Sylvester ended the call, his thumb pressing the screen with a soft click. A heavy silence settled in, broken only by the faint groans of wounded men scattered around him, haunting the night.
He let out a quiet breath and rose from his spot, stepping down from the mound of bodies with careful grace. The crunch of gravel under his shoes echoed as he made his way across the battlefield, each step resonating with authority.
One of Regan's boys lay slumped against a wall, clutching his side, blood trickling down his temple. His breaths came in sharp, ragged gasps, each one weaker than the last.
Sylvester crouched beside him, his eyes steady, his voice smooth and polite like a teacher speaking to a student.
"Tell me," he said softly, tilting his head. "Why did you attack me?"
The boy only groaned, a pitiful, guttural sound. He squeezed his eyes shut, grinding his teeth as if he believed that ignoring the question would somehow save him.
Sylvester remained still. He didn't push, didn't threaten, didn't rush. He simply waited, his gaze unwavering, his patience stretching the silence until it felt almost unbearable.
He sat there, composed and unyielding, as if time itself bent to his will.
The boy's groans grew fainter, fading into a trembling silence.
Only then did Sylvester lean in closer, his voice dropping lower still calm, still unnervingly kind.
"Now," he murmured. "Speak."
The boy stirred, a defiant grin creeping across his lips even as pain coursed through his body. His voice came out raspy, but the venom was unmistakable.
"You… smug bastard," he spat out, forcing the words through gritted teeth. "Think you're untouchable? You're just another—"
He let loose a glob of blood and saliva aimed straight at Sylvester's face.
But Sylvester merely tilted his head slightly, the spit missing him by a hair. His expression remained unchanged. If anything, the calmness in his eyes deepened, making the boy's defiance seem small and almost pointless.
Then, without warning— CRACK.
Sylvester's hand shot out, gripping the back of the boy's skull and slamming it into the concrete. Once. Twice. Three times. Each hit echoed sharply, wetly against the stone, leaving behind streaks of red.
The boy's breath caught in his throat, his earlier smirk replaced by a dazed, trembling gaze. Blood dripped from his nose, his lip split wide open, and the arrogance he once held was drowned out by the sound of his own ragged breathing.
Sylvester didn't let go. He kept the boy's head just inches from the ground, his voice calm and measured, as if they were simply having a polite chat.
"Why," Sylvester asked again, each word carefully chosen, "did you attack me?"
His tone wasn't filled with anger. It wasn't loud. It was steady, patient terrifying in its simplicity.
The boy was breaking, his voice shaking with blood and pain.
"It—it was Regan," he stuttered. "He told us… to go after you. Said you were Liliana's boyfriend. If we took both of you out… it'd be a win-win."
Sylvester's grip loosened. He let the boy's head drop heavily onto the concrete with a dull thud. Without a second look, Sylvester stood up, his face a mask of unreadable emotions.
He brushed off his hands slowly, deliberately, then grabbed his bag, slinging it over his shoulder as if nothing had happened. His footsteps echoed against the stone as he made his way back toward the dorms, his shadow stretching long behind him.
His voice dropped to a murmur, barely audible to himself.
"Regan…" he said softly. "So he's the one pulling the strings? Or just another pawn in the game?"
The thought hung in the air, weaving through his mind as cold calculation seeped into his tone.
"If he's targeting Liliana and me together, then maybe… he's connected to Amara. A front-line thug for her schemes."
He didn't slow down, his eyes sharp, catching the faint glow of the streetlights.
"Interesting. That makes them reckless… but also desperate."
He adjusted the strap of his bag, his steps steady and controlled.
"Let's see just how deep this little connection really goes."
Sylvester unlocked his dorm room and stepped inside, greeted by the familiar silence that felt like an old friend. He closed the door behind him, dropped his bag on the desk, and let out a soft sigh.
The first thing he reached for was the bottle of water on the counter. He twisted off the cap, tilted his head back, and took a slow drink, savoring the cool liquid as it quenched the dryness in his throat.
But as he lowered the bottle, his eyes fell on the stains marring his uniform dark, crusted streaks of blood. He stared for a moment, his face calm, but his mind was racing.
"…Messy," he muttered to himself.
He peeled off the jacket, holding it up to the light. A sigh slipped from his lips. There was no way these would go unnoticed. Making a quick decision, he folded the uniform neatly and set it aside for washing.
Tomorrow was Saturday. No classes. No curious eyes. At least luck had given him that much.
He undressed piece by piece and stepped into the shower. The hot water hit his skin, steam filling the small bathroom.
He closed his eyes, tilting his head under the stream, feeling the blood and grime wash away.
As the water cascaded over him, the marks of his past became impossible to ignore. Scars long, jagged, and deliberate etched across his torso and back, each one a silent testament to battles fought.
But it was his left arm that drew the most attention. Wrapped around the muscle of his forearm, ink spread in a dark, intricate design: the body of a coiled dragon, its jaws open in fury, seamlessly merging with the venomous curve of a scorpion's stinger. The tattoo seemed to come alive in the steam, the ink shifting as if it bore a weight of its own.
Sylvester raised his arm slightly, watching the water trace the lines of the beast. His expression remained unreadable, but for a fleeting moment, the faintest flicker of something deeper danced in his eyes.
"…Still there," he whispered under his breath, his voice barely audible beneath the spray.
The water kept running, masking him in heat and fog, but the scars and the ink spoke louder than any words could.
Sylvester let the water cascade over his arm, droplets tracing the jagged scar that lay hidden beneath the ink. His eyes softened, not out of fear, but from the weight of memory.
And then, the past came flooding back.
The assassin's trial.
He was younger then, standing in a dim, echoing chamber, surrounded by masked instructors lurking in the shadows. The rule was straightforward: survive against the others, or fade into oblivion.
Sylvester's breath came in ragged gasps, his body aflame with exhaustion. His opponent moved like a ghost, quicker than anyone he had ever faced. For a fleeting heartbeat, Sylvester felt outmatched. A flash of steel then fire seared across his arm.
The blade cut deep, leaving a gash too wide to heal neatly. Blood streamed down his fingers as he staggered back, pain threatening to overwhelm his focus.
But instead of crumbling, he adapted. He had no choice. With calculated precision and ruthless patience, he turned the tide of the fight.
When his enemy lunged again, Sylvester shifted the momentum, drove his blade home, and ended it with one decisive blow.
Victory. Survival. But the scar remained.
Back in the present, he gazed at the tattoo. After escaping the Facility, he had chosen the dragon and scorpion to conceal the mark. The dragon symbolized relentless strength, while the scorpion represented lethal precision. Together, they hid the flaw he refused to let the world see.
"…A reminder," he murmured under the steam, tracing the lines with his thumb.
Not of weakness, but of how, even in the moment he was closest to losing, he had fought his way back.