I looked over at Anthony, my vision swimming.

There was blood. Too much blood. Spreading across his chest where the bullet had entered.

Before I could even process his injury, another gunshot cracked through the air. I flinched, but the bullet wasn't for me or Anthony.

Hugo's head snapped back, a clean hole appearing in his forehead. His muttering stopped. His eyes went blank.

The World President was dead.

But I didn't care for that. I couldn't think about anything except Anthony collapsing against me, his weight suddenly too heavy.

"No, no, no," I muttered, trying to support him, trying to lower him gently to the ground. But without my System, without my strength, I could barely manage it. We both went down together.

Then I heard footsteps.

Slow. Measured. Coming from the shadows near the office entrance.

A figure emerged into the dim emergency lighting, and my blood ran cold as what I could only describe as a human amalgamation came through.

It was a scarred face. Burned tissue running down his neck and arms. Body marked by damage that looked old ranging from months to years ago. Holding a pistol with practiced ease.

It was…Mark.

Subject 3834.

"What—" I started, but my voice cracked. My mind was trying to reconcile what I was seeing with what made sense. "Mark? What are you doing here?"

Mark's expression was… pitiful or rather disappointed. That was the only word for it. Like a dog that had been kicked but was still trying to please its owner. Though I couldn't tell if he was looking at me like I was the owner or the dog. His scarred lips pulled into something that might have been a smile.

"I'm sorry, Reynard," he said, his voice wavering. "I'm so, so sorry."

I pressed my hand against Anthony's chest, trying to stop the bleeding. Trying to do something. But without Advanced Trauma Care, without any of my medical knowledge actively guiding me, I was just a man with bloody hands accomplishing nothing.

"Anthony," I said, my voice desperate. "Stay with me. Stay awake."

Anthony's eyes were already glazing over, his breathing shallow and wet.

Mark took another step closer, the gun still in his hand. "Back in Brazil," he said, his tone apologetic but also manic, "someone blackmailed you. Remember? Got you to hand over information about an informant who knew where the World President was. Alessandro Vieri's contact information."

My mind flashed back. Gabriel. The gang leader. The number I'd written down.

"That was you," I said, the pieces clicking together despite the chaos.

"Yes, you are correct…that was me," Mark confirmed. "I knew you'd come to Ghana once you had that information. Knew you'd track down the World President. And sneaking into this building?" He laughed—a broken, unstable sound. "Reynard, we've done this kind of thing countless times you know? I know how you operate. How you think. How you move. I know you better than you know yourself sometimes and certainly better than how this bastard knows you." He said, his gaze looking at Hugo's corpse.

"Why?" I asked, still trying to keep pressure on Anthony's wound. "Why would you—"

"Because I HATE you!" Mark screamed suddenly, his composure shattering. The gun shook in his hand and I flinched for a moment. "I've tried—God, I've tried so many times to make you see. To make you understand what we could be together. Partners. Rulers. We could control everything! We have job titles Reynard! Why should we submit to those below us? In this world rank and System are everything and we stand at the top of it!"

His scarred face contorted with rage and grief. "But you kept rejecting me. Every time. Every single time. Like I'm not worth your consideration. Like I'm just some tool you use when convenient and discard when I'm not needed."

"Mark, that's not—"

"DON'T!" he shouted. "Don't lie to me. Don't pretend you ever saw me as anything more than a means to an end. I was so insignificant to you that you had the audacity to eat dinner at a restaurant while you listened to me. You get to live in public, Reynard. You get to have your penthouse and your girlfriends and your reputation. You killed people—I know you did, we both know what you did, during operations—but somehow you get to walk free. Get celebrated. Get loved."

He gestured at himself with the gun, at his scarred body. "While I have to hide. Have to wear masks. Have to pretend I don't exist because if anyone knew where Subject 3834 was, they'd hunt me down. To add salt to the wound you help me capture Director Connor and you gave him to me to kill and you get out scot-free. And do you know what the worst part is?"

He didn't wait for an answer. "Mark isn't even my real name. It's just a cover. A fake identity given to a fake person. Because I never got a real name. Never got a family. Never got anything except a number on a cage and needles in my brain."

"I'm sorry," I said, and I meant it. "What they did to you—what Hugo did to you—it was wrong. All of it was wrong. But this isn't the answer. This isn't—"

"But the final straw," Mark interrupted, his voice dropping to something colder, "was finding out that Hugo Vale was the World President. Do you understand, Reynard? Do you understand what that means to me?"

He walked over to Hugo's body, standing over it with the gun still in his hand. "This man. This monster. He's the reason I'm like this. The reason I'm broken. The reason I can't be normal or happy or anything except angry and hurt and desperate."

Mark looked back at me, and I saw tears streaming down his scarred face. "I wanted everything related to Hugo to suffer. Everything he created. Everything he touched. And that includes you, Reynard Vale. His son. His greatest success. His proof that all that torture and experimentation was worth it."

"I'm not his creation," I said, my voice weak. "I'm—"

"You are!" Mark insisted. "Subject 3840 was his creation. And you inherited that job title through his genetic manipulation. Everything about what makes you special comes from him. From his genius. From his cruelty. You reap the benefits and rewards of the suffering that all of us had to endure and because you didn't know you think that changes anything? Is the son of a billionaire not rich simply because he's unaware?"

He knelt down, his face level with mine. "So I'm begging you to understand. Begging you to forgive me. Because despite everything—despite wanting to rule the world with you, despite all my plans and dreams—I can only have pleasure in watching you suffer. Watching everything Hugo created burn. Both of you. Together."

Hugo was already dead. The gunshot had finished what my beating started.

Anthony was barely breathing now. His chest rising and falling in irregular, desperate gasps.

"Boss," Anthony whispered, his voice so quiet I had to lean close to hear. "Get out… of here…"

"No," I said. "I'm not leaving you."

"Can't help… without skills…" Anthony's hand weakly grabbed my shirt. "Go home… recuperate… you can still… win…"

"Anthony, please—"

"That's… a final request… Boss…"

Mark stood up, laughing that broken laugh again. He raised the gun, but not at me. At the ceiling. Firing randomly, celebrating his victory.

"RUN, REYNARD, RUN!" he screamed, his voice echoing through the office. "RUN LIKE YOUR LIFE DEPENDS ON IT! RUN HOME TO YOUR GIRLFRIENDS! RUN AWAY FROM WHAT YOU'VE DONE!"

I felt Anthony's grip loosen. Felt his chest stop rising.

"No," I whispered. "No, no, no…"

But he was gone. My bodyguard. My friend. The man who'd saved my life more times than I could count.

Dead because I'd brought him here. Dead because I'd been too weak to protect him.

Tears blurred my vision as I forced myself to move. To stand. To stumble away from Anthony's body.

Mark was still screaming, still laughing, his voice following me as I limped toward the door.

Every step was agony. My body was beyond exhausted, beyond damaged. But I moved anyway. Because Anthony's last request had been to survive. To get home. To recuperate.

I reached the hallway, using the wall for support. Behind me, I could hear Mark's voice change. Could hear him moving back toward the bodies.

Then his voice came, clear and theatrical, like he was addressing an audience:

"Good afternoon, everyone…"

But I couldn't hear the rest. My ears were ringing. My vision was tunneling. My mind was fracturing under the weight of what had just happened.

Anthony was dead.

Hugo was dead.

And Mark—Subject 3834, my enemy, my ally, my sometimes-friend—had betrayed everything.

I crawled forward when walking became impossible. Dragged myself down the hallway. Tears streaming down my face. Blood—Anthony's blood—on my hands.

Behind me, Mark's voice continued, speaking to corpses and shadows.

But I didn't care.

I just crawled. And limped. And survived.

Because that's all I had left.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

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