze at the front gate. Her husband lay sprawled on the ground, blood pooling beneath his grease-stained shirt, eyes staring blankly at the storm. A single bullet hole pierced his chest. Julia dropped to her knees, checking for a pulse she knew wouldn't be there. Her hands trembled—not with grief, but cold fury.
Scattered around his body were the photos Detektiv Rot had thrown: grainy shots of her negotiating with Dortmund mafia lieutenants, shaking hands over weapon crates, no mask needed among her own kind. But one photo stood out, flipped over with a message scrawled in red marker on the back: "Your son will live with me now." —Detektiv Rot
Meanwhile, Bernard arrived at his hidden house, the place the underground now knew only as Detektiv Rot's lair. It wasn't a luxury mansion or a mafia palace, but a reinforced safehouse on the edge of the city—concrete walls, barred windows, maps of Germany and Earth 2 pinned on the walls, red strings connecting photos of cults, mafias, and demons.
He pushed John inside and locked the heavy metal door behind them. The living room was simple: a worn-out sofa, a small TV, a table covered with case files and spiritual reports. In one corner, a stand displayed his red helmet and the customized Schwarz Motorrad jacket, hanging like a silent warning.
"This is how I live," Bernard said, tossing his keys on the table. "No family. No peace. Just work and ghosts. I sustain this place with the same company your father worked for—Schwarz Motorrad. Sponsorships, missions, and every demon I've had to hunt since Peter was taken from Germany."
John's eyes were full of rage and tears. His voice broke as he shouted: "Why did you kill my father?"
Bernard slowly removed the red helmet, revealing his tired, human face—no mask, no visor, just a man crushed by too many wars. He stared at John for a moment and then answered quietly:
"I killed him because your father deserves a better place than this world." His tone was calm, but his eyes were burning. "I sacrificed him so your mind wouldn't be dragged into something even worse. We're living through brutal years, John. Years where good men are turned into pawns by monsters like your mother."
He took a step closer, lowering his voice.
"If you had stayed with him, the Black Mask and her mafia would have broken both of you. She's not just a criminal—she's part of the same chain of chaos that started with William Brosnan. I ended his suffering so you wouldn't grow up watching your father be destroyed piece by piece."
John clenched his fists, torn between hatred and confusion. Bernard turned away, looking at a photo of Peter Schmidt on the wall.
"You hate me now. That's fine," he murmured. "But one day, you'll understand that sometimes… the only way to protect someone is taking the pain on yourself and becoming the villain in their eyes."
The room fell into a heavy silence. Outside, thunder rolled over Germany, as if the sky itself knew a new war had just begun.