...Jin's whisper was lost in the roar of the rain.
The bisected body of the Zwitter lay motionless, a heap of meat on the wet ground. Blood mingled with the rainwater, bleeding into the cracks of the wharf.
But the work wasn't finished. This carcass couldn't remain here.
Jin forced himself upright, fighting the scream in his ribs. He raised the Void Katana in his right hand. With his left, he brought the Pistol close to the blade's razor edge.
Like striking a titan's match, he scraped the sword hard against the metal body of the gun.
SHRRRT!
The heavy sound of metal-on-metal echoed. Unlike the black flames, a blinding, pure White Spark was born from this friction.
The spark fell onto the Zwitter's corpse.
WOOSH.
The white fire roared the moment it touched wet flesh. However, this fire did not content itself with just the corpse on the ground.
The blood, tissue fragments, and viscous fluids that had splattered onto Jin during that final, bisecting strike suddenly ignited with the same white hunger.
For a moment, Jin stood like a living torch, engulfed in white flames. The fire wrapped around his coat, his mask, and his gloves. Yet, this fire radiated no heat; it was cold and silent, as if erasing a stain from reality itself. It did not burn his skin nor damage his clothes. The fire sought only the "dirty" life upon him, that vile contagion left by the Zwitter.
Within seconds, all the blood, bone, and flesh on him and on the ground dissolved into the white light, leaving behind neither black smoke nor the smell of burnt meat.
Jin stepped out of the smoke with his coat pristine and didn't stop. Without lowering his weapons, he walked heavily toward the black limousine. He knew the Zwitter hadn't come here alone.
He threw open the rear door of the limousine.
The metallic smell of blood inside was thick enough to overpower the scent of the sea at the wharf. Jin looked at the scene without emotion.
Driver. Assistant. And two bodyguards.
All four were human. And all four were strapped into their seats with seatbelts. But their heads were not on their shoulders; they had fallen into their laps. The Zwitter had slaughtered his own crew right there, just because they were "making noise," before Jin even arrived.
Jin swung his flaming sword into the limousine, over the corpses.
White flames filled the interior. But this was no ordinary fire. The flames didn't even touch the luxury leather seats, the plastic console, or the metal frame of the car. They flowed over them like water.
The fire sought only the organic.
The flames wrapped around the flesh, the bone, and those severed heads. Within seconds, the four human bodies inside the car dissolved into the white light and vanished into the air.
No ash, no bone, not even a bloodstain remained.
When the flames died out, the interior of the limousine was as pristine as if it had just left the factory. There wasn't a single scorch mark or drop of blood on the leather seats. Only "life" had been erased.
Jin lowered his weapons. He removed his thumbs from the grooves on the cylinders. The white fire died out, the black flames retracted. The weapons reverted to those harmless, matte gray cylinders.
In the back of his mind, that cold and emotionless information appeared:
< Verdict: Execution > < Target and Collateral Damage: Purged > < Balance Updated >
Jin ignored the notification. He tossed the cylinders into his pocket and tried to take a deep breath—but that was a mistake.
"KHH!"
Sharp pain radiating from his ribcage doubled him over. Adrenaline was leaving his body, replaced by raw, unadulterated agony. He could feel his broken ribs grinding against each other.
He reached for the nape of his neck with a trembling hand and unlocked the mechanism.
CLICK.
He peeled the black mask from his face. The cold air of the wharf hit his sweaty skin. He spat the metallic taste of blood onto the ground.
Limping, he walked toward his car hidden in the darkness between the two fuel tanks. When he reached the car, he extended his right hand to the secret compartment under the passenger seat again.
CLICK.
The stash opened. Jin placed the black mask—that deadly "Red Line"—back into its velvet bed. The mask slept peacefully in the dark.
He closed the compartment. When he sat in the driver's seat, the creak of the leather sounded like the most comforting sound in the world. He leaned his head back.
He started the engine.
The matte black sports car left the wharf silently. In the rearview mirror, he took one last look at the rusty hangar and the empty limousine he left behind. An apocalypse had broken loose there just moments ago, but now, it was only raining.
Jin gripped the steering wheel with one hand, while the other pressed the shirt tightly over his broken ribs.
"Just an occupational hazard," he muttered to himself.
The car vanished into the night, leaving a red trail behind.
A cheerful, synthetic pop song drifted from the radio. A young female vocalist sang of summer flings and fireworks on the beach.
Jin gripped the steering wheel tight. His knuckles were white. The interior of the car was a sterile, safe cocoon, isolated from the rainy Tokyo night outside. But inside this cocoon, Jin was living his own personal hell.
The contrast between that chirpy, upbeat melody on the radio and the searing pain flashing through Jin's brain with every breath was maddening.
"Shut up," he snarled, turning off the radio with a trembling hand.
The car plunged into silence. Now, there was only the muffled hum of the engine and Jin's raspy breathing.
Blood seeping from the cut on his shoulder had soaked through his black coat and reached the leather seat. A sticky, warm sensation.
It was 02:15 AM when he pulled into the parking lot of the residence in Minato. The guard in the booth stood at attention upon seeing the black sports car.
"Good evening, Mr. Jin."
Jin rolled the window down just a few inches. He donned that flawless, distant "Heir" mask. Even though his ribs felt like they were grinding against each other and piercing his lungs, a faint, weary smile appeared on his lips.
"Have a good watch, Tanaka."
His voice was steady. It didn't tremble.
The car was parked in the far corner of the garage, next to the other luxury vehicles. Jin killed the engine but didn't get out immediately. He just sat there for a minute. With the adrenaline fading, the pain was no longer a wave, but a constantly rising tide.
He opened the door. He threw himself out. Every step felt like walking on broken glass, not concrete.
When he stepped into the elevator, he met his reflection in the mirror. A pale face. Cold beads of sweat gathered on his forehead. But his eyes... His eyes still resembled those of a predator, just like at the wharf.
Floor 45. Penthouse.
When the door to the apartment opened, he was greeted not by the warmth of a home, but by the cold greyness of modern architecture. This place resembled a museum more than a living space. No unnecessary items. No memories.
Jin took off his coat and threw it on the floor. Something he would normally never do. Order was the anchor of his mind. But right now, that anchor had snapped.
He headed to the bathroom. He flipped the lights on. The white fluorescent light laid the truth bare in all its nakedness.
He tried to take off his shirt, but the fabric was stuck to the wound on his shoulder with dried blood. He gritted his teeth. He pulled the fabric apart.
RIIIP.
The wound began to bleed again.
Jin looked in the mirror.
On his right shoulder, there was a deep, jagged gash opened by the Zwitter's concrete shrapnel. The flesh had split outwards. But that wasn't the main problem.
The left side of his ribcage had turned a color somewhere between dark purple and black. The Zwitter's bone-crushing blow had created a lake of internal bleeding beneath the skin. When he breathed, his left side expanded less than his right.
"Two cracks," he whispered to himself, probing the bruising area with his fingertips. "Maybe three."
He opened the medicine cabinet. This wasn't an ordinary bathroom cabinet; it was equipped like a small field hospital.
Scalpel. Surgical thread. Curved needle. Hydrogen peroxide. Gauze. And a bottle of Hibiki whiskey.
He opened the whiskey bottle. He didn't pour it into a glass. He tipped the bottle back and took a massive gulp. The alcohol burned its way down to his stomach, mixing with his blood to start numbing his nerve endings.
Then, he tilted the bottle over the open wound on his shoulder.
The moment the amber liquid touched raw flesh, Jin's vision went black. The pain exploded in his mind like blinding white light. He gripped the edges of the sink so hard the marble could have cracked. He didn't scream. Only a muffled, bestial growl escaped his throat.
"Hah... Hah..."
He looked in the mirror, gasping for air. His pupils were dilated.
He threaded the needle. He washed his hands. He needed not to shake.
He held the needle with his right hand and pierced one edge of the gash on his left shoulder.
The skin was tough. The needle met resistance. Jin pushed harder.
Pop.
The needle punctured through the skin. He pulled the thread. The faint, wet friction sound of the thread passing through meat echoed in the silence of the bathroom.
No local anesthesia. No painkillers. Only will.
One stitch. One sip of whiskey. Another stitch.
Jin was repairing his own body like a tailor. Sweat poured down the face of the man in the mirror, but his hands were as precise as a surgeon's.
When he tied the knot on the twelfth stitch, he cut the thread. The wound was closed. It looked ugly, but the bleeding had stopped.
Next were the ribs.
He took the elastic bandage. He took a deep breath—an act that was torture in itself—and held it. He began to wrap the bandage tightly around his chest. He had to restrict his lung capacity to stabilize the broken bones.
When he finished wrapping, his breathing had become shallow. He could no longer take deep breaths. Just enough oxygen to survive.
He sat on the cold floor of the bathroom. He leaned his back against the bathtub. The whiskey bottle was next to him.
"Judge," he said to the void. "Was it worth it?"
No answer came. The System didn't deal with philosophical questions. The System only knew execution and reward.
His eyes grew heavy. Physical exhaustion had begun to suppress the pain. Jin fell into a dark sleep on the bathroom floor, half-naked and wrapped in bloody bandages.
Darkness.
Then White Fire.
Not a woman's scream. The sound of twisting metal. The cold, gray sky of Berlin. A broken mask.
"You are not a mistake, Jin. You are an outcome."
The voice was familiar. Very familiar. But it had no face.
"BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!"
The sound of the digital alarm pulled Jin out of that dark well.
He opened his eyes. He was on the floor. The bathroom tiles were freezing.
With his first movement, the pain returned. The sharp stabbing sensation from last night had now given way to a dull, throbbing, heavy ache. It was as if he were carrying a concrete block in his chest.
Time: 06:30.
Jin stood up, using the bathtub for support. His joints were locked. He took a hot shower but was careful not to wet the bandages.
He shaved. He applied lotion. He lightly covered the dark circles under his eyes with concealer.
He moved to the dressing room.
Today was an important day. It was the Kurosawa Group's annual strategy meeting. His father would be there. The board of directors would be there.
He put on his white, starched, custom-tailored shirt. The fabric slid over the gauze bandages. He looked in the mirror. From the outside, it was impossible to tell that underneath lay bloody stitches and broken bones.
He slipped on his navy blue, Italian-cut jacket. The jacket made his shoulders look broader, hiding the slight hunch in his posture.
Finally, he put on his watch.
He smiled at the man in the mirror. This smile was the thickest of all masks.
"Let the game begin."
The meeting room on the 40th floor of the Kurosawa Holding building was surrounded by massive glass windows overlooking a panoramic view of Tokyo Bay.
Twelve men who directed the country's economy sat around the long mahogany table. Jin took his seat on the right side of the table. His files were in front of him.
The meeting had been going on for an hour. Financial reports, fluctuations in the Asian market, new energy investments...
Jin didn't make a single mistake. He gave clear, analytical answers to every question asked. His tone was confident. Yet with every breath, the broken bone beneath the bandages whispered to him: I am here.
"Impressive," said the man at the head of the table.
Takashi Kurosawa.
Jin's father. Although in his sixties, he possessed the vigor of a samurai. His eyes were pitch black like Jin's, but they held the judging gaze of an emperor rather than fatherly affection.
When the meeting ended, everyone stood up. As Jin gathered his files, he felt his father approaching him.
There was nowhere to run.
Takashi walked heavily to his son's side. He had an unreadable expression on his face. He raised his hand.
And he clapped his hand firmly onto Jin's right shoulder, directly over the stitched wound.
"Well done," Takashi said, squeezing his shoulder. "You did good work today."
Jin's world went black for a second.
The pressure of that hand was crushing the flesh over the fresh stitches. It felt as if needles were piercing his skin all over again. The pain climbed from his shoulder to his neck like an electric current. His eyes were about to water. His stomach clenched.
He wanted to scream, to collapse, to shove that hand away.
But he didn't.
Jin looked into his father's eyes. His pupils did not tremble. The corners of his lips curled up slightly.
"Thank you, father," he said. His voice was normal.
Takashi pulled his hand away. A flicker of vague suspicion sparked in his eyes, perhaps for the first time. Had he noticed that thin layer of sweat on his son's forehead?
"Stop by the house this evening," Takashi said, turning his back. "There are some reports from the Germany branch. There's been... a security breach at our facility in Berlin. I want your opinion."
Jin's heart skipped a beat. Not from pain this time.
Berlin. Security breach.
The Zwitter was no coincidence. It wasn't just a fugitive. It was a message.
"Of course," Jin said, looking at his father's back. "I'll be there tonight."
When his father left the room, Jin gripped the chair. He took a deep, shallow breath.
The level of the game had changed. He wasn't just hunting monsters in the streets anymore. The monsters had infiltrated all the way into his father's reports.
And Jin, with his bleeding shoulder and broken bones, was right in the center of this storm.