The storm raged harder outside, wind howling through the shattered glass. The rain came in cold sheets, soaking everything — the marble floor, the smoke, the blood.
Sol lowered his weapon, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. "We need to move," he said quietly. "Before reinforcements arrive."
Takahara checked his watch. "Extraction's two minutes out if the signal went through."
Masayoshi gave a curt nod. "Then we hold this floor until then."
But Albert didn't answer. He stood at the edge, staring down through the rain at the void where Raphael had fallen. The sound of the wind drowned out everything for a moment — except the pulse in his ears.
Then, all at once, the building shuddered.
The lights flickered. A deep, mechanical hum filled the air.
"What the hell—" Asahi started, but the rest came too fast.
A massive digital billboard across the city skyline lit up, bathing the storm in an artificial glow. On it appeared the cold, composed face of President Marcus Vaughn, Raphael's father. His voice rolled through the air, amplified by speakers hidden in the infrastructure — omnipresent, inescapable.
> "This is President Vaughn. To the insurgents responsible for the attack on my son — your lives are forfeit."
Albert's heart dropped. His foster father's words weren't grief. They were rage. Calculated, weaponized rage.
> "You will not run. You will not hide. The United States of America will burn the ground you stand on until you are erased from history."
Sol's eyes went wide. "He's broadcasting live… on every network."
Masayoshi swore under his breath. "He had this ready. It's like he knew."
"He did," Albert murmured, still staring at the screen. "He always does."
The hum grew louder — the unmistakable rumble of engines. Through the rain and smoke, military drones descended, their red targeting lights cutting through the night like laser sights.
"Contact incoming!" Takahara shouted.
The team scattered for cover as the first drone opened fire. Bullets shredded the upper floor, glass and debris raining down in a storm of metal.
Sol rolled behind a broken desk and returned fire, his rifle barking sharply. Sparks flew as one of the drones spiraled out of control and crashed into the wall.
"Masayoshi, right flank!"
"Already on it!" Masayoshi fired a grenade launcher once — the blast tore another drone from the air.
But there were too many. Five more appeared, circling the building like vultures.
Asahi sprinted to the control terminal near the elevator. "If I can access the floor's power grid, I can overload their targeting systems!"
"Do it," Sol snapped. "Takahara, cover him!"
The floor trembled again — this time not from drones, but from the sound of helicopter rotors approaching through the storm.
Albert turned toward the window, eyes narrowing as he saw the emblem on the side of the aircraft — the presidential seal.
"This isn't just retaliation," he said. "It's personal."
The helicopter's spotlight flared white-hot, cutting through the rain to blind them. Through the glare, a voice echoed from the external speaker — cold, venomous.
> "Albert Vaughn. You killed your master. You betrayed your country. Surrender now, and your companions may live."
Albert's breath hitched. Hearing his full name — the name he'd buried years ago — was like being shot in the chest.
No, that was not his name, it was just a collar given to him on a silver plate.
Sol looked at him. "He's after you, not us. What's the play?"
Albert's eyes hardened. "We finish this. Tonight."
Asahi's fingers flew over the terminal, sparks flying as he forced a manual override. "I've got their targeting feed—"
"Then do it!"
A thunderous pulse of blue light rippled across the building. The drones flickered, then dropped one by one, lifeless.
But the helicopter stayed.
President Vaughn's voice boomed again.
> "You can't hide from me, son. You are mine. You'll always be mine."
Albert raised his rifle, eyes filled with fury and sorrow. "Not anymore."
He fired. The bullet cut clean through the storm and shattered the helicopter's forward light. The craft veered off balance, spinning toward the skyscraper below — then erupted in a blossom of fire.
The explosion illuminated the skyline, the reflection burning across the wet glass around them.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. The only sound was rain.
Then Sol stepped forward, his voice steady. "We need to go down. Now."
Albert looked at the fire fading in the distance. "We will. But he's not done. That was just his warning."
Asahi closed the terminal, his face grim. "If that was a warning… I'd hate to see the war."
Albert turned toward him, eyes cold and resolute. "Then we make sure we're ready."
The thunder rolled again. Outside, in the darkness, more drones began to rise.
The war had only just begun.
The building groaned as its structure gave way, flames licking at the steel.
Sol pushed open the emergency exit door, motioning the others through. "Move, move!"
Masayoshi helped Takahara down the stairwell, both bleeding but alive. Asahi followed last, clutching his side where shrapnel had torn through his jacket. Albert was silent — his face a mask of shock and something darker.
They emerged onto the adjacent rooftop, where the rain fell in heavy sheets. A battered extraction chopper hovered a block away, barely visible through the storm.
"We're not going to make that jump in one piece," Takahara muttered.
"We don't need to," Sol said. "We just need to make it enough."
Albert turned, staring at the burning tower behind them. The fourth floor — where Raphael had fallen — was now engulfed in fire. The memory hit like a wave: Raphael's twisted smirk, his father's name, the word dog echoing in his ears.
He whispered to himself, "He'll come."
---
Meanwhile — deep beneath the chaos
The basement was silent, sealed, and airless. The thick steel walls muffled every sound above — the explosions, the gunfire, the storm.
Hinata sat on the edge of a table, fingers twitching restlessly. He glanced toward the door again and again, as if it might open any second.
"Nothing," he muttered. "No signal, no sound. It's like the world stopped."
Riku sighed, rubbing at his temple. "That's kind of the point. Albert made this place soundproof for a reason."
Haruki's voice was soft, but edged with worry. "Yeah — to protect us. But right now, it feels like a coffin."
Nagamori stood near the far corner, arms folded, jaw tight. "He said he'd come back. Albert always keeps his word."
Leon watched them all quietly, composed yet burdened — the kind of calm that came from experience and loss. He rested a hand on Hinata's shoulder. "We wait," he said. "That's all we can do. Sol will bring them home."
Hinata nodded weakly, his voice barely above a whisper. "I just want to see Asahi again."
The faint tremor that shook the floor beneath them wasn't from their imaginations. Dust fell from the ceiling. The air seemed to grow heavier.
Riku looked up sharply. "That wasn't just debris."
Leon's eyes narrowed. "He's already retaliating."
---
White House Situation Room – Washington, D.C.
The room was dim, its screens casting cold blue light across the faces of military officers and intelligence chiefs.
President Marcus Vaughn stood at the head of the table, staring at a live satellite feed — the burning building, the chaos in the rain.
An aide spoke carefully. "Sir, confirmation: Raphael Vaughn is deceased."
The words hung in the air. Vaughn didn't move.
Another officer cleared his throat. "Sir, our analysts identified one of the insurgents. Facial recognition match: Albert."
Vaughn's head lifted slowly. His eyes — pale, almost colorless — glinted like glass. "Albert." He said the name as if tasting something bitter.
"Yes, sir. The same subject you've kept off-record for twenty years."
The room was silent now. Everyone knew what "off-record" meant.
Vaughn turned toward the window, his reflection shimmering in the glass — the face of a man too powerful to be human anymore. "He was supposed to die nameless. That was the condition."
"Sir?"
Vaughn's voice hardened. "He was stolen for a reason. His existence was meant to serve mine. That boy has no identity outside of me."
He turned sharply to his generals. "Deploy Helios."
A murmur rippled through the officers. "Sir, that's a global response unit—"
"Then the world will respond," Vaughn snapped. "My son is dead, and my property is in rebellion. I want Albert found, dead or breathing — I don't care which."
He stepped closer to the monitor, watching the burning skyline flicker in the reflection of his own eyes. "He was taken from his real parents before he could even speak," he murmured. "I made him into something useful. Now he bites the hand that fed him."
A pause. Then, softly — like a threat wrapped in silk:
"Let him see what happens when he forgets who owns him."
The order was given.
Within minutes, black-ops teams mobilized, drones refueled, and Helios Command received clearance to use full lethal authorization — on domestic soil.
For Marcus Vaughn, this wasn't revenge.
It was reclamation.